"cleat" poems
'Twas all so beautiful a sight,
A long summers night; The sacred stars were burning bright about our mother moon.
The wind filled the sails above the waves, that sped us through the sailors tales, and brought us to a deep lagoon.
We cast our nets out far and wide, then watched them sink below the tide, which rattled out a tune for me and you.
We hauled aboard the silver fish, to fill our bellies and our fists, then set off home with seagulls squawking tunes.
The wooden boat now tied about the quay,
its tattered sail and rusty cleat,
gently tug and tug the rope upon the swell.
come to sea!
You know me well!!
Feb 10, 2018
Feb 10, 2018 at 8:23 AM UTC
the poem her belly marched through me as
one army. From her nostrils to her feet
she smelled of silence. The inspired cleat
of her glad leg pulled into a sole mass
my separate lusts
her hair was like a gas
evil to feel. Unwieldy….
the bloodbeat
in her fierce laziness tried to repeat
a trick of syncopation Europe has
—. One day i felt a mountain touch me where
I stood (maybe nine miles off). It was spring
sun-stirring. sweetly to the mangling air
muchness of buds mattered. a valley spilled
its tickling river in my eyes,
the killed
world wriggled like a twitched string.
7.3k
Let me tell you a story.
When I was young, I was convinced one of two things would happen:
I would either die young or I would live ignorant.
And I was allowed to believe it.
I was careful, avoiding snakes, spiders, dirt, human beings, love.
I horded books, enough to give myself a doctorate in any field.
And I was called paranoid. Idiotic. A fool. Freak. Doomed.
But, I kept living anyway. Destroyed, most of the strings in me cut.
But living. And I was allowed to believe it was a gift.
Of course, this is a fiction, lie, metaphor, but the truth stands.
Children are not born to be afraid. They are taught.
Fear is conditioned. Rewarded. Considered a virtue.
The wildness of youth is tromped upon by cleat-clad "caution."
Gone are bright eyes, reckless smiles, heads thrown back. Life.
Dull glances, insurance, cul-de-sacs, and bitten tongues reign. Fear.
And fear is one of the deepest scars we can inflict upon another.
This story is not mine, though I have been the one to tell it.
But I am human. An ocean. A fault line. A candle facing a storm.
This tale, in some chisled fascet, mirrors my own.
And it will continue as long as I draw breath.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 12:51 PM UTC
Slap of leather magnified
Where Caesar’s legion marched
Setting sun of golden light
Though’ Roman tongues are parched.
Pewter helmets bronzely glow
Sweat cascades from dusty brow
Whilst o’er hill the Vandals mass
Salivating hot blood now.
Short swords cleat with marching rythm
Stabbing lances high and cold,
Metronome in stamping sandals
Onward now to victory’s fold.
Scarlet standards fly on high
The statement of intent is clear
Caesar’s men have promised now
To desiccate from ear to ear.
Grey ghost high above bears witness
Cadence of advancement grows,
Column strides in face of chaos
Lowered lance’s sharp steel shows.
Engagement in a stony basin
Flesh and blood, as one, combine,
Cut and slash in perfect order
Stab a *** and make him mine.
Darkness hides her chilling secret
Brooding silence stills the air,
Dawn’s first rays reveal the spectre
Carnage killed with none to spare.
Grey ghost’s hang in gaunt remembrance
Vespers ring in solemn tone,
Gone forever Caesar’s promise
Dead in vanquished blood and bone.
Marshalg
Inspired by Anselm’s “Broken Promise to Caesar.”
