"cones" poems
dust cloud heavy
in an apricot sky
cottonwood mucker
under ambrose pale
whippet and shepherd
mill at the earth patch
yellow birch hangs
over red bench park
combine shavings
in crack rust brown
scissors chips fall
at the back stop
whiskey jack looters
sing patented chords
siblings (and 2 wheel enthusiasts!)
give thanks
joyous retrievers
master the criss cross
bare maples stand
at settlers way
barred owl and blue jay
whistle in the fore-wind
ghosts
and goblins
pull on the seeds
wind gusts belt
over the west gulch
a blood rush churns
in the chilling fall morn
hallowed grounds still
at the midday
quiet reflections
of the afghan
and hound
jumpers unite
at the oxbow
route runners bend
(on a sultry foray!)
meadows exposed
in the framework
ball parks empty
with pennants past
barrel dirt favors
the brew house
crimson and copper
find bracken ridge gate
harvest hands savor
the honey and hops
blankets of color
for a winter's hatch
brush fire kept
under steady peruse
bark bites fly
and embers glow
pine cones drop
from the timber tops
3 wick candles
grace the dinner place
shiver and ******
at the piper's call
cob web dew
on the shadowy gates
a chilled mist mellows
the season's return ~
poets and artists
and dreamers awake
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 11:55 PM UTC
cedar planks line the dim lit hall
morning snow begins to fall
sepia print in a chipped wood frame
embers spark from the franklin flame
rustling sounds from bunks below
records play in a tight alcove
bacon grills on an iron sheet
gloves are warmed by baseboard heat
bean bags tossed on colored ****
papka placed as a punching bag
red brick wall with mounted poles
windows filled with glacier bowls
whiskey jack on the southern rail
a frozen patch of wine and ale
pine cones fall in gathering white
brothers bathed in firelight
sleighs are on the table top
canyon road is at a stop
northern winds that bite the face
lines are up the gondola base
cornice clipped by gully goats
the rubber man appears to float
alpine depths are on the rise
peaking sun through parting skies
triple ropes and nordic luge
honored guests from baton rouge
gelande jumps on rainbow drive
nostalgia’s light and warm reply
Jan 2, 2017
Jan 2, 2017 at 5:50 PM UTC
it falls through the glow of the wintry trees
building a cover under the breeze
luminous lights sparkle and hatch
snow pack high on the briar patch
pine cones fall from rustic fir
squirrel and robin shuffle and stir
sitka spruce at tunnel bluffs
ravens roost on the cedar rough
dusted peaks at hurley pass
snowline cuts the avalanche
fox and lynx are on the prowl
hollow eyes from spotted owl
cool winds up the valley trail
whirling snow round diamond vale
chilling flakes in candle hands
moonlight shines across the land
northern lights in krypton green
the sounds of verve are bitter sweet
curtains hang from a cold dark sky
counting stars, a lullaby
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 12:17 AM UTC
*****
I like ***** I like ****
before you touch, you must get permits.
Nothing like a nice pair of assets,
oh how puppies make nice pets.
Bazongas are ***** that are large,
strippers and hookers, will always charge.
Nothing like the perfect *****
but only on the perfect woman.
******* are yummy dark or white,
but first you must wait for an invite.
Some girls even have a third ******
do not squeeze says Mr. Whipple.
I don't mind girls on the itty, bitty, ***** committee,
on a carpenters dream, I show no pity.
They could be called a bust, some call them cans,
a woman's squeeze box, all men are fans.
Chesticles is a term I have never heard,
but everyday, I learn a new word.
I like cones, I like jugs,
girls with big ones, I give hugs.
Al Bundy loved calling them *******
at the restaurant, I wish I was one of the recruiters.
A girl with a nice set of knockers,
might find herself with unwanted stalkers.
Fergie sang about her lovely lady lumps,
a good set of melons, still give me goose bumps.
***** always come in a pair,
why do bra's, they have to wear.
Even men who smoke lots of crack,
still can appreciate a good sized rack.
I don't care if there fake or real.
in a crowded room, I always cop a feel.
Girls love showing off some cleavage,
I wish I lived in a ***** village.
Babies need breast milk to make them stronger,
if the mom is hot, they may do it longer.
In conclusion, I love *****
with whipped cream or melting ice cubes.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
i cry during Bambi
you cried in your car after your high school girlfriend tried to come on to you
you and i--
we wouldn't, but--
tonight
or tomorrow
or the next day
we could give ourselves away
we could shoot white deer together in the mountains without a license
the blood from their heads would make cherry snow cones in the powder
and we would have fun savoring the flavor
watching something innocent die
but how would we feel the moment it was over?
