"forays" poems
what my forays into online dating offered me that wasn’t s*x; european coffee beans, a film camera from the 70s, a workshop on ceramics, chicken parmagiana, bottles of blueberry lemonade, thai food that isn’t spicy, help with calculus homework, notes on gen chem, all the Star Wars movies, a book about magic: the gathering, a ride to an nba game, museum visits, nature walks, impulsive road trips, stories about their exes, silly anecdotes, photos of their pets, quality memes, awkward hugs that felt good.
such small intimacies, never blossoming into something bigger yet still imbued with meaning..
filled with what-ifs, if-onlys, and almosts.
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 10:32 PM UTC
.
( we who wonder where you are )
( • • )
And
Why do you stay in the fires burning (?)
)•(
one drifting image fading
The tiny child on the streets
The drone plane circling overhead
The missle loaded and about to go
We sit and watch but never see
Really anything at all
•••••+•••••
The sweet young girl child
The muse of the poets who live
( the few who've survived )
::
I made love to a poet once
In the morning all there was
Was a pool of blood that spelled out
The word
BROKEN !
On the floor
Amid the sound
Of demons laughing
"""•"""
She
Was a cute kid
Now she's dead
A 12 year old
Dead terrorist
|||
we wander bravely from
Bedroom to bathroom
To kitchen
To school
Telling tales of mundane
Brief fantacies
And forays
Into reality
But then we left and come here
//
The vintage day
($)
All the frills
)(
We
Tiny bodies
So abused
:
.
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 6:19 AM UTC
I’m walking down a howling, windswept street;
an open avenue of untamed elements,
all icy scatter and driving push, pull,
forlorn crossed glances disguised at the last second
in a rush of slapping breeze,
pulled my face straight.
I’m walking down a street, peeking past corners,
wondering where you lead.
I walk and chase,
in the sharp, swollen bites of rain
rolling down my face and
pooling at my feet.
I’m walking down a street,
mind circling and picking over pieces of you.
In the furthest reaches, in the shade from awnings
of trampled, stampeded pavements,
I inch closer and escalate straight back.
I’m walking down a street, having an emotional affair with you;
my silky, sticky, sweetened crush;
a burn,
you make me cry.
You’re not a secret.
I’m stepping over city-clogged gutters and
***** grass;
having forays and majestic waking daydreams
with all those startling crisp images
of you and me
you
and
me
bundled together like twisted wires.
Using each other like immortal weeds.
I’m walking down a howling, windswept street,
where blue sky begins to play peek-a-boo
trying not to cry.
I leave myself unguarded and playing at wounds,
thinking of you again.
But walking down this street,
I know you are futile game,
a persevering sweat beneath the blankets at night.
I know you prove an attractive devil,
but these tears cool the heat, the lust.
And by being swept up in these winds with me,
maybe I’m your devil, in the end.
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 11:07 PM UTC
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
The song-splayed sounds of light
And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
Brambled in bay, garland in violet
When blades could ***** and not make bleed,
And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
In that glow, once knighted we must serve
Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
And the vernal song sang lowly
Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.
At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
Brown as the yellowed beech
Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.
Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
Damp fires hailed the rising
Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 2:41 PM UTC
Be there at nine
on the corner by the old post office
wear something red
I'll be somewhere, that's what he said
He pays to watch
He loves to watch
Walk for me and make it ****
That's what he said
She wore a red dress
By the post office
At nine
He watched from the balcony
of the apartment complex
She was wearing red
Eye catching
The eye, admiration
She walked the avenue, red dress
Eyes watching
He paced the suspended floor
Eyes watching, always watching
Find the bag by the burnt bush
Take the cash and leave
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
I’ve strode this road of war and love
And born it’s bile and spleen,
I’ve wept at death and laughed at birth
But nowhere have I seen,
A sweeter place to live and die,
To quest for things supreme,
Than to forge these days of hard forays
In the Land of In Between.
Candied apples hang from boughs
Like jewels bequeathed by Queen
And silver sounds of bubbling brook
Cascade to tumbling stream,
Parakeets in vivid hue
Fly by with shreeking scream
In forest’s green majestic light
In the Land of In Between.