21 March 2013
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 1:29 AM UTC
this dead city is alive with stray cats and missing person fliers, but the locals are dancing
on hardwood floors and [ ferocious yellow drums ] are striking the black-most
and the back-most star, sinks
it's cleat into
banished sunrise
with No End
in Sight !
the pride of most eyes,
too blind
to witness the free
oblivious,
As corn-fed black holes
swallowing the wisdom of crowds... as the unctuous clouds
of our dismay
are ever, ever at play; where the thin pool thickens.
where our blown bubbles French with thick tongues... our open lips
rebuffed to an invisible sheen.
the running of the Bulls is always an Alcatraz in a Free Will.
we dip into shallow cathedrals
where our Mercies slip through
nausea and dank
and Islands
of Less Ocean... where
The weakest Archipelago
In a Severed Chain
Of Dreamt
Events
are you
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 11:44 AM UTC
those things heavy confused wonderful
to touch are cool on the shore of a beach
beneath light blue and seagulls effortless
on wind in a field sunkissed flowers by
your brow laying with your body
splendor and grass itchy on backs
pricking at cotton and getting hot sweat
delicately messes your makeup quickly
sprinting on loose noble perfect calves
to the arms of a lake and stabbing it
the pierced cleat of your excellent
figure and it's fire smokey and just
on a beach somewhere up into eve's
unsad cheeks (where there shines
unbelievably minute and gorgeous
stars)
Mar 16, 2012
Mar 16, 2012 at 4:34 AM UTC
New boy, old shoes,
but he seems to know how.
Girl studies, furrowed brow.
Would you show me?
He grins.
You bet.
Brown girl, white boy
share soccer tricks
(fakes, spin kicks)
like tango steps
on the grassy field.
Lips clenched, Tania pauses
to repair beaded braids.
Tight shorts, mighty thighs,
her body a dark diamond
centered in the hips.
Tony smiles lots, curly red hair,
his head a pumpkin
on a pale post.
Nimble feet
for the ball compete,
their only touch.
After one-on-one,
three laps they run
side by side, chatting, unaware
they are perfectly aligned
in rise and fall of
knee to knee,
right to right,
cleat to cleat,
left to left.
Walking to the street, Tony chats,
Tania listens cradling ball to her chest
as they wander in synchrony,
step to step,
breath to breath,
making a start
heart to heart.
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 4:02 PM UTC
I once gave you a sock
to cover your can of beer
one hot summer day
on a public field.
I sometimes wonder
where it’s been
since that Tuesday.
Perhaps it went on an early morning jog,
and saw all your neighborhood
looking up from gravel streets.
Maybe it sat at the bottom
of your bag of ***** clothes
when you went to the Laundromat
and offered a spare dryer sheet
to a lady who smelled like
red delicious apples and cheddar cheese,
or maybe it found its way
to the top of Mt. Washington
in the corner of your trunk
behind a bag of turkey sandwiches.
There’s a chance it could have been found
by your daughter’s friend
at her eighth birthday party
and become a thwarted puppet-foe
to her warrior princess doll,
or found by your Labrador
and buried in his favorite spot
under that crooked tree in the yard,
only to be picked up by a hawk
and placed in the bed of her nest.
It’s possible you could have
packed it in your suitcase
on your first trip to Spain,
and walked with it on Las Ramblas
when you bought pitaya at the market.
Perhaps it never left
the bottom of your gym bag
and remained folded
inside your right cleat,
but I like to think
it accidentally fell
on the edge of the Grand Canyon
during your spring break trip
to be captured in a family photo
later printed and framed
in someone’s house in some exotic place
where it could be, in memory, forever.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 11:28 AM UTC
In the once noble house,
almost all is taken except
The walls, the lath, now held on
by a cleat of wood and lace
that redeems the letcher,
denizen of Sussex wetlands.
Of late the chalet is latched
only by hate, and the letch
chats with outlaws in the storm's eclat
of thunder far off.
No knights or maidens remain,
nor any ruler of demesne
and the treasure is born
off to other kingdoms.
The well is dry and
fields are bare.
And in the end, all depart.
leaving doors open to the wind
and gate down to the woods.
And broken the way
down to the sea.
