"copper" poems
_~a jump-rope chant~_
Black silk handkerchief,
what ya’ gonna’ hide?
A pox that knocks on the church’s side.
Preacher won’t preach where my daddy died.
Angel forgot which soul to guide.
Both arms wrapped in moccasin skin,
open the gate and let her in!
Snake-bone hag with watery eyes,
count to ten when the baby cries.
One for the moon,
and two for sin,
three for the teeth with the rusted grin.
Four for the girl with the copper cough,
dancin' in the attic with the light turned off.
Five, six,
skillet ticks.
Seven, eight,
shut the gate!
Nine, ten, count again--
bathe him slow and cool the skin.
held him close till the fever broke;
air curled white from pinewood smoke.
Chewed the haw and bit the sage,
wrapped his bottle in a bible page.
Ghost stood watch on the porch out back,
shadow thin and eyes coal-black.
Sayin', "I’m fine, don’t mind the cold,"
"died last spring but ain’t been told."
Oct 5, 2025
Oct 5, 2025 at 3:52 PM UTC
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
fischers rap
on a hot tin roof
bristol creek pools
over rock and seed
english wolfhound (and the barkbuster)
stroll pine lane
vibrant colors
of a cool spring
in cob yellow and
forest green
field mice squander
in cotton wind
goats and ferret
hold seven hour trim
raven and ****
meddle and forage (on a splendid fiaker goulash!)
crickets and frogs
hidden
in swollen grey logs
creepers fill the
cut stone walls
coy wolf high
on a frayed white rope
eagles perched
at trudy’s bend
catamounts laze
on a snow base cedar
(pared arbutus bent
through a failed ground rock)
brush spider spins
a timely web
brown bears fumble
at the spirit jamboree
quizzical squirrels
crack their nuts
as pillow clouds float
over telegraph trail
12 point dances
on talus and scree
hen hawks float
in a big hard sun
clydesdale and coach
trot copper smith road
(glancing down
on finch and the warbler
whistling through
colander row)
lavender fills
the peat soil box
mountain cats
guard the heavenly gates
black eyed ridge
is wide and open
the country squire hails
this fruitful land
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 12:18 AM UTC
I do not want a plain box, I want a sarcophagus
With tigery stripes, and a face on it
Round as the moon, to stare up.
I want to be looking at them when they come
Picking among the dumb minerals, the roots.
I see them already -- the pale, star-distance faces.
Now they are nothing, they are not even babies.
I imagine them without fathers or mothers, like the first gods.
They will wonder if I was important.
I should sugar and preserve my days like fruit!
My mirror is clouding over --
A few more breaths, and it will reflect nothing at all.
The flowers and the faces whiten to a sheet.
I do not trust the spirit. It escapes like steam
In dreams, through mouth-hole or eye-hole. I can't stop it.
One day it won't come back. Things aren't like that.
They stay, their little particular lusters
Warmed by much handling. They almost purr.
When the soles of my feet grow cold,
The blue eye of my tortoise will comfort me.
Let me have my copper cooking pots, let my rouge pots
Bloom about me like night flowers, with a good smell.
They will roll me up in bandages, they will store my heart
Under my feet in a neat parcel.
I shall hardly know myself. It will be dark,
And the shine of these small things sweeter than the face of Ishtar.
36.5k
Ah the perfect boy
Mushy and gushy, all human like, with normal human skin, and smile
Scratch that
Heavy body armor, brandishing a sword, born in the mid 15th century
Hmmm, no
Aluminim for hair, copper in his head, lack of understanding of any type of human emotions
That's not right, no
How about
Scales?
Not possible
Gills?
Smells fishy
A being of pure light energy?
Sigh, beyond my comprehension
I guess I'll just get
A pet rock
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 9:07 PM UTC
Bees build around red liver,
Ants build around black bone.
It has begun: the tearing, the trampling on silks,
It has begun: the breaking of glass, wood, copper, nickel, silver, foam
Of gypsum, iron sheets, violin strings, trumpets, leaves, ***** crystals.
**** Phosphorescent fire from yellow walls
Engulfs animal and human hair.
Bees build around the honeycomb of lungs,
Ants build around white bone.
Torn is paper, rubber, linen, leather, flax,
Fiber, fabrics, cellulose, snakeskin, wire.
The roof and the wall collapse in flame and heat seizes the foundations.
Now there is only the earth, sandy, trodden down,
With one leafless tree.
