"cropped" poems
They brought them
from the hollar
to the barge
to the field ~
into the wallows
in prayer
skinny little pinkers
cropped by ivory gates
buzzed with hot wire
hooked on bug worm
whistling dixie
around scrummers
and **** pen
peckers squawk
down eden lane
(nipping at jean lint
and fraystring)
deep in the hollows
a mad crow
(with steady tap)
the snouts high
on grunters
and squealers
stomping past
the feather pack
folded fingers
on the gatekeeper
(an engineer by
trade they'd say)
pigtails and
slack line
down the dusty lane
a snap of the jawbone
and lawn chairs settle
(facing north)
the bold script
and chimes
uneasy
Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 1:11 PM UTC
The old woman ran a leathery hand through her cropped hair.
"Yes, you may weep for the fields of green, as they were gorgeous yet thought to be boring."
She rocked back and forth and her wrinkled face contorted into a smile for the first time in the conversation.
"You may always cry for the tulip fields as they were devastatingly beautiful yet loathed."
And yet, as soon as her face had lit up like a thousand suns, it was once again devoid of expression.
"But, nonetheless, reserve your pity for those that loved he or she that burned out,
for every lover of Icarus knows that it is better to be hated than to go unnoticed."
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 4:56 PM UTC
It was a hundred years ago,
When, by the woodland ways,
The traveller saw the wild deer drink,
Or crop the birchen sprays.
Beneath a hill, whose rocky side
O'erbrowed a grassy mead,
And fenced a cottage from the wind,
A deer was wont to feed.
She only came when on the cliffs
The evening moonlight lay,
And no man knew the secret haunts
In which she walked by day.
White were her feet, her forehead showed
A spot of silvery white,
That seemed to glimmer like a star
In autumn's hazy night.
And here, when sang the whippoorwill,
She cropped the sprouting leaves,
And here her rustling steps were heard
On still October eves.
But when the broad midsummer moon
Rose o'er that grassy lawn,
Beside the silver-footed deer
There grazed a spotted fawn.
The cottage dame forbade her son
To aim the rifle here;
"It were a sin," she said, "to harm
Or fright that friendly deer.
"This spot has been my pleasant home
Ten peaceful years and more;
And ever, when the moonlight shines,
She feeds before our door.
"The red men say that here she walked
A thousand moons ago;
They never raise the war-whoop here,
And never twang the bow.
"I love to watch her as she feeds,
And think that all is well
While such a gentle creature haunts
The place in which we dwell."
The youth obeyed, and sought for game
In forests far away,
Where, deep in silence and in moss,
The ancient woodland lay.
But once, in autumn's golden time,
He ranged the wild in vain,
Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer,
And wandered home again.
The crescent moon and crimson eve
Shone with a mingling light;
The deer, upon the grassy mead,
Was feeding full in sight.
He raised the rifle to his eye,
And from the cliffs around
A sudden echo, shrill and sharp,
Gave back its deadly sound.
Away into the neighbouring wood
The startled creature flew,
And crimson drops at morning lay
Amid the glimmering dew.
Next evening shone the waxing moon
As sweetly as before;
The deer upon the grassy mead
Was seen again no more.
But ere that crescent moon was old,
By night the red men came,
And burnt the cottage to the ground,
And slew the youth and dame.
Now woods have overgrown the mead,
And hid the cliffs from sight;
There shrieks the hovering hawk at noon,
And prowls the fox at night.
5.9k
I am a little bird born into this world
Naked.
Chirping lullabies to redwood treetops
and singing hymns to an almighty; getting back nothing.
I gathered up twigs and loose branches to build up
my nest––cropped out upbringing
for house fitting.
Waking up to noises––
of violent winds.
Pressing feathers to cover my ears,
and trusting my feet to hold me down.
Barricaded myself in worn bark,
from the impossibility of the threatening ecosystem.
Praying myself in place, hiding when morning shines and dressing in colours of damp green.
I’m something but I tell myself otherwise:
It’s too frightening to fly so I might as well cut off my wings.
No, that would be insensitive––don’t mind that, I’ll pluck them each time the feathers grow.
See I’m holding onto the something that makes me more than nothing.
Clipped wings seem more ideal than no wings.
