"covey" poems
Diminutive in frame and stature
defines him not, but instead enhances the
brilliance of his smile’s shine.
The golden flakes of honesty in his warm brown eyes
covey one vice that is captivation.
They hold hostage your most destructive thoughts
to instantaneously
replace them with the best; of
joy, contentment, and love-the best of him.
His high cheek bones define a mouth
so perfectly constructed.
They rise and fall like oceans’ waves with
every gentle gesture.
He thinks of love as a pool of chances
and illogically
he dives into the hurt he’s found himself in once
twice, no wait, three times.
But still, he never falters to give “chance”
just one more chance to prove he’s done what’s right.
Secondary comes his needs, in light of someone else’s.
The thoughts, “too tired” or “too busy” does nothing for him because
if someone needs help, you help them undoubtedly.
I have seen the coat that once
cascaded on his back give warmth to one
who had no coat
or smile
or joy
or light.
And for that one he lowered his head
to ask God for a favor.
I met this guy, this “perfect” guy when innocence consumed me
and since that day we’ve been each other’s confidant and comforter.
My love towards him supersedes that of a friend or
the best of that.
The truest thing I know is that when everyone one else
disappears to the mundane norms of life,
he will be there with me to cut through
the silence with rolls of laughter.
At what? It does not matter.
Because when I’m with him and he’s with me
there is a “we” that is formed and that “we” is captivates me
An infinite truth is that I will never stop
loving this young man.
He keeps my heartbeat steady so I
must exclaim the best of
joy, contentment, and love-the best of him.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 4:25 AM UTC
To you I applaud.
Your eyes will always say more,
Than that you covey with,
Words and gestures recalled.
Thank you for your sypmathy,
And what you can afford with empathy.
What I can't explain,
You hold and wait.
For my words and what comes,
From them.
I'm sorry to fill your plate.
But you say it's ok.
It is not yet full,
And you could never have enough,
Of me!? You forgive my confusion,
You believe in my pull.
I'll still say what a fool.
Don't you see this pool?
I don't see where I'm standing,
Yet you're here with me.
The water is nice,
And I'm so good at,
Pretending to breathe.
Now we've rolled the dice.
Save yourself,
You are what is important.
Fate is not with me and,
I am not boyant.
After my admiration,
Please float away.
To show my weight,
Can't hold you and my obsession.
To sink rather than swim.
I can give you the excuse,
Of currents and lack of strength.
That goes to no length.
Your eyes tell me those,
Are my lies.
So why? When we try,
Do my feet stick.
The tears add to the pool,
And I move in everyway.
The ground swallows my ankles,
Making soft shackles.
I'm so good you believe too,
That I can breathe.
Thank you for listening to my plea.
I watch your eyes,
As they let go.
You now float and the grip,
It weakens then slips.
I'll say goodbye and standby.
I can breathe I say.
It was the best anyone could do.
You can't float, you don't want to.
It's better here, hidden, keep them safe.
Dec 3, 2020
Dec 3, 2020 at 6:07 PM UTC
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Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 3:48 AM UTC
startled by the fight
in a diseased and dying body
I sit over her
looking through fogged eyes
recalling a slice of heaven
on a little tributary
of the raging Santiam –
cheek high pasture weeds
brushes a five year old face
as I nearly tunnel after long tan legs
sunshine and pit bulls
a covey of quail and
the old ****** pelt drying plywood
cut in the shape of a giant stop sign
a bedded down doe crashes through an Oak thicket
as our adventure continues –
lazy afternoons of swimming in the creek
chasing tree frogs
and picking wild flowers
fill my pre pre-school memories
as I stare
and wait for her to take another breath –
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 10:15 AM UTC
a covey small tan and brown feathered avian sprites
in brittle grass on desiccated hills hidden in plain sight
perching still as death will my close presence them excite
do they sense the ending that will mark their panicked fright?
