"chicory" poems
like to keep my distance that kept us from chicory's moon-dark blue down in a swoon
and now, he said,
hear the narrow graves calling my questions with more questions you never wanted to
shine in his sphere.
But say
i hadnt meant it -
sulfur's tangy odor permeates the worm, canker, and the evenings;
go for it - a day is long
for the song unwritten score or a dream yet-to-be.
Sep 26, 2011
Sep 26, 2011 at 10:44 AM UTC
Bowed as an elm under the weight of its beauty,
So earth is bowed, under her weight of splendor,
Molten sea, richness of leaves and the burnished
Bronze of sea-grasses.
Clefts in the cliff shelter the purple sand-peas
And chicory flowers bluer than the ocean
Flinging its foam high, white fire in sunshine,
Jewels of water.
Joyous thunder of blown waves on the ledges,
Make me forget war and the dark war-sorrow —
Against the sky a sentry paces the sea-cliff
Slim in his khaki.
2.1k
I don't promise to drive away your doubts.
I don't promise to drive away your doubts as if
they were shadows and I am the sun rising up out
of your darkness, I cannot erase past lovers or touch
you the way they did because I have never loved someone
beneath the covers, in amber rooms that smell like vanilla and
chicory, I've never took hold of someone and felt there, as
if the moment had been preluded by most everything in my life
we both and breathe and--
I would like to tell you that my love will be outspoken, but it will always be a whisper. A warm breeze that catches the hem of your
shirt and cools the sweat on your back, the soft remnants of a song--
the curious sounds that turn into music in the middle of the night
when the buzz of a hot summer sounds more like a choir, an undulating melody straying through the screen as if it never
meant to find you but it did, love did.
That I will not chase your fears to the absolute ends but approach them
slowly as wounded people, take their arthritic hands and speak softly to them, never recoiling from the faces of your past. Kiss your bruises and lay them out on the porch, every smattering of blue and moss green growing pansies in the garden--
When you tell me your secrets I will wrap them in lace and tell you mine, I will unbutton every layer of every girl i've ever been and show you the list of scars, the tick marks on these ribs where I once was captive in my own body,
I will not pick across your fields and uproot your flaws, I will sit beneath the trees you grew out of sheer anger and coax flowers to grow--Because your mistakes are not things to get rid of, only waxy residue I rub from the leaves with my thumbs, a better part of you that has always been there--that I'll move from the shelves and place on the dining room table, not for me to polish but for you to see--
That you are beautiful. That you refract the daylight just by shifting your head. That even when you are tearing into yourself in vicious rages, you will still be fringed in a splendid brilliance--
I will not take you by force, you are not an expedition, I am not a missionary. I will always ask, always from a distance. So hushed
and subdued,
for you.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 9:29 PM UTC
Wanderlust
Eerie lights bob and weave through twilight mist
The exotic scents of Cajun spice and sweet *** linger
Quiet
Breathing deep bayou heavy air
Settling moistly into clove filled lungs
Chicory sends all the senses ablaze
The skies are big here
Brilliant constellations loom over scattered thoughts
Impressive and singular in their silent sentinel forms
A slowly ebbing tide recedes
It's 3am. The time when dreams die.
Leaving is a constant urge but I always come back
Head stone cold and porous against my tired spine
I've been walking a while
Never really knowing what the night will bring
Always hoping it's winding road will lead to you
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 4:28 PM UTC
Before the chicory unfurls to the sun,
meet me down the gravel road
beneath the Tulip Poplar.
I will Revel in your aura-
Share my radiance with you.
Our beautiful friendship gleaming.
Exchanging love in the purest form,
the way that we relate.
Laughter dancing in our eyes
If the world saw things differently
We could do this everyday.
Until then,
We’ll look forward to next summer
If only for Thursday.
Aug 18, 2021
Aug 18, 2021 at 2:21 PM UTC
What pretty words flow,
From carpel tunnel hands!