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 11:50 PM UTC
I use technology to take me to a time when it only half-existed. In a blue-shell room of mega-pixel photographs and rolling news feeds, I can put on my headphones and disappear into an instrumental Sunday.
There are stamp collectors making their lazy way over beaten roads and disused railways. 'Surrender' only means to fall asleep and to leave your book as a hut on your bedside table. Where war may still go on and on,
but at least you don't have to hear about it. Show me the place where pine-cones fall and women stare across the river. Where coffee is for taste, and not self-medication. I want to walk bare-foot and feel thorns
toughen my heels, infect my blood with Earth or God or Any Other Name. We will **** in the bushes, singing those fragments of Leonard Cohen lyrics that we can still remember from times spent smoking in my room.
I can almost feel that pointless happiness. That location in a canopy to retreat when the bills are due, when the walls needs re-painting. When the neighbour strangles puppies and all you do is complain about the time.
I use new music set to old sounds: freed slaves living in the cross-hairs of tradition. White lovers breaking their hearts over guitar strings and harmonies, always a semi-tone apart. I find your hair on my pillow.
There is no technology in the world to distract me from that.
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 6:29 PM UTC
trip up the island to see all the folk
monopoly, pong => pig 'n a poke
crystalline glass with dark bitter ale
Santa is looking a little bit pale
cherry red cheeks from a chilled chardonnay
one sailing wait for the talk of the day
drum sticks and dressing are the pick of the bird
chestnuts and brandy for gravy being stirred
brussels and taters are pulled from the bake
pears in the salad bring memories of Jake
sparks from the fire with rich amber glow
grey hair and wrinkles will come...don't you know?
gingerbread man with a white icing smile
candy cane schnapps (with its seasonal style!)
pine cones and tinsel that cover the tree
carols are humming from churches and streets
cold winter nights are the best of the year
chocolate and eggnog await with good cheer
a heavy thick fog approaches the sound
the comforts of Christmas, with joy all around!
Dec 10, 2017
Dec 10, 2017 at 9:48 PM UTC
she liked the color yellow because it calmed her
its brightness soothed her soul
and the sight of a yellow flower
always brought her joy
it illuminated her dark days
and stormy weather
it always seemed to try so hard
to be happy
A quality she could relate to
but one day, she met a boy who liked orange
a color she always said she hated
its hue too close to yellow
but too different to be enjoyed
she never wore the color orange
felt as if it drew attention to her
when she was content enough
to be invisible
in the corner of the room
her favorite color was yellow
and his was orange
but she never liked that color
with its harshness and severity
it reminded her
of traffic cones
and reflector vests
of emergencies
and warning signs
But one day, she realized
he reminded her of the color yellow
he soothed her soul
illuminated her dark days
and calmed her storms
he never seemed to try too hard
but always managed to make her smile
she realized yellow and orange
weren't that different after all
and when the two hues came together
her, perpetually the color yellow
him, forever orange
she felt like the only girl in the room
the colors yellow and orange
started to bleed together
and orange came to remind her
of fallen leaves
and clear sunsets
of butterflies
and sprinkled zest
and in time
as she grew to love him
the color orange started to become
just as beautiful as yellow
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 11:51 PM UTC
While the clock ticks to the hour, yesterday's remains washed
clean in the shower
To obtain her power
Applying her make-up for the night, making sure everything's
just right, holding tonight doesn't end in a fight
She'll do anything she can
To please a man, even if it's not part of the plan
The night is coming to its peek
It's the money that she will seek
Each night at the bar, hopping tonight she'll go far, we all
know what you are
We can see the attention you crave, by the way you behave
You're willing to be any mans nightly slave
& you only pretend to be brave
As the bar doors close, you return to your hoes, you think you're
slick & nobody knows about your ***** shows
I can't tell you what to do
But just remember when they are through, they'll just leave you,
you're their ***** fling, their one night thing
They'll never be your king nor give you a ring
So go home, feeling alone
Waiting by your phone
But let it be known
When you're pretending to be nice it's because
Your love cones with a price!!
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 7:55 AM UTC
Stand over my heart like a flamingo
(I dislike sturdy traffic cones, anyway)
As you do so, peer into the well for the calculator I dropped
It's there somewhere
Lord, I hope you can fly
Because I can't help but push your stubborn form
Over the edge like this
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 4:46 AM UTC
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer,
painting maples in hues of brilliant oranges and reds.
