"fawns" poems
He lives in a time of plague.
The tag team of cholera and dedication killed his father, for all Dr. Juvenal Urbino knows, his father was faithful to both work and love.
The good doctor knew from an early age that his work would be his love, and from a slightly less tender age he discovered that his love of flesh and the body ran deeper than mere science could take him.
He met Fermina Daza in the doorway between clinical curiosity and obsession over her doe’s gait, and as he walked through his heart made room for a new kind of dedication.
He thought his devotion would be equally as precise as his practice.
Fifteen or so years of marriage, between years in Paris they bled together like a Van Gogh after a rainshower, the intricacies of their companionship were jointly held in a contractual cradle, but neither of them felt obligated.
Dr. Urbino was before my time, but my story will know the life of Carlos Mucharraz, Pre-Med major, they both dedicate themselves to their love. I’ve never seen her, but I can imagine Carlos likens her gait to that of a doe. He fawns over her from 17 hours away, for nearly a year.
Like a Texas dust devil, he sends his love through the air to Minneapolis to brighten her phone screen and her day.
They’ve only ever spent time together twice.
I’d like to think of his devotion like a boulder, immovable, but twisters slither across prairies as wicked winds push them towards seas of lust, but I’d like to think his love flew above turbulent skies.
I thought Dr. Urbino as a rock.
He must have thought of his fidelity as a disease. His father died fighting cholera, and Urbino would not let his affliction of faithfulness **** him. He thought himself ill, and the mantra of his practice taught him one thing only: cure.
In a slum of San Juan de la Cienaga, pants around his ankles, holding a mulatto girl’s legs around his waist, he crumbled like stale bread as he plunged himself into infidelity.
This man of granite broke and fragmented, his sin etched a crooked cobweb of fractures into his back, I wonder if the beads of sweat stung his spine, or dulled the pain.
But maybe I should put my faith in dust devils.
Humans may be able to shatter the hardest stone, but no one commands the sky, for it straddles North and South, East and West, Fort Worth and Minneapolis.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 7:20 PM UTC
crickets serenading the crows to sleep
trees send out calls to one another on the wind
rustling branches
what a masterpiece the stars make
nestled in the spun navy blue of the night sky
fawns and deer scream to one another
grunt warnings and snort dry grass
baby bunnies chirp to distant moms
being chased by auburn tailed foxes
the frogs try and calm their throats of the
incessant pockets of air that erupt from their
stomachs
the moon's veil casts lacy shadows on the leaves
filling the gaps in the branches
white moonwashed asphalt sparks with diamonds
the sun trying to break the barrier of darkness
pushing and bulging over the horizon with a pop
hazy pink lemonade spills over the edges of
distance mountain ranges
orange Starbursts melt on the tips of the crows' claws
lavender wax seeps around the sleeping bunnies
still chirping in their shortening sleep
the stardust that fell during the night
sparkles like dew on the blades of grass
and floats like fairies through the
apple juice air
thick and warm cinnamon roll clouds
roll by in the liquid gold sky
the scent of cherry pie and toast every morning
in the summer
and the scent of honeydew melon
with bamboo extract right before
dusk.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 11:56 AM UTC
CRIMSON
Colors explode
As the sumac stands sentinel over the ebbing rays of the sun
Shepherding away Niibin to make room for Dagwaagin
Standing, alone, in a sea of green
Sumac heralds the changing season
And like an artistic wild fire
Is the first in what will become a palette of chromatic vibrancy
Sensing the subtle change
Mother deer, her two fawns and yearling
Meandering through the sumac grove
Make haste of the fading green buffet
Mother Bear and her cubs, now a year stronger and wiser
Gorge on honey and berries as they ready for their winter's sleep
Red-Winged Blackbirds, Robins and Sandhill Cranes congregate en masse
Hummingbird drinks the final drops of nectar
In anticipation of their journey south
In advance...of the returning white Biboon blanket
The clock of Mother Earth is precise
And the natural world follows her timely rhythms
As southerly and westerly winds shift to the north
Eagle soars high above...the yet unfrozen river
Vivid foliage slowly falls to the forest floor
Creating an intricate insulating tapestry for those below
In the meadow, swaying in the wind, stands a solitary Daisy
It's single yellow petal defying the departure of longer days
Harvest moon shimmers through bare branches
Dancing, tapping in rhythmic fashion, upon a quiet window
Stirring Misigami from her reverie
Outside her window, a lone black figure, a Lobo, like her
Acknowledges her presence, blurring the lines of consciousness
Signifying that dreams do come true
And that through the change of seasons
We grow
We become stronger
Wiser
And are given the true gift...of forever being...
