"crusts" poems
Above the caldera at Yellowstone,
a brittle soil-rock crust
caps a lake of liquid fire
with only fumaroles and roiling geysers
to slake its upward ******
A single heedless step is enough
to breech that mantle's fragile seal -
spelling death by fire
to any hapless soul
who fails to guard his steps.
Fragile calderas also roil
buried in dark crevices of our psyches -
brewed of failures, slights and fears
dissolved in fiery pools
of self-consuming misery.
To dress and salve our wounded souls
we plant fertile gardens of reconciliation
with beauty, trust and charity
and kneel to gods of grace and solace.
But a despot’s practiced eye
knows how to tap our fragile crusts,
releasing acrid lava flows
from pools where fear and rage reign hot,
and reason has no district.
Friends and siblings - my flesh and kin,
this world is ours to lose or save
so let us seal well our Sacred Calderas
from bitter foes that stalk us from within.
July, 2006, revised December, 2014, 2015 and 2018
Robert Charles Howard
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 12:40 AM UTC
in the hospitals and jails
it's the worst
in madhouses
it's the worst
in penthouses
it's the worst
in skid row flophouses
it's the worst
at poetry readings
at rock concerts
at benefits for the disabled
it's the worst
at funerals
at weddings
it's the worst
at parades
at skating rinks
at ****** ******
it's the worst
at midnight
at 3 a.m.
at 5:45 p.m.
it's the worst
falling through the sky
firing squads
that's the best
thinking of India
looking at popcorn stands
watching the bull get the matador
that's the best
boxed lightbulbs
an old dog scratching
peanuts in a celluloid bag
that's the best
spraying roaches
a clean pair of stockings
natural guts defeating natural talent
that's the best
in front of firing squads
throwing crusts to seagulls
slicing tomatoes
that's the best
rugs with cigarette burns
cracks in sidewalks
waitresses still sane
that's the best
my hands dead
my heart dead
silence
adagio of rocks
the world ablaze
that's the best
for me.
13.8k
The crow works its way sideways on the wire.
Nature lives at full tilt. It does not worry
That it may soon be used up. It lives in the moment
In pursuit of having a fulfilled purpose.
For the busy crow the fleeting moments pass unnoticed;
Time scarcely has consequences for the satisfied;
Down he flies for crusts of hamburger buns.
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 12:33 AM UTC
My, oh my
Do I find myself facing a faceless giant
swinging his gigantic arms
bringing about his colossal hands together
creating a thunderous clap
His skin thicker than the crusts of the earth
with a voice that booms from the corners of the skies
My, Oh my
Do I find myself stunned with fear
as it puts its foot down
shaking the ground beneath the soles of my feet
How do I slay a giant such as he?
He strikes me through my heart
melting the inners of my mind
shattering the bones beneath my skin
eating away whats left of me.
How?
I've got no sword left in my hand
my armor has crumbled
turned into dust
my spirit barely alive!
I
am
Weak!
unprepared!
and
unequipped!
A soldier in shame!
A warrior who has lost
all who he is!
My, Oh my
Do I find myself crying in silence
with no tears left to shed
with rage that boils inside
of my chest
thinking that maybe
this is it for me.
My, Oh my
Do these shadows fall
upon me.
Opening up scars that have healed
Sinking me deeper and deeper
down the cracks of the earthly soils
swallowing me
as I try to find myself
beneath the ocean of pain.
My, Oh my
Do I find myself bleeding
hurting, and
screaming in silence
My, Oh my!
this giant gloats about
as he strikes me down
as he strips away every bit of my courage, and strength
Oh, he gloats, and gloats
and gloats
-----
But My, Oh my!
My, Oh my!
Do I still find myself getting back up
every time I'm struck down
beaten up
buried beneath the ground
My, Oh my!
Do I say to you my giant,
"You strike me down a thousand times; I get back up
a thousand and one times!"
