"chuff" poems
She may not believe
But you know what you see
She may doubt
But don't pout
If you tell her enough
She will not chuff
You must just tell her
She's beautiful
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC
Somewhere deep in the skies of Montana
a lonely street corner flickers
casting coded light
upon the distant albino hillside
It was once a great lake
of snow and ice and melt and
unseen by life
It drained and died
and its beautiful lakebed sands
became the hillside
again
to tumble and fall
into valley and time
again
there we built an impermanent road
we pave and pave
maintain
with trucks and slabs of dirt and grain
roaming those Roman roads
again
Somewhere deep in that heartland
the strings that pumped the musculature
of a dying nation
slowly giving way to a violent attack
from within
oxidize and pool
into great tides
to one day see the coast
I am in California
but I see it clearly as a dream
where the great plains meet the mountain face
and the Cheyenne carved their heels into the dirt
for a bit
spirit
eroded into the winds
today the miners spit
at a coffee-town bar
into copper cans
licker than split
Owning the land that shakes
and shifts
redrawing god's lines
with a paper pad and a pen
for a bit
And the dresses the ladies wear shine
lacquered wood and the horses cry
and beside the interstate
the trucks steam and chuff
and their drivers gaze starry-eyed
onward, beyond into the night
beyond those flanking hillsides
to the flat ocean land sponged anew
that left the oil fields in Texas and the tar sands in
Athabasca
set ablaze in the fervor
of a death rattle
American heart
pumping to feed these hillsides
again
for tomorrow we begin.
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 2:18 PM UTC
IN the cool of the night time
The clocks pick off the points
And the mainsprings loosen.
They will need winding.
One of these days...
they will need winding.
Rabelais in red boards,
Walt Whitman in green,
Hugo in ten-cent paper covers,
Here they stand on shelves
In the cool of the night time
And there is nothing...
To be said against them...
Or for them...
In the cool of the night time
And the clocks.
A man in pigeon-gray pyjamas.
The open window begins at his feet
And goes taller than his head.
Eight feet high is the pattern.
Moon and mist make an oblong layout.
Silver at the man's bare feet.
He swings one foot in a moon silver.
And it costs nothing.
One more day of bread and work.
One more day ... so much rags...
The man barefoot in moon silver
Mutters "You" and "You"
To things hidden
In the cool of the night time,
In Rabelais, Whitman, Hugo,
In an oblong of moon mist.
Out from the window ... prairielands.
Moon mist whitens a golf ground.
Whiter yet is a limestone quarry.
The crickets keep on chirring.
Switch engines of the Great Western
Sidetrack box cars, make up trains
For Weehawken, Oskaloosa, Saskatchewan;
The cattle, the coal, the corn, must go
In the night ... on the prairielands.
Chuff-chuff go the pulses.
They beat in the cool of the night time.
Chuff-chuff and chuff-chuff...
These heartbeats travel the night a mile
And touch the moon silver at the window
And the bones of the man.
It costs nothing.
Rabelais in red boards,
Whitman in green,
Hugo in ten-cent paper covers,
Here they stand on shelves
In the cool of the night time
And the clocks.
2.5k
"But let me tune you the live about life's simulation,
that assimilates one's worth. Poetry's code isn't of ones
and zeroes, but of all lines and words"
Says the wit of a coloured oan wanting to chuff the girls
It's all about the honeys, and maybe some sweet
success of hustling for a little extra money
Taking a stand on every stanza, I grew up to different standards
Unlike the hood rapper clutching the 48 hammer,
I was taught in my hood how to hold a 48 spanner
I have my odds in odes; every heavy breath in each
coma—not so common
Given the stereotype of dealing and robbing
To steal your stereo if the right type,
and best to drive with caution
A dark skinned coloured
fitting in with the blacks by appearance
Accents do tend to change ears intently hearing
Whites think I'm that way out of a private school fashion
But I did at times hang out with the wrong crowd,
at times on weekends smoking **** and relaxing
And yes I'm actually coloured; to those of you asking
Hit you with a "hey what's up, what's happening"
Don't mind me asking questions with this sort of coloured accent
"Yoo what's the story," we start our conversations
in the morning. A different kind of breed Godsent
I don't force how I speak
But if it disturbs the peace
I'll change my tone of speech
And find solace in writing another poetry piece
_@the Coloured poet_
Dec 15, 2022
Dec 15, 2022 at 2:41 PM UTC
I wish I had a thousand trips around our lovely star
So that I could go back and forth to kingdoms near and far.
To soar forever, taking time, enjoying every bit,
And bathing in the sky of love for every mind I lit.
The bows I'd take, the vows I'd make, new friends for every day.
I'd trek alone, all by myself, about the Milky Way.
I'd smile back and share the tears of strangers and of kin.
I'd live my life and help live theirs – no virtue and no sin.
I'd fly with bats and swim with whales across the ocean blue.
I'd walk the line, I'd take the stage, I’d chuff and churn for you.
I'd learn to live and learn to love and learn to breathe again.
I’d salvage bygone knowledge that I’m but another man.
I'd break the ice, I'd warm the hearts, I'd open all the doors
Which lead right to the fields of stars as my life runs its course.
I'd reap and rove, I'd rave and roam, relentlessly reborn,
Reluctant to let go but still – I’d mend the pages torn.
I’d show myself – and let it spread – the message of pure love:
First love yourself, thy neighbour then, and last – the sky above,
Find strength within, the courage true, the potency of wit,
And don’t regret the choices made nor every second split.
I’d crawl and dash and dive and rise, oblivious of time.
I’d juggle fates and bend the rules, incessant in my prime.
I’d teach and preach, I’d do and dare, defying night and day.
I’d swear and slur, I’d speak and stare as my time ticks away...
But life’s too short, and I don’t get to have one thousand trips
And all I want to ask for is a plethora of blips –
A-blurred, aghast, agog, alight, astonishingly apt –
I’d be forever in their debt, tumultuously rapt.
And on my final trip around, I'd love to sail away…
To throw that fond glance at the moon
And die another day.
October – Movember ‘16
Nov 17, 2016
Nov 17, 2016 at 8:22 AM UTC
Summer is alive, the barbeque's on fire
But I aspire,
to be far away
There are children screaming all hours
along the sweltered streets
and cars breeze by, families get high
Lawn mower doldrum paradise paradoxes
I look at flight information on a melting monitor
Enter bank details
and the system crashes
I'll never escape
Three generations pass the window,
chuff away on branded cigarettes
These are truly the end of times
The claustrophobic city closes in
and I'm gasping for breath
through the intermittent smoke rings
That I am exhaling into the sky
The societal construct of monetary systems
keeps me imprisoned not only in the town of my birth
but in the mind of myself, a jail of superficial self-annihilation
I am consumed by I
Ego choke-hold, harder to breathe in the heat
Harder to pound these city streets
We need that cash, we need that (government) cheese
We need freedom of wealth to breathe with ease
I feel like Hannah, turning towards prostitution
or Malcolm in subversive ****** and sadomasochism
I feel like dying
I feel like the drifting away
I feel something
I feel it, I swear
Today I am here
But I feel like I should be elsewhere
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 1:06 PM UTC
1...2...3...4
'Cinderella, dressed in yella,
went upstairs to kiss her fella
By mistake she kissed a snake,
How many doctors did it take?'
*1...2...3...4...
skipping rope with girlish delight
realizations of real life burdens out of tune
how many snakes does it really take
to chuff that wonderment of childhood
double dutch that innocence right out of her
does it burn yet, round and round and up and down
she stares out the window with her eyes closed
dreams of Cinderella and Prince Charming's cloudy
he went downstairs to kiss her spoon
that jumped over the moon, jack fell down
and broke her crown if only she were Alice,
what could she do?
tell the Mad Hatter to make him act
like a 'real daddy',
bounce her on his knee,instead of
this thing he calls 'special kind of love'
as he rolled her over,
she prayed to god above
There was silence that echoed in her chaste ears
except when he said you better do this right
she obliged cause she knew if she did not obey
there'd be even more evil coming to play
All the King's horses and all the king's men
couldn't put her back together again 1....2....3....4......
Cinderella,
dressed in yella
went downstairs to meet a fella
on the way her knickers busted
how many people were disgusted?
1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8...*
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 12:26 PM UTC
I
We played kick the can
Where the sidewalk cracked,
Ruptured by a cottonwood’s roots.
Then winds from the canyon came rushing
Through the leaves of the tall cottonwoods
(I believed that sound was the sound
Of time rushing away),
And sent us home.
I paused on the front porch.
From across the street a faint mist drifted,
Rainbird spray from Reservoir Park,
Chuff chuff chuff chuff
Chuff-chuff-chuff-chuff-chuff- chuff-chuff-chuff.
At the horizon beyond the park,
Jagged streaks of pink tapered into purplish dusk
Above the shrinking mirror of Great Salt Lake.
II
I entered the silent house
Where something strange was taking place.
Darkness billowed from the living room couch.
Ink oozed from unlit lamps.
Shadows deformed familiar shapes:
Chairs, an end table, a portrait, the piano,
A piece of driftwood from the Dead Sea.
I watched my hands flicker,
Merge into shade, dissolve.
I stood trying to grasp
What the darkness was doing.
Then an engine hummed in the driveway,
Tires crunching asphalt,
A car hummed into the garage. Voices.
The kitchen door opened.
The darkness retreated
Behind the sofa and beneath solid chairs.
The simple shapes returned,
Pulled across a boundary into night
From a summer evening on University Street.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 2:38 PM UTC
I cannot emphasize enough
how well I know your savor sweet
but time and time again I chuff
for black and bitter bite I meet.
Your hunger for my energy
is all i crave to feel complete
but longing I no longer see
I fear the sound of fleeing feet.
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 4:44 PM UTC
Her blue eyes--used to shake
those roars turned into a hot, low chuff
Now it's her head that shakes
Now it's her hands that shake
Cracked, peeling palms
she picks with worry,
no No no
-----don't do that-----
Wiping away tears like she used to, her voice crackling on the phone. She hides.
I'm am too young to help her.
I have an empty head and empty pockets,
shrugging with pleading eyes, I'm sorry.
So sorry.
Her mother
Her sister
Her
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 11:51 PM UTC
if surf this morning is seldom slack
when a garter holds up its string
this chuff is fishing that spoonful glimmers
while bait require quinine indelibly
by the sea
where squalk among clouds patrol crowd
that hasten to crack the sound
newly afoot a dock seemingly hottie taut darken wheel has line aboard and always say peekaboo
by the sea
Oct 10, 2017
Oct 10, 2017 at 9:22 AM UTC
In the city of hatred
Love is currency
In the town of the belated
Not all the eyes can see
Smile on the tramway
And watch the eyes adance
Glare at the luckless
The ones without your chance
Chuff down the street
Coffee your coal and steam
But don't ever try to meet
Those with less esteem
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 3:07 PM UTC
on my street at night
sparrows quietly cheep and chuff
time to go to sleep
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 6:12 PM UTC
The air bites crisp this early part of the day.
Workers wrap up warm as they set out on their way.
As cyclists and joggers set the pace.
The sun has yet to grace us with its golden face.
My husband and I,
accompanied by two energetic grandchildren, whose boundless energy I envy.
Make our way to the large green fields, the children playing in a frenzy.
Here gulls, ducks and swans,
meet at the water’s edge.
Their squawks and calls,
loud and pleading to be fed.
First, the boys take the chance to play football between the rugby posts.
Their enthusiasm is to be the one that scores the most.
With grandad as the referee,
they tackle and run, laughing and shouting, that’s number “3!”
As I sit and observe from a bench, dogs run playfully and bark.
Sunday morning and families are making their way to the play park.
Families as large as four or five, walking, talking, laughing, toddlers ahead, racing on bikes and scooters.
Suddenly!
A long misguided
kick from one of our penalty shooters.
“Oh, no!”
The ball lands with a splash in the middle of the river.
Causing the water to ripple and shiver.
How will grandad get it back?
He walks
keenly following its track.
Luck is with us!
The wind changes course and blows the ball to the side.
Grandad bends and retrieves it for his boys with patience and great pride.
In the distance, trains chuff, chuff and toot, toot,
as they cross over the bridge.
I wonder where their start point was,
Scotland, London or maybe Cambridge?
Before we have reached our destination, the sun has broken through the clouds,
and the day warms.
People have increased in their numbers,
like bees multiplying in swarms.
Everyone is glad the sun has come out to play.
Jackets come off, sun cream goes on and families continue on their way.
It’s a perfectly leisurely and wonderful day.
Mar 24, 2025
Mar 24, 2025 at 5:02 AM UTC
Something less turbulent
grows here now
Catches me fishing
wetness
And lightness
from your unforeseen depth
See emptiness
as a place readied
and each poem
read or written
re-lights
us
Chuff against
the darkness
you hold so tightly
it fades
just these words
don't
Are a ****
Turn us
Copyright@2018
Nov 18, 2018
Nov 18, 2018 at 12:03 PM UTC
Under a great oak wood by our cliff
sunset rays pierce through
rainbow chuff and widespread arms
and spinning bare feet on damp grass
Feb 13, 2024
Feb 13, 2024 at 3:02 PM UTC