"gnarl" poems
If I held out my hand
would you take it ?
it's warmth ready to permeate your soul
but what would it tell you of me ?
the scar on my finger
the wrinkling skin
the crooked pinkie
the gnarl on my thumb
stories to be told
if you would only take hold.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 9:06 AM UTC
I've borne the heavy load.
I've worked all the day.
Got two children at the house to feed.
Husband's gone away.
I've a bunion on my toe,
But I've got a corn pad.
With a smile upon my face,
Swear, it don't hurt so bad.
Don't the moonlight look so grand,
Shining in the sky!
Walking home from second shift,
Clean cars are wizzing by.
There's a light mist in the air
That gives me some relief.
In the crock *** waits at home
Hash and good corned beef.
My fingers gnarl and seize,
The handle's hard to grip.
I hope the boss don't send me home.
The kids have a field trip.
When the kids get on the bus
To travel out of town,
I might take a few days off
To lay my tired head down.
Don't the moonlight look so grand,
Shining in the sky.
Walking home from second shift,
Clean cars are wizzing by.
There's a light mist in the air
That gives me some relief.
In the crock *** waits at home
Hash and good corned beef.
I am faithful to the work.
I don't call in sick.
I'm hardworking as a man.
The foreman calls me "chick."
I never complain about my back.
Lord, He knows, I need this job.
I can take the stripes they give.
Don't give my raise to Bob.
Don't the moonlight look so grand,
Shining in the sky.
Walking home from second shift,
Clean cars are wizzing by.
There's a light mist in the air
That gives me some relief.
In the crock *** waits at home
Hash and good corned beef.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 3:25 PM UTC
that tree on the hill, in the midday sun unfurled
a majestic gnarl of old glory, sustained by a bounty of Time
a thing full of slow thoughts, thoughts that precede our asking
whose branches have forsaken hands
in favor of open arms
that have no word
for love
and
yet
that’s all it does
we sat beneath it’s wholesome fuss of ripe fruit, sinking in.
you in your yoga pants, poaching a dragons egg
in thick blue grass
i in my cups, sipping vineyards of brandy from a deerskin champagne glass
staring at your beautiful joy
the both of us slouching on the couch of Creation
each
with our own
remote.
we were up-close
noses pressed against pollen parasols parading in heat mirage camouflage
holding a moment without pause
we picnic in the thicket of an endless gift
like ants on a blanket
the width of the
world.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 1:37 PM UTC
I walked alone
The cold wind ripping at my face
The ground covered in stone
My mind clouded with death’s dark embrace
I pulled my coat ‘round
To try and breathe one last time
As the sky fell down
Whisper one last hymn
Black out black out black out
Eyes open
The fire shadow’s cast about
She was the first sight I had awoken
Her white as ice skin
Pale blue eyes
Her shadow dark as Gwyn
My welcome is full of chastise
She only smiled
And put my head on her lap
I would not shout the reviled
About was her cloak wrap
Eyes full of worry
She stooped over for a kiss
My eyes began to blurry
.Short lived this bliss
A dark snarl
She whipped her head forward
White fur, teeth, claws, and blood lust gnarl
I reach for my sword
I fell
She stood up
It bared its teeth
The ice sharp enough to cut
Cold energy beneath
My ice queen
It leaped
Its rage caused the ice to steam
She wept
Its claw deep in my chest
Her hands like icicles
Her form was distressed
sharp as needles
Ice stuck out of its gullet
.She ran over to me
I’m just a shattered cullet
Wise and worried was she
Cradled my head in her arms
As she sang and cried
My life tumbled like a house of cards
I died?
I woke up
My love was denied
Death raised its cup
She spared my life for hers
She melted away
Tears as my eyes blurres
So I can live another day
When we kissed my heart fell in a spell
I will always want you
Now my love fell
My mind skewed
I will remember you
As I leave a white rose
The most beautiful fool
I warmed a heart that was froze
Her skin was cold
I will always return
To remember your hold
Give your death gifts in an urn
A forgotten dream
Your life of woe
I will always remember your skin and teeth beautiful as cream
The woman of snow
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 8:47 PM UTC
skirting the rusty rose of a brooch
dangling on canvas bodice as she leans
tightly over me; the waves of wrinkles
on her be-bangled red hands pointing to the
wrong punctuation; this is dream-building
in the fifth grade; don't end the dream
too soon, she gruffs sing-song like
a prize-winning racoon; and still applauds
the bricklaying we so clumsily feign
for our castles in the sky; tho she, too,
dies of cancer in the last year; the tubes at the
very last weaving through the canvas;
something of a final stitch to the making
of a dream; and so i think all dreams in me
they die in darkness and still i wonder
what happens to the crenellated castle
walls i abandoned scores of years and
many As ago; and still we pat our doeeyes
on their infinitile heads and **** our
cynical shacks-by-the-forest-fires back
into our heads, begging beneath the
damp light of early-onset reverie: save
us, won't you, from the stiff stillborn of
dreams our generation lost to the fantasy
of getting what the saddest, dreamless
dollared dupes decree; oh be better yet for me,
my naive sums, and take your brick-laying;
your canvas sheen; your impossible, doubtless
dreams with broach and gnarl; with gruff and
soundless trill; your soulful self metastasized
with every beat
to the happy grave.
Dec 15, 2018
Dec 15, 2018 at 11:56 AM UTC
.
In disused field is a blooming temple.
An ancient apple tree waiting eternal,
This stone bold sculpture was forged
With nimbus hands and windy eyes.
In hushed airs, Shiva dances to light,
Waves, sacred arms without swaying.
Bearded ones come to pay homage,
The solemn chickadees, the ranging
Sparrows, red robed robins— priestly
Doves, all who see are one enveloped
In graces of the New World Bodhi tree,
Waiting for blossoms so dearly come.
Edge of boughs brim under heavens
Landing with mystic verges of spirit
Into the mind of the eyes of nature—
Kali-flowered ears of lichen are pale
Green in their devotions, pummeled
By seas of seasons, foggy to the fray.
Finches, yellow, reflecting in a star,
Devout wee lamas golden with halo,
Are kneeling above berm, this nobby
Trunk, stave, inside bodacious stupa
Bell who sings clear, without ringing,
Body of elder grace, wisdoms, ages.
In cast irreverence, seldom do crows
Visit, when they do there is menace
Of the Jinn, dark giants in the levels,
Mercifully, out of shame, they do not
Stay, black wings due, die in luminous
Day moon, rain soak sun, balmy mist.
On pilgrim journeys, whirlings, prayer
Wheels, guide shy flocks riding gnarl,
Indie goddess, to overreaching love,
By sores of hollow in the steps, open
To