...Hopeful
(c) 2013 Shawn White Eagle
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 6:31 PM UTC
I'm not the type of girl
Who flirts to get out of things
Who fawns all over you.
I'm not the girl
To get dressed up
And put on a mask of makeup.
I'm not the one
Who wears her heart on her sleeve
Or pours her emotions out for all to see.
I'm not the girly girl
Into the latest fashion
Or the new trends.
I'm not the one
To get all pretty just for you.
I'm the girl
Who plays tough.
Dirt and grime never bothered me.
I'm the one
To play with the guys
In sports and games.
I'll beat you in your favorite video game
As we eat the fattiest foods.
I'm the tomboy
Who loves to just be comfortable.
I bottle up my emotions
Hiding from them behind a wall.
My exterior is just a facade
Of strength and toughness
Held up by sheer will.
I'm not going to change.
I love me for me
But I hope that you can see
Past the mask that covers my interior.
The passion that hides behind the fence
Waiting to be found.
The romantic who needs a push,
A sign to know it's real.
A nudge in the right direction
Is all you need to give.
Showing me you care
And telling me are two different things.
I'm not the girl who reads up on relationships
Trying to decipher the meaning
Behind every word,
Every movement,
Every little thing.
Instead, I'm the one to take it at face value.
Don't play games with me
Just make it clear as day.
Are you here to stay?
Or are you here to play?
If you're here to stay
Then just let me know.
I can't stand these mixed signals
Hovering between just friends
And something more.
If you're here to play
Then I need to know.
I don't like these games
Of cat and mouse.
I can't stand the doubt
Which plagues my mind.
To me you're more than just a friend.
We've been dancing for 6 months
Between the two stages.
Each time I think I know what's going on
Something you do turns me around.
This dance is getting old
And I'm getting scared.
The more time we spend together
The more attached I grow.
But I'm afraid that I have no right to you,
Because you seem to keep changing your mind.
I'm not a girly girl
I'm not the one to open up easily.
But you're growing on me
And I feel a desire to tell you everything.
But I'm afraid that you'll leave,
Just like everyone else had.
I've been through too much
To wear my heart on my sleeve.
I've grown tough even as I hide.
My emotions squeezed and confined
Want to burst forth when you're around.
I don't know how to tell you this
Maybe I should let you read instead
All my words and poems.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
There was a whispering in my hearth,
A sigh of the coal,
Grown wistful of a former earth
It might recall.
I listened for a tale of leaves
And smothered ferns,
Frond-forests, and the low sly lives
Before the fawns.
My fire might show steam-phantoms simmer
From Time's old cauldron,
Before the birds made nests in summer,
Or men had children.
But the coals were murmuring of their mine,
And moans down there
Of boys that slept wry sleep, and men
Writhing for air.
I saw white bones in the cinder-shard,
Bones without number.
For many hearts with coal are charred,
And few remember.
I thought of all that worked dark pits
Of war, and died
Digging the rock where Death reputes
Peace lies indeed:
Comforted years will sit soft-chaired,
In rooms of amber,
The years will stretch their hands, well-cheered
By our life's ember;
The centuries will burn rich loads
With which we groaned,
Whose warmth shall lull their dreaming lids,
While songs are crooned;
But they will not dream of us poor lads
Lost in the ground.
2.9k
I was making my way down
The highway,
Cornfields on both sides of me.
The moon shined even though
It was still day time.
The sky was a light lavender shade
That oozed into a faded blue
Twilight, you could say.
