"culls" poems
slinking down the canyoned street
stalking, nylon-smooth to prey
on predatory eyes who meet
her own. some smile, some turn away.
some know she'd eat them to the bone;
they know that they would die to let her.
some'd use her, drop her like a stone
and say that she deserves no better.
the first she calls her daily bread,
grazing as she culls the herd.
the second brings a smile instead;
male ego, cocky, brash, absurd
to think that any man could claim
to beat her at her chosen game.
Feb 19, 2011
Feb 19, 2011 at 4:44 PM UTC
Inviting.
The thin blue flame in my night-burnt fire
grows dim as dawn unquiets
another day's numberless happenings,
culls light from dark and carries
life forward while I, in sated mood, watch
first ***** in sparrowed pools lost
on those still bedded and fastened to sleep,
hear Spring-born lambs' early bleat,
smell warming grass dewed with new morning
and catch first breeze stirring shored
boats as sand twirls grasses in shivering dunes.
Unlatched my window wafts lures
to ****** some moments of closer approach
as closeted dawn opens
eyes and secretes rising smoke on sun's thaw
inviting a barefoot cavort
to wild-life's awesome nature, all on my own.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 9:01 AM UTC
When senses run together, dull in the rack
Of night, it’s Chaos who culls true meaning.
He mocks the light of day in paradox
Sings: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
The ****** end, embodies the souls watery
Beginning, and so the beating star is all
Intermingled; until flesh and fibers are done,
Thus: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
Though mighty Jove, who beat the antique world
Down, cast poor Agamemnon his fate, it’s
Helen of Troy whose aisling breaks like doom,
All from the strain of Leda and the Swan.
For, ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on,
And our little life is rounded with a sleep.’
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 1:54 PM UTC
A swallow swoops for flitting flies
While Johnny rubs exhausted eyes
(As morning clasps the rising sun)
Confirming Captain’s day’s begun:
Slow streams emerge from melting snows -
The Merchant Ship’s in stark repose...
As Johnny frets with tingling tongue
A Vulture fleeces fields far-flung
(Beneath a bleeding sun above),
And Captain culls the dead with love:
Yes, while the silent water flows,
The Merchant Ship just gulps and grows...
A serpent weaves amongst the weeds
As Johnny dares audacious deeds
(When evening drains the dying day)
To stop the Captain, come what may:
And while the raging rivers grow
The Merchant Ship rocks to and fro...
An owl, a’ branch, has teacup eyes
That glimmer dark as Johnny dies
(Now sown inside the future’s womb)
When flushing Captain to his doom:
Trapped in titanic undertow
The Merchant Ship’s swept down below...
A fledgling bird sprays morning dew
As Johnny Junior’s born anew
(He’s baptised in the dawn ablaze)
To rectify the former days:
Raw rills arise from melting snow
And ****** rivers start to flow...
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 6:09 PM UTC
When senses run together, dull in the rack
Of night, it’s Chaos who culls true meaning.
He mocks the light of day in paradox
Sings: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
The ****** end, embodies the souls watery
Beginning, and so the beating star is all
Intermingled; until flesh and fibers are done,
Thus: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
Though mighty Jove, who beat the antique world
Down, cast poor Agamemnon his fate, it’s
Helen of Troy whose aisling breaks like doom,
All from the strain of Leda and the Swan.
For, ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on,
And our little life is rounded with a sleep.’
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 1:31 PM UTC
New Mazdas flying overhead
The air is clean and clear
Worries of pollution dead
This world is full of cheer
A world for us to thrive
What a time to be alive
On the ground we bled
Around us is only fear
Nuclear waste where we tread
Death in our atmosphere
Why did the missiles arrive?
