"flank" poems
Ah.. shes here...I shuffle around the stalls... watching..out of the corners of my eyes.... she knows ....Intimacy...a hand on flank..careful..
.you'll break me....with your gentle hands..
..My hard mouth....your soft lips..
..unruly, unruled....old horse...a kiss.
.. Confused, ...stallion in name only.
... You whisper... My ears *****
... forward..the hunt! ....your scent on..
..My bridle...I smell u still...
.. Calm...Comfort...Welcome...
.Gentled, not too gently....a strong hand.
. It grows trust …..truth...a Stallion! Once more.
Panting...pawing...'Be easy'..nervous eyes roll.
.a hand on the neck...a caress..'Gently '...you whisper,
.... hot breath against ear
… I snuffle and toss my head
…. still a bit frightened…..her power!
..Will you ride.? ! ..firm thighs and buttocks..
..Toes point... Heels dig...all Give and Take….
. Instruction to...from...the muscled beast.
..straddled. Awkward… too long without….
..A Rider … the matching... Gait with hip...
Walk-on.. Trot, pounding...Heels clip.
..faster, just a bit..Then smoothly they fit her to him.
...a canter.....this long stretch....rocking like one creature
….each a part of the other...breathing evenly…
...caught ….. Breath comes quick...bodies warm.
. Exertion...strength..trust.. Leaning forward..
knees grip..pulling...toes curl..in..
..hot breath..whisper in an ear… Now!
...hands grip mane... As they clench
… bit between the teeth...She..
...gives him his head... Finding his rhythm
…. home in sight...a last burst……
Rider/Stallion sweat soaked … blood pounding..There... againthe scent of her...Sweet Hay rising.
..she whispers… yes oh yes… I knew…
you had it in you.. In me...oh gods….YES! ! .
. No! not the pasture yet for you.. She chuckles..
.bodies tangled in sheets ….. Her mane of dark hair..
Scent of her fills him …
glad to be..Alive? Yes..head…. Heat…
heart...bursting…Not now… But soon.
. A gift.. This youth.. Who see's value in an old war horse.
..ridden.. but no more to war and blood..
.gentled, both he and she… sleep…bridled passion.
..her...a scent of sweet hay…
.him...an old spice..and gunpowder? ..mmm.
by Alexander K Hamilton
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 12:01 AM UTC
Route 84 would not lend me
the light of a star last night
Radio blazing at 75 mph
nonsense noise to chew gum by
Crackling political commentary
Static of distance and thick clouds
Invisible mountains blocking
Memories seeping through the cracks
coating the music in a film
I rub my eyes
watch myself punch alert buttons
But it’s the angels’ jukebox tonight
Roll down the window
Watch the heat escape
Summer again
I am building a castle of ancient stones
pulverized by relentless tides
Dragged across maps by mastodons
and mammoth glaciers
The scouring hiss
the ocean sighs
Time has lulled these smoothly
rolling them in the softest hands of sand
and gels of life’s comings and goings
tenderly tumbling
in the millionth moonrise—
Time deposits them here
wet and glistening
For the girl with the plaid two-piece to gather
Shoulders sun-burnt barely say
one week only,
one week of the fifty two
“It’s the time of the season…”
and daddies on the beach are watching….
She has chosen yet another stone
And the castle continues—
in oblivion to all but her legend…
The queen will be safe here
from the rabble
The disgraced Tristan will surely seek her
Among these lofty cliffs
Between the raging circuit of the tide
Here winds forbid the vengeful mob
Here lovers learn
the debt of love’s bad timing
“Drink ye all of it!”
--the potion that assigns our sorrow….
She will not sleep—
while I chew this gum-- GUM?
Roll down the window!
Angels escape with the heat
Waking me with the brush of their wings
As that eighteen-wheeler hugs my flank
And leans on the horn
Lights flashing
Rude rumbling under right tires
Tantrum of snow
In the draft of mass and velocity
…and the angels?
