"gentling" poems
Today the winter is not as chill, nor as gray. An azure depth backdrops the "fade"-to-white and the eyes remember what to see beneath patterns that shift and flow. You hear your footsteps and ...feel the silence leave your mind.
"Inside A Snowdrop..."
Driplets - droplets
pitter and pat
echo and float
...and the sun is here
its touching
tracing
edging patterns smooth and
flowing.
Feel the air
- its fingertips grasping
finding each bit of you all at once
...teasing and tickling your cheek,
nose THEN down the throat
filling and growing 'til
becoming an exhale
becoming you out and upon the world.
Feel as each hair lifts and spreads,
gathers and becomes waves eddying and rising free
freefalling and floating and rising again -
riding the unseen exhales as the world
- your world - flows by-and-by
grasping and tasting life
grasping and BEING life for all the other exhales
to find and feel and be felt in turn.
Reach - palm up...
wait
...wait
then
catch a miracle!
- a world within worlds within -
a snowdrop
a single glass to gaze in-and-in
to focus - deep
deeper still
... 'til
I see you
...behind my eyes
and the shadows and shades
surround and enfold
tightening
tighter still...
holding me
gentling me
becoming ...me.
I am lavender ghosting in the air
the taste and sweetness of your skin
the softness of each lil hair flowing by
the lips that found their home on mine.
Breathing is one long purr
and life is gently kneading into the softness
...of you.
Chris
Feb 17, 2012
Feb 17, 2012 at 1:15 PM UTC
<>
for the early morning teach
<>
she's young, beautiful and thinks her life is cursed,
in the past, subject of some of my poems, her health to nurse,
yet, as is normative, you fall into & out of a well of touch,
until you accidentally once again path cross,
she provides a precision mathematical status update
"i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse."
it is 1:38AM for you,
the not unnoticed ironic minute and hour
when the night ether has prematurely worn off,
rising time close but not nearly close enough,
a dark dose of a sleeping nurse's aide seems inappropriate,
and TV reruns seem like an insult to your brain
instead you turn on some belle string musique,
a Grande Messe des Morts,
a chorus,
singing a high mass for the dead,
while opening all your various email luggage and baggage,
smiling as you read a poetess's message of
laughter behind tears
"i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse."
and Mississippi ******
your uncontrollable mixed drink of her emotional
Grenada grenade cocktail,
flavored with musique, paintings, and words and a nearby beloved's
gentling sleep sounds,
has you writing your own protest poem,
your very own,
oy vey, grande messe,
about lives that were supposed to be
pictures of perfect artistry
and for but a word or two,
instead, a painting of a life that got hung upside down,
and indeed,
leaving a grand mess and no one to help clean up
alternatively weeping, laughing as you are thinking,
smiling recall
Laurel and Hardy's summary definition
of living a life's of ill begotten, misventured adventures:
"Well, here's another nice mess you've gotten me into !"
but 38% worse?
not an even-steven rounded up 40%,
should I write you only 38% of a poem, teach?
or more accurately, more mathematically,
138% of what was writ before?
and you recall your older, prior words
about the love hate affair between
you poet,
and the beauty of written brevity
(her style)
and you give her this then,
this rambling, scrambled, attention paid notification,
word attentiveness, a summary of your readings
of her cheddar sharp and honey mustard sweet retorts of
pained poetry,
it is insufficiently but perfectly sufficient,
a summarizing phrase that opens
and yet
briefly encapsulates all that
you are feeling for her
"thinking of you"
or the 38% larger version thereof -
***"Well, here's another 38% more
nice poetic mess
you've gotten me into!"***
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
Again!
Come, give, yield all your strength to me!
From far a low word breathes on the breaking brain
Its cruel calm, submission's misery,
Gentling her awe as to a soul predestined.
Cease, silent love! My doom!
Blind me with your dark nearness, O have mercy, beloved enemy of my will!
I dare not withstand the cold touch that I dread.
Draw from me still
My slow life! Bend deeper on me, threatening head,
Proud by my downfall, remembering, pitying
Him who is, him who was!
Again!
Together, folded by the night, they lay on earth. I hear
From far her low word breathe on my breaking brain.
Come! I yield. Bend deeper upon me! I am here.
