"drawl" poems
lady craighead played the blues
on a stand-up samick
in the ***** room
along side the parsons project
and squabbling dogs
and night moves
stairs creek
up the mezzanine trek
wool sheets slide
on finished floors
little angels
play late into the seventh
(a closing match nearing
the midnight hour)
croaking toads and cicada
sing in the blue moon
musty smells and mothballs
settle deep in the vault
the kettle boils
and cat coils
as the pump house rolls
its heavy drawl
the red phone rings
and bird clock sings
(behind the ruddy stall)
a sleeman variation of the ruy lopez
employed heartily
by the incomparable master jack
marble toast burning
wringer wash churning
chris craft running
near the old carp canoe
rooster calls
and west wind squalls
rustle through the porch screen door
chicken *** pies
and rogue flies linger
a rocker chair placed
near the sepia face
(softened by the intricate frame)
donkey in tow
(with a fastened ***
maggie in her dreams
of green tambourines
the nocturnes
reflections
and whispering gospel bells
tractors pull on
the grinder stone
horses lay still
in the mid-day sun
a trump card is fingered
at the furnace click
(crosswords and puzzles are next!)
while the sparrow
*and that **** rabid fox*
are drowning
deep in castles well
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 10:20 PM UTC
six lanes
in a sight line
past the cedar shims
and trim tempered insert
past the washed mural
and water stained tiles
covered eyes
fight for focus
over cork strung ties
and dark distant bridges
foot crawlers on lemon pegs
teaming
under clouded halogen light
dreamers contend
in a variation of chant
(throwing it off in a
drawl sequence)
a glimpse of the guard
and warm towel assignment
forge comforting relief
in a task filled day
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 9:17 PM UTC
Let me be the substance of your addiction....
Swallow me whole or drink me up
Or in hale me and let me fill you up.
Let me be the substance of your addiction
Snort me up...
.inject me ....
.poor me till you get your fill
roll me up...
light me up ....
or pop me like a pill .....
I want to be that feeling the one you love so much,
but let it be my laugh....my kiss.... my love and the way we touch.
I want to be your addiction the way that you are mine .
I want to consume everything your body mind and time.
I want you to get drunk off my lips
And make you forget what to say .
I want to be your drug,
I want to be your special K
I want to fog your brain with passion as you drawl me in and get high and not take much.
I want to make you feel invincible on top of the world with just one touch.
I want to be your addiction I want to run through your veins .
I want to be your addiction I want to cure your pain .
I want to be your addiction your euphoria of love.
I want to be your addiction I want to be your drug.
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
meanwhile,
the Big Fat Yellow Bootay
was getting right tired of
waiting for the election to end.
so,
she set off down the highway
going ninety five...
"HOKEEEY POKEEEY!" she cried
as she gunned the engine and
threw herself in gear.
"HOKEEEY POKEEEY! MOTHER *******
twice she cried,
"HOKEEEY POKEEEY! MOTHER *******
this second time
for extra good luck
with the unfolding election.
cool Fall breeze caressed
her yellow metal,
her big fat yellow bootay,
a glorious day to
be out on a drive!
well, except where she had
come from.
beep beep
beep beep
always driving her
beep beep beeping insane!
it shore nuf was quiet
out this way!
she turned the shiny
silver dial to turn on the
radio.
'gonna have to get me
some better speakers
one day soon.' she thought
to her big fat bus self.
and what came out blasting?
"That's Alright Mama,"
by who else?
but the King!
Elvis!
Elvis has left the building
and now,
Elvis is ON THE BUS!
she didn't quite know all
of the words,
but what the ****
she sure could sing!
As the big fat bus
with the big fat bootay
was driving along,
singing joyfully,
she glanced in the rear
view mirrow and what
did she see?
why the ghost of Elvis himself
was sitting right there
right in the back of the bus.
He starts strumming on his
own guitar and singing,
'that's alright mama.."
so she turned off the
radio to listen
to the ghost of
the King,
Elvis,
himself,
singing in the back
of her big fat yellow bootay!
she also watched him eating
a lot of food
in the back of the bus,
her bus.
his ghostly figure
seemed to
fluctuate between fat Elvis,
and skinny Elvis,
like a seesaw.
by and by
says he,
(not the really fat one
but not the really skinny one
neither.)
