"dane" poems
the tiles that encompass me
are falling like dominos
this is blackness at its zenith and
I have a coneful
lucky me
it’s like the summer of ‘96
all over again
and my friend’s dad jumped
in front of a coal train
we ate ice cream that day
in the dank Minnesotan heat
everyone was dripping
the mosquitoes were flocking in
green cloud
*ignite
flame
ignite*
and the crunch of bones
like this water falling on my shoulders
*wash
wash
again*
the sticky syrup from my chin and
poor Dane’s pants smell and there is
**** pooling at his ankles
enjoy this chocolate-dipped cone
or possibly this one with
patriotic sprinkles
no
I think I’ll pass
I’m watching my ten-year-old figure
you see this paunch?
it is my heart
it is so fat and ugly
take it from me, god
enjoy it on top of your
sundae
I always looked better red-chested
anyway
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 5:14 PM UTC
I think, Lorraine, it was the rain
gently pattering upon my pane
creating rhythm in my sleeping brain
encouraging chaos bordering insane
I blamed it ,Lorraine, on the falling rain.
A vison arose of a windswept plain
saddleless riders in the north of Spain
granting a stranger a sultry dame
standing in the pouring rain…
I think, Lorraine, it was the rain.
Her eyes expressed complete distain
looking at fools pretending to reign
over lands with dragons left un-slain
me, I could only sit and complain
I blamed it, Lorraine, on the falling rain.
I heard a ghost howl in pain
bitten by a rabid Dane
fleeting images of regret and shame
flashed across my face again…
I think, Lorraine, it was the rain.
I blamed it, Lorraine, on the falling rain
the day you told me I was your bane
you wished to see me die alone in pain
with nothing but the falling rain….
I think, Lorraine, it was the rain.
Like the blackest tar running through my vein
the three a.m. creature threw me on a plane
sent me sailing down the next of a Crane
U-turn careening into the oncoming lane
I blamed it, Lorraine, on the falling rain.
When at last our eyes met her dusty mane
created an aura I can’t explain
but enveloped the world in love without shame
giving the people joy without pain
I think, Lorraine, it was the rain.
I think, Lorraine, it was the rain
which fed the stranger on the train
looking to rob the Spanish Main
a thought I considered to be to framed…
I blamed it, Lorraine, on the falling rain.
Left in the twilight listening without restrain
these visions creep into my insomniac brain
as drip after drip crash upon my pane
I think, Lorraine, it was the rain…
I blamed it, Lorraine, on the falling rain.
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 5:02 PM UTC
twisted bicycles and empty pop cans line the longest street in the world-
making my way ever closer to the frozen city I catch a glimpse of the relics of yesterday-
paper bags and frost covered couches-
chilled passengers seeking the brief warmth of the morning commute-
sunlight and frost dance together and create crisp partnerships forever more-
the bus driver has no trust in cats-
the great dane out with it's friend sparks memories of my past-
bitten in the face yet still loving dogs with such grace-
the frozen city awakes as the relics of last night claim their place-
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 5:50 AM UTC
*one reason why you're not read with a volume you
expected, jedi-know-how, you'll be easily plagiarised.*
**when i first came to england i fell in love
with manchester united...
the 4 - 4 - 2 line-up**
peter schmeichel (dane goalkeeper),
then ooh aah cantona (eric cantona baseball cap),
original wembley white towers...
(white towers, charity shield
newcastle united)
so meh for the arch....
irwin... steve bruce... lee sharpe...
gary pallister... (7) eric cantona.... george best....
mcclair, ryan giggs,
cotton tomilisom, then roy keane...
then davies cole ****
the neville brothers...
scholes and david beckham...
**** stuck to azkazam fudge, it's still perfectly refrigerated
in kazakhstan:
steve mcmanaman will tell you;
it's a random barricade question worth a shot
in the rubric of a sudden challenge.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 7:41 PM UTC
I bought a dog last September and I've loved him ever since.
