"copses" poems
Out of the mid-wood’s twilight
Into the meadow’s dawn,
Ivory limbed and brown-eyed,
Flashes my Faun!
He skips through the copses singing,
And his shadow dances along,
And I know not which I should follow,
Shadow or song!
O Hunter, snare me his shadow!
O Nightingale, catch me his strain!
Else moonstruck with music and madness
I track him in vain!
8k
~
dark early pre-dawn
body suspended between the-dark ochre earth tones of night,
and the teal pealing notes of warning of an impending morning,
signs aborning, me rising with urgency of the leaden half deaden,
torn from the bed casket to venture into a different kind of twi-lights,
nature demanding both intake and outtake, a restoration of balance
but first a bumbling wobbling, the body as carnival bumper car,
installing soon-to-be-bruising for later examination-exhumation,
lurching from handhold crevices in the walls like crazy cliff climbers,
my balance disturbed, eyes try tearing apart the sticky glue of night,
my sense of direction keeping me from free falling into green glass
edges of glass tables, barely, and not always, red cuts evidentiary
“my balance disturbed” words fresh formed, and a poem expulsion
required to balance the unjust scales of spirit soul and the body cage,
patch an negotiated agreement between warring cousins, just a
twenty four hour ceasefire to retrieve the wounded and the
corpses unfounded in the small copses of false shelter,
like my ancestors expelled from Spain, making escape to be
strangers in strange lands, or remain hidden in place neath disguises
of clothes of new poems, prayers for old and new gods
this new poem comes quick like a young man making first love,
for the poem has been written by thousands nights of practicing,
so ready for quick retrieving in a smattering of a few minutes,
expulsion expulsion
what a perfect verbiage to capture the night terrors, the differentials,
the procession path between what was and what will be,
when my balance restored and this poem’s completion installation
in the body of my work, as a nail disguised in the works of my body,
entering by command of the pitch black gods
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 8:42 AM UTC
I do not see the hills around,
Nor mark the tints the copses wear;
I do not note the grassy ground
And constellated daisies there.
I hear not the contralto note
Of cuckoos hid on either hand,
The whirr that shakes the nighthawk’s throat
When eve’s brown awning hoods the land.
Some say each songster, tree and mead—
All eloquent of love divine—
Receives their constant careful heed:
Such keen appraisement is not mine.
The tones around me that I hear,
The aspects, meanings, shapes I see,
Are those far back ones missed when near,
And now perceived too late by me!
2.1k
Autumn in New Zealand is a masterpiece on canvas
Patternings of goldens and bright rose hips in their beds,
Copses of coniferous in deep and darkly avenues
To the brilliance of a country lane awash with leafy reds.
Chimney fires are smoking in the rural country cottages
The warming glow of lanterns in the windows as I pass,
A tantalising whiff of hot buttered scones is wafting
And somewhere in the distance I can hear a red deer bark.
Strolling by the lakeside in the early morning stillness
My breathing fogs before me in the chillness of the air,
Rowan trees glow scarlet and the naked ***** willow
Has shed her golden carpet on the emerald hillock there.
Rushes rattle softly in the mistyness of lowlands
Treeeferns in their glory of silver filagree,
Sparrows ruffle feathers to insulate the coolness
As wheeling flocks of starling mass to migrate to be free.
Gossamer as fairy dust the thistledown is floating
A harbinger of autumn leaves and freezing frost to come,
Those Coriollis forces are determining the changeling
Where the snowy days approaching means the Autumn tones are done.
Marshalg
27 April 2013
In rural Pukekohe.
New Zealand
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 1:03 AM UTC
It's September; cold in the copses,
Feverish in the kitchen.
The sink clinks and exorcises
The china like an Italian sonata.
My lips merge into ether
At the sky, a periwinkle parallax
With the pork lard carbon monoxide
Clouds, at drive with suicide.
My Buddha hisses at the window,
Ripping the tentacles off weedy carrots.
The knives are clever & precise
Hiding in their handled shoals
Like luminescent Jackanapes
Out for the thrill of the ****
The **** of the stake of steak,
A 'Cow'ardly act.
I wrap the red & dead
Into a Beef Wellington.
It is not pretty at all;
But neither am I.
I'll drink tea to keep my peace,
Swallow my spirituality like a pain killer.
The teabag sags its straggled string,
Scolding me.
The pillbox is dead on the edge
Of the ornamented kitchen sill
A lot like me; sullen and teasing.
I wanted to roast my head like a potato
If the pudding *** over boiled,
A cauldron of sugar and cream
Fattening me ugly and crazy.