Subduer, do not leave me! Only joy, only anguish,
Take me, save me, soothe me, O spare me!
2.1k
Wishing to fly my kite again...
The secret of it
I gave up on...
the ones we made in school
of paper stuck in trees
Only by the ocean
could I send one to the sky
Tail of yellow streaming
if the wind was right
Tethered to its spool
My sky-dog
on leash of string
released, unwound
my hope
to send it all aloft
with crescent moon
and golden rocket on the blue--
diamond growing ever smaller
into the light of day
Until it stood above for hours
on the gentling winds
a miracle
Lying in the sand below
I dream about it
tail curling in the currents
on this coldest of days
a miracle
still
Jan 30, 2019
Jan 30, 2019 at 12:07 PM UTC
a small craft,
barely deserving of such a compliment as
c r a f t e d,
a few boards, just enough caulking,
made quick, with no regard for artistry,
but sturdy none the less,
purposed for naught,
other than to get from there to
here
even, then, all the more,
as if time chose to reverse itself,
solidified it, this ships soul strength
rather than wore~warped
its character essential
unclear who was the wood
and who, the caulking glue,
but they held together in bonding so powerful
when strangers asked
what its purpose be,
this modest boat,
the locals
to a one,
always answered,
answered always consistent:
ancient and ungainly, not shapely,
purposed as if to be, simply
a reminder
that nothing
could ere
be graced more,
complimented, honored as,
*seaworthy,
than this human loving crafting,*
long-lasting,
maybe ever-lasting,
a tiny notional idea,
that two could get
you from here to
there
it is in the more stronger strength,
of one thing
created from a loving,
two combinatory realization,
ruled and ruling,
this
craft
came to be
ruler of the sea of humanity
8/15/17 12:36am
born, falling, borne into sleep, to
the music of Johann Pachelbel
combined with a gentling snoring
Aug 5, 2017
Aug 5, 2017 at 1:25 PM UTC
3 hands
kidding hands,
an autocorrection title,
was supposed to be
kissing hands but either works
man overcome with an elixir of Sunday bed warming/charming/chilling, lukewarm "hot" coffee,
melodious love songs inducing
languorously hand-to-mouth,
five finger fore play love making
a potpourri of knuckle gnawing and gentling kisses
upon a hand borrowed from the a tablet holder,
while she reads the paper bemoaning the sorry state
of the world, the government permissions bad guys...
and weeps for the world we are leaving behind
a mood changer with 100% effectiveness
newspapers- a safe *** condiment
think I'll reheat my coffee
<•>
my hand
she cant sleep knows that I'm up at 2:08am composing.
and showed her earlier today
the kidding hands poem
just as the lights were going down, downtown on
William's Measure For Measure
so at 2:09am her hand snakes over and wrap itself
around my thumb as if she was weaning an infant from
what infants like doing, or weaning grownup old men like me from doing at 2:09am, what they should be best leaving alone,
like writing poetry or it could just be the woman
pseudo-sucking a poets thumb as a way of saying
can't sleep head buzzing and in between I love the
livening lying of living with your hands thumb in me
<•>
the facement of your hands
dr. mandy is handy with a needling drink of boo boo bo-toxin
that auto corrects the face's reflecting times drawing upon it,
our bodies facement; an effacement I suppose, or maybe a
defacement.
very little to be done to keep the hands couture covering
from revealing what devolutionary year it is for you: why I write of the facement of your hands and why I kiss them, your hands,
lovingly, hoping the natural toxins on my lips can ****** their aging,
and if they can't, then it is a great way of saying
I love you
<•>
2:53am
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 3:00 AM UTC
There'd only plundering be;
If all of us were wolves,
No sheep could flee....
Oh, the pirate's life for thee.
And the pirate's life for me,
And the world were all in flames,
And the world were all in flames.
If everyone were pirates,
Why, villains all we'd be,
And every deck-born swab
Would glower at you and me
With our laces and our kerchiefs,
And our killer pirate wigs
As we stormed across the continents and seas;
As we stormed across the continents and seas.
And good men, none, would live their lives,
With the gentling help of their good wives;
And children, all, would yell and terrorize,
Chasing down the nursemaid with the kitchen knives.