'I need a pit stop.'
says the King
so the big fat bus,
with the big fat yellow bootay,
asks,
asks she,
'you wanna stop at the next
stop & go,
or
the next
fizz & wizz,
or
my fav if you really
need a constitutional,
the stop & plop?'
at this particular junction in time
this ghostly King,
was in the shape
of Fat Elvis
but very cooly outfitted,
bellbottoms and rhine stones
or were those all diamonds?
note to self,
the big fat bus
squirreled away,
check on that.
are those real or not?
more mulha is always
good
and this just might
be mana from heaven
in the form of Elvis the KING
himself
and maybe just one
of those diamonds
will fall out and
get lost in me.'
mighty strange happenings
going on around here in this
big fat bus
with the big fat yellow bootay.
' the stop and plop little mama,' elvis replied
with that
ohhhh,
soooooo,
divine Elvis drawl
and that darling little
thing he did with his mouth,
but was doing now
as he was sitting there in the
back of HER big fat bus
with HER big fat yellow bootay!
OH MY,
it really is a
HOKEY POKEY day! she sighed.....
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 6:42 PM UTC
My old great-aunt Elaine with her withered hands gave me $200 and beaded handbag
"This your mad money," she told me, as we sat on that nursing home couch, "And it ain't for your purse. This goes in your shirt, where only you know you got it."
The assisted-living nurse chuckled to herself. They got along, my great-aunt and her.
"Why?"
"Cuz if you get angry," she said, in that Marlboro-raspy voice of hers, "And you gotta go, you walk out on your date and you leave 'is *** And then you got your money for a strong drink. And your cab."
The nurse laughed
My aunt re-situated herself on the nursing home couch. Elaine Dauterive. Her mind was going, and so was her health, but she was as regal as a queen on her throne in that moment
her fire-red hair, ungrayed, was her crown
No cape as royal as that sleeping gown.
"Don't you think for once second I can't take care of you, honey," she said in that creole drawl, and I knew what she meant
Because even after she'd gone I would have that mad money
All stuffed in my bra for when I needed it
Because she was older than time, for me, seeing things like
The Great Depression, World War II
What I read in history books
I'd be ****** if I took what she said with even one grain of salt because Auntie-Lane, I'll be ****** if I don't love you
And I know you're on your way out and
I'll buy you whiskey in the afterlife with some of that $200 cash that you busted your *** scrounging up for me
Southern hospitality at its finest
And those liver spots redder than wine adorn you like badges of honor for all of the years you've endured
My elder - creole woman, with a soul as fire-red as her hair, breathing more smoke than air
My old dragon
On a pile of gold: her mad money
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 11:00 AM UTC
i held his hand as we sank into the shore.
glass shards, ripping
& stinging our feet. but
i could not ask for more.
i could not ask at all.
the ocean loomed - a heavy shadow,
too dark to be blue. it lapped at our
wounds, like a hungry tomb and
the wind was begging
for me to fall.
quicksand, almost. we were knee deep
into the wrecked atlantis of the creatures
who used to live on the beach.
they once held hands too.
they once had someone to call.
the biggest of waves it was his home it was his place i could not save him from grace it
swallowed him whole.
and i, a carcass along the shore.
i began to understand why hermit *****
said goodbye to their shells with a drawl.
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 11:07 AM UTC
i don't know what my father sounds like when he laughs,
laughs where his sides are splitting and tears are in his eyes.
i only know his grin, his slight chuckle.
honestly, i hardly remember his voice;
something about a southern drawl
gently dabbed on syllables
spit out between the touch of nicotine, wrapped
in paper, to his lips.
i know the clothes that i wear mimic
his choice in clothes, somehow.
i know he will not walk me down the aisle,
and this is my decision.
this is my decision, and it will break my heart.
it will break my heart only
because it will break his,
like genetics somehow link emotion
across generations.
i cannot let him run my life,
like pretending to own a car that
isn't in his name;
borrowed from the person who
washes it gently, details the inside,
maintains its running parts.