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 8:46 AM UTC
In the beginning was Scream
Who begat Blood
Who begat Eye
Who begat Fear
Who begat Wing
Who begat Bone
Who begat Granite
Who begat Violet
Who begat Guitar
Who begat Sweat
Who begat Adam
Who begat Mary
Who begat God
Who begat Nothing
Who begat Never
Never Never Never
Who begat Crow
Screaming for Blood
Grubs, crusts
Anything
Trembling featherless elbows in the nest's filth
4.3k
I have a perfect lunchbox mom
Crusts cut off
She leaves me love letters on my napkin
So that when the bathroom stall became my cafeteria
I wouldn't be so lonely
I have a perfect marathon mom
She runs to the beach and back just to show that she can.
And when she says she's all gross from her run, she somehow still smells like fresh air
My mom is fresh air,
She fills my sister's lungs with life
And every exhale is love
My mom is fresh air.
She is a sanctuary, she is a nest
She is rest
I have a perfect lunchbox mom,
A "Honey, what's wrong?" mom
An "If you're not here, the day's too long", mom
A "Wonder if God knew what He gave to Earth" mom
I thought God kept track of angels
She is everything
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 9:07 AM UTC
Above the caldera at Yellowstone,
a brittle soil-rock crust
caps a lake of liquid fire
with only fumaroles and roiling geysers
to stay its upward ******
One errant step is all it takes
to breach that mantle's fragile seal -
spelling death by fire
to any hapless wanderer
who fails to guard his path.
Fragile calderas also roil
buried in darkest hollows of our psyches -
brewed of failures, slights and fears
dissolved in molten pools
of self-consuming misery.
To dress and salve our wounds
we sow gardens of reconciliation within
with beauty, trust and reason
and bow to gods of grace and solace.
But a despot’s studied eye
knows just how to tap our fragile crusts,
releasing acrid lava flows
from pools where fear and rage reign hot
and reason has no district.
Sisters and brothers of our flesh I pray
we find a holy and transforming alchemy
to convert our heat to light
and shield our sacred calderas
from enemies that stalk us from within.
July, 2006, revised December, 2014, 2015 and 2018
Robert Charles Howard
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 12:30 PM UTC
In class the big black and white tick-tock pinched
my mid-morning belly. When everyone else
borrowed numbers, my pencil lead and yellow paint
scratched out hunger. Minutes chugged like school
buses. Even columns of three-numeraled numbers
minused the bottom line, scold of lunch.
A borrowed quarter and dime from the office,
meant a secretary’s red-lipsticked mouth, bent
and accusing. Her coiffed curls shook my dreams.
I would starve before sailing into that office
for my little belly, but forever yearned for the secretary
to pet my hair. Say, “There, there,”like to a character
in a book rosy with girls in gingham dresses.
But, for all those lovely boats of hot lunches: meatloaf
with crusts of catsup like a winter cap, buttered beans,
dinner rolls
and cold-cartoned milk, not watered down--
Missing lunch, I'd hide out in the cold storage
room of sack lunches next to the playground.
While the others ate, I'd escape at the right tick
into the recess of blacktop and tetherball.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 2:28 PM UTC
before rising crusts
before pizza houses
and Italian restaurants
before delivery
there was frozen pizza
from the supermarket
without designer labels
just clear-wrapped pizza pies
in your frozen food section
at family friendly prices
with thick cardboard crust
dried out cheese
salty pepperoni
and all but flavorless tomato sauce
it was a delicacy
to youth's uneducated palette
now awailable at your local
convenience store
cooked fresh in 90 seconds
same ol' horrible stuff
delicious as ever
Mar 6, 2010
Mar 6, 2010 at 9:13 AM UTC
.
Fazzy moams on wivvel crusts
carry jazms on flocked pavs.
Rinkulled witty over sark
unburcoaled plinks of bloo.
Serry nark are they cronking
and fillipas grapples in kloque.
Verx on spappled gurns are they
torting through gattering weems.
Fernol wend the schism klone
Glolling fast in clutty pawk.
Scenty flox drozzle by teas
Nisting on cowt rinnalled dawn.
Yurish casts of nash pigoon
stoz over hinty-hanty bynum.
When in merdeen lemp quimsy
dilly noff flyx and wempwarble.
For loofin under korots mingle
At the imtem tong fallop.