He is a Great Dane and his name is Prince.
When I bought him, he was only six weeks old.
He's a sweet dog who is also sassy and bold.
He cost 400 bucks but to me he's worth 400 Grand.
When I pet my big baby, I know that I'm a lucky man.
Every time I see his fawn coat, it makes me feel glad.
He's a beautiful animal and the best dog I've ever had.
Apr 21, 2012
Apr 21, 2012 at 4:41 PM UTC
STRETCH towards the moonless midnight of the trees,
As though that hand could reach to where they stand,
And they but famous old upholsteries
Delightful to the touch; tighten that hand
As though to draw them closer yet.
Rammed full
Of that most sensuous silence of the night
(For since the horizon's bought strange dogs are still)
Climb to your chamber full of books and wait,
No books upon the knee, and no one there
But a Great Dane that cannot bay the moon
And now lies sunk in sleep.
What climbs the stair?
Nothing that common women ponder on
If you are worrh my hope! Neither Content
Nor satisfied Conscience, but that great family
Some ancient famous authors mistepresent,
The proud Furies each with her torch on high.
2.1k
For those among us who lived by the rules,
Lived frugal lives of pubis-scratching desperation;
For those who sustained a zombie-like state for 30 or 40 years,
For these few, our lucky few—
We bequeath an interactive Life-Alert emergency dogtag,
Or a dog, a colossal beast of a pet,
A humongus Harlequin Dane dog to feed,
For that matter, why not buy a few new cars before you die?
Your home mortgage is dead and buried.
We gave you senior-citizen rates for water, gas & electricity—
“The Big 3,” as they are known in certain Gasoline Alley-retro
Neighborhoods among us,
Our parishes.
Our boroughs.
All this and more, had you lived small,
Had you played by the rules for Smurfs & Serfs.
We leave you the chance to treat your grandkids
Like Santa’s A-List clientele,
“Good ‘ol Grampa,” they’ll recollect fondly,
“Sweet Grammy Strunzo,” they will sigh.
What more could you want in retirement?
You’ve enabled another generation of deadbeat grandparents,
And now you’re next in line for the ice floe,
To be taken away while still alive,
Still hunched over and wheezing,
On a midnight sleigh ride,
Your son, pulling the proverbial Eskimo sled,
Down to some random Arctic shore,
Placing you gently on the ice floe.
Your son; your boy--
A true chip off the igloo, so to speak.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 10:22 AM UTC
Magnetic sounds abound, reboundandresoundinglyastound within the
subsonic harmonic;
a melodic tonic sprung from the atomic phonic fountain of uncertain sonic frolic.
WWWRRROOOSSSH WWWRRROOOSSSH
RRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUMMMMMHHHHHHH
Eclectic echoes from beyond
A name.... of fame? A Dame? A Dane? A dum, Ba-dump? Once slain? Ordained? Ashamed?
Lifetimes spilling......
.
.
.
.
Memories
.
.
..
....
filling,
nought thought.
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 7:17 PM UTC
Journal Entry #7
I have a beautiful one year old, harlequin, Great Dane and she's huge.
I'm use to people staring but I was not prepared for today.
So they we were, walking in the snow.
I had my headphones on.
Music blasting.
Minding my own **** business and these two very attractive guys pull over and yell, "hey" loudly at me.
I stop and turn and they say to me,
"what's your baby's name?"
(Mind you, I am awkward as **** when it comes to interacting with men in anyway, and this entire interaction caught me completely off guard.)
So I smiled awkwardly and replied, "Sawyer."
They both smiled widely at me and the driver leaned forward and yelled "Hiiiiii Sawyer."
All I could do was laugh because to me this was just hilarious.
Still smiling at me, both the driver and the guy in the passenger seat finally wave and say bye and all I could come up with at the time was the words,
"ok."
Which brings me to the conclusion that if you're dog is getting more attention than you I should just assume the title forever alone.
