"draughts" poems
complexity
is your beauty
simplicity
your mystery
interdependence
sustains you
once upon a time
we dipped bowls
into your waters
and brought up
draughts of life
now
Skipjacks go
fathoms deep
into endless
depletion
charting
entangled
dead zones
broadening
into a sea of
inertness
your delicate
eco-essence tips
toward oblivion
effluvia farmers
layer mechanized
blankets of
nitrates on your
sunset shores
weaving
green tendrils
of algae blooms
strangling the
entanglements
of all links in
your miraculous
food chain
the EPA
proscribes
a Jenny Craig
pollution diet
to halt the
slaughter in
oxygen
challenged
dead zones
where rockfish
are garroted,
oysters get drilled
by screwworms
and azure tinted
soft shell *****
dance soft
shoe taps
lifting a tinny
chorus of sad
Piedmont Blues
the flat-lining
watersheds
voiceless
warnings
tremble
rocking the
purged nests of
screaming ospreys
in vocal protest
of a sinking
Tangier Isle
anointing it’s
tombstones
of unvisited
cemeteries with
multicolored
guano
fitting
alkaline
tributes
to the lost
inhabitants
and forgotten
languages
sinking into the
brine of gray
brackish tides
Delmarva’s fine
intra-continental
balance skewed
by the oozing
industrial swill
of Frank Perdue
chicken farms
ruling the roost of
sanctioned sustainability
tinging clear watersheds
of finger lakes
set in splints to
repair dislocations
and complex
compound fractures
that may never heal
again
Music Selection:
Taj Mahal: Fishin Blues
jbm
Oakland
6/7/12
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 8:36 AM UTC
When was the last time
I felt a raving hunger for life?
When had I but an eternity in moments,
on the edge of something vastly different?
How was it me and not you
who staked her soul high
on rolling hills of green,
took long draughts to savour, to condense
the weight of the world into one precious drink,
cup the shortest days in her palm and release them,
for her thoughts to balloon into the wild?
The delectable now—
ripe as berries for plucking in winter,
and all things, like music
must peter
into silence.
So I suppose my question to you
is not concerned with
the stack of newly-minted green in your pocket,
nor the fleet of shiny cars, but
your pure self, simply being.
It’s prodding the heart,
a tiny critter fluttering with wings, wondering:
when will you ever get a second chance at this—
all this storm
and inexplicable happiness—
or will you
go hunting for things,
whirling at mere traces
of power in your name—
or will you turn around
only to find a life
or a lie,
staring back wide-eyed
in endless shame?
© BT
Aug 22, 2017
Aug 22, 2017 at 6:21 PM UTC
I provoke the wind
in a dialect shared with him
and him alone.
He whispers assent,
as assuaging liquid draughts
glance my submissive frame.
A desolate wanderer,
incising the burdensome night.
Accompanied by none corporeal,
I prowl satin fields,
illuminated by Luna
and Saturn, her amber consort.
©Thomas Gabriel
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 10:59 AM UTC
711
Strong Draughts of Their Refreshing Minds
To drink—enables Mine
Through Desert or the Wilderness
As bore it Sealed Wine—
To go elastic—Or as One
The Camel’s trait—attained—
How powerful the Stimulus
Of an Hermetic Mind—
2.9k
You have been cruel to your fellow race,
you smeared blood all over your land,
and here you are now,
your soils hunger and thirst for green pastures,
and there are no where to be found.
Oh poor South Africa,
could you be another Eygpt
with God's plegues reigning all over you?
You showed no harmony,
you desired no peace,
you cared less about unity,
you left your own race to die,
with those large stones,
those weapons,
the sticks and the whips.
That fire that burnt the people alive,
their tears fell to the ground
and they have dried up your land,
it is no shortage of water that you face,
but with unquestionable daughts,
you are facing terrible draughts.
Now that your fellow citizens fight against one another,
the blood is being shed amongst themselves,
and those stones now crush their own skulls,
it is nolonger faces without races that cry,
but your own race nolonger knows how to share.
this is all because you do not have
enough water to secure them anymore.
