"copperhead" poems - Hello Poetry

Sometimes it’s hors d'âge cognac in neat round crystal, pinned back and twisted perfectly to complement this uniform. But he prefers it as amber lager, spilling over in rich loose curls, filling him up and making him tipsy.

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Jan 30, 2012

Jan 30, 2012 at 8:38 PM UTC

elizabeth-milnes

Copperhead

Sometimes it’s hors d'âge cognac in neat round crystal, pinned back and twisted perfectly to complement this uniform. But he prefers it as amber lager, spilling over in rich loose curls, filling him up and making him tipsy.

14

The leaf-mottled copperhead coiled near my woodpile, rendered sluggish and harmless by the cold, makes no move to strike. Its flat eyes simply stare, as if to say: welcome to the Garden. - mce

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Apr 11, 2015

Apr 11, 2015 at 6:13 AM UTC

mike-essig

Eden Morning Encounter

The leaf-mottled copperhead coiled near my woodpile, rendered sluggish and harmless by the cold, makes no move to strike. Its flat eyes simply stare, as if to say: welcome to the Garden. - mce

14

Golden apples, crisp sandwiches, and smiling milk Golden boy, growing hands, and smiling eyes Easy to learn those lessons woven by a voice of silk Easy to yearn with countless ways to fly on free skies Silver tongue to gild her hope in their enticing game Silver lost on nickel and dime since the value change Tough to beat that cowboy has wound up all the true dames Tough to see success outside that boy's jubilant range Copperhead and improperly read, now he is out on the town Copper tools to trade between fools for a means through today Hard to make it now that his future is a thought that brings him down Hard landing and hard to stand knowing soldiers get to fly away Muscle-cut, silent disciple by uniform and drill On a new path where the steps are already named Earning inertia and purpose as his hands fill By the rifle, by his life, now he can cut through the future Winning trust and won his chance at enemies to **** Now they are dead. Oh glory, oh honor, our hero returns home with tempered will The war is over, he held his weight, yet from that rigid world he must depart He cannot remember how the old rhyme went He cannot tell if his time was well spent Weary from angels shattered and morals hell bent Wary for how neighbors treat what is different Witness to blindness for what is done, and what is meant Advertised pride for racist media and murderous government Now his last hope is a child with lustrous intent To ask, "Sir, where do all the old soldiers come from, and where have they been since?"

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Feb 18, 2013

Feb 18, 2013 at 6:23 PM UTC

Zerotheshortsword

Old Soldiers

Golden apples, crisp sandwiches, and smiling milk Golden boy, growing hands, and smiling eyes Easy to learn those lessons woven by a voice of silk Easy to yearn with countless ways to fly on free skies Silver tongue to gild her hope in their enticing game Silver lost on nickel and dime since the value change Tough to beat that cowboy has wound up all the true dames Tough to see success outside that boy's jubilant range Copperhead and improperly read, now he is out on the town Copper tools to trade between fools for a means through today Hard to make it now that his future is a thought that brings him down Hard landing and hard to stand knowing soldiers get to fly away Muscle-cut, silent disciple by uniform and drill On a new path where the steps are already named Earning inertia and purpose as his hands fill By the rifle, by his life, now he can cut through the future Winning trust and won his chance at enemies to **** Now they are dead. Oh glory, oh honor, our hero returns home with tempered will The war is over, he held his weight, yet from that rigid world he must depart He cannot remember how the old rhyme went He cannot tell if his time was well spent Weary from angels shattered and morals hell bent Wary for how neighbors treat what is different Witness to blindness for what is done, and what is meant Advertised pride for racist media and murderous government Now his last hope is a child with lustrous intent To ask, "Sir, where do all the old soldiers come from, and where have they been since?"

30

how on a clear day my father is the face of absence. how what I mean cuts the finger my mother sips. how porch blood is not the same blood the body faints with. how copperhead, how rattlesnake, how lisp says I myth my sister who is still vanishing to shoplift god from the thunderstorm we gave her.

