"corral" poems
If God is the book then life would be the pages in him,
for us to study and turn to each new page of her.
There is so much paper here, but no place to start a fire.
A fire of words and dreams to chase.
Will you run with me, with feet wide awake?
Please do, and I won't be scared to bleed for you
when the time comes.
These words I have don't dream lifeless
or die in corral conversation or in a helpless blind study.
I will help you see it is in fact that God's home is make-believe
with no welcome mat to greet you. Maybe God never
learned to let bygones just be gone.
Maybe this is why you have never seen the glorious
Matriarch or heard her voice, but I bet it sounds
a lot like the space between a gunshot and a black
male's body hit by the bullet right before the screams.
Did you know this is what black feels like?
These pages feel like an eighth-grade suicide poem
written because it is solely triggered by life, and
since life is so freaking triggering and our only
real competition, then I will write words that are
weapons. I will write real-life pages of myself,
that is more jazz than blues, more biggie than Pac
more Prince than Michael. I will write myself out
this padded room call earth, because after all heroes
can dream too, and our thirst can become hunger and quickly
I learned to eat my own words and breathe in endless
possibility in a world where breathing is no longer a privilege
Just a means to be necessary.
Jesus! I got a life with no religion and still, I manage to turn
doubt into rhinestones right along with these pages
of myself. I will turn page after page as if I were Jesus turning the other cheek, and like Jesus, I can take all my
dislikes and burdens and turn the into sunsets. I will teach
my pain to laugh. Ignorance is not bliss, it is kind. It teaches
us to look deep inside of ourselves to see the word of God,
and I have seen it, I have seen I am half human and half star
and my DNA is all angelic. God wrote his first poem in blood right here on Earth. Her pen never felt writer's block. He never suffered inside the ink. Do you know the difference between God and everyone else? She never starts emotional fires to burn pages of himself and herself as we do.
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
I encourage you to abandon your faith
imagine the uncondonable
do the unpardonable
and rest in the arms of father mountain
I encourage you to go beyond your thoughts
appeal to your animalistic self
let go of your inhibitions
and tear me up in bed
I encourage you to try the impossible
reach the corners of your body
where pleasure is indigenous
where there will never be colonization
I encourage you to learn a new language
to not be patriotic
and worship your own flesh
resist majoritarian temptation
and dig an altar to yourself
I encourage you to love me
without strings, with no chains,
corral me, make me struggle,
and deep your soul within my veins
love me whole
sin fragmentations
love me across borders
without concessions
with negotiations
and complications
I encourage you to love.
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 2:59 AM UTC
I found me heart in the sea
surrounded by corral that's rust red
locked in a chest with shiny cents
So heavy it never rose
not even when given a good laugh
pearls and black diamond tears
The fish cry saltless tears
and no one I know can see
They only know my joyous laugh
and the things they wrote, I read
blooming like a rose
I was this made more sense
But alas, I waste my two cents
soaking in salty tears
I wish that chest had rose
from the sand beneath the sea
****** heart beating red
god I need a laugh
The octopi around me laugh
for they have a humorous sense
and don't know the things I read
standing in the theater tiers
Their big, old eyes can see
the locked chest that never rose
They gather in pews and rows
eager for another laugh
They don't understand, they belong in the sea
but my heart down here makes no sense
so I still have salty tears
mixing with each pump of red
The octopi never read
sorting coral into rows
They never had to cry tears
They only know how to laugh
because to them this all makes sense
Their hearts belong in the sea
They cannot see, for they have not read
They have no cents, they don't know the rose
all they do is laugh, ignoring human tears
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 3:48 AM UTC
Poverty
This ailment clips my bare soul
My malady hides my ample sight
Penury loads my cognition. Watery hole
Shift not far my destination, yet too blight
It is corral, harvesting my living carcass
I don't egender chaff in the shining sun
this coop is an enclosure of my idleness
Like a jailbird my to be is limited and shun
*One day. My wandring ship will wheel
My fervor will ease and I'll scope my haven
My wounds and lesions will then heal
I will grab my revenue as in Heaven
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 6:19 AM UTC
What if machines ruled the world?
