"gatherer" poems
I deal in death, the reaper stated.
I am the debt collector,
The gatherer of souls.
I am the Grim
I deal in life, the god replied.
I am the light giver,
The soul rescuer.
I am god
In neither death nor life,
I deal, remarked Cupid.
I merely facilitate.
I neither give nor take,
I barter only in Love.
Take it or leave it.
I am Cupid.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 5:29 PM UTC
There overtook me and drew me in
To his down-hill, early-morning stride,
And set me five miles on my road
Better than if he had had me ride,
A man with a swinging bag for load
And half the bag wound round his hand.
We talked like barking above the din
Of water we walked along beside.
And for my telling him where I’d been
And where I lived in mountain land
To be coming home the way I was,
He told me a little about himself.
He came from higher up in the pass
Where the grist of the new-beginning brooks
Is blocks split off the mountain mass—
And hop. eless grist enough it looks
Ever to grind to soil for grass.
(The way it is will do for moss.)
There he had built his stolen shack.
It had to be a stolen shack
Because of the fears of fire and logs
That trouble the sleep of lumber folk:
Visions of half the world burned black
And the sun shrunken yellow in smoke.
We know who when they come to town
Bring berries under the wagon seat,
Or a basket of eggs between their feet;
What this man brought in a cotton sack
Was gum, the gum of the mountain spruce.
He showed me lumps of the scented stuff
Like uncut jewels, dull and rough
It comes to market golden brown;
But turns to pink between the teeth.
I told him this is a pleasant life
To set your breast to the bark of trees
That all your days are dim beneath,
And reaching up with a little knife,
To loose the resin and take it down
And bring it to market when you please
3.1k
These days
I am too cold
My palms are at rest
Down for the long winter
My coordination and
dexterity will hibernate
And I'll cloak this poor body
With anything I can
An almost married woman
Clings to the hems of my sleeves
With thin fingers
With scissors
There to cut away the warm wool
With wild eyes
and a bitter mouth
She gathers my coat in a basket
Unravels all the careworn fibers
To cast upon her empty loom
As though she'd spun them
Casts off newly sewn kisses
Threadbare affection
Muttering crossly about the weather
And how the sun
does not melt the snow
She is only my friend when
She can touch my bare wrists
Give me white hot iron to hold
And ask me if I'm warmer
Only my friend when
She can graze my skin in surprise
Wrap my hands up with stiff yarn
And ask me what burned them
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 11:27 AM UTC
A long time ago
Unicorns roamed the earth
They were ugly
And dumb
And did not know fear
Did not feel the need to use their horns for anything
They were fat
They smelled bad
Like an open wounded staph infection
They did not even taste good
To other animals or humans
But there was this boy who loved to watch them graze with his pet turtle Rusty
He watched and listened
The Unicorns did not neigh so much as they screamed high pitch and breathy
Into each other’s mouths
They made no sense
It was beautiful to him that things that made no sense
Could exist without reason
And there be nothing wrong with that
Rusty would walk around them
A turtle’s pace
And graze
Occasionally bite at an ankle
It made him feel strong
To cause such a big animal pain
And slink away unscathed
No one will ever see the way such a proud turtle walks
As the way Sparky did
Head so high
His neck did not look like ******** skin
The boy also watched them die
Watched as the men in his tribe led them to a nearby valley
Where they would smash the unicorn’s head in with rocks
The animals just stood there
Not understanding what was being done to them
The boy felt like a unicorn then
When his father hit him
He felt dumb
Dumb in the heart
Dumb in the brain
Dumb in the body
For continuing to stay
The boy cried as the last unicorn died
His father said that soon everyone would forget that something so ugly lived
The boy understood
So he went to nearby caves
Where all the gay tribe boys go
Because in hunter gatherer societies
Boys who did not work were gay
They did what makes them happy
That is why it is called gay
In the caves he would draw the unicorns
He made them beautiful
And intelligent
With blood that healed wounds
And horns that if stabbed you
Would cause the most beautiful death
When all this ugly is gone
People will tell stories about us
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 3:41 PM UTC
*A fruit gatherer by some chance,
she is deeply immersed in this pursuit
seeking out and gathering ripe fruits,
hidden by the foliage,
but her eyes search far beyond,
sunny day, the impact of beauty all round,
moves her deeply and transforms
her demeanor speaks of an inner tranquility rare,
and the light her eyes emit speaks
all this indicate a deeper meaning to her act,
much more than what meets the naked eyes.
