"fetches" poems
484
My Garden—like the Beach—
Denotes there be—a Sea—
That’s Summer—
Such as These—the Pearls
She fetches—such as Me
8.1k
A wild man is not a boyfriend, he is a force.
Can you love me in the blinding heat of a birthing star, when I shower warmth on distant moons?
Can you love me in the hole of the cosmic Black, where no one can reach me? Not even you?
Can you love me then too?
Can you love me when I drag buffalo skulls through the dirt for days, to the rhythm of an ancient drum?
Will you love me if my beard hides the scars in my heart, from battles I cannot explain?
WIll you love me when I lack courage, when I am defeated, when I won’t let you patch my wounds?
WIll you trust me when I smell of sweetgrass and sage, and when I stink of whiskey and sweat?
When I drink from the cup and play in astral light, will you anchor me to Home?
What happens when my words don’t work, and I can speak with only my eyes?
Can you love me enough to let me go, without asking me where I’ll be?
I am no poodle to lay groomed on a leash at your feet. I am the wolf that fetches the bones of truth.
A wild man is not a boyfriend. He’s not built for animal husbandry. He is a force. He is a cause for an effect. He is a mission.
Are you afraid to let me inside you? Not just my flesh, but my soul. The wild man is neither burglar or vandal. I will not take anything from you. I will not trample on sprouting seeds or pick flowers as a trophy. I am the sun on flooded fields and the fire for tangled webs.
Don’t be scared, lover, mother, maiden, crone. Take me as I am.
Even if I have the power to destroy worlds, I will not destroy you.
A wild man is a protector. A father. A warrior for all that is good.
When the chaos seeks to obliterate you, sheering your flesh from bone, I will hold all the pieces together in love, until you are ready to reassemble.
When your seas boil, and your winds throw cars at corn fields, I will wait patiently for you to catch my eye, so that both of us can laugh.
When Hell opens up the fiery gates, and sends all the cosmos against you… I plant my heels deep in the ground. I lay my shield low. My sword is sharp then, my love. The steel sings sweetly. With a smile, Hoka Hey! My last breath a farewell kiss. Today is a good day to die.
For ours is the oldest love affair. The greatest story ever told. Cupid and Psyche, Shiva and Shakti, You and I.
Same same but different. Would we have it any other way?
A wild man is not a boyfriend. He is a force.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 9:09 AM UTC
*where are women really safe?
how is it that society-collect FAILS
as humanity stumbles yet again.. and again?
our lady-folk are not safe*..
Amaya-bai finds little comfort but in sibilant-twin
as no eye of sun nor ginoo laid eye on this binukot
Olga is the silent-saint; believes in charity at home
yet chaos ensues too easily - she is wronged and just gets.. lost in the system
Zandile fetches precious amanzi in her sun-soaked calabash
her vigilant-sister falls.. roving guerrilla-men from the river's edge
Michelle, la petite belle, survives the daily-grind via low-coin
tubes to Champs-Élysées as assistante-de-pharmacie
Aadita, from the outset at 15, dons a veil hiding ****** acid-burns
she has some relative-luck to escape sati later on
Amy with downtrod-heart, grabs the tram to downtown family
wearing dark glasses and gloves on rainy-day blues
Emiko graced (yet cursed) with beauty struggles with ancient-practice
despite the ban, silent-suffering lotus-gait in the tiny village
Aisha may be alive but not well from ethnic-marking tragedy
as irugu are outcast from all-too prevalent gishiri-cruelty
*might as well take a trip to Vladivostok
or be dumped in a sarcophagus
beneath the Pyramids
safer there*
S T - 27 sept 2013 - freitag
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 3:59 AM UTC
I still think of you
when I hear a song that moves me
And wonder what it would follow
on the tape I wish I could make you.
This is the standing stone
on an emotional landscape
that has changed as fast as technology,
seen music shift from soulfood
to occasional backdrop
and solitary teenage bedrooms morph
to joyful family homes (thank God).
I wouldn't go back -
but here's a song, unexpected, blissful
which can't quite touch me as it should
Because I can't press 'record',
watch the reels go round
and imagine you listening
when the tape crosses the country
and fetches up at your front door.
No more padded envelopes
nor blotted biro liner notes;
no more declarations hidden in plain sight
in ninety minutes of love
I knew no other way to send.
Sep 17, 2011
Sep 17, 2011 at 3:02 PM UTC
Stung by an angling fad
He took a fishing rod
And sallied onto the nearby stream
That leaped down a rocky shelf
Forming small cascades
But running down into plain ground
With a placid demure face
Uttering soft murmurs sweet
Aiming at the darting Trout
That made the still waters into spiraling whirls
He swished the rod in the air
With the alacrity of a practiced bowler
Looking at the line sinking low
He waited for the fish to nibble at the bait
Meanwhile, inhaling the salubrious air
And watching the limpid movement of the stream
As the hook line went taut in his grip
Hopefully he pulled it up
But alas! With no ***** to boast!
Patiently sat he there for hours
Like a sculptured God upon a rock
Oh! It requires immense patience
With adroitness to boot
To be an angler, no doubt
That sure is a sedate man’s pursuit!
Angling rarely fetches any major luck
Except now and then a fresh fish upon one’s plate
Yet following one’s heart’s pursuit
Is worth more than all tangible reward it brings!
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 12:14 PM UTC
Where Phil's ship set sails
With the biggest whales
His legend has tales
And he spouts no fails
In the depth of nails
His hammer has gales
With winding winds of hales
He keeps to his trails
Leaving quests that impales
Five consecutive NBA finals scales
With LeBron and Leonard's pails
He fetches more water to rescales
With Lakers, his thirst now flails
Bringing hope his ship prevails
Logan Robertson
7/15/2019
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 3:32 PM UTC
Now see, I am forbidden
By my totem not to eat
The meat of the dog,
For my future cannot
Even distinguish between
Water and palm-wine,
Oh, life is ill,
When I went to the bush
To fetch the medicine,
I met a fearful fellow on the way,
But no, an evil ancestral spirit
Snatched the medicine
From my hopeless soul,
Unfortunately, fellow crusaders
Were looking ghastly at my
***** rag, not loosing
Sight of my plucky suffering,
None fetches firewood
From my bush anymore,
Where the tree of the
Pawpaw has fallen,
Not even my enemies,
Hmm, I was made to swear
The divine oath of solidarity,
But fairness was not found
In the heart of my companions,
Given me the hope that,
The everlasting python
Which live in the Birim river
Did not make a mistake in
Confirming my creation,
Indeed, when myth dies
Only force is made free.
© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: [email protected]
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 6:17 AM UTC
Sacrifice of desires, sacrifice of wealth, sacrifice of social status, sacrifice of relations, sacrifice of inanimate belongings, Would the sacrifice be sacrifice to become of God?
And your mind wanders and fetches bits of pain you felt when you made that one small sacrifice and answers "Yes" if sacrifice is pain, there would be pain to become of God.
Your soul replies, "To bear that pain you need to experience pain, to experience pain, you need to sacrifice. Pain births the strongest. Be of pain, be of God"
Choose the road of cobble stones, and you would walk alone.
Choose the road of thorns to reach God,
You would walk with God.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 8:02 AM UTC
The thing that hurts most about growing up
Is losing table settings.
First we were six,
Then five,
Now four.
I dread the next place-mat leaving.
Fat lumps of butter drip from my mothers fingers
As she realizes she's once more forgotten to account for our losses.
Sugar sweet, my sister, cracks eggs for the mixture
Her smile splits her face like the line down a peach.
My brother fetches glasses and de-clutters the table,
Like a general wiping clean his strategic map.
The thing that hurts most about growing up
Is losing table settings.
First we were six,
Then five,
Now four.
And I'll be the next place-mat leaving.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 2:09 PM UTC
He awakens, sighs, bones acreak at every move.
Reaches for the boilerplate, straps on his rapier
wit (but half of once it was), takes an aching
hold of his rusty lance, and mounts the ancient keyboard.
In clattering, staccato bursts, they gallop through
acres of verse: thatches of haiku and senryu,
prim English gardens of sonnet, manicured villanelles,
and mile after mile of untamed blank verse just like this.
All along the journey, he tilts at the ogres
in his mind, swiping in steady rhythm
at possesive pronouns replacing contractions,
your/you're...their/they're...its/it's...gah!
Set to charge full speed downhill from the
Valhallan heights of two courses of college English
at unedited mounds of unexamined thoughts,
he fetches up sharply; slows to a trot, looking uphill
at the hordes of English majors
eyeing him and his keyboard
with malice aforethought.
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 13, 2011 at 4:06 AM UTC
***Rainbows drew the sky
after the rain poured goodbye;
tilted with sun so shy
As time passed me, ticking its clock
still panting for someone
to come,
Paranoia fetches my skin
Holding on my stigmatize brain
Lazily drop my head so burnt
Watching people
at the utmost time.
Occurences left me withdraw,
still bears and hang.
Patiently waiting
for you,
so
i
can
wait
for
another time.***
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 6:59 AM UTC
I sit at my computer desk trying to think,
I pick up my coffee and start to drink,
I've been up all day and into the night,
Wracking my brain for something to write.
Just sitting around all day at home,
Hoping to write the next great tome,
But my progress has been terribly slow,
The words simply don't want to flow.
I realize to reap the glory and wealth,
My novel is not going to write itself,
It's my own project, I understand,
Though I wouldn't mind a helping hand.
I look at my dog and she starts to stare,
If she has any ideas, I wish she'd share,
I'd gladly give her any credit due,
Even buy her a bone or two.
But she looks at me with nothing to say,
It's clear that she just wants to play,
She goes to the corner and fetches her ball,
I can see that she is just no help at all.
01-12-11.
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 7:32 PM UTC
Little Lou,
Picks up a ***** and bucket,
Sand dusting her lips.
Small nose, freckles spreading along pudgy cheekbones,
She's a summer baby.
A lady of the sun.
Lou!
Chases ***** with guys.
Lou has scraped knees and a ponytail up high.
Lou is twelve years old.
Loulou is a prissy thing,
Pale arms, skinny and lean.
Laughing to herself.
Hair falls in waves
Shimmering in sunlight.
Louisa, oh Louisa.
She's breaking hearts,
Her tan is from hard work.
She fetches a frisbee from a tree,
Manicured hands,
Gloves for Little Lou's tiny digits.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 4:36 PM UTC
Ominous voices spoke within the haze of smoke,
in the rambunctious spirit of adolescence
one would hardly listen to those rants.
I remember two things, I was a white horse
raring to go to the very end, of the track, where a mountain rose,
its peak hidden in the cloudy whiteness, beyond that lies the cave of secrets;
the second certain thing, in that dream was my age, just 18, highly precarious,
none can now say this white horse, would turn dark at the end of the race.
(not, even if one becomes 18, all over again,would be sure)
The girl, wearing a flame red streaming cape, riding on my back
said: "What a night we had"! Yes she did amaze me all through the night,
and look now, I am happily under her spell, she has the magic word
to make me excel, if by chance failed, I'll be her ****
They'll turn me in to a mare by their spell, and sell in the village fair,
They'll regale themselves with this sweet imagination: if he wins he is our horse for ever,
or else, the money he fetches, would take us forward for a while,
The horse in his delirious fit thinks:" My love, we'll have many more nights
like we had, just you wait".
The crowd gets impatient,
they just want the race, see the girl on the horse, pass glamorously before their eyes
see someone's win, or some one soon should bite the dust.
**Be ready in your blood thirsty self, to witness oh! heartless crowd,
here, I am treading the blade of the sharp sword, dripping blood from my heart.**
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 1:57 AM UTC
(I am woken up by her honey-sweet voice in the morning.)
She: Good morning honey!
Me: Good morning baby!
(I yawn my mouth wide as I say that.)
(She smiles & replies tauntingly as she pulls my ear lovingly.)
She: Seems you had a laborious night!
Me: Yeah, a really laborious one indeed.
(Even I smile as I remember the last night; full of spice.)
(Now she bends towards the side-table and fetches coffee.)
She: Hmmm... I've prepared coffee for you darling, you were asleep.
Me: Oh dear, should I say thanks or kiss you again!?
(I move my body forward from the sheets craning my neck - the cutlery makes tinkling noise.)
(She cackles and barely maintains her balance as she retracts herself.)
She: Seems you're still undone, my naughty boy!
Me: Ah! How truer could you be, kiss me again!
(I offer my lips as I take the cup offered by her.)
(She smiles and just gives a brief peck on my lips with hers.)
She: *Now we should get our day started, otherwise we'd get late.*
Me: *What did you just say!? We'd get laid? Oh I'd love to!*
(I muster an apt piece of laughter for both of us.)
(She looks even more angelic as she laughingly pulls both my ears & cheeks.)
She: Get out of the bed, you naughty boy!
Me: Aye-aye madam! And I'll be hungry soon after getting done with my morning duties.
(I say greedily to invite another sweet smile from my angel-faced woman.)
(She seems to be ready for that and says in a learned manner.)
She: So my dear hubby, what would you have for breakfast?
Me: I'd have you with cheese & salt, milk & sugar and lots of love!
(I say that cheekily hoping to make her blush.)
(She blushes and turns towards the kitchen, I follow to help her.)
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 4:59 AM UTC
A white stick she holds,
it's in her right hand,
she feels her way through life,
all it's kerb stones,
she has a dog,
normally he's wearing a harness,
but, she left him indoors,
just for today,
for she has a date,
a date with dignity,
she knew she'd be late,
folks stop and pet the dog,
it always makes her late,
this,
this is such a special date,
she's meeting a soul mate,
another with failing eyes,
she steps onto the bus,
those who notice her move,
move out of the way,
fetching lady,
fetches soul mate,
they meet up,
off they go on their special first date.
(C) Livvi
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 10:03 AM UTC
He gifts them Summer fields
and even fetches them twilight sun
stinting over rows of trees,
where fireflies hover
and in the midst of paradise
you realise his regimen is familiar
he has already sent multitudinous pals,
adorned in grey and tarnished buckles
into fields of blood red poppies
and vortex craters filled with iron oxide
no greater love than scarred sacrifice
to perfect his own dusk
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 9:57 AM UTC
When my grandfather starts his career
He was engaged in field to measure and tilling of land
To get return out of it;
Once he said, ‘my father use to visit river every morning
To gather something for the day”!
My father, use to travel on bicycle
From village to town in morning and back home in the evening
He fetches his substances to support us!
When I start of my own
Migrated from village to town then from town to city,
Derived sustenance,
Up bring all whom I care!
Now my son
Prepare to migrate from city to megalopolis
To gather gen, awareness
To make an understanding
and to navigate in the ocean
towards placing himself on a marked point!
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 2:23 PM UTC
Loose Knit
by Michael R. Burch
She blesses the needle,
fetches fine red stitches,
criss-crossing, embroidering dreams
in the delicate fabric.
And if her hand jerks and twitches in puppet-like fits,
she tells herself
reality is not as threadbare as it seems ...
that a little more darning may gather loose seams.
She weaves an unraveling tapestry
of fatigue and remorse and pain; ...
only the nervously pecking needle
****** her to motion, again and again.
Published by The Chariton Review, Penumbra, Black Bear Review, and Triplopia. Keywords/Tags: Addiction, needle, veins, stitches, red, blood, ****** dreams, hallucinations, seams, darning, tapestry
Mar 21, 2020
Mar 21, 2020 at 11:22 PM UTC
I could still recall how gently I held your seed
and brought you to your bed.
There a drop of sweat from this forehead
joyously mingled with some grains of your soil.
I lay you there and saw the approval of the sun
as he sent his warmth reflected on your cheerful coating.
You lay down restfully on your life bed
And I dreamed…
You rose with your sturdy trunk
so robust with pride that your neighboring flagpole
felt intimated by your presence.
They sang him hymns
they bowed at him with their hearts
while you humbly stood there
swaying your greens, reaching atop, conquering the scorches of your sun
so that they, underneath remain unharmed, unscorched, unsoaked.
Soon you bore velvety fruits that the young munched as well as the old
On lazy days you gave them games of soccers and boomerangs,
and tennis, and catches and fetches.
On moonlights, you appeared to be a violinist
as the lovers kissed under your warm company.
You were the silent listener to the broken hearts
when you offered your comforting barks as a shoulder
till they cried and wept
till they breathed and smiled once again.
You had a way with humans who slouch under your shade
You hummed serenades that only your chirping friends
and fluttering colorflies hear and together
you created an orchestra harmonizing songs of friendship, of peace, of love.
I saw you arise and write down histories on to your memory—
how you tried to reach for the graduates’ caps in the air,
how spirited you applauded for great speeches on that podium
but no one ever noticed.
I saw you sway your branches gracefully as the marching band went
boom-boom, tug-tug, and kling-klang.
It was your favorite part of the day.
So many times you bore witness to silly fights
of the young and the old too,
but most often you saw these creatures
make peace at dusk.
There I saw you in eternity.
There I saw you to be forever standing tall on your life bed.
Then I heard the hellish rumble of their chainsaw,
the shrill reverberation piercing through this feeble core
as they ruthlessly cut your body.
I could not afford to watch you being slain.
You are my life.
Your death is my death.
Jun 2, 2023
Jun 2, 2023 at 10:20 AM UTC
Thorn bush
Orange and fire
Red
Sits pretty
And
Still with a
Fall snow
Her hair falls on
Her right shoulder
She has fallen in love
Yet she does not
Feel the sweetness of it
Yet
Across
From
Her
Stands a man and
His dog
The dog fetches a stick
The man
Did not throw
They glance at each other
Through a fate
Neither will admit
To believe in
Stubborn men
Stubborn women
Stubborn people
Who run from
Fates unconditional love
Oct 6, 2011
Oct 6, 2011 at 1:08 AM UTC
Milka's mother
makes me
a cup of tea
as I wait for Milka
downstairs.
She'll not be long,
her mother says,
although don't
hold your breath,
Benny,
she adds,
smiling.
I like her smile;
it's like warm milk
of a motherly kind.
I sip the tea,
looking as her mother
walks from the sink
to the cupboard;
her plump body
cosy as a cat's
snuggled up close,
her backside swaying
like waves of water.
She doesn't deserve you,
her mother says,
giving me
a brief glance,
you are so patient
with her,
waiting for her,
doing things for her.
I recall Milka
dressing madly,
after the last
*** episode,
and her mother
downstairs,
having returned
from shopping early,
Milka flushed,
and I,
well, I was
in a trance,
dressing as fast
as I could,
thinking of reasons
to be in Milka's room.
Would you like something
with the tea?
The mother asks,
looking at me,
her eyes searching me.
I try not to say
what's on my mind
and say,
a biscuit would be nice.
She smiles and goes
and fetches the biscuit tin
and opens it for me.
Help yourself,
she says.
She has very nice *******
I note,
not staring,
but noticing as
she nears me.
I nibble and sip.
Milka is upstairs
getting ready
to go out,
taking her time,
while her mother
seduces me,
unwittingly.
I smile.
Is that,
I muse,
a crime?
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 11:09 AM UTC
And they count me two,
At least one and a part,
Now I am being branded on its own,
Was good at sums,
Multiply and divides,
Came to me inborn, inherited
They stared at me,
Brusquely through corners of eyes,
Oh! There was one of acumen,
Not to be befooled,
Not blown away, missed I never,
I sailed through the early hours of my youth,
It came in a continuum,
Even at the moment and then,
Rest, I am not as good as thee,
I forgot you,
Did you not recall me?
Did you want that or that wished thee,
Deep in the thoughts,
Sailing in memories & memoirs,
It’s you, entire I wished to be,
You walked away,
On a diverse path, poles apart,
You chose to amend my destiny,
Fly you did,
Never for a minute did you halt,
It was too hurried, I couldn’t follow,
I want not to recall,
To be in motion,
All through this tide,
Crippled emotions,
One twist so curved,
Refuses to let safe as I cross,
Built to tear down,
Anything remainder of me,
I refuse to evaporate, burn it may
Replenished by my blood,
Happy in my displeasure,
Seeks to bring down the pile of me,
I breathe, I continue to,
Happy & in high spirits,
One too many tags fastened to me,
I sail, sail & sail
Through the blue, I set away far and wide,
Scares me no more the tide,
In the midst,
Of my, my, my existence,
My psyche takes a detour,
It fetches me you,
Dazzling in your presence,
Haven’t felt normal for times,
I hate the sea,
Disgusted for its tides,
Splash water on my face, bring me back,
May possibly I be excused,
And rent out in my thoughts,
Can I only live in my fantasy, if there only I want to be,
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 2:29 AM UTC
He walks backwards into a room, takes of his jacket and sits down
The bartenders slides him money and a receipt
He slips the money back into his wallet and the bartender fetches the receipt from under his shot glass
His makes a bitter face as the alcohol creeps back up his throat
He picks it up and sips it back into the glass from his mouth
Things in rewind seem much easier
Like ants running back into their hole
Raindrops flying into the sky
Your skin will soften, teeth will sink back into your gums
Your shoes will get bigger, feet smaller
You will remember less memories
Remember less of the pain
You will forget about all the nights you lay in awe of how much you miss him, you will think of him getting drunk
Wishing he would spit it back into the bottle
Wishing he would unhang up the phone
Wishing you hadn't walked out
You imagine unpacking your bags as salt water tears that dissolved into your shirt slid back up into your eyes
In the distance you can hear the music playing backwards as you rock back in forth, unkissing his neck
You want life to be recorded on a VCR, little green and red buttons putting your mind at ease
But then again, you haven't owned a VCR in years
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 3:36 PM UTC