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 3:50 PM UTC
"Have you a working pulse?"
he asks of his petunias.
"...he went away cold as a snowball!"
he tells his gladioli.
They positively beamed at him.
"Oh yes...oh yes. . ."
he pontificates
"Flowers like Shakespeare
best!"
"...especially PERICLES
& other minor plays
rather than the great Dane
or say OTHELLO!"
"The herbs prefer
Gilbert & Sullivan!"
"But, spoken:
not sung!"
"...poor wandering one..."
"Or sometimes a little
dash of Noël Coward!"
"...what compulsion compels them and
who the hell tells them..!"
What could I say?
His voice produced
such a fecundity
such a fertility
that his word
could not be doubted.
"Oh yes...oh yes
plants like to be
spoken to, but:
prefer a little culture.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 4:26 PM UTC
A Great Dane named Matilda.
That's what I wanted.
You wanted children.
You want to be a veterinary doctor.
I want to be a chemist.
Your birth mother was gorgeous.
I'm sorry about her.
I'm sorry for everything.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 3:51 AM UTC
A triumphant voice denotes
A life leaving this room.
We should not be surprised;
It tells us:
I once was there where many stories
filled many shelves.
And now, another memory becomes
Another treasure to mine in days of leisure.
We join in exultation.
There is less serious work about now.
We step in and out of shadows
Cast by the sun filtering through
Her tree and picture window.
The shadows reach many rooms.
She and I were present
In many of Shakespeare's tombs.
Together we witnessed Royalty paraded:
Elinore, Lear, Macbeth, The Dane.
Her lineage is confirmed.
Our busy stage is less crowded
With the exit of La Grande Dame,
Elizabeth.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 6:51 AM UTC
I am vapid. I am inane.
A raving lunatic, I am insane.
All morning long I have been beating on a drum.
Da dum da dum da dum.
What I have to say need not be said.
These words I write will never butter my bread.
I have lain down those dreams of my youth.
I make Manhattans for a living, mix whiskey and vermouth.
A black cat drinks from a green shovel where rainwater has collected.
I say this as it happens as it doesn't matter and I am misdirected.
I am vapid. I am inane.
All I do, I do in vain.
All morning long I have been beating on a drum.
I'm numb. I'm numb. I'm numb.
What I have to say need not be said.
All that I have written will never be seriously read.
I have lain down those dreams of my youth.
I am unshaven and unrefined. I am craven and uncouth.
A black cat drinks from a green shovel where rainwater has collected.
Fear is a wound that opens loudly and over time grows infected.
I am vapid. I am inane.
I am a fake. A phony. I feign.
All morning long I have been beating on a drum.
I'm dumb. I'm dumb. I'm dumb.
What I have to say need not be said.
Truth be told I wish I were dead.
I have lain down those dreams of my youth.
I make martinis for a living, also with vermouth.
A black cat drinks from a green shovel where rainwater has collected.
I say this as it happens as it doesn't matter but I find myself nevertheless affected.
I am vapid. I am inane.
I am 27. My name is Dane.
All morning long I have been beating on a drum.
I'm done. I'm done. I'm done.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 9:01 AM UTC
Written with my dearest Dane Johnson
This grove of insanity, perhaps it is that you wish to get lucky?
We walk hand in hand. Luck, being so subjective we forget to define.
Ultimatums come hitherto, I'm afraid your luck has run dry.
I can't buy any more time to convince you or I that someday we may see eye to eye.
My, oh my, please don't cry.
Who's really winning when everyone's sinning?
Yet the world keeps on spinning to our wrecked hearts.
I crave the fire and yet don't like to get burned.
As we undress, we softly caress our scars.
We avoid the pain by closing our eyes,
but it's something we both can't stop feeling.
And yet we continue invariably denying.
And the silence we share speaks more words than would be divulged had we done otherwise.
The words sent in secret go unnoticed by everything, but my heart has made it difficult to look in the mirror and see the beauty of anything we ever had.