The verdant garden, flowers, ripe fruits,
the fruit picking charmer herself,
are the realities in front,
if one doesn't look beyond and only see skin deep,
it suits him well, what is the prompt of beauty,
he does not know for sure,
absorbed she is, and he sure is aware of being enticed by her fruits,
as much as her,
and he wants to be a fruit picker himself,
we all are, for reasons only our inner selves fully know.*
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 10:14 AM UTC
A MOTHERS ROLE
WITHIIN THE TRIBAL FAMILY
She is a warrior in her own right
Guardian
Protector
Of all that is hers
The teacher of all things
To her family
The tribe
The hunter and gatherer
Out there in the front line
With men gathering in the spoils of victory
Over Buffalo and Bison
With their child strapped
In the papoose
The Warrior mother
Has no liking for material objects
Her mind only set on what is really required
Warmth, shelter, their blankets and clothing
And all importantly the food for the family
Is enough for this warrior mother
She claims no fame
There is no gain
For she is part of the entire
Tribal family
This warrior mother
Will never put herself above anyone else
Will always be there for others in need
This mother’s role
Is the teacher of all that once was
From generation to generation
Stories to be told
Legends of warriors
Forefathers and foremothers
Telling the stories
Of how life can be
Making the children ready
For their own life’s
Ventures
Adventures
And
Histories
© Helen Moule
1st May 2012
May 6, 2012
May 6, 2012 at 2:37 PM UTC
Foggy breeze through my
fingertips when sunburnt days
seem coveted in memory.
When the columbines came back from the dead.
Burnt up cities...
The last glimpse of
firefly lights grew dim behind me
The trees sprouted everywhere like stardust
The pillars I once worshipped
in incense with amulets
became faded ruins...
The weathered walls texture
were like sequins with no glimmer
I escaped again to a place with green lakes and forrests of pines
It's quieter up here in the
mountains
Like a shudder through the
window
I hear the old house moan all
through the day and all
through the night
The sunlight pierces through
the blinds
illuminating his face
which is already illuminated
But you're my bumblebee
that insignia- a honey gatherer
If you subtract the intimacy
out of ***
Nothing's left, but
hollow mechanical *******
Stealing the rythmn from
the music
Sturdy as a beam I lay
Unable to grasp at anything
It's just noise
Sweaty day, shivering nights-juxtaposed
It's like living on Mercury
In decomposition like a basket of rotten lemons
Past conversations crush their
weight against my open ribs
No parent teacher or friend
told me how all consuming the sensation would be...
Dazed eyes staring through
disheveled blinds,
I was dropping rose buds off the
second floor balcony in the night
They hit the scratchy asphalt
like a gentle meteor shower
Monotonous nights replay
the same phases
That moon...
A face splashing
from gibbous to crescent
Waning on my malady
Always stirring like a steady torch
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 2:40 AM UTC
I had forgotten the way to the hut that I had traveled to so many times,
so many days. So many moons, I would say. But no one marks moons anymore, except hunters. And I am not one of them. Nor a gatherer.
I listen to old men tell how they felled the stags. I do not believe them.
I am a wayfarer, to use the archaic words I used to love, the words
I had forgotten, the words of time in eternity, the words of orange leaves
on towering pin oaks, the words of circles of shadows settling on Gavarnie, of snowfall in the Pyrénées. Sever Spain from the Continent.
I had lost the language of the ***** spray-painted sheep scampering
over gray-bouldered cirques on mountaintops, boulders turning into mountains in the shadows, in the fog, in drifts of snow. There are no words for this now. Bleating sheep drown them out, and yapping dogs.
There are no words for the radiance of transcendence. “Climb higher,”
I hear them say. Higher into the haze of clouds. Cirque: circle, circus. Acrobatics on hillsides, balancing acts on rockslides, skimming streams in hard-toed boots. I had forgotten the way to the words, far behind me.