Whatever would there be?
If surgeons were all robots, without knowledge.
Just controlled by programmers.
Whose programs could be manipulated by international spammers.
All out to make a rapid buck.
What if all the soldiers were not human,
If all of them were robots.
What on Earth would be?
I guess with robotic soldiers, no soldier boys and girls would die.
The robots could battle each other.
No need to worry about hurting each others fathers or cursing their mothers
What if they became corrupted?
What ever would we do?
What if these metal and plastic maniacs ran amok?
Maybe a power surge, at the wrath of Thor and his thunderstorms,
Their circuits may be rather short.
A corral full dying robots, successfully caught.
Awaiting decommissioning by their human masterminds.
(C) Livvi
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 7:28 AM UTC
Three striped cats daily demonstrate awakening:
a) BijaChen: startles by pounce onto bed or banging of sunlit window blinds;
b) BlueMonsoon: prefers annoying whining coordinated with scratching at blankets;
c) LadyFiona: chooses a prickly psychic stare into my sleeping consciousness to disrupt dreams. (she must have been a witch's cat).
Sleep you say?
Mr. Rooster, lover of Flathead Lake cherries,
rehearses a solo operetta while strutting sharp grey claws inches from the screen door.
Doze off?
Thirty small brown-red-yellow-speckled birds usurp seeds at the swinging feeders in frenzied unharmonious clatter,
While the low moan of iron hinged gate closes pale hay and tall horses into the corral.
Rest?
Urgently a growling lawn mower slashes green strands of life and delicate insects from their microcosms of Little Earth,
And calico barn cats dive from rafters onto feed sacks to devour the crunch of breakfast.
Lao Tzu speaks no sound, eyes watch
Two butterflies sweep though moist morning monsoon air.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 1:46 PM UTC
once you take that first step down the path
the decision has been set upon and you cannot go back
now it is up to trust, that invisible demon or angel in waiting
right or wrong the pendulum will swing in either direction
time a curse or a blessing guided by a compass
beholden to no one it has its own destiny
for love once betrayed is a vengeful enemy
setting off a cornucopia of storms of anger
unleashing the torments only goddesses can bestow
their ire ****** forth like a thunderous lighting strike
wishing to smite those that have broken her heart
there is no hiding from the maelstrom your betrayal has unleashed
bringing embarrassment to those that inhabit castles
a dire misjudgment in a moment of voluptuous temptation
is there now regret to having succumbed to human wontedness
it would appear so, hands now tied striding towards the inevitable
step by step moving closer to the sentence handed down
the walled fortress now a corral with no escape
and then I am there, she and a legion of men in waiting
a gilded sword sharp as any in the kingdom prepared
her golden hair blowing in the wind, delicate features revealed
utter beauty astonishing in the backdrop of a scorching sun
how could I have traded this for a night of passion with another
now I am pushed down to kneel before her my heart racing wildly
she is judge and jury and as she draws back the sword
I wonder if there is one morsel of sympathy in her repertoire
so I close my eyes and ponder why has my lust brought me here
all the whilst listening for the whoosh that will end my days or not
Andreas Simic©
Apr 30, 2022
Apr 30, 2022 at 8:50 PM UTC
I am no expert,
no expert at all
But when I am compelled
to write a poem
the compulsion comes
from a pure wish
to distil a thought,
to communicate,
to ride language ********
across the open spaces
of my brain
But you would lasso me,
corral me,
shut the barn doors on me
and the lowing, braying herd
for some self appointed *****
to cast judgement
So that the best possible outcome
is that I step on the faces of others
on my way to institutionalised,
establishment-approved freedom
Well,
**** you
and the horse
you wish you could have ridden in on.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 4:22 PM UTC
¡Qué alegre y fresca la mañanita!