Mirrors show nothing of the pain that pictures do, because then I have to see your shining face with your sparkling eyes, always your eyes.
But you never felt the tears that fell from them. We don't know the touch of each others pain.
Your pained words take on more than you are. And yet we find peace at lust's end. And it is with that end that we are no more.
We've known all along that all we have ever wanted to be is more than the silence that echos in the sliver of space left between our fast beating hearts. I could see it in your eyes when you forgot to guard the doors in.
And now my door opens to a new light.
Silence is golden, but what was once sliver could become silver, oh so easily.
However lighthearted pennies are,
the trouble is not worth the pain.
She smiles quietly watching him walk away from penny lane.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 1:32 AM UTC
My mother named me
for no good reason.
There was no fireman hero,
no reknown global leader,
nor an astronaut Stephen
setting his foot on the moon.
It wasn't even her stylist whom she honored
as he kept her trusted secrets.
The roulette wheel of monikers
whirred uninterestedly past
Michael
David
John
Robert
Mark
Mitchell
Glen
(and thankfully) Carl
and surrendered its last click
on the formal of Steve
with a "ph".
It was haplessly indifferent
in the way it came be.
A last grasp of titles
as they pushed her out
the hospital doors.
I have a friend whose name
was never in question.
He was a fifth,
as in William V.
The Ist was proud,
so proud that he named the IInd.
The IInd an heir,
so he named the IIIrd.
The IIIrd obliged,
and so the IVth.
The IVth weary from fighting
the previous I's
and hence, the V...
as in William V,
as in flavorless,
pomposity faded,
worn like a hand-me-down
dress shirt through five generations
bereft of shape and dignity and fit.
He wished he had his own name -
I did.
And I found my name
free to be
designed to the only son
my mom ever had -
to be as grand or plain
as I constructed it to be.
This one-size-fits-me tag
Stephen Dane Roberson
is the Ist
and only.
A name that I love
because it is filled
with all the stuff I put in it;
and that stuff is me...
a me I wanted to be when I grew up :-)
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 2:23 AM UTC
There was a black and white dog who wore a Mickey Mouse symbol on her back
Had pointy ears and a buttoned nose
Always down to cuddle, lazy days are her favorite in fact.
She is the size of a football
But has confidence the size of a Great Dane
Whom she will try to attack, if he gets to close to our lawn.
I don’t think she realizes that she’s the perfect size for a mid-day snack.
Protecting our house is her priority
Even though she won’t win an attack.
Apr 20, 2021
Apr 20, 2021 at 11:22 AM UTC
I would rather be nutty than mundane
Prefer to derail than stay on the lane
Content to doodle on a wet window pane
Happy to dance in sunshine or rain
Rebuked for not paying attention
I dream of a grand innovation
That can take away miseries mundane
An unspoken goal that I maintain
My pursuits may often seem inane
As I romp merrily with my Great Dane
I have nothing to lose and happiness to gain
I would rather be nutty than mundane
-
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 8:49 AM UTC
He lay back down from personal disturbance
of otherwise pacific rest, nothing scholarly knowledge has
conceived could cure a nightmare, or a conscience.
Clerk in the worn store
walls breath stale transparent stories, dreams
merely another day in the old man’s shop
until it burns to ash and cinder
smoldering what was once youthful aspiration.
She is waiting, clutching a lackluster gem encased in fool’s gold.
So many nights alone with tears, now again
as the steel beast breaks it’s sleep and
lumbers forward on smooth copper glazed tracks
15 karats fall from car #7 with hardly a sound
or a second thought.
Plains people drink deep the strong whiskey.
Smoke curls from the edges of dark cracked lips
as gray stone eyes peer out on what was once freedom.
The setting sun warms the red brown Naugahyde skin.