For some reason I’m scared to let it all go;
silently hoping one day I’ll keep them, like them, love them and even spread them.
Noticed gathering leaves and flowers one day can add colour to a colourless lifestyle,
yet the wind wipes it clean the next––still pale brown and feels less like home than yesterday.
I may be afraid of everything,
but I know I’m more afraid of dying here alone;
whispering Mozartian melodies to dead butterflies.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 8:42 AM UTC
*He makes me feel beautiful*
Which I have never felt before
I've always had my doubts and could never be too sure
Cause they told me I was ugly
They told me I was fat
They joked about me and never had regrets
And I sat there and I laughed it off but it hurt me inside
So bad that I got off the bus and ran straight to my room to cry
And I got on my knees and prayed at my window and asked the lord
"Why is this happening to me?" and it started when I was four
And yes, I still remember that far back
Cause being bullied is it's own feeling of being jumped or attacked
And *he makes me feel beautiful*
Cause he looks me in my eyes and tells me that I am and I can tell it's not a lie...
Because instead of posting pictures I have edited and cropped
And having boys tell me I'm pretty through messages in my inbox...
*He makes me feel beautiful*
Cause he means what he says
And a few other people have told me I am cute but I thought they were just kidding
Cause I have programmed myself to thinking my beauty is forbidden
Which means that I could never be a girl that is praised
For her good looks, her perfect body, and her Aphrodite face.
*He makes me feel beautiful*
Cause even though I have flaws
He accepts them and makes me feel like I have none at all
So maybe I am pretty and I am starting to think better
Of myself instead of looking in the mirror with a look so bitter
*He makes me feel beautiful*
And when he tells me so with such a serious voice, I get chills
Cause he's the first person that hasn't made me feel completely ill
By insulting or pointing out one of my many imperfections
But instead trying to help get rid if that negative venom
That people have slowly injected into my mind
Making my optimism die slowly over time
Making me get violent and defensive and making me less kind
To the point I get a rush to commit a deadly crime
Then they say I'm crazy and continue with the names
It's a cycle, a stupid circle, a horrible made up game
That has expanded to the point where death is how you win
And I would of won this game if it wasn't for my kin
*He makes me feel beautiful* outside and in
So I wrote this in dedication to that special him
For helping me realize more than ever in my life
That maybe I am beautiful and I've been this way for a very long time...
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 7:07 PM UTC
Just because someone doesn't reply in
An hour, or two, or three, or four,
Or half a day later...
Don't mean that something's happened, right?
Maybe something's just cropped up,
Maybe they decided to sleep early for once,
Maybe, maybe...
I don't know.
I just hope you're fine...
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC
I am not the type of person that can easily hide
And I am not the type of person that can hold their tongue tightly
But for you i shall wring it like a wet towel
so all the dark cropped up secrets drip out
And I will put them in a tiny box with a lock
And I will throw the key away in the ocean of trust
I shall live in the goldness of remaining silent
Your terrifying dreams and your secret stories are safe with me
And I won't ever share them with any other person but you
&
I hope you do the same with me.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
And the trees about me,
Let them be dry and leafless; let the rocks
Groan with continual surges; and behind me
Make all a desolation. Look, look, wenches!
Paint me a cavernous waste shore
Cast in the unstilled Cyclades,
Paint me the bold anfractuous rocks
Faced by the snarled and yelping seas.
Display me ****** above
Reviewing the insurgent gales
Which tangle Ariadne’s hair
And swell with haste the perjured sails.
Morning stirs the feet and hands
(Nausicaa and Polypheme).
Gesture of orang-outang
Rises from the sheets in steam.
This withered root of knots of hair
Slitted below and gashed with eyes,
This oval O cropped out with teeth:
The sickle motion from the thighs
Jackknifes upward at the knees
Then straightens out from heel to hip
Pushing the framework of the bed
And clawing at the pillow slip.
Sweeney addressed full length to shave
Broadbottomed, pink from nape to base,
Knows the female temperament
And wipes the suds around his face.
(The lengthened shadow of a man
Is history, said Emerson
Who had not seen the silhouette
Of Sweeney straddled in the sun.)
Tests the razor on his leg
Waiting until the shriek subsides.
