"chipper" poems
her rigorous objections
are herded slowly down the sheep trail
by studious pencil thin men with stylish mustache's
who have deep pocket pickers for friends
they gather round the weak willed and the willing alike
looking for cheap thrills and spare change
everybody needs a new road
when the old one seems to never end
but she with eyes cast down
mumbles her unappeased desires
as she shuffles a little closer to the truth as she sees it
she has it all written out in secret languages
she has books filled with life's coded thoughts as she see's them
barn burners and dare devils grace the cover of her latest creation
self titled to her own romantic name
she is stylized in her own way
so she adores the pencil thin men
with their dashing devil may care good looks
i wrote her a letter yesterday
full of stories from the great highway
full of chipper go getters and the glum go gotten
she is a forever stone on a necklace
she is a moonstone on a bracelet
she is graceful when it counts and
thats more than enough for me
the pencil thin moustache men
come to conquer the all night diners
in the small shoreline towns
but slink away in dawns first light
with stolen smiles and borrowed kisses
that they promise profusely to return tomorrow
but never do
such is the romantic night by her side
such is the wonder-wheel days of our
journey on the great highway
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
Forever neglected
Forever dismayed
Forever deafened
By the cacophony of the trade
The antiquated digger stands by
A sentient guard of the worker
It watches as the tree slowly dissipates
Its life slowly crumbling
As the voracious chipper
Devours the tree whole
The worker stands by
The digger stands by
The chipper chips away
The taciturn worker remains
Ruminating the existence of the world.
Why was he put here?
For what reason must he stay with these hallowed construction tools?
Do they feel any remorse for the change that they've enacted
On the world around them?
Are they aware that they transgress the laws of nature?
The bellicose chipper
Wages war with nature
As the people watch so distantly.
Its sound makes the neighbors quite belligerent
Yet the zealots watch attentively.
The pure ignorance
The pure neglect
The blatant apathy
Is something to be seen.
Whatever could possess you
To follow in the footsteps of the worker
To feel his pain as the trimmer
Chips away at the trees' centuries
The sound of shattered glass
Punctuates the air.
Perhaps there has been an accident.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 9:33 PM UTC
Cold today
but at least
the sun's
in play
Out in it
Wind talking
through mouthfuls of white pine
sweeping, swishing whispers
just enough to let the chimes
sing as bells
without bashing-- themselves
to dissonant trinkets
Music-muttering, free
Leafless shadows of the early spring
cold creeping 'cross
the yards toward noon
where they disappear
into a wood-chipper
What the hell is with my neighbors?
Why do people hate their trees?
Maybe 'cause they are not theirs?
Grown beyond them and their confines?
My tiny yard so feral
They probably hate mine too
But I belong to them
and mine belong to me
They curve around, protective
my home of wind and bird and sky
swirling
cream 'n coffee
one into another
like
Music sometimes
falling through itself into...
Sure--
know how to **** a morning
I let them live
trees and neighbors
...as my mind smears into afternoon
Apr 7, 2018
Apr 7, 2018 at 2:42 PM UTC
Just a little off the top.
Drawin' a dotted line
'round the skull
takin' your shears
just above the ear.
Cuttin' a close crop.
Burrowin' into the skin this time
'round the skull
now your clippers
smilin' so chipper.
Leavin' a head clean smooth.
Whistlin' at a near-finished work
'round the skull
peelin' back the skin
bravin' a peek within.
Grabbin' that comb with its fine tooth.
Unfurlin' that pink mass of quirk
'round the skull
eyein' where tendrils append
trimmin' the dead ends.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 12:25 AM UTC
Still today
Danang. Saigon.Tet.
Mi Lai. ** Chi min trail.
All and more on reverb
The unwinable in black body bags.
Dam.
Just like Cronkite's musdtache goimg on and on
Drafted into the wood chipper
The buzz saw. for what.
Then the embassy buggie.
Choppers listing into the sea.
Half baked. Blood on ground.
For what.