What a time to be alive
The sidewalk moves me along
To my new job downtown
Birds chirping their song
To the cities bustling sound
Around only clean cars drive
What a time to be alive
All our decisions were wrong
Our wars ruptured the ground
Left are only the strong
Even so life is barely found
It's been this way since I was five
What a time to be alive
The day ends as I go to dinner
The people around me joyful
And all we have to consider
Is how we to make our bellies full
Into our meal we dive
What a time to be alive
Every day we grow thinner
The dirt I have to eat is awful
Punishments for us as sinners
Humans, the environment culls
For the earth that died
What a time to be alive
I leave the table, answer my phone
My wife asks when I'll be back
Broken is the cleaning drone
I tell her, "After dinner with Jack"
Thankful for my beautiful bride
What a time to be alive
At first I believed I was alone
But in the darkness I hear a crack
All I imagine is my tombstone
As my death waits in the black
No where for me to hide
What a time to be alive
The night ends, and I pay
I walk home and think
About how it got this way
No more is hate's stink
All that's left is love's order
A world of hope and wonder
The night ends, and I pray
No more living at the brink
Why does it have to stay
A place of darkness' ink
Where all that's left are monsters
A world of misery and terror
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 9:40 PM UTC
By the by, her prompt was summer, with several provocative, evocative poems by other authors. I began this one in meeting, cuz I'd finished that first one and people were not done scribbling, nor had she called time yet, but as the sestet proves, I finished it an hour later, outside.
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCIV)
Yes, summer. Blue skies nary clouds 'non fence
While fragile boughs rock to rough winds' exhale,
Leaves whispring as these golden shafts detail
The colder silence we now scribble hence
Through, and it's not e'en eight, but nearly, whence
Ya, what? A train's deep voice in passing'd hail,
And people shift within their seats t'avail:
It's...June, and Shakespeare said "hot," aye, that sense.
Tis early, but the fifth, and cooler fer
'Most nine, as gloaming culls a winking crew
Of robins and lo, who? to lilt in tour
While I wait on this bench, and fading blue
Skies yield to friends in passing, while tis your
Face, arms, I want sae badly, Adrian: you.
05Jun17c
Jun 11, 2017
Jun 11, 2017 at 2:53 PM UTC
They lead her out in irons
Like butchers lead a sheep
The screaming of the sirens
Awakes the town from sleep
On one arm walks an elder
On the opposite a priest
Behind, an executioner
His eyes raised to the east
Is this not what He wanted?
On Earth as in the sky
Just as Our Father promised
We'll see His enemy die
Around the grim procession
The people come in crowds
To see the wrathful session
Beneath the darkening clouds
Awaiting her arrival
At a place arrayed with skulls
For the sake of their survival
The congregation culls
Is this not what we wanted?
On Earth as in the sky
Just as Our Father promised
We'll see our enemy die
They hold her in position
Her face against a wall
Expecting some contrition
Expecting her to stall
But though her eyes show terror
They also show resolve
No apology for error
No need to be absolved
Is this not all they wanted?
On Earth as in the sky
Just as my father promised
They'll see his enemy die
His weapon at the ready
The headsman heaves a sigh
A lengthy hesitation
That makes her wonder why
She glances past her shoulder
At the killer in his place
And suddenly goes cold
As she sees her father's face
Is this not what you wanted?
On Earth as in the sky
Just as your Father promised
You'll see the enemy die
[Her] Coward!
[Executioner] *******
[Elders] Demon ****
[Crowd] **** **** ****
×××××××××××××××××××××××××××××
The old man holds a grimace
And tightly shuts his eyes
His soul he sees as sinless
As fast his weapon flies
May 22, 2022
May 22, 2022 at 7:25 PM UTC
Watching anime again lately, the teeny-boppers eagerly asking each other for "contact info" I now think to want that, but it'd do no good since I never call guys.
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCXVI)
Not gloaming, but a fragile note that sense
Culls as the maples' silent leaves shift, pale
Light on the waning, and blue's soft detail
Is clouds 'non painted to effect that hence.
Lo, green by dint of shadows deepens, whence
This calm that tiptoes 'cross the moor t'avail
Knows aye, the hollows are alive to scale,
Nor frogs asleep now nightfall beckons thence.