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Apr 18, 2014

Apr 18, 2014 at 12:59 PM UTC

barton-d-smock

collapse

how on a clear day my father is the face of absence. how what I mean cuts the finger my mother sips. how porch blood is not the same blood the body faints with. how copperhead, how rattlesnake, how lisp says I myth my sister who is still vanishing to shoplift god from the thunderstorm we gave her.

22

Venom, sharp as a razor; The *** in your hand swings Separating body from head. The thing wriggles a figure eight; A caress of self with no comfort. Life dries rust-red in the sun.

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Apr 13, 2015

Apr 13, 2015 at 10:57 PM UTC

sherlene2

Copperhead

Venom, sharp as a razor; The *** in your hand swings Separating body from head. The thing wriggles a figure eight; A caress of self with no comfort. Life dries rust-red in the sun.

6

I thought before this writing I might tear out this paper & roll up give me some numb for the numbers & no one is asking how I've been sleeping but my words caught my urge mid-rip & said You are so sad and not even you know why. Blisters on your tongue from bottle-bottoms chasing a rising air bubble running for life. Copperhead, half-thing, whole-brain, funnelmouth, throwing bricks from bedroom windows hoping to hit my head at the end of flight, free-fall. I forget a few times daily how much animal seeps past this face & I have not been outside this head since who knows when & I just want it to— Candy canes for teeth and I am indifferent. The television smiles for me, red-white-mint lit in the faded glow of almost-morning. They would almost certainly mourn for me. I have to keep believing that is true. I am funneling and it will not stop.

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Nov 30, 2014

Nov 30, 2014 at 7:39 PM UTC

christopher-hendrix

Funnelmouth (I)

I thought before this writing I might tear out this paper & roll up give me some numb for the numbers & no one is asking how I've been sleeping but my words caught my urge mid-rip & said You are so sad and not even you know why. Blisters on your tongue from bottle-bottoms chasing a rising air bubble running for life. Copperhead, half-thing, whole-brain, funnelmouth, throwing bricks from bedroom windows hoping to hit my head at the end of flight, free-fall. I forget a few times daily how much animal seeps past this face & I have not been outside this head since who knows when & I just want it to— Candy canes for teeth and I am indifferent. The television smiles for me, red-white-mint lit in the faded glow of almost-morning. They would almost certainly mourn for me. I have to keep believing that is true. I am funneling and it will not stop.

21

The Hunt The walls convulse, under her thighs, his mouth, their friction. Her hisses hammer the door, stretches into a crouch. Her legs quiver with the rush. She is all copper and scales, hair black and thirsty. It shimmers like the fury of his cheating hands, it chokes him, drops him to his knees. Her eyes snake-bright and wild, springs clean as arrows. Twirl around his throat. She plucks heart and liver first, peels them to bits. She rules by the ****** of her hips leaves him empty as lust. Her rampant thighs jolt, force him to beg for more of this succulent venom. He slings his insides over his shoulder lets them drip over himself, he doesn't flinch at the sticky drizzle. Her stilettos scrape his bones. She snags the shavings, they are her trophies the thrill of the hunt, proof of her savage prowess. This medusa-violence, breaks rooms, love, him, drapes them down her back like bed sheets. She is that myth , husbands try their hardest to hide. They wash the sheets, flip the bed, wipe the sweat off the kitchen counter, take two showers, and too many deep breaths. The door snaps shut behind her. Dad tells me, he didn’t sleep with that copperhead. I nod.