Jan 8, 2025
Jan 8, 2025 at 12:31 PM UTC
Nobody told me to stay in my seat
and prepare for this ride they say is life
so than I stood right up and took a cleat
It seems that I'm cut by a bowie knife
It's best you leave now before I hit you
for I feel I'm in a heavy weight bout
get up get gone yeah I said it girl shoo
I'm crazy for my heart was just ripped out
going home and sitting in a corner
feels nice for I can't stand so many people
they make feel like I'm a foreigner
who climbed on up but can't get down a steeple
all I've done is become a poster child
of what not to become so I'm goin wild
Jul 26, 2011
Jul 26, 2011 at 9:16 AM UTC
as we're celebrating
with family and friends
on Christmas day
give a thought to nations
who are in the fife
of a destructive flay
there will be no peace
all harmony unkempt
the tones of happiness
in these lands exempt
munitions reining down
terror in every street
the frightened war weary
caught in a violent cleat
the wailing of innocent children
the grieving heart of a mother
humanity lost in the woods
the planet's brotherhood in smother
and the joys of Christmas
we'll have to share
yet there will be places on our orb
dowsed with pain and despair
Syria and Iraq
those trouble riven territories
where there is an ongoing
legacy of animosities
merry and mirthful
shall be our Christmas day
but let us not forget war torn countries
far beyond our homeland's bay
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 8:05 AM UTC
It isn't your mystery
Or history
That makes me stick around.
It isn't because you pound
Away at me,
Or have the right key.
I stay
Because you just may
Be a habit, an addiction,
Just a whirl-twirl fiction,
greasy slab of meat,
***** spike on the bottom of my cleat.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 10:13 PM UTC
Getting led on
Is the worst
It's like getting on a roller coaster
Slowly going up the long steep incline
Your heart ready to exit your ribcage
Your stomach ready to plummet faster than the ride
Then just before the roller coaster drops
A gigantic soccer cleat appears out of thin air
And kicks you off the ride
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
I'm like a dog
You could bash me, beat me, and cleat
I'll come back for more. There's no sense in arguing.
Just put me back in my cage.
I'm too simple
I'll bite the hands that feed me until there's
No more room on his arc. I could use a swim anyway.
Don't tell me what I'm getting into.
Think me stupid.
Fall for your tricks that bewilder and trips
that make me fall but foundation needs to be invincible.
I'll learn to build on a speckle of light.
Please count me out.
There's no sense in dying over others beliefs
especially since I'm in stuck inside this cloud in hell chatting
with Hades. What's left for me now?
Don't remember.
It won't help when I'm on that marble ledge
that's where you once stood. Don't count on me when
you're east not west and I'm all you got left.
Jul 29, 2012
Jul 29, 2012 at 12:40 PM UTC
It wraps around your heart
And whispers temptation in your ear
You nod mindlessly as
Its pours down your throat
So easy, like honey
Your soul steps out of your body
And your filled with cheap happiness
Which quickly fades to sadness and anger
All of a sudden you're alone
Crying to the stars for love
But all they do is laugh at you
You cry for hope
But all is gone
The moon reflects on the clears bottles
You see yourself frowning
At this demon
That entered your body though a bottle
Someone comes to help
But they fall down
And stay there
You close your eyes
And wish your mind would adjust
When the sun rises
Your soul has re-entered your body
Your mouth tastes of vile
Your hair is a tangled mess
And you have lost a shoe
The cleat ****** sun shines on your friends
They are also waking up
You stand up and brush the dust and dead grass off you
And ask yourself the question you can already answer
What happened last night?
Oct 28, 2011
Oct 28, 2011 at 8:25 PM UTC
What’s to become of a setting sun that cannot be with you always even though it will return in the morning to ask your sleepy eyes if you made love to the moon?
What’s to become of a solitary moon adorned with my kisses to be sent to you each night in remembrance of the past and a hope for a dream that is so old it has borne children that have taken their place in the heavens?
What’s to become of a dry creek bed that once ran wild to your seas in anticipation of becoming one in a mating ritual that can no longer move even the smallest pebble when once boulders shuddered to think of the passion play that ruled the night?
What’s to become of the lone wolf who howled each night in your forests that have now burned to the ground with not even a remnant of smoke from a fire that consumed our past lives and is merely ashen powder with no resemblance to the beauty that he once devoured?
What‘s to become of a stone tied to a leg attached to a body that once had a heart that was held in your hands and instead is drowning and decaying under the weight of oceans that will make quick work of its flesh leaving only the chain that mercilessly did your ***** work?