Their needs can not be reached
not even by the noble group that monitors from their royal seats.
Oh poor South Africa cry for mecry!
For your soils are running solid,
they shall nolonger be able to bear food.
The Lord covers your land with dark clouds,
yet there is never a seed of rain that falls and touch your platue.
Oh poor South Africa cry for mercy!
for your people are dying.
And yet you sit still in silence.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 2:30 PM UTC
Pixelated bitmap e-mares
Digitized be mementos cached
Her 8 bit vocal vintage freeware
Transfers recurrent electric draughts
The bitrate of virtual seduction
Intrusively hacks my bones
Taste be my lips of data eruption
Elicited from her tone
Physique a stimulating software
Upon my Ethernet she crafts sparks
A gem society deemed quite rare
Though she possessed a vibrant bark
Her bandwith I yearned to fiddle
'Twas encrypted with die-hard lust
She moans in esoteric riddles
Keen I decode them whilst I ******
Pizazz eclipsing our veins
A billion megabytes colliding
Satiated we crash free of rein
Unforeseen servers uniting
© 2012 (All rights reserved)
This poem is featured in the poetry collection “Technicolor” as written by Glenn McCrary
The collection is currently available in paperback and hardcover editions for purchase on Lulu.com
.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 4:09 PM UTC
I tell my secret? No indeed, not I:
Perhaps some day, who knows?
But not to-day; it froze, and blows, and snows,
And you're too curious: fie!
You want to hear it? well:
Only, my secret's mine, and I won't tell.
Or, after all, perhaps there's none:
Suppose there is no secret after all,
But only just my fun.
To-day's a nipping day, a biting day;
In which one wants a shawl,
A veil, a cloak, and other wraps:
I cannot ope to every one who taps,
And let the draughts come whistling through my hall;
Come bounding and surrounding me,
Come buffeting, astounding me,
Nipping and clipping through my wraps and all.
I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows
His nose to Russian snows
To be pecked at by every wind that blows?
You would not peck? I thank you for good-will,
Believe, but leave that truth untested still.
Spring's an expansive time: yet I don't trust
March with its peck of dust,
Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers,
Nor even May, whose flowers
One frost may wither through the sunless hours.
Perhaps some languid summer day,
When drowsy birds sing less and less,
And golden fruit is ripening to excess,
If there's not too much sun nor too much cloud,
And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,
Perhaps my secret I may say,
Or you may guess.
2k
When I hear you express an affection so warm,
Ne’er think, my belov’d, that I do not believe;
For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm,
And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive.
Yet still, this fond ***** regrets, while adoring,
That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sear,
That Age will come on, when Remembrance, deploring,
Contemplates the scenes of her youth, with a tear;
That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining
Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the breeze,
When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining,
Prove nature a prey to decay and disease.
Tis this, my belov’d, which spreads gloom o’er my features,
Though I ne’er shall presume to arraign the decree
Which God has proclaim’d as the fate of his creatures,
In the death which one day will deprive you of me.
Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion,
No doubt can the mind of your lover invade;
He worships each look with such faithful devotion,
A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade.
But as death, my belov’d, soon or late shall o’ertake us,
And our ******* which alive with such sympathy glow,
Will sleep in the grave, till the blast shall awake us,
When calling the dead, in Earth’s ***** laid low.
Oh! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure,
Which from passion, like ours, must unceasingly flow;
Let us pass round the cup of Love’s bliss in full measure,
And quaff the contents as our nectar below.
1.7k
I always liked rain since childhood. But since my adolescence I have come to love it. I have always made an attempt to analyse the bond between rain and earth. One evening in monsoon, rain slashed the ground large and heavily. It seemed like earth and rain were trying to converse and I silently tried to listen to their chat.
Rain was questioning the earth, "Whenever I aarive, all life on u gets cheered with bliss. Seeing this, I generously give u more and more water, but then, u get upset. I try to give u as much love as I can but u dont react rightfully. I need to know the reason for that. Will u explain me.?"