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Mar 5, 2014

Mar 5, 2014 at 10:29 PM UTC

latroy-robinson

The Hunt

The Hunt The walls convulse, under her thighs, his mouth, their friction. Her hisses hammer the door, stretches into a crouch. Her legs quiver with the rush. She is all copper and scales, hair black and thirsty. It shimmers like the fury of his cheating hands, it chokes him, drops him to his knees. Her eyes snake-bright and wild, springs clean as arrows. Twirl around his throat. She plucks heart and liver first, peels them to bits. She rules by the ****** of her hips leaves him empty as lust. Her rampant thighs jolt, force him to beg for more of this succulent venom. He slings his insides over his shoulder lets them drip over himself, he doesn't flinch at the sticky drizzle. Her stilettos scrape his bones. She snags the shavings, they are her trophies the thrill of the hunt, proof of her savage prowess. This medusa-violence, breaks rooms, love, him, drapes them down her back like bed sheets. She is that myth , husbands try their hardest to hide. They wash the sheets, flip the bed, wipe the sweat off the kitchen counter, take two showers, and too many deep breaths. The door snaps shut behind her. Dad tells me, he didn’t sleep with that copperhead. I nod.

44

Anxiety is a snake a slow creeping Copperhead Hidden and frozen Beneath porcelain skin Without warning it strikes

0

Apr 5, 2018

Apr 5, 2018 at 1:36 AM UTC

bekblanch

Slithering Anxiety

Anxiety is a snake a slow creeping Copperhead Hidden and frozen Beneath porcelain skin Without warning it strikes

5

. Belly rubbing music in the que everyone is ready, not just a few after songs, no one on the floor Mr. D.J. why play more Look around, at buckles and boots cowboy hats, get back to roots play some George, Strait or Jones let the music inspire their bones Charlie Daniel's fiddle fire Spinning two step it does inspire Or how about Copperhead road line dancing, empty chairs load Rocky mountain jeans stretched tight Cowgirls dancing, what a sight Keep them out there on the floor how about some Justin Moore Slow it down, let them breathe some Willie Nelson, is what you need and when it's time to drink a beer play stuff, no one wants to hear Then come back with Jerry Reed Waylon and Merle is what you need and when you want them all to sing Friends in low places, the dance will ring So look around and know your crowd then you'll know, what to play real loud In rural areas, club stuff don't work Play us all some good red dirt

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Oct 24, 2016

Oct 24, 2016 at 8:49 AM UTC

jed-johnson

Please Mr. D.J

. Belly rubbing music in the que everyone is ready, not just a few after songs, no one on the floor Mr. D.J. why play more Look around, at buckles and boots cowboy hats, get back to roots play some George, Strait or Jones let the music inspire their bones Charlie Daniel's fiddle fire Spinning two step it does inspire Or how about Copperhead road line dancing, empty chairs load Rocky mountain jeans stretched tight Cowgirls dancing, what a sight Keep them out there on the floor how about some Justin Moore Slow it down, let them breathe some Willie Nelson, is what you need and when it's time to drink a beer play stuff, no one wants to hear Then come back with Jerry Reed Waylon and Merle is what you need and when you want them all to sing Friends in low places, the dance will ring So look around and know your crowd then you'll know, what to play real loud In rural areas, club stuff don't work Play us all some good red dirt

29

Pat a mule on the **** when you intend to walk behind it , rub the catfishes belly on the spot where he stuck , never turn your back on a billy goat whining , bluegill biting when cattle on the move .. Never grab the tail on a old **** hound , Never run a rabbit in the summertime ......Throw away the first bucket from the well , don't grab a copperhead by it's tail .....Never sow a seed before Good Friday , never grow a melon in a cucumber patch , Never wipe your eye when your picking Daddy's peppers , never ride a boar in the old pig pen !......

0

Sep 19, 2015

Sep 19, 2015 at 9:07 PM UTC

randolph-l-wilson

Company Rules

Pat a mule on the **** when you intend to walk behind it , rub the catfishes belly on the spot where he stuck , never turn your back on a billy goat whining , bluegill biting when cattle on the move .. Never grab the tail on a old **** hound , Never run a rabbit in the summertime ......Throw away the first bucket from the well , don't grab a copperhead by it's tail .....Never sow a seed before Good Friday , never grow a melon in a cucumber patch , Never wipe your eye when your picking Daddy's peppers , never ride a boar in the old pig pen !......