Me agarra el aire por la nariz:
los perros ladran, un chico grita
y una muchacha gorda y bonita,
junto a una piedra, muele maíz.
Un mozo trae por un sendero
sus herramientas y su morral:
otro con caites y sin sombrero
busca una vaca con su ternero
para ordeñarla junto al corral.
Sonriendo a veces a la muchacha,
que de la piedra pasa al fogón,
un sabanero de buena facha,
casi en cuclillas afila el hacha
sobre una orilla del mollejón.
Por las colinas la luz se pierde
bajo el cielo claro y sin fin;
ahí el ganado las hojas muerde,
y hay en los tallos del pasto verde,
escarabajos de oro y carmín.
Sonando un cuerno corvo y sonoro,
pasa un vaquero, y a plena luz
vienen las vacas y un blanco toro,
con unas manchas color de oro
por la barriga y en el testuz.
Y la patrona, bate que bate,
me regocija con la ilusión
de una gran taza de chocolate,
que ha de pasarme por el gaznate
con la tostada y el requesón.
2.4k
Your kisses ignite a fire I did not know was flaming,
in our silence there can be no blaming,
only pure passion and words with body movement,
flaws make you beautifully dangerous, no need for improvement,
Your eyes tell me stories your lips never shall,
My infatuation is something I will no longer corral.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 2:04 AM UTC
It was the free speech zone
That crossed the line
That corral set up for us
To voice our grievances
Unto the King
But we are free men
Not cattle
And you don't give us our rights
We are Americans
We don't get into pens
Or boxcars,
For the record.
You cannot
Pen our thoughts or hearts
Like beasts
Waiting for the slaughter
You cannot imprison freedom
Within fences
That you *****
No matter how hard you try
We will fight and die if we must
Glady, we will fall
Before we will ever enter
Your free speech zone
We will leave our wives and children
To cry
And mourn our cold bodies
That will become headstones
In the desert
Telling all our story
Of men who lived
And died free
Dedicated to the brave men and women who chose to stand with Cliven Bundy against the power and might of the Federal government in the Nevada desert.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 8:25 AM UTC
Mothers day.
Baby's too.
Born to be a boy of blue.
Blues he writes and blues he loves
Don't greet the world with no kid gloves.
Courageous Bull he picks his battles.
Daisy chain and more he rattles.
Don't fence him in with no corral.
Just turn him loose and he's your pal.
I love this guy and who won't say
The blues be bust on his birthday.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC
There lies a picture on the mantle
of my grandfather, my step-father's
father, clad in U.S. Navy fatigues
and grinning slightly, almost a
smirk. The year is 1960-something
as he enlists for Vietnam and is
shipped overseas on the USS
Corral Sea to load sidewinders
into fighter planes that ignite and
**** It happens so fast.
It happened so fast. Two months
of time reduced to blinks and
minute-long visits. This house could
be cold as Mt. Meru's peak and I
would hardly notice. The brain has
ways of placing things on autopilot.
His life has come to pass and I am
left to wonder. I am not sure I ever
truly knew the man. I heard stories,
his helicopter shot down in Vietnam,
his E&E; north of the ** Chi Minh and
how he owned a gun shop on Main
St. in the town I came to call home
before it was my home. I cannot hear
his whispering, small wind of existence
sidewinding away from me and my
youthfulness. In small time I've come
to find life is meaningful if you take time
to make it so.
The day of his funeral is beautiful,
sunny and mild and full of breeze.