Fingers click clock on keyboards,
Time sifting like sugar.
Creativity ebbs and flows--
Like the gentle rock
Of cerulean tide,
Lulling soul after soul to sleep.
The smell of arabica,
And chicory soup
Stifles surreptitiously--
(Twentyfourseven)
With admiring eyes
I glance down at the stark white background--
My bones ache for the lush black ink
To be my own words!
But until then I'll sit at the bottom
Of this empty poetry well,
Chain smoking and longing
To be on that **** front page.
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 2:07 AM UTC
i once wrote about
men in California
weathered men, crust of the
earth, salt-soaked docks off the shore
with leather sewn into their backs and
hip bones made of steel and exhaust pipes
that smell of chicory, sweat and cayenne
who dip women by their neck, never sleep
never eat, only feast and when the wind
blows they
leave.
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 8:24 PM UTC
This always was an acoustic gig;
A wood and wire affair
Steeped in the fresh folklore
And worn wool
Of our little streetlamp operas.
Our voices would ring rustic
(And rusted like tarnished brass)
Out open windows,
Through the rustling of haloed leaves,
And down into the streambeds of romantic recollection.
Our coffee was stiff;
Mixed with chicory
And spiked with shots
Of sure-footed tomfoolery—
But richer than our years should have allowed.
All the goodhearted ladies
And all the rye bottle boys
Would smile warm, backs reclining,
And sing out for all the years.
And we knew our songs well;
Our highways west blacktop ballads—
Our San Joaquin sunset sonnets--
Our arms-around-you-till-the-end tunes—
Our songs for new companions—
Our eulogies for our dearly departed.
Yes, this always was an acoustic gig.
But there’s no sense in penning an epilogue
To a story that’s still alive (though wounded).
So let’s continue the tale, friends,
And usher in another folk revival.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 9:06 PM UTC
They gave me a room
In psychoville,
Three square meals
One red pill,
They gave me a room
In madnessville
Repeat repeat as
Time stood still.
They gave me a room
In suicideville
Thoughts were dark
**** **** ****
visiting times,
In loonyville
is half past chicory
And quarter to dill.
Push me along in me four wheeled chair
madness lies between thee Apple and pear
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 7:46 PM UTC
Ersatz coffee, chicory and dandelion,
a dream of self sufficiency
the town has regained its prominence
reverting to old style timber
chevaux de bois,
a smithy as new
as time unfolding,
the spaces between buildings
allowing the sun to divine down
sentimentality decked on back- stools,
speckled sepia blossoming
a petite fleur coronation crown
becomes renewed strangers.
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 4:30 PM UTC
(okay so i understand if you cant source these things naturally but its much better if you do)
so my go-to tea base is a blend of rose hips, allspice, and chicory for general good vibes
and for nice winter-y vibes this solstice you can add cinnamon sticks, clove, and dried orange peels for added comfort and prosperity in the new year
Dec 11, 2020
Dec 11, 2020 at 11:42 PM UTC
...1
Oh Middle Kingdom! Forbidden kingdom! Middle Earth!
The In-between
and Afterward, Within and Outside
this world's physical berths
Spirit realm and beyond the Further
Oh Heavenly and Cosmic
Mother/Father,
Imperial ruler of All creation
All us living,
Oh where are you?!
Ohm
Middle Kingdom, Forbidden Kingdom,
Goddess Love / God my King?
I am your word your fire your son
Awaiting for kingdom come
Our Universe of infinite Light
and Peace
not yet begun,
Oh kingdom! All that is One!
Life is yours and all below the stars
belongs to none and only you and yours!
Oh middle kingdom, oh middle earth!
Reclaim what was, is and further more
all of time, all of Truth
upon this shore and beneath this sky
we belong within your Light!
Oh Kingdom! Oh Heaven!
OHM Shambala Oh!
Ohm Valhalla Oh!