Shoozy bales of cremp deflate
and gwample rooks the plisties.
©Pagan Paul (22/06/16)
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 7:45 PM UTC
I’ve wasted all my money on ****
again.
I don’t even like it, the stench, the habit, the headaches,
the fake smiles, declarations of “I’m so high”, I’m done.
I’m done splattering my guts in the morning
displaying my vulnerabilities to the world,
the world of 275 girls. I just can’t seem to find
the acceptance I want,
but don’t deserve. what I need is a pill to forget
who I am and what I’ve done, because I haven’t done enough.
**** kids my age travel to Tajikistan, hack government websites,
cure complex diseases in their sleep.
I just lay on my futon, plop dvds into my Mac,
and waste my life away.
another day wasted, staring into a screen. which reminds me
I also waste too much money on dvds,
while my Netflix account remains untouched.
could I be anymore of an abomination,
with my tattooed skin, and pierced face,
cutting the crusts off of my bread. as mementos of my past
seep into my mind, I wonder
when I’ll see the starting line,
or if it’s already left me behind.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 2:37 AM UTC
I can't decide if earthquakes are caused by shifting rocks
Or if they are the result of the growing faultlines on my palms.
If the quake I feel is from jolts of energy formed due to the earth's crusts rubbing against each other
Or if the quakes are caused by the friction between my palms and my face
Perhaps earthquakes have nothing to do with the fact you left dragging your suitcase behind you
And perhaps it has no correlation with the rubber soles of my shoes and the cobblestone ground
Maybe earthquakes are screams of, "THIS IS TOO MUCH."
Maybe earthquakes are millions tremors whispering, "I can't take much more of this."
I've been struggling with differentiating equations involving inner shaking and outer breakdowns
But I have come to a conclusion that the probability of earthquakes existing within me is fairly close to one
And that the probability of earthquakes being caused by your hurt is possibly closer to one
Most days earthquakes begin from within -
The place where your hands used to cradle my heart is cold
And the ice is travelling from my arteries to my fingernails
Other days, earthquakes stem from the screams of the masses -
"You don't matter," they say, even though I am very much aware
That a flick of my finger could cause the collapse of a tower worlds away
I can hardly comprehend how sudden releases of pain can cause a rift in time and space
And sometimes earthquakes are the seizures that could keep someone alive and **** them at the same time.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 2:55 PM UTC
swim until you can’t see land
until names etched deep in cardiac tissue blur
and fade, scored over with seasalt and creases of a million maps,
a secret stash of maps. absurd and hoarded and crumpled under carseats and
rolled neat
and boastful in umbrella holders or worse, framed and hung
Maps jotted freehand on napkins stained with tea and mustard and left
to be bused with the crusts and pocketful of change.
swim until you can’t read the maps.
the lines to here from there are arteries
on your fresh, clean heart.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 12:15 AM UTC
I was playing, jumping up and
Down, I was cartwheeling
Right side up
To
Upside down,
I heard a noise, I heard a grumble
Was it thunder
The sky Is blue??
Where did that noise come from
Was it you.
I walked along, and heard it again
I looked under my jumper
There it goes again.
Are you
Shouting,
Rumbling,
Talking
To me, what do want, speak up
"Gruummmbbblle"
"Raaaaarrrrrr"
I don't speak belly?
I do feel hungry though,
"Grumbleeeeee"
Is it that what you want,
Is that which you need.
"Ok"
Home we go, moving fast,
Still talking each louder than the last.
"I need you MUMMY"
"I need you DADDY"
My belly has been talking
Its telling me its hungry,
Like thunder a rumbling rolls
Around my empty tum,
"Goodness me"
"Goodness you"
I'll make you both a sandwich
Make both you happy.
"Thanks mummy"
"Tummy said thanks too"
Grumble went my tum
As both of us were filled with
Peanut,
Jelly,
Toast
It was good tasting,
And filled my taste buds as
Well as a friend that
Grumbled,
Rumbled,
Talked
Of his need to be filled up too.