I have come to a gate, a steep stile in shadow. No sheep can pass. Nothing looks familiar; nothing looks strange. I saunter in a cloud
of unknowing. I had known the words: worn, smooth as stone unscuffed by hard-toed boots, slick as snowmelt. Slide from France into Spain.
This is the path of Santiago de Compostela, the route of St. James, who said, “Do not be double-minded, brethren.” I cannot remember if I have been double-minded in my travels. I had forgotten the way. If the words do not come, which mind sees the threshold; which mind circles the fog?
What passes, what begins when we travel? I do not look backward.
The way lies ahead, waiting, wandering away from the words. Splotches
of lichen sprout orange and green. “Go no higher for safety.” No higher.
They do not mention exile or ecstasy or the straight path of radiance.
The cirque circles my words in mountain shadows. I must unlearn
the art of travel, adrift in broken fields of stone. I had forgotten the way to the hut. Rocks obscure the path. Light ensures the path leads upward. Nothing is lost. Words hold their weight. Stags dance above me in fog.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 3:19 PM UTC
I take comfort
from the greasy food
on my plate
hunter gatherer instincts
sated, my eyes search
for campfire flickering flames
and settle on the fish tank
I am zoned
replete
in the cavern
of my own space
my day over
I wait for the miracle
of sunrise
Nov 7, 2021
Nov 7, 2021 at 7:30 AM UTC
O indiginous tuber to Peru,
Now in nations' daily stews,
From the Polar South to Timbuktu,
Ranked with rice, wheat and maize,
Oh staple potatoe
You grace our table.
We plant seed spuds,
Red, yellow or brown,
Harvest the new ones,
The remainder mound
To thrive in leisure,
As buried treasure.
Heel the spud *****
Unearth your trove,
A gatherer's surprise
To woo true love.
We slice, dice and mash,
Roast, deep-fry and bake.
It's not an egg,
It'll never break.
***Medium-rare, please.
And make mine a baked.
Oh, and don't forget the butter,
Oh, and sour-cream, just in case.”***
It hasn't got *** appeal,
What you see is true,
But make no mistake,
I swear by what's holy in taste,
It only has eyes for you.
Pharmaceutically,
It soothes,
Burns, itches, puffy eyes,
Migraines and headaches.
Make a stamp,
Make silver shine,
Clean your windows with its brine.
And potatoe muffins are simply divine.
When blight strikes,
When crops don't thrive,
Many starve,
Many have died.
So, I raise this toast
To the lofty Tuber,
And I dedicate this Ode,
To the one,
The only:
***Mr. Potatoe,
This bud's for you.***
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 6:04 PM UTC
*i've been to kenya, all that these "charity" adverts are fuelling
is ignorance, they're presupposing
all the african nations are like kindergarten,
they're insulating them... it's like that:
give a man fish or give him a fishing rod,
i.e.: give a man money or give him a
method creating & subsequently circulating wealth:
these charitable companies are insulting
african nations to be at a loss,
they're only feeding european bureaucrats
who are really the only worthwhile
charitable pay-cheque givens, odds 4-5.*
a retired lady selling poppies
for a feeling
committed suicide
being hunted by ninety-nine
charity organisations...
charity organisations...
start-ups akin to apps of
cue: shaved face, young, eager
****** venom ****** statues
of jealousy...
all the bankers' wives have
a tier system, the origin of
charity companies
(surely a wife can't be as pristine
as her husband):
first two don't count,
third: modern art "collector",
fifth: philanthropist,
seventh: possessor of an O.B.E.
and as one bemused englishman said:
king arthur and the zimmerframe table
of knights with walking sticks rather than swords:
money made people lazy, less adventurous,
let alone less tribal and communist,
adventure just became predictable,
tourism...
the modern shopper is envious of
the hunter gatherer... so envious
he wants to look the part, but live as modern
lazy allows... after all... all the gym sessions
can't go to waste... got to run standing still:
hey! don quixote! leave the windmills!
check out the treadmills... you see a caveman
anywhere in the sweaty parlours?
i don't.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 7:31 PM UTC
when torn clouds bared blue holes
the river brimmed with ecstasy.
it had rained the whole day
and she was bursting in seams
to tell her side of the story
from the many
upon her shore's mangrove.