If everyone were pirates,
No farmers, and no fishers on the beach,
No bakers, and no soldiers continental,
No doctors, and no teachers left to teach,
No preachers and no sermons for to preach,
But only pirates coming up the streets...
But only pirates coming up the streets.
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 5:21 AM UTC
Sitting on my porch,
A refreshing morning
Breeze gentling blowing,
Conveying aromatic scents
Of yard plants blooming,
The hum of fluttering Bee’s
Seeking Nectar among them.
The songs of early birds
punctuating all this convivial congeniality.
You can not purchase a ticket
to this particular show at any price.
Other than say,
An invitation to sit beside me.
Young dog at my feet,
Him with full tummy,
Basking in the sun.
I can almost see a smile on his face.
Already he knows how to live.
There is tranquility here,
In my yard,
Among these plants and trees,
This grass so green, still fresh
With drops of recent rain a dripping,
The ethereal scent,
Of now wet earth arising.
No real need to go a traveling,
Far or even near a field.
I have almost all I need and want,
Right here in my yard,
on this porch of mine.
There is one other strong sensation here,
It is my feelings of utter contentment.
The simple things are always the best.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 2:05 PM UTC
These special summer afternoons
have no time markers,
no human dividers,
no watches watching
or clocks clocking,
just grins and smiles,
divining the divide,
painting lovely
the one canyon
of humanity and nature
attending to each other
These summer afternoons
have no time markers,
but drift perfectly sequentially
from sun to nap to
black striped grilled franks,
and red watermelon,
orange cantaloupe,
cold coronas,
and desserts of
indeterminate beach walks,
and quiet talks
These summer afternoons
are as close
as I remember,
what it was like to
be seven or eight,
years of age,
knowing only
carefree summer months
that were
carelessly treasured,
thinking there is
always another,
looking forward to tomorrow
to do nothing in
exactly, happily,
the same way innocently
I am an adult
and that means,
cares are ever present,
ever fair or fear not,,
they lurk and
attack the goalie,
with noisy or subtle unrelenting attacks
but as I overlook the waters,
scenario soul gentling me
under the cooling coverlet of
the perfect breeze and
what lurks
is the moment
the eyes and heart
are fulfilled,
satisfied by what they see
The bay,
dotted with the boat traffic
not too much,
but just interesting,
a right tiny armada
to entertain,
all of us,
inattentively observing
the submerging
descent of
summer daytime friends,
and I think of you only,
at this perfect second
and I am besotted
with grief
and guilt
why can I not grant you the moment,
that I desperate wish to share
my arm is not, not,
careless slung, but
grasping firm with squeezes tight,
finger under chin chucking,
come friend be with me,
and for just this moment
your anti-toil tool here,
your plight beyond my comprehension,
though I live a life on the unknown edge,
what matters is the relativity of us,
and I relate to your weariness,
I weep with desperate knowledge
transporting you here is still an
impossibility
though my eyes see glory,
though my heart cannot refuse
the scene's peace invading me,
it is not fair, it is not fair
and I want you
to have this more than me
so I can keep it too
until then it is a glaze,
surfacing the coating,
that is me
but substance is untouched
until this guilt morphs into a
shared pleasure
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 4:36 AM UTC
all her nails, freshly painted,
the smoothed shaved legs,
seasonally and saintly nick free,
the eyeliner,
A+ student penciled in,
eye shade applied with lightest of touch sensual,
threaded eyebrows,
curvaceously straight,
streaks of red,
the appliqué upon her head,
parfume strategically dabbed in spots near where any
body's lips might invade,
*and yet,
not one primped place upon her
was safe!*
all turned awry,
when knocked I
upon bedroom door,
bursting to read a poem freshly made,
the oven's writing warmth,
still faint discernible,
giving off the aroma of heated ink,
upon a skin-smooth page,
a bakery smell irresistible
presented her with my best,
a man's rawest essence
refined, honed, then, honored, favored by her
she, overcome!