The gas tank of my mother's car is
close to empty and I am worried of
worldly things, will we make it and
when can we fill up again. 21 guns
gives my heart a needed beating.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 3:55 PM UTC
Off in the distance
you could see the clouds forming
a blanket of white
on a canvas of blue
the wind was beginning
to give birth to some devils
and what was to come
only hardened men knew
"cut loose the horses"
let them run wild
we'll get them all later
when the storm
has passed through
they'll be safe in the canyon
the ones that aren't broken
the devil is coming
and the sky still showed blue
lock down the horse barns
and lock up the cattle
the wind is beginning
it'll be here real soon
out in the desert
when the wind starts to howling
it'll bring up the dust
and it'll block out the moon
The temperature dropped
and the sky had changed colour
the blue was now gone
it was now kind of grey
the clouds were still forming
you could see there behind them
a funnel of black
the devil at play
once it gets going
nothing can save you
get inside fast
and hunker down low
there's a silence so eerie
before the train rumble
that only the older
cowboys do know
put out the fire
get low and stay hidden
the devils at play
and he'll tear you apart
the wind is his plaything
and you'll be his victim
he'll skin you alive
and he'll rip out your heart
the horses run wild
some may not make it
others will live
as they make for the caves
those we have broken
are at the mercy of nature
we'll know once we're done
just how many we saved
the wall of sand hit hard
a black sheet of horror
you could hear it outside
as it ripped at the wall
back in the corner
the young cowboys were shaking
the old one's stood guard
against the devil's strong call
for hours it raged
and it tore at the building
sand getting in
where the building gave way
nobody spoke
until early next morning
they just sat and watched
the devil at play
silence, just silence
meant the storm was now over
the door was thrown open
the devastation was seen
the corral was empty
but, for two wild turkeys
and there was a single dead horse
where the stable had been
the devil spoke loudly
he sent quite a message
the horses are mine
they run wild and run free
i'll keep the storms coming
this was the fourth in a decade
leave them to run
or you'll all deal with me
the old cowboys looked round
and they took in the damage
lit up a fire
and said thank god we're alive
we've made it through four
and we'll rebuild even stronger
if we ever can hope
to get through storm number five
the will of a cowboy
and the will of the devil
one is much stronger
it's as strong as the land
the devil will fight you
it's just in his nature
but, the cowboy will win
because he's part of the land
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
Remembering the weeping water and the fire in the dark
Softly breathed into a dream of silence
Flashes of bright cerulean sparks
In a whirl
Of brilliance
Increasing waves enfolding around a storm arising
Of time forgotten, and exiting from itself
Clothed in white linen now admiring
Strength, kept upon
Your shelf
Urgent messages bend into multi-colored bows
Seeking the sun to peacefully corral them
Until a name makes them a vow
And their lights all
Become dim
Sailing on a half-hour’s dream full of careless grace
I am breathing this wonderful silence
A tide of glory aglow on my face
Whirling in a flash
Of brilliance
Oct 31, 2010
Oct 31, 2010 at 9:55 PM UTC
A most gracefully bird, but not of the air
White caped waves are his clouds
Water proof feathers is what he wears
He stands on the beach mighty proud
His wings won't let him fly
But through the ocean he quickly glides
You'll never see him in the sky
Behind the corral is where he hids
When lion seals are on the prowl
His play ground is a winter wonderland
He is by far the best dressed fowl
With his dashing tuxedo he looks mighty grand
By design he was denied freedom of fight
But that my friend doesn't make him sad
For in the ocean so deep he reaches new heights
The icy slides are his launch pad
He certainly is a wonderful bird
To call him anything else would be absurd
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 9:40 PM UTC
7. FOOL FREEDOM AND MARTYRDOM
There was once a love
I had found
Greater than the spheres
Of all knowledge
For it held it in one hand
A depth that troubled and excited
A love that glittered in my heart
And stirred me whole
That rang the bell
In my enlivened cells
But a slave I was
Watched by day
And watched by night
Every moment governed
By this Roman rule
The Romans saw me as this orphan boy
Who traveled a chaotic path
But in my happiness I whistled in the wind
And traveled through peoples hearts
The Romans rules me closely
They could see my every hand
Slipping closely into this moment
When love was on my left
I was forced and encaged
And humiliated by this Roman rule
A dangerous thought
Occupied my mind
With the enemies attention focused
Dominating and controlling my future
There legion circulating
My golden city of future love
Torn into by darkness
As this was my last chance corral
With much regret I tentatively
Pursued my drastic course
By blowing the bridge to my golden city
And opening the gates to my freedom
Much noise and many arrows
Rained on me from the Roman rule
But they were stranded in my golden city
Blind and unable to navigate
For I was truly free
I danced and sparkled in my freedom
But at what great cost
As I looked over the great raven
To my golden city of love
My last chance corral
Had my ego baffled and betrayed me
For what great sacrifice
What martyrdom is this
Had my ego secretly tricked me
Had I sacrificed myself
Nailing myself to a cross
Just that i placed on a hill
And raised on a cross
That I may look down on my oppressor
Had I been a foolish martyr
As I may blow an arrow
Through every verse
For there are many acts we play
Penetrating deeply into every moment
We can clear the debris of our life
As I am folded layer upon layer of madness
Forged into me by the insanity of the world
To find my freedom I need to
Unlock many gates to my center
As I am plagued by many doubts
Be careful of the games in this world
As there is love and freedom
And I fear i missed the two of them
But one day I will catch them both
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 4:07 PM UTC
"Howdy, mam! My name's Rusty. You can trust me."