What’s to become of the abandoned sailboat with clanging hardware on a mast that stands alone without a sail to catch the wind; instead left to drift aimlessly while you walk away from the dock where you dropped the knife next to the cleat where you cut it loose and set it free?
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 11:02 AM UTC
A Down the Railway Rhyme!
I walked the line
to where the steel once ran.
I walked the time line…
Where the rail gap clatter
gave way to wild bird chatter.
Where commuter crush
became deer grazing in a siding’s hush…
Wild flowers, weeds & shrubs
flourish where the occasional sleepers lay
and the odd rail cleat on the track bed ,
remind us where the rails once led,
till those who govern these things said…
Too expensive!…No more the train.
Let the trucks & roads take the strain.
Today… Nature’s Food Chain
replaces yesterday’s Freight Train
Wolf’s Bain and Wart’s Ease
instead of strap hanger’s
carriage squeeze…
meant kids would sit on their mother’s knees
Today there’s a diving Sparrow Hawk
where once 3rd Class picked up on small talk
and 1st was treated to business ‘squawk’.
The river & passing pastures have seen it all;
rail trade that kept a town alive
gives way to help the wildlife thrive.
Nov 6, 2020
Nov 6, 2020 at 5:11 AM UTC
The eyes drink,
Even before we think,
Then we go on and cheat,
Because we are caught in a bogus cleat.
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC
Down the deer path, thick with ****
to every hard to find
creek bank in the world,
there's a busted dinghy,
a forgotten sloop dream,
with a mudstuck sprung transom,
a sky beckoning bow,
tied to a cattail or some other
tenuous stem.
Down the deer path, thick with ****
the willows, reefed in a gale,
cringe in the rising crest,
and a busted dinghy
lifts on a swell and bellows
against the cleat to slide clean
to the sea, to a young boy's
landlocked dream of spray,
hard weathers and anywhere
but here night-watches.
All the colors of elsewhere,
the splendid regatta of the never-seen,
the gleaming spice and bent strange
tongues of the could have been - mold,
dip and sigh, lift and strain,
again and again,
upon a cleat,
upon a rope,
upon a cattail
or some other
tenuous
stem.
Aug 14, 2019
Aug 14, 2019 at 5:48 PM UTC
doing just the body lips
girl full of sits
short skirt barely
inches into
smooth mile
becomes
hands neatly
collapsed in
perfect house of
curled beauty
from which
twitch
two spates
of fragile wrist
twist upon
eery limb
of excellent
arm
metting
just clasp
of shoulder
under
which fits
over
cleat of
marble neck
holding hover
of heaven's
strand:
a face like
she so
April
drunk inside with
flowers Spring
and everywhere
(constantly)
MUSiC
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 8:40 PM UTC
serve your bullet on the platters
along with the silver spoons and
doomed matters. we don't deserve other
than the dust of our creation.
that's what we are, we beget
ourselves and are not patient
we are our creation,
we are not the scrolls in our town
halls but the clay molded by our hands
and the soccer ***** out in the street,
not stopping other than by abrupt
stamping of your cleat.
the cost of cost may be a
long lost generation, when you spew nukes in a foreign invasion-
we bare our friends corpses and
drag them through the nation,
it’s true the wrong place for
skeletons is the basement.
Jul 19, 2019
Jul 19, 2019 at 7:53 AM UTC
Cherry pits and Goodtime while I avoided your frame
Christopherson carrying us quietly... or maybe it was Paul Simon
(I forget)
And I listen to your subcutaneous single-serve salvation
while you're seeing trees for their root structure
watching the AudioArbor curl and weave
with the hue of that little toy xylophone
you two found in some box in the basement
and I feel discovered all over again
I don't know how teaching me a cleat hitch
stumbled into Kant and 21st-century relationship structure
That's a path only you could manage
flanked by a witty remark about the weather or traffic or my day
skimming the depths on nothing more than Zephyr's respiration
And now I know patience was wrong
watching concentrated ambition simply... snuffed
waiting and wisting ebb as you tip-toe to oblivion
Sep 18, 2020
Sep 18, 2020 at 12:17 AM UTC