turning children into property,
it's like trying to take a house that
you used to live in, years and years ago,
but forgot you had the keys to.
you test the locks, and when the door welcomes you
in for the first steps across a threshold
you call it "home" again.
you forget that there is a family on the couches.
a mother cleaning the kitchen.
a brother fixing the shudders.
the house has moved on,
but cannot bear to close its door to you.
this is our relationship.
this is our dynamic.
it has taught me that it hurts to tell him no.
it is expected for him to not care what hurts.
it has taught me how to run from guilt and shame,
destroying past and future in fits of
self-destructive rage,
just to forget the things i've done
or are happening to me.
it's taught me how it feels for a heart to break
from forgetting pieces of someone it loves.
but this hasn't taught me how to fix it,
and i don't think he knows how to, either.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 1:25 AM UTC
The gentle drawl of Guy Clark's voice
beckoned me from sleep,
saying that when his father died
he'd found no tear to weep.
It wasn't that his dad was mean,
nor that he didn't try,
Guy couldn't find a worthy tear--
he wasn't yet ready to cry.
The blade was broken off the knife
a half inch from the tip.
He could almost feel its jagged edge,
recalling that camping trip
His dad had let him take the knife
to a Boy Scout Jamboree
it was there he broke the blade tip off
throwing at a tree
That knife had served at daddy's side
when he went off to war,
saving his life in combat.
Of that he'd say no more.
His father never said a word--
put the broken knife away.
It rested in a dresser drawer
until his dying day.
It was only when Guy's hand had found
and closed around the handle
that he knew, amid the sudden tears
Dad had loved him more than Randall.
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 9:57 AM UTC
I hate your ********* skepticism.
You sit and look at me from across an
Empty expanse of blood-red tablecloth that might as well be
The divide between galaxies.
I try to stay calm when you ask if
"Alternative" pronouns are being used
As a "social experiment" in GSA.
I look away.
My heart pounds.
My face flushes.
It is only for the sake of the young kids present
That I do not mutter any obscenities.
I take a deep breath.
I tell you, slowly, carefully, that
No it isn't an experiment.
They have chosen to use plural pronouns
They, them, theirs,
Just as legitimate as the "normal" ones, male and female.
Why should anyone's name be tied to
What they were born with between their legs?
You answer back in a long drawl that is so full I skepticism
I could choke on it's ignorance.
"Okay then."
Two words, two words that make me rethink everything
I think about you, my father.
I was filled with hope when I listened to
Tales of love and life,
Freedom to marry who you want.
You support gay rights, Dad,
But I'm left wondering:
Do you support all my friends?
The pansexual and gender-fluid and bisexual and homosexual and demi-sexual and those who chose other pronouns?
What about the transsexuals and asexuals and third-gendered and pan-romantic and sapiosexual and queer?
I turn away before I reveal my hurt to you
I will not open up this can of worms again, I'm sure.
I thought I knew you.
Now I only know how much more I
Respect
Compared to you.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 10:30 PM UTC
I want a country boy,
who picks me up in his beat-up
hand-me-down,
lived-in pick up
a football-playing
Sunday morning worshiping
second son of a tight-knit clan
that looks at me
with his unclouded blue eyes
not searching for faults
or explanations
no need to foresee the future.
And I'd look up
grateful to some glorious power
for giving this country boy,
this southern-drawl using
sweet-tea drinking
yes-ma'am-answering gentleman,
just to me.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 9:11 PM UTC
Things sometimes fall apart
Among sisters and brothers,
No matter what they once were.
Childhood picnics and dreamy games,
Memories of trips with Dad,
Since Mom was tired of us.
We would climb Appalachian peaks
Or drive to look at the Mayflower.
Every summer there was a golden week
A lakeside cottage and all-day swims
In crystal water, becoming mermaids.
But time passes and bitterness accrues.
Imagined slights grow like slow tumors,
Never excised but nurtured by some.
I go to college and am freed
From the poison of ignorant rage,
From the creeping depression left
Like diesel fog on an endless floor.
Four or five years of delight pass
With only hints here or there
Of a sibling’s misery at home.