Visit Vietnam. A travelers paradise. Half price
now with great accomodations.
Cambodia too.for the price of one.
Kamir Red.
How many dead?
For what.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
It seems to me that the smaller the monument
the more likely it is to survive
over time
to be passed over by water
or vandals
but with brevity comes the issue of remembrance
Over my father and mother
and dog Chipper
lie several rocks
just rocks without any label or ornamentation
Which begs the question
is a monument a monument if it bears no explanation
and the monument's creators have passed
and with them the knowledge of why it was placed?
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 4:05 PM UTC
The coffee cups are *****
But it’s the cleanest way
To drink whiskey here.
The barman lost half his right fingers
To a wood chipper in his early 20’s
And spent the rest of his adult life
Flipping the world off.
He got it down to a fine art
By the time I showed up.
He didn’t smile when I ordered my drink.
He didn’t smile at all.
The jukebox hasn’t changed
For two stagnant decades
And most everyone but the regulars
Are too scared to use it.
It’s the same rotation
Of Elvis,
Muddy Waters,
BB King,
John Coltrane,
And early Bruce Springsteen.
Not a woman in sight
But every song is about them
And we are all here
Because of them.
Certain patches of carpet
Have not seen a crack of light
Since the Berlin Wall fell.
Nothing changes here but the customers-
And that change is incremental at best.
The same filthy etchings over
The same filthy cubicle doors.
The same Cherokee Indian
Smoking a Cuban Cigar
In the heartland of America.
I can’t find myself here
But there is no feeling of loss.
There is no profundity in anything here.
Just squalor
And enjoying one’s squalor.
I think that is what it means
To be truly happy.
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 5:24 AM UTC
on a nudist beach
there was a man wearing shorts
they were yellow shorts
and a jaunty hat
which despite their cheerful airiness
the chipper summer colour,
he felt alone, down and shunned.
the mere thought of those dear shorts
invited des amigos and an invitation for tacos
a sombrero night he thought as he picked them out in the store.
but now
alone on the beach
he caught disdainful glares directed
at the winsome shorts
he had arrived at the beach so vivacious and jolly
but walking along,
the rough, hot sand blistering his feet,
he was
morose
forlorn
sorrowful
and wistful for those dreams
those empty shells.......
.............
............
............
sombrero
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 12:25 AM UTC
A blanket of warmth
Starry skies
An orange sunset
Crickets singing on summer nights
I’m alive again
All of my senses are awakened
Who is this girl that dreams so vividly
Lost in the dark places, remaining in the shadows
No one seems to be aware
That she’s long gone
A polished me
Chipper hellos
Cheery goodbyes
Are we all so blind
That we enjoy the illusion
And prefer the facade?
I’m thirsty for something more
For authenticity
Real words
Shocking humanity
Resting in the thoughts of those like me
Who see the world differently
Who are forced to grin and bear it
Before the ultimate surrender
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 4:42 PM UTC
I do not think much my place upon this earth,
I am second, and you are first,
and when your voice is louder than mine
it is a familiar for me to sink and recline
into my chair, wilful to listen
to your unappealing, witted opinion
and programmed flair -
from which your talent glistens,
and has always been there.
Oh to be part of your vision.
I walk comfortable in high heeled shoes
that inscribe me a waggling soft tongue,
and when your pace is faster than mine
in brogues, and trousers that are looser,
I am simply undone,
at your ease to summon as the prime task-caster
of more tasks to come.
Your achievements are set with a slapped wet plaster.
Oh that you share a crumb.
And when you laugh, it is a big bellied echo
that chimes in my throat to strike and produce,
a small bit of fruit, just for you.
As I mimic your billow in an octave but lower,
that feels like part of the very same tune,
but my chuckle is actually a choke,
and what I could say would only provoke.
Oh you laugh much harder than me.
My almond eyes are softer than yours
and in the day you lock them only for an answer,
to some chore which requires a limited goal -
don’t get me wrong – I am no prancer,
my shoes are far too tight, and I’ve been taking the toll
of your papers, your personal sciv, your faxer.