2

I stared at the cinderblock wall, kudzu clawin’ up wild, A green chokehold sprawlin’ ‘cross this Tennessee hollow, Life flickers in me, a match struck on a humid night, But leukemia’s creepin’, a month to ***** my candle’s glow. Sixteen and I’m done, no worse than folks who linger here, The sun meltin’ over the Smokies, the sweetgum air—why ain’t it mine? I despise death’s slow drag, its damp, cold fingers on my neck, Not scared—just ****** a fire ragin’ in veins gone icy. A dream once slunk in, like a copperhead through the pines, Cross my warped floorboards, me froze, watchin’ it glide, No fangs, no strike, just sickness coilin’ in its hush, Woke me to the truth—my end’s stalkin’ these backroads quiet. Why me leavin’ while others grill burgers in the dusk? This land’s too pretty—cornfields gold, mockin’ my rot, I’d toss a Molotov at it all, this carefree Cumberland sprawl, If my arms had the grit to torch my **** fate. The world churns on, deaf to my hollerin’ from the porch, Beauty cuts deep—crickets chirpin’ a song I can’t keep. Everybody’s fightin’ to breathe, no soul less than me, But what’s it worth when death’s got my number dialed? I chuck my truth like a deer stand spear, unmissable, To God, to life, to folks cruisin’ Main Street clueless, At sixteen, dread’s my gospel, my rebel yell, A war cry howled, so this whole county might pay up. Life’s a gift for us about to get yanked away, We cling tight to what’s rippin’ loose in the wind, My ache, my envy for kids racin’ four-wheelers, unborn, No hate—just a love for livin’, sharp as a switchblade. Through cussin’ and jealousy’s hot sting, I thread a tune, A jagged love song hummin’ over the TVA hum, Reckon this truth, let your own gripes loose like hounds, I ain’t kneelin’ to anything . And I am proudly mad.

0

Mar 21, 2025

Mar 21, 2025 at 12:23 AM UTC

davinalion

Sixteen I die

I stared at the cinderblock wall, kudzu clawin’ up wild, A green chokehold sprawlin’ ‘cross this Tennessee hollow, Life flickers in me, a match struck on a humid night, But leukemia’s creepin’, a month to ***** my candle’s glow. Sixteen and I’m done, no worse than folks who linger here, The sun meltin’ over the Smokies, the sweetgum air—why ain’t it mine? I despise death’s slow drag, its damp, cold fingers on my neck, Not scared—just ****** a fire ragin’ in veins gone icy. A dream once slunk in, like a copperhead through the pines, Cross my warped floorboards, me froze, watchin’ it glide, No fangs, no strike, just sickness coilin’ in its hush, Woke me to the truth—my end’s stalkin’ these backroads quiet. Why me leavin’ while others grill burgers in the dusk? This land’s too pretty—cornfields gold, mockin’ my rot, I’d toss a Molotov at it all, this carefree Cumberland sprawl, If my arms had the grit to torch my **** fate. The world churns on, deaf to my hollerin’ from the porch, Beauty cuts deep—crickets chirpin’ a song I can’t keep. Everybody’s fightin’ to breathe, no soul less than me, But what’s it worth when death’s got my number dialed? I chuck my truth like a deer stand spear, unmissable, To God, to life, to folks cruisin’ Main Street clueless, At sixteen, dread’s my gospel, my rebel yell, A war cry howled, so this whole county might pay up. Life’s a gift for us about to get yanked away, We cling tight to what’s rippin’ loose in the wind, My ache, my envy for kids racin’ four-wheelers, unborn, No hate—just a love for livin’, sharp as a switchblade. Through cussin’ and jealousy’s hot sting, I thread a tune, A jagged love song hummin’ over the TVA hum, Reckon this truth, let your own gripes loose like hounds, I ain’t kneelin’ to anything . And I am proudly mad.

32