"Each chew"
"Each swallow"
"Quieter than the last"
I had eaten my sandwich
Crusts and all. My belly vibrated, I think
It was a sleep, I felt much better now I had something
To eat. Empty plate that's good to see,
How are you both?
"Mummy we are very happy"
With a grin I rubbed my tummy,
"MMmm"
My belly just spoke
My belly has a need
"What is that little man"
Grinning ear to ear,
"CHOCLATE MUMMY"
Is that you talking or tummy rumbling again,
My belly just likes to be full for me to eat.
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 11:17 AM UTC
Beggars line the busy streets
cup and cloth outstretched
the look of desperation etched on their faces
like the dawn shadow of a carved lithograph
they don't ask me for spare change
just a simple nod of acknowledgement;
even after a shower and a change of clothes
I must have their look, that broken beaten look
the look of the street.
George Square is busy today
tourists happy clicking panoramic memories
admiration of forced foolish bravery at the Cenotaph
a list of names they will never know
and marvel at the antiquated architecture
to later revel in the wonderment of how anyone
in a civilised and modern society can do without skyscrapers
while they grudgingly share a half-measure of a single malt
I sit on a bench that marks a families love and remembrance
to the passing of a woman named Judith
the pigeons flock in carnal mass gatherings
knowing I've been there for 3 hours already
because I have the look of someone who hides his crusts
because I have the hungry eyes of the look of the street.
The well dressed man at the end of the alleyway,
the plume of carcinogen cigar smoke
like a coal fired power station in the sunlight
this is where they go for over-priced craft ales
with Sautéed Wild Rabbit starter and £65 Wagyu Tomahawk Steak
a place for fine pickings in the alleyway ashtrays
dispensed cancer sticks left disregarded
the half-finished defiance of another £9 packet
that was simply spare change to begin with
I hover around making false promises on a deadline phone call
pretending in mime to be semi-OK
that the compadres are running late
and "tell me about the theatre show later"
the misdirection amid the camouflage of plastic peace lilies
while my other hand rummages the unspent tobacco
and the black-on-black door steward keeps clocking me
because I have the look of the street.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 7:53 AM UTC
perpetuated indifference
freedom and fleas
cats in the trees
loving the grass and twigs
between my knees
and toes
and fragments
in my hair
my clothes
and on a day such as forever
I spoke to another
terribly,
not so good at words
with others
who say words back,
pretty little polka dotted
circles and nonsense
like who are you kidding?
Individuality is not a crime
though faking it is,
as if being unique is even unique
but another copy
of another
a thought already thought
shush up
kiss like a real person
not a slobbery
monstrous
adolescent,
but like a man who knows
or at least cares,
but not about the earth crusts on my skin
or the air in my finger nails
it's all me
and if they can't like it
can't love it
in any way
that can be considered love
or positive
in any form or shape or sound or purpose
then forget
to forget
because sometimes
one is ****** up
and enjoys
a little game
of brain bashing insecurity,
until that day when one becomes self-actualized
(oh please)
and then real forget and freedom may happen.
How boring.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 8:54 PM UTC
Living is often like drowning, and sleeping like flying,
So bridges and tall buildings always tempt me.
When I talk about death I feel brave.
I've always hated how recognition can so easily turn into pride.
They say pride comes before the fall,
But I believe that various kinds of self-centeredness are the origin of all unholy descents.
I remind myself that I shouldn't take my life because I didn't give it,
And my heart continues to beat on its own.
Blood doesn't stain crimson red,
It darkens and crusts on the skin.
Everything that is dead becomes only a memory,
Then it disintegrates and washes away, eventually becoming nothing.
I can’t remember anything from before I had the ability to reason,
So when did I come alive?
I wonder if all people valued beauty,
Would there be peace?
Because I sometimes wonder whether Neil Armstrong meant to say what he did as took his first step on the moon.
I think trying is as valuable as doing,
But justification is a dangerous tool.
I am cautious of failure and success;
But count this as my eulogy
A list of things that I am going to say before my untimely death.
*I recognized the world for the canvas it was and I didn't waste my life.