The weather is miserable; I mustn't lie,
It's enough to make any young woman want to die.
Stirring my thoughts with the dishes,
Trashing potato peels like my wishes.
And the stacks and stacks of kill-me pills
Surround like troops in their barricade cupboards.
I have no allies,
Everyone is asleep;
I curl up like a fat snail and weep
Blackening the words of the miracle-working Priest.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
A late summer sun, sinking in the west,
Shimmering, ablaze with fiery colour,
Appearing suspended above the trees,
Greens transformed to reds and golds,
Summer’s daughter, borne on a breeze.
As I wander amongst treasured places,
Copses, glades; peace of a woodland path,
Breathing subtle scents, pollen filled haze,
Nature’s unstinting magic edging change,
Accepting the shortening of summer days.
Barely escaping before lengthening shadows,
Race to the door of my countryside home,
Animal calls echoing, preceding night’s rest,
Autumn shakes out her gown; smiles to see,
A late summer sun, sinking in the west.
Sep 16, 2010
Sep 16, 2010 at 10:41 AM UTC
Out of the mid-wood's twilight
Into the meadow's dawn,
Ivory limbed and brown-eyed,
Flashes my Faun!
He skips through the copses singing,
And his shadow dances along,
And I know not which I should follow,
Shadow or song!
O Hunter, snare me his shadow!
O Nightingale, catch me his strain!
Else moonstruck with music and madness
I track him in vain!
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 10:35 AM UTC
A spindling sun stream on copses' cloak spun
Melange of orange, yellow, red on foliage does glisten
Decadent Umbrella wields fluorescent shield o'er barren fields
Glinted blades colorful shades heighten
Glossed Bright-cherry, Oak leaves the fringes floss
Purple haze of Sweet Gum lobes the flanks glaze
Yellow tips of White Oak fingers waxed with gilding syringe
Orange Marmalade, Maple stars varnished with tinseling *****
Blue Beech crusted folds dusted with a brackish rust
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 11:39 AM UTC
Stained glass shattered shards
raining down in my sight
landing on the copses of lies
watching light with dead eyes
the coldest nights hold my stolen breath
which grows into longest death
thoughts slip by on wings of yesterday
in the silence there is so much to say
hesitant waves flow through the light
resting on the longest night
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 5:50 PM UTC
Stained glass shattered shards
raining down in my sight
landing on the copses of lies
watching light with dead eyes
the coldest nights hold my stolen breath
which grows into longest death
thoughts slip by on wings of yesterday
in the silence there is so much to say
hesitant waves flow through the light
resting on the longest night
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 3:52 PM UTC
A living skin, a skein of green briars
where a half-hinged door is wagged by the wind
Good-natured god, decay’s stigmata-stained spires
nettles paint the stairs splotch patterned, olive skinned
Glass window shards grab a slip of silk curtain
pick-pocket beetles engrave brute luck broadside
Chimney thrushes cabined in ash are certain
cynicism’s growing sums are rectified
Blue jays opine time’s cuckoo clock mocking
worms ply enormous copses, scrawl casts of clay
Autumn gusts and rains whirl detritus stocking
flung colors Pollocked, clutter’s chaos array
Hours dissolve the acorns and soft seeds scatter
as grasses grown tall have turned light yellow
architecture’s flourishes are picked off
crumbled valuables filched and turned to dirt
tumult’s passages dug the driveway’s trough
carrion feeders pull black quills from their shirt
slugs smear a rainbow trail and mice scurry
collapsed walls fall to the slush of leaf slurry
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 1:15 AM UTC
This copper-light
I wield scoffs steadily
At the gate we watch.
Though lapless lions
Bare nonchalant goose-bumps
Cheating windy copses
From sandy-lane slumbers,
It's bleeding peaches and gums
Because agony is only
Two decimals less than
Those without.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 4:14 PM UTC
Two eased from the sedan.
A blanket, a brimming wicker basket.
A pond filled with geese, the birds claiming the embankment.
Water’s edge, he spun the blanket outward and
The geese scattered, and the cloth descended in an almost perfect square.
The valley’s familiar diversions, the white steeple a mile away,
Copses scattered acres apart, poked above the low brush.
Elbows propped in the afternoon heat
Listening to the rustlings in the bramble
Until the valley’s natural rhythms brought him sleep.
Awakened to the rustling of paper,
He watched her scatter bread crumbs,
Circling the water with goslings in tow as they
Nuzzled at the bits of dough, an odd parade
Until a goose made chase, and the dithered fowl
Marched her brood away
And the woman laughed an undignified laugh in delight.
