"globed" poems
they danced in a dream
of bending shadows
face down
begging ***
all hungry back door paradise
ankles strapped on a foot worn floor
paint faced in whorey nights
with pin needle eyes
beded
blood crimson neon's
cut curtains
like kissing claws
so their bodies wouldn't forget
dark pleasures lightening
and biting tantra tantrums
they swallowed mad ***** blossoms of hell candy
breathing the others inhalations
foot sniffing ballet arch
in fastened Japanese melting red slippers
gazing upwards rectums prayer
solar eyed insurrection
finger by finger
clutching wrists like the grave
for bloods salty cove
an injured landscape
a dire pink desert
like bogs hold bones
a rave for a slave
covered in yellow ocher rubber sheets
soft on the feet
x rated amputee costume
made of blood and spit
look mommy no arms
a bellied tattoo
of hennaed homunculi
burning Candomblé Jejé, skull
black eyed beauty hissing
while accordion throated
rip tie tighten
another notch please
a dizzy *******
down silver fluted gullet
in a steamed up bath house
party of blotted sockets
*** kitten
kissed dead girls thighs
tremulous and stretched
a shimmering serum
like wide tubular channels
as pontoon edges slit
through midnight howls for velvet skinned girl
who thrills
her head a veiled Jehovah
saliva wagging tongue ****
a stuttering ****** dance
a hula hot momma in rubble
slapping hot lipped kisses
over starved darkness
along telegraphs avenue
melting eyes like butter
a globed pudding spill
******* drool drops of gold
and black river gladiators
slaughter lies
with every long stroke
between cascading squeals
paraphilias mausoleum
like tumbling eels
a scapegoat pulp fiction
chiseled in cement
******* rips
drip drip drip
babbling **** bubbles
**** spasms ooze like a hot glue gun
fire spats soil cherry clover
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 3:39 PM UTC
My father worked with a horse-plough,
His shoulders globed like a full sail strung
Between the shafts and the furrow.
The horse strained at his clicking tongue.
An expert. He would set the wing
And fit the bright steel-pointed sock.
The sod rolled over without breaking.
At the headrig, with a single pluck
Of reins, the sweating team turned round
And back into the land. His eye
Narrowed and angled at the ground,
Mapping the furrow exactly.
I stumbled in his hob-nailed wake,
Fell sometimes on the polished sod;
Sometimes he rode me on his back
Dipping and rising to his plod.
I wanted to grow up and plough,
To close one eye, stiffen my arm.
All I ever did was follow
In his broad shadow round the farm.
I was a nuisance, tripping, falling,
Yapping always. But today
It is my father who keeps stumbling
Behind me, and will not go away.
5k
A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit,
Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb,
Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown—
A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds.
*
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs,
Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,
Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,
Memory by memory the mind—
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs.
*
A poem should be equal to:
Not true.
For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf.
For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea—
A poem should not mean
But be.
3.5k
The cup gleams gold in the light
Golden liquid overflowing
Round bowl on a slender stem.
On the table beside it are apples.
Red, yellow, glowing,
Globed sunlight bursting with juice.
Outside in the meadow, the cows
Brown and white, gentle eyed, lowing,
As the calf pushes and pulls on the ****
Staggers a little and suckles.
Warm milk for the jug.
A blue and white bowl holds the cream.
Blue and white is the sky above
Brown and deep the buzzing of bees
Making the foxgloves bend and bow
Under the coolness of trees
Where the earth holds the richness of leaves
And the bones of the ancestors rest
In the land of the ever blessed.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 9:56 AM UTC
No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells with Beauty--Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shalt taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
2.5k
Symmetry is what kills me
Everyday
Proxy and poking
All day all day all day
Symmetry is what kills me
Proxy and poking
What kills a lady
With a shuffling heart
Heart beats a pitter patter across a blood stream
Angles and ages
America, isn't the symmetry of my veins that carry my oxygen enough?
Why does the flesh
My mounted flesh
Purpose was to sheath me from the cold
Purpose is now askew
Mixed and messy
Even my perception is far from Symmetrical.
I apologize for my odd lips
Minor and minute
My DD faces
Is that not what the true face is?
The pink heads splayed across a globed smile and frown
Lopsided and all that matters
My true face is covered
But my true face is the object of obsession
My silly, silly old lips
My flappy *****
My rings of curly tresses galore
Symmetry still kills me, everyday.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 4:43 AM UTC
With branches bolts of tinder
And leaves to hide the Moon
The sacred cedar globed the grove
Without an inch of hope
A pyramid of sadness
That prayed to stars at night
In outstretched emerald limbs
To be uprooted and laid to rest
In the woodlands of paradise.