Ohm Forever Oh!
___________________________________
...2
Ohm Shambala!
in shambles
Shangri La contained
conquered by fists
ample weight
of walls of stones
another wonder
on hill of bone
Tourists and their Sherpas
'Tch 'Tch lost histories
when once
cloud city and magic
was laughter on the chicory
and wind
Oh peaceful wisdoms
my middle kingdom hence
rescinds to lifeless
beige and damning Greys
it appears it feels
like Hell ever since
The halls are unremembered ways
empty of God's good love
or wonder light of Day...
Oh Middle Kingdom!
Ohm Shambala!
Xin Nian Quai Le!
(You're a beautiful day!)
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 10:11 PM UTC
we have direct associations of
things long past and no
way to connect random
words. I wonder, then, why I always think of peanut
butter when someone says winter
or I taste eggs when someone
mentions Christmas. I don't
even celebrate Christmas and
I taste caramel popcorn
and crisp wintermint and
what a cloud would taste
like. why is that? where do
our words go? others would taste fish when they hear
the word tooth
paste, or crave oranges when their feet first
hit pavement. if you're trying to fit the
words together, and see
why the bitter taste of chicory
is reminisced with coppery blood and
love, and you are sure your own word associations are
completely logical, one day you'll come across
the skeletons in closets, the snake slithering in the
greenest grass, things that mean
so little to you yet are bright points
of deep connection. you try to
fit the words together and
suddenly, you'll know. then.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 8:15 AM UTC
And I sit reviewing my week
I dyed my linen petticoat
With cherry bark
And iron oxide.
I have five colors now.
Almost enough
For a box of crayons.
I pulled weeds
And planted garlic chives
And two kinds of gourds.
Hoed the garden
In between rains.
Baked biscuits
Twice.
Picked old Bob
A bag full of kale.
Spun some yarn.
Ground corn meal
With a big stick.
Pulled more weeds.
Started cleaning
And drying
Chicory root.
And more stuff
I can't remember.
No wonder I am
Tired.
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 8:44 PM UTC
Oh vile distasteful counterfeit
A generic imitation, abomination
How dare you mar the original one
Through mass marketing and sales pitching
And imitation born not of inspiration
but of cultivation by a selfish nation
A faked attempt you are
Plagiarism in its purest form
Chicory you deceitful liar
weaving your way into our homes
Replacing the proud Coffea Arabica
Rendering it nothing but a luxury to most
Away with you you mutant substance!
Be not a part of my house and home
For in this house is sanctioned pure
And only the best will endure.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 6:17 PM UTC
No garden flowers for me,
no gaudy, painted flowers
(hotel swimming pools beside the ocean).
Give me wildflowers --
ironweed and jewelweed,
chicory and Queens-Anne's-lace.
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 9:41 AM UTC
I try to learn one or two every year.
Plantain, mullein, chicory.
I try to learn some usefulness.
Some nice lady told me the other day
That she could never learn medicinal plants.
It seems she had never considered
Learning them one at a time.
I have to remember to learn the name
Of that **** that spits needles at me
When I get too close
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 9:10 PM UTC
II.
the boy at the coffee shop
is, in fact, a barista
he whiles away his time
at odds with metal monoliths
coaxing honeyed shots of espresso
from the scalding machines
and honing his delicate craft
his language is one of
valves, gaskets, filters
copper boilers and pressure
his artistry
in the turning of steam knobs
folding froth into rich milk
the pulling of levers
the milling of fragrant beans
the pouring of flowers
he learnt his calling
when he first sipped that
viscous indian coffee
cut with bitter chicory
softened with caramelized cream
and dark brown sugar
this is what he understood, coffee:
input/output, give/take
ratios and recipes
detailed tasting notes
he spoke to the machines
and they answered eagerly
and the barista thought the world
to work the same way...