I wonder if Joe thinks of me as twere,
Or whether dreams are mine alone tae stew
Oer, who 'non miss those eyes sunglasses' poor
Blind's kept me from enjoying two weeks now too
Erm, many. I'll just wait, and pray. Assure
Me nothing. He is moving fast thinks who?!
16Jun17b
Jun 17, 2017
Jun 17, 2017 at 12:08 PM UTC
When senses run together, dull in the rack
Of night, it’s Chaos who culls true meaning.
He mocks the light of day in paradox
Sings: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
The ****** end, embodies the souls watery
Beginning, and so the beating star is all
Intermingled; until flesh and fibers are done,
Thus: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
Though mighty Jove, who beat the antique world
Down, cast poor Agamemnon his fate, it’s
Helen of Troy whose aisling breaks like doom,
All from the strain of Leda and the Swan.
For, ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on,
And our little life is rounded with a sleep.’
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 12:11 PM UTC
The loneliness gets to you first
A chill that runs up the spine
Culminating in hair standing up on the back of your neck
The fires are lit on the roadside
And the dark one culls me
*his whispers are inside you
If you listen you will hear them
When the loneliness has gotten to you*
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 12:14 AM UTC
Let the teeth rot from my skull,
And drop like culls
From a rack that's too old,
The house is cold
So failing, full
Of mold,
Let me go
Please,
It's just one request,
Only one
Chance to
Emulsify my best
Efforts
And fill your glass
With inadequate
Drops
Of a hard rain
That's difficult
To swallow,
Follow me outside,
Let's walk among
The silhouetted
Sunset trees,
The storms
Of gnats
And mosquitoes
That hover
Over gravel
Paths,
And remark,
As if we don't know,
"Unmarked graves
Where flowers grow."
And watch
As ghosts of
Shuffled feet
Fill the air
With clouds of dust,
Still glistening
With the heat of the day,
Please,
Just please stay,
Stay with me, marionette,
Till the wolves come and play,
They'll hide as we seek
And whisper
While we speak
Of whiskey dreams
And the reasons
We have to keep
Digging in sand,
Scooping handfulls
Of teeth,
Filling the gaps
In between
With phosphene
Screams.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 11:01 PM UTC
When senses run together, dull in the rack
Of night, it’s Chaos who culls true meaning.
He mocks the light of day in paradox
Sings: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
The ****** end, embodies the souls watery
Beginning, and so the beating star is all
Intermingled; until flesh and fibers are done,
Thus: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
Though mighty Jove, who beat the antique world
Down, cast poor Agamemnon his fate, it’s
Helen of Troy whose aisling breaks like doom,
All from the strain of Leda and the Swan.
For, ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on,
And our little life is rounded with a sleep.’
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 10:57 AM UTC
When senses run together, dull in the rack
Of night, it’s Chaos who culls true meaning.
He mocks the light of day in paradox
Sings: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
The ****** end, embodies the souls watery
Beginning, and so the beating star is all
Intermingled; until flesh and fibers are done,
Thus: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
Though mighty Jove, who beat the antique world
Down, cast poor Agamemnon his fate, it’s
Helen of Troy whose aisling breaks like doom,
All from the strain of Leda and the Swan.
For, ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on,
And our little life is rounded with a sleep.’
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 8:01 PM UTC
*Don't ask me why I conjured someplace in Chicago, I think by Gene and Judes.
(sonnet #MMMMMCMLXIX)
Was't thickets naked trees within the pale
Eye of November guarded with a sense
Of dreary naught, their skeletons black thence
And with such bony fingers grasping frail
Mists' ghostly shadows winds' nigh cruel exhale
Passed through in eerie whispers, that suspense
Culls from auld memries to rehearse from hence,
Which rise before me, haunting which detail?
The question of what's real. Shake me as twere,
And say I've built cloud castles none shall do
Aught justice to, and bid me look now fer
Brave minutes at what's allus in my view.
Tell me our games were fun but won't endure.