Long shadows of late September streak across the last blades of grass,
as fall’s stark contrasts light the afternoon.
The seasonal wind breathes cold with the smell of autumn in the air.
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer,
while cottony clouds in a sea of cornflower blue, slowly slide out of view,
chased down by v’s of geese as they race across the sun.
Helicopter seeds line the sidewalks, green and gold, as others float on the wind,
down to join with cones and acorns awaiting next year’s crop.
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer.
Crows, harbingers of the winter to come, make their sad calls.
Squirrels pause to pack their cheeks with Fall’s fare and scurry to secret caches,
their bulging cheeks filled with fallen nuts and acorns.
Fall greets me with a kiss as summer bows to its chill, as
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer.
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 10:26 AM UTC
i've been
reading poetry
ee cummings and--
sylvia plath
pretty pools of words filled with color
--and ducks
charles bukowski is a
***** old man
lots of ***** old
words
and images
but real dirt, not pretend
real's so hard to find
these days
they talk about love like it's
broken--painful--deadly--
always wonderfully beautiful
(like the beautiful snake whose
poison's killing you)
that's not
love
because it's falling asleep with warm breath on the back of your neck and your bed a little too small
because it's laughing so hard that you almost snort macaroni and cheese out your nose
because it's doing laundry and pausing just to notice how your clothes smell like her
because it's waiting alone, imagining how big you'll smile when she comes back - it's always bigger than you think.
because it's knowing that the pain's not part of love, it's part of being human
they don't know
nearly as much as they
think--
they do
i love--
baseball in the park when it's not too hot
(I play shortstop)
chocolate ice cream cones in the hot sun
(dripping down my hand)
flying kites in autumn winds
(the falling leaves make the difference)
sledding through the snow
(and crashing into snowbanks)
i love--
coca-cola
(in the glass bottles)
root beer
(with vanilla ice cream)
7-up
(it's better than sprite)
mountain dew
(caffeine!)
i love--
you
(and the soapy smell after you shower)
you
(making me laugh more)
you
(how much you care about people)
you
(and you let me, too)
that's my proof they
don't know
(what
they're talking about
that is)
so--
i think poetry
is overrated
Jan 25, 2010
Jan 25, 2010 at 10:08 PM UTC
A Serotinous Pine there,
Where winter snows soak into thirsty soil but relentless summer sun bakes motionless
Every plant a tinder held close to conflagration,
in a season's Russian roulette of forest fire.
This pine seals precious seed away from every spring’s promise,
lest burning destroys every one.
Only searing heat during torched consumption triggers the last gentle act,
At the knife’s edge of apocalypse itself,
opening cones of seeds.
Fluttering down to new life on the other side of time.
Tiny bright green amid black ashes.
Swimming Penguins
Birds evolved to fly in ocean.
Wings to flippers, feet stepping clumsily from water.
Yet eggs must still nest, their babies still breathe.
Safety is the very precipice of existence, on bitter ice at 60 below,
Sheltering their young clustered from blistering winds,
fasting from sustenance,
While heaven’s glorious Aurora flame silently over their winter dreams.
So what then are we, on This Earth?
Cerebral Creatures, Storytelling Animals.
Minds created to sense spiritual constructs.
Living is the method of our creation,
Sheltering each other from inherited trials
With contrived joys and sufferings distracting each other
from the soul freezing fearful cold of the Empty Void
And consuming fire of electric chaos.