"How do? I'm Sally. This haint my ole corral."
"With due respect, you're fresh, this place is *****
"You slick cowboys know what to say to a gal."
"Our eyes locked like a couple of rattlesnakes."
"Mister, yer makin' a terrible mistake.
I do feel somethin' fer ya, but I'm caught here."
"Well, I'll just have ta uncetch ya, Sal ma dear."
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 5:54 PM UTC
Advanced and Belated my Greetings fare
For the Lone Star Beauty my Summons despite
Having left my Tearful Wantings despair
Then offer it to your Happiness quite
For this Independence judged by your Name
How cool are his Forceps fused into yours,
Nipped your Smile's Edge his Quintessence became
Offered once - twice - then advance into fours
As what any Wise-Stoned Elder would Perscribe
Since Feelings sincere broke the Munchkin's Heart
To lift as the Cross your Saviour subscribe
This One Joy liberate was yours from the Start.
Blessings indeed bill this Sacrosanct Day
Then corral your Fortunes for Candle-Light's Way.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 11:07 PM UTC
Jealous of the sea.
He was always jealous of the ocean,
How could he write songs like the waves?
The timpani drums on the breaking tide,
Crescendos written on corral staves.
Harmonizing whistles from a shoreline quartet,
And the gentle reeds blow a soft minor key.
How could he ever write songs like the ocean,
How could he ever compose like the sea.
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 4:18 PM UTC
I can’t see for the sun
It’s the darkness lights me up
But that ain’t the way to live
Mere wandering can’t fill my cup
I get up late from when the world starts
I can’t catch a break 'cept for my broken heart
Broken not from women, broken not from friends
Broken only from the things in life that won’t end
There’s always the confusion
There’s always the pain
But in spite of these things
The sun pokes through the rain
With the sun above us and the rain below
It should be easy to deal melancholy a blow
But only for the permanent people
With their permanent problems
They can make peace with woe
Since it is all they know
But for those with fleeting spirits
And seasick minds, a solution can be much harder to find
So we spend our lives searching
With the journey as our goal
But with no destination to find
We keep walking low
Out of sight from the sun
Treading carefully on the rain
No impetus for shaky souls to run
A simple “I don’t know” seems to be our refrain
Not from sloth do we shun a rationale
But from confusion, wonder, and the urge to corral
All our misgivings and doubts into something that’s right
Something to sooth a troubled mind when it keeps up the night
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 3:19 AM UTC
Way far down. The Mermaids sleep under rainbow colored corral reef
They dream of Sunrise and climbing snow bound peaks.
That is their desire. To play with fire. Atlantis surges dark and deep.
And twinkles below the thousand mile reef.
With eyes as black as the darkest night.
Atlanteans swirl in chariots
hold time in place. Traverse the universe inner and outer space.
And we ?
build ships to search without.To touch the stars. Caress god"s face.
Atlantis sits so far below in places we so fear to go.
Inward. to the depths. To creation's gate.