weeping pleasure at the pleasuring
of my words so gentling,
all by my soft speaking tongue applied,
that engendered this response
she,
in a slow pouring, half turning,
presented me with an act of counter-balancing,
no embrace, no equality of caressing,
nonetheless,
a weighty visible estimation of
her physical esteem and appreciation
presented me a bill for repair,
a body's bodyshop estimate,
undoing the undoing damage done,
by my careless, thoughtless,
ecstatic reading of
only love poetry
she added a weary, seasonal, lyrical
claus(e) of some folk familiarity,
by way of apology
"that's what you get for loving me"
Dec 26, 2016
Dec 26, 2016 at 4:10 PM UTC
smoke billows across the open sky
dancing on the horizon of space and time
from a distance the beauty is admired
sitting atop gentling rolling hills
long blades of grasses and petals of wild flowers
the culmination of such always brings a sense of peace
but not today
this will not be the day for any sort of serenity
there is nothing to fear but fear itself
except certain death
looming in the distance
waiting for innocence to be served up on a silver platter
he is coming for you and he is coming for me
dressed in a fancy suit he pretends to be whatever you want
the essence of life that binds us
is also the cascade of our dismay
eeny meeny miney moe
catch the devil by his toe
and if he hollars let him go
but he will be back, this you know
i have yet to hear of anyone walking away from such encounters unscathed
there is a sense of irony to the entire situation, if you ask me
i'm just living to die
what about you?
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 1:51 PM UTC
Our Holy Communion of Words
you wrest my words away, with tongue and teeth,
running their sounds out with your soft tonguing,
gentling their enunciated freedom to float airborne,
but not before,
your teeth hone them sharper, wiser, better,
before freeing the letters
for life eternal rebirthing,
swapping, warping words,
into a
a holy communion
then with thy lips closing after them,
wishing them godspeed,
safe travels to yet another’s eye imbibing,
until released once more,
traveling from souls you likely
never to meet, embrace, greet,
but to whom you have formed a
direct intangible tangling,
shared wafered words,
a holy communion
But
yours,
your words,
*gut punch me,
how could you know,
where/\were
you there beside me when in darkened hours
the sun shone brightly, illuminating with bent light
our crevices and our crevasses,
your, words, written,
stun me into crazy, as if
you were within my interior
a cacophony exposed for all to hear,
my grunts & oofs,
visceral, too real, and
my actual tears cascade unfiltered
into the cup of our tangible entangling,
salted & starry*
our holiest communion yet!
~~~~~~~~
Fri Feb 9,
10:00pm~10:30pm
Feb 10, 2024
Feb 10, 2024 at 7:59 AM UTC
for you
Never have I seen you,
or touched thy breeze-smoothed skin,
caressed the rounded angles of thy cheekbones,
with the worn~smooth heel of my thumb
it matters not
for long and forlorn,
have I come to love you
fat or pretty,
your physicality is inconsequential,
we have bound and blind~binded
our visible connection
by oaths and contemplations,
all codified in worthy action verbs
whispered in each other ears
we have spent our nodules of time
silently caressing,
word gentling,
and falling in love
this night has brought me
no sleep,
this day has brought me
no pecuniary relief
but words embellish me with hope,
dress and drape my face with
coming attractions,
for that alone,
*as if more were
even possible,*
I tell you this
straight out and unconfused,
I adore you
we are a lyric, a harmony,
an aesthetic unique,
for you have never seen my face,
yet this night,
thy comeliness has
stirred and up lifted,
thy tone and tiny gasps
my sundered parts
refilled and reattached with our own esprit de corps,
ethereal, ephemeral, yet so real,
I raise them,
to my lips,
and feel you as I do so,
gentling my cheeks
with your breathes breeze,
asking me live with joy....
tho never have I seen you
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 5:22 PM UTC
What's it like being a god
and tumbling back into humanity?
Whats it like being a god
and all your connections dimming?
I couldn't feel my body
I couldn't feel my skin
what's it like being a god?
it's
without identity
without fears
without certainty
it's
no words
no need to speak
what's it like being a god
and meeting yourself for the first time
and liking yourself for the first time
loving yourself
loving no one
needing no one
and nothing
beautiful creatures
in the sunset
beautiful waves of the ocean sky
lotuses floating in the wind
in the trees
serene smiling faces in the city skyline
the city of clouds offers nothing
we ask nothing but to see
we ask nothing
nothing at all
but to look and absorb the overwhelming
emotion and color and beauty and peace
waves, rippling waves
the tablecloth sky
gentling coming towards me
look what I made for you, you all
what's it like? Being a god?