They’ve chosen another good one!
They must’ve liked the 80’s
Their wings slapping the windshield madly
Their hands steady the wheel
Sep 13, 2016
Sep 13, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
Yes, sir, I want you to spank me
With that hand I know so well
It is more than just five fingers
It’s the reason I rebel
Yes, sir, I want you to clank me
In bonds of silver and gold
Chained, I’m a precious gift to you
Unwrapping me never gets old
Yes, sir, I want you to yank me
Down on the floor to my knees
My gaze lowers at your command
I’m eager to do as you please
Yes, sir, I want you to flank me
Punish me from every side
I know I’ve been a naughty girl
Needing discipline you’ll provide
Yes, sir, I want you to crank me
Up to writhing ecstasy
Don’t stop ‘til I ******* beg you
Your tough love is what sets me free
Yes, sir, I want you to thank me
For being your precious pet
Even though I disobey you
It’s clear you love to see me sweat
Yes, sir, I want you to spank me
With the implement of your choice
Make it hurt to make me happy
In your dominance I rejoice
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 12:32 AM UTC
people **** people
with nothing but fingers and hair
and their very heavy breath.
their breath like a crow beak
before crucifixes of straw. like a tightening banishment of a lung.
remember when we would blow it
onto our car window and create that
consistent mirth of fog to
begin in?
the bodies riddled with bullets that flank
the highway are no such thing.
the schoolchildren lying face down in the corner of the closet are no such thing.
they are just winter coats with schoolchildren to fill them
for the time being.
no amputation of what’s mine
will aid them into the grave.
no mass communication grief. so
why would you call it a mass grave when in truth it was just a pit i dug to fill with crowds of people who died under the pretense that they had previously done so,
that nothing was new under the sun.
and when people **** people like people
do with their instruments
as ways of extending themselves into the world and into the marrow of our body
obliterating organs of people with their stretching of the muscular rib, shoulder.
one eye closes firmly.
it’s nothing but a hand gun
as if to say a hand eats the gun
and makes it whole.
as if to say the reinforced metal door
exit plan for people who are being killed by other people clicked shut and locked
15,000 years ago and i can’t quit slamming what’s left of me into it.
your kid is very dead.
but then again so is mine.
suppose they killed each other.
suppose they both made the mistake of dragging their small, stupid bodies through the trajectory of another body in the first place. in the chip aisle of a gas station maybe. in theaters this christmas.
in the midst of a good song that began playing on the lobby radio
just a minute before,
oh yeah before,
things really got going.
i saw people killing people
on television the other day
with their
whole bodies,
devouring themselves like surgical gloves
slick with oiled consumption
and bleeding out
and i could do nothing.
some kids died just because
and they told me so and i was told nothing could ever help them because they were just people and they were dying.
“breaking news” ended up just being people again.
in those moments, i was eating breakfast.
our houses were very quiet and needed me in all of them, grandfather clock over CNN, clarifying what has already been
committed and committed again.
the cipher was others lost blood.
Dec 9, 2019
Dec 9, 2019 at 12:24 AM UTC
Last night I dreamt I cohabitated with
Two beasts, both loved.
The one, a young lioness
The other a spry lamb
I had raised the both from infancy
But the lioness, who was then entering her adulthood began to size up the lamb.
And it occurred to me that in order to
save
the lamb from the lioness
That I must **** and eat it myself
It is the inescapable nature of a lion to
Hunt and ****
livestock
So while there was no scruple or problem for me to have these two animals,
They could not abide one another.
So I did it.
I slaughtered the lamb and cut it's flank and got at its tender meat
And I cooked it and served it with Marsala sauce and that night the lioness and I dined on the flesh of our old friend.
And I became aware eventually,
Between my ravenous gnawings at the meat
That the lioness was not eating.
She was
Staring fixedly
Directly at me.
She did not blink.
And I stopped feasting on the lamb.
