"clams" poems
Your life is made of distant springs and falls,
a straight route is not
what you own
for hurricanes and storms divert your path
to new horizons.
Will you find horseshoe ***** mussels, clams
on the stopovers?
Food awaits you
if the shores are not ravaged
by human greed, ignorance.
Your resilience is written in B95's ordeals,
a mosaic of adventures ingrained in his own cells.
The threads of your trips assemble
the places of Mother Earth connected in its roles;
nothing is detached in the collective harmony of souls.
Red knot shorebird,
peaceful messenger,
icon of strength without rage,
your story is the universal flight of awareness
waiting to be heard.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 3:28 PM UTC
And now there would come a time
a swift sharp clock on the bed
Blaring its little chime in between the hard bells
Like an angry little arm
Charming if not for the alarm
And everyday I slap the face of it
Like an unwanted *****
And she is silenced
Quick unlike
Said chick
But I am a cruel guy and have no sense of wet and dry
Nor cool or heat
There's nothing bothering me
Time just ticks off and I laugh at it
But my cells divide and turn into little old protoplasmic men
And yet I am not called upon them
Because they are stupidly designed and I have no sympathy for arts and crafts
No masterman
who failing to raise his hand
Clams up
With such poor artwork
Slap that ***** in the dilapidated sistan
Now In San Francisco
Where the alley streets stink of ***
And the European facades are just that
Crumbling
Poopy
And full of ****
And what yet are they dreaming to be?
The church that survived fire
Great conflagration
God didn't make a rainbow at the end of that,
Now did he?
He's a water-sign
Dolt
And water only jolts your mind
When it scatters true light,
Ain't that right?
But it's all the same
Just different hues
And the news
Isn't new
Just Blaring and yelling
And speeding television crews
Riding their stories
Up and down the many stories
Trying to build a city of angels
On a bituminous hill
Shills
No life skills
And I walk the city streets with a ugly old leather
Brief
Casing the joints and rolling my own
Unhappy and alone
Kerouac and the dreams on the monangular input where the triangular avenues meet
And he has no road
While airplanes shake their jets on the tarmac and trebuchet into the air
Going god knows where
Seeing a new piece of the sculpted pinball
Perpetually trapped in the machine
How bout Nippon
Or Hangujin
Or Han Chinese
Or Berlin
Anywhere but when
A little ways along the state
Of "in"
All these strange things
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 3:00 PM UTC
one grain of sand
inside one clam
The clam spends time with this grain of sand
it is nurtured
it is protected
it is valued
it is loved
it is seen as an important part of the clams life
it then becomes a pearl
Why are you so clammed up?
I'm clammed up because I am making a pearl
I am making myself my own pearl
creating my own beauty
Shining my imperfections as if they were weaknesses
I am loving myself
And protecting myself from the toxic environment the world around me can be
I am learning the value of myself
Nurturing myself
The pearl is my own sense of self.
That is my pearl
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 11:17 PM UTC
Nobody clams up over the right things
Flecks of dirt won't make beautiful ever
But those enormous irritations you take with a grain of sand
I tuck those things away
For a long while
It is against my nature to do so
It is awkward to keep salty things on the tip of one's tongue
Without spitting them out
Oh, I long to swallow
How much longer must I be closed up, love?
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 4:45 AM UTC
There is some genie
in our house, curdling poisonously.
I stay in the house
with a freckled old lady;
we're roommates,
unlucky enough to meet each other as life abated.
He does not live in the attic,
like a ***** ghoul; or in some
rubbing bottle like an amnesiac.
But we call the spirit lady, because the genie is vicious.
She comes to the house and says we need to move
things
around.
Her eyes are circled by some creamy mascara
into these black, skin-tight, **** rings,
like absurdist ****** targets.
Things are moved,
the genie stays, gets more vicious.
The mongerer is blamed
for bad things:
broken pots, fights over rent,
**** on the toilet seat,
lost keys.
We call the spirit lady,
this time her fingers jingle with golden rings,
her wrists sing with wrought-iron rainbows,
and says rain will send that sucker running.
So, we build little smoke pits in our house,
and take the most important things:
bills, and alumni letters from my school,
and birthday cards for her,
and burn them until it rains.
The genie calls us falsifiers.
The spirit lady comes back,
a necklace of grimacing clams around her neck,
and knocks around dancing, dancing,
a frenzy, a wildness, a knee-knocking,
throat-throtlling, dismantingly,
limb-ecstasy,
until she poops out and,
breathing heavy,
saying finally:
"there is nothing I can do for you,
I don't think I ever could,
some things are just bad luck."