In the End, our sacrificing gift for our children
is God.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 1:37 AM UTC
Someday we will find it. It could be days, weeks, months, or years from now. I will see the twinkle in your eyes and the excitement radiating from your body. We will both be happy. Our minds will be content. We will have so many memories: riding colorful bikes around big, busy cities, eating icecream cones in the park, taking pictures of everything, going to concerts and singing our hearts out, traveling the world just so we can spend time together. Millions of laughs, millions of smiles. All the little things that really create who we are. Those times when I would tell you "things will get better", "we will be happy". It will all come clear, we have each other. I will look at you and say "we finally found it", but it has been with us all along, our friendship.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 9:23 PM UTC
Tall
breeze bending tops
rooted deep
faceted to growth
tips seeking light
scented sounds in needles
beautiful feminine formed spiral cones masculine inconspicuous pollinating
pistils
overlapping in season never ceasing a
productive moment
never fallen, always green
Reminds me of eternal life
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 9:12 PM UTC
these tempting and tumultuous times,
when the insect bite of attraction nibbles
your cheek, and first blood thickens with
intrigued,
the blood heated by, with a bewildering new sun's glow,
then bubbling boiling
over
with phantasmagorical fantasies,
and one endeavors to coax, to tease,
to preen, to adduce how best to ******
this persona, imagined or imaginary to be,
whispers a silent "no thankee''
and first bloom curls into a deathly brown doom,
you,
chastened by amorous hastening so quick evolving,
and the hither in come here, withers to a ghostly silencing,
one wonders, reminisces, and sadly recalls then forgets
the entreaties so eagerly received, how one wants to be
deceived,
for the once lay-buried-arousals now well recalled,
and quick to appear, faster to dismiss disappear,
and disaster cones and goes with light-speed velocity,
having fling,
now flung,
having crushed,
now crushing,
you caught laughing at your self,
still evolving long past the time
for youthful deceptions and silly indiscretions,
but not unhappily, for it was an acknowledgement
that good love poetry yet within resides, alas, alas,
it reciprocity seeds need replanting, and that notion
is quite pleasing...
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 9:00 AM UTC
pinecones are
childhood summers spent tripping over the syllables of dense forests
folded somewhere between real world Europe and my very real imagination,
nestled against each other on bookshelves made of pinewood -
a childhood game of hide and go seek pressed in photo albums
where a version of me lived;
a version of me who delighted my mother and father,
a version who to me remains a stranger -
smiling gap toothed, shoes in snow boots,
sticky fingers pressing pine cones against her nose -
the present, a fragrance;
the future, a rolling pine forest.
pinecones are what the years between 17 and 19 felt like
in perennial wanderlust,
soul spliced into shards trying to make sense of
everything I felt and everything I thought;
everything I needed and everything I still want.
pine cones perfume the edges of a dream
dipped in the streams and stories of far-off lands,
pine cones are the crutches of a crippled mind
still building a new home for itself
in the basements of other people’s hearts.
pinecones are
platforms which I danced from,
leaping limber, slaying fear, the win always near;
pine cones are a reminder that while
a man can break his shoulder trying to tear one from the tree,
the true mark of bravery lies in how well you can break free.
pine cones are
the skeletons upon which hang the colourless drapes of my future
before stepping into galactic puddles that splash colour
all over every unmade plan,
memories’ strands shining technicolour through translucent skin -
the touch of your fingers no longer feel like sins.
pine cones are young green and supple,
seeds of love lust and chance encounters
that blaze into fiery shades of yellows and oranges,
every colour turning a tinge darker, a daily time marker;
pine cones are what remain, dark and unyielding
after a lifecycle of fires starting
and dying
within the embers of consciousness.
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 2:56 AM UTC
When the day comes for me to lay down and be free
I want to be reincarnated and
come back as a tree.
Tall and strong and smelling of pine and living again for a very long time.
In the summer I'll dress in a cool suit of green and give homes to the squirrels who nibble my cones.
My roots will be stable and deep and though unable to walk, I am able to talk with the winds and the birds of the air.
And who is out there and able to see that being reincarnated as a wonderful tree is a beautiful thing?
I shall knit with my needles a song to be sung and sing in the spring when the winter is done.
What fun it will be when I am a tree and being a tree in such good company with the Ash and the Oaks who are such marvelous blokes will be good for me.
When the day comes for me to lay down and be free,I will reach up to the sky and come back as a tree.
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 12:27 AM UTC
My soul's hot pink,
like them bubble gum squares,
cool, strawberry fizzy drinks,
and a thick candy ice cream.
Those warm, glazed over doughnuts,
cupcakes with light sprinkles,
jelly beans, tufts of cotton candy,
and a tub of small macaroons.
My soul's hot pink,
like them candy hearts, sweet or ****
chocolate coated easter eggs,
lolipops, and sugar rocks.
Those creamy cakes, fruity tastes,
of gum drops, frozen pops,
of sno-cones drizzled, cookie wafers,
and sweet marshmallows; smoothies.