A sniffing, weezling mole.
Oh I could dig deeper…
You **** much harder than me.
And when you *** you look in the mirror
at yourself in white unbuttoned shirt, heavy brow, so chipper
that when your sun sets it does in a vulvonic decree,
but you do not know that when I go home, I secretly scissor
in a way that would make your morning clippers shake violently.
Oh I love much harder than you,
I am better than you,
but somehow you are better than me.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 5:23 PM UTC
I watched a spider
walk a webbed wire,
waltzing 'twixt me
and the water.
Thought of turning to words, and
concur did the birds.
Hoisting colors,
not flying more fodder.
For the staff's, (standing tall)
flag is not flown, but tied-on.
And, for it,
the boy seems more chipper.
Still he stares at the stars,
drawn-with, cigarettes, cars.
Doing his best to
pick-out, the Big Dipper.
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
Chipper as a wood chopper
doused with kerosene lamp oil
at the start of the chilly winter
all bundled up in a fantasy getaway
deep in the wooded forrest lies my pride all cozy-like.
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 1:26 AM UTC
OH MY ******* GOD.
I need a night out.
I need to drink.
I need to do lines of snow.
I need to dance.
I need to go crazy.
Swim in a heated pool at three am.
Throw a bottle of ***** in a wood chipper.
Scream at the top of my lungs.
Turn a few girls gay.
And walk around like I own every
******* person in the room.
Someone take me out.
I'm bored.
I need a power trip.
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 9:59 PM UTC
~~~
Testimony & Majesty: Oh God, Why Do You Inflict Me?
~~~
Morning dawning...
Thickened whitened whipped cumulus
come crossing,
no frenzied froth,
moving slow royal, stately,
as if they are the pride of a
celestial navy,
peaceful ships,
crossing from my portal to your port,
traversing from my shade
of the blues,
over to you, poet,
to your personal screen-adapted
CinemaScope version sights
This wind buffets,
re-directing my
morning~borning hallelujahs
this wind, nameless,
call it chipper, fulsome and volatile,
a proud pusher selling a waking up
near-chill pill,
to accompany the real+imagined
armada of nature
it, near and nearer
to you,
to the sky we inhabit+share,
its ***** stiffening energy,
makes some
hide inside,
not me,
I'm outed by the
harsh welcome~touch of this
realized reminder -
who is the master,
who is but
an obedient servant,
choicelessly writing his
psalmist morning devotions...
another poem of sky, cloud and wind?
*Oh God why do you inflict me?
with this time after time obeisance
when I am
metaphor drained and disabled,
abject of adjectives,
simile frowning upside downing,
have we poets not done our dutiful
illuminating your bountiful works?*
yet here I am,
a soul surviving,
incapable of resistance,
your frosted creatures persistent,
wrest my visions into prose,
to add to your overly full Facebook page,
with more fawning praise...
*Angered have I, you, for now nowhere,
tropical rain squall tells all,
humans are toys,
born to serve,
silence your complaining~explaining,
and from nowhere with
rapido intensity rising,
down pours drops of scornful
water whippings,
demarcating our
incoming existence inequality...*
and yet with your
yang and yang,
a reproach for me,
for as it waterspout pours,
it also pours sunshine,
a mystifying warning
to the put-upon poet,
that in the admixture
of nature and life,
all is conflicted,
all is tremulous beautiful,
and now is the
due time...
*due, you,
to complete this treatise as
testimony to majesty...*
~~~
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 2:02 PM UTC
Today i entered a prison. the likes i have never seen before.
this prison has no bars,
no chains,
Disguised in false hope and fake smiles,
Leave your loved ones at the door,
We will take care of them,
Or so they promise,
as i walked down the halls of this prison,
i felt the dread,
as sorrow,
filled my head,
any happiness i felt before,
was ****** away,
nevermore,
My sunny disposition is clouded,
My chipper attitude dulled,
as their unheard cry's,
watered my eyes,
cry's of longing....
......waiting.......waiting......
