"fibrous" poems
Maybe time will work at me
Like a mango.
Softer and softer, full to bursting,
I just want to bloom. To burst and explode,
And then be done, and rest.
Bruised, perhaps. Soft, sweet.
Maybe I will mellow. Maybe I will lose the shine
of being stretched over all my insides,
All the swimming flavor,
Veined together, contained and fibrous.
Maybe the stem will snap at last,
And I will hit the earth, mangled.
Juices ****** away,
Soaked into the ground that split me.
May 25, 2012
May 25, 2012 at 11:04 AM UTC
Dare to live.
Stop insisting on chasing after death.
Stop trying to die.
Quit the grand illusion.
You shall never die.
Grow your wings and fly to the mountaintop
of your world. Breathe stars.
Bravely go alone. Only you can do this.
Regularly in your day--exercise conviction.
Visualize Stars, the Sun.
Golden, fibrous threads
of starlight, of sunlight --
take them in, through the nostrils.
This is nothing less than
soul's power-fuel.
Inhale slowly and experience
the gentle music of love's fire,
as flames would pull up
a chimney stack, up pipes of ovens.
Faith builds with such breath practice.
Greed cooked transformed.
Anger put to rest.
Ignorance surrendering
to ways of knowing.
Prepare that your purpose
shall speak to you.
Breathe starlight.
Are you surprised
that you feel no heat?
Your unique timelessness
awaits your recognition.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 6:32 PM UTC
Prophesies of impending fall
creep stealthily over the Great Divide.
Gold-green Aspens shiver in the breeze
like leagues of fibrous wind chimes
serenading the mountain slopes
with aires of shimmering gold.
A few distant bugle calls echo
across the Big Thompson valley
as bull elks warm up for the autumn rut.
Sudden early gusts of frigid wind
bring waves of sleet and snow -
in tune with the turning polar axis.
The greater chill is soon to come.
The animals know it as do we.
Bears bulk up on grasses, roots and berries.
Elk and deer drift down from the heights
To show their young the ways
of the plains and river valleys.
We pull our sweaters on
and toss another log on the flames
and greet the harbingers of approaching fall
creeping stealthily over the Great Divide.
September, 2018
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 1:56 PM UTC
Tonight I learned what it means to be mortal. To have a fifteen year dream crushed publicly. To smile and be the man that lies, “it’s ok, God has better plans and I trust that.” Tonight my wings were clipped and I was sentenced to a life of soil and toil, forever forced to watch the eagles in orange soar in the clouds and sky that I know I was created to own. I love this place because it is more of a home than I have ever known. It is pure and navy and orange and majestic. I wanted to serve it and glorify my king and this institution. Alas, no. Not I but the vultures. How is it that carrion dominate? How is it that prestige trumps passion? How is it that title and gold trump heart and integrity? I lost respect for my home. I feel as if a stranger in my own walls. I gave more than sweat and blood and tears yet they were swept under the carpet to rot. Fester and rot. I hope my passion and time as leader was well spent, it was and always was for you, tiger, not me! Always! I sharpened your claws and defended your teeth until they ****** me. Why. This is not how it is supposed to be. I pray this love and three year passion was not for non. Not for me, not for nametags or orange jackets, not for titles or for comfort but for passion and unbridled love of the institution which ****** me have I served. I have yet to work through what I’ve learned through this but tonight I know a chapter has ended and it hurts. It’s not that the chapter ended and a period was placed and the next began, it’s the end of the climactical chapter and the next pages are blank. Existent, yes. But blank. And the white on the page pales in comparison to orange and blue. I hate white and it’s idle uncertainty. I hold the pen but tonight my hand was severed, my limbs they rot, and my heart is numb. I am jello and I am free. And I hate, with every inth of my fibrous being, this freedom. I miss my chains.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 12:28 PM UTC
Dusk!
With a creepy, tingling sensation you hear the fluttering of leathery wings!
Bats!
Glowing red eyes and glistening fangs,
These unspeakable giant bugs drop into view.*
Fibrous wings furred like a moth,
Big ears are just a membranous extension of antennae.
Flying in search of a flower’s pollen laden froth,
Silent except for the hum and squeak of echolocation.
Trap bats in attics, butterflies in nets.
No rabies feared, no bedbug bites to itch.
Clawed feet ****** and grab like praying mantis pincers;
Bloated stomach slopes like a pudgy beetle.
Jaws manipulate like an ant, excise like scissors;
Soft hair rustles like a wooly caterpillar.
They live in darkness, centipedes do too,
Come out at night like cockroaches tend to.
Skittering through the night like daddy long-legs,
Noses snubbed like bumble bee faces.
Wind turbines endanger bats,
Like fans endanger lightning bugs.
Only one percent of bats are vampiric,
Like only a small percentage of spiders are poisonous.
Dawn!
With a creepy, tingling sensation you hear the fluttering of leathery wings!
Bats!
Bats are bugs, aren’t they?
May 4, 2010
May 4, 2010 at 5:04 PM UTC
The Key To Success
A leaf has many veins connected by the midrib, similar to the Corolla in flowers connected by the sepal,
A stem has many leaves, connected through it, even the roots in this design- fibrous or tap are in their own way special,
Many stalks form a branch, many branches form a tree but all connect at the base, the trunk,
This happens in every tree, but to rebirth has to separate some chunk,
The message being conveyed by nature is unity is the key to success in this world where every person is a different type of petal,
Land Of The Ganga
In this Garth, trees are never watered by a soul, but the river Ganges herself,
The trees even after sinking inwards into the ground, continue to bloom in themselves,
Filled with myriad species of undreamt trees and the rarest of all florets in the daintiest of bowers
The most prodigious banyan tree with about three hundred aerial roots is the main
attracter
A tree that stores water is one of the hundred phenomena in the Botanical Garden in the land of the Ganga itself
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 10:29 AM UTC
I'm eating kale to slim my waist
Lord knows it's not because of taste
It took some while to appreciate
The leafy green I love to hate
The fibrous queen of super foods
Can satisfy nutrition prudes,
And comes in leafy shapes galore:
Curly, Tuscan, dinosaur
For variation I can gnaw
This crucifer sautéed or raw,
Just as is, or baked as chips,
A smoothie blend to please my lips
But having said all that, I'll add
Too much of anything is bad,
And I've been craving, as of late,
A change of greens to grace my plate
I now peruse the produce aisle
To find the foods that make me smile
It's time to choose my next big thing
Like watercress or collards green
I'll greet my new nutrition trend
And say goodbye to you, old friend
Kale, we've had a lovely run,
But now my time with you is done.
Jul 19, 2020
Jul 19, 2020 at 4:16 PM UTC
Throwing themselves beneath the mechanized yard-work goliath,
Salvia flowers bow their heads, heralding my passing
Stooping to remove their violet hats,
Thrown to the ground, trampled underfoot by passing metal,
A muddled **** of
half-death, half-birth
Floral genitalia broken into fragments, shards of color
Yet always they bow
Stooping, self-subjugating, submissive, servile, stretched
to their absolute maximum, fibrous tendrils ripping from the bed of grass
Until they flutter gently
Half-mocking their half-living counterparts
Still rooted firmly in the mulchy beds.
May 6, 2012
May 6, 2012 at 11:00 PM UTC
aboriginal
pre-literate
innocent and forever renewed
(as if flash flashing
back and forth to heaven)
one hundred trillion cells of me
notice i am noticing them
i send them
all my love
grounding
i am walking tree
with fibrous light as root
grounding
i am sitting stone
galaxy within galaxies
infinitum spinning
my body
the dance of the universe
do you tell me i am anything less?
do you tell yourself
you are anything less?
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 10:09 PM UTC
"It's just one cut,"
said the sharp lady doctor before language
melted off her clipboard and the operating lamps
grew huge and spilled their bright innards into my eyes.
I lay on the cold tiled floor of the museum.
One monstrous cut -- the white shark suspended
above in a last hungry lunge yawns, belly open.
Around me what a wide-eyed fisherman pulled out:
old tires, whale-oil lamps, Damien Hirst, bones upon bones.
Damien sits on a tire, bored as hell. See the jagged edges,
he says, they pulled him into our cold afterlife
and cut while he suffocated, explosive oxygen flooding
his lungs from the wrong direction.
Later, the doctors showed me
what had for so long kicked and screamed to be out.
Liver-colored, swollen, wrapped in catgut, it was not
as expected. Others had promised ground seaglass,
poppyseed freckles, huge lungs like fibrous balloons
for flying or spouting poetry nonstop in day-long stretches.
Where were my eyes?
It was supposed to have my eyes.
May 12, 2010
May 12, 2010 at 7:34 PM UTC
Sorry it ended up like this.
Me out here, still wrapped up warm in my vestigial garment of flesh.
You in there, naked amongst your primitive ancestors like the youngest adult at a wedding, mingling awkwardly, embarrassed.
I wonder how you died. Your ribs look like they have been fixed back together after some kind of trauma.
A car crash maybe?
Maybe you struggled with long term illness, rotting before you ripened like a sickly bud in a wet spring.
However it happened your bronze plaque states it was untimely and therefore probably tragic. '(A young woman)' I read, not so much discovering but confirming what I already knew to be true when I first laid eyes first met yours across the crowded room.
You stand about as tall as me, your shining off white cheeks delicate as fine china. Staring out of you glass cabinet, you seem to beg not to be judged alongside your distant relatives, your slumping neighbors.
Fragile and sweet, you radiate a quiet dignity. It isn't hard to imagine the thin layer of blood, skin and fibrous tissue that it would take to make you beautiful again.
I plunge my hand through that glass portal, soft folds of meat transposed to brittle bone and back again, unifying you world with the mortal
It was obvious that you were beautiful, and involuntarily I envy the one who held you and kissed you last.
I wonder if anyone ever wrote a poem for you when you were alive.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 5:08 AM UTC
The photo reminded her of bruised fruit. Well first and foremost:fruit.
Her body, curled around itself, sheltering the fibrous crunchy pit of her, her body white and frayed looking, rounded buttock, calf gently sloping, feet modest, willowy toes toenails like shale
face blurred, questionable dark spots where her eyes could have been. they closed as the shudder buckled, her mouth sagged open, lip lolling to one side, brow ancient furrowed like folds of sand nudged by a lazy tide. None of it concise, only guessing. Her knees brought up, squeezed against small
crunch-able chest. Full, heavy with pulp (stringy sweet, what snags on the teeth) but what if it were to fall from an appreciable height? Filmy is the flesh. Daring the looker to look closer, see what mite be hidden there.
Ripe:questionable. Sweet like nothing, pouring from the corners of a mouth: what a bite it would be.
That first bite.
The bruising comes in when she thinks of the brain beneath, that open, limitless figure so pale and forefront and brimming with intent, so crush-able with careless fist, so lovable with thirsty mouth. But what of the mind that put her before you, that turned her vulnerable, shameless, open for discussion?
Put her before you. naked.
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 1:01 PM UTC
i pick, wash, slice
the orange and
lift a slice towards
my
lips
chewing on the
flesh that is sweet
with great ambition
and pulp, taking
my mind to
hot summer
days
then my teeth
sinks into the
harsh reality
that inhabits
the
rind
fibrous strands hang in my teeth-
so annoying-
so frustrating-
so bitter-
slipping down to my innards
down
down
down
my fingers are together
sticking
but i won't be
disheartened
for i hold the
slice and squeeze
and
after
a
time
my tongue is
kissed by
the last of juice
drops
the best of juice
the of knowledge that I ingest with
drops
age
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 2:52 PM UTC
I remember when we were young,
and the shark fin made by falling water droplets
from the back-and-forth sway of windshield wipers
on our car window would scare you
Because you thought that the spaces we couldn’t reach
would form monsters in their crevices,
and I would laugh and roll my eyes,
like big brothers did.
And I remember how,
on nights when we would sleep over at grandma’s,
the pitter-patter of our puerile feet on hardware floors
was the only sound to be heard.
Shadows formed where the beam of my flashlight hit,
adorned with fading Spiderman stickers and the like-
and you would squeal under my whispered protests
because of the unfurling octopus limbs
that were the leaves of a potted plant.
We grew older, and so did my suspicions,
as you crept out of the realm of childish make-believe
and into a world that even when showcased in daylight was a nightmare.
Demons, from the deep fire that enflamed the world’s core
tried to penetrate the surface, according to you.
But as their hands reached forth out of the earth’s skin,
they curled in agony, the evil of the earth halting their conquest.
They fossilized and shriveled in autumn’s wake,
gray and deadened fingertips just unassuming tree branches,
the perennial reaches just fibrous spindles blurring in the sunlight.
The world held prospects despite your macabre claims,
And as we grew I distanced myself from your melancholic tune.
Trees were trees, and bore fruit at summer’s twilight
and the friends I made were all of the parts most sweet.
I was content with the woman I met, she blonde-haired and lovely
her free-falling locks sparkling gold in every light,
and her personality as rich and as glossy.
I was content with my life of looking away from spaces
where our human hands couldn’t reach,
demons out of eyesight in the beam of glass city buildings.
But as the dusk of one day segued into the dawn of another,
I grew weary,
each routine just a part of this monotonous human noise
to which I, too had voiced.
And I found myself driving one day when thunder roared in the sky,
rain once again pouring into its shark fin mold.
Your voice came into my head,
the demon hands that had had died trying to take us over with their evil
but overwhelmed by our own brand of hellish wretchedness
lined the freshly paved sidewalk,
and with a twist of the wheel one unreachable space met another.
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 10:49 PM UTC
So I am watching
the Washing Machine,
rolling over itself;
having our clothes cleaned.
And Maybe I floss to often
though maybe thats not possible
such a task is too common
and love is just ***
and so I make it the objective
as the object
I object.
as Justice
and whatever "just is"
is Just us
and there are other parts to continuing
that we forgot.
since if you move too far ahead of your competition
you forget the reason why you run
and you end up as flint
or lint
missing,
the fire
or the match
scratch that,
scratch that,
scratch that,
especially the match
but be fluent
in burning the resources and not the bridge.
-keeping everything grainy and fibrous-
- you are are healthily expanding-
so if you're too nervous
of being judged
you might as well
not show up.
so instead I am watching the washing machine.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 1:27 PM UTC
Bread from waxed paper packet
a childhood memory of mum making tea
snow white, thick sliced
fringed with a brown crust
comfortingly heavy, ****** smelling
the butter pleases me
covered under the tub lid
with a coated paper peeled back
to reveal a thick golden slab of
churned cream easily spread, cold
straight from the fridge onto waiting
fibrous surface, allowing it to sink in
cheese in a yellow block, related to
the butter in so many ways, dairy
a long lost brother, sliced thick with
a proper knife with the pointed curved
tip, designed to ***** and pick up
each slice, placing carefully on the bed
prepared for it to rest, ready for the final
ochre coloured element, mustard, from
a glass jar using a teaspoon, to dollop
before resting a second buttered slice
on top to make a creation, a taste sensation
Jul 20, 2019
Jul 20, 2019 at 2:39 PM UTC
She was night when I met her.
The hills beyond bathed in moonlight,
though she seemed to hide from faint starshine
sheltered and hidden: wrapped in a mystery cloak
woven from fibrous shadows and dyed
in the deepest part of the ocean with midnight hues
untouched by the constellations.
She was summer aurora soon after her night.
I took her hand into the dewy field,
we reveled in the damp and softened earth
and the stars blossomed: points of bursting light
fixed among the twilit blue-greens
like the blinking bulbs of fireflies
who floated between our heads.
She was daybreak after her sky turned aquamarine.
The stars hid themselves under our feet,
the sun appeared on our horizon
and painted our faces in pinks and oranges: her hand
so soft and gentle, slipped from mine
trailing warmth against the flesh of my palm
where her fingertips kissed my skin.
She was high morning when the sky’s pinks faded.
I cradled her face between my two hands,
pressed kindnesses into her cheeks
and turned our noses to the sunshine: her celestial smile
played notes on her lips,
singing lilting aria in a rising melody
as the light radiated warmth across her face.
But now she is a rainbow in refracted afternoon.
She gleams in every color now her cloak is shed,
red in heart, orange in grin, yellow in mind,
green in energy, blue in veins, violet in spirit: but most of all
she is soft pink, pale white, and baby blue,
a harmony of hues
which she had kept hidden under her cloak of night.
Oct 28, 2017
Oct 28, 2017 at 12:51 PM UTC
Fibromyalgia, microfibral mania, Malaysian phalanges making
fibrous writing utensils used for playing fetch with Fido.
The point is moot.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 11:32 PM UTC
Kale greens. Beets grow fat and wine-dark.
Carrots spin sun into fibrous orange.
Someone carried soil up these stairs.
Onions open long fingers into the morning fog.
Small herbs and winter squash keep quiet company
here on the rooftop while sirens pass below.
In the afternoon one or two leave their e-mail
and ascend to this improbable place.
“Put your hands into the dirt,” a doctor advised,
and you’ll feel better.” There is a time to plant
and a time to reap. A time when nature, nearly
spent, needs tending in small places.
Boat-weary immigrants lay bok choy along
the sidewalk’s edge. Geraniums bloom
in window boxes. Here and there
insistent chilis dangle on a bush in a half-
barrel. A rooftop is world enough for now.
You don’t need forty acres or a mule.
A few square yards, drip line, a couple
of spades and willing hands suffice.
The rest is blessing.
Jun 19, 2017
Jun 19, 2017 at 11:21 AM UTC
I am a writer.
One who can close myself away into a small dimly lit space and gush life onto an insubstantial substance of fibrous material..in hopes that once finished..reads of something that makes sense and releases a tad of this confined fury..that whirls in my ever churning mind.
I am a Dreamer.
A human born into disparaging circumstances, that grasped for anything tangible, as early as I can possibly recollect. With a never ending desire to find truth and love beyond the abuse that I endured throughout all of my childhood..Determined to view life..clear of the filters embedded over my eyes, attempting to force my mind to function through the inherited dysfunction.
I am a Lover.
Believing in a Love so genuine, that it literally heals all human afflictions .
Investing in a hope in all things soulful and lucid.
Craving to Love free of the bounds thought fathomable, truly devoting to other souls..the most valuable asset - Time - and desirous to Lead with Love in every moment.
I am a Writer.
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 2:31 AM UTC
like some jealous future self,
my writer's clock balks at this moment with you,
i can't explain, so i give up listening. (i have an app for that)
the writing only stops as degustation ends ~
thank you, though ~ i'd like you to hear
regardless of the meanings lent ~
the gymnolexical fear
appearing ornamental far and near.
google files us away, omniscient
acumen of o's and ones ~
words sing to me their luring promise of a lasting hold,
but less and less
as plastic griming fingers sync
with what it seems to be,
a new world search-
-engine culling info freely
do i still believe in order?
striving for the fitted words,
a love imprinted input thus on crystal pixel page,
your effect on me distilled--
refracted throng associational
fantastic server metacomfort
for an audience
swimming past into this,
now always
ever-new you appear, bursting
at the seams my vision churning
...effluent sourcing, blurry self of others ~
heart-charming river-nymphs!
bolt-hurling sky-satyrs! reeling nations are subtended by your words
that walk, trod, swim across what poetry,
dance with this ever-blooming techne-earth
as i mark your plasmic eyes
we flow and let flow,
we dance our farmer's mud
into the beryl-winding paths
of othernets and cyberplay,
the restful ends reborn bright white
lacing lattice-scopic fibrous
scatters of another wi-fi interlife ~
we stream and let stream,
river-tress girl, your eyes summon
a great coalescence in me,
we dance into the channeled
delta of spring beauty here across the keyboard;
it cascades a slow attentive phosphene
striking pointed notes of color,
ring beneath and through the
green, sylvan silicon throw of mossy html
so that even rocks and sprawling
tree-trunks sing within the disembodied
vortexes of arrowed imagery to browse
my virtual belongings to you,
alone in your sorrow-joy fighting
free love in an all-world-breath
before the screen
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 11:40 PM UTC
mechanical wonders are they!
the greatness of ever-changing plains
withered weathering willows which wallow in the wake of winds,
shriveling, sniffling, cynical twins.
solaris, the fantastical bringer of light!
oh how we lift our faces in your fruit-bearing gaze.
our thanks for extinguishing the inky blight, you have given us sight.
we miserable, entangled creatures in locks and chains,
at the mercy of the return of your fiery blaze.
we rely on Pandora’s final curiosity
and during times of ultimate crisis, we wish for you
and pray for catharsis.
but your sister…
luna, you wretched being, wrecker of sanity!
oh how you unravel the psyche, fibrous ends,
intertwining tapestries meticulously woven yet disassembled so quickly.
we are aghast at the horrors with which you plague us.
each stare through the mirror, reversed pools of vanity
freckles of light fall from their places
on weary onlookers’ shadowy faces
as they melt in the hysterics of your obscure domain.
finally a farewell, an intonation of speech:
“good-bye.”
discombobulated words, addressed to each;
for one sister revitalizes that which the other hath slain.
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 11:09 PM UTC