It was the tallest and strongest
The haunt for deadly birds
Who drew passion off its hate
The hate that grew in its sap
Was once rivulets of love
Enthralling it to climb the air
And canoe the clouds passing by
It climbed and climbed
Higher and higher
But came up short
To claim the magic of sky
A disappointment it could not take
For the song of truth was so bare.
The truth that captured its vein
Was but an epiphany of pain
Its monument remains a stump
Portraying amputated desire.
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 2:55 PM UTC
It really matters how you slather
Jelly on the bread
As it must be globed enough
To cover every inch
Of course grapes the jelly go to
No need to question why
Still for me the strawberry
Is always on stand by
And when it comes to peanut butter
The crunchy is a given
If you're in the mood to spread the smooth
I say to you, don't even
The bread I'm not concerned with
It's just there for name sake and handles
Because without bread the above said
Would be a mess and not a sandwich
One thing that almost slipped past me
Can't believe I had forgotten
The jelly always goes on top
And peanut butter on the bottom
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 2:28 PM UTC
And now the light of the little globed sun
Guides my waking fingers over stiff keys,
(Stiff fingers over waking keys)
Now I begin the hellos and the wonderings
Each day brings - the bottom of my head
Reminding me "Ask him about his aunt,
His toothache, her boyfriend, her
Overdue college application."
Infinitesimal checklist of maintenance.
Though I don't know what the hell I'm maintaining,
I tiredlove it and work at it and maybe
I can get my 10000 hours from a screen -
Maybe I can be perfect from a screen,
And one day I'll open the door
For a stranger and see a keyboard...
Ridiculous. Room's a mess.
Room's dark except for the sunglobe,
My sun, my determiner of days
And with a click the ordainer of nights.
Ah, it's a tiny world, I can fit it all
In the bottom of my mind when I sleep,
But I'd never tiredleave it,
I waking/sleepinglove it,
And if you'll just shut the door again
I can be tinyperfect.
May 27, 2012
May 27, 2012 at 8:17 PM UTC
A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit,
Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb,
Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown--
A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds.
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs,
Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,
Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves.
Memory by memory the mind--
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs.
A poem should be equal to:
Not true.
For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf.
For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea--
A poem should not mean
But be.
Archibald McLeish
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 11:36 AM UTC
Redolence
by Michael R. Burch
Now darkness ponds upon the violet hills;
cicadas sing; the tall elms gently sway;
and night bends near, a deepening shade of gray;
the bass concerto of a bullfrog fills
what silence there once was; globed searchlights play.
Green hanging ferns adorn dark window sills,
all drooping fronds, awaiting morning’s flares;
mosquitoes whine; the lissome moth again
flits like a veiled oud-dancer, and endures
the fumblings of night’s enervate gray rain.
And now the pact of night is made complete;
the air is fresh and cool, washed of the grime
of the city’s ashen breath; and, for a time,
the fragrance of her clings, obscure and sweet.
Published by Poetry Magazine, Poetic Reflections, The New Formalist, Carnelian, Little Brown Poetry, Poetic Ponderings, Poem Kingdom, Net Poetry and Art Competition, The Best of the Eclectic Muse 1989-2003, Romantics Quarterly, Sonnetto Poesia, Poetry Life & Times and Trinacria
Keywords/Tags: Sonnet, night, darkness, violet, hills, rain, fresh, cleansing, fragrance, perfume, clings, clinging, obscure, sweet, concerto, dance, dancer
Mar 16, 2020
Mar 16, 2020 at 11:16 PM UTC
Globed
Perfectly round
Apart from a **** on top from
when it was part of a tree.
Ten year old me
Dunks flesh into flesh.
Sugary smells
as fruity balloons burst within,
Spraying juice in all directions.
I separate the segments,
No call to look at what I'm doing
Pulling at the thin membrane
gluing crescent to crescent.
And he looks at me
Cranes the neck he doesn't have
In a questionmark shape.
Little me starts back
in wonder.
A White and wriggling worm
Has won his plunder.
Mar 23, 2011
Mar 23, 2011 at 3:17 PM UTC
A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit,
Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb,
Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown—
A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds.
*
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs,
Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,
Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,
Memory by memory the mind—
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs.
*
A poem should be equal to:
Not true.
For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf.