Prisoners stay in their rooms,
or wander the halls,
being held captive,
only by body and mind,
which are failing,
surrounded by their own kind,
.....waiting.......waiting
For what?
family, friends, or some thing unworldly,
to take them,
with a promised return,
for which they desperately yearn,
Saying they will come visit,
Promising for an escape ....or end,
While they force a smile,
To hide the pain,
So what?
they are getting the help they need
for some it is help they don't want,
hope has already left their eyes,
now just expecting lies,
I finally reach my grandpa,
Well.... thought it was him,
This shriveled old man,
Is not the G pa I know,
Tell me your theories of life,
And how to over come strife,
you fight for life,,
Your Moore for gods sakes,
I don't expect less!
We say our good byes,
Our lies,
And give him false hope,
so he can go through his days,
in a half awake haze,
cause all he can do....
..... is wait.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 4:54 AM UTC
"what's that? you can't get out of your bed?
too weak to be alive, too lazy to be dead?
well! take your zoloft effectively
just inhibit reuptake selectively
and soon you'll have the energy
to end your life impulsively
or be rid of feelings entirely
a chipper, cheery half-zombie"
"your panicking fits interfere with your day?
i'll lay out a feast, a benzo-buffet
ativan, klonopin, xanax oh my!
not just for those who are too scared to fly!
pop two and kiss all of your worries goodbye
and your memory, too, if you come to rely
on hours spent watching your life pass by
just try and object through that stubborn tongue-tie"
"your circadian rhythm is not quite right
you're asleep with the sun and awake in the night
so take one of these twice before closing your eyes
and wait for the dreams that will doubtless arise
too vivid and real to know truth from lies
and the nightmares will be an unpleasant surprise
but stopping abruptly is duly unwise
so just find your stars in trazodone skies"
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 2:44 PM UTC
I stood in the closed space
trembling all over, cracked
eyelids slowly falling in
deadened existences, somber
cheeks sinking in the air, as
I stared at the shadowed walls,
the Spiderman comforter
covering the stained bed,
a square of Lego blocks,
blue polished tricycle,
game consoles, a spinning
yo-yo that my baby boy
used to hold onto like
he'd discovered his new
best friend. I remember
the days when we used
to watch Recess together,
his bright blue eyes staring
excitedly at the screen,
picture perfect animation
elevating into heightened
equations, ecstatic smiles
and sparkly cheeks. He was
my world, the one that kept
me working hard every day
to make sure he never went
hungry, a shining star in
my dreams that made being
a father the greatest joy.
And some days when I was
in the kitchen fixing his
favorite dish, fried chicken
and crinkled French fries,
I could hear the satisfying
delight in his face. His
exuberant words,
This tastes amazing dad,
as I smiled at him and
thought how lucky I was
to be a part of his life.
And when it came time
to put him to bed, I'd
read, "Life and Dreams,"
his chipper frame smiling
in the moment, seeping
inside the lovely diction.
And as he drifted off to
sleep, I could see his
lips moving at a slow
pace, I love you, dad.
I'd kiss him on his
cheeks and reply,
I love you too
my little man.
Now as I stand here
gazing at everything
surrounding me,
how my life is
screaming inside
and out, harboring
in brokenness, I can
feel the suffocating
breaths in the distance
creeping around me,
a sunken flame
disintegrating into
greyed ashes.
Dec 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC
Midnight Master
appears with a bounce
Up& down faster and faster
Orange and black stripes
cause a fear of the pounce
Knowing he has an appetite
searching for something to bite
besides myself
Honey, acorns, and thistles won't do
...hmmm take him to kanga & roo
your quite the chipper fellow
Bouncing and gobbling and the day hasn't begun
where did you come from?
Do you have family or are you the only one?
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 5:10 PM UTC
I've been contemplating suicide,
as of late.
Not your standard,
bullet to the brain,
ending ones physical existence,
type of suicide.
No,
I'm considering something... more direful.
I'm going to commit a writers' suicide.
