"glean" poems
#
*Through the withered branches
where the verdant leaves once grew,
I stared up at the old oak tree
against a sky of blue.
The branches stretched to heaven
as a supplicant might do.
It seemed to pray, as if to say,
"My time at last is through."
I wondered at the gnarly trunk
and limbs of twisted wood
And for a moment thought of life
and almost understood.
Life and death go hand in hand.
Our time is our's to spend.
But like the tree against the gale,
‘tis better if we bend.
I'll pay it forward when I can.
Thy brothers' keeper be.
I'll keep the roots well watered
and learn the lessons of the tree.
It shares the world with nestlings
and it's acorns oft abound,
To feed the hungry denizens
that glean them from the ground.
It's leaves give shade to those below.
It's branches form a gym.
Children climb to see the world
and love this gift to them.
And as I watched, the farmer
came and laid the old husk low.
Firewood now, would be it's fate
and make the chimney glow.
Ashes unto ashes and to dust
we must return.
All of life in cycle goes
and from this I hope to learn:
This gift of life to all below,
all creatures great and small,
Is just a stop upon the trip
we travel, one and all.*
#
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 9:04 AM UTC
A sea of gasoline's,
Grace of novelties,
Cars and halogen,
Social disease,
Manufactured dreams,
Scream on screens,
They glean from all living things,
Fight,
Take,
Hide,
Such a contumacious existence,
Results in an animistic decline,
All things that once made us strong,
Oblivion has made a meal of them,
I walk around this town,
I see the colors,
I watch the scenes,
Fight,
Take,
Hide,
I live in a world without a heart,
But machines keep it breathing,
And it has many sons,
Crowned with clockworks maturation,
Am I the last one beating?
I don't tick,
Not like them,
I just watch men bite one another necks from the steps of the front door,
They call me the queen of the creaking floorboards,
Fight,
Take,
Hide,
I have matchstick eyes,
I twist fires with my fingertips,
All of these people made of wood,
They are like smoke to me,
I breathe slices into them with teeth that have no number,
I am December,
I fight,
Take,
Hide
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 1:26 PM UTC
The sweetest blossoms die.
And so it was that, going day by day
Unto the church to praise and pray,
And crossing the green churchyard thoughtfully,
I saw how on the graves the flowers
Shed their fresh leaves in showers,
And how their perfume rose up to the sky
Before it passed away.
The youngest blossoms die.
They die and fall and nourish the rich earth
From which they lately had their birth;
Sweet life, but sweeter death that passeth by
And is as though it had not been:--
All colors turn to green;
The bright hues vanish and the odors fly,
The grass hath lasting worth.
And youth and beauty die.
So be it, O my God, Thou God of truth:
Better than beauty and than youth
Are Saints and Angels, a glad company;
And Thou, O Lord, our Rest and Ease,
Art better far than these.
Why should we shrink from our full harvest? why
Prefer to glean with Ruth?
4.9k
.
Time,
space
and everything in between.
Heartaches,
tears
and secrets that don't come clean.
Gambols,
laughter
and smiles beaming keen.
Deep thoughts,
aloneness
and the dark places we've been.
Handholding,
careless hugs
and ready shoulders to lean.
Reckless stabs,
impulsive jabs
and caustic words we don't mean.
Contentment,
counting blessings
and hope we can glean.
*You,
me
and everything in between.*
.
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 9:11 PM UTC
I read the in between
A font of your choosing
To scour and glean
What I might be losing
You shouted the meanings
In a few blasts
I wanted more teasing
Would you make it last?
You said I am greedy
But so are you
And we both are needy
For the ******* too
May 6, 2021
May 6, 2021 at 9:06 PM UTC
**** me
I don't trust me
maybe I'm rusty
shes just *****
*****
hate to look you in the shoes there lovely
lackin alternatives the shoes it be
rub me
filth to the core not unseen
unteen times past I felt bad plugging
and running
not scared of ****
its ******* is ******
a life oh
what seems to be life so
This ain't livin'
Marvin Gaye given
insight my sight unseen
unto the looking glass glean
maybe better off taken time to see
sorry not me
that whole waiting scene
I plead to gods on high be free
my soul tattered torn on the throne
all this time wasted holding on to the goal
just to throw
oh a life oh
what seems to be life so
This ain't livin'
Marvin Gaye given
cowardice a man who never felt fear
resin to live in this hell world imprisoned here
******** leaders
wish I had time
in a pile of ***** alone in the world, fillin in for atlas, who me? nah I'm fine.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 11:01 PM UTC
Last words with her,
So indifferent, so short,
The spoken tongues lashed
Indecipherable, unearthing
Doom, whitewashing the truths,
Forgotten blues of California sky,
Abandoned in that glean, garish glare
Of yellow sun,
Fearing naught, the dark moon
Would soon arrive, taking place of all
Our glazed, lost, light.
