"gleanings" poems
7:00am
Shelter Island,
Sat Sep10
on the south west edge of the isle,
the slowrise sunrise just behind the trees,
so early day yet, no full frontal of a sun
bathing to wake up woman, babes asleeping, but the
animals know exactly this hours early
perfection.
indeed, the crazy squirrels are random
hither and dithering in spurts of energy,
only stopping to observe a viewing of the humans
nest~resting through the glass doors with their
inquisitive, self-possessed, bedside reckless manner,
perfected.
the suns pealing gleaming gleanings picks
out any shiny reflective surface that enhances
its low-rise greeting, with a chorale of living objects
singing “Hallelujah orb, what’s in store for us today,”
river~bay, wake-less, its becalming, marbling surface, again,
perfected.
me?
I’m mugged by the perfection intersection of
my eyes-scape, first coffee, the holy quietude, only
the regular soft breaths beside, lend a counterpoint
to these thoughts and the litany of chores the iCal happily, annoyingly, prematurely but with certainty lists, resistance (Walk!)
perfectly ok.
ok not to move an inch, watching this daily movie rerun,
that energizes hope, a contemporary localized contented without the
humdrum of blaring headlines, talking heads, and the
infiltration of the guilty unfulfilled responsibilities demanding a due,
then heavens signal me, Donovan, earbud singing Colors, confirmed
perfectly ok!
“*Yellow is the color of my true love's hair
In the mornin', when we rise
In the mornin', when we rise
That's the time, that's the time
I love the best*”
Sep 10, 2022
Sep 10, 2022 at 8:21 AM UTC
Oh, how the caged bird sings...
From the nest made of fallen earrings, flattened rings, and tangled wiring.
Is there a difference between a cage and a nest?
Is a home a shelter or a prison?
I guess it just depends on who has access to the door.
Are you tired of boxes or tired of moving?
My nomadic experience provides definition to previous gleanings.
Death Row is still living, while Hobo Bo yearns for the meaning.
Feed the dog first and then get your filling.
Expanding your consciousness, but how far are you willing?
Your pupils can only expand so much before your eyes are nothing but black holes with no floors or ceilings.
How old is this feeling?
Your camera lens will fracture if you don't stop twisting.
Pretty soon you won't be able to view anything.
Your tree houses how many rings?
Did you really free yourself or is the cage just disappearing?
How close can you get to flying without batting your wings?
How close to the sun can you fly be before frying? What good does that bring? Let freedom ring.
So sing, little bird, sing your song of searing madness.
Whether I'm shackled to this perch or flying in circles out in a clearing,
As long as I'm listening to these same sweet melodies there is nothing to be fearing,
For I'm listening to the most beautiful song that I can ever remember hearing.
A bird lives a simple life, and in the end that is what is most endearing.
Sing freedom, sing.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 4:35 PM UTC
When the clocks grew silent,
Mellow abiotic laws swept away with the evening's wind
The light hit the hills with the softest envy
And the grass sat content between our toes
What became of the twilight gleanings
Pangea evaded you like the sheepish fox
Were the pieces arranged, devoid of meaning?
Trembled hands settled and stilled.
If the clover grew to touch the sun
The lonely ground sank to feel the core
And the trees whispered to the birds
Would it be a puzzle at all?
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 12:03 AM UTC
****** why. how i try.
and fail. time after time.
the losers. they pass me by.
Pathetic. Uphill climb.
****** lies. alibis.
they fade. so do the dice.
you losers. have you no eyes?
Consumer. Don’t think twice.
chance.. lost me. so too fate.
tethered. some other place.
some losers. i cannot hate.
Platonic. Win the race.
Aug 1, 2011
Aug 1, 2011 at 9:31 PM UTC
Pop top rings and coffee cups
Were dropped across the sound
Of paper screams from campaign mails
Discarded on the ground.
A splash of spray paint lettering
Spelled "Bobby Loves Marie"
And left a message of its fate
For passing friends to see.
And the children asked their elders
Questions of their brothers
Of things that seemed to matter
Of things they had to know.
Are these the gleanings,
Forgotten in-betweenings,
The measure of our meanings
As we come and go?
Two girls passed the masterpiece
And walked away enraged
They guessed about the artist
His parents and his age.
A sailor and a merchant passed
And argued as they walked
Of rising unemployment
And the hopelessness of talk.
And the children asked their elders
Questions of their brothers
Of things that seemed to matter
Of things they had to know.
Are these the gleanings,
Forgotten in-betweenings,
The measure of our meanings
As we come and go?
The lady rolled her window up,
The chauffeur changed her tire
As Bobby sprayed her limousine
For rich men to admire.
Later in her drawing room,
Her husband called her down.
"A lady has no business in
The ***** part of town."
And the children asked their elders
Questions of their brothers
Of things that seemed to matter
Of things they had to know.
Are these the gleanings,
Forgotten in-betweenings,
The measure of our meanings
As we come and go?