I caught a glimpse of a doe
And her baby
Walking through the endless field.
My mind wandered.
Where did they come from?
Perhaps they came from
Deep in the woods,
Where the birds sang
And the creek bubbles,
The sun seeps through the trees.
Perhaps all the animals got along,
Or maybe,
They came from an open field,
Maybe they had a family,
A buck, a herd,
Possibly even a few more fawns.
Maybe something drove them from there.
Maybe a gun,
Maybe a predator,
Maybe weather.
My mind wandered more,
Where were they going?
Were they looking for somewhere safe?
Or were they only trying to survive?
I wished I could see more of their journey.
I wanted to root them on.
Keep living!
Keep fighting!
Where ever you're off to, keep going!
Then the moment passed,
They were long out of my sight.
I hope they are still alright.
I hope they were alright.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 8:58 PM UTC
*Afternoon octaves from a Raspberry arbor ,
streaming with Honeybee delight , fledgeling
Cardinals hopping from branch to branch ,
Rubies pause then pose , streak away in zig-zag
flight
Bluejays crack acorns on cobblestone drives ,
Red wasp , Swallowtails and Cuckoo bees dance
in warm light , Cinnamon coated fawns dance
the forever fields of soybeans , Sugar Magnolias
stand tall in Purple clover dreams*
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 2:43 PM UTC
broken glass and christmas lights that don't light up anymore, i hung you about with glitter and gold, called you art, kissed your face. there were tattered things on our clothes, i spit words into the gutter and they ran down the stream into the ocean where the letters got tangled with a sting-ray, a clown fishes fins. tiny fawns painted themselves across your palms, they sung me to sleep at night, wandering down my back and across my nose when i couldn't breathe because there was something knotting my veins into pretty patterns, stopping the bloodflow and shutting down my liver slowly. ric-rac danced two-steps and alcohol-drenched cakes infiltrated tea parties where lace was all the rage and ladies always wore gloves, *** was a thing never spoken about. the fifth most dangerous city in the us took me under its wing, tucked me into train station corners while paedophilia took hold of the government and shook us soundly. people held candles into the night sky when the family was killed, when the police asked if they were involved with drugs, when tiny bodies littered the basement because they were old enough to identify the killer. notebooks and traced fingerprints hung on the walls like christmas decorations before thanksgiving, pictures of you taken in secrecy, dipped in fluid that looks black in the dark room.
i knit sweaters. they have rabbits and bears and deer on the front.
Nov 20, 2010
Nov 20, 2010 at 7:19 PM UTC
Listening rain plashes
upon crystal spring waters
It hears the trailing distance
disguised in the silent gravity
chasing it down the sky;
refreshingly sprinkling
stillness
where spotless fawns
drink from mirror pond
green and peacefulness
A man falls from
a distance he knows by heart;
dropping like a wind broke tree ...
Breaking all the silence hidden
within the deepest places
of his soul
Hitting the ground hard
to see if he still feels —
laying there broken
feeling the raindrops
soothe the hurt
Certain when he’s able
to get back up,
hearing a distant calling
to the fountains of his soul —
he may fall down again
bearing the weight
of broken dreams
But he’s seen it all
for long enough to know:
he’s no candle in the wind
Awakening in an unfinished life,
coming back from the dead,
still feeling each
feral breath enough —
to keep on trying
to chase down the wind ...
harlon rivers .
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 9:23 AM UTC
Vulnerable smile, cherubic. Vessel in the well.
Watery eyes. First tooth. Nameless relation.
New birth. Memories. New joys. Old pain.
Overflowing love. Half-voice. Kin-sister.
Stars, crackling up in the creux. A relation called
Nights. Angling; moon. brumeux love, half-hug,
Nets wide cast; comets pass. folded in the wallet.
Pouring out. Half-gong. Calling to the valleys.
Brook. Shadowy corners. Tongues, welling up
Delight, discovery. voices, hushed whispers
Bleating with the sheep, hymns rising.
crying with the birds, Conjunctions of states.
whirling with the winds; Conjurer of fawns.