My dreams were my motivation,
And they were fueled by those that underestimated me
I walked streets day and night and prayed that I would somehow run into the girl of my dreams,
and when I finally found my missing rib I looked at her like she was a piece of art that I just couldn't keep my eyes off of.
I suffered and I found its nectar bitter-sweet.
I didn't get the best of life, but then I made the best of life.
I never stopped caring,
my love for the unlovable made me daring.
I trusted too easily so I was always broken.
I always found things to love, but they never loved me,
But despite it, I still loved, hard, even though it hurt me.
I couldn't comfort because I had never been comforted.
After a lifetime of battling myself, I finally took off my crown of thorns.
I didn't let the past get the best of me,
I gave the future all of me.
I hated animosity,
War was despicable to me,
And I always preached peace.
I prayed constantly that my efforts would not be in vain.
I never actually could stop sinning, but despite my ugly sins, I never stopped straining.
I was not perfect, but I did the best I could.
I never ceased to hear the music.
I still played, even when I felt like I was playing solo, I still played my part in this symphony of life.
My eyes were aimed at the director, and we played through the storm,
We played even when all hell was against us,
We played, and played, and played
Until eternity came through.....*
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 1:28 PM UTC
I miss when Jane didn’t smoke.
She sneaks under morning’s cloak
Goes to class and laughs
With an empty head
At my empty joke.
Empty is the ***** flask
I pretend not to notice
Tucked into her lunchbox
So I stare at her sandwich instead
No crusts
A housewife’s handiwork
There's no use pretending anymore.
We are empty
We are fading
And she is faded
And I am waiting
In the food court of a failing mall
While she is debating
Whether or not to give it all
To another blue-eyed boy
Because he made her feeling something
Her father didn’t
After his deployment.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 1:41 PM UTC
Within the enclosed
Walls of the
Windowless cell
Huddled in the corner
A man sits motionless
The coldness of the
Damp brick walls
Around him
Creep through his
Sweaty skin
Clogging the pores
Causing a fever
No window
Breaks the brick walls
Of the dwarf sized cell
No light
Just darkness
Ensnare the space
Around the cross-legged man
He feels his eyes
Will soon go blind
From the choked
Layer upon thick layer
Of blackness
He feels his skin
Will solidify
Into a frozen fever
Of cold
All the blood and veins
Beneath
Slowly turning to crusts of nothing
These are terrible
Terrible as the jingle of
The key’s click
Meaning the door is locked
Not to be opened
Until his executioner
Decides is right
Terrible as the moment
He caught his last
Glimpse of the sun’s beams
Gifting the outside world with
Simple happiness
But neither of these
Could amount to
The horrifying
Sound of a single
Clock’s steady
Ticking
Ticking
Ticking away the minutes
And hours remaining of his life
The man sits
Sits and sits
Never moving
His ears are continuously
Invaded with this
Ticking
Ticking
Ticking
How will he survive?
What seem
To be weeks pass
And he sits
In that same corner
Motionless
On the edge of madness
Ticking
After
Ticking
Pass
And soon
He understands
To fall in love
With this sound
Is the key
He listens now
And soon
In place of the
Ticking
The man in the
Windowless cell
Hears music
Soon an orchestra
Of deep fathomless cello
Smooth whispering piano
Melancholy violin
Echoes throughout the
Tunnels of this man’s ears
Now
With music his companion
This man
Cross-legged in the corner
Of the windowless cell
Smiles to the
Music
Through his sorrows
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 5:16 PM UTC
I have to make him a turkey sandwich,
crusts cut off, mayo on the left piece of bread,
in two triangle halves every single night
before he goes to sleep on the right side of the bed
with two pillows, fluffed twice each, slippers
tucked neatly underneath the bed skirt.
And every night I wonder
what would happen if I forgot the pickle on the side,
like the one time
we ran out of cheese and my car had a flat tire
and the supermarket was so far, but boy
did he give it to me. I’ve never seen someone count
to one-hundred so fast with their finger taps
before the table flipped. Never have I seen
someone clean up glass so slowly, each piece
thrown in the trash individually
just like my pieces
that have been carved away year after year,
loaf after loaf, as my eyes droop backwards
and rest on his haircut that I give
every six weeks on a Wednesday. Sometimes,
I try to kiss his neck when I let the scissors slip,
but he always reminds me that this slot
is “haircut time” and there’s no necessity in kissing
anyway. And I’ve tried to respect
his attic closet compartments with the key
that had gone missing when he was fifteen,
and I’ve tried to wish on misshapen pieces of cereal
in my bowl because I’m that desperate for a miracle.
