"dustbowl" poems
Nails in pocket
For future fastening
Of repellence on wood
Legs twisted, stiff, that
Forgot how to follow
In any other way than
Swaying in the wind
Hay hair shining in
Sunlight less every time
The dustbowl hits
Rags around lumps,
Stakes, rakes
Make for inadequate
Facade of waking
From afar well placed,
At ease, maybe
Somewhat untidy,
But balanced, stable
At a distance, listening
One might even hear
A raspy voice whispering
Wind to wood,
Promises of movement
Mistake a hollow stare
For vigilance
But with senses obsolete
Inertia well-rewarded
Mere being never sufficed
But for here and now
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
--------x-----------x--------------x-----------x---------
*Where rattlesnakes are sliding across a prairie forgotten,
And the western wind twirls up a twirling dustbowl
Whispers upon the wind, ancient voices of our ancestors
Across the land of the wild buffalo, and ancient crowe
When time unwinds and more than silence can be heard,
Just hold on silently for a moment, and listen closely
Sometimes a young child's cry, sometimes a jubilant laugh
Many voices of our ancestors, A sweet song of long ago*
--------x-----------x--------------x-----------x---------
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 5:32 PM UTC
We drove on
the air outside thick
so hot you could taste it.
The cornfields skeleton fingers of
the homestead graveyard
we drove on
while pools and ponds withered
and left rings of crying cracks in the earth
1, 6, 10 foot below before.
And cattle scrambling for thin shade in the ragged trees
the trees singing the dustbowl blues
like the last grandfathers and mothers who still remember it true
we drove on
in hopes of catching rain
thunder that cracks the sky open to drink.
We chased our shadows in the heat of the drooping sun
thinking and hoping it can't last forever,
that the hot thick air will grow cool and wet
and sweet pungent rain will meet nostrils and aching knees that knew,
it had to come.
We hope and pray because we have so little left,
that if cut open, our veins would flow with water and
not find that we had become only the dust.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 2:22 AM UTC
Walking in America
Walking underwater from the waist-down
With a head full of quicksand
I’m among the few remaining souls
Left to burst and burn in this wasteland, purgatorial
As newspaper editorials camouflage me in a whirlwind
And the remains of everyone I’ve ever known and loved sting my eyeballs
What will be my grand undoing?
Talking to thineself
As I embark on a quest where free will is His divine’s bile duct
Was all of this at His behest?
And all of the survivors now share a common theory:
Hell is outer space where nothing happens
Heaven is this dreary place- Heaven is chaos
I need some sea and sand and land to curl up and protect myself in
But even if I outstretch with no bullets flying at me
The bugs and weird fishes will probably kick me off their property
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 11:30 PM UTC
The thing is, the town grew restless
living deep within the dustbowl,
so they placed mountains behind the hills
gave the general store a roof,
then each bar a row of stools
which will never sit empty.
We sewed eyes beside our buttons
as eager as our own
and asked eyes to reveal
the depth of our despair.
And because the present blurred our future
dusty hands met moonlit faces,
triggers received a finger;
their bodies sleek, shining handles.
Even what lay hidden from our vision
was radiated from their fires;
we made memories into bones,
photographs screaming out,
wet tongues lashing,
so we could walk into sanctuary.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 6:04 PM UTC
Embers in the ashes
fire that lights up her eye lashes
I've seen it all before
when once upon a fancied time ago
she promised that
she loved me so
and I believed.
Oh firelight how you deceived me
left me drowning
cold
defeated.
I who greeted you like a trusted friend
for you to send me far away
I rue the day we met.
I should have wrapped my soul around a totem pole
and danced with chiefs and braves
gone to fight the cavalry
but look at me
broken on a broken lance
Romance?
shove it in a pipe and smoke it
it doesn't last
so you can keep it.
Just embers,
I remember raging fires
that danced in the moonlight
sometimes for all night.
Now,
like me they're cold and grey
it is another day
to drag
on a smoking ***
in the
dustbowl.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 10:47 AM UTC
the windshield is caked
with dust and decay
the air is harsh with sand and pollen
my skin is cracking in the fiery sun
and not a single drop has fallen
the Devil spins a dustbowl of sin, suffering and desperation
the crops are dying
and the children are crying
and still we lie to ourselves
about our dire situation
PRAY FOR RAIN
CLEANSE OUR PAIN
WASH THE FILTH AND DIRT AWAY
PRAY FOR RAIN
CLEAR THE STAINS FROM THE AIR
SO WE CAN BREATHE AGAIN
...is it enough yet, to change our decadent ways?
if mother earth is angry, we should listen to what she says
the fish keep dying out
from the lakes drying up
the wildfire situation worsens
our earth is hurting
as the world keeps on turning
and everything we know starts to burn
PRAY FOR RAIN
CLEANSE OUR PAIN
WASH THE FILTH AND DIRT AWAY
PRAY FOR RAIN
CLEAR THE STAINS FROM THE AIR
SO WE CAN BREATHE AGAIN
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 2:49 AM UTC
are the first among us
in early spring to notice
the flowers, taking notes
and comparing posture.
they look strangers in the eye
like no other, as though the least
amount of recognition
were the most familiar.
they sweep lonely men off their feet,
just one encounter and the lonely men
in turn go searching for the trail
they've left through this city,
in crowded alleys, in libraries, in the park
at dusk, in a statues rust, at a trafficless
intersection. everywhere there are traces
of their presence, like a dustbowl
in its aftermath, if only the dust
were silver and the violent winds
intruded on the stillness to hold
up shelter against the oceans
of desert.
i met the loneliest of them all,
the postulate that nature offered
was now her ex-lover and recovery
would be backtracking.
lonely women are the last to be pitied,
and lonely women were not always
lonely. you must have experienced
the kind of love that is unbridled
to experience that kind of lonely.