Of a once close sister, Maggie,
Who is ignored and never loved
By any man she pursues.
She blames me for it, for reasons
I have yet to fathom.
Of a brother, Francis, deluded, drugged,
Steals the family car in a rage
And drives to New York City.
Of Deirdre, the middle sister,
Whose friend who knows men who feed
On her ignorance and rebellion.
Only Susannah tries to rise above
The maelstrom of misery.
I send her to a school far away
And she sheds despair, at least.
Decades drawl, children are born to us,
While the bridge between us, obscured,
Sags and frays under weight of rancor.
Christmas dinners and birthday parties
Turn into chores, invitations kept as scores.
Petty grudges, like acid, sever the bridge
At last, all ties are abandoned.
When we are all grown and scattered,
No one speaking to anyone else,
Unaware, uncaring about the others.
Only Susannah visits me and smiles,
With no ulterior plan for insane revenge,
Or accusations for errant slights.
Her once dark hair is grizzled and wild
And her girlish skin now creased.
But her treacle eyes, “black aggies”,
I used to call them, still shine.
Only Susannah writes a letter,
Wishing us well and
Healing scars made by others,
Returning the word “family”.
To my basket of small treasures,
I carry with me
Into the twilight.
Oct 10, 2021
Oct 10, 2021 at 10:52 AM UTC
No words
Just pain
Width drawl
My body aches
Suffocating
Tearing apart
Each ache magnifies
A new one is born
Each different
Never enough
My eyes strain for you
Burn at the sight of you
I am your slave
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 3:08 AM UTC
In the arid dust I can see a shimmer of you in the distance, the red of your hair mixing with the ochre earth
Amid the noise and collision of caravansary in Jemaa el-Fna I hear your soft drawl joking with Snake charmers, always in hustle
In souks the sweetness of fennel and myrrh swirl in the wake of travellers steps and I'm reminded of your desert scent, like cedar and musk covered dust
In the dissonance of the call to prayer I can feel your awe as struck as mine, while the roiling sound of voices lifted in faith erupt over the Medina
In the coolness of Jardin Majorelle, I can feel your head resting on my shoulder as I contemplate the reflection of Lotus blossoms in stark blue pools
I see your eyes in the green of the Atlas Mountains, echo your amazement at Saharan navigation, feel your peace as the stars appear over the Riad
But can't feel your hand in mine as the sun sets over Marrakech
Aug 5, 2017
Aug 5, 2017 at 5:06 PM UTC
The smoke tasted like Christmas as it sank into her lungs. She swirled her tongue expertly inside of her mouth playing with the simple taste of holiday and pine. It was the first time that she had felt the effects of the herb in a couple of months and she would savor every second. Virginia watched on as the joint rolled with two extra large pieces of raw organic rolling papers burned in the slow drawl the way a Cuban cigar burns. Her lungs filled with the smoke and she continued to breathe in causing her ******* to expand further out word. A smile came onto her face as her lips parted carefully holding the smoke still in her lungs and not let any escaping. She leaned forward and opened her mouth more as if she were going in for a passionate kiss and locked lips with the man in front of her but did not close her mouth for a kiss. She blew the smoke from her lungs into the man's mouth causing his lungs and chest to expand and fill with the smoke. When Virginia's lungs and ******* had finally sank back to their normal ample capacity she and Nicholas closed their lips for a soft short kiss before pulling their faces away from one another. Nicholas held the smoke in until he needed to breathe again and blew the smoke out of his nostrils. "Shotgunning is by far one of my favorite ways to smoke" Virginia crooned in her sharp Romanian accent. Nicholas did not say anything back but grabbed the joint and inhaled and filled his lungs to their capacity and leaned inward to return the shotgun blast. When the ritual was over they did not remove their lips from each others lips after the first soft kiss. Instead they continued to kiss first with small ones that were soft and barely felt. They moved onto a heavier more passionate kiss and the smoke in Virginia's lungs began to come out and bury both her and Nicholas's faces in the smoke. Both she and him inhaled while kissing more wildly feeling the smoke recirculating between the two of them. The kisses were rough in a lustful way and were accompanied with small sharp bites on the lower lips. The smoke had began to die down and Nicholas leaned back away from Virginia's still eager lips and said "If I ever **** myself with a shotgun, it will be that kind of shotgun."