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 12:10 PM UTC
Beautiful colors
Vibrant light
Dark shadows
Pain in the night
Long lines
Smooth as glass
Shards await
A looming crash
Lights beckon
Future promise
Sudden pain
Bleeding bliss
Secret words
Sight unseen
Another's intent
You must glean
Time slows
Breaking it's gait
Simmer alone
Enduring your fate
Beautiful spell
Shivering joy
Maturity lost
Happy boy
Words burst
Forcing their way out
Focused attention
There is no doubt
Emotional courage
Consumed with fear
Faith in you
But you're not here
Passion builds
Only to peak
Inevitable pauses
Not for the weak
Feelings ebb
Self-preservation
Love never dies
Winter's hibernation
Reality lives
In this different world
In our dark minds
We are hurled
In a new way
Love is defined
Held back
Our actions confined
Their face
You cannot see
Their words
All they can be
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 9:03 PM UTC
the world is full of emptiness
how so you may inquire?
the following dissertation
shall give you an insight
as to the emptiness
that is around our globe
stay seated in your arms chairs
and at your computer screens
these words shall reveal the story
for all of you to glean
in Third World countries
not a bite of food to eat
yet in Western countries they waste it
and throw it on the streets
it is said there is plenty
of food on the planet for all
but starving millions
wait for a meager crumb to fall
here the evidence
placed in front of you
and it doesn't make
for a kindhearted view
were there to be a little
sharing and fairness
the great emptiness
may well be redressed
on our planet the picture
will remain thus
and this salient tale
is a wake up call to each of us
the rabid feasting
in rich nations is really quite obscene
while those in Third World countries
live with bellies poorly mean
take a moment to ruminate
on what has been said
as you butter
your daily portion of bread
Epilogue
those who have not a mouthful
isn't it profane
the world is full of emptiness
as this dissertation has explained
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 8:45 PM UTC
[Fanfare, obviously]
This poem should begin with the call of a bugle,
as is fitting for an ode of Braveheart Macdougal.
Children of Parklands, take heed and be wary,
as I relate now, in verse, a tale cautionary.
Benigna Murdie was a most virtuous lass,
blesséd with promise and a penchant for sass.
To peer pressure she was admirably immune,
and ne'er did she bow to the temptation of goon.
Nary a drop of ***** has e'er passed her lips,
save for politeness and church-mandated sips.
Yet even the mightiest fall-- what a pity!
(harder than I did that night in the city).
So I hope you all glean a moral from this,
and your interpretation does not go too amiss.
But all is self-evident, to quote Descartes,
so allow me to recount this tale from the start.
She hails from a country renown for their piety,
for their pacifist ways and universal sobriety.
The Scottish are known throughout the land
for their temperance of character and lightness of hand.
And our poor Bennigles was no rule-exception,
she subscribed quite wholly to this perception.
A more reserved and reclusive girl you've not seen,
virtually a saint at only nineteen.
Passed out on the couch, liquor was never the root,
only strain from the studying and academic pursuit.
A paradigm of virtue, a pillar of purity,
no “that's-what-she-said's” to compromise maturity.
But that all changed one day touched by fate,
when Rachel realized that hedonism's great.
She took to the streets to revel in her glee,
and legit nothing bad happened cause this isn't tv.
Alas, now I'm drunk and the screen is a-shaking,
perhaps of wine I should halt my partaking.
I cannot continue with this facetious ode,
as we all well know that this is a total load.
But I'll miss you, my Brit, and our shitshow nights,
our Australian exploits and your culinary delights.
Sorry I couldn't finish to detail your demise,
but perhaps I'll conclude after an Australia-reprise.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 6:20 AM UTC
Out on the horizon
A line of glowing green
And the squids all flock towards it
That flourescent glean
What is it to them do you think?
An unknown beacon emitting warmth
Do they think they'll find love
As they all commute north
I suppose they are tricked and trapped and tangled in nets
Blinded by the light
Drawn towards the threat
From the green glowing beacon
Their path was set
Into the end and out of the wet.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 11:26 AM UTC
The village pump is where she was stationed
Her purpose in life, to glean information
Every morsel of 'news' she'd greedily savour
Though reluctant to empty her head, to fill up her neighbour's
That mucky young hussy's expecting you'll find
I'm certain I know who did it this time
He bought a bike, the crafty young fella
And no good came on it Doris I tell ya
He put one in Fram in the family way
And thas a good fifteen mile away
And if you ask me, he's too fond of his sister
If there's a young'un who's willing round here he'd not miss her
So lock up your daughter do she'll be the next
He'll be snouting round here before long I expect
And look at poor Bob, they say he's frustrated
They reckon his hip bone is half discolated
Same as old **** see him hick with his stick
All wore up and not sixty as yit
You don't look wholey clever yourself
Doris you really should keep an eye on your health
And Grandma Green has took to her bed
I'll drop by there today, 'cos same as I say
You're a long time dead
Well I should be going, I've said too much already
Cheerio now, and do you goo steady
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 3:43 PM UTC
she spoke to me, on the daffodil sweetness of the pasture
while the grasses, waving, muttered their moist message on the wind
of rot, and renewal,
(but hold your lips, be still for an explosion of intimacy, for a moment)
'Are those a constellation?' she asks.
"The Pleiades."
'You don't know that.'
she doesn't care where the car begins, exhaling gently, to stop
and she commends its forward motion
(the keening love of a sodium light
and forgetfulness in every bone of my body)
I love the thrum of it, below my feet,
murmuring vibrato in the pedals.
They have a Huck Finn cave display at Disneyworld. In Adventure Island, or somewhere, or one of us, deep in the vastness of spines and fingers.
Its fiberglass walls are a portrait of America -
the glean of dew a reflection of that spirit
that drove us over the borders, the rivers, to Oregon,
so we could love under a naked moon,
and renounce our lives of glee, and security
for the bright unsettled plantation of the starless fields.
'You don't know a constellation from a cloud of dandelion seeds.'
But oh, my relentless pioneer love, I do - I know a constellation
is made of stars, and rough determination, and I know that,
love is a today thing, and we are yesterday people
that pain is tomorrow, and we will always be children of the dusk preceding
destined, dear, to find our love receding
Are you prepared, or will the wilderness this time swallow you?
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 10:46 AM UTC
Gleaning of the Owl.
Gimbal eyed and shrugged
on Oaken bough
before the bluffing of the Crow
before Rook caw and Raven croak
before the shriven threaded dawn-
to glean a silent measure.-
thrawn.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 1:25 AM UTC
I throw my words to the compost heap
with the rinds of so many others.
The poetry that has been deciphered
til there is no surprise left.
I ***** them in to incubate
and fertilize the fields of my heart.
Then I shall glean them
to harvest the poems of my Soul.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 6:56 PM UTC
Cicada’s chorus,
High among sycamore’s green tendrils,
Crescendos of summer,
Cacophony of 7 year sleep,
Memory seeps in and out.
Lapping waves of recollection.
Exo-skeletal molted shells,
The remnants of prior lives,
Crescendo of song,
Celebrating new things,
Higher possability
Among branches of summer’s throng.
Peeling back the browns and yellows
Of Old man’s changing wig,
To look within
And glean the mystery
Of summer messages remembered by me.
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 8:24 AM UTC
In melancholy moonless Acheron,
Farm for the goodly earth and joyous day
Where no spring ever buds, nor ripening sun
Weighs down the apple trees, nor flowery May
Chequers with chestnut blooms the grassy floor,
Where thrushes never sing, and piping linnets mate no more,
There by a dim and dark Lethaean well
Young Charmides was lying; wearily
He plucked the blossoms from the asphodel,
And with its little rifled treasury
Strewed the dull waters of the dusky stream,
And watched the white stars founder, and the land was like a dream,
When as he gazed into the watery glass
And through his brown hair’s curly tangles scanned
His own wan face, a shadow seemed to pass
Across the mirror, and a little hand
Stole into his, and warm lips timidly
Brushed his pale cheeks, and breathed their secret forth into a
sigh.
Then turned he round his weary eyes and saw,
And ever nigher still their faces came,
And nigher ever did their young mouths draw
Until they seemed one perfect rose of flame,
And longing arms around her neck he cast,
And felt her throbbing ***** and his breath came hot and fast,
And all his hoarded sweets were hers to kiss,
And all her maidenhood was his to slay,
And limb to limb in long and rapturous bliss
Their passion waxed and waned,—O why essay
To pipe again of love, too venturous reed!
Enough, enough that Eros laughed upon that flowerless mead.
Too venturous poesy, O why essay
To pipe again of passion! fold thy wings
O’er daring Icarus and bid thy lay
Sleep hidden in the lyre’s silent strings
Till thou hast found the old Castalian rill,
Or from the Lesbian waters plucked drowned Sappho’s golden quid!
Enough, enough that he whose life had been
A fiery pulse of sin, a splendid shame,
Could in the loveless land of Hades glean
One scorching harvest from those fields of flame
Where passion walks with naked unshod feet
And is not wounded,—ah! enough that once their lips could meet
In that wild throb when all existences
Seemed narrowed to one single ecstasy
Which dies through its own sweetness and the stress
Of too much pleasure, ere Persephone
Had bade them serve her by the ebon throne
Of the pale God who in the fields of Enna loosed her zone.
2k
I was deep in the land of shadows
Halfway between the living and dead
In the awful silence of void
The atmospheres soft
And it’s people plastic
Mephistophelean and astute
When a band of ruffians stormed
The inferno beneath
With volcanic tremor
Sweeping down like a tidal wave
Of so terrific Tsunamic magnitude
Spurning all restraint
Slowed down my pace
By reciprocal math of wizardly
Substituting the direct proportion for inverse
I dragged and they almost flew
Corpsic form and tattered cloth
Is all I see and
Gaping mouth oozing blood
Grotesque creatures tinting hell
After me and almost done
I should out loud voiceless
I reach for the nothingness
And there’s no thing
I stretch still to scale it down
Wishing I had wings
And take flight
Or superhuman like Superman
Hopping I possessed metaphysical force
Like the Matrix upgrade version
To disembody and dematerialize
And so vanish into stillness
To hang in space out of sight
By the trickery of magic
To cast spell like lady of the Voodoo
And freeze plant herbage and the human
Instantly and give a diabolic glean
Make a catwalk of villain trump
To the disgust of victim
And ultimate flown of the gods
That hardly smile anyway
But I am human and my powers feeble
My infinity lies bound within
Time and daylight
The parameters of finite
In a rat race so unfair
Distances too close and defeat too plain
I die out and awoke within
To brace another day with headache
Devil, I escaped Gehenna
That gives me surety I will outpace you
For what I saw when I slept
Hail Tartarus I am Morpheus
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 9:29 AM UTC
We burn together, but with separate hues
Our flames flick and dance around the wick
Tips touch and mingle
And on occasion consume,
This wax that binds me,
That keeps me here, away from you.
The tears of knowledge weep thick and slow
From a time when what once thought was true,
Now is not.
Yet, your light enthralls me
It keeps me near.
A dragonfly glimmer, a shimmering morning dew.
Here we learn together, fervent flame ensue
Distant and close, not wicks but curtains
That can't be tamed;
Two bonfires in the night, birthing strifeful embers
Striking without cause or claim
Inflame all that behold us for a love unchained.
Your shared endeavors are not mine to keep
For elsewhere two little torches,
Kindred lanterns in which you keep a light
So bright, yet from me so far and dim
That to behold them myself would be a match
At the base of a tree.
But still for you that fire burns,
With it billows of smoke carve curvatures
Over mountains, which to me unseen,
Smoldering luster, an unwelcome glean.
Then the time comes, and with the soft spoken smoke
you whisper of a desired hue,
which you wish to have bound wick and wax
A dream within which she is there
and I
Outside of you.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 3:03 AM UTC
Moments notice, temporal sign posts,
shifted meanings and twigs of broken memories all standing stark,
as white lights of embers glow, slow to realize the masses continue to wonder.
Eyes blazing in the giggling realizations uncanny calling out,
of the in between, as many of us glean and glimpse.
Have you oh wondering soul heard? have you oh simple soul seen?
If so what is it you have grasped of this altered edge of oblivion? fair the a well spring of signs to set your heart and mind free?
Or only to cast your gullet into eternal slavery, under the cutting reality of a cemented view?
Flowing edge of the swells this temporal cascading do cause the light do play in the reflections truth of stability abound in focus and vibratory standards , counted and measured only in the minds eye and the hearts manifestations of excepted adherence to a collective?
Or have you , or I , us sad and amazingly fickle souls found the true sound of sound doctrine?
One of truth , love and understanding? For seems this dear hearted friend, is far from the end, though not the beginning unless the glimpse of it has been felt and rendered assured in your own heart, least we get ****** again from the very, very distant pasts start.
So, it is asked yet again, where do we stand in this torrent and gelatinous time of man? Or shall we start all over again and wonder how tech can strip and manipulate the core and essence of a man and his absolute grasp of what is changeable in our entire past?
Or is it merely and simply just that we are all on the very edge of our dreams in this construct of a thing?
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 2:40 PM UTC
She writes poetry
As though she knows me,
But what a facade
She's really seen.
Only a surface glean.
Calm still water,
Digging below the depths,
Raging saline.
Jun 17, 2023
Jun 17, 2023 at 11:46 PM UTC
The passion has almost gone
of love and longing for Thee;
there's no meat left on the bone
for devotion's heart to see.
Instead of looking within
the mind is focused outside
with the body getting thin
life's mercy is to confide.
One just can't ignore the signs
that can be seen by the eyes;
age seems to be drawing lines
and there's no comfort in lies.
Like a dog eating a bone
it soon gets to the marrow
and for this it eats alone
with its eyes being narrow.
We become what we're to be
over a lifetime of years prone
to the ups and downs we see
and fruits of our efforts grown.
It's by grace we can transcend
what it is we have not seen
so the hours we've got to spend
will determine places been.
If we stick fast to the path
and don't deviate too far
we won't incur any wrath
and even shine like a star.
Life's course involves such a plan
that we may glean in the mind
looking deep enough to scan
at its source of light we'll find.
________________
Jul 28, 2023
Jul 28, 2023 at 9:59 PM UTC
Running for a thousand places
Running for my very hide,
Running to obscure the traces
Run from those I can’t abide.
Pursued by the claw of guilders
Pursued by the Bank of Greed,
Running from the Ruin Builders
Run from those whose lust is need.
I’ve worked to build a modest holding
Worked to feel a pride secured,
Family of love enfolding
Sanctity midst world endured.
Feel manipulations brooding
Moneys lust does intervene,
Those who have it all, concluding,
What is mine is theirs to glean.
Claw back by manipulators
Claw back by the fiends of greed,
Implacable cold calculators
Cut with Law to make me bleed.
Running for a thousand places
Running for my very hide,
Run to flee pursuing faces
Run from that I can’t abide.
Anguish at my walls collapsing
Wailing of my bride’s despair
Futility’s tomorrow lapsing
Monstrous as it flails me there.
Standing in a freezing stillness
Standing in this hall of time,
Forlorn in a prisoned illness
Greed has vanquished me and mine.
Marshalg
For the forgotten people who have been ruined by those, who call themselves the mighty.
Auckland N.Z.
9 February 2013
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 10:37 PM UTC
From the dust of my memories I put you together,
I am trying to glean you from the sands of time that have separated us.
There is no poetry in me, nothing hidden or secret that I can say, just that
Though we had long known each other, we now simply
Know
Of
Each
Other
And this, to me, will always be the finest tragedy,
The coup de main of time
I watch you though the layers of lies that are Facebook
Instagram
I see your words dry up and sometimes flow
A stream few others love; the sweet cadence of the
Silent rhythms I have long loved
Your tribute to the bea(s)ts inside your heart
You always reminded me of silver,
The tarnished kind,
Sitting quietly in Colaba market
Waiting to be touched, loved, occasionally dropped,
But always retaining in yourself
The sleek splendor reserved for someone
Proud in the knowledge that
When the moonlight shines on her,
She would know how to shine right back.
Beloved,
You are married now,
And no words dance between us
I have listened to you on nights
With barbequed meats simmering
Moths fluttering
And laughter tinkling
The wind caressing your stray hair as if it knew
That you belonged to it all this while.
I will burn into the back of my otherwise undisturbed skull
The pictures of you in white,
I laugh.
Seeing your delight
In a dress
We never thought you’d slip yourself into
So evasive were you,
But nothing stopped you when your mind was made,
Falling in love with a man who could listen like the ocean
From the dust of my memories, I draw you out
Through the sands of time I see you,
Living in a world where
The stars dance for your joy alone.
Someday, somewhere beyond this life,
We will meet each other in the spaces
Between two others’ lonely fingers.
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 4:47 AM UTC