Slowly, boring a tunnel, a guardian mole makes his way,
With a small red lamp fastened to his forehead.
He touches buried bodies, counts them, pushes on,
He distinguishes human ashes by their luminous vapor,
The ashes of each man by a different part of the spectrum.
Bees build around a red trace.
Ants build around the place left by my body.
I am afraid, so afraid of the guardian mole.
He has swollen eyelids, like a Patriarch
Who has sat much in the light of candles
Reading the great book of the species.
What will I tell him, I, a Jew of the New Testament,
Waiting two thousand years for the second coming of Jesus?
My broken body will deliver me to his sight
And he will count me among the helpers of death:
The uncircumcised.
21.5k
sages and brethren
gather, and share
and slowly souls
are bared
their tempered voices
and quiet eyes
reserved of judgment
with passing smiles
moments blend
in current trends
opinions wide
and reflections deep
the concepts
and irregularities
once murky
now clear
they prioritize
and familiarize
that staunch resolution
of generation net
will remunerate
and illuminate
through the checkpoints
and formal reviews
through the purple curtains
and open stage
nothing tainted
or bitter
left for taste
cause its they
who’ll plant the seeds
the captains of commerce
healers and jugglers
the coaches and councilors
negotiators and compromisers
the kings and queens
hustlers and hellcats
(who've all found their way!)
let us tip our hats
and salute them*
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 2:05 PM UTC
The mushroom
The unfolding
instant of creation (fertilisation)
not an instant separate from breakfast
It all flows down & out, flowing
but that instant:
not fire & fusion (fission) but a moment
of jellied ice, crystal, vegetative mating
merging in cool slime splendour
a crushing of steel & glass & ice
(instant in a bar; glasses clash, clink, collide)
far-out splendour
heat & fire are outwards signs of a
Small dry mating
~~~
event in a room
event in space
a circle
Magic rite
To call up the godhead
spirits, demons
The shaman calls:
“When radio dark night…”
We are eating each other.
~~~
The Voice of the Serpent
dry hiss of age & steam
& leaves of gold
old books in ruined
Temples
The pages break like ash
I will not disturb
I will not go
Come, he says softly
an old man appears &
moves in tired dance
amid the scattered dead
gently they stir
~~~
I received an Aztec wall
of vision
& dissolved my room in
sweet derision
Closed my eyes, prepared to go
A gentle wind inform’d me so
And bathed my skin in ether glow
~~~
Drugs are a bet w/ your mind
~~~
The cigarette burn’d
my fingertips
& dropp’d like a log
to the rug below
My eyes took a trip
to dig the chick
Crouch’d like a cat
at the next window
My ears assembled music
out of swarming streets
but my mind rebelled
at the idiot’s laughter
The rising frightful idiot laughter
Cheering an army of
vacuum cleaners
~~~
Mouth fills w/taste of copper.
Chinese paper. Foreign money. Old posters.
Gyro on a string, a table.
A coin spins. The faces.
There is an audience to our drama.
Magic shade mask.
Like the hero of a dream, he works for us,
in our behalf.
How close is this to a final cut?
I fall. Sweet blackness.
Strange world that waits & watches.
Ancient dread of non-existence.
If it’s no problem, why mention it.
Everything spoken means that,
it’s opposite, & everything else.
I’m alive. I’m dying.
~~~
1st wild thrush of fear
-A phone rings
There is a knock on the door.
It’s time to go.
No.
17.7k
the bones were hard to give up,
they pushed out like daisies
caressed under the hounding
heart of a copper sun.
unbridled and undried they bore
zealous arrogance of themselves,
petals dripping ****** convictions
and vibrating like awful angels.
under cruel devices they tried to
soften my bones and mold thick skull
constructed of lackluster candles
on their last flame.
days passed like doctors and white nurses
examining old wires that pray tell
the routines, the stools, the teeth.
i am their Jesus, their Lazarus.
my hearse, my sheep keeper,
my pretty things,
i become the acrobat at the
finale, the last supper,
supplementing at the **** of my
recovery. i lay my skin down for all
of you to see: here is my breast!
my toad belly! my glass feet!