I'll move they'll billow forth in the vagaries of flight
fluttering trajectory will intersect my sights
wild beauty convoluted billowing feathers ignite
ending in a tumbling stumbling failure of their flight
their camouflage plumage flecked with stains of crimson light
do they regret never seeing their progeny's delight?
do they feel a longing for more than is their right?
they will provide a meal for my family tonight
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 12:08 AM UTC
Notice!
Silence seems to have
Taking over
It's Sunday morning
Am I the only one up
Or even sober?
Somebody, anybody
Sing me a song
A poem about cutting
Would be better then none
Surely some Poet
Has pain to covey
When you get home from church
Write what you may
I'll shoot you a heart
Some loving thoughts
HP is my addiction
This is the cost
.....................
...
Mar 31, 2019
Mar 31, 2019 at 3:43 PM UTC
I hear many emotions disguised as words
These spoken feeling are dried then stuffed
all their glorious masculinity, now compacted
and their complexity is now rather compressed
emotions grinded into flat and blank thoughts
Sometimes i don't believe in words,
The way force themselves in and out .
For they falter when trying to explain colors,
Shades and tones always lack proper description.
Rarely do words capture that exact bend in light.
Nor that exact bend of your long neck,
foreign sensations my fingers once knew.
Words lack terms for the roughness of your face,
lack measurements for the smoothness of your lips.
And paragraphs won’t explain the feeling in my chest.
Nor can they explain the hollowness within my heart
When I could tell no one the secrets of my grief.
Only so many words can be used in a dying breath,
And Last words are usually much later said.
what did she wish to tell us on her death bed?
Nor can words covey those underlying emotions,
who tend to not speak too well for themselves
See, feelings tend to simply mumble and stumble
By sending mixed signals and double meaning
They ramble until the phrase is finally complete
But it is said that words are like a dusty window
They are like a man’s beloved yet cracked spyglass
Although words appear to be not quite clear,
And often find themselves fumbling desperately to be heard
They offer a outlet for our souls, otherwise left unspoken.
Jun 6, 2012
Jun 6, 2012 at 12:16 PM UTC
Sorry I can't relate to you
or if my act seems see through
as the voices scream I'm destined to lose
on a path that Im told I can choose
yet the only one praised seems lead to a land of fools
how does a man covey
the truths that we evade
its like we're playing a game
we know no winners escape
I'm at a loss for words
and the more that I blurt
the more it seems absurd
contemplating what is worse
to quit this race and go unheard
or push on only to be burned
wading in a world of hurt
reducing it all to a blur
Nation, or relation,
religion or procreation
assimilates me deeper
into disassociation
maybe they taught me how to fear all the hatred
but rarely how some love and cheer can change the situation
now I'm just exhausted
waiting for the rules to change
being accosted
by those who always point the blame
reptilian brains
thats been raised
bound by chains
to anothers mission
driven insane
by the thoughts ingrained
with repetition
same old same
to envision
imposed superstitions
to be swallowed whole
polluted souls
who no longer have control
with no indication
no escape
no letting go
sickened and disgusted by your ******* cause
to raise a sense of greed
for everything
above of all
the more feelings taken from me
the more I feel like a machine
that I never wanted to be
am I too far from rescuing?
in a group of robots
who know not what they do
who will use any excuse
to continue what their used to
am I the only one who seems to see this cell?
because when I point it out I am told to go to hell
Feb 6, 2019
Feb 6, 2019 at 1:46 PM UTC
One day's Spring cover of incipient blooms
Dogwoods pinks and whites
Scamper mountainside in Persephone's rites
Winter's forgotten timbers now hollows, wombs
Cuniculi sprout bantling bunnies from these rooms
Under thicket comes innocence's smallest one
Separated from covey, teeny trifling
Quail chick ta-taying in other atmosphere stifling
Mood was changed as baby bird imprinted this son
Thought I his mother; Persephone laughed in her fun
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 9:18 PM UTC
Do you believe In fate
Or is everything just strung together like a series of mistakes on a thread.