Do you know?
Do you know how hard it is to lie next to someone
who you know doesn’t dream of you, not because he doesn’t
want to, but because he can’t. He can’t
do so many things and sometimes I’ll lay out a green tie
on a workday instead of blue just to watch him blow up
because at least that’s a feeling. At least that’s not white walls
and another **** turkey sandwich. And I know that’s sinful,
and I also know that I fold my hands wrong when I pray,
but I’ve tried to shape him for years and all I’ve gotten
is a cast with nothing to fill the mold. And I know my suitcase
has been packed for weeks, but. . . Dear God, you know I’ll never leave.
I save my laundry for Saturdays, don’t tell him why I’m crying
myself back to sleep, and check the fridge one last time
for the right deli meat.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 4:14 PM UTC
*blood stains her canvas
congealed crusts, fresh streaks
frayed corners and edges
the tattered toll of pain, loss
how best to depict my love on her
overlay her with beauty
to develop a patina of care over time
reduce her suffering to pentimento
her landscape shifts constantly
with the quality of her light
I must blend to the shade of her mood
her want...her need
work from the palette of my heart
in the spectrum of my love
paint her in courted color
every tone of every hue
brush her being with my caress
creatively styled to her moment
pastel tenderness...primary strength
bold strokes of passion...bright splashes of spontaneity
to portray for her a frameless existence
of unlimited intimacy and peace
but she does not rest on my easel
and I am merely dreaming of the art of love*
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 12:56 PM UTC
Jade chains
Brace these
Wrists and ankles
Causing
Choked slowing of blood
Paling the skin
Emerald green
Vines curl their way
Up these legs and
Over these *******
Burning their
Verdant tongues
Through layer upon layer of skin
Making a natural
Painting
On this body
Small beetles
Crawl over and under
Dry leafs
Covering the
Decaying ground
Climb their way
Upward the curve
Of these thighs
Tickling the skin
With tiny antennas
Purple amethyst bacteria
Correlate
Coagulate swiftly
Over these
Toes and
Finger tips
Becoming hard
As dried
Star fish
Serpents slither
Hiss
Their moist tongues
Along these
Cracked lips
Dry
Uneven
Venom touched surfaces
These eyes
Wide and watchful
Eyes
Slowly decaying
Their edges becoming
Crusts of hard
Scales
Slowly closing
Forever
Never to see
The surrounding world’s
Vanity decay
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 10:39 PM UTC
good morning
...mr wren
sitting at my
breakfast table.
you.... in your fancy
duds and plumage.
...all the while
your wife at home,
in .....beige brown grey.
you want my toast
.....just the crumbs
yes... it has been a hard
couple of days.
you'll dance and sing
and bring.... beakfuls
of happiness my way.
please ...take the crusts
and if you must
...the corner of the
pastry too.
as i know it is more
than..one or two....
that are waiting,
at your ...table
but, rush now, mr wren
the attention of the cat,
you've caught..
and he is willing and
....almost able to make
your wife a widow.
fly ..now ...mr wren
but...please do.... come back
again
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 5:17 PM UTC
I am an incomparable queen
My pristine beauty can only be seen
It can never be depicted in words
For me many kings draw out their swords
My lips are more beautiful than rose petals
And my hips are softer than jasmine bouquets
One may die looking at my bubbly *******
No wonder the kings want to enter my interior crusts
My eyes are lovelier than wild lilies
My hair flows on my shoulders like rivers
My waist makes a feast to beholders’ eyes
The cupid shoots at me the wreaths of flowers
But only a brave king enters the kingdom of my beauty
For him I devotionally discharge my romantic duty
And dedicate my body, heart and soul
That should be any woman’s natural goal
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 6:00 AM UTC