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 5:02 PM UTC
*in the midst of an emerald slumbering forest
laced with pungent scents of jaded wood
a burgundy blushed tail
of a chestnut hued fox
scurries as copper sunbeams part the day
a hospital lumes starkly nearby
its aura exudes hints of melancholy
commingled with faint impressions
of halcyon futures
not yet lived
at neighboring dartmouth
a student sprinting to class
drops his crimson colored backpack
the prospect of cancer
far from his budding consciousness
my beloved sits patiently
pondering pensively
his last chemo treatment
elusion of death
not far from his mind
i feign to fend off future catastrophes
watching letters scramble across my screen
earnestly writing
in a desperate attempt
to be with him forevermore
an aquamarine hummingbird drenched in tranquility
senses the inverse
its amber tipped wings stand seemingly stationary
while it steals a quick glance through the window
curious at chemical infusions meant to heal
my beloved walks out
of the austere building
with rose colored glasses i feel
that we’ll whirl on the tips of gilded stardust
dancing with another chance to fly
©2016janetaylor
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 1:19 AM UTC
In Nero’s private stage,
Disaster was
His audience. Rome mimics fallen Troy in play.
What was reflected in Nero’s eyes
when he sang of the swirling patterns
of fire? When Rome was caught burning;
When conspiring led to its fall.
Fire engulfed Rome with fiery teeth.
The clouds hide or faint into black smoke.
The skies bleed heavily with rust
Its brassy color mixing with the
*** of burning seas, like oceans melting
Could you not feel the sun’s weight?
Now it is incomparable to
Molten seas and softened lead!
Blood spilt from sea-point, waves wallow the cries
Of the fallen. Like a bellowing sound marching
Against caverns of ears, Copper soldiers
Melt into clouds oozing with emotion,
Shattering their now empty metal hearts,
Hollow hearts that outlive the muteness.
It is awakened when
Spark and light is absent.
(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal / June 26, 2009 - Alabang)
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 7:09 AM UTC
Wilson and Pilcer and Snack stood before the zoo elephant.
Wilson said, "What is its name? Is it from Asia or Africa? Who feeds
it? Is it a he or a she? How old is it? Do they have twins? How much does
it cost to feed? How much does it weigh? If it dies, how much will another
one cost? If it dies, what will they use the bones, the fat, and the hide
for? What use is it besides to look at?"
Pilcer didn't have any questions; he was murmering to himself, "It's
a house by itself, walls and windows, the ears came from tall cornfields,
by God; the architect of those legs was a workman, by God; he stands like
a bridge out across the deep water; the face is sad and the eyes are kind;
I know elephants are good to babies."
Snack looked up and down and at last said to himself, "He's a tough
son-of-a-gun outside and I'll bet he's got a strong heart, I'll bet he's
strong as a copper-riveted boiler inside."
They didn't put up any arguments.
They didn't throw anything in each other's faces.
Three men saw the elephant three ways
And let it go at that.
They didn't spoil a sunny Sunday afternoon;
"Sunday comes only once a week," they told each other.
15k
The city spearheads the futures we sincerely sold,
As it pluckers your pennies and your coins of gold.
I felt poor amid the auras of their fearsome metals,
Cowering in the clothes of our daily struggles.
I am destitute enough
To bleach out the interests of my cards,
To shatter your savings for a disabled future,
To rummage the stock markets for apertures.
Yet within you exhales tentacles of the color Yellow.
Yellow as in,
The scattered stars that scorch the injured sky,
The mellowing voices of neon artificial lights,
The apex of fire alight in frostbitten nights,
And the yolk of hope my cheers rely.
So while you chase the sun
with your copper-clad hands,
remember but this:
all that glitters is not gold,
It’s the color Yellow in these eyes I behold.
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 10:56 PM UTC
born in illusory chains
gnarled metal
encrusted in my broken skin
the copper colored dust
of rusted steel
infectiously envelopes
shaving off antiquated layers
of fundamentalist religion
encrusted for generations
unpeeled until raw
an unsophisticated method
unveiling
ancient lodged glass shards
colored with deceit
brought before their court
interrogated
unfathomably skewered
an eerie salem witch trial
in modern times
barbarically they shun me
banished
i wander aimlessly
smelling the rotten decay of deceased community
as splinters pierce my feet
from the crooked wooden plank
i walk alone now
an unfathomable inner ache
kindled a residue within
igniting a wildfire from the darkest shadows
uncontainably erupting
i dance savagely
naked in the orange moonlight
and in every shaded edge
lit my soul ablaze
i am a nomad sheep
‘tho not one of their color
no pasture to contain me
no shepherd i can follow
theological safety nets
no longer there to catch me
bohemian-like
i plunge
free falling
plummeting
stripped wide open
magically
fearlessness
reverses gravitation
floating
untethered
i soar amongst
apricot tinged clouds
my skin still wet from rebirth
and rise with the flaming coral sun
you cannot destroy me
i twisted in your decrepit pencil sharpener
and with fresh mettle
cut through the chains that bound
you can have my ego
but you cannot have my soul
dismantling domestication
transcending limitation
wildly untamed
i fly
©2016janetaylor
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 6:40 AM UTC
Money Talks
and what it said back then on the railway bridge
at Bloomfield Road (no longer there of course)
was "You can spare me – it means only one less
penny ice lolly from the corner shop !" (no longer
there of course) and the train will make me huge
(steam no longer here of course) and the others
will laugh and cheer as you scramble down to
the line place me centred and climb back up
here again before the train shoots through to
Central Station (no longer there of course).