Earth gazed at the rain for a moment smiling at the rain's interrogation. She politely said, "You are always magnanimous to me. Due to u life on me survives. YOUR LOVE DEFINES MY LIFE. The water bodies, green life and all the mortals are pleased at ur presence. But u speak about giving more and more, and for that, I only have one thing to say, More water destroys life on me causing floods and if u shower less then it causes draughts. But an ample amount gives 'Life'. Love, either more or less, causes irritation or Pain. But tenderness in love helps one live with contented heart. Rain Vowed to earth that it will always remember what she said and started its showers slowly. Earth Smiled. The sun sparkled, its rays gently touching the earth's surface. Light dispersing to reveal the monsoons most beautiful scenerio, the Rainbow. Dew drops glittered on the leaves.
But that piece of glass pumping in my chest disbelieved the oath of Rain. It knew that, Knowingly or Unknowingly, Promises are always made to be Broken. :-)
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 3:45 AM UTC
She sat on her bed
looking out the window.
Hannah looked at
the fulling rain.
Her mother passed by
the bedroom door
and looked in.
Whit ur ye daein'?
Her mother said.
Looking at the rain,
Hannah replied.
Ye can help me
wi' the washin',
her mother said.
Do I have to help
with the washing?
Her mother stared
at her
Whit ur ye
waitin' fur?
I'm waiting
for Benedict,
Hannah said,
gazing at her
mother's stern gaze.
O heem th'
sassenach loon,
her mother said
and walked off
down the passage.
Hannah waited.
She'd was pushing
her manners close
to the limits.
Once upon a time
her mother would
have slapped her
behind for talking so,
but now at 12 years
old her mother dithered
and set her tongue
to work instead.
She eyed the rain
running down the glass.
She could hear
her mother in the kitchen
banging pots and pans.
Then a knock at the door.
Benedict no doubt.
Gie th' duir, Hannah,
her mother bellowed.
Hannah went to the door
and let Benedict in.
He was wet, his hair
clung to his head
and his clothes were damp.
Got caught
in the downpour,
he said,
shaking his head.
Hannah smiled.
I'll get you a towel
to dry your hair,
she said.
She got him a towel
from the cupboard
and he began
to rub his hair.
We can't go out in this,
Hannah said,
have to stay here
and we can play games.
He rubbed his hair dry,
took off his wet coat
and stood by her bed.
What games?
he said.
Ludo? Chess?
Draughts? She suggested.
Her mother came back
to the door of the bedroom.
Ye swatch dreich,
the mother said,
eyeing Benedict.
He looked at Mrs Scot
and then at Hannah.
Mum said you look drenched,
Hannah said.
O right, yes, I am,
he replied and smiled.
Mrs Scot didn't
smile back.
Dornt sit oan
th' scratcher,
Mrs Scot said icily.
Mum said don't sit
on the bed,
Hannah said.
Mrs Scot went
off muttering.
Where shall I sit?
He asked.
We'll sit on the floor,
Hannah said,
and play chess.
He nodded his head,
his quiff of hair
in a damp mess.
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 1:35 AM UTC
Stand on the edge and look down ....
It is so far down that reality blurs
into an abstract haze.
Is it solid ground,
soft verdant green
that will envelop you in its caress as you land?
Is it hard concrete that waits
to shatter-splatter you into a liquid pool?
Is it that empty eternal void
you tumble into night on night,
as you clutch at your throat,
as you gasp for that last, lingering breath?
Perhaps it is Death
that awaits you in his welcoming grasp?
Stand on the edge and look down …
The ground is giving way beneath your feet.
Your heartbeat rises to a crescendo in your chest.
You cannot breathe.
Frantically, you grab at the cloth by your neck.
Your legs are weak.
You feel the earth crumbling away.
Your eyes stare wild and wide.
A scream echoes ghastly, panicked,
reverberating around you
in a maelstrom of despair.
Is this your voice?
Stand on the edge and look down …
only scant seconds remain.
What will you do?
Dare you step back?
Can you will your shrieking mind to comprehend, to obey?
And if you do,
are you safe?
Reach behind you,
go on, you can ....