Under is the key
Down to depths is where we will see the
Gates. Atlantis
She waits.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 10:16 AM UTC
¡Mecánica sincera y peruanísima
la del cerro colorado!
¡Suelo teórico y práctico!
¡Surcos inteligentes; ejemplo: el monolito y su cortejo!
¡Papales, cebadales, alfalfares, cosa buena!
¡Cultivos que integra una asombrosa jerarquía de
útiles
y que integran con viento los mujidos,
las aguas con su sorda antigüedad!
¡Cuaternarios maíces, de opuestos natalicios,
los oigo por los pies cómo se alejan,
los huelo retomar cuando la tierra
tropieza con la técnica del cielo!
¡Molécula exabrupto! ¡Atomo terso!
¡Oh campos humanos!
¡Solar y nutricia ausencia de la mar,
y sentimiento oceánico de todo!
¡Oh climas encontrados dentro del oro, listos!
¡Oh campo intelectual de cordillera,
con religión, con campo, con patitos!
¡Paquidermos en prosa cuando pasan
y en verso cuando páranse!
¡Roedores que miran con sentimiento judicial en torno!
¡Oh patrióticos asnos de mi vida!
¡Vicuña, descendiente
nacional y graciosa de mi mono!
¡Oh luz que dista apenas un espejo de la sombra,
que es vida con el punto y, con la línea, polvo
y que por eso acato, subiendo por la idea a mi osamenta!
¡Siega en época del dilatado molle,
del farol que colgaron de la sien
y del que descolgaron de la barreta espléndida!
¡Angeles de corral,
aves por un descuido de la cresta!
¡Cuya o cuy para comerlos fritos
con el bravo rocoto de los temples!
(¿Cóndores? ¡Me friegan los cóndores!)
¡Leños cristianos en gracia
al tronco feliz y al tallo competente!
¡Familia de los líquenes,
especies en formación basáltica que yo
respeto
desde este modestísimo papel!
¡Cuatro operaciones, os sustraigo
para salvar al roble y hundirlo en buena ley!
¡Cuestas in infraganti!
¡Auquénidos llorosos, almas mías!
¡Sierra de mi Perú, Perú del mundo,
y Perú al pie del orbe; yo me adhiero!
¡Estrellas matutinas si os aromo
quemando hojas de coca en este cráneo,
y cenitales, si destapo,
de un solo sombrerazo, mis diez templos!
¡Brazo de siembra, bájate, y a pie!
¡Lluvia a base del mediodía,
bajo el techo de tejas donde muerde
la infatigable altura
y la tórtola corta en tres su trino!
¡Rotación de tardes modernas
y finas madrugadas arqueológicas!
¡Indio después del hombre y antes de él!
¡Lo entiendo todo en dos flautas
y me doy a entender en una quena!
¡Y lo demás, me las pelan!...
1.2k
A constancy of **** lies
Is their ****** disguise
Adamant their shadows to shun
Are blinded by a perfidious sun
Till these tranced beguiled abide
To His self-righteous "suicide"
Though the charges are absurd
Ne'er a word of inquiry heard
Before seditious truths emerge
They corral to sound His dirge
A puppet procession in a stream
Do they of electric sheep dream?
The invisible chains in silence stay
Until ascension sunders them some day
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 7:39 AM UTC
The African Burial Ground
BY YUSEF KOMUNYAKAA
They came as Congo, Guinea, & Angola,
feet tuned to rhythms of a thumb piano.
They came to work fields of barley & flax, . . .
The Red Shoes
BY SHEILA BLACK
Someone buried red slippers under the floorboards
and the mice nested in them. The floors splintered no matter
To Juan Doe #234
BY EDUARDO C. CORRAL
I only recognized your hair: short,
neatly combed. Our mother
. . .
Istanbul 1983
BY SHEILA BLACK
In the frozen square, the student asks me if I will
sell him the books from my backpack. He hides them
under his winter coat. Steam rises from the whole . . .
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC