"floes" poems
---
i
blue grey clouds
of crushed
velvet
sunlight
tears
the
seams
ii
embers of
delicate peach
ignite flames
of fuchsia
the orb of
sun burns colors
away to ashes
blown into floes
of white
mare's
tails
iii
tiny bird
settles restless
on the
highest
branch
flits
away
iv
wind
through
the weathered stones
cries then whispers
luring
the children
who lie within our ribs
to break free
and sing
songs
of
play
v
mamalaria
cactus
wears her
wreath
of
pale
lavender
flowers
sings to
her babes
clustered
below
saguaro
listens
soulsurvivor
(C) 9/13/2015
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 12:29 PM UTC
~.~.~.~
floating
on the breeze
swirling
in a swoon
laments in
blue and purple
are the
petals of the moon
waned a
crescent of a flower
waxed to
cabbage rose
now the
tight held tithes
sift down
in
airy
floes
lying in the grass
of a dark
wide-open
field
sweet
swanning
petals find me
moon's offerings
revealed
i inhale their
fragrance
their light sweet perfume
they cover me
with kisses
the
petals
of
the
moon
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 8:54 AM UTC
1423
The fairest Home I ever knew
Was founded in an Hour
By Parties also that I knew
A spider and a Flower—
A manse of mechlin and of Floes—
5.7k
This poem is a Google Adwords ad,
Intruding into the sidebar of your heart.
It’s a 1-800-LAWYERS commercial
Making you money off your personal injury.
It’s a brutal, ****** UFC bout,
Weak in its ground game but knows its Jiu-Jitsu
And it’s got you on the mat, begging you to tap out.
This poem is *****
a SNAFU waiting to happen.
It’s the sarin gas Syria used against its own
And it’s the attack America will be responding with,
Using ****** to punish murderers.
This poem is a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken
Getting your finger-lickin’-good fingers nice and greasy.
This poem is yet another poet writing yet another poem about poems,
With the word poem repeated ad nauseum.
This poem is a bunch of awful band names,
Like Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Tapes ‘n Tapes, and Chunk! No, Captain Chunk!.
It’s a summer blockbuster and a teen dystopian trilogy.
It’s riding *****
In your ex’s car.
This poem is anthropogenic global warming
Whose CO2 emissions are dangerously high and climbing
While its polar bears are stranded on the broken ice floes of its verses.
It’s a baseball crowd speaking the words “no hitter”
In the midst of a no-no
Which itself is a no-no.
Its bad grammar, who’s comma’s are all, out of place
And its’ apostrophe’s, are meaningless.
This poem is Zooey Deschanel,
Who will not marry me some day, any day, in the future.
In fact, it doesn’t even know I exist.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
for Robin
On that frosted January day,
you and I hiked north
along the Mississippi shore
on a trail marked well before us.
Footfall tapestries etched in snow
wove tales of assiduous commerce
of hosts of fur-cloaked cousins:
the playful step-slide gambit of an otter -
rabbit paw tracks by the score.
A bald eagle soared above singing ripples
in quest of a mid-day meal.
The distant staccato cadence
of a pileated woodpecker
echoed off the limestone bluffs
on that January afternoon.
Dusk-light washed the western sky
in pastel gold and crimson hues.
A coal barge heading south
thundered against the floes,
scattering ice across the channel,
then vanished beyond the bend.
And we like bargemen at their tillers,
set our southward course
retracing footprints in the snow -
back to the world of clocks and enterprise.