Prince of the Dane, sweet protector of truth in a world of
falsehood, what truth did he find? Plato’s truth, Christ’s truth,
Freud’s truth only two choices for a fellow,
so Hamlet died as well
So many dead end alleyways,
calling all the cats from their garbage cradles,
slouching drunkards from their endless revels,
all victims of Fate’s angry fist in the eyes.
Clawing their way toward daylight
from sewers to sanctuary
Hades to haven
or just another...
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 3:16 PM UTC
It'll break cause it's just plastic.
Map out a conquest, a Great Dane on my lap,
Welcome home mat, I burned with a match,
Matt died last spring, April first wasnt a joke,
May 9 is the first time I'll drop acid,
It won't go bad, I hope.
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 4:57 PM UTC
You remember Byron from other poems
I told you about. You can look them up
Later. Most of what I said was true
(Same as Twain - Mark, not Shania).
When I arrived for my visit, Byron's good friend,
Clive, was there, holding a cold one in his country hands,
Before the wood stove in Byron's man-cave.
They were talking about welding joints,
Or the pitch of a roof frame, or something
I know ******* squat about.
Both men, uneducated, but clever as hell.
Without writing down a measurement,
Or drawing a sketch,
Could reproduce the Taj Mahal.
Like Plato's cave dwellers, they just see it, make it, nail it.
I brought up the problems my daughter is having
With her toy poodle,
And Clive joined in about his disobedient
Great Dane. I'll call him Laertes,
Though his real name is Butch.
Clive says Laertes never stops barking,
Shock collars don't work.
Treats were to no avail.
Obedience School only worked at school.
I could see Byron's hand on his chin,
Looking off and up to his left,
Out the window over the wood stove:
Have you tried speaking Danish to him, asked Byron.
Enough said.
Dec 21, 2016
Dec 21, 2016 at 12:10 PM UTC
Chums are settling
in the back room
of the Feast House ~
post and beam
ember dreams
gray fog fingers
and draping fiords
holding patron's gaze
Dandan is nestled
in a fireside chat
(with a song from Jeremy
playing from
the high rafter)
*sail east
and greet the dawn
young man,
distant shores
are converging*
Old habits
die hard
for the Great Dane ~
whistling tunes
in a somber minor,
baritone sounds and
orchestra strings
rising from a
distant, muted choir
Ruby lips
and finger tips
scour the
cockeyed soiree
*the safe house
is old
and rendered,
but well
worth noting*
Filling jars
with pickled pears,
the specialist
weeds the
white maggot
and siphons his
favoured grog
"...shackle the outhouse
my mates!
the foreign scrum
is bolting!"
Jan 18, 2021
Jan 18, 2021 at 2:37 PM UTC
i love the smell of breath smoldered in alcohol, its sweet and warming, it makes sense until morning like most midnight performing involving you does, i love the way that words taste when their hot and misplaced coming from a mouth laced with hasty lies and replaced theighs, tonight you grab mine and I disguise my surprise, touching you back with dispise, you kiss me like youve done a thousand times, and i know you're not wanting any reply or goodbye, not tonight when you push and i gasp, things happening so fast that you might think youve been unsurpassed but my respect for you comes in dead last. "We have a weird relationship," but really you're giving me permission to ignore the suspicion that gathers when you lay me down for submission, your disposition is hungry and mad, fast and glad, things that don't make sense to a young lad like chad. maybe you know there will be pain in this lame game you play, everything to gain but nothing to maintain, you got it all worked out, dont restrain, pay attention to the inhumane way he chooses to entertain his left brain, his **** busts a nut and a vein, sputtering to a stop like its gotta a sprain, but really its just a ******* puppy wishing it was a great dane.
Aug 10, 2011
Aug 10, 2011 at 11:32 AM UTC
Every time she talks it's like a sassy one eyed glare,
mocking my maleficence with those who are more fair,
he stares at her with wonder as I stare at him in vain,
disappointed with his choice when he is made for one true Dane,
a girl with beauty pure and sweet both inside and Deseret,
of a women put on earth to elope his dreary need.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 9:36 PM UTC