I’m happy now
That’s what I keep repeating to the reflection in the mirror.
Happy.
What a stupid broad word.
This digital world we live in. Where our only memories live in our phones. Mindless.
Meanwhile we’re killing each other over our complexion.
My person asks me why I cry so much and all I respond with is why wouldn’t I.
Everything hurts and I don’t know how to bandage myself.
Am I even healing if I’m just covering it all up?
I miss writing with a pencil or a pen scribbling all my thoughts and mishaps.
Now when We feel things we post something to covey even the littlest amount of emotion.
A picture is worth a thousand words. But what are our words worth?
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 8:30 PM UTC
The morning fires of Ola have resumed
Leaves are whisked across rested -
pastures and workable fields
The bells of Hereford and Charolais announce the -
sunrise meal
The lick is filled , the trough watered ,
the herd counted , the busy day plotted
Orpingtons pick cracked corn , barley and
grit
The first firing of the tractor , the beagles -
leading the farmers rowdy contraption in -
hopes of a stirred rabbit or a covey of game birds
Ola's country air is thick with new- day diesel ,
fresh harrowed field and wild onion , thickened
with pine an fresh hewn hardwood ...
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 9:08 PM UTC
Walking home one evening , right as the sun was going down , coming back from a friends house just down the road ! The day before Halloween in 1974 , a boys imagination at ten years old ! Couldn't help but think of goblins and ghost , haunted houses , witches on broomsticks , scarecrows and pumpkin patches ! Thoughts of Headless Horseman and baying coonhounds in the distance quickened my pace ! I crawled under the barbed wire fence , the house a quarter mile ahead .. The driveway was tree lined and dark so I chose an alternate path through a cornfield , bathed in bright orange Harvest Moon , determined not to get spooked ! Focused on the ground , trying not to look around , walking faster every few feet , finally started running ! About the time I convinced myself that I was safe a covey of quail flew up around me in every direction ! I jumped to the ground to catch my breath , raised up slowly , took off again , ran like a swamp rabbit behind the barn , took off my overalls , threw away my drawers ! Off to the house , food on the table . Wash up , Grace , a hard fought supper !
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 10:01 PM UTC
A covey of old men
perch on a concrete park bench.
Their wattled bob - their heads nod.
It is warm enough to be without shirts,
and they watch the young men who are -
remembering when they could.
They are too aged to wolf-whistle,
dry lips peel in the light of day;
but they appreciate every curve and *****
Pecking at morsels of life, they spend
the hours of their afternoons.
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 10:47 AM UTC
When body meets ink
And it stains the skin
When the reward outweighs pain
So it becomes vague
When it's no longer just a needle
It's use as a tool to covey her body a canvas
She has become a stencil
Her skin a piece of paper
The needle a ink pen
And even if you don't understand
The meaning is more then what's on her skin
It seep into her veins
And now her heart pumps it
She's ok that it tainted her blood
This ink has become her
A walking collage
But unless you are her
You won't understand her
To her this is more then just a hobby or sport
It's her life
Tattoos is her art
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 2:29 PM UTC
you were the first
boy that i said
'i love you' to and
really meant it...
and i've chosen
to never tell
another man that
i love him.
because
people say
' i love you'
to get what they want
and it's accepted
and i will not
so who ever i
find myself with next
will have to except
that society's perception
of love, does not fit mine
but trust me,
i will find a way to covey
what i feel for the next,
it will just be in a
less destructive way.
flatter yourself
when you hear that
i won't tell another
man that i love him
but
bring yourself back down
when you're laughed at
because what we had
was stupid, childish, and destructive
and i don't wish to bring those
words into my next relationship
because those words are
the description of 'i love you' .
because not only have i left you behind,
but i've left all my 'i love you's' behind too.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 7:24 PM UTC
You sit in your covey all
Conforming to its boxy confines
Every corner filled to its limit
With fleshy retreats
The box constraining your minute
The corners defining your
Face your shoulders
Your thighs pressed to your cheeks in grimace the cardboard
Outlining your
Territory you've yet to explore
The whole thing.