She turns,
walks away,
and one of her clams drops from her necklace,
it says made in America on the inner lip.
The genie left a few weeks later.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 1:48 AM UTC
There’s an assembly in the making
and the suits are all shuffling in for the big event
making way to their front row seats
****** in nose
hanky in hand
and all colorfully draped
in those cuffed pin stripes
and Jerry Garcia ties
*now what would the Grateful Dead
or any of their fine entourage
have to say about this foul routine?*
Apropos of that
they’re talking in the 3rd person
with tight syllables
and wavy hands
and all taking a run
at the state of the union
there’s Valentino
and Freddie
and good old Sal
"look....their fiddling with their nuts!"
cries a layman from the balcony seats
the Yin and the Yang
have got even the most liberal minded
scratching their heads
as questions fly in from the field:
*don’t you know the way it used to be?
have you no morals?
which way to the exit!?*
These front row fanatics
have surely been scrimmaging
in the corn fields
all down in that classic 3 point
watching their weight
with sample selections from the
Spicy House and Yaas Bazaar
as members of the congregation look on with envy
*pass the aperitif...the big ***** lady is on deck!*
Union heads are running rogue
loading up on grievances
and lines
passing files at a make shift pew
jumping the bunkers
and stepping on clams
while the orderlies move in
for governance
It’s a bewildered state
and only for the mind of the rigorous
Jimmy D would say:
“it’s nothing you pussy...to the victor goes the spoils!
everyone has a bit of good you know...
you just have to find it!"
Unrest is growing in the ranks
and the masses are unstable
Time to hammer down
with a formidable brace
and two tick play
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 8:05 PM UTC
I wish I were stranded on a tropical island
A tropical island with you
You could make art from coconuts and starfish
Yeah, coconuts and starfish might be a good place to start
And I could build a crude instrument
Out of a conch shell and driftwood
And tightly roll a papaya leaf to use for a string
Or two
Then I could play and you could sing
We wouldn't want for anything
Serenading each other by the light of the moon...
Every evening we could snuggle underneath the stars
You could be Venus, I could be Mars
We could lay our differences aside (except the good ones)
I'm safe in you, you're safe in me,
No need to hide
I wish I were stranded on a tropical island
A tropical island with you
And we'd bake clams in the hot, hot sand
Under the afternoon Sun
And brew a crazy chowder using sea salt and kelp (help!)
Then we'd make love on the beach as the water nips at our toes
Under the setting sun when the day is done
By a waterfall I'm calling you...
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 11:08 PM UTC
Drowned piano, plunging through the depths,
Bubbling out its dark mahogany breaths;
Drowned piano, songs played by the tide
And the harp strings shivering inside.
Drowned piano, the sea's become your hymn,
All about you schools of fishes swim;
Upon your legs, the coral will make a home,
And clams will envy your keys of whiter bone.
Drowned piano, answers a mermaid's prayer;
Startles sea-urchins, with a sight so rare;
Drowned piano, so many miles from shore-
Beloved fingers caress you never more.
Sep 21, 2010
Sep 21, 2010 at 8:03 AM UTC
Our bodies are like clams,
our hearts are the pearls,
someone will find you and care for you,
they try to open you up to get to the pearl(heart),
but you won't let them in,
they get frustrated, they become insane,
they throw you away,
but inside your heart is sparkling and beautiful.
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 10:44 PM UTC
A fortified wall is nothing against a surfing barracuda
during a bad dream full of bad intentions:
Wave-action makes you look drunk,
stumbling in the water, lazy as a jellyfish carcass on shore I stare at you.
I am with that girl
the one in the silvery bikini
and wet hair,
fanning on her clumsy shoulders in thin strands.
I'll be with her till the end. I'll make this stand. This stand against the wave coming in.
Turning around in the barrel of a wave,
you wave me in with you;
smiling up to your incisors. How cleanly
you are able to bite off chunks of meat.
The wave womps the **** out of you.
Thunder is under there, thunder
of waves, lightning of jellyfish,
brutalized clams,
hard-pressed sand,
all confused in the barrel of betrayal that is the wave,
while the wave yawns and grins.
Nothing can stand the wave,
I hope you ******* drown in there;
I hope that others just like you,
eat you,
that you become seafood.
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 10:10 PM UTC
Otters are very smarter
with their medium size brain and all
They use sticks and stones as tools
So you can't say they are fools
Their favorite dish
is very large clams and fish
Otters are just so cool
They could live in your pool
So if your are smarter
You for so love the otter!!!
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 11:53 PM UTC
My chest compressed, I can not breath
And everything around me bleeds
Trapped in the rabbit hole
Where no one's supposed to go
I think me and the Mad Hatter will get along splendidly
We climbed into the tea *** boat and sail the crystal sea
And dine upon the walrus hide
We just can not be denied
Oh what fun we had sunning on the shore
All the clams gather round us,we was so adored
Oh look over yonder there is a door
Well Mad Hatter I've got to go but I shall be back
If I have to put that rabbit in a sack
To make him bring me to this wonderful place that I adore
The Mad Hatter looked at me sadly, don't open up that door
Your being silly I won't stay gone long
But something was very wrong
I opened it quickly
And what I saw made me sickly
For behide that forbidden door
In a pool of my own blood I was lying on the floor
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 2:57 PM UTC
there's a crazzzy devil
in
the white house
twisting our nation
into a denizens den
a tub of **** in a suit
ascending ***** matter
in
a clogged toilet
a black plague
we have a president with the attention span
of sea clams
an emotional ******* drip of impetuosity
a spiraling fit of rage
a snarling delusional dog
narcissist in a warping mirror
a pathetic complainer
a cyst on the body politic
clot
open sore
seething pustule
piggish **** lover
gangsters dupe
fascist wana be
heil heil
god your a pile
making Russia great again
licking Vlad's *****
protecting your assets no doubt
and hissing tweets
at war with with only everything
and figments of a disturbed imagination
a real windmill killer
his mouth
the devils mark
a yapping compulsive lier
forked tongued fury
possessed to a fault
by the vainglories
of money and ego out of bounds
the biggest and the best
at being
the very worst and a pest
grand royalty of ridicule
*****
a ham ****** cartoon nightmare
and clumsy stumbling bore
a seething volcano of perpetual excrement
reading from the book of chaos
aberrations of enemies
a war room president
at war with his own citizens
huddled in a panic chamber
burns and cuts himself
with his own hot sharp words
as there thrown back at him
a bully getting bullied
a ripper getting ripped
the brains of a lizards eyelid
in a shadeless socket
pulp hearted orangutan
menace to society
his mottled soul
like a black sun
on the verge
of a black hole
a hell mill of decrepitude
a dark creep creeping
tarnishing our beautiful country
lights dim
America
there's a devil
in the white house
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 5:00 PM UTC
Here,
in the room of my life
the objects keep changing.
Ashtrays to cry into,
the suffering brother of the wood walls,
the forty-eight keys of the typewriter
each an eyeball that is never shut,
the books, each a contestant in a beauty contest,
the black chair, a dog coffin made of Naugahyde,
the sockets on the wall
waiting like a cave of bees,
the gold rug
a conversation of heels and toes,
the fireplace
a knife waiting for someone to pick it up,
the sofa, exhausted with the exertion of a *****
the phone
two flowers taking root in its crotch,
the doors
opening and closing like sea clams,
the lights
poking at me,
lighting up both the soil and the laugh.
The windows,
the starving windows
that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
Each day I feed the world out there
although birds explode
right and left.
I feed the world in here too,
offering the desk puppy biscuits.
However, nothing is just what it seems to be.
My objects dream and wear new costumes,
compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands
and the sea that bangs in my throat.
2.5k
How much i love it,
she knows well,
eyes curiously down-
at me eating squid;
the eight armed cephalopod,
soft and dainty to eat,
in more ways than one,
now spread eagled in my front,
"I could eat you too
if you wish" I banter,
she looks at me mischievously as if
it's more than a joke,
and shakes head.
"Would I be as dainty
as such a fish?" she asks,
as if she is serious to get an answer,
flashing those expressive eyelashes,
clearly in a way I can see what it means!
"Yes, bilateral symmetry I have,
but not eight arms, is it okey?"
She knows all about my tastes,
(who would, if she doesn't?)
squids, octopus and the like
and clams...ooh, i love them, so much
bit sticky stuff, yes I like to mess up a bit,
that way, isn't it exciting?
I relish, squid and cuttle fish,
till I am fully satisfied.
Was she a fish in my waters?
To tell you the secret: she wasn't.
she was an octopus!
wily? yes, but lovable.
who strung me with,
her soft, supple tentacles!
Imposing her sweet wishes
on my senses,
eventually her wishes
become my commands,
to the end,
till she asks,
no more.
)O(
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 8:46 AM UTC
I've always been wary--
and celebrated my potential
Betrayal
and
Certain
death(.) (oh)
At The Juice Joint.
All wet. (incorrrr
--ect.)
Applesauce. (non
sense.)
All dolled up. Showed off my
Gams
And Big Jazz
(eyes).
Wanted to get spifflicated with some
Dolls
and
Jellybeans.
...my fella.
?
Didn't have enough clams.
Any of us.
We
're the new
Lost
...generation.
I thought I'd keep the bank open,
but
interest wasn't given
Cash or Check:
didn't really matter.
Might've been
the
cat
's
meeeeeow.
And
how.
Ahhhhh...
we all had our glad rags on.
the Daddies hit on all sixes.
Let's get ZOZZLED on some
jag juice,
dewdropper.
Deeeeeewdropper. ~errrrrrrrr.....
Though giggle juice is more apt
...for me.
Leave the Mrs. Grundys at home...no fire extinguishers allowed.
How ironic.
You were the extinguisher.
Bring Your Own Knife
, we said.
It's a Stabbing Party
, we said.
I didn't want to handcuff you. Didn't want to exchange manacles.
("No, I'm no one's Wife, but OHHHHH, I love my Life.")
I percolate.
I percolate.
I percolate.
I'm not your quiff.
...not your sheba...or a vamp.
Just admire my
chassis
if you will.
they
all
do
The engine'll purr
for you,
~~if you turn the keys just so
Everything was
Copacetic.
Copacetic...
For a time.
(get'hotget'hot!)
Caesar's here.
Hussssshhhhhhhh...
...speak
~~eeeeeaaaaassssyyyyy.
And then I realized.
I'm tired of being Caesar
( . )
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 7:32 PM UTC
Sand-crusted catacombs of dismembered dreams
Settle beside memories of the child who grew up
In rocky Harpswell, Maine. Not many beaches,
Only a foggy stretch beyond Morse Mountain --
But I used to stand ankle-deep
In the water, wait until my toes sank
Into crystalized Earth
And bubbles from Littleneck clams.
I’d stand there until goosebumps spread upon
My blanched legs, rising up, up, like the artificial hills
Of Maya Lin’s Storm King Wavefield.
Now, when I lie alone,
Misplaced inside a vacant Manhattan studio,
I surrender to sirens and accelerated lives.
Peace comes in painting – thick oil,
Violet and claret on stretched canvas,
Depictions of neon signs and cityscapes,
Cheap t-shirt stands on street corners,
And 24-hour coffee shops with “specialty”
Blends in little white travel mugs – selling
To flocks of strangers, strutting like pigeons on cement
Sidewalks, pretending they belong.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
She lived along the Atlantic coast
and had a collection of lobster pots
by the porch
and her lawn was trimmed for croquet
smelled of clams at low tide
the house was set near barnacle rocks
just beyond a stand of trees.
I found her by looking in a phonebook
next to her name it said, "Poetry Journals,"
so I called the number, and said I was on my way.
"Is that ok?" I added hesitantly.
“Well, yes,” she laughed, “You can come buy one.”
I passed the sign for fresh eggs
and arrived at a black wrought iron gate that said,
"Poetry Journals - 2 for $5.00."
“You’re the first one
who’s ever made it all the way to the house for a journal…”
“In four dozen years,"
she said.
Then she asked,
“What’s your name?”
“I don’t really have a name," I said.
She nodded and understood.
She'd heard from Byron
that the Banshee drags souls out to sea
but sometimes the nameless
manage to float back looking for poetry
these lost ones are like driftwood
bringing a sense of chilly dusk
a retrospective on the sea
in a seashell
appearing by happenstance
at low tide
"yes, I hear a distant mumble of waves,"
she might have said of me
I was one of the lost
turning her porch into a quay of despair
the first one in almost 50 years
who had made it so far
to latch on
until high tide
when the rush of sea returned
washed me out again clinging for dear life
to a raft of poetry
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 11:02 AM UTC
There's a sea-gem in that sand you're in,
Buried a ways away.
She beams so loudly, in that way that she beams,
Whether the sun smiles at her or not.
There's a tree-gem in that sand you're in,
Fallen from her green-top loft.
Sweetly, she glows at the jewels that she's grown,
That, now, sing of their granted agendas.
She's a free-gem, that tree-gem,
That, sometimes, calls herself sea-gem,
Quietly, carrying out her duties, with smiles.
But, she longs to be found,
That green-gem, some rounded,
By you, poking at rocks and dry clams.
07.2011
Jul 15, 2011
Jul 15, 2011 at 9:08 PM UTC
Adobe skinned mimicry of light,
Piece of pebbly lunar surface fallen
To misty ******* reverse panoply,
Spiny spar of stellar tapestry
Nimbly navigating mortared limbs
In sultry sea-cellar ballet,
Rocky roofed conspirator of clams,
Swarthy pirate, silent smithy of shells.
Aug 13, 2010
Aug 13, 2010 at 10:12 AM UTC
My fingers raw from scrubbing pounds of clams, mussels, peeling prawns.
My back aches in preparation for a meal that I wish to share with you.
Christmas music in the background.
A cocktail in hand
Now I sit for a moment and wonder
Where are you?
I hope you smile
Know I think of you
Waiting for our time together
Sitting here. Lost in thought.
Lost in you.
Kiss my love
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 4:39 PM UTC
I have sought many of the past lives,
Witnessed ages of the Earth’s passerby;
From when I was a little sapling,
Until vines and twigs turned wrinkling-
I am a linden tree and this is the story,
I’d tell in the form of poetry.
Many and many a year ago,
When mountains ceaselessly echo
And the birds chirped harmoniously,
Zephyr mutters silence and serenity;
Clouds clover sky in gleaming azure,
Meadow teeming with verdant grandeur.
The sound of the raging sea wave
Reverberates through the mighty cave;
Sun-kissed sand wallow all day,
Pristine and bright as the sun’s ray;
In the boggy soil I stand firm,
Watching the pendulous vine squirm.
Butterflies fluttering in great splendor,
Hovering and sipping nectars galore;
Screeching seagulls can be heard-
From a distant they form herd;
A group of mackerel rapidly swim,
Dwelling into the never-ending stream.
Those were the days when green
is all there is to be seen;
Before the rise of the civilization,
When humans value appreciation.
Blazing red lights swallowed,
Then ashes and dust followed;
Streams and riverbanks silently cry,
As fishes and clams gradually die;
Birds started singing in sorrow-
The broken melody of tomorrow.
This is the story that I’d be telling-
To my children and their sapling;
I am a linden tree, blessed and forsaken,
Whose memories and land they’ve taken.
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 11:01 PM UTC
A Load of brushes and baskets and cradles and chairs
Labours along the street in the rain:
With it a man, a woman, a pony with whiteybrown hairs.—
The man foots in front of the horse with a shambling sway
At a slower tread than a funeral train,
While to a dirge-like tune he chants his wares,
Swinging a Turk’s-head brush (in a drum-major’s way
When the bandsmen march and play).
A yard from the back of the man is the whiteybrown pony’s nose:
He mirrors his master in every item of pace and pose:
He stops when the man stops, without being told,
And seems to be eased by a pause; too plainly he’s old,
Indeed, not strength enough shows
To steer the disjointed waggon straight,
Which wriggles left and right in a rambling line,
Deflected thus by its own warp and weight,
And pushing the pony with it in each incline.
The woman walks on the pavement verge,
Parallel to the man:
She wears an apron white and wide in span,
And carries a like Turk’s-head, but more in nursing-wise:
Now and then she joins in his dirge,
But as if her thoughts were on distant things,
The rain clams her apron till it clings.—
So, step by step, they move with their merchandize,
And nobody buys.
1.7k
Toad sand and frog pebbles,
warted rocks kicked and toed.
Tease the ocean with chocolate dipped feet,
spiced and salted teas.
Taper off mid-sentence, paragraphs tepid
long arms and zebra stripes, a crosswalk tepir.
Tocsin alarm clocks poison innocent bystander’s sleep,
slipping things in their drinks, filling their ears with toxin.
Tie a scarf around the forehead
of the middle child. Teach them beginning syllables of Thai.
Throes and spasms of overachievers
motivate for longer strides, faster throws.
Tense shoulder muscles
hide in sleeping bags, badly pitched tents.
Told injuries snuck in when the door opened,
we heard the miniature silver bells as they tolled.
Ticks count every second second, punctuated by tocks.
With each, a twitch, conscious nervous tics.
Titan tool boxes hold spare screws,
on Coeus’ threaded axis, we spin and tighten.
Terne sardine cans filled with mercury,
pollute our science tests, killing tern.
Tied red string around our pinkies so we don’t forget
when to go to the beach looking for clams at low tide.
Tacks pin talented teens to cork boards,
alongside instructions on regretting the harmonised sales tax.
Tire prints border the country,
left by jeeps that never tire.
Tails directing orchestras,
swarms of swan swim, tattling and telling tales.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 12:32 AM UTC