Casting; soil; roots; new growings;
smiling, spiralling around the hollow,
new life; a cherub, the new dawn.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 2:18 PM UTC
Scorched pavement would hold on to day
light. The concrete,
still warm, would kiss my barefoot feet.
Until dark I
would roam on summer nights, tasting
freedom in my
midnight curfew. When autumn came,
dancing in like
blown leaves skinned off weary trees, the
sumac flushed red
as cardinals wings blanketing
the landscape and
reminding me that winter comes
with a heavy
hand. Bitter green apples fall from
the backyard tree,
does and fawns passing through to eat
the fallen fruit
are startled by me and dart back
to the swamp where
the fog rises up every night.
Poplar trees stood tall while their leaves
made the final
kamikaze plunging fall. New
Converse shoes made
their debut on the way to school,
briefly, happy.
Winter brought isolation and
dreams of still warm
city streets under wandering
feet. Holding out
through cold purple glow, I wait for
spring’s warmer air.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 3:58 PM UTC
I was born to be a child that planted seeds of
happiness in whoever I met, so my parents have told me.
I don't think I have ever had the leading role in
this play. I've never been that girl who everyone fawns
over with the spot light shining on her all the time.
I was meant to help others like the backstage hands.
My biggest accomplishment was teaching my mom
how to laugh at herself. She has always been that
busy workaholic type.
At this point in my life, it is only Act III Scene II and there
hasn't been a visible plot yet. My soul is chameleon, and
it is indecisive as to what color it should be. My ideas
of what I want to give to this world change all the
time. But soon if I don't pick, I will be thrown into
a ****** without any heading. My most secret dream
is to become a painter, but nobody has ever understood
that part of me. When I paint, I lose all consciousness of
the outside world and there is no incentive to paint
besides the love of looking at a finished piece. Maybe
one day I'll be a starving artist who gets a break and then
I will get my spotlight on stage.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 1:40 AM UTC
Chatter, as I watch the snowdrops falling
It blends in from the street, the pavement, the everything but me
and the lonelier soles who walk their own ways in the path
Taking their own hands against the cold.
Distances there into and always with the twilight
Strings and biscuits in the dawn of the twice
Winds pass and monsoons sweep through
Often I watch them in the memories of you.
Cross the sidewalks, mirrors, delights
Christmas parties and silent enchantments
Invisible but dwelling in the darkness of the stars
So humbling in all the georgian opacity
I yearn for the lights of the morning essence
Dream of the warmth in the hearth of men
Assuming in vain the welcome of all night blankets
And grieve in the vacancy of the traveller's awe.
Who takes the broom of the closets past
Who walks the dawn and evening stars
Who fawns over the reflection of the moon
Who tells of my works in their brilliant cocoon?
Dec 23, 2010
Dec 23, 2010 at 6:32 AM UTC
**
Your two ******* are like two fawns,
twins of a gazelle,
that feed among the lilies.
Until the day breathes
and the shadows flee,
I will hasten to the mountain of myrrh.
and the hill of frankincense.
You are altogether beautiful my love,
there is no flaw in you
Come with me from Lebanon, my bride;
Come with me from Lebanon,
Depart from the peak of Amana.
from the peak of Senir and Hermon
from the dens of lions,
from the mountains of leopards.
**
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 12:05 PM UTC
born with stars in my eyes, my mother hid me, as her lost pride
from a world better left unsaid, she led me
like Hephaestus, she brought me to my ruin
Persephone to her Demeter
she couldn’t secure me
from the darkness and majesty of the cosmos
carried as a gem, raced as a precious gift
Ruined, am I just now embracing the back of this luminous dark thrown
It's taken me so many stumbles to reach it just here.
take myself a bite, a bite of your sex's pomegranate and their elixir will make my eyes glitter
and with the pain, my imagination sparkles in cycles once again
Hades, you're also my keeper
your depth provides the outer boundaries between the heavens and the deep cavernous dark
rooting me in a true reality, unkempt and whole
carry me as a gift from the world of light and exhibit the warmth of your darkness
hold me as the morbid message that I am
I am my mother’s vulnerability,
agile like the back of the fawns hind legs
dark like the primordial existence in these pools, so known as my conscious eye
they’ve experienced both sides to every miniscule perception of this existence
and they are sore with painful wisdoms
never, can I stay atop this graveyard loft
because I am forever saturated
forever, reminded of the graves and their meaning.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 7:27 AM UTC
Come here, I miss you, radiant one
with heart the size of Zeus's raging storm.