Paint no man black or vivid white
Whilst points of view be gleaned
With race and politics ignored
Then manifest, obscene.
Where labour be a man’s reward
And filthy lucre screened
As noxious be a spider bite
In this Land of In Between.
Where hate be strangled to the end
Then with a keen blade ,sheened,
Be put to death with avarice
No guilt or guile redeemed.
Leaving in the pristine wake
A countryside so clean
That God be queuing up to live
In this Land of In Between.
All ****** love be sacrosanct
And soft endearments seemed
As normal as the light of night
When by the moon dust preened.
And that laughter be our currency
Affection always seen
As bonding in fraternity
At the Land of In Between.
M.
Foxglove, Taranaki NZ.
30 January 2016
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 6:33 PM UTC
The skeletons in her closet
are clawing to get out.
The scratching sound scares sleep
and she is not prepared for them,
it’s not Halloween.
Inquiringness invites her
to crack the closet door.
The bones butcher beatitude,
the framework forays her future.
Subsequently the spine-chilling skeletons
withdraw to the wardrobe
until she consigns them to oblivion.
Then they claw to get out.
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 12:17 AM UTC
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
The song-splayed sounds of light
And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
Brambled in bay, garland in violet
When blades could ***** and not make bleed,
And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
In that glow, once knighted we must serve
Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
And the vernal song sang lowly
Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.
At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
Brown as the yellowed beech
Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.
Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
Damp fires hailed the rising
Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 12:55 PM UTC
The loneliness permeate down into the toes, walking along the sidewalk
The streets seem empty, vacant faces, hurried bodies avoiding the solace of a simple hello, their trifling stares stabbing at their incompleteness
Write pain only because the voice cannot verbalize it. We don't understand it. We don't want to
Trifling affairs taking us up, consuming us, completing us, then draining us
Walking life avoiding others, their daring greetings, their trifling
They, too, walk along the sidewalks and the gutters, getting tripped up on their own despairs Listen not to Dante's doom, that abandonment is futile
Futile fallacies, our trifling forays, our misfortunes
Street along, you masses, you unforgettable, delving into yourselves, forgetting
You cannot understand it, those trifling friendships
How do they compare to the miseries you trudge through, swamped in that which hold you back, slows you down, drowns you, chokes you
Your only connect is the carelessness of your incompleteness, contagious of complaints
That cracked sidewalk, tripping you up in its unevenness
Your shoes have rubbed out their souls, toes slamming their unending pressures
You feel defeated and oppressed. Yet you walk on
Why do you not just stop and rest? The lonely road does not end, it continues on and on unceasingly, its seasons one big blur
Year in and year out your days numbered as nothing but trifling affairs, your greetings to fellow walkers rare as encouragement from within. You have become swollen in refusing refuge from those that share that uncaring sidewalk
You balk at accepting a hand to take that lonely walk with you, it is just another pair of loneliness who seeks companionship, who only seeks to cease their own trifling affairs
Lend not your own complaints, but console and be consoled in the greeting of a walk together
Feb 2, 2012
Feb 2, 2012 at 10:37 PM UTC
Your world belongs to me now.
I can take over every aspect of it, 24/7,
Stopping just shy, by a few micrometers, of what the law allows.
I'll accompany you now on all shopping trips
Offering my advice from, oh, forty feet or so away.
I'll utilize binoculars to make sure you're not doing anything unsafe.
Amazing how well those things work sometimes.
Especially at night, eh?
I might have to replace your dog with a smaller, less intimidating unit;
Of course; you're free to keep the replacement or do whatever you want with him.
Don't want to risk a serious bite on my intrusive forays after darkness..
Call forwarding; amazing cool thing that is!
No questions asked; just need a few minutes time on the telephone!
And pictures; I'll be taking loads of those.
You never know just when a particular photo might come in real handy.
I carry around bird-watching paraphernalia, so anytime I get stopped,
Everything looks copacetic, even the binos.
I also carry groundwater test kits, along with shovels, rakes; boring stuff like that.
You never know when you might need to test the water in an area.
The test kits are out of date by a decade or more, but who's checking?
Had to duct tape that old broken out back window.
I know, I know; it's unsightly and makes me highly visible,
But they'll never raise an eyebrow now, on seeing that fat roll of duct tape.
And you will always have peace of mind, since you can readily identify my car
And know for sure that I'm on the job, around the clock-
Working only for you, babe.
Oops; time's a-flying. Have to get downtown to the city before they close.
I've requested to take a peek at some publicly viewable records.
Amazing what you can find out there, that you never would have expected.
Isn't it?
Bye now; catch you later, ok?
Mar 12, 2010
Mar 12, 2010 at 5:36 PM UTC
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
The song-splayed sounds of light
And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
Brambled in bay, garland in violet
When blades could ***** and not make bleed,
And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
In that glow, once knighted we must serve
Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
And the vernal song sang lowly
Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.
At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
Brown as the yellowed beech
Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.
Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
Damp fires hailed the rising
Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 6:46 PM UTC
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
The song-splayed sounds of light
And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
Brambled in bay, garland in violet
When blades could ***** and not make bleed,
And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
In that glow, once knighted we must serve
Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
And the vernal song sang lowly
Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.
At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
Brown as the yellowed beech
Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.
Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
Damp fires hailed the rising
Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 1:55 PM UTC
The solution to pollution
Is to cease affluent effluent.
In other words make the rich
Live in their ecological excrement.
Force them to drink only from
Their permanently poisoned pipes
And turn a deaf ear, as they did
To any of their constituent’s gripes.
The enemies of the anemones
Fought their way to the deep
To censure and make sure
The sea creatures had no sleep.
It seems the corporations
Don’t realize what they’re doing.
If we **** off the plankton, then
We’re headed for planetary ruin.
It was bad enough when someone,
Without telling us, sold our land
And then they chopped down trees
For a reason anyone can understand;
Greed. That was the proper word.
They wanted more money in the bank.
So when the land erodes and dies
We’ll have the corporations to thank.
They cover up their eco-crimes
By declaring illegal military forays
And pretend they are taking us back
To those good old, happier days.
But in between bombing villages
It can always plainly be seen
That we and our country are
Slowly being picked totally clean.
And when we object, cry out loud
That something is wrong with all this;
They start to call us unpatriotic,
Call us who starve are the neurotics.
So, don’t listen to their lying rhetoric,
Instead look at what they are doing.
The sonsabitches are Macbeth’s witches,
And they have a lot of poison brewing.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 10:44 PM UTC
Crumbling pillars of the Parthenon
Like the gods be praised,
Are eroding away to bread crumbs.
And as the conquerors came
To claim the land for the king
Were reclaimed by the gaping tide.
And the forays into memory
Bring back nostalgia,
Breaking into burnt Polaroid past.
The sea swept the tide from under me,
Gone are the gods and their kings,
Gone are the photos of useless things.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 11:27 PM UTC
Sorry, dude. I must admit
I find it more than pathetic
That you experience life
With sorrow about some of it
That you don’t have a drug
To take to help appreciate
Something that is amazing
And really needs no chemical
To help you exaggerate
What is really going on
And pretend it is better
Or somehow transcendent
As if water can be wetter.
But it is as if time warped
And I have gone backward
To talk to myself about it
And then zapped forward
To see what a saturate
What a wet-brained fool
I was back then, it’s true.
I was a tin-plated tool.
I measured my existence
One dime bag at a time
Giggling with stoner friends
About my forays into crime;
Selling backs of skunk ****
When nobody else had any
Good stuff or bad stuff.
And I was the one with plenty.
Walking through Hollywood
With stoner friends and flakes
Singing as we stumbled along
About life and what it takes
To satisfy *** hounds those days.
*** drugs and rock and roll
And pride in our half-witted ways.
Learning how to roll pinners
Of a buddy’s stash on the sly
While he was taking a whizz
And couldn’t ask me why.
Learning how to properly treat
The remaining sticks and stones
And confiscating the roaches
When the others left them alone.
That was the cannabis coalition
The Sativa Society at its height.
We worked in the daytime and
Got ********* most every night.
And sooner or later, on the job
In the bathroom or on the roof.
I didn’t think of it addiction.