Gigantic copper-coloured disc and this recall.
Still talking half a century after.
(c) C J Heyworth August 2014
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 12:17 PM UTC
Be Lost In The Call
Lord, said David, since you do not need us,
why did you create these two worlds?
Reality replied: Oh prisoner of time,
I was a secret treasure of kindness and generosity,
and I wished this treasure to be known,
so I created a mirror: its shining face, the heart;
its darkened back, the world;
The back would please you if you’ve never seen the face.
Has anyone ever produced a mirror out of mud and straw?
Yet clean away the mud and straw,
and a mirror might be revealed.
Until the juice ferments a while in the cask,
it isn’t wine. If you wish your heart to be bright,
you must do a little work.
My King addressed the soul of my flesh:
You return just as you left.
Where are the traces of my gifts?
We know that alchemy transforms copper into gold.
This Sun doesn’t want a crown or robe from God’s grace.
He is a hat to a hundred bald men,
a covering for ten who were naked.
Jesus sat humbly on the back of an *** my child!
How could a zephyr ride an ***
Spirit, find your way, in seeking lowness like a stream.
Reason, tread the path of selflessness into eternity.
Remember God so much that you are forgotten.
Let the caller and the called disappear;
be lost in the Call.
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 5:39 PM UTC
A normal kind of guy
Just the guy
No cosmologist
Sans Christian
********* the droplet suns
Distant in the blackened sky
Gotta 'and'er some
The bristled gristle
The cryogenic iris
Steel teeth gnashing
Right-toe left
Ardent in an autobiography
Good man
Soft man
Locomoted his GMC
to the Sea
Thought maybe
With precise aim he
could undertow away
paradise.
No pick-me-ups
In copper-channels
That Ionized the pick-up-truck
With archaea iron
that ugly duck
Reminiscent of the man
In all but--
A castaway
Stowaway
The man who never hesitates
Bop upon the interstate
Lost within
concritical maze
Shoring up
Going home
Giving up
Turned to stone
Marble chin
Solumn grin
Chlidren sing
Seeking wings
How'd he know
Where to go
Will he see
What it means?
He's the guy
The one with the lollipop lap
Licking the syrup off the lip
Of a sweet polished sapphire
Gin
And the kids
My god
They think he
ODYSSEUS
And his dog not yet
Dead but depressive in the gloom
Howling into the midnight grass
And the creatures that stalk
With their ******* youth
Soon their weight will hit the deck
And like a noose,
Break the joints
The planks of which would stress
And bend his eyes upon his head.
God willing
Should he be exhumed
His energies excape to the river
And float,
Penultimate,
into the sea.
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 5:03 PM UTC
my eyes finally rested,
the perfect shade of pain's gray
Hers swiftly burned copper-red
we're bound to disappoint
along the way
always looking up to
someone out-of-reach
stammering over words,
just to make a point
the point is dull, anyway.
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 9:58 AM UTC
Twist my gaze to the side
Through the copper-and chocolate curtain of my hair
Through the sea of faces
And one amongst hundreds
I could pluck you, like the ripest apple
From the lowest branch.
And in this ocean of bobbing heads
Of flapping lips and empty eyes
I'm just floating
Just alone, drifting
Hoping you'll throw me an emerald glance
A lingering lifeline
To reel me in from this
Crowded loneliness.
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 9:48 AM UTC
This year I'll bleed for better reasons.
I'll take a tumble after a night of drinking at the bar,
knees skinned and raw because I wasn't used to my heels.
I'll brush it off and let the blood trickle down my legs
as I stumble back home at 2 am.
I'll learn to hold my liquor.
I'll bite my tongue a thousand times and taste copper.