January, 2011
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 6:14 AM UTC
a polar vortex
swirls eastward
on Siberian Tiger paws
bounding over
Appalachian Highlands
gobbling geography
gelling Great Lakes
spawning Erie blizzards
sculpting Wabash ice floes
clogging commerce all
along the Ohio River Valley
this voracious
juggernaut’s wide maw
bears icicle teeth
laughing as it swallows
Pittsburgh, Little Philly,
and a Big Apple, before
gorging itself on
generous portions
ladled into
simmering crocks
of steaming
Boston Baked Beans
growling
blue arctic
air blasts roar
bursts pipes
savages the heat
of blasting furnaces,
bubbling boilers, hot
belly stoves frantically
drinking oil, flaming gas
burning wood and
burping soot
the blistering
jet stream claws
screech a slashing
stratospheric hum
as Frigidaire blasts
swallows breath
brittles limbs
chafes cheeks
gnaws earlobes
crystallizes tears
nibbles nostrils
cubes snot
numbs toes
bites digits
diving sub zero
gradient subdues
batteries to
deaden states
delays buses
derails trains
cuts power
constricts veins
preys on
vagabonds
and animals
get the homeless
off the street!
bring the animals in
check on your
elderly neighbors
don’t get caught outside
and shut the **** door!
do you own stock
in the Public Service?
beware the polar vortex
and next months heating bill
Sonny Boy Williamson
& Otis Spann
Nine Below Zero
Oakland
1/6/14
jbm
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 2:43 PM UTC
---
if i could be a compound
in God's wonderful world
i believe i would be water
raindrops sweet and mild
or a storm working with crops
for a harvesting unfurled
a peach cotton ball cloud
hung in a sunrise sky
a vapor like a sylph
who changes with each sigh
of breezes that are blowing
changing faces there up high
water then will change
when the cold wind blows
it freezes into crystals
a perfect world of snow
wonderous icy canyons
purest white in floes
glaciers break high mountains
to rubble which moves
wherever the ice takes it
the canyon is removed
it is a force to reckon with
this much has been prooved
of all the things in nature
it's there wherever you go
it moves the great and small
it's fast or very slow
there's no wonder of the world
like our magical H2O!
soulsurvivor
(C) 7/6/2015
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 6:17 PM UTC
Constructing the Year Anew!
I skipped on the wind to infinity.
Nearing insanity, not!
Riding on ice floes and hedges.
Now and then perched on the fence.
Betting the moon will cease to glow.
As last year,bade blurred adieu.
Her feminine face wrapped in chiffon.
Rippling in the breeze of night.
Rustling as the tree tops she tenderly strokes.
With merciful light as blessing of naive honour.
Not knowing the gift of the year to come.
Onward and upwards I ride.
Toss my hair over the shoulder of time.
Time and tide stand alone.
While waiting for love not to trip.
A night cruiser flowing on mortality's tides.
January until to the ides of March.
I creep coldly in silent sensitive chill.
Waiting for love to pick old ribbons apart and thrill me.
Decipher the mystical one.
DNA made me.
Let mRNA make me remember the one I was before.
May the candle in the bathroom burn ever hot.
Let me see the light.
The light of my life.
By ladylivvi1
© 2014 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 7:27 PM UTC
Is it true what the scientists say
That life on earth will end one day?
I guess that they are probably right
There'll be no day, there'll be no night
The ozone layer is full of holes
Rising temperatures melting ice floes
Will we perish in enormous Floods?
The thought of it just chills the blood
Or will earthquakes bury us out of sight
Will fire devour us without a fight?
Storm and tempest, some folk say
Will make us kneel in final prayer
The forecast? Now I'll give you mine:
It will end in two thousand and seventy nine
Keith Wilson June 25 2016
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 6:56 AM UTC
icecaps come undone
crushing into the ocean
as she sheds her frozen tears
penguins and p0lar bears shudder
as their habitats recede
like the snows of Kilimanjaro
volcanoes explode
spewing smoke and ash like billowing pillows
into the stratosphere
diffusing sunshine's heat
like a cold compress
floes of lava melt glaciers
rivers of mud cause flooded folks to flee
fissures crack and snap from her pressure
towns and countrysides split
floors rumble and roll like the ocean
walls tumble, crumble and roar
bells toll an all too familiar melody
families cry out, wailing and ranting
chanting dirges of great loss
an inconsolable cacophony
rubbled lives lying in ruin
but she is not to blame
the earth is a no fault state
this is our doing
ecology's consequence
greenhouse gasses and other pollutants
have given her a fever
her pores are opening to vent the warming
she is not angry or vindictive
punishment is not her goal
and evil has not played its hand
the planet is just cooling herself
it's how Gaia gets her groove back
Apr 17, 2010
Apr 17, 2010 at 10:59 AM UTC
as they soar
They course the winds and roam
They care not for snow nor rain
They make the clouds their home!
Consider the badger in his den
He worries not for gold
He will fight till his last breath
To defend his hole!
Consider the lion and his pride
They suffer want and lack
But they care naught or give a thought
They will be bouncing back!
Consider the fish within his pool
He worries not for drink
He won't beware for lack of air
He's stronger than we think!
Consider the wildflower
The bravely climbing rose
She will, in gloom, put forth her bloom
And cover trees in floes!
Consider the canine!
Consider the mighty horse!
They don't amend the name of friend
they're better ones of course!
Consider kingdoms of the wild
Do you find it odd?
They worry not. Give nothing thought
*They just depend on GOD*.
SoulSurvivor
(C) 1/19/2016
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 3:54 PM UTC
essences of fire
and ice
keep wanting
to burst out of me
it is so hard to know
where to end
how to start
the rivulets
the torrents
turn them on like
a waterfall faucet
they are there,
the opposing elements
lurking, ready
just under surface
waiting to ooze, pour
secret inner filth
spilling endless
crusty lava
onto the naked
rough-hewn floor
along with purest
of lightbeam
hard to pinpoint
the moment
I knew I loved you
what love
is actually supposed to be
bubbling and frothing beneath
ice floes, melting
hot wax sliding
I do not know how
to prevent this
dripping exhaustion
of elongated membranes
from imploding
into the truest
form of encapsulated longing
sharpened pangs
spit-roasted
upon the fibers
of my brain, of my heart
my pain in stop starts
stop no go on
I can't take it
I want it all
can you feel me?
I want it all, I say
thrumming hotly
down
to
the last
wild drop
of
eternity
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 5:11 PM UTC
There are some mornings
When I look at you asleep
And know,
In fact,
That you are not,
But thinking through
Those steps and plans
That occupy your resting state
Before you have to face the day,
Propelling into action
All and more there is to do,
All and more that must be done.
Do know I so admire the tenacity
You hold, the way you navigate
The shoals of life’s narrow seaway
Through salty straights and tidal floes,
Your own pilot
Keeping faith
with the hand-drawn chart
of the diary on the notice board.
Dearest, I am lost at sea,
My small boat sail-less,
Drifting, turning this way and that.
As you rose from our bed
That hand you placed
On my shoulder seemed
For the briefest moment
A tweek on the rudder.
Brought into the wind
And before the canvas fills,
There was a moment’s calm
A second’s rest.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 2:45 AM UTC
I wrote you each August,
asking you to break the
tall, thick clouds into flat,
cold floes that vanish when
the sun vaults over them.
You bring your cool moon,
and it slides over my skin
from head to heel or hand
to hand. Cicadas feel it,
too. Like medicine on a cut.
I typically pause, let silent
vowels swallow the air
peeking around the curtain,
and until we feel fresher
by it, crisped, I stay still.
You test the leaves one,
two nights pulling with open
hands; I remember ice,
shattered on the pavement
and spread thin, whitens.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 2:57 AM UTC
First impression, first date.
You come late, a major sin in your own lexicon,
tango dancing redesigns your hair to curls atwitter,
despite remedial ministrations in taxi,
you text apologies profuse en route,
but you have been outed, and
I am charmingly amused
A warm December eve,
a local Italian eatery,
table by the window,
red wine floes melt your defenses,
allowances made, you're intrigued,
enjoying our dinner of
charming amusements
But really you like my understated swagger.
I like that you like my understated swagger.
Walk home armed, arm in arm,
your paintings I must come see,
Immediately (!),
You offered this as desert, instead of biscotti,
a tour of your new apartment, sleek/simple,
messaging that this is me,
if you ever want to be invited to stay
Inspection over, my smile is a knowing
that this first foray deserves a concessionary accolade,
So in a mode so gallant at the front door,
Adieu you are bid, and devilishly clever,
I merely shake you hand,
leaving you delighted by this gallant, modern,
charming amusement
Looking at my watch, three and half hours
have passed.
Maintaing that in your ways set,
Early on, I challenge your rigidity,
Turning your hair from curly,
Into spun straight Rapunzel gold liquidity,
By asking politely, humbly, on bended knee,
You give in happily,
Charmed, amused at my ferocious insistence
Looking at my watch,
I too, am delighted, charmed, amused, to discover,
It seems my watch is running slow,
For it is now three and a half years later
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 3:42 PM UTC
In the last quarter of the twentieth century, much of the world sat on the edge of an increasingly expensive theater seat waiting for something momentous to occur. Christian aficionados of the Second Coming scenario were convinced that, after two thousand years, the other shoe was about to drop. And five of the era's best-known psychics predicted that Atlantis would soon reemerge from the depths. To this last, Princess Leigh-Cheri responded, "There are three lost continents…we are one: the lovers." In whatever esteem one might hold Princess Leigh-Cheri's thoughts, one must agree that the last quarter of the twentieth century was a severe period for lovers. It was a time a time when romantic relationships took on the character of ice in spring, stranding many little children on jagged and inhospitable floes. Nobody quite knew what to make of the moon anymore
Consider a certain night in August. The moon was so bloated it was about to tip over. For more than an hour, Leigh-Cheri stared into the sky. "Does the moon have a purpose?" She inquired. The same query put to the Remington SL3 typewriter elicited this response: Albert Camus wrote that the only serious question in life is whether to **** yourself or not. Tom Robbins wrote that the only serious question is whether time has a beginning and an end. Camus clearly got up on the wrong side of bed, and Robbins must have forgotten to set the alarm. There is only one serious question. And that is: Who knows how to make love stay? Answer me that and I will tell you whether or not to **** yourself. Answer me that and I will ease your mind about the beginning and end of time. Answer me that and I will reveal to you the purpose of the moon.
-La Dispute, One
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 8:28 PM UTC
Things can be hard
Even when you can’t imagine
Friends can change
And the ones
You once thought were innocent
Are the ones with the knife behind your back
Poplars’ can hold it against you
Or maybe be your friend
Like in my case
But you never know what will happen next
Problems can start
And end up in such a big deal
That it’s too easy knowing it all
The one you use to like likes another girl
But she’s such a good friend she helps you getting over that ****
You can be shy
Hoping nobody judges you
You try to keep your head held up but sometimes
There is no use
You’re eager to know who likes you
Trying to see who thinks you’re pretty
But you have so low self-steam
That you think
Nobody should like you
Or you’re not in the same level that they are
You compare yourself with other girls
Seeing what they have and what you don’t
You could have a great personality
And a pretty face or body
But when you don’t have one of the two
You think you’re not in the same category as other girls
But life is more than just being pretty
Being nice is a great advantage cause maybe prettier girls
Are hated by everyone
And if you have floes
There are ways of making them less notable
Or maybe just getting rid of them
You don’t have to be ashamed of having a problem
You have to be ashamed not doing something about it
So get up and be strong
Be nice and be proud of being who you are
Because everyone else is taken
Sep 17, 2012
Sep 17, 2012 at 1:38 AM UTC
It was extra cold this winter,
continuous ice floes
danced on top of the swirling rapids
near Munson's Creek.
As the stars disappeared,
the sun cracked
the eastern horizon,
I had been out all night
setting the extra traps.
My camp was set earlier this year,
near the largest dam of the
big-toothed water-creatures,
I hoped to trap
me some bigger beavers
this time around.
The pelt harvest was quite significant
in last year’s haul, but now
the boys down at Johnson’s Mercantile
had placed an order for twenty-five more.
I planned to make my quota
before the spring thaw.
I was getting lonelier than hell
in this frozen wasteland.
I really missed my darling Mae,
if she only knew how blue I was.
My dog was getting homesick too.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC
I slash open
the fine lines
of my veins
to let in the
starry breath
of night
fresh and fiery
as a snap of chaos
left out
in the firmament
to chill,
the frigid air
weaving an
icy filigree
upon the black
cooling my blood
soothing the
night creatures
that swerve and sway
beneath my skin
restless as tiny demons
always locked away,
within
They emerge from
their hibernation
into the gelid
crackle of air,
zipping over the
sheens of ice floes
unstopped by sudden
change in climate
frozen moss between
their claws, their toes
In this icicle-dipped
troposphere
a burning
descends upon
my tastebuds
just as if
you have
kissed me
the ebbs
of time seemingly
bringing you closer
an energetic wrapping
up and through
my being
like the breathiest of
polar mist
and as I gaze up
at the tiny
wisps of light,
lustrous as the
full moon scattered,
the astral plane
whirrs deep within me
stirring up my womb
ploughing the fields
of my mind
creating riverflow
from icy drought
soothing the
cuts and fissures
and rocky edges
of my aching
prophetess
heart
Fragile yet callused,
toughened with time
as it beats
beneath the ice
soft as the inside of
a wounded animal
blessed by its hunters
for making itself a gift
to the tribe
apparently
your warrior's
palm alone
can melt it
down
and sometimes,
as I get
lost inside deeply
wild tundras,
suddenly
I'm
found
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 6:54 AM UTC
Yamaguchi Seishi Haiku Translations by Michael R. Burch
Grasses wilt:
the braking locomotive
grinds to a halt
― Yamaguchi Seishi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Published by Haiku Universe, Carpe Diem Haiku, Adas Poetry Alcove, HaikuViet, Form in Formless Times, Purple Pen in Portland
This appears to be one of my most popular translations on the Internet. A google search for the entire haiku text turned up nearly 8,000 results. That’s a lot of cutting and pasting!
Ceaseless chaos―
ice floes clash
in the Soya straits.
―Yamaguchi Seishi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Having crossed the sea,
winter winds can never return.
―Yamaguchi Seishi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
(The haiku above was written in October 1944 as Kamikaze pilots were flying out to sea.)
Banish the snow
for the human torpedo
now lies exploded.
―Yamaguchi Seishi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The sky hangs low
over Karafuto,
as white as the spawning herring.
―Yamaguchi Seishi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Green bottle flies
buzzing carrion—
did they just materialize?
―Yamaguchi Seishi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Finally
the cicadas stopped shrilling—
summer gale.
―Yamaguchi Seishi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
As grief becomes unbearable
someone snaps a nearby branch.
―Yamaguchi Seishi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
As grief reaches its breaking point
someone snaps a nearby branch.
―Yamaguchi Seishi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Trapped in the spider’s web
the firefly’s bulb
blinks out forever.
―Yamaguchi Seishi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Trapped in the spider’s web
the firefly’s light
is swiftly consumed.
―Yamaguchi Seishi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Both victor and vanquished are dewdrops:
flashes of light
briefly illuminating the void.
—Ouchi Yoshitaka, loose translation/interpretation of his jisei (death poem) by Michael R. Burch
Keywords/Tags: Yamaguchi Seishi, haiku, translations, Japanese, grass, grasses, wilt, locomotive, train
Apr 17, 2020
Apr 17, 2020 at 6:54 PM UTC
They were more in love now
Than they had ever been before.
Lying in a small, yellow raft,
The sun lit them for 20 hours of the day.
Small fragments of floes drifted past;
With his pen-knife he carved
Ice flowers of them for her.
At night, the sky flushed ultramarine to match the water.
She would make a pillow of his shoulder
And they slept warm enough, blanketless.
They didn’t do much on their raft
Because there wasn’t much to do—
Around them, the sea was chill-blue
And they loved each mother more.
Months before, when they brought the cruise tickets,
It had been the clean aesthetic of the arctic
And the words ‘Secret Norway’ that won them over.
No, they didn’t want to uncover Norway’s secret;
They wanted to become a part of it, a final
“Great escape” into their dying years.
The cruise ship went under, they thought,
As if by choice into black-water oblivion.
A casual dive through the glassed-over surface.
A few inflated yellow rafts.
Of course, it was difficult for them, to look
On as that stranger’s blue hand stretched for their raft.
‘This is our great escape,’ they both were thinking.
Was it envy they felt when he let go?
It doesn’t matter. They, too, planned
To slip into that same murk at some point.
But for now, they would be in love.
He paddled them through the iceberg drifts and
They fell asleep at night, curled one next to the other,
To the measured sounds of melting glacial drip.
Aug 15, 2010
Aug 15, 2010 at 9:18 PM UTC
Do you know what happens to the teeth of children salvaged by the tooth fairy.
They are carried away in a velvet purse.
A vermilion scarlet purse with golden drawstrings.
And so the story begins.
~~x~~
The tooth fairy is a tiny soul, but she flies incredibly fast.
She wears a dress of silver and a tiny little diadem.
She sports the wings of a dragonfly.
Diminutive.
Dainty, she's much too small.
Much to small to be seen, by the unsuspecting naked eye.
Too big to be snatched by passing birds, so now you you know.
~~x~~
She carries her precious cargo, to the ice floes near the fjords.
And there she is greeted by the ice queen.
Whose name is Matilda.
She has been building a new ice castle, in which her family dwell.
~~x~~
It isn't finished yet you know.
She cares not what colour your teeth are.
As long, as they're not holey.
Holey teeth let the cold in.
~~x~~
Chilled wind whistles around her old arthritic neck.
Her kids took over the construction.
The buildings nearly finished.
~~x~~
The tooth fairy, whose name is Christina.
Dropped of yet another batch.
Sadly the naughty children have not brushed as the should have done.
A batch of broken teeth delivered.
My goodness how Christina shivered.
~~x~~
She thought she'd ask me to drop you a line.
To remind your children to brush well every time.
Matilda smiled at Christina.
She said" thank you my dear"
"For this winter I may freeze."
So please, please brush your teeth.
You really really should.
She said she'd find it really swell.
Hole less teeth will keep Matilda warm and well.
(c)Livvi
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 4:43 PM UTC
A Touch, My God a Touch too Much!
You kiss me,
I trickle,
Kiss the velvet underground,
I shake, I shiver, quivering when involuntary spasm drowns,
Besotted drenched in wails,
Kissed with lust filled love inside,
Ripples riding loves floes,
Cream dripped,
Smiles,
This pussycat is satisfied!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 5:01 PM UTC
black as fangs
wicked gargoyles
black as ravens
witch's coils
black as the crusts
upon Job's boils
black as patchouli
fragrant oils
black as skin which
took the toils
black as deepest loam-
rich soils
white as clouds
white as snow
white as light
upon the floes
white as stones
for games of Go
white as all
"good" things
you know
white as an owl
which kills, devours
white as mould
on food that sours
white as magic
ivory towers
white as sands
which pass the hours
black & white
as piano keys
which provide
sweet melodies
black & white
is what we
SEE
black & white
letters - decrees
black & white
as
POETRY
SoulSurvivor
(C) 2/11/2016
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 10:49 AM UTC