Then take my hand and teach me to love you.
14Oct16c
Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 9:39 PM UTC
When senses run together, dull in the rack
Of night, it’s Chaos who culls true meaning.
He mocks the light of day in paradox
Sings: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
The ****** end, embodies the souls watery
Beginning, and so the beating star is all
Intermingled; until flesh and fibers are done,
Thus: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
Though mighty Jove, who beat the antique world
Down, cast poor Agamemnon his fate, it’s
Helen of Troy whose aisling breaks like doom,
All from the strain of Leda and the Swan.
For, ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on,
And our little life is rounded with a sleep.’
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 11:50 AM UTC
I have lost my youth's Saints.
They no longer march
For knees bent in supplication.
I prayed to St. Jude
To replace my loses,
Only to lose faith.
I miss ghost stories too.
Haven't heard a hair raiser
Since a generation of palliative patients
Made it to the canopy.
Ogres and Trolls are out
From the closet and
Beneath the bed.
Drains, culls and bridges
Are safe from snatches.
No. We are on our own
As we age in our tactile
Vicarious world.
We pick up the threads
Of old stories,
Collect the pages blowing
Down the road,
And believe the tales
In daily news of ****
Carnage and be-headings.
Nothing too ethereal,
Spiritual or scary,
Just life
As we shouldn't know it.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 8:49 AM UTC
Haha, it's funny looking at this now. L8: that little email, oh my.
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCXCVIII)
Where midnight'd feign a silence 'til I'd thence
Roll back the covers to at last avail
Me of lying down for good, ah how the pale
Eye of that moon rose twixt those treetops' dense
Black lacework, shivring in a keener sense.
Although we knew twas folly to detail
Aught, how I sent my Joey, like to scale,
Notes on whatever, to shrink from it hence.
Or, no. I squinted as it peered as twere
At me, the ghastly calm fit for sweet dew,
And rose when dawn's first shafts began to stir.
What are the dreams long since forgot as due?
For if I shrink from building castles your
Sweet intrest culls, will that make all come true?
15Jul17a
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 9:46 PM UTC
( Sonnet )
When senses run together, dull in the rack
Of night, it’s Chaos who culls true meaning.
He mocks the light of day in paradox
Sings: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
The ****** end, embodies the souls' watery
Beginning, and so the beating star is all
Intermingled; until flesh and fibers are done,
Thus: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
Though mighty Jove, who beat the antique world
Down, cast poor Agamemnon his fate, it’s
Helen of Troy whose aisling breaks like doom,
All from the strain of Leda and the Swan.
For, ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on,
And our little life is rounded with a sleep.'
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 5:21 PM UTC
still the wind whispers outside the window
but the words it culls there are far
different than once spoken to me
far from the promise of sun
entwined in our lovers embrace
of hope enduring in our lovers cage
given to wing
take flight with the first rays of day
celebrate on the turning winds far above the worlds strife
dance on the notion that freedom gives grace
and beauty is the passport to
such places adorned with love
and forevermore joys
but such is the folly
and it cannot live long in the light of day
so it has come to pass
the shell of our home
picked clean of all we called ours
all packed neatly and away it has all gone
down the road we will follow
a rusty old truck held to the road
by sheer luck and paperclips
we watch it proceed us like a harbinger
of joyless mirth
we three gather in the empty stained room
and watch the motel flicker with life
that it never really contains
only mimics like a parody meant to smile with
but can no longer achieve such
man woman and child
we sit silent and watch the hours slip by
waiting for our time to depart
waiting for our release from this
rancid and slow decay home
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 1:02 AM UTC
I can’t feel around, “you,” anymore.
So to, the smiles only happen atop numb.
And I’d call it a, “kind of solace,” in knowing
Tomorrow wouldn’t matter either;
Not quite so much, so long as five, at least five
Of your, “sisters,” remain under ice and in the fridge.
This cure, “acquiesce and amnesia,”
At any given time,
Culls all but one, you –
My wife, and a third year’s scorn.