For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea—
A poem should not mean
But be.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 3:09 PM UTC
Plunged in the dead center
Gasping, grasping, asking for air
Pooled goo globed inside of you
Sit inside a pool of gushy goo
Dipping deeper unable to move
Your lungs collapse, mini heart attacks
The fear turns black, Swimming recklessly
Pushing, and pulling, budging, and shoving
Stuck in your mind - unable to twitch a limb
Thickened - weighed down - trapped - sinking......
Will you be mine? My Sticky slime valentine?
Take me in my shape ?
I could not, Unable, Incapable.
I could not say for the goo has gotten it's way.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 11:13 PM UTC
1 Corinthians 11:5
"But every woman that prays or prophesies with
her head uncovered dishonors her head: for that
is one and the same as if she were shaven."
As she prays her head's in praise
She meditates and her alignment is what has them prey
Her hair is worn in algorithms
So you see a circuit board or mother board of a new age black unknowing
Algorithms aligning her soul with the spirit's accord - they will try to abort
So they make her wear hair of trimmings like when lands split
So soon she'd forget the fist of her Alkebulan print
Her hat covers the map to the heavens where she'd captain, from braids to the afro we find terraces of the cosmos...
I see the keys of the piano and then I know that music is the language in which the verses union the Source wrote
Woo a man with womb and bring man's seed forth to expand the clan
Conscentise the concave mind to open eye to the cosmic kind
Patterns of pathways a patent, paintings on hide of dinoaours latent
But her hair is worn high and that's not esteem, instead it's a yellow thigh
Stereo paging on the cell telephone to tell her she's a foe to sink all your woes and curb them with her camel toe and wrap you in her steatopygia.
But in her hair her head they would embed things the black gods would dread and then a set for the silicon concept, a new tribe is bred
And to be fair is the paler hue rather than the iridescent swarthy tune
And we're globed in a speherical rationale where a flat earth is irrational but the self as a governing god the logical equation
So then we're in a situation
Her hair cannot be antennae because they tan her and fan her to the popular grammar, sentenced to the prison cell of a hashtag. Her real hair is rags and her significance is concealed by an iPhone and a bag.
May 18, 2017
May 18, 2017 at 4:40 PM UTC
My father worked with a horse-plough,
His shoulders globed like a full sail strung
Between the shafts and the furrow.
The horse strained at his clicking tongue.
An expert. He would set the wing
And fit the bright steel-pointed sock.
The sod rolled over without breaking.
At the headrig, with a single pluck
Of reins, the sweating team turned round
And back into the land. His eye
Narrowed and angled at the ground,
Mapping the furrow exactly.
I stumbled in his hob-nailed wake,
Fell sometimes on the polished sod;
Sometimes he rode me on his back
Dipping and rising to his plod.
I wanted to grow up and plough,
To close one eye, stiffen my arm.
All I ever did was follow
In his broad shadow round the farm.
I was a nuisance, tripping, falling,
Yapping always. But today
It is my father who keeps stumbling
Behind me, and will not go away.
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 7:00 PM UTC
It seemed I looked on a world all round
Where Hell with mortals heartlessly toyed
I turned away for I had found
The Chaos globed dark amidst the void
I stood watching the sky disappear
And writhing Terror coiled and bound
I knew it was there since I could hear
A deafening Silence full of sound
The starlight burned out, lost in the deep
Yet I remembered always my name
Though the world was dead I would not weep
Triumph is what the Dark cannot claim
Aug 6, 2017
Aug 6, 2017 at 12:38 AM UTC
Well of life, oh well of life!!! Spring me thy vibrant blamelessness,
For am I amyss? Wishful to Pius beliefs? That theres a queen, not a thief?
Staring at her screen as me!!!
Consternation in unbelief?
Gathering her end day fears!!!
Shall she pike near?
And hitchike mine hazy distortion?
With our love would be proportion,
No distortionary tyrant to ourn view!!!
Sleeping silently in our room,
Being as just small wombs!!!
Acquisitive and itchy to our next step!!!!
For tis this I have wept,
Thinking over and over,
For wheres thine four leaf clover,
For mine good Irish luck?
Trapped in the ducts of civilation lost?
For what's thy cost old globed ball see'r?
A pound or a ruby?
A million in cash?
Or cheap movie?
For I'd give you mine all to basque in ones appearance,
A PRI maddona I strive in all
Contrivance.....
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 10:29 PM UTC
Seabed steps balancing an open rhythm,
hardwired horizon, Basquiat cross-out head.
Sparking concavities of globed trips,
causeless smiles, here~wear one too if
you want.
Off at shine in the make, steps supping ripples
to helices, empyrean's safety cords
vibrating fast enough to shake off
any spell.
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 12:15 PM UTC