I still needed further proof.
I needed to try to buy ****
From a government man I met.
Fortunately I bailed on that
Before adding one more big regret.
Life has gotten better since then
No more outside dependence.
I quit before the drugs became
The entire focus of my existence.
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 6:32 PM UTC
The American Cremation society
Is offering 'hot deals'” this week.
We get pitches for Pfizer's ******
by snail mail, on Facebook, by Tweet.
Brochures for an all senior residence
litter our nightstand these days.
There silver haired ladies and gentlemen
pop pills for their nightly forays.
There are bankruptcy ads on the radio
to help manage credit card debt.
There are pill ads to help me remember
what drink used to help me forget.
The cars that they hawk to us seniors
Are designed to just putter around
Not for me Candy apple red Corvettes
To race about with the top down..
I’m stuck in the prune demographic
Where ensure and ex lax abound.
I still have my own teeth, and don’t need drugs to sleep,
But my Glasses have yet to be found…..
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 9:09 AM UTC
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
The song-splayed sounds of light
And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
Brambled in bay, garland in violet
When blades could ***** and not make bleed,
And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
In that glow, once knighted we must serve
Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
And the vernal song sang lowly
Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.
At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
Brown as the yellowed beech
Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.
Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
Damp fires hailed the rising
Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 4:04 PM UTC
The garden meeting adjourned and moved...
Management abruptly cleared the premises,
Canceled return visits,
Speculations inconveniently disrupted,
Wonder-rousings interrupted...
We found ourselves somehow
Standing on the Great Outside.
No wistful entreatments heard He,
The Grand Proprietor,
In spite of our new knowledges,
Our now-wise forays philosophical,
Our sophisticated posturing;
He seemed without empathy
In His Garden's sudden closure,
In our ejection and dismissal.
Stumblers of unexpected freedom,
Following a shadowed river
Narrowing down into a Valley,
Darkening down into a pinprick end,
We gaze behind, ahead, behind,
To see, high sword gleaming,
The standing doorman, glowering.
Eden, receding from our view,
Serpent joins us as we walk,
"Where were we when we left our talk?"
His lowered voice renews.
We notice now, the air is chill
As an endless sun slips down
Behind a darkening hill.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 1:56 AM UTC
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
The song-splayed sounds of light
And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
Brambled in bay, garland in violet
When blades could ***** and not make bleed,
And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
In that glow, once knighted we must serve
Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
And the vernal song sang lowly
Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.
At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
Brown as the yellowed beech
Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.
Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
Damp fires hailed the rising
Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 1:29 PM UTC
I back peddle from a paper pedestal, hoping for the best, hoping you don't intend to inspect the wreckage I have left.
I am temptation at its test, an exclamation on contempt, collecting the regrets to my exemptions under stress.
A misnomer to my bets, against the better judgments I neglect, I'm set in my ways, in lucid forays, I've let from my veins,
and I've slept, the whole ******* way.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 1:07 AM UTC
I am dead.
Cloven flesh, spirit
hiding shadows, some place, no place, sow
below the flow of thought -
amiable calamity on the part of the
lethargic.
That sense faded west
tasting living sweat and I
can’t even feel the uncaring
caress of ill ideals seeping through
green-blue, all eyes gray through prismatic
roots.
Wheels touch paper wedges,
circlets adorning colored names to
beats and lengths of waves, crystalline
wrists intact but
can’t my legs catch the
drift?
The day fades salty
across my brow, spit up
gentrified goodbyes dancing the fine line
catching boldly to dusk,
webs of light casting Terra’s abortions into
night.
I feel adrift atop
bending winds soaring,
grasping at the sky;
I’m laughing crawling forward, snatching
feelings named in my self-absorbed
ways.
Oh! how it bursts forth!
Explosions off in the distance
tuning eyes to white and back again,
heaving ribs spitting venom,
ideas ***** abominations, I feel at home at
last.
I cry at simplicities
feet, todays imagined forays into
Death again foiled by a common
sense which refuses neglect, wresting
forever rest from out my chest, a wasted
breath.
And what to do with
indulgent Death? What of
her bright eyes catching mine,
shaken thoughts grow cold
inside, so cold she warms my flesh for
tomorrows.