Feel it?
The wall, rough and damp?
Touch it,
grasp at it,
your scrabbling fingers
shredded and bleeding from the sharp rock
it doesn't matter.
Find a purchase
and drag yourself towards it,
rest your clammy face against the rough-hewn stone,
caress the damp rock with your cheek,
ignore the ****** tears that course down your face,
breathe again;
Your chest heaves,
your mouth agape
drawing in draughts of cold air.
The pounding of your heart lessens.
Now close your eyes,
sleep, sleep ...
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 11:49 AM UTC
Rainy Reign.
Sunshine no longer ruled
Smiles put into chains
Grey ushered a revolution in the skies
Banishing the blue
As if he knew
That teary waters threatened a breakthrough
Seemed it was a promise soon to come true
Rainy Reign.
We never welcomed change
Flowers shriveled up
Free roaming creatures escaped searching for a cage
At least they have roofs over their heads right
A new chapter is hard to read
When the tears dank the book so much the words become impossible to see
Rainy Reign.
The forest cries
No one hears
Thunder shouts catastrophe
Your new ruler is here
You have all to fear
If history was written, the roses only defense would serve as nothing more than sharp apostrophes
Rainy Reign.
Water is a wish in draughts
A neglected commodity in stable homes
But see it’s forces in storms and you’ll believe in witchcraft
So what can we do
Cover your head
Submit to the seasonal thread
Accept your pockets can’t bring change
And just hope when your time comes
It comes fast enough that you never look transition in the face
Rainy Reign.
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 4:45 PM UTC
you're a cns depressant i
knew from the moment i met you cause
i remember tasting you before:
the bottle of white
***
i stole from my mother like
fire and bitterness and
damp cloth across my mouth
drank you dry and
felt a little less volatile
fire fighting fire no room for hurt when i can just
lie here
and count every eye as it closes i
am argus:
all-seeing, hundred-eye
and everything i try to protect
is stolen when my eyes
close
{scatter my eyes on feathers
and never let them shut again}
deep draughts of you i
remember
your taste
and the way my skin buzzes and mind numbs
when you burn my throat.
you're a cns depressant and i,
the loneliest child on the west coast you thought
the california scene
was supposed to be
brighter than this
but i've lived here all my life and let me tell you:
every morning is
chill grey skies
and fog
that tastes tonic
without the gin, or
to put it differently:
everything i don't need not
fire just
damp chill
{i'm starting to think that
every california love story
is set in death valley because here
the ocean is cold in the height of summer
and the streets are empty at 5 am when i decide maybe
i should stop
writing
and make sure the world is still there}
and for me,
a child
with an empty bottle
and an empty room,
you were a monster
that i prayed i would find beneath my bed
you are a fugue state i dropped into willingly you
let me forget
that the water is cold
let me forget that this life
is the least compelling plot I’ve ever read
and i’m tempted to skip to the end
golden state fugue state in death valley sunburn girls
shed their skins like snakes and i
lust after empty husks
but i grew gills when i tried to drown in the bay i could
never be as hollow as that i
bite my lip and hope i'll bleed this time
instead of just aching
{no more aches just fire and fog if
i bleed
catch it in an inkwell you know
black ink
is worth more than my blood
send my letters to the red cross and spill red across the pages}
no more aches just fire and fog i
always liked myself more when i was on a stage
hope this story will skip to the end
cause i don’t think I can take another apathetic word i wish
this narrator
had drowned before her gills could form
but i feel a little less alone with my hand around your neck
you’re a cns depressant you
held my hand as i burned
you made me a chain of four leaf clovers and i swallowed every one i think
you made a bad decision
when you chose to help me survive
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 4:41 PM UTC
there's a game we all know
that has a Monopoly over us
that doesn't take a dice to throw
nor a score to plus
its the game of Hearts
sometimes complex like Draughts.