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 4:30 PM UTC
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
Crawling down the streets
on pouring rain
darkness cares of creeps
hovering their pain
the lamp post on their niche
thunder blunders a hit
to an abbey
where we used to meet
with white lane trails
and colored vales
a flashback in memory lane
Time used to stop and stare
for a while
to vanish the pain, I bare
and look a step back
from the mile
There...
were we used to melt away
from cones of treats
and giggled from candies
we barely eat
with swirling clouds in play
gazing our hearts
in the moss of grass, we lay
Then a change led you to leave
you cared nothing
but your selfish greed
anxiously I gave all of Me
but just to realize
you gave nothing of thee
As I die
a sign in my heart reside
an echo awakening
a brave woman, a reborn rite
with wiped away tears
and faking leers
she flaunts out her pain
A brave woman
brave enough to begin again
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 12:04 PM UTC
Dry veins branch the dead gulch
cinder cones set on a marble tan scape
fanning sands sketch ephemeral
fossil plates fold under columns of gray
Mountain back steep at the crevasse
sinkhole spots form on parallel nine
sulfur pipe stems from molten ash
withered shrubs and crumbling spines
silt fields cover the foothills
swayback shed near the Whipple tree barn
tumbledown shacks form the patchwork
from goat canyon ranch to big bison farm
Salt lakes fractured in amber
sickle-bush cut at the bowline knot
a half-moon traced by the viper
oxbow streams and valley grot
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 1:43 PM UTC
It was a lovely tree
Green like a meadow all around
Bark as thick as pine cones
Ants crawling without a sound
Covered by birds of a feather
Whistling chirping to each other
The sun and moon overhead
Taking turns from one another
Yes it was a lovely tree
Peaking above white plumes
Always looking for blue skies
And room to grow for its blooms
But it wasn’t long in the life of a tree
That its branches held aloft
Birds that seemed of another sort
Sometime landing not so soft
The air around it was free
But not so much the tree
Though it thought it was
Only the wind could really see
As each new bird took its place
Each tidal pass could only sigh
As storms of horizon shadows gathered
But a bird will perch no matter who may cry
There are only so many leaves
There are only so many ways to live
And as each feather sought its own
The tree wonders how long it can give
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 12:37 AM UTC
Pine needles
Pine cones
Pine floorboards and beds,
Pining for a lover can make you lose your head.
Pine tar for turpentine,
Pine nuts to chew,
Pining for years long gone,
And a tango prance for two.
Pine woods deep and long,
Crisp kindling underfoot,
The compost here is lush and dark,
And bright insects crawl the root.
A drizzling breeze through pines is calming,
With rain clouds moist and full.
Yet headwinds of grey-orange smoke,
Make nineteen men the toll.
For when the pines are exploding,
And the Yarnell fire burns through,
Who but the stones will be here mourning,
A green love so fresh and true?
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 7:14 PM UTC
In symmetry
and colors
a notable image..
meditative model
Hubble finding
in night sky
light years
from here
and Now..
***Science musings:
How created..?***
A creator or
creation..?
***A centered aging
binary system..?***
Polarity energy
says it all..?
The unusual shape?
Sacred geometry
expresses itself..?
A definite torus..
All Reality
and Consciousness
expressed as Torus..?
***Boundaries of cones
form an X..?***
Creation of symmetry
interconnectedness
recognized..?
***Why unusual colors
Red and Blue..?***
Left and Right
Male and Female
oppositions prevail..?
***As hydrocarbon molecules
colors building blocks
for organic life..?***
Center Light transforming
to component colors..?
***In a few million years
the Red Rectangle nebula
will probably bloom
into a planetary
nebula..***
New birth
Now announced...?
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 3:14 PM UTC
Hey girl where you going?
I’m very much a talker
Cos I can’t dance good
And I never been a stalker
Where you off to my l’il lady?
Hop in my left seat for a ride
Wind it up or slow it right down –
I can get you to the other side
I’m just a country boy
And I can take you up city streets, country roads
Just a poor l’il redneck
But I’m sure I can get you to where you want to go
I got a full tank of gas
I got an all-terrain SUV
You sure do look good
Buckled up next to me
I can take you up the fast lane
I can drive you round the cones
I can take you slow through the forests
I can take you fast through 30 zones
I got air conditioning in here
Chamois leather seats as soft as babys butts
I can take you across the smooth asphalt
I can take you through the deep ruts
Putting on my aviators
Just let me know if we’re getting close
We can slip on out
Or we can take the main roads.
Just listen to the music
And i can listen to you if you like
I can rev the V8 and take you there
Be it day or be it night
I got fully automated
And a nice little gear change
I got super beam headlights
With a three hundred foot range
I can go on the straight and narrow
I can take you down winding roads
Nothing’s a problem for us; we know where we come from
And I can get you where you need to go
Yeah, I don’t dance so good
But I’m a country boy,
A nice little country boy.
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 9:06 AM UTC