It's exhausting
it's exuberant
it's joyful
it's sorrowful
to be a god
void of humanity
void of fear and insecurity
I couldn't feel my face
I couldn't feel my fingers
all I could feel was joy
pure emotion, untainted by thought
pure emotion pours down my face
in laughter and tears
a joyful, childish celebration to see such beauty
to be so free
what's it like to be a god
and a human again?
No longer do I fear,
no longer do I want
no longer any self-deception
as far as my human eyes can tell
Sep 5, 2010
Sep 5, 2010 at 11:04 AM UTC
Why employ an ordinary word
When an extraordinary one
Excels?
Let us wed, let us vow,
Henceforth, let us never
Wish ourselves away plain humbly,
Goodbye.
Let us end our day,
Bid our lovely comings,
The tragedy of our departures
With a gentling
Fare thee well.
In the company of the dawn,
Let us greet the one
Who lies besides us a stirring,
Not with merest hello, morning or
The accursed howareyou,
Replace haste with a deliberate
*Welcome, well comely,
To this newborn day!*
Tho do confess,
That like numerous others
Who have counted the ways,
There is no sweetener substitute for
I love you.
I will n'ere address thy grace
With appellation dissatisfying of "girl"
When woman suits thee best,
With all its attendant glories.
Should we encounter upon the street,
Address me as man,
For of that word I am a fan,
But say it not with routine irrelevance,
But in tones of softest reverence,
For I am not a child or dude,
A sir or sire, a mister mister,
But I am a man.
Our lives are not a game of chance,
Yet chance aplenty do we countenance.
Having stumbled, fallen into a subterranean,
A place where I know thee well
But likely not your face, your visage,
Thy honest name,
Accept these excelsiors as mine
Poeming opening gambit,
My closing statement,
Summary of the that, that has and yet to pass
Between us:
Peace be upon you.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 5:49 AM UTC
not the prophylactic kind,
nor the rubber kiss road tire kind.
but the rubber of bodies
old and young,
tired and tense,
young and flexible
migrained, played & splayed,
pain paralyzed,
soothed by cherubic
fingertips
oiled with,
anointed by,
a-custom cream
of tenderizing aloe
and gentling, kind loving
quieting & shushing
tho mine own temples,
raging, feverish,
combobulating
as words spill as *********
and then
*she
sleepy whines:
why did you stop rubbing me?*
and for
a sleep deep,
she leaves
me,
going unanswered
but happily
nonetheless
boy be typing
The End
Jun 22, 2025
Jun 22, 2025 at 12:08 PM UTC
the first time we make love
*your body will tremble, from behind, my arms’ will, to encase,
I, sponging up every tremor, shush-stealing each shuddering,
the outpouring of sounds will grow softly and steadying,
as gasps slow lessened, till the breathing is regularized.*
you will sly ask for words, but I will come prepared and you,
will laugh when so informed, happy by my thoughtfulness,
wondering if they are being reused, and knowing this, I will
coax you to feed me morsels will I shall then embellish, proofs*.
there is a first time in almost every aspect, but for one, which
you won’t refuse, forgiving my experiences, a history to become
now partly yours, the priors paying forward my debt to serve,
a gentling interplay of eyelashes ********* fingertip confessions*.
you will alternate tween fragility, regretful solitude, emptied but
then refilled, you’ll want to define, identify, label for storage and
reuse, classification for acceptance, thinking that will make this
moment lasting, but it won’t, but it will, last, under closed eyes*.
when the need to sob returns, one or two may escape, unelicited,
but won’t go past that, you’ll hear me saying “Hello in there, hello,”^
and ten thousand skin cells will in unison firm gel a single sensory,
not a trick or strategy, an honor bestowed, medaled, molten medaled*.
that you were held captive, it will be a proud mark, for freedom only
comes from being released, and an anthem will start to form, words
all raw and wholly yours, then you will sing to me “good bye stranger,”^^ granting me a pardon, for being who I am, a wonderingly, somewhat familiar face...*
Sep 6, 2020
Sep 6, 2020 at 3:16 PM UTC
“the voice of poetry in the conversation of mankind.”
<>
“Even nowadays, most of us have speeches from plays and films jangling around our heads, alongside things that have actually been said. Both contribute to what Michael Oakeshott called “the voice of poetry in the conversation of mankind.” Whether in verse or prose, there are some fictional speeches that, once heard, cannot be unheard. You find that you live with them.”
~from~
Things Worth Remembering: Nothing Is Lost Forever
By Douglas Murray 9/8/24
<>
the quote grabs the throat, a two handed grip,
but gentling, to ensure it does not go forgot,
or to the bottom the pile, or just another
never truly born, or premature to die,
guised as a drafty passing breeze,
a tickle too fickle, impersistent,
to be a poem unto itself
my thots impure, for I see, I believe,
that poetry is the conversation in all
we do have,
those that lyric wax when
one of the five big guys,
jive, sensory excited, the whiff, taste,
licks the visionary
of the need to be a completed
exegesis, a work to be telling
told
but I am old, my powers weaken daily,
the resistance training recommended,
by brain muscle, fiercer resisted
so reach for the quill,
blue lined sheet,
a cute puppy looking paper,
up for the “surprise” treat
just for extending a paw,
these humans so ease pleased,
you see,
here comes a poem
bout
poetry being bout every any,
even, the great creator struggling
to put out fresh daily,
new & improved work,
after a six day historic period,
that demanded a poem-alll-day entity,
entitled as a sabbatical day
of rest.
Here I too rest as well,
too many conversations need starting,
fires requiring verbal refueling,
and my own voice hearing a,
“get up, get out of bed,
drag a comb across your head,”
talk, and plant those newly fallen acorns,
**and let the conversations produce
giant oak trees,
and
a plenitude of poems**
9/9/24
Dec 4, 2024
Dec 4, 2024 at 2:09 PM UTC
cannot find true rest,
all the tumult in this world,
writ both large and small,
saps my upraised arms
alternate
flexing angry fists eager to strike hard
my revived new **** enemies,
and gods inexcusable and conspicuous absence in
Barcelona, Finland and my own
Charlottesville,
and
to quiet comfort commiserating, and storing
all the pain of individual souls I've acquired willingly
and the sunset comes quiet,
trying to sooth by adding
a gentling cream of cooling breeze,
the squirrels eye me suspiciously,
sensing the amiss within,
and all perfect sailboats voyaging past,
yet none stopping at the dock
to offer condolences or solaces
my watch ticks louder
each tick,
a worrisome cursed reminder
this real life seems to be endless struggle
interrupted by small comforts of little voices and
promises that escape is inevitable
each tock,
a fresh notification
the week's approach will contain
another visit from
Hamlet's ghost,
warning of warring factions
battlefield clashing
in a chesterfield plain
between two of mine shoulder blades
constantly reminded how lucky I am,
makes me grow quiet and put pen to one side,
and try to balance accounts, using this time,
pencil and erasure
I need a break and some glue
I need reparations and a battle plan
or happily learn to surrender
and accept being a
dumb terminal,
a slave,
that doesn't ask for
peace of mind
and knock off this poet of the
no way
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 5:06 PM UTC
She floated around her little city in the clouds all day, alone
Here were so many things to be touched, to be observed, such a very long time to languish
This was a paradise inside, this weightless world of whites, and deep resonant blues
Where the sky was always a surprise
It was her salvation from the long empty days of fear
Alone and broken amongst the ***** blankets of her makeshift bed
He came home at the end of every the day, expecting to find her waiting for him
Wreathed in ecstatic smiles because she could finally hold him in her arms after a long day of solitude
But even love cannot negate the slow disintegration of a soul left too long in isolation
Or of a cowardly heart that can no longer create for fear that it is not creative enough
He often knelt beside the pile of bedcovers in which she was entombed
Her eyes, gazing far beyond him to a place he could never even see
Slowly, he coaxed her to come back to him, hands gentling her soft and empty head
Even as he drew her back, his guts clenched with melancholy for she would not thank him for it
She gazed at him as her doe eyes began to fill and spill over
She gripped his hand with surprising strength as all her chaotic rage sprang out from behind her eyes
Spouting out of her mouth as rivers of lava
May 7, 2012
May 7, 2012 at 5:59 PM UTC
You are the cooling breeze,
which does soothe my fevered brow.
