"ferried" poems
Escape pods
Ferried fears
Gaping heart
Falling tears
Dishevelled mind
Emotional unrest
Watered ground
Familiar guest
Questioned answers
Unanswered questions
Glassy eyes
Increased tension
Dissipating hope
Chewed confidence
Broken spirit
Unwelcomed sentence
Failing health
Unstable mind
Choked fingers
Flying blind
Pathetic plea
Stretched thin
Battered insides
Uncomfortable skin
Eventual stop
Frightful frights
Perceived freedom
Within sight
Bruised being
Absent gods
Relying upon
Escape pods
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 9:06 PM UTC
for Harlon Rivers
the river potion,
the river portent,
the river potent
it is all of these and not one
he is bank sided,
observing the false idols,
the image mirrored
in the glass of the river
transfigured molecularly
he becomes something ferried frothily, forcefully
as if a twig
or a small thing of human manufacture,
an object tossed up airborne-repeatedly
his poetry:
the clash of particles at the many junctions
of objects and water, eddies and the currents,
ceaselessly circumnavigating,
searching revisionary pathways
directed,
but randomized,
prisoner of the flows,
servant to the wind's directives and the
earths magnetic indivisible undulating waves
thinking,
this life,
its unsteady gait,
the irreverent wavering of drunkenness
resultant from potent potions,
portents of inopportune position
in him,
my own histories,
my poetic recordings
also become
water borne,
watermarked,
replayed back for me,
for erasure, censure, closure
and rededication
this River
is a tapestry,
a torn map,
drawn on broken shards
of slivered water,
living with all the others
but we,
are the untitled,
we,
are the un-entitled,
and he is the
Rivers
<•>
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 2:36 PM UTC
A child wakes up , to mosquito bites,
and Christ-on-a-bike-it’s-diwali , the fiesta of lights.
the welcome vibes of halcyon tarried
as hugs and gifts and smiles are carried,
and waving her wrinkles mid-air ,daadi
says today! god , to his land was ferried.
Afar, the bronze herald of worship time,
the temple bell goes off in a celestial chime.
and cometh the priest , for the fire-ritual,
line my pockets now , come on , be spiritual.
but duh! your dhoti hast no pockets , saintly dummy;
tsk.. fret ye not , for it goes straight into my tummy.
mid-morning now , and mummy’s high-strung;
‘dust it well and dust it thorough and dust it till you burst a lung’.
‘garam pakode’ !! cries papa in his croaking tenor ,
‘but one by one’ and now he begins with the manners.
mummy is the last one , picking over the bones,
she always has been , for what a family she owns.
A muezzin somewhere cries the holy decree
heads bow down and a pigeon flies free,
from the onion dome , below the staccato claps
‘Ooparwala ! … ‘ the muezzin gasps ,
and ‘Ooparwala!.. ‘ a crowd chants in tow ,
and ‘Oops ! … ‘ the bird sheds it’s something and *****
soars high , and takes a bow .
hey presto! the night has come.
the moonless night of the homecoming lord.
sweetmeats and sugars and syrups and us ,
laddu-barfi , well , that strikes a chord .
Lakshmi , her owl , the glutton god with his mouse ,
revered an’ pleased an’ fed an’ flattered ,
and coaxed never to leave the house
while out there , bombs and crackers burst and batter.
The witch’s hour already , and the man ain’t home yet
the lord is home , to get things straight,
while the men all out on a greedy conquest;
pennies on the dollar , unwavering faith still,
for the beckoning bait .
A child wakes up , to mosquito bites
gone now is the carnival of lights.
a goddess fled , a father bled
a child scrapes off the waxy remains ,
the leftovers of candles ,pains, and no gains.
Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 3:15 PM UTC
Ferry Me
Ferry me, but once more.
The last ferry rides of Indian Summer,
Always arrives on schedule which is
Always and precisely, too soon.
Then, the imprisonment months,
Sentence, indeterminate.
*A Grand Jury trial of months,
I, and my co-defendant,
My sanity, this time, the Oddsmakers say,
Won't survive the lockup.
The source perfume of driftwood words,
Very ferry distinguishing marks,
Sails and seagulls, diesel fumes and saltwater,
Sunsets and seagrass, flying fish and multi-mollusks,
The stuffing of my summer turkey, the currants of
Poems and dreams, sad-eyed longings...
Now,
Evidence used by prosecution,
Confession freely uncoerced,
I Am A Summer Man
Adjudged and convicted,
Guilty of Winter's Discontent.*
But it is these last few passages,
Not of words, but over water,
The absence thereof, crush, ravage,
Worse than any grey calendar captivity,
Forlornly, I mouth silently, repeatedly,
Ferry me, but once more.
The course, straightforward,
Voyager, but a few minutes, but long enough to
Love it deeply, need it like a fix,
The mania of the mainland left behind,
The island, thinly lit, more shadow than real,
The approaching dark, shelters, comforts, embraces.
Perhaps, likely, I deceive myself.
No matter how the island comforts,
The brain always rumbling,
Can never make stop questioning,
Prisoner of 24/7,
But it is lessened, left behind,
As I am ferried away both,
In body and in mind.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
Cold winds killing the breath of life;
Lands saturated with the bones of the dead.
Pondering the meaning of so much destruction;
Touching the spirits of mindful watchers
Gazing at the signs.
Thieves waiting for the house to empty.
Words buried beneath poignant sensations
Hidden from the living;
Wishing to resurrect sentiments to share
With the deceased.
Death promised the caterpillar its wings.
Sleep stolen in the midst of regrets;
Situations ferried by the unexplained
Within the fog of nightmares.
Remembering her spirit
Leaving without saying “goodbye”.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 9:12 PM UTC
When I was young, I caught a moonbeam
in a jar.
And I caught the summer breeze, too,
and the smell of wildflowers,
and just the way the mourning dove sang
outside my window.
And the moonbeam glanced through the glass
in a thousand rays,
and the breeze swirled around
for a hundred days
and the dove’s notes trilled and echoed back
into themselves.
And I put them in a little drawer
and turned the key –
to keep them safe, you see.
But I kept them there for overlong,
the lids were tight, ******* on too strong,
and dust had settled over the tops.
And when again I pulled them out,
the moonbeam flickered, small and sick,
and not so quick, the summer breeze.
The flowers were a vague perfume of
summer, and the birdsong was a whisper,
nothing more.
Most carefully I unscrewed all the jars,
and shook the remnants out the window like
dead things.
But the new wind caught them and
carried them away on its wings,
ferried off to the grave of the uncatchable things.
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 10:28 PM UTC
Old blue is snorting bath salt-
In the same bathroom where he nursed the only battle wound I’ve ever had-
I had swung on the prince of Hopkins county-
My knuckle caught the crystal of his watch-
Pop and howl, edge and line-
Thrown askew by force-
(my) good young blood ferried wolf flowers from one side of the sink-
to the other-
Time kept-
Bone acquiesced-
Verity-
Old blue would tell you that he only remembers contrition-
While humming the Gardenia Waltz.
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 10:43 AM UTC
Your life's twilight on a
September evening came.
And ferried you were by
crimson cherubs; conveyed
in splendour on a celestial
cruise, to gates pleasant for
a permanent reign.
Your reign on the throne
on a September autumn
exited,
but your indelible legacy
in the hearts of Brits
is enthroned gloriously.
Dec 21, 2022
Dec 21, 2022 at 8:28 AM UTC
Finite Fjords ferried then forgotten
junctures Masking mashups
disunion unfound by everyone
slackface mouth agape
tongue in cheek spittle drips
words trapdoored out
vocal vacuum chords
strum silence
heretical heresay
the headlight sped north
Abortion of caged comfort
Abort wars, birth best
invent intentional acts
WILLED UNDEVILED DEEDS
BLEED BREED PLEAD
SERENITY WITHOUT ANY GRANDIOUSITY
Mar 24, 2010
Mar 24, 2010 at 11:25 PM UTC
There was something heartbreaking in his gaze.
Looking into his eyes
Was like watching every good and perfect thing in this world
Shatter.
It was as though
All the stars had fallen out of the sky
And splintered into glittering fragments all over the ground.
It was as though
The sun and the moon had collided,
Raining shining pieces all over the earth.
Looking into his eyes,
I felt my very being
Shattering,
Being pulled asunder by his loneliness.
And it was exciting.
I felt my heart quicken,
Pounding fast with the prospect
Of watching the world end over
And over again.
I knew this was the kind of loneliness
That gnawed at the world from its foundations,
Prowling like an un-mourned soul
And, in its brooding solitude,
Whipped up the howling winds that keep children up at night.
In all my sun-drenched life,
I had never seen a darker being.
I had never been this intoxicated by a mere gaze.
I had never known a bitterness so strong.
My world was all sweet harvests and smiling flowers,
But when he touched me,
It felt as though I'd stuffed my mouth with dandelion greens.
My taste buds protested but my body thrilled,
Reveling in his Armageddon eyes.
His fingertips were ice,
Trailing down my goose-pimpled skin,
And I knew I was the first hot-blooded woman he'd held.
I wanted to add fire to his shattered soul.
I wanted to watch the fragments of the world
Smoldering when he looked at me.
I wanted to feel his fierce loneliness grab me by the hair
And set my heart aflame.
And he did.
As I watched the heavens colliding,
I offered all the heat of my veins,
And he drank it in like the gods guzzle nectar.
He slipped his arm around my waist
And ferried me across the River Styx.
So I watched the world end,
One soul after the other,
Cooling slowly from revelry
To bitterness
As he burned with borrowed flames.
I dreamed about supernovas,
Stars exploding out of the sky.
I'd been so quick to trade sunshine for his eternal night,
Never considering that I'd be getting nothing in return.
I wondered if my gaze had begun to shatter.
Nov 27, 2010
Nov 27, 2010 at 6:48 PM UTC
Formless words...broadcast scribbling space, their diagram
of poetic motion washes over you...formed on impact.
Dark room's glow in broad daylight--your fully developed
picture...deepest blue of two worlds in one, betwixt vibration.
Hue of the canonized, twanging entire a cloudless sky...
enriched tenfold in mimicry of you.
If only stained glass and silk would wed, search light's
spectrum...distill the most affecting gradation of blue--
then would you see a just replica?
Visionary's shield...where earthen wend unveils the abysmal...
that eyes may remain upon you--till one is ferried, and
vision seen through.
Apogee of seventh sea...epicenter of dancing Nine Muses,
whose round keeps the Blue Flower earthbound.
Blue Flower of the poet's pilgrimage, whose synesthesia
electrifies.
Blue Flower...a nebula pinned to earth, the name of spring
born of you.
The golden section of angels fly their flawless form to you...
that High Art may pray to High Art.
...Blue Flower, commended spirit rife with grace...whose
ceaseless hour at hand holds beauty alone.
Mind, quill to tongue riven--if ever...ever is now--Blue Flower...
ever is Now!
The words of this poet have begun fasting...not to eat of what
they cannot sacrifice...their Blue Flower.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 1:48 PM UTC
faked botulism
and Beulah reds
Abyssinian horses
purportedly dead
all night blindness
that 'gravel' soothes
hovering indentions
southwestern barceuse
luminaries marked
tiny infantries swell
conically formed
so steady with shell
dihedral burns
for unlucky hands
swaying cognition
oh, little demands
sanctums ******
the sputum reigns
tenderness denied
a proper grave
you were ferried
holstered soul
lift your head
and let it go
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 5:20 AM UTC
Wine and cigarettes all i have in vain
But nothing comes close to ease my pain
Winter has frozen my pale fingers
As i walk and linger
My father's last words flew through my heart
As he touched my face and i cried to never part
The wood floor creaked as i walked
The walls shattered as i talked
He said the old house is alive
I knew it when it was so quiet at night
Whenever i said my flat prayers to Christ
I did not come back for melancholy of my boyhood friends
As memories have always been in the right places to suspend
Like cold brief kisses shared before goodbyes
Struggling for never ending happines to come by
Autumn came when i was still deep in slumber
Tucked up innocent in his warm chamber
Whenever i opened my eyes again he was there
Watching out the window, looking so fair
There were nights when the ferry docked
And those distinct shapes in the mist outside i could not make out
There he went away
Ferried over so far away
As i did to him likewise now
Aug 23, 2011
Aug 23, 2011 at 10:57 AM UTC
They say their is calm now,
smells of spent munitions subsiding.
Lying around and ferried under a different blue the viewers and listeners, the diners and walkers.
One witness speaks of the bodies so high his wife could not climb over,
another of explosions a block away.
Carnage the reporter says as a man mentions the sight of men in black entering a music hall with Kalashnikov rifles, him gifted a choice not to enter.
The news speaks of pierced body parts, an arm, a leg, a shoulder, so many dead, 120 the number that exist no more, rising, many many more the casualties of this next step in a new world war.
Flashes and bangs, whistles and booms, sirens scream as forces reign down.
Tears, shock, the misery on faces, much sadness heaped on a peace seeking nation.
We now know some say why they chose Paris, some claim it is the fault of the west.
Others of ignorance by intelligent beings that choose violence instead,of democracy, though democracy to them has lost its edge to a world full of capitalist cronies who themselves choose numbers over humanity, so's said.
We are left to pick up pieces of what is left behind, we will grow stronger in the face of adversity.
Hoping one day that the so called wise people are wise, seeing solutions instead of this continuous cycle of violence and death.
Nos pensées vont à tous ceux qui sont touchés, nous montrons la solidarité avec le peuple français et à leurs invités.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 11:29 PM UTC
with bodies relaxed,
but eyes observant,
they sell
five dollar bags of
***** weedy poetry
mixed clientele,
there is no age or gender or ****** preference
discrimination,
certainly none requiring critical taste,
in the buying and selling of
***** weedy poetry
commercial savants,
organized by topic,
available for purchase
love, depressing, rants and whines,
discounts for pre-owned
anti boyfriend rhymes
in his day, they say,
Whitman partook,
ferried up from his Brooklyn nook,
William Carlos Williams too,
from New Jersey came,
better to understand
the most common patois
they'll do custom stuff,
the suppliers,
mix and blend all
kinds of ****
their database exponential,
give them the
requisite hashtags,
and within it,
in it,
thirty minutes,
no more,
they'll requisition,
providing an acquisition -
you'll get your
name-your-own-hash,
Freedom
to entitle your own
***** weedy poetry
or you could grow you own
on the window sill
in the earth of your discarded
despair
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 10:24 AM UTC
naturals, hands on...her shoulders bare
advancing, but not...taking, just pronouncing
this will be a great love affair
looking up she...trusts totally instinctual,
inside shaking ferocious...ferried to a
place that no longer...disbelieved, mythical
standing motionless...heaving body splitting,
touched touches...places that n'ere, sullied
all awkward and yet...refined defined, mine
dumbfoundering, heated chills...impossible
this will be a great love affair
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 12:48 PM UTC
Bring together.
Tear apart.
(SIMULTANEITY)
Command or be carried,
be free or be ferried,
believe or be bleary,
wear on or be weary.
The bedpan of old age,
the deadpan of expression--
at the end
before beyond,
inward evacuation
/
outward ingestion,
a life lived to die--
but life exists, after all.
The "pan" of Pangaea,
the pan of a camera--
at the start
before tectonic cataclysm,
localized catastrophe
/
universal symphony,
indifference until perception--
but perception exists, after all.
Either
/
Or:
equal opponents at one moment
until chosen.
It could be said no dimension is parallel.
-LP
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 10:04 PM UTC
Come on pilgrim,
vamos east
to Jerusalem and Mecca,
ferried from Algeciras to Tangier.
King James told me some stories,
he'd give me a ride, and
we can pull what we want
on abortion and abolition,
strung on a thorny rope
out of H. Christ's tight little *******
Black Francis, Picasso, and S. Dali;
chicos guapos, you are good to me.
I fight Pablo, a different one,
through Robert Jordan (ingles)
Pablo, eres un cobarde, go and
get gored by your bullheaded stupidity.
General,
I'll wander the labryinth,
slicing up eyeballs (oh ** ** **
unable to leave the room.
(they're only cow eyeballs, don't worry)
You Spaniards!
Yo hablo un poquito,
but those men
speak to my heart.
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 2:58 PM UTC
Middle age is a drawer of bottles,
labels rubbed blank,
small tablets stamped
with numbers I can’t read,
others chalk-white,
anonymous as bones.
That August night I woke,
a moth in the moonlight,
wings two halves of a Viking ship.
They say if it maps all four corners
you’re finished.
My head bricked with mucus,
her throat raw-
our marriage a duet
two instruments coughing through the score.
I whispered- moth,
as her eyes opened, dim glow like sunken lanterns.
It weighed two thousand pounds,
wings lifting her hair
like a bride of the dead.
Two optimism pills
waited on my table.
I chewed them dry,
cementing my tongue,
the insect’s brain ticking in my skull
like a clock in a gothic castle.
Then water rose inside us-
first a seep, then a tide,
spilling warm rivers across the floorboards.
The dark room brightened green,
cypress arms cracked plaster,
reeds whispered spells older than fever.
Fireflies stitched lanterns along the walls,
crocodiles slid through like priests of the river.
We held hands as the bed turned pirogue,
drifting through brackwater green.
Above us the moth circled-
no longer omen but guide,
its wings stirring moonlight into spell.
Papa Legba opened the crossing,
Maman Brigitte lit the reeds with flame.
We: two elders slipping from sickness into swamp,
breath turned to whirlpools,
our oaths ferried
on the moth’s traité tide.
Sep 1, 2025
Sep 1, 2025 at 3:03 PM UTC
A Young ghost had grown old,
Her memory I ferried for Lethe.
Enervating knees fell in orison
Upon the samphire, married.
There I drank in dizzy stupor;
This is the quiet of my release.
Feb 6, 2022
Feb 6, 2022 at 1:08 AM UTC
Through the eight-paned stained glass window,
I sit and stare and ponder the snow as though
I am a single solitary flake falling slow with no
Worry of leaving the sky.
I float on air carried and ferried by wind flow
As I gently come to lie on the blank covered ground low
Below the sky stretching grey over white as a plateau
Of heavy clouds on high.
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 2:05 PM UTC
I live on a small (25 sq. mile) island, accessible only by ferry.
<>
“For we are dear to the immortal gods,
Living here, in the sea that rolls forever,
Distant from other lands and other men”
—Homer, the Odyssey (translated by Robert Fitzgerald)
<>
*sea air inoculates the slowing breath-taking ferried voyager,
our landed cares felled, fall into a wake, trailing, sunk & submerged,
a ferry’s ramp contact-clangs, belling a “Here, Here!” alters our mien,
the softening airy enveloping, fragrantly, a greeting of immortal gods*
*no matter that we can vision-easy the neighboring isles, with
their trafficked-light busyness, the to and fro of mainland life,
bustle necessity of hustle, our riveted river moat cancels out
imposing surround sounds, our untucked flavor, floating free*
*wafting perfume of quiet inlet, creek and harbour, touch us safely,
alternating currents of gentle breeze, stiffer sailing winds, gusts,
bending us, these reminders, we humans too, creatures of elementals,
water, sun, forest, sand, animals, singular upon co-hosted menagerie*
*the brackish water, where fresh + marine waters mix, live + die,
reflecting our pooling diversity, so few of us born here, yet so many,
adopt and adapt the isle’s peculiarities, endearing all without any
distinction, we blessed together by Immortal Gods to shelter together,
by, from, the seas that roll us into one peaceful island, nearly, dearly,
and now departed*
<>
Shell Beach,
Shelter Island
August 2021
Aug 7, 2021
Aug 7, 2021 at 1:28 PM UTC
You're daring enough to have ventured into the night,
he sounded delirious in the wispy light.
Half a mile across the lagoon
moondrunk Ridleys in ghostly shadows
would be digging holes in the sands
to lay their lives for posterity
away from the phosphoric melody
leaving the orphaned to find their way
once the shells cracked under silica.
They look like a procession of mourners,
the man whispered between strokes of oars
sloshing the rising tides of the channel
his deft hands rowing the fastest
cutting across the half mile to Cuthbert Bay.
The night ripened enough by that time
unfolded the crawling shadows from the sea
slowing time in frameshot motions
of rows of celebrating marchers.
Dead of night the stars were burning out
and I called out to the boatman.
To this day I don't believe what I heard.
None was ever ferried back by the boatman.
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 8:07 AM UTC
Silvine Blockster
had a book
which it seems
everywhere he took
and thus as is
always the case
as when such books
are ferried in open space
it was not unusual
for folk to ask
if they could look
inside Silvines Blokcsters book
But upon not such uncivil pleas
he would become incenced
and wobble most peculiarly
at the knees
rant and even rave
shout and squeal
but he never would reveal
the pages of the books appeal
so once upon a dark and dreary night
when Mr Poe was real and truly out of sight
some citizens upon themselves they took
a vow to knock Silvine Blockster on the head
and steal his precious book
but alas dear reader
the blow they cast
caused poor Silvine Blockster
to breath his last
all fled in panic but one
who stayed fast
and stood there to the very last
he took a furtive look
inside the book
his knees buckled
his face turned white
and from head to toe
was filled with fright
but the book
he could not let go
this brought a smile to Mr Poe
who was not there
as well you know
now Mr Rephil Pad had a book
which it seems
everywhere he took
and when citizens
begged to take a look
his face whould turn green
and he would puke
and dear reader
please beware
for I do not mean to scare
if you encounter
Mr Rephil Pad
under no circumstnce
ask to look
inside his book
or enter into confederation
with those, who for just one peek
would crack his skull
and watch blood leak
for upon this crinkled parchement
fited and forgotten ink
tells of a curse
of which you must not think
a death note
you must not read
on this very subject
Mr Poe and I and of course the Raven
on this subject are all agreed
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 6:42 AM UTC
*Deep down below
Beneath the saline waves
There the Ghost Liners lay in rest
Submerged within their rust
The remnants of a forgotten age
Spirit ships adorn the history page
Now claimed by that treacherous flood
The Liners lay intertwined with the mud
The souls they carried were ferried long ago
The shell of the ship remains
Ripped asunder and buried deep
Somewhere off the abyssal plains
Betrayed by the very path they tread
No trace left of their honoured dead
Save for "treasures" scattered across the depths
A divers trophy from the past*
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 3:59 AM UTC