Jun 18, 2010
Jun 18, 2010 at 2:47 PM UTC
frisky freckles frolick
over his fair-featured face
like a flickering fresco
of furious lusting frenzy
a vibrant flirtatiousness
fills all her fibers
she falls into his arms with finesse
foreseeing fond fantasies
******* with fearsome delight
after failure of foreplay
the foman farts in fectasy
his font flushes fondly
though he almost faints in the feat
for his front has become
far more fragile
than in former feasts
fewer the forays
more frequent the flops
further away
desires formerly frequent
yet his feelings
still flow to flowering females
forever fertile and fragrant
therefore
he never thinks
of a final
farewell
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 3:43 PM UTC
**Sorry to inform you, I have adopted you to be my teenager daughter
(I really am crazy)**
Someday we might meet,
But meantime semi-officially informing you
You've been adopted by me,
With all the rights and privileges thereof
You get to beat up on me,
When you need to beat on someone,
Like everybody needs to sometime
You get to weep on my shirt,
Cause I keep an extra nearby at all times,
In case you have teenage sadness *** blues
You can try out your poems on me,
And if they're trite, my limitless sprite,
I won't reveal, for you have a thousand more inside
My repute as dad is hardly assured,
Two sons would might give me a maybe stolid high five,
On a scale of one to no jive, premised, dads are just necessary evils.
But I am open to learning, the arduous task
Of raising a teenage daughter,
After I have my head examined
Though I am just a bunch of eclectic electrons,
I got powers a few, like making life's happiness
Hearted happier, encouraging your forays into
You-know-what,
And when tables turn, a hasty retreat you beat,
For imaginary cappuccinos and poems we will meet,
Comparing notes on who felt lousier when...
But what I can do 100% is assure you
There is no lone nor lonely daughter extant,
Your voice not just clear but soft-edged,
For I have poetically adopted you,
Here and now, assuming you sign on the
..................................................................
P.S. Someday with you I'll share my most fav poem of all times,
Entitled "Why I Always Carry Tissues"
Which by the by, I still do
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
THIS IS JESUS, KING OF THE JEWS, it read
The Lamb's sweet blood spilled all across the sand
The Morning Light, the Son of God now dead
Great holy shepherd slain by rome's demand.
And there entombed and guarded with great care
The savior lay for three immortal days,
While fishermen and doctors found despair,
He who conquers death, dread sin forays.
And on that easter morn the women found
Their teacher was no longer in the ground
"Why do you seek the living 'mong the dead?"
Sweet Jesus rose to life in dying's stead.
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 1:23 PM UTC
Shoegazing. The first time I heard of it, I understood it immediately. Some may be hard-pressed to find the attraction in the stillness of the spotlight, but any modern romantic envisions with ease the dust on the tops of well-worn Converse, scraped from the warped wooden floors of the old warehouse/depot/theater/other artifact of urban decay turned venue. Such mighty inwardness may produce confidence in the "performer," but true faith, as such a focused person must know, comes from truly knowing thyself. From these fragmented origins spring the music, the serene meditation of one lifting higher the soul of the watchers. He does not know that he has watchers. All is as it should be.
Stargazing. It's been many a year since my earnest forays into the night, trying to capture the clean green-dusk scent that also unaccountably exists in the ugly, fragrant shelves of the public library. Who of those that take the time to look does not appreciate the night sky? It is an open mysticism, inviting, to some calling, with less of the hypnotic tricks like incense and smoky air but more compelling draughts of equal parts mystery and light. Light, for our nature; only the sort of dark mystery that alludes to more of the nature of ourselves, more essence. Future. But to open myself to the sky is to become sensitive, seemingly undesirable to the warm, smoky fragrance of an always inward and reflecting (stagnating) heart, which is why recollection caught me unprepared when she referred to the relation of my posture to the drably speckled slabs of ceiling as perfect stargazing. With the recollection of such charged memories, I was more surprised when she leaned awkwardly back against my knees and called it
Stargazing.
Dec 5, 2010
Dec 5, 2010 at 11:30 AM UTC