Lonely women will be lonely
until they die, so that by the time
lovers wake up together she will
have already offered herself to the soil
so that by the time they take their first
step out of the bed she will have
already become minerals.
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 7:35 AM UTC
The city's a blur
ceasless
as the rotation of night
into speeding flight...
a parallax.
This town's deranged
greasy
like the hands of perverts
afterhours.
I don't understand
that you're still here,
Mystere'
while nothing happens
in this billboard valley
with its mannequin loves
and ****** students;
nothing comes of this
dustbowl
with Christmas blinking in the center
and promises on the cusp
of learning / curves
say Huh?
I know, you say
there's a fabulous place
beneathe
the buzzing web of profits
its busy electric streets
business of passing feet
a wonderful niche
besides
the lions and tigers and Cher
(Oh My!)
secrets only you would know
of its afterglow
because you call it
home.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 12:26 AM UTC
Im done and dusted
packed away in a shoebox
of transparent memories
what was last night about?
delicate dreams in filigree flight
crisp as lettuce
crunchy to the core
yet adding that joie-de-vivre
to the seduction of senses
I'm truly done and dusted
as I stagger into todays
escapades of poetic fancy
unable to filter the diamonds
from the dust of dreams.
tomorrow may be
better when the serenity sails in
to calm the raging forest fire
of expression.
Author Notes
Escapism in its truest form,unable to keep pace with the thrill of creating newer poems with sensory effects. Does it work?I don't know. You decide
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC
Time passes by, cutting a swathe through worlds.
Empires fall, mountains crumble, and the San Andreas fault gapes open.
Bodies decay, graves sink into earth, the Sun glares down,
and the Moon creeps closer.
The Burning Man watches, silent, unmoved and present.
He stares at the world as it rusts over.
He walks its dead deserts, its barren oceans,
through the skeletons of buildings and over sagging highways.
He watches the vast dirt plains of the American metropolis,
and the dustbowl of Russia over the burial grounds of the Orient.
He is solitude, and does not wonder why.
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 8:01 PM UTC
I'll not be wanton with fecundity,
Nor superfluous with beauty.
I'll provide between the images,
Not breathless by the finish.
It's a dustbowl without the wind,
And starry, not star-filled night sky.
I'll have allusions crowd my head,
To keep husbandry on the pages.
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 11:49 PM UTC
In a blank by the shroud of the night,
here by the mourning peaks,
here where the snow weeps,
I've lost my body
in the bus to nowhere
I am ever the other -
rice field by the river,
where flutter the kites of joy,
that dustbowl
where still a thing of pride
to stand up to the coward
in the bully's garb;
You of the black flag,
toting borrowed guns
pimped across them holy
the lands of the vile,
what cause do you soak in blood,
the frozen streams for?
Sullied pride
for some weed-highs
trinkets, those
grenades on your thighs;
Uncloaked those that speak for you
from the pedestals in our tongue
who confer with us, yet
whisper to the dark
alleys by the sullen hour,
faceless the name of the evil
that stalks your soul -
weep, Shakuhachi,
echoing in the wells
dug deep of the earth
Here on this moonless night,
here in the valley of pain,
here I came
to give you guard
from the evil in your heart
here I die,
on the bus to nowhere.
Feb 14, 2019
Feb 14, 2019 at 12:12 PM UTC
do you see them there?
heads bowed
heavy with a past
they cannot stomach
do you seem them there?
an aura of gray seems to follow them,
and people step away when they pass
frightened perhaps,
that the misfortune of the less fortunate
will cling to their
expensive coats
and warm mittens
do you see them there?
they do not sing the anthem
or pledge their allegiance
they have no love
for a country that does not love them
they will not lose what is left of their dignity
attempting to run after
a world that has left them in the dust
they are the essence of dust
unclean specks
unimportant to the
big
the
loud
the ones who run the show
they are far from running the show
do you see them there?
breaths catching in the cold air
an unadulterated bitter anger
at those above them
for placing themselves above them
do you see them there?
because sometimes they get
l
o
s
t
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 12:15 AM UTC
words are not easy now
they turn their back an slink away
i mutter soliloquys of gibberish
hoping to entice them home
but no, they laugh and belittle me
my muse has taken to reading
other poet's work and nags
about the good old days
flouncing about and swaering
there are many theories, about
this dry spell, this soon to be drought
but really all i can do is sit
out on the back deck,
watch the dustbowl
and wait for the smell
of petrichor....
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 4:29 AM UTC