"fletched" poems
When I hear a concealed clock ticking,
I think it's some shouldered past jello grenade
ready to chastise my fletched thumbs.
Like the last time Sandman drew supper with his knees,
and decided to fling cherry cobbler at my nose,
I realized this homeless perfume actually belonged to Mother.
Her pearls redeem her complexion,
milk marrow of silk against her nose--
three strikes dawdling their tongues
from underneath tin necks.
Steady, rinse, exfoliate:
but those are difficult to do
when your rib cage cracks
like the last octave
of a reddening audience.
Brother thinks the tree skirt is soft,
coddling his pats and rabbits
below a ranch full o' pine scented apples.
Sister wonders if she should bring new girl home,
(met at 1:33 AM on 23rd Street.
Apartment documented to smell like baby powder)
but friends are friends are friends are friends,
just friends as furrowed Daddy repeats to himself.
Even "Hallowed be thy name..." confuses the CCD out of him.
"Cancel Alabama's trip this year;
the bees will be humming in their own candle wax.
Besides, who wants to hug Nana
when her breath doubles over in grilled salmon?"
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 8:22 PM UTC
I used to swear I was born in the Shire
right next to Bilbo Baggins.
Not because of the allure of being a hobbit, their squat bodies and hairy feet.
The shire was refuge from the eye of the witch king.
I would rather be an elf like Legolas with a bow of rowan wood
Arrows fletched with swan feathers, twin gold inlaid swords, and eyes keener than a hawk.
My weapons in this world are a bleeding tongue and rusted teeth
Maggot-filled reasoning, an understanding that middle earth is no more.
The Shire never happened for a ******* child.
The witch king came and raised me proud.
Fantasy is all I have left.
What could I possibly have for you?
Feb 2, 2012
Feb 2, 2012 at 2:41 PM UTC
There was no battle cry
or first shot fired.
The clip clip of doom's hooves
was far away
and I never felt its hot breath on my neck—
I never felt its hot breath on my neck
You weren't my enemy.
I loved you
but he thump thump of love's drum
was far away
and I had killed you with an arrow sweetly fletched—
I had killed you with an arrow sweetly fletched.
Dec 1, 2010
Dec 1, 2010 at 3:51 PM UTC
Scalade skyward pile,
Of defensible tile,
Bituminous seams mossy gaps.
Board aloft to defray,
Fletched missiles array,
Groomed on as lethal a trap.
Scalade meet the stone,
Long from our home,
As generals command the intrusion.
To Kings do we kneel,
Ere slay with cold steel,
Pass lightning and bring this conclusion.
Trod darkest parade,
Woods endless scalade,
Blistering gleams of the pitch.
One knight in Queen’s arms,
Keen maid’s airy balms,
Do graces scar memory per stitch.
Jul 27, 2010
Jul 27, 2010 at 2:22 AM UTC
I’ve never struggled with words before,
The bending of language I do adore,
Yet each time I try to write to describe
Your effect on me my mind just dies,
My brain befuddled, hollow and weak,
Taken aback not unlike that of disease,
I get so nervous, seeming somber and wrecked,
But inside I am all that is vexed,
I want so dearly to be near to you,
I consider the distance but only a step or two,
I wait for your words to find my phone,
I sit still and stare at it when I’m alone,
I anticipate the fletched light to be shone,
I hope someday to call your heart home.
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 10:24 PM UTC
He shoots the bird and gives its name
To the arrows fletched from its wings.
He wears the feathers knotted in his hair.
He cuts into a fruit and watches
The juices run and bites
The flesh and knows its name.
His arms, for branches, bear the peach again.
He takes downs trees and pulls up meadows,
Upturns the hills and shatters constellations into day,
And in among the clay and rubble
He tastes the fruit and sings the sparrow's name.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 11:15 AM UTC
You were a girl and I won the privilege of watching you grow.
So darling, the porcelain; how trite a description for you.
But it made you smile, always. Even when I didn't put
any inflection in my tone.
It was enough for you that I said it, and only sometimes meant it.
It was Summer, if I remember of any proper, when we met;
or, rather, spoke, for the first time.
Then the Spring where I lost the last line of your beautiful mind.
And that willful fruit bloom from your high hanging branches.
You used to joke, "Don't steal my sap, but lick my wounds."
Arrowheads fletched from your leaves and flew unsoundly,
toward the open eyes of glimmer for those of whom you
allowed near. I caught each one and bled, and with my
oily fingers I drew wilderness and art on your bark.
Spring was meant for you to bloom, my darling.
Maybe you didn't hear, or know. You forgot things sometimes,
like to stretch your arms toward the sun and siphon goodness.
A gentle axe tap to remind you. To make you familiar with,
the pain of the care. The stone was heavy and often deflected.
It's Autumn now. Our favourite time of year. We never got to
make bouquets with your hair.
Winter is coming. You would hate that reference in a poem to you.
Novels are always better, "Except Kubrick!" we would say in unison,
and how you, this time, would always remind me of the night I said
something wittier than the rest of all my life. You cheered up a suicide
because you feared the same loss twice, as all old wounds heal sharply.
How did you do it? Give me laugh lines.
So deep they soak in water and are vibrant.
I don't blame you, all things in nature must wilt.
The markings of calendar, and I know when the rains
wash away the snow and leave blades of grass heavy
you will be there in support, lifting the tiny sprouts with a fingertip.
That they never felt before.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 5:00 AM UTC
out of the hearth of hearts
emotion has been fletched,
malleable redhot soul sprite sparks
and sings with the strike of the beat,
meaning nothing more than touch but
collisions bring us closer,
I guess we’re just
impactful :
two flights defeathered
combined by common ground,
given wings entwined-
two ores in bated bind,
love alligned and nocked
the very fingertips that made us
holds the rest of our destiny cocked
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 3:39 PM UTC
It's never the right time,
I am always tied tight to the
strings of the bow,
never the right time,
I know that,
at least I do now.
How to fix magnets to drag back the moments we want to apologise for, but time always knew I could never do that,
it's an opposite attraction, a divisive subtraction that takes me away from the words I would say
in the right time, such a long time, much ado about this but I'd prefer just to kiss all the moments in my time, but it's never the right time, something always crops up, pops into my mind, I fall off the wagon
just like the last time.
It is never the right time.
If I am the arrow then I must be stuck,
I have been fletched and been plucked on the strings of no luck and sometimes it seems that no one gives a **** except me.
If the right time does come, will I stand up or run, will the bow let the arrow know, will the arrow fly true and if so, what will I do in the right time.
No time like the present to present me with posers, suppose If I would, if I could run away, would I say,'stand up you coward and stay,
Time holds the matchbox that strikes me and locks me in a dark moonless night, If I might take the light from the taper, to paper over the cracks that appear in the lack of my understanding and
light my way along another unknown intended landing in one more apartment block, standing as I do with the shadow of me looking back at you which is me and who could make a sense of any of this,
just let me kiss the moments goodbye, let the arrow in me fly,
off to the woods, I may cry but I'll be safe then,
in the right time,
when it's my time.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 8:35 PM UTC