I'll start by deleting my various internet caches,
like the bat of an eye they'll all disappear.
Blink, blink, blink!
For extra measure,
I'll stick an Ice pick through this computer,
then sink it,
in the lake.
I'll follow that up,
by dissolving my pens in a vat of acid.
To the wood chipper!
Go the pencils.
I'll have a bonfire,
burn all the physical text I have,
and every single scrap of blank paper,
within reach.
To finish it off,
I'll break my thumbs,
pull out my own tongue.
Is a writer really alive,
without his word?
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 1:06 AM UTC
The more you try to tell me
What is right
And what is wrong,
What I should do
And what I should not,
The more you make me
Want to face-plant
Into a wood chipper.
And yet,
You continue to speak.
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 9:39 PM UTC
he wore white sneakers,
and black glasses, and
played guitar and sung
the blues
he picked each string
and hit each note and
had voice like gravel
and a heart of gold
he was old but he was
chipper, he was broken
down but he still laughed
like it was 1923
he sung to the taste of
good food, he sung to
the taste of good beer,
he sung to the soul of
his old city, and he sung
for the sake of singing
itself
he, like each man up
there, was playing for
the sake of playing.
they were a quartet
of junker cars and
busted stereos
he sung those old time
blues, back in the days
of Robert Johnson and
racial inequality, back
when the water fountains
were separate but everyone
was still chasing a dream
so uniquely American
he sings and he plays and
his guitar is just smaller
than a normal
he sings those old times
blues with a smile on his
face, even as the world
writes new songs for the
next generation of gravel-
voiced blues-singers that
seem to enjoy life just a
little bit more than anyone
else
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 9:18 PM UTC
i went to see a psychiatrist last monday in the “avenues” and it was refreshing in a way because she actually listened to me, without making me nervous, which is hard. she asked me simple questions, i told her of the ****** abuse as a child, and the toxicity of my relationship before. she asked how my quality of sleep is, and i said it’s fine but i wake up crying or once i screamed ****** ****** and i also punched the fan blowing on my face in my sleep because i thought i was being attacked. i have panic attacks after grocery shopping and a phobia of crowds, although i’m really unsafe anywhere, anything could happen is how i feel. (my whole life has felt like i’m on the edge of a cliff) i pick at my face, and sometimes pluck out my hair. embarrassing. but better than when i was a young girl and ****** on my.. ****** hair... ugh. wow.
anyway she said it sounds like i’m having ptsd symptoms, and that my behavior is very common in people with childhood trauma. she adjusted my meds, now i’m on the highest dose prozac, doxycycline for my face, flexeril, klonopin nightly, and trazadone. oh and birth control. anyway i called out to work one day because the night previous i had had two panic attacks, in my sleep as well. long story short my coworker (i think she’s my friend but i really don’t know to tell you the truth) asked how i was, and i told her everything i just said. she replied with “ptsd from what?”
and my thing is i’ve told her of *** abuse when I was a child, and i’ve told her about my toxic abusive relationship. so i replied with photos i’ve taken over the years of my self harm and explained again the abuse and she never replied. i see her at work and she acts chipper as always and just exactly like my friend/coworker. but the only thing she said to me about the pictures i sent her “are you feeling any better?” as she was getting in her car.
that stung a little bit.
anyway i truly am a crybaby. no sense of direction because i have no sense of urgency. “nothing really matters, anyone can see”
and yet there are days when the sun shines even though it hurts my eyes, and it’s beautiful, the flowers in our front yard are beautiful. i’m grateful for life. maybe the meds are working again, hm?
Jun 24, 2019
Jun 24, 2019 at 11:58 PM UTC
I ****** you dry
even when you were wrong
self-righteously
even when your words
snatched the fray
of my wind-whipped
stained white skirt
and reeled me into
the wood chipper
I wanted to choke
on every grain
of your black salt
relish and smother
in the undiluted flavor
and I savored
every last
bitter bit
Mar 11, 2017
Mar 11, 2017 at 1:03 PM UTC