Nevertheless, I don’t want you to forgive me.
I truly don’t. I only want you to leave,
Pack and make good on your covenant so that this
Swim may end, for my toes should test elsewhere.
Just and walk away. Don’t look back, “please,” “PLEASE!”
Don’t look back so that I may finally look ahead!
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 11:12 PM UTC
Blank
By Jonathan Reid
Blank Autumn
Blank winds
Blank solemn bough bends
The wages have been lost
I’m going home
The leaves have scattered blades among the stones
Blank Winter
Blank snow
Blank bitter cocoa
The neighbors hang their colored filigree
Befuddled by the magic trinity
Blank water
Blank Spring
Blank color waves in
The flavor of the moment breeds a lack
A light inside the window culls the black
Blank Summer
Blank blues
Blank rumbling rain spews
Unable to control itself, blends
Intruding in the fabric of our ends
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 7:43 PM UTC
sitting on a decorative toilet in her child’s front yard, the mother scrubs her left wrist with a dry toothbrush. her right wrist squeals to be cut. there’s a wet spot on the grocery bag she wears on her head and the spot spreads. her flower print dress is optimistic. with a crow ever so lightly on his mind, my father writes the address of the electric company on a notecard and slips it into a pocket bible. he tells me to forget what I’ve seen and I wonder if I get to pick. my heart feels more like a broken light bulb the more I breathe and goes to my head the less. beneath the malformed crow my father culls, he gives me the *** talk. he includes that most crows are manna from hell or holes in the kingdom.
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 3:22 PM UTC
Telling one of my older brothers about it all, from last Fall's shenanigans to now, he said, "it's sad."
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXIII)
Not when a summer's lengthy hours avail,
But now the blackness of night's cooler sense
Culls crickets to play serenades frogs thence
Reply in bass notes to, write in betrayl.
As Mozart's timeless strains lend that detail
Of class I did not feel ere, and lo, hence
A notion of too many years 'go, whence
I nestle like I"m twenty' gain, what's bail?
Joe's contact info. Ha. What is that fer,
Eh? I've called twice, to tell him of it to
His face ("yes, if I'm gone to bed--") and were
La, texting useful, I have done that too.
Oh silence! Friday evening's late, and's poor
To harp on that. But how I miss who'd woo.
30Jun17b
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 8:00 PM UTC
Beware the Gyac’tus!
Oh you monster, oh beast!
Found crawling over mountainsides
on such uneven feet!
Watch the way it’s hobblin’
o’er rocks and hills alike.
**** now, foulest creature! Rid that-
hobblin’ from my sight!
Gone isn’t far enough,
he stoops within my head.
No hamlet could survive like this,
let’s burn him in his bed!
Forks n’ brands, fires too,
pierce heavy evening air.
Storm straight, we do, his wretched mount
to find him sleeping bare.
Be gone, oh Gyac'tus!
I howl atop its shape
A whimper leaks from his lips ‘fore
I carve across its nape.
Fear no more! Fear is dead!
Echoes proudly out the cave,
thus we flounder up the mountain,
thought victors, found us slaves.
But the mount is unkind,
spilling forks in twos, threes,
soon a crowd becomes a party,
a party ‘comes a leash,
‘til the fire burning
on the crest stands alone,
yet the only thought I think,
thunk of wine slugged at home.
Drunken dreams expose me
the vengeful mount beneath,
my careless kneecap crumbling
like cornbread at my feast.
Tumble down the mountain
rolling head, feet n’ all
'til sprawling on the ground beside
the spoils of my war.
Glimpsing 'cross its body
held down by shorter heft
I find myself an iron cast
fast ‘round his shorter left.
Donning the clever craft,
my fate turns a corner!
I crawl, on such uneven feet,
homeward in a fervor.
Triumphant from the hills,
hunger tempting Bacchus,
my hobblin’ culls an awful tune,
Beware the Gyac'tus!
Oct 30, 2019
Oct 30, 2019 at 1:13 PM UTC