a game of straight flushing and great blushing
in spates of gushing or candid Candy crush Crushing
sometimes there's:
star crossed Starcraft lovers
two-per scenario Super Mario Brothers
and the game's
a Tetris tete a tete
a dual duel between two beating chests
each with a Chess set missing a King or Queen they've yet to get
Romeos and Juliets
though they've only just met
and other times;
we're just trying to Connect fo(u)r two seconds for once
in this scrabble scramble through life
Risking it all in the Trivial Pursuit
of trying to fit in the Sudoku
by following some pseudo social cues
of the games creator
that says we're failures
if we're not in 2player
Mar 13, 2017
Mar 13, 2017 at 5:11 AM UTC
Swayed I am by your sound taste
Amongst a sea of recluses
Against the hands of time we race
To stifle ignorance with nooses
Oh, how you stroke my rib cage
Laughter shaping countless voids
Revamping happiness for the age
Before they gambled ertswhile ploys
A heap of debris I'd be
Swept by carcinogenic draughts
Without you assured I'd seethe
A **** not given be it daft
Feb 15, 2012
Feb 15, 2012 at 7:31 PM UTC
Once, after a long summer and a few too many draughts
of harvest ale,
Father Time overslept.
While he ignored his massive
grandfather alarm clock,
the world’s population stood frozen
impatiently checking their watches and muttering to each other
“whatever could have happened?” and
“he’s always been such a reliable employee.”
He only woke when time flew into his bedroom
and nipped him on the ear
once
twice
the third bite was charmed.
Father Time woke to see Baby New Year
glaring and tapping his plump little wrist
from the end of the bed.
Father Time used a number of words that cannot be repeated.
They all had four letters.
Some of them were learned in France.
Afterwards time had to be hastened to make up for when it lost itself.
Leaves fell overnight and animals dropped into hibernation where they stood.
Thanksgiving and Christmas ran into each other, so that
people were eating turkey legs while they shopped for
presents.
None of the Christmas trees had been cut down. Instead,
on cold evenings across the world, people stumbled into the woods
lit a single candle
and opened their presents in the snow.
This of course was very messy and that year squirrels and birds had nests made of
wrapping paper and tinsel.
Poor Father Time never heard the end of his slip up.
Years later, he was still getting
alarm clocks and
roosters for his birthday.
He took them and slid them in his voluminous sleeves;
expression grave, as ever, but the slight blush
on the edge of his cheeks gave his embarrassment away.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 9:42 AM UTC
God killed Summer.
But caught her mid-Fall,
And laid her in a goldenrod dress.
We held our breath-and wept
To see her more lovely in sleep:
Green eyes closed brown,
Crimson lips
Windswept hair
God cried hardest-
Saturated her bedside in rain.
We drank deep draughts of her vibrant complexion
Brandishing onto our gaze
Her rosy palms and frosting fingers.
God blanketed Summer.
With a sheet of fine lace,
And lowered her into the earth.
We trudged home in the snow.
Her warmth had left us cold,
But we carried God's promise burning our ears:
"Whatever entity I take,
With tenfold will I bring.
Our Summer's hardy, just you wait-
And from her grave she'll Spring!"
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 1:26 PM UTC
Bored of these games
Screwball scrabble your monopoly
I'll take the risk not pass go or bow to authority
I wanna Poke your face with a hot poker
Just to see your poker face
I might just be a pawn but the queen's I have to chase
And who would of thunk
I lost all my marbles
When I went and played kerplunk
My battle ship sunk
And it's now not the rope swing
I want hang from that tree trunk
So check mate this was my only first draughts
The mouse has been trapped warhammer's looking for a blood bath on the warpath
So don't go and pin the tail on the donkey
Coz' you might get a buckaroo though
But look for the clue'do
And you might find more
But only if your a hungry hippo and can find the hidden meanings in theese words and connect all four
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 8:44 PM UTC
Ivied brick
and ancient beams
icy draughts
damp wall seams
smokey fireplace
crooked floors
gaping holes
instead of doors
run down sheds
home for cats
ambiance
fit for rats
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 6:42 PM UTC
It was summer's last days
along the trail
where the serpentine creek
murmurs and winds
beneath the limestone bridges.
Just beyond the bend
a weary stand of feed corn
awaits the harvester's blades.