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 7:28 PM UTC
Smooth, like
Top-shelf drinks,
Fresh churned butter, and
A con man’s tricks.
Sharp, like
Well-aged cheese,
Finely honed steel, and
Sarcastic words.
Quick, like
Just-launched rockets,
A jester’s wit, and
Those not yet dead.
Slow, like
Just-woken sloths,
Chilled molasses, and
A Southern drawl.
Stuffed, like
Just-mounted deer,
A child’s bear, and
Stomachs after feasts.
Hungry, like
Late-winter bears,
Inquiring minds, and
Black holes in space.
Adjectives.
Well-spent words,
Crafted with care, and
Filled with meaning.
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 9:16 PM UTC
The southern belle , her spicy drawl , gift of gab and traditions .....
Gentle ways with a soft look , master of culinary skills , jams , mint teas and cobblers , prowess in garden , she is truly a magnolia with the scent of gardenia blossom .....
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 10:24 AM UTC
Drinking bottles of Guinness
"Only socially, I can't stand the stuff"
Fatality in the finesse
Of 'classiness' and *****
Smoky rooms and jazzy tunes
A cigar hanging from the lips
Fatality in the finesse
Of small talk and swaying hips.
Winehouse's drawl pours from the speakers
That are modern in their vintage style
Fatality in the finesse
Of hidden grimaces and fake smiles.
Every conversations the same
In it's lack of personality
Fatality in the finesse
Of sociability.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 8:47 AM UTC
All sounds have been as music to my listening:
Pacific lamentations of slow bells,
The crunch of boots on blue snow rosy-glistening,
Shuffle of autumn leaves; and all farewells:
Bugles that sadden all the evening air,
And country bells clamouring their last appeals
Before [the] music of the evening prayer;
Bridges, sonorous under carriage wheels.
Gurgle of sluicing surge through hollow rocks,
The gluttonous lapping of the waves on weeds,
Whisper of grass; the myriad-tinkling flocks,
The warbling drawl of flutes and shepherds' reeds.
The orchestral noises of October nights
Blowing ( ) symphonetic storms
Of startled clarions ( )
Drums, rumbling and rolling thunderous and ( ).
Thrilling of throstles in the keen blue dawn,
Bees fumbling and fuming over sainfoin-fields.
2.4k
The silence in your eyes
the peace within your breath
Like a camp fire glowing
against a harvest moon
you drawl me in
and make me feel at home
The gentle depth of your voice
the moments of laughter
like a happy song
you lift me high
to soar through cloud nine
letting me know that I'm not alone
I sometimes think I knew you
in another place in time
For the moment that I met you
I knew that you were kind
Like a sweat dream
you make me feel safe
and some how so free
Yet, sadly there is a barrier
that separates you and me
Perhaps it the familiarity
we as strangers should not know
that separates the reuniting of two
friendly old souls
I cherish you for how ever long you stay
I know I will always remember you this way
and perhaps if in this life our paths shall part
We will meet up again amongst the stars,
remembering each other as we pass through
the sands of time.
Jul 31, 2011
Jul 31, 2011 at 6:29 PM UTC
The pot-bellied Mercedes squealed
As Meursault withdrew and
Marvelled at the flames
Licking
The air
Like marigolds on Ritilin.
'Raymond would have no reason not to admire this act.'
He stopped by a shimmering sea of Ubers.
The scrape and drawl of siren made no impression on him.
Leaking smoke reminded him of
Snow White’s Cottage
Where he had taken Marie when Lucie was born:
The place where he would go out at dawn to chop wood.
He liked the way her roses played
With the restlessness of children.
Then he thought: 'if only mother could see me now.'