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 2:00 PM UTC
alliteration intervening invasion,
a bed-throned life journey summarily unasked for, reviewing
follow behind the collected beaming seams,
to the discolored end-of-a-whiting rainbow of writings
sack in hand, sack'd yet surfeiting,
gleaning the falling bits,
inventoried stories, the poor and the glorious
light droppings,
stir'd and stor'd in hopsack bag,
woven intervals of clashing fabrics
trilogy of
me, myself and I,
following falling, trailing, failing flalings
cross currenting, swirling,
disheartened chest heaving cursing
if only, a mite more sipping
of courage everlasting
here a memory,
there a visionary,
happy haunting,
glaceing eye dreams
keepsakes of a life
modesty and poorly lived
error prone, choices weak,
father confessor to the supremity of oneself
played safety first,
thirst quenching
with the unsatisfying yellowed bursts
of "it could be worse"
but these stuffing,
gleanings of a life,
uprighted night, declining days, admixture of son and moon,
women's flashing eyes inviting
happy danger and ending disaster inevitability
this sifted treasure chest
of self-selected retained
cursings and blessings,
the measuring cup of a tragedy
well acted, quantifiable pathos superb aplenty
a play veined with comedic relief,
a Falstaff for every Hal,
compare and contrast
your essays on the container storage
of dusted cells morning-mourning
summarizing gleams gleaned from a life well....dissatisfaction satisfied...truth in poetry
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC
what gives your life real meaning?
at the top, i bet it is friends.
what else could give life such gleanings?
neither health nor fancy playpens?
but, while husbands name their wives
as their "bestie", why do wives name
other women as friends?
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 5:27 PM UTC
Today I knew my life so far
has been a mouse in the grass hiding.
There have been times I dared to cross
a patch of open ground
Where the sun fell on my so brightly
or the rain so softly
that I could not bear to be so radiant.
I have been hiding in my grass-stalk world,
and calling it living.
But now I know
I am the larger self as well as the small
I am the conciousness of rock and swamp,
of fire, eagle, mouse, and grass-stalk,
of all the great abundant earth.
I know through me she sings, creates, loves, grieves
when i hid in the grass I hid from myself.
I know my grief is deep.
I listen to Elders who know how to welcome their grief
They know when they hold it
grief is one face of deep, healing love.
The gleanings of a hiding mouse cannot meet my needs
for life's sweetness, its peace, pleasures, and joy.
This small hoard of treasures cannot compare
to expressing the gifts I am given to share.
The plans I scratched into the dust will fade . . .
I can shrug away the straps that hold me to what was
and release the baked clay banks ahead
The first gift I can give in any moment
is to be there.
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 9:15 PM UTC
The sidewalk ends, with a solid solemn note
the purpose has no walls, but has a perfect moat
Birds in the eaves and overhangs, raccoons in the hall
imagination as it flows, or does not flow at all
Dwelling on the the bitter absence of simple electrical thought
some things cannot be purchased, sold, or ever bought
A daydream or a nightmare, solidified by pure control
molding what's at hand, as diamonds, made from coal
String the pearls of all things grasped, and so upheld
as are good dialogues, leading too, a quintessential spell
Hone the blades of heroes, bending edicts and all rules
using words as barriers, against the bravery of fools
I never thought to hold the strings, of all the prose that I have lost
divining a newer better phrase, running up a dire financial cost
Give me back all the discarded pangs, I've left there in my past
conjoining in deliverance, as broken bones in graves, been cast
It's like the final days of great Pompeii. or greater Rome
Nero on his lyre, Pompeii's burned within their homes
Draw the dipped quill across, what is and is not so
gleanings of similar minds, inspiring as it goes
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 10:14 AM UTC
You don't like new acid jazz.
It's exotic, non-native flow.
It's like a traveler, dressed for show,
With a silk neckscarf as topaz.
You don't bear the style mixture.
It's like a slapdash of free spheres.
And no need to gather then down the years.
It'll be-all a needless fixture.
You don't accept circumlocutions,
Allegories and hidden meanings.
Quotations, accents and other symbols -
These are unnecessary gleanings.
You know, you're unbearably stubborn
You can't stand any fancy guessing.
You're far from a beauty of word expressing.
Sorry, but you're monotone.
Mar 27, 2025
Mar 27, 2025 at 7:03 PM UTC
sometimes i wonder how you are
i dress myself in spy fatigues as i twist my mouth
you're laughing, bright. you bleed the aura of apollo and you are ensconced by fiery legs, moscato-stained lips, bejeweled smiles
nothing could yank your lyre from you
you expose rows of teeth as you coil and
you laugh. i see the hurt in your eyes in the seconds before you blink
i wonder if you've forgotten to rest them, just as i have
i wonder if that hair of yours is lovingly tussled
or usurped
under infinite gleanings of your own manic hands
when liquid barbiturate tears roll from your eyes and make house in your ears
when the darkness of your room softly suffocates you
and you pretend that it is me
i wonder if i've destroyed you and it
takes the opulence of an entire faerie festival to turn your racing head
to wrench your furrowed brow away from the
slight dip in the passenger seat
where i once occupied
May 9, 2019
May 9, 2019 at 1:01 AM UTC