There is a song circling your irises,
traversing immense emotion,
filled from indigo depths of an ocean's mirror
and poured over the searing rim of the strongest volcano.
Such power fuels painful wars,
but you won each battle with bleeding fists.
And I cannot wash your hands
because mine are covered too.
Come here, I miss you, magnificent one,
fierce and clever: protector of all.
Now, you have fire in your sight,
lava on your tongue, and embers in your belly.
But the brazen flames I love, those livening your whole,
you tell me they flare from your fingerprints,
and then you are burnt.
And I cannot douse the embers
because I choke myself on the ashes.
Come here, I miss you, beautiful one,
such pain among the four of you.
With soft eyes sweet and wide as fawns,
such youthful play within your soul.
Creativity and intellect course through your veins,
yet you carry the weight of three
almost strung up by the neck.
And I cannot coax them down
because I am one of them.
My friends have always been there for me.
They support me through so much.
But I? I feel completely helpless
whenever I try to be the shoulder
instead of the tears.
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 10:45 PM UTC
on the stream of life, i was a water lily
and on it's street, the heat
that rose up from the railway
in the hazy spring, newborn fawns
that bucked and singed
a thousand unheard of songs
and in the time in between
i've been far too many a thing
for it has worn on me
like bricks chipped by the cold of winter
or yellowed grass from drought,
a finger with a splinter
i'm not broke
though i am poor
i've got so much planned
so much still in store
Jan 23, 2021
Jan 23, 2021 at 10:59 AM UTC
Autumn bid goodbye,
To new winter's approach.
At a wink of Jack's eye;
Leaves littered tucked,
In cozy blankets snow.
All the rabbits in their hutch,
Chipmunks lodged in logs' hole,
By stag's stern, lest tiny fawns stumble
Catch, on mother doe-
Nary a cardinal ruffled &
Bears rest in slumber;
Till wane of mistletoe
Dec 23, 2023
Dec 23, 2023 at 10:22 PM UTC
Summertime awakens the redolent flowers
It brings to life again the day
Rebirth of the stars
Raindrops become my healing balm
And thunder my elixir
Demure fawns gallop gracefully
Across the woodland’s fallen trees
And the sky is arrayed
In cloaks of fragrant mist
The forest’s familiar scent of petrichor
Fills the moss laden air
And hidden periwinkles glisten with dewdrops
Sweet summertime has returned once more
Her usual fugacious beauty
~Marian~
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 4:01 PM UTC
The hum of the fan
sings a lullaby
as the stress of the day
falls out of the muscles
An angels cloud of a pillow
my head sinks in
covers pulled up high
warm in my womb
The sheep ramble bye
one bye one
and slowly transform
into nothing
The sandmans dust
has been sprinkled
and rapid eye movement begun
falling into the land of dreams
Landing softly
in a newly mown green field
with knee deep patches
of bluebonnets and Indian paint brushes
A creek trickles nearby
its lulling sound
a salve for any remaining pain
brim swim in its cool waters
In the distance
snow capped mountains
haloed by the sun
that hides behind it
Cottontail rabbits
on the move
pay me no mind
on their journey
The purple martins
sing their song
interrupted
by the mockingbird
A whitetail doe
and her two spotted fawns
ease by, head down,
munching on grass
Calmed, and relaxed
breathing easy and rhythmic
eyes dart around
taking in the beauty of the dream
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 9:04 AM UTC
Gethsemane
Butterflies, fawns, the quiet trickle of a nearby stream.
Apostles argue.
Again
Some want pizza
Others teriyaki
A few want pastrami from Moshe's Deli in Nazareth
"Brothers. Time is short," said Jesus quietly,
"Let us not argue. I have brought a potato. Let us share."