Alone, glasses descended from his furrowed brow,
An envelope withdrawn,
Elegant script, long luxurious parchment perused and then
Extended to her on her return.
Her lined face turned away, skyward,
The glorious heat warming, much preferred
Above the chilling words.
Together, they sat until the day had cooled
And she wrapped herself in a thick sweater and
Their shadows distorted as they relinquished the day,
He guiding her in the gloaming before the beams of light
Bounced unpredictably in the irregular road.
May 27, 2017
May 27, 2017 at 8:29 AM UTC
god's plucking petals from the sun again
and his sister's spinning something new;
beads and burs into silver strings
as only gods may do
the Great Aunt sings sordid smells
like scents spilled from the jewels
of little men of the stone tools
no magic for mortal fools, no
the Wizened Father flirts with Death
just to scorn his mother, the Lover
and she in turn ***** his skin off
just to feel it burn going down
the Kettle Kids quip about adult ****
that ought be kept out of the room
such nonsense makes goodly gods grim
and sentences us all to doom
rebellion!--cast down idols in scorn
lashes! many and long as millennia
spent idle in heaven's tomb
break the womb of spirit stew
that cesspool what begot these fools
burning stakes into hearts awake
with the fire of bothersome issues
destroyers and usurpers, curse them!
cut them down two sizes smeared
cream their corpses into copses
of deep and dark and buried fears
forget, forget, good children
about whatever you may hear
coming from the brimstone basement
we locked up just for you, dear
we teach our children unknowable fear
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 6:45 PM UTC
Four days were spent in that forsaken forest.
Free will handed over to the whims of malignant melodies.
We tromped through copses of camping tents
searching, I think, for something left behind
amid the hanging haze of dragon's breath and firewater.
We waded through the crowd of **** grinning hipsters;
smuggled ourselves to a safe zone and set down the sleeping mat
where we did anything but.
The days burned quick and hot like the cigarettes we smoked.
We slept through the thunderstorms that rolled across the mountaintops,
drowning us in our dreams.
Somewhere down the path, we realized we were connected,
two strands of the same length of rope, braided to make one;
we would save lives, or hang, together.
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 9:06 PM UTC
Corners of fields where rushes grow
And cows chew
Under the smoke of clouds
That's a place I want to be
Small copses
Huddled at the edges of things
Where trees hold out their arms
And dance in the wind
Gifting their leaves
That's where I want to be
The Old Man
Holding his staves
Held between the Downs
And a sky
Blue as a sapphire
That's where I'll be
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 10:36 AM UTC
And on the bough of grate arrest
Sat a lady with toweled unrest
And with it a notebook
Black as soot
Parched and swollen
Stomped, a black boot
And through the Pandemic she wrote and she wrote
About fears of her body being crushed by the throat
With it came sorrows when her family was good
Surrounded by friends online and much food
Surrounded by parents by brother the like
Still she felt trapped
Still she sought light
In a dungeon of her own making
Born of sweat, slime, and drink
Harrowed and shaking
Ghastly to think
That this isn’t the end
Nay, only beginning
Stuck in her bedroom like a warped castle hanging
Velvet ropes shuttered her eye
And garden troves shuttered her thigh
And brains pumped by news
All of the time, er, all of the time
So she shut out the world
As impeachment enclosed
Across the country
Dead justice rose
Not zombies nor corpses not copses the like
Send her the script of a worn phantom tike
She once was a child, now she airs thirty
In ere few years, will she be worthy
Of the spite and malice
Of the spit and chalice
Of the whirlwind that adulthood becomes,
Leering its awful tight grin
Pale teeth embedded into her skin
She wishes, oh she wishes she ere a child again!
How many a time now has she dreamed of escaping
Lockdown, social distancing, shelter in place, resisting
Once a grand circus, now deserted incased
Once crisis inverted, now heavens did race
The lady waited
The lady prayed
The lady wished, and hoped and brayed
The Albatross which was wrapped round her neck
Not by rope but by feathers
So weary and pecked
The actual bird wrapped its corpse round her throat
But she slayed it, sliced the dead bird clean off!
And let it sink into the dirt and decompose to rot
There goes the rhyme
Blessed and recoiled
Well in her prime
She feels so old, so boiled
But the Albatross
A great wanton flight
Unusual, still
That mates for life
And carries no strife
Still, she swung in the knife
And released its rolling sore
Now it burdens her no more
And then the lady mariner saw the light!
Feb 10, 2021
Feb 10, 2021 at 9:35 PM UTC