Whether silencing myself for my mother or my professor,
the friend who thinks she's always right. Or the *******
who's screaming sexist jargon.
I'll learn to pick my battles.
I'll cook myself delicious meals and the knife will slip
while I chop shallots and potatoes for my feast built for one.
I'll let my ****** battle wounds season the food and I
won't flinch at the thought of eating another meal alone.
I'll learn to love myself.
I'll pull the knife from my heart and back and wield them
like weapons fit only for my hands. I'll lick the blade clean
and scare anyone who dares try and harm me.
I'll never bleed for you again.
I'll bleed for better reasons.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 1:13 AM UTC
the
transparent wings of
the
copper dragonfly
fades
into
another mirror
through the sky
above
the
copper mine
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 12:14 AM UTC
EᔕᔕᕼI
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The kitchen's air is redolent with spices,
peppers and cinnamon, all-spice and star
anise, thyme and curry. The cooks are
shouting orders; taking rose-silver pots
and copper pans; each having the print
of the Lily of Aurelinaea; from the wooden
shelves, plates and bowls from the cup-
boards; some are stirring soups over
coal-fire stoves; others are dicing carrots,
potatoes, fresh poultry and more.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Esshi, in a light-green off-the-shoulder
dress of rose-silk with a triple ruffle trim,
lined with yellow ribbon, a thigh high slit and
white lilies beadery, is speaking to the head-chef
who nods. "Certainly, Lady Esshi." he says
and turns to his busy staff. "Bring out
the paella pans! We have orders for the
Queen Mother!"
"Yes, chef!" a woman says as she pulls
out a rose-silver paella pan and places
it on the stove. The head-chef turns to
Esshi. "You need not worry, Lady Esshi,"
he smiles. "I will make the dishes with
care."
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"You always do, Bael," Esshi chuckles as
he washes his hands and she walks to
the corner, sighing. 'My Lady...'
she thinks worried.
"Lady Esshi?" her thoughts are broken
by a woman's voice. She turns to see a
florist behind her. *'So lost in thought,
that I did not hear the door open.'*
She thinks as her eyes fall on the flower
vase.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The vase is art noveau style; a deep emerald
green with a maiden in flowing silks, her
hair bejewelled with lilies. Esshi's eyes then
rise to look at the flower arrangement - white
lilies with lilac kisses, purple roses and
several stems of lavender.
"Lady Ainhara said I should bring this to you."
"It's lovely," Esshi sniffs the fresh flowers.
"Very beautiful! You certainly outdid yourself.
It's for our young Queen, I take it?"
"Yes. And Lady Ainhara said I should bring
you this also."
She sees her place some paper, quill and ink down
and Esshi smiles.
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 3:41 PM UTC
it was on a hill of a clever neighborhood
the errant flow well guised beneath the clay
upon reach of the summit
she is all that can be held
her pull far too magnetic
her skin, akin to milk poured by Luna
her hair is the black of midnight
on the eve of the new moon
she sits facing inquiry with her injured one facing her
on a rounded copper colored chair
placed curbside
Sophia speaks then
a monotone misgiving
that pours out
as a sly pompous
indifference
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 12:47 AM UTC
I never did know when to shut my mouth,
So I guess it’s no shock to feel it smarting against your back handed swing,
But to be honest, I bet it hurt you more, does it sting?
Can you feel it in your bones ?
Copper taste against my tongue,
I’m choking on my own blood,
Does my manic laugh horrify you?
This Cheshire smile plastered across my face,
Do my cheekbones slice your knuckles?
That’s going to leave a bruise,
Not that you care,
Twisted my head back by my hair,
My body is peppered in greens, purples, blues,
But with the way you turn your head down you’d think I was the one abusing you,
When you wrap your meaty fingers around my windpipe does it give you pleasure?
What goes through your mind while your holding my life in your hands,
How many of my ribs have you cracked upon your feet,
Only to lick my thighs later like a treat,
One of these days it’ll be my fingers around your neck,
And I won’t stop squeezing till your dead,
Until then use my body to your hearts content,
This dangerous dance,
Like egg shells beneath my soles,
I’m waiting for you to slip on the blood you painstakingly draw from me blow by blow,
And in your own sick way you actually love me,
Convinced the only way to save me is to hurt me,
But I’m not that sick or twisted to believe the words you croke out,
One day very soon it’ll be you who shouts,
Ya I never did know when to shut my mouth,
So I guess it’s no shock to feel it smarting against your back handed swing.
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 9:57 AM UTC