The epileptic on the bed
Curves backward, clutching at her sides.
The ladies of the corridor
Find themselves involved, disgraced,
Call witness to their principles
And deprecate the lack of taste
Observing that hysteria
Might easily be misunderstood;
Mrs. Turner intimates
It does the house no sort of good.
But Doris, towelled from the bath,
Enters padding on broad feet,
Bringing sal volatile
And a glass of brandy neat.
3.3k
Skin as White as Winter Snow
Legs as Boundless as the Sea,
Stationed in Venice or Bordeaux
From Blue-collar to Bourgeois.
Hair is Chic, Yet not Pristine
Soft and Cropped and Fine,
Cheekbones High a Distinct Ravine
Embellished by a High Neckline.
Undefined Peaks and Troughs
Cumbersome and Lank,
Garnished in the Finest Cloth
Awash with Unassuming Swank.
Miss Androgynous hear my call
For I've Become a Virile Gent,
I Yearn for your Unwieldy Frame
That God in Heaven Sent
February 2011
Apr 3, 2011
Apr 3, 2011 at 3:11 PM UTC
ewe wanna learn how to talk tidy
like all us welsh valley folk do
we don't know a coat from a jacket
we don't know a boot from a shoe
we live up the road down by there
shoulder length cropped curly hair
got permanent jobs on the fiddle
two houses,and mines in the middle
my mothers a tea total binger
blonde headed brunette called ginger
she always go out for a night in
to bingo she finds exciting
did you see that wind?
hear that snow?watch that song?
who's coat is that jacket?
and there it was....gone
Mar 5, 2010
Mar 5, 2010 at 12:31 PM UTC
for Alice, Frances and Hester
Clearing the town
of its Sunday streets,
up to the close-cropped
grass of playing fields
green and red and blue
frocked girls pig-tailed
in the Spring wind
brace their yet-to-be-shaped
bodies against the breeze
tugging at their kites
tossed in the air
by invisible hands . . .
Turn and spin,
climb and soar,
float, dive, dive, float
spin, float, spin, climb
and soar
Sep 1, 2012
Sep 1, 2012 at 6:30 AM UTC
I haven't ****** much with the past
But I've ****** plenty with the future
Over the skin of silk are scars
From the splinters of stations and walls I've caressed
A stage is like each bolt of wood
Like a, like a log of Helen, is my pleasure
I would measure the success of a night by the way, by the way I
By the amount of **** and seed I could exude
Over the columns that nestled the P.A.
Some nights I'd surprise everybody by skipping off
With a skirt of green net sewed over
With flat metallic circles which dazzled and flashed
The lights were violet and white
I had an ornamental veil, I can't bear to use it
With the way my hair was cropped, I craved, craved covering
But now that my hair itself is a veil
And the scalp inside is a scalp of a crazy
And a sleepy Comanche lies beneath this netting of skin
I wake up, I am lying peacefully
I am lying peacefully and my knees are open to the sun
I desire him and he is absolutely ready to seize me
In, in, in, in, in heart, I am a Moslem, in heart, I am an American
In heart, I am Moslem, in heart, I'm an American artist and I have no guilt
I seek pleasure, I seek the nerves under your skin
The narrow archway, the layers, the scroll of ancient lettuce
We worship the flaw, the belly, the belly
The mole on the belly of an exquisite *****
He spared the child and spoiled the rod
I have not sold myself to God
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 5:50 PM UTC
He creeps near to the foot of my bed
With that smirk
Oh he's come to cocoon me away to his army
Of dented men
With cropped souls
He asked
But never said please
To come with him
Where it's warm
I shook my head
He persuaded me
But never said please
To come with him
Where gems trickle down your face
I said no
He insisted
But never said please
To come with him
Where his home was
I refused
He forced me
But never said please
To come with him
When a comforting light pierced through my eyes
I couldn't see what it was
For it was far too beautiful
It sheered the man away
It was so modest
So against the beauty of living
Of looking, of tasting
It was a stoic;
Passionless
It was like the water
So against the grains of sand
Of dirt, of ink
It was a stoic;
Calm
It was so indifferent