And as I did I saw her eyes dilate
And she pounced across the table
And she gored me with her great claws
And split my gut and spilled my innards
And she ate me bit by bit still screaming
Still covered in Marsala sauce.
Before it was over I had but a breath in me and I cried,
"But why?!"
And I realized that it is the inescapable nature of the lion
To hunt and to ****
Not just livestock, not just lambs.
She had hunted and killed us both.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
* "Our cattle graze, the wind breathes." -Garcilaso *
It was my ancient voice
ignorant of thick bitter juices.
I sense it lapping my feet
beneath the fragile wet ferns.
Ay, ancient voice of my love,
ay, voice of my truth,
ay, voice of my open flank,
when all the roses flowed from my tongue
and grass knew nothing of horses' impassive teeth!
Here are you drinking my blood,
drinking my tedious childhood mood,
while in the wind my eyes are bludgeoned
by aluminum and drunken voices.
Let me pass the gates
where Eve eats ants
and Adam seeds dazzled fish.
Let me return, manikins with horns,
to the grove where I stretch
and leap with joy.
I know a rite so secret
it requires an old rusty pin
and I know the horror of open eyes
on a plate's concrete surface.
But I want neither world nor dream, nor divine voice,
I want my freedom, my human love
in the darkest corner of breeze that no oen wants.
My human love!
Those hounds of the sea chase each other
and the wind spies on careless tree trunks.
Oh ancient voice, burn with your tongue
this voice of tin and talc!
I long to weep because I want to,
as the children cry in the last row,
because I'm not man, nor poet, nor leaf,
but only a wounded pulse circling the things of the other side
I want to cry out speaking my name,
rose, child and fir-tree beside this lake,
to speak my truth as a man of blood
slay in myself teh tricks and turns of the word.
No, no. I'm not asking, I, desire,
voice, my freedom that laps my hands.
In the labyrinth of screens it's my nakedness receives
the moon of punishment and the ash-drowned clock.
Thus I was speaking.
Thus I was speaking with Saturn stopped the trains,
when the fod and Dream and Death were seeking me.
Seeking me
where the cows, with tiny pages' feet, bellow
and where my body floats between opposing fulcrums.
5.7k
Through grain fields with bayonets fixed,
from Belleau Woods the Germans came.
The sixth Marines in shallow pits
unleashed a deadly metal rain.
The French collapsed upon the left
Their flank exposed by craven fear
The Marines held fast when urged to flee:
"Retreat?, Monsieur? We just got here."
By June the sixth, it fell to them
to take a Hill to save the French.
A German company with machine guns
waited for them, well entrenched.
Their tactics from another war,
Audacious yes, but not too clever
"Come on, you ******** Dan Daly roared,
"Do you really want to live forever?"
With casualties high, so many dead
The Marine Corps held the hill by night.
Counter attacks were fended off
some times with fists and K bar knife.
Now the cannon of both sides
rained steel where the combatants stood:
A once beautiful preserve of princes
was turned into a shattered wood.
Through mustard gas and cannon fire
The Marines advanced into the Wood.
Silenced machine guns and cut bared wire
till the enemy fled, this time for good.
Before the flag at Iwo flew,
Before the Canal's jungle squalor
Marines were nicknamed "Devil Dogs"
by the Germans who admired valor.
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 3:37 PM UTC
Yep.
They're out there.
Pens ablaze.
Out to startle
and amaze.
Quite adept at
turn of phrase.
Leaving people
in a daze.
Set the fire.
Smoke's a haze.
The arsonist's
pernicious ways.
Before you know it
reps are razed.
Even tho my
flank is grazed
I won't worry.
I'm unfazed.