Mar 22, 2021
Mar 22, 2021 at 6:57 AM UTC
Next time you tell me to go away
I'll show you just how good I am at disappearing
You just haven't stuck around long enough for the
vanishing act
You have the audacity to
say my name tastes like filth
But have you ever thought
that the source of your uncleanliness
was born somewhere in your lung's
and made its way up your throat
I can taste that
when I kiss you
No wonder everything turn's to grit
in your mouth
You have the stones
to say
you're an insomniac
But there's a difference between
not wanting to sleep
and not being able to
And your hands wouldn't shake so much
if you didn't drink so much coffee
and you wouldn't look so tired
If you smiled once in a while
and your breath wouldn't taste
or smell
or look
like ****
if you didn't smoke
100 packets a day.
So you have the audacity to tell me
"Well, baby the truth hurts."
In that southern drawl
With eyes so animated
I wonder which movie star you're impersonating now
After four months of Kurt Cobain
I've had enough of your angst and love letters
And I'd love to lay
my hands against your throat
and let you feel the threat
of life
draining away
But I know you would just smile
and rack your brain
for a quote from a movie you have stored somewhere
away
Apr 14, 2012
Apr 14, 2012 at 9:55 PM UTC
Well I don't know how it happened
You just forgot, I guess
The pain receded
I kept breathing
And now...
I wish I hadn't seen that
It hurts to see you function
I hate to watch you love
...
I really hate to watch you love.
I wish you hadn't kissed me
In the wind
Genuine surprise coursing through my veins
I thought those sort of kisses were myths, all
My heart might have stopped
I wish you hadn't let me in
Serenades and rusty blades
Dreams and phone calls
Roller coasters and secret beer
The similarities bring me down
Why can't my soul mate stay my friend?
I hate the way you make me love you.
Every word, I miss the drawl
I used to talk that way.
My twangy southern voice has left and so has my love of spontaneity
You've wrecked it all
All I have is
Anger for your smile
Exploration
You touched my bones
Leave me alone.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 11:26 PM UTC
High, the mountains
That I have climbed
From white fountains
The rivers rhymed
The sun that rose
I, myself have ridden
But there are those
From whom it is hidden
From there I stood
And looking down
I couldn’t frown
I saw more than man could
I was born
A boy
Him I do not mourn
He, a ploy
Now, I, here!
Stand atop all,
And pushed you there
Remember to fall
With every inch
I seem to crawl
My heart feels the pinch
Of it’s cold drawl
That boy
The innocent and keen
The world uses as a toy
Never again was the sun seen.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC
Once I had an undesirable roommate
I was in college at the time
I was assigned to a girl not so great
She did things I considered crimes
I thought if I don’t get some relief
I will lose what is left of my mind
My stay at this college will be brief
How can I leave my troubles behind
I walked down the hall of my dorm
Feeling very sad and forlorn
Then suddenly I had a brainstorm
That would heal all the hurt I had born
Quickly I slipped into another room
I met a girl I had long admired
Holding my breath, did I dare presume
She was working quietly and seemed inspired
I didn’t know if she knew who I was
If she would even listen to my request
I told her the problem that had caused
My world to be so greatly upset
She seemed not a bit surprised at all
For in a dorm rumors fly like the wind
She smiled at me and my southern drawl
Would you like to join me and move right in
Her words were like a balm to my soul
I quickly moved my possessions in before
My old roommate could return and stroll
In to make a drama scene that I abhor
That was my college freshman year
I remember many friends and good times
But the best decision I made was clear
Moving in with Jean Shuey was prime
She was smart and always a lady so fine
Five years older with some gray in her hair
I was an extrovert and spoke my mind
Together we made the ideal pair
All that year she gave me much pleasure
Studying and talking late into the night
I always thought of her as my treasure
Without her I would have been in a plight
Time has its way of rushing on
After college we lost contact
I saw her a few times over days gone
But I failed to call or keep track
Today I decided to contact her again
Soon I found her address and phone
I wondered if her would still be my friend
Or would rather just be left alone
We talked for hours of good times and bad
So much to catch up on after thirty years
We both had lost our dear mom and dad
But we said good-bye without any tears
We planned to email each other often
And meet at a restaurant for a meal
I hope we never again let years soften
Our love and admiration, time will not steal
Oct 9, 2020
Oct 9, 2020 at 11:25 PM UTC