So against the pull of pleasure
Of sin, of feeling
It was a stoic;
Strong
It was like god
It was god
For nothing
Would come close
To freeing the devil off the foot of my bed.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 2:21 PM UTC
**** bruh! call a bomb squad (bo[ɑ]mb squa[ɑ]d)
for there's a bomb—
—shell here, whose rear evokes a somewha[ʌ]t
unholy, wrong thought (wro[ɑ]ng thou[ɑ]ght)
reminds him of a jihadi-done job (jihadi-done jo[ɑ]b)
'cause this bum's (boom) banging; this honey's dancing
boldly & lewdly, got his jaw dropped (ja[ɑ]w dro[ɑ]pped)
his sight's fixed on her hips, she's beyond hot (bey[ɑ]ond ho[ɑ]t)
this gal's freaking blazing
his hand's in offensive motion for her hind part
a haptic invasion
she moves on from wining to fondling, she's eager
such a luscious body, killer figure (body)
disguised with a tank
top with a low neckline & tight-fit cropped pants
she's like: "make me high like a rooftO̲p nearly reaching
the sky; give me a tI̲me so exquisite
that I̲'ll be left speechless
when this ro[ɑ]mp's over"
she's none short o'... a mind-blower, like a gun-toter
blowing a brain of a **** hound wrongdoing
('bout time to strike a hunting seas-on up on these ****
she digs vicious, dark-sounding music
but also doesn't mind to bounce her tushie
to 90-100 bpm party-sound tunes
Oct 18, 2019
Oct 18, 2019 at 4:24 AM UTC
Fascism's lack of Sanity
They are called Odin's soldiers
And dress partly alike,
Leather jackets
Short cropped hair
And with an angry, righteous
Expression in white, round faces.
They claim to protect women
But they are just fascist who hates
People not like them.
For people from Syria or elsewhere
Who fled for their life
And often saw their loved ones drown,
Only came to the frozen north
As a last resort.
What people of Scandinavia need is
Intermarriage
To save them from dying drunk in
the snow.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 7:46 AM UTC
There's a girl in my bathtub
I can see her dancing on the surface of the water
Her eyes glinting in the florescent bathroom lights
She and I have a lot in common
The same cropped hair and scars,
Crisscrossing our bodies like little train tracks
She shivers as the water pours into the tub
Hot rain falling from the faucet
I watch her beneath the surface
And I wonder if she is drowning
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC
you don’t shy away;
that’s my favourite thing about you
you’re comfortable in your skin,
or under pounds of cake,
in your ripped jeans and cropped tops,
sneakers or wedged heels
handsome in dresses
pretty in suits
shades of pink and blue
gender norms have got nothin’ on you.
comfortable. safe. confident.
that is you.
Dec 5, 2019
Dec 5, 2019 at 11:59 AM UTC
A cropped haircut, remembrances of time
The best way to reduce cuticles to bone
And forget what dances behind eyelids
Loosed teardrops and wavering dependability
Useless porch light, shameful gas tank
With shadows which count seconds
Stretching over regrowth
A cropped haircut, remembrances of time
Oct 21, 2010
Oct 21, 2010 at 2:28 AM UTC
These days have defeated me
The cartographer burned the map meant to take me home
I don't know how I ended up walking in circles
The ground below has a divot where my thoughts have weighed down the soil
I've taken step after step to get where I'm going
The only step left will be the hardest one
I just need to lift my foot off of the ground
To fall
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 1:21 PM UTC
Tic.
Tock.
There goes the clock.
Tic.
Tock.
There goes another hour.
Power.
That's what the clock has over us,
ticking from our first fuss,
to the last time we tie our shoes and get on a bus.
Tic.
Tock.
There goes the clock.
Tic.
Tock.
Another clogged up rut.
The odd feeling in my gut,
the sound of the ticking making me jut.
The door is shut.
Tic.
Tock.
There goes the clock.
Tic.
Tock.
Can't you see?
It was me.
I tried to be set free,
I wanted to flee,
I just wanted to be.
Forgive me?
Tic.
Tock.
There goes the clock.
Tic.
Tock.
The mouse is in trouble.
Bubble.
The clock had it popped,
your life has been cropped,
your skull was dropped.
Tic.
Tock.