Don't base my worth
upon your praise.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 1:42 PM UTC
Dig silwer linte dans na die maan
in wolkpluime wat na die strerre toe maan
ek is weer hartseer
weer stukkend
gebreek
daarom nog 'n siggaret toestaan
an my mense bestaan
ek beaam my met die kwale
van 'n ongebonde wereld
wat pleit om liefde en genade
wat soene soek in suikersoet
wat drome droom so swart soos roet
wat binne die lyne bly
en so ook verlossing by hul neuse in lei
want meisies is net slette
as hulle saam die verkere perd saal
of die slippie laat val
na hul vir die aborsies betaal
en seuns is net moffies
as hul sukkel om 'n rugby bal te vang
vergeet van die agsteman wat gretig
na die flank se balle verlang
vloek en laster bring God se toorn
werk an jou eie vokken balk en los my doring
dalk is jou masker meer heel
as die van my...
maar met elke krakie...
is ek darem 'n krakie meer vry
- as jy
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 8:19 PM UTC
This is it.
Your big moment.
Taking time at these crossroads.
Your decision determining destiny.
A moment all your own, never to be replicated.
skittering circuits buzz, obedient to your commands.
Hours lay ahead of you, stuffed and bulging with the static you will consume.
Channel 2 or channel 4?
This is it.
Your catastrophic downfall.
An outcry was made, now the civility is shattered.
the acquaintances you once held as companions,
may now cut icy glares as the senate did to Caesar.
alarms ring, as you feel reduced in their eyes.
You got the wrong change at the cafe,
so you ask for a fiver.
later on,
your banquet awaits, golden and sunbaked.
stewed for months, in rich and creamy crop of the land.
taking your throne, in the cool shaded flank in your garden of eden.
A cup of soup and a bag of crisps.
these grand odysseys still raise up those same emotional epics,
as moments in youth locked in the past.
like lying on a blanket at the very edge of one of the seven sisters.
alas, you are still perched upon oblivion,
cup of tea in hand.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 6:19 PM UTC
Beside the ungathered rice he lay,
His sickle in his hand;
His breast was bare, his matted hair
Was buried in the sand.
Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep,
He saw his Native Land.
Wide through the landscape of his dreams
The lordly Niger flowed;
Beneath the palm-trees on the plain
Once more a king he strode;
And heard the tinkling caravans
Descend the mountain-road.
He saw once more his dark-eyed queen
Among her children stand;
They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks,
They held him by the hand!
A tear burst from the sleeper’s lids
And fell into the sand.
And then at furious speed he rode
Along the Niger’s bank;
His bridle-reins were golden chains,
And, with a martial clank,
At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel
Smiting his stallion’s flank.
Before him, like a blood-red flag,
The bright flamingoes flew;
From morn till night he followed their flight,
O’er plains where the tamarind grew,
Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts,
And the ocean rose to view.
At night he heard the lion roar,
And the hyena scream,
And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds
Beside some hidden stream;
And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums,
Through the triumph of his dream.
The forests, with their myriad tongues,
Shouted of liberty;
And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud,
With a voice so wild and free,
That he started in his sleep and smiled
At their tempestuous glee.
He did not feel the driver’s whip,
Nor the burning heat of day;
For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep,
And his lifeless body lay
A worn-out fetter, that the soul
Had broken and thrown away!
2.5k
The ground connects us through our feet
We connect the Earth through our minds
And connect our hearts through our hands
Until the ground beneath our feet
Begins to crumble
We dig up hatred and then repeat
As we stumble
Attacking the planet to cut our connection
And severing our stability
When the ground is filled with holes
And the ground is filled with those
We chose to dispose
For what they know
Or what they show
We told them no
And dimmed their glow
We feel dirt between our toes
As the quicksand embraces our ankles
We let a malicious mudslide flank us
The Sandman continues to introduce us
To our own eternal rest
On his endless conquest
For minerals in his midst
Sentiment unable to penetrate his sediment
The dirtiness in his heart becomes evident
When he drowns us in dust
And colors us rust
He feels he must
But he made a fatal mistake
Not realizing we are attached by soil
As the soil becomes a lake
We find relation deeper than oil
The Sandman seeks our species' slumber
But the power of our tears
Are strong when shared
And shower us with love
That runs through our blood
Moistening man
Soaking the sand
Once we see life grand
Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 5:38 AM UTC
Nobody understands children
Or plays their games properly.
Nobody looks them in the eye
As equals
Or tells them a secret
In return for one of theirs
A real one.
No one cares what they think,
Just how they are, and what people think of them.
They do not exist.
Their opinion is not there.
It’s sad because
In many ways
They’re good at life
And in many ways
We’re not -
We take on too much,
Live unsustainably
And end up
Disappointing all round.
Oh well.
Julia exercised her power
Over the happy family’s
Holiday photo shoot at dinner.
To cage the moment
The adults sent a camera to either flank of
Her and her father.
She was suddenly reticent, shy, they thought.
Her face dancing away from the camera
While she monkey hugged her father
(For some more haribo).
But he would not give in, because he did not have them,
And everyone wanted a picture of them together,
The spotlight was on them now,
He was sweating in the glare of the media circus,
The pressure was mounting, no retreating now.
So when daddy said,
"Come on Julia, smile for the camera!"
She narrowed her eyes
And clung harder to his neck,
An all-encompassing embrace -
Not so much of love, but of
The only power she had –
To hide her
Face.
"What's up Julia?" Asked Dad.
"I'll smile for you if you want,
But I'm not smiling for the camera." She said.
Feb 22, 2011
Feb 22, 2011 at 2:37 AM UTC
the soldier knelt to fix his cap,
dug deep into trenches, he stopped.
amidst the shots, he reached for the map
if not in his pocket, it’s lost.
“it seems like we’ve been here for years”
the man beside him squawked.
*“an hour seems like many days,
because we’ve gotten so lost.”*
unsure of quite how to respond,
the soldier raised his brow
but as he was about to speak,
the man who’d spoken went down.
the soldier raised his head to see the great alsace-lorraine.
the war had raged for far too long, and so he contrived an escape.
he planned to sneak across the flank,
advance the trench on his own
but as he stood to make his break, his heart
sank quite gut-wrenchingly low.
he thought to himself in a humble tone,
“i can’t do this alone.”
although his intentions were clearly courageous,
his weakness truly had shown.
as lady luck would have her way,
the days kept withering by
as the soldier so fervent to capture this land
tried not to keep track of the time.
they advanced to the east, but to their dismay
the french would push them right back
and until a day they’d find a way,
the men had no way to attack.
a fateful storm rolled in one day,
a blanket of snow o’er the field
and the mood of both great war machines,
had slowly came to a yield.
the soldier, so tired of the weight of the war
climbed out, with a fire in his eye.
he raised his rifle high in the air
and cried “Deutschland über alles”
the soldier then fell onto his knees,
and raised his hands to the the sky
not seconds passed before the scream
as snow and french bullets did fly.
the soldier was struck right through his lung
and grasped his chest to breathe
but all could see his head was hung
as the soldier collapsed from his knees.
there was no escape, he said to himself
as the snow slowly blurred into light
and he passed away on the holy ground
and they never did win that fight.
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 4:02 PM UTC
Am a Templar Knight whose allegiance is to Our Lord Jesus Christ
Sir Thomas de Charney is my name, Master of the fortress in Gaza
Was compelled to quill an account of an assault on the town of Ludd
My heart was also dazed and enamored by a young woman evermore
We left Gaza late in the day; I took 40 of my best knights with me
Fully clad in mail and helmets, we dashed long swords in scabbards
Short swords made at the ready to perlustrate with a days provisions
We headed east prepared to do battle, for God and for the cause
We approached Ludd; saw billowing smoke; heard strangled screams
I dispatched 35 knights throughout the municipality in groups of 5 each
My orders were; execute requisite to save townspeople from slaughter
An appurtenance to the initial order: no parley with these infidels
Before dismissing my men, I saw smolder swell left flank of the border
Saw a hovel, the thatch was burning out of control and spreading apace
Around the corner were three enemy soldiers crowding over someone
Until the last few years, I knew not what **** was; the worst in a man
Despite noise of city under siege, these ******** were intoxicated in sin
The remaining five knights accompanied me and covered the perimeter
I dismounted Petra, clutched the hilt of my long sword, made approach
The three heathen sensed my bearing and turned to meet their death
Then I saw her face and was transfixed
I would yield no prisoners
Today there would be justice for this woman
I pray for swiftness of divine retribution
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
To be continued…………
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 1:54 PM UTC
Decapitate, disembowel, tear and mutilate!
Schizophrenic!Psychedelic twisted mind!
Expedite, liberate, Alienate then recreate
Masonic!Prolific piece of mind!
Sabotage, besiege, flank to infiltrate!
Victorious!Strategic tyrannic mind!
Crucify, liquify, impale bleed them dry!
Torturous!Barbaric, sadistic mind!
Derange, insane, crazy and mental!
Hallucinating!Polysyllabic demented mind!
Disturbed, diabolic, vile and fatal!
Parasitic!Infected infested mind!
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 4:53 PM UTC
Passiflora Petals flank my pillow,
Valerian's the pollen on my brow,
My thought flies where night clouds rise and billow,
and dream-ships sail with angels at the bow.
Marigold has deepened into nightshade,
twilight falls where nothing moves or sings,
twisted shadows flicker on the light shade,
Sleep Angel comes, on poppy-tinted wings.
Running water changes into voices,
stairs yield to the footfalls of the dead,
helpless sleep is running out of choices,
Sleep Angel wraps her wings around the bed.
Curtains stare with eyes that once were flowers
till their colours deepened into grey;
restless visions haunt the starlit hours,
Sleep Angel will chase them all away.
Jan 28, 2012
Jan 28, 2012 at 9:20 PM UTC
High above the ultra-white plateau
a vultures wheels in an amino helix
above a dead horse. Branded upon its left flank is the word
“Mulatto”.
In the forest far below
an ilex rattles for the dead.
The river, pregnant with shrapnel
sulks and stagnates, her belly full of lead.
The plains are cratered as the Moon
the purple heather soothes the raw stone wound
and whispers that the fighting will be over
very soon, and all the scars will heal.
Their fires have turned our bones to meal.
The mountain gods are sighing now
and dying now, the endless sky their tomb.
Rainclouds loom, seething with disdain
and seek to quench the hungry yellow grass.
Rain lashes through the mountain pass.
Rainwater sifts into the soil
and we do not forget.
Blood chapel-sacred, black as oil
and we do not forget.
Shrapnel is sown like seeds into the spoil
and we do not forget.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 9:33 AM UTC
I shall foot it
Down the roadway in the dusk,
Where shapes of hunger wander
And the fugitives of pain go by.
I shall foot it
In the silence of the morning,
See the night slur into dawn,
Hear the slow great winds arise
Where tall trees flank the way
And shoulder toward the sky.
The broken boulders by the road
Shall not commemorate my ruin.
Regret shall be the gravel under foot.
I shall watch for
Slim birds swift of wing
That go where wind and ranks of thunder
Drive the wild processionals of rain.
The dust of the traveled road
Shall touch my hands and face.
1.5k
The banker sits for his lunch. He sits with his superiors. They ask, “how do you?” He replies, “Good, and you sir?” After pleasantries comes food. Everyone ordered a salad. Food is picked at with dashes of chatter. After food comes business. Business among superiors. The banker sits quietly using his wasted acting talents on feigning interest. He twiddles thumbs, smacks gums, and adjusts weight from one flank to the other.
The bored banker nods conformatively. When addressed, his name varies from Tim to Tom to Jack. They were close it was Al. He fills in facts and numbers the optimates don’t care to recall themselves. It’s the only use he has at lunch. Those superior to the banker could have brought his report he made up for this occasion. But, there is an air of aristocracy when one has a serf accompany his master to a meeting of patricians. Like all courtly meetings, the barons and governors hide slights in compliments, cloak ambition in kindness. Use pens as daggers, dried ink as poison.
It’s not the banker’s place to notice such things, it is place to serve those who deserve his servitude. Every time he services his lordships, his tie gets tighter, his skin looser, and his bald spot increase its diameter.
The bored and defeated banker rises with the Bourgeoisie, clings to their heels, and gets the door. His lunch is over. His break is done. Back to his desk he retreats. Back to work. His time as a squire is done. Until his masters call upon him again. For lunch.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 3:57 PM UTC
Stone of massive solidness, shards of gemlike flint
Crystalline refractions flash in noon day's sunshine glint,
Obelisk in grasses green, immense in grey repose
Has lain in place for centuries here, how long, nobody knows.
Created in the hellfire deep and ****** up from below
Molten in its’ infant form to flow with orange glow.
To work its’ way down mountain flank to plunge to cascade’s grasp
And tumble, grinding river stone, worn smooth in torrent’s clasp.
Rolling swift in flooded flow to beach by river’s edge
With grasses green against it’s’ girth in shade of leafy hedge.
Seasons come… cold rain and snow with baking heat in summer past
Millennia doth flow on by to leave untouched this boulder, vast.
Until this day I happened by, perchance beneath a clear blue sky
To rest my bones upon this rock, remove my boot and empty sock.
Admiring, in the midday sun, the snow clad peak and river run,
In wilderness of debris strewn from high volcano past it’s noon.
To notice with discerning gaze the rock, on which I sit, is glazed
With crystals of refracting fire to capture, now, my eye entire.
What secrets lie within this stone that lies so massively, alone?
What history has passed it by beneath its centuries of sky?
What stories could this boulder tell should I remove its silent spell?
Bemused, I tie my boot and yield,this obelisk to chosen field…..
Marshalg
On the timeless bank of Taranaki’s wild, wild Stoney River.
25 November 2013
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 9:31 PM UTC
Trapped.
I am snared,
forever burning.
The very feathers
circling my throat
tingle with flame.
Embers shiver
as they drip
down my back.
I am ashes.
There are hands,
with want to touch,
the desperate
feverish mortals
seeking forever,
scrabble about,
thieving my eternity.
But I do not hold
the grail they seek.
I am no fountain
for life and for living.
I am an undead curse,
ringed with flame.
My talons are pitch
and empty as coal.
The pool of my eye has
the haze of raw steam.
I did not choose.
I was a spark and
no new-born flicker
shall birth from my
flank. I will never put
tinder and flint to my
breast, never pull forth
a struggling bairn.
I am barren.
Never will the scorch
spread further than
my soul. The swoop
of my neck is the
tongue of the flames.
I am bound in this burning.
The smoke fills my lungs,
blacken and sear.
I cough as I choke,
my skin catches light.
Cracks.
I am dying.
Everything flames,
spirals within.
I am free,
roasting to pieces,
crumble to dust.
I am burning,
beaten wings
an inferno.
I am free.
Inhale the ashes.
I am reborn.
Again.
Trapped.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 12:46 AM UTC
The world is ruled by false Gods
Shouting their rage and thunder, spitting on the benevolent their false promise
False faces
False forms, beliefs and reassurance
The morphing specter
Preening the pomp and posture
Their glittering smiles, shining like the brightest star in the din
Pervading the smell of sweetness that hides the rot
That gagging stench its own perfume
The glinting fur on grinning mouth
Blinking teeth the yellow gum and sharp lines
Feeding the fat lies to the waiting sheep mouth
Rearing the sheep flank to slaughter
Shearing the black fur to weave and contort
So even the aware are complacent and meek
Moon blinked to the chaos and terror that flows in the red blood font
Grinning slowly, straightening the sports coat collar
Looking forever the faithful dog of the people
While picking the flesh of lamb from hungry teeth.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 12:46 PM UTC