And wonder about the things
Yet you may find when
You explode
From the constraints
What size may you become
What shape other than
Square. What space
You will find
When someday you come to find
The box was all in your mind
And the limits all fake
And self-imposed.
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 11:46 PM UTC
a kidney bean
once became lodged
deep inside
my ear canal
and i don’t think
i need to remind you
how a sweet polyp
like that
will sprout roots
among the white axons
grow throughout the squid
and drink in salvation
from the brainpan
god knows
i’ve tried what i can
even
turned to the
purgative artillery
strong medicine for sure
but
my throat muscles
only strained and expelled
a bulky stool
so gassy
and when
the shaman
sat atop me
with his covey of broken clam shells
scraped the flesh from back of
my neck
wouldn’t you know it
the beast only sneered
from the hole and spat
so i guess
i’m resigned now
to co-exist with my friend
and no
as you’ve gathered
it’s not a symbiosis
but i’ll get by
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 9:45 PM UTC
Quails in a covey
Hide under cover of brush
Flush unsuspecting
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 6:36 PM UTC
When I was seven years
I tried for the first time to pray
On my knees, hands folded
Thanked him for all the richness
But no response to my covey
Maybe he is busy right now
I will come back another day
When I was eleven years
I tried once more to pray
Sat down with my rosary
But God wasn’t there at all
He still had nothing to say
I figured, he doesn’t exist
There is no one to repay
Then I was sixteen years
And instead of trying to pray
I tried to find all the richness
Again I couldn’t find God
Yet I found out that day
I have to thank this universe
As much as I can anyway
Apr 11, 2021
Apr 11, 2021 at 5:12 AM UTC
Ring around he covey
pocket full of pharmacy
money flew out the window
death to all that sin though
Free the owner of the slave
be the druggie at the rave
bless the ones that finger fun
hold me close I think I'm done
Now I'm off and on the run
eating big macs and dodging facts
no new thing under the sun
the thing is toppling see the cracks
Dec 8, 2021
Dec 8, 2021 at 4:23 PM UTC
*Moss grows unchecked on the
granite surface , cushioning bare feet
like velvet , pine forest obscured with
morning mist , a sun kissed peak , a wetted
valley , a covey of bobwhites , a coopers hawk
Oaks of every shape and size stair step the lone
trail to the top
Her overlook is grandiose
Boot sized ponds and cacti share the precipice
with cottontails and whitetail does
Tall hardwood canopies lie row upon
row , a place of solitude , where earth moves
slow , where creativity grows , where fragrant
summer breezes blow , where secrets are withheld that only the mountain knows* ...
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 9:16 PM UTC
Partridge red, how fine you fly;
Winging, gliding up on high.
We down below as you sweep by,
Esteem the rapture to our eye.
Partridge red, how deft you try
To fill the heavens with your cry;
As you ride so fleet and spry
When for your covey fore you vie.
Partridge red, alert yet shy
I call and wait for your reply.
Alas, I close my eyes and sigh
As someone shoots you from the sky.
ASJ
Oct 8, 2020
Oct 8, 2020 at 4:57 PM UTC
Tumbleweeds ease by,
as daylight draws dim,
the evening breeze weakening,
in the oil fields of the west.
The pump jacks speak,
as the flares burn,
igniting excess fumes,
and lighting the night as if day.
Jackrabbits wander and roam,
as rattlesnakes slither into dens,
the occasional bat swoops by,
trying to dodge the Nighthawks.
The oil trucks never stop,
the back roads ever busy,
a covey of blue quail
take it all in stride.
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 10:21 AM UTC