There goes the clock.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC
And now we see the singularity
of the artist, wrists spread bare on
mimed canvas, finally we see
his consistency.
Lazarus is dead on the first day.
Gold background, rocky outcrop,
sense of cluttered space.
Do you see the decay?
Can you sympathize, or do you notice?
I cannot sympathize with Duccio,
I am too vain to admit his Maestá
survives while my brain rots from
alcohol. But I remember Duccio is
at least fifty years old when his Maestá
preeminently destroys my career
as a visual artist. I do not mind.
Lazarus is dead on the second day.
Duccio had many pupils, among them
Simone Martini, whose Annunciation
is a cropped rehash of Byzantine/Gothic
flopped with Duccio's handy flair,
a pious reverence and virtue.
It sweeps and moves. Or attempts.
Lazarus is no longer sleeping.
I have never been to the city of Florence,
not now nor the 1300s, so I need not
explain my lack of comprehension.
Lazarus has risen now,
but it is different than I remember.
Lazarus is all alone, and
Lazarus is alive,
doomed to walk in mortal Hellfire
a second time over.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 2:16 PM UTC
It was a highway that brought me here
Stuffed into a expensive car with four adults and good music
We drove for what seemed hours
Arriving on the slick, black streets of the Emerald City
Down a rabbit hole of old cars and termite ridden stairs
Past an old couch and a stray cat
Into a cold room with heaters stacked and jumbled
Full of pianos and good and beer
People I've known for twelve years
And people I've met only once
People I don't know
Different skins, of their own, of animals
Frizzy and cropped hair, wine and mason jar glasses
Walls painted silver, gleaming under forty year old lamps
Mismatched furniture and occupants alike
Sirens singing in the background
Children running through the foreground
Old friends and a blind man with a big dog
Visual artists and IRS agents
Musicians and carpenters
Mechanical engineers
Cobbled together around and old fireplace and a rosewood piano
Sharing stories and songs, sons and daughters
Tales from the road, and wedding pictures
I sat on an orange pleather couch in the makeshift kitchen
Watching theses people's children play with bionicles and dolls
Reading books and drawing on walls
Playing drums and answering calls
Fighting for bathroom stall
These are my people
I know them all
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 1:43 AM UTC
~~~<☆>~~~
fuchsia garland sits
rakishly upon a
platinum blonde head
of close cropped spines
sun glints in her curls
SoulSurvivor
(C) 3/8/2014
rewritten (c) 3/4/2016
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 11:05 AM UTC
It was my first time
I was fifteen years old
And it was 8 inches.
Eight. Whole. Inches.
Laying motionless in my hands,
Long and lifeless as I stared excitedly, nervously
My first ...haircut
I spun around in the salon chair to see my exposed jaw, shoulders, neck
Holding in my hands a ponytail that would soon be sent to Locks of Love
My first legitimate haircut, not the simple snips my mom would attempt in the bathroom when split ends were too unbearable,
A real style
Back straight and shoulders proud,
Uncertainty left on the tiles beneath the feet of beaming confidence,
Leaving dead the sheet that covered scared eyes and shy smiles…ever since I've developed an addiction to change,
Can't leave it the same for more than two months
And the chime of the door behind me opened endless opportunities:
Brown, auburn, gold, red, blond, yellow
Black
Brown black, blue black, soft black, natural black, always back to black
Straight, curly, layered, cropped, feathered, fringed, shaved
Undercut, mohawk, faux hawk, that weird thing where I gel it to the side and kind of look like a boy...
And yeah, sometimes I get sick of the sexist comments
People telling me I've got a boy's haircut
That short hair is for men, but
So were the olympics and voting and public education and getting published,
And thriving in the workplace and wearing pants,
And god knows im not going to give up either my Levi's or my razor
I'm not going to keep worrying; man's words will stop me from doing what i love
And I've been called lesbian, boyish, butch, manly, androgynous, anti-effeminate,
But I know I don't stand alone.
So thank you, Natalie Portman, P!nk,
Rihanna, Katy Perry, Anne Hathaway,
Kaley, Megan, Erin, Kim, Skylar
I don't know all of you well,
But the risks you've taken with your hair
Are an inspiration to those who care
So short haired women,
Keep doing your thang.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 1:51 PM UTC