The sweet water, that does sate,
my parched views of the here and now.
So whispered, your words of love,
as to hear within the bower,
a poetry of chaotic rain,
falling upon the morning flower.
A moonbeam, which guides my night,
when unsettled, I rest not.
So gentling, to my mind,
when a calmness, I have sought.
All these things you are to me,
your very soul, these do impart.
Love brings new meaning when, so dear,
I am nestled against your heart.
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 8:17 PM UTC
Daybreak on the River
Daybreak rippled sounds
And silver morning flow,
Cool the ire of the beaten night.
Such beautiful disturbance,
A surface shimmer gleam.
The river greets the end of the greylight
And passes by colour streaked,
Endless and resurgent,
Under the firmament aglow.
An eventual sun
That breaks the horizon,
With teasing rays.
The best of times,
The dawn of days.
And let the water breath
Kiss the sallow mists.
A final caress.
Vanquished to daylight.
Whispering willows talk,
Shadow borne on dappled waters,
Bank bowed swaying dance.
Weep willow, weep now,
For the day has begun.
Joy sapped, seeping
From trunk and branch.
Where the breeze wakes
To stir the nest dwellers.
Safe haven for birdsong
That is carried
Upon each gentling ripple.
A new day! they sing
And the river ripples its applause
In the first swish of fishtail
And dragonfly sorties.
Oh glorious dawn,
The day begins!
Aug 1, 2019
Aug 1, 2019 at 6:30 PM UTC
Look at how we treat our dear young men
Appointed to do our ***** work
While we are sitting down in comfort in our homes
We ask them to ****** for our sins
Please do not hold your head down so low
And know that I forgive you from the bottom of
The hollow space that used to be my soul
Before it was stolen in the heartbreak of the world
Their hearts are laden down and bowed
With lead and the things we never should have left unsaid
Those things that are beating through their heads
And bruising all the beautiful clear air
“Little child listen close to me”
But do not hold their words as law
They have not seen the sights
That you wish you’d never saw
Maybe all you want is to go home
To curl up with the blankets up around your chin
To have a hand to hold as memories walk by
To have someone to hold you while you cry
The pain you go through
I do no pretend to comprehend
I will not insult you in that way
I can thank you for the days I live
But how can I apologize
For those who will not see the sun’s sweet light
Even one more time
With their dead and open staring eyes
Please do not hold your head so low
And pay your penance out with honor
Serve your sentence and know
That there is pridefulness in lingering too long
On things that only God above can heal
Let the gentling tide of evening come
But do not walk in shame you did not earn
Perhaps you did things you do not want to own
You thought once that you were serving for the good
My life and the lives of others
You have swayed
Are precious to us and our families
More than diamonds or foreign gems of jade
Please do not hold your head so low
Maybe you feel a debt
But do not walk in shame you did not earn
There is pridefulness in lingering too long
On things that only God above can heal
Sep 2, 2011
Sep 2, 2011 at 8:41 PM UTC
(want more monosyllabics? keep talking)
don't you smile i'm-not-sorries,
don't you smolder and you preen -
don't you think i don't remember
(oh, i do).
don't you read the way my eyes avert
as anything but contempt,
and don't you dare
try to touch me
again (did I stutter?)
don't you snicker with your friends,
because I don't think you're funny, honey
and I don't buy your eye-burning game
you can watch me all you like
and you can wait for me to smile,
but darling,
don't you think it wasn't you who ****** me dry
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 6:31 PM UTC
Mustangs they are, wild horses who need gentling
Like Firestorm, where it took two hours to get him to walk three feet
to a post
Dusty Levi’s, chaps and a whole lot of patience is what it takes coax
these babies into bonding with the wranglers, who are penned
up too
You see, they’re short-termed, non-violent offenders at this
minimum security prison in the high desert south of Reno
Which is why they can all relate
Learn to be good citizens and not try to buck the system
Together in the bruising, blazing heat
Building trust, creating camaraderie
Getting to the point you can touch, pet, ride them
Working towards adoption day when the general public
Will trot them off to their new lives
The trainers and the mustangs having learned new skills
The world becoming a better place
Men and their mustangs achieving peace
Oct 8, 2017
Oct 8, 2017 at 4:08 PM UTC