till he saw the girl at the coffee shop
questions glimmered in her eyes
and sweet mocha laced her lips
she was nothing like his machines
all hopeful uncertainty and "what next?"
she wears her hair in braided crowns
concealing her mica-freckled skin
behind oversized cable-knit sweaters
scribbling in sketchbooks for hours
she too, honing her craft
he is a
chipped porcelain cup
gilded with gold
letting others sip their fill
till the cup is empty
and nothing remains
someday he will
go up and talk
to the girl
at the coffee shop
but for now
he is just
a stranger
longing from afar
forever people watching
and forever watched by people
-wren
Dec 18, 2021
Dec 18, 2021 at 6:33 PM UTC
un breloque,
a novel,
un tonique moitié plein
sweet chicory; wild,
a japanese maple
a lectern, a candle, a pendant;
lent
waves bring in water that melts the cement
holy
holy a lordy sing me poormans-hymn
nothing is true when nothing is not
to is is to be is to know now,
you see?
holy
who what is and who is what's not
this is truth spread out on loaf
this is riddle to a rhyming oaf
never simply,
holy
from highest heaven to lowest vale
carry the sound like an orchestra,
a procession of violent brasses rising…
Oct 31, 2019
Oct 31, 2019 at 12:20 PM UTC
*Auburn mares and black stallions
A lonesome period ranch bathed in chicory
Dusk , field dust clinging to lower pasture , tractors
race with sundown , o'er checkerboard fields , 'cross
firebreaks , wooden fencerow and worked field furrow
Rolling persimmon braided shadow , cool blue palette
of the Evening Star , of the orange sky divide , of hay wagon ,
bale , callous and blister , Killdeer crying for the gibbous Moon ,
of black backgrounds that cradle a billion stars with Hill Country
Whippoorwill sonatas* ..
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 10:13 PM UTC
Life slows at the last and yet
time goes so fast
it's not fair,so
be aware of the clock and take stock of the hour
do all that you can and devour the days
in many ways that's all we can do,and as time eats up the minutes,you should eat them up too.
Be full in the face as time alters the pace,when it slows you will know that it's time and you must go,but if,then and while,use the language of the loop,spin the dial and speak as though your life depends on what the next minute or hour lends,tend to all the little things and let the mainsprings be,
the frozen eyes of time can see the hands that turn and wind the key,
and time,
the mistress of mystery as old as ancient history,may decide to fly or wait and see,
we'll wait to see it
too.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 7:33 PM UTC
I want to be near you sometimes. As much as I love you
I wish that I could love you better, that he could love you better,
That you could love you better.
Its not about being bitter,
though I am, and it is
A taste of chicory coffee dark and thick as car oil,
Soiled.
And you can’t spit it out, the taste lingers around,
And just like coffee, I’m addicted, taking a new sip every morning,
Remembering his face, when he looked at you with a curled lip and recalling
Your face pretending not to know.
And I resented you both.
I took an oath,
Never to blindly bind myself brainless and loveless
Now I’m unwound,
Trying desperately to learn how to knit
Because everything is in tatters.
-Tori
May 4, 2020
May 4, 2020 at 11:30 AM UTC
Rustling lanes, winding roads
the rippling on the bank
of the path along the river
wherever the land is not buried
under city, I walk my days
in the smell of rotting
Mushrooms, spider webs
birds in the undergrowth
and dearest to me are the wild
flowers, thistles, chicory
pink anemones and poppies
I admire the gaunt, the sallow
the beauty under
the beauty of
the scars, the life
they pass on
Oct 13, 2024
Oct 13, 2024 at 4:06 AM UTC
Waiting for boys to become men on the crippled backs of mountains
While sins in the seaside wash away with morning sand
Forgiveness thrums in days like heartbeats
For herself and for him, for her and for himself
Blame and guilt and spite seep away with summer heat
Chicory blooms in the hillside
She waits for him to come home
He wonders if there is a home left to come to
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 10:23 PM UTC