The Apostles look at each other in dismay.
A potato?
What is this another f*cking parable?
They were hungry and impatient.
"Look JC," said Simon
"You're the Messiah and all, but we were hoping for something a little
more substantial."
"I bid you peace, Brother," said Jesus, covering the potato with a plain cloth.
He began the customary blessing for this type of food.
The Apostles bowed their heads respectfully.
One by one they closed their eyes in prayer
Sanctifying the simple meal that was before them.
Minutes passed
Stomachs growled
Apostles began to fidget.
Without warning Jesus shouted,
"Chabada Kedavra,"
and lifted the cloth, revealing a whole roasted chicken beneath.
The Apostles clapped their hands in delight at Jesus' latest miracle.
"Faith feeds us in many ways," said Jesus.
"Amen," said the Apostles in unison....
Completely missing
The KFC bag
That Jesus was sliding
under the table
with his sandaled foot.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 1:19 PM UTC
4 am
And the fog blankets the lake.
Critters wake
Crickets chirp
And fawns are alert.
On the surface,
A turtle's head
Emerges from the stillness.
The smooth reflection of
Moonlight is disrupted
As four wild youths
Run to the water.
This is where we belong.
Jul 12, 2020
Jul 12, 2020 at 12:53 PM UTC
My place, my secret haven is the forest.
I love it because it’s an escape from the torture of reality that plagues me each and everyday.
It’s where I can go when I’m close to breaking down and losing my mind.
Where heaven meets Earth, if just for a little while.
Where the wind blows gently through the tree’s shimmering green leaves.
Where the moonlit air warms everything and the nightingale sings the songs of blessed night.
The grass is thick, a carpet of living emerald that’s softer than feathers against travel weary feet.
Flowers the colors of precious jewels cluster in pools of the moon’s love; delighting the eye with their sprightly smiles.
Gaia’s forest children fly through her many wooden arms on light paws and hooves.
Deep within this holy sanctuary lies a waterfall that cascades into a pool and runs off in a waist deep stream. The water is of the clearest blue with fish of brilliant colors and gleaming scales.
The air smells forever fresh, like after a storm, and the heady aroma of pine drifts on soft breezes.
Moonlight plays on the dappled spots of wide-eyed fawns as they romp in the grass under the watchful eyes of their mothers. A lone wolf laps up cool water from the pool after a long run through the trees, and then lies in a bed of grass near a cluster of does in amiable silence.
The chirp of crickets hidden in the brush accompanies the trickling of the waterfall, and the whisper of the wind through the trees.
The faint hooting of a dwarf owl barely disturbs the orchestra of midnight sounds.
The earth sighs in contentment caressing her children in the featherlike grass, as she and they prepare for sleep.
A family of thrushes snuggle in their nest, lulled by the nightingale’s lullaby.
A little ways away silken chrysalis split and Tearful Underwing take their first flight on newborn wings.
Mar 26, 2012
Mar 26, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC
I'm sitting here in a club that's very
Well it's dark,
But it's not a place for women.
And who knows,
I think it might be the thirties.
I'm surrounded by men,
All in impeccably fine suites,
I'm drinking countless martinis,
I never have to light my own cigarette,
I know this is what I do every single night.
Everyone fawns over me.
I know that I'm very powerful.
I have the power of a man.
So I act like a man.
Not *****
Just unashamed.
Maybe I have a rich father?
That sounds right for the time.
I can tell that I am very powerful,
I already know that I am
"Breathtakingly gorgeous".
Everyone eats out of the palm of my hand,
I am fun.
I am free.
I am the untamable soul.
You know?
The one they right novels about.
The one that "got away",
Because she was a song bird,
And one that wouldn't fit in her cage.
And I am to be a married woman.
Someone will disburse my power.
I will become a miserable housewife.
I will have four children.
I will bake apple pies,
I will let my husband
Please himself using my body.
I will help with church bake sales.
I will drink.
I will drink.
I will drink.....
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 1:59 AM UTC