An unexpected gust sets
the oaks and sycamores swaying
and a few desiccated leaves
skitter across the path -
harbingers of the impending fall.
In the brush along the trail,
newly morphed Monarchs
flit from purple thistles
to yellow star flowers like
a streak of airborne tigresses.
while honey bees,
cloaked in veils of pollen dust,
quench their thirst with
draughts of goldenrod nectar.
The autumnal equinox
looms just days ahead.
Shadows lengthen as summer sings
its final hymn to the setting sun.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 6:34 PM UTC
Oh mister bear it is not fair
why did it have to rain
we can't go out and run about
or ride our bikes again
What can we play this rainy day
to stop us feeling blue
there's cars and trains and aeroplanes
or puzzles yet to do
There's chess and draughts or just for laughs
there's joke books by the ton
or plastic blocks and puppet socks
and paintings to be done
There's board games too like risk and clue
and snakes and ladders Ted
Monopoly look come and see
their here beneath the bed
We could just see what's on tv
or on the radio
we've dvds and chart cds
chose anything you know
With pop and chips and salsa dips
and pillows for our backs
we will lay still and eat our fill
and listen to the tracks
Then sing along to well known songs
and dance around for fun
for as you said dear Mr Ted
What need have we of Sun
For you can find ways to unwind
as long as you've a friend
Like Mr bear whom loves and cares
for you until the end
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 10:01 PM UTC
Dulcet melodies came up
From the basement, day and night
The rhythm that fractured silence apart
And rained in my life prettily like rose petals
In the falling of the spring
Her tinny fingers danced gentle on these piano keys
Serenading my soul, laid at peace with thee
She called this place the heart of her serenity
With love she kept it warm and dignified
Sometime ago she went out for draughts. And driven away by illusional views
Perhaps down on the sea promenade, something attractive
Held her hypnotized and possessed
Ever since she left, only silence sings from the basement
She left indelible marks and love notes around the walls, and
No soloist ever bothers to go down there
And stay longer, perhaps, because of her luggage all over the room
And I’m afraid of disposal, if she may come back home
Or emptiness could be too much to handle either
My heart has become, but just an isolated confined basement
Full of gloomy memories, ever since you’ve been gone
It is quiet with sadness down here without you, and
No soloist ever bothers to come and stay longer
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 4:36 AM UTC
Truth was always found
in tongues of loose razors;
sarcasm's edge pared
flesh sentimental,
weakness fallen
in strips to the ground,
where salt sown in handsful
ensured earth never fertile
that any blossoms might grow
So long food for the soul,
sharpness scooped up,
that bare hands
drunk in deep draughts,
and welcomed the cup
from which they poured forth;
occasional trips into hell,
for audience with the devil
to discuss global weather,
other pressing matters...
So to find anything of beauty,
like treasure revealed in moon beams
striking at just the right angle -
intricate, delicate, diaphanous
scarf trembling in melodies
only I hear, heartsongs
escaped lips of a siren
in distance where
stars grow...
Reading wonder in silk strands
woven as if by angel's hands;
imagined some magic
spun for me
a web that had existed
eternally, though never seen
'till revealed accidentally
in reflections of some
ancient lights
Today I'm made of starfire
sharpest blades can't uncover;
in morning, pondering patterns
clouds make in blue skies
like child's discoveries;
listening to sonatas in sunsets
as sweet tastes of poetry
relieve lingering stings
of doubt in my mouth
May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010 at 4:25 PM UTC
The wolf's gnawing at my liver -
Doesn't hurt yet, really.
Every now and then he pauses
To look at me,
Cool, blue eyes,
We two.
He's hungry;
I'm tired.
Better than eating chocolate
By the fire at night -
Sweetness dulls the teeth,
I'm told,
And warmth only slows us.
Better off cold
Here in snow drifts,
With draughts of vinegar
And brine to keep minds sharp.
Soon, I'll nourish a tree,
Feed its roots.
He'll *** on me.
Feb 21, 2010
Feb 21, 2010 at 4:02 PM UTC