how the tiger guards her treasures,
prawns and ***** and honeys and woods,
pounces from the saline thickness of the mist
when dream of life is heavy on the gatherer
and smell of death far gone forgotten
rips the flesh cracks the skull open
flows the blood as silent night
carries the trophy for a bony rest
till devoured by her floodwater.
the river knows it too well
the tiger is her lover and loyal sentinel.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 1:21 PM UTC
Hey you
You with the crinkling eyes and the dancing laugh
with the arms that ensare my waist to throw me against
pure emerald mountain sides dripping with late spring rains
the shucking of pine bark to twirl wooden towers down lilting slopes
and the gangly limbs reaching towards the sky
in an attempt to capture the clouds
for the sole reason of dancing through their
fluffiness
you with the pure soul and poise fit enough for the queen
if only you were anatomically different
you would rule this world better than she
honesty running through your laughing veins
as you summit mountain after mountain
pure glacial eyes darting to capture mine
mischievious depths speaking of hidden love
I know you
so well.
Even though our friendship has been
2 months 30 days long
I know you better than I know myself
My best best friend you called me
as true as these wild trilliums we run past in an attempt to throw
the other into the lake
the fires which serve as a competitive twinkle in your eyes
we are so free.
You who contains the most pure soul
pure intentions I have ever come across
You are so loved
You are so perfect in your innocence
In the wise notes held in your fingertips
you provide wings to leap with.
I know there are waves trapped in your veins
calling for your brilliant smile.
I know when your head rests against my chest
it is with the innocence of a child
You are my best friend
My comrade in arms
My birch gatherer.
and this love spreading through my limbs
for your tired head and tumbling curls
is hard to ignore.
I know you are being called away
a bright future awaits
a familial expectation to fufill
I'm just here to tell you I will be waiting
In these mountains, these peaks
roaming annd laughing and dancing
waiting for the day my best friend realizes
his happiness is more important than others expectations
and I will be here
as free as when you first found me
ready for our adventures to begin
Come fly with me.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 8:44 PM UTC
Talking Turkey
gobble gobble gobble
it may sound like giberish to you
or sometimes called gobbledygook
nonsensical in thought it's true
the genesis of language
was born here though at least it seems
the northern mesopotamian birthplace
the birthplace of our dreams
the beginnings of modern man
the farmer now the gatherer no longer
communication skills needed more
the thoughts so much stronger
this bipedal ***** standing creature
descendant of humanoids now gone
move north out of Baghdad
and learned to sing a song
the music still playing in our ears
lingers on from these Turkish rants
poetry in another form
words of the future cants
Gomer LePoet....
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 11:21 PM UTC
*In the crowded platform
he sure was the dancing peacock
in his heart was blowing a storm
he feigned though looking at the station clock.*
Not the clock he was eying that one lovely girl
her face storm gatherer like her hair's black curl
he blushed every time she would catch his eyes
stealing her a look in indifference's disguise.
He was within enjoying this farcical foreplay
didn't know her train his was an hour away
imagined she too was singling him out
from the flock of men his contenders no doubt.
Did a wispy smile float on her cherry lip
few moments' encounter could it be that deep
still in his wondrous thought the girl he did own
on that absurd stage for her his love was grown.
One could not tell what was going within her
her eyes were they touched shone there a star
was she too mindful of him held him once in gaze
or her mind was too far away on a different page.
The hour passed quick in the young man's trance
between changing trains with the peacock's dance
when chugged in her train flew away the butterfly
the whistles of his train drowned his rending sigh.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 3:39 AM UTC
We all dreamed to be something when we grew up
doctors, engineers, lawyers...
but none a poet
for even in youthful immaturity we knew
being a poet wouldn't do
the ones we happened to meet
looked such impoverished!
As now then too
poets were honey gatherers
seeking discerning minds
one read one lit up face
one sip of the nectar!
Most of us never achieved what we dreamed to be
it really didn't matter
the doctor could be an engineer
the engineer a lawyer
*but maybe one of us
in his heart of hearts
wanted to be a poet
pursued sunshine
sank in darkness!*
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 2:33 AM UTC
I.
This is a poet of the river lands,
a lowdown man of the deepest
depth of the valley, where gravity gathers
the waters, the poisons, the trash,
where light comes late and leaves early.
From the window of his small room
the lowdown poet looks out. He watches
the river for ripples, flashes, signs
of beings rising in the undersurface dark,
or lightly swimming upon the flow,
or, for a minnow, descending the deeps
of the air to enter and shatter
forever their momentary reflections,
for the river is a place passing
through a passing place.
The poet, his window, and his poems
are creatures of the shore that the river
gnaws, dissolves, and carries away.
He is a tree of a sort, rooted
in the dark, aspiring to the light,
dependent on both. His poems
are leavings, sheddings, gathered
from the light, as it has come,
and offered to the dark, which he believes
must shine with sight,
with light, dark only to him.
II.
Times will come as they must,
by necessity or his wish, when he leaves
his enclosure and his window,
his homescape of house and garden,
barn and pasture, the incarnate life
of his desire, thought, and daily work.
His grazing animals look up
to watch in silence as he departs.
He sets out at times without even
a path or any guidance other than knowledge
of the place and himself as they were
in time already past. He goes among trees,
climbing again the one hill of his life.
With his hand full of words he goes
into the wordless, wording it barely
in time as he passes. One by one he places
words, balancing on each
as on a small stone in the swift flow
in his anxious patience until
the next arrives, until he has come
at last again into presentiment
of the Real, the wholly real in its grand
composure, for which as before
he knows no word. And here again
he must stop. Here by luck or grace he may
find rest, which he has been seeking
all along. Sometimes by the time’s flaws
and his own, he fails. And then
by luck or grace he will be given
another day to try again, to go maybe
yet farther before again he must stop.
He is a gatherer of fragments, a cobbler
of pieces. Piece by piece he tells
a story without end, for in the time
of this world no end can come.
It is the story of eternity’s shining,
much shadowed, much put off,
in time. And time, however long, falls short.
Wendell Berry's most recent books include It All Turns on Affection: The Jefferson Lecture and Other Essays, New Collected Poems, and A Place in Time, the newest volume in his Port William series.
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 11:30 AM UTC
The sun~poem also rises every evening…
*A.P.U (as per usual):
this testimony~phrase tilts me sideways,
to relieve the condition, needy to be righted
one must expel the belly kicking seedling,
looking to be outed as a full fledged tree,
a poem planted, a gatherer of insects,
giving shade, perhaps shedding fruit
the sun bids adieu, self~same~centrifuge
of our solar system, is indeed alway rising
somewhere, though the light of our naked
eyes weak, incapable of trajectory bending,
to follow its course’s curvature, nonetheless,
we know it but struggle to believe just as we
struggle to complete, compare, and compose
replanted words in your heart, words that trigger,
are the notions inherent, of a center, rarely eclipsed,
that never ceases to offer up nouveau hope in each
of the days, a placenta to fret you blood and oxygen,
once purposed, discarded into darkness,*
b u t
**the words rise again, offering what you seek,
diurnally, need, to find within them, for my child,
is now
our child**…
May 12, 2024
May 12, 2024 at 9:22 AM UTC
Father!
Father, I’ll join you!
I’ve brought you wreaths of orchids and daisies to compensate for lost time.
O Father, I am lost without you!
No sense of direction have I.
Left to wander empty fields with an equally empty mind
And expected to get somewhere with it.
How are the cold grounds treating you?
Is Death an ugly, tortured thing? Oh, He never would answer this question for me.
Him. Father, Father, Father – it was He!
He cannot be forgiven. He cannot be loved.
And yet…
Ah, He’s given me no reason to stall. I’ll make haste!
This was not my plan, but without you, I have none.
It makes sense to come with you and follow in your footsteps, which are still freshly pressed in soil.
You were right Father and I was right to listen to you.
I heeded. He only wanted my body. He said himself that he was not worthy.
Why do I conceit of Him still? He is gone. He has left me.
Or have I left Him? O Father, it does not matter, does it?
What’s past is past, and soon I will pass as well.
To fall from a tree as if to fall from heaven.
An angel in mermaid’s clothing.
Let my fin soak in the waters as I sing like sirens do.
And I shall summon Death upon myself, like any self-slaughtering siren would.
And as I went through this phase, I will go through life in song.
Father, I am coming. You won’t have to wait very long.
They will watch me in my unconscious state
And wonder if I left it when my spirit left me.
I am unconscious with you gone.
I will make sure they will see me as I glide and continue to sing strong.
They will not come for me – I am already too far gone.
They will have but one thing to say:
“Alas, then she is drowned.”
And drowned will I be.
Aug 31, 2010
Aug 31, 2010 at 8:31 PM UTC
symbol of contemporary life
packaged, preserved,
instructions on the side.
simplicity of modern day,
pop stamped symmetrical;
hunter gatherer.
collect them into rows
italian chopped tomatoes
best before date, barcode.
tin can still bites,
like bramble thorns,
to repel against harvest.
boxed up comfortable living
adding edge to expectancy
countering convenience.
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 6:09 PM UTC
Death is a ******
who never misses.
He stalks us all,
calmly awaiting
the proper moment,
takes perfect aim, fires,
and thinks we are gone.
Looking anxiously
over your shoulder
will not avail.
Death is patience incarnate.
He is a gatherer,
ceaselessly collecting,
eternally foraging,
and when he finds us
he slips us into his bag
and thinks we are gone.
Death is a messenger
delivering the telegram
that says our time is up.
He reads it to us
and thinks we are gone.
Death is a conductor
who calls a stop,
sees us off the train
and thinks we are gone.
But death is mistaken.
Death is certain,
but it is not final.
The world we touched
is changed forever
by our journey in it,
however brief or long.
Something of us remains
in a child, a garden,
a painting, a poem,
a kiss, a caress,
a gasping ******
Our hearts stop beating,
but breath does not depart.
It floats in clouds
of atoms that we were.
Those we leave behind
have only to inhale
and once again
we are with them,
and within them.
Bodies die; love never does.
Each life, sacred and eternal,
inspires Creation.
We are never truly gone.
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 7:12 AM UTC
This is Horatio's elegy,
He and the mousetrap had synergy,
That's the end of mouse energy,
Alas, Horatio is no more,
That fur friend predator,
He ran into the mousetrap's door,
Alas, Horatio is no more!
How to embellish this ode?
I'm in hunter-gatherer mode,
Shall I serve him up for lunch?
Nuke him for tasty munch?
Eat it skin on for nutrients,
Now I know what Nigella meant,
No, Horatio wasn't pregnant,
Now I have a fur friend remnant,
That little mouse predator,
Of mice I am no amator,
Alas, Horatio is no more!!
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 10:31 PM UTC
Coaxed,
Stoaked,
Citer of circumspect alley ways,
Ponderer of all circumference!!!
A lost shadow to a drawn out stage!!
Incurable nausea plants itself beneathe thine nose,
Beneathe thy finest thine Rose!!!
Thou fallen cut down trunk,
Thou Intel gatherer of recordings of political junk!!!
Thy mafiatic hardened heart's department hath closed for many seasons,
For many reasons thou art down and out again!!!
Old adversary,
Oldened friend!!!!
Undergraduate of no sporty coup'e,
No tripped up loop to sway thine interfacial structure!!!
No loving, all clutter, you inhale as you breathe,
Thou daytime innocent,
Thou nightly thief!!!!
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 9:01 PM UTC
Acuity's sweetheart, without a peep what whole
to picture, reflect you.
Black hole gone white...you consume all put to
you.
Unwavering stare ad nauseam--great gatherer
of last nerves.
Your only sentiment, an unnerving one.
As per second guess, images donned their
reality within your confines...their dead end of
your wide open.
Grey skies of luminous latency, frozen lakes,
serrated knives, sentient fog--smack of you.
Timeless conversation piece on reserve for what
thing may look into you.
How can something so crystal clear, be so cut off?
Your desensitization was fashioned darkly--that
pained slip...that recoil of what you reflect.
More final than the wall hang you, as to eclipse.
You belong shut in a dark, musty closet, or the
cobweb corner of an attic.
Clearly...you do not merit the light of day...it's fire
to brush...O Great Teacher!
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 10:51 AM UTC
I line up
all the things
I like about you.
I space them evenly
Precisely
Accurately
I shoot them
with a harpoon,
A gun,
A sling shot.
Then I smash them.
I burn them.
I bury them.
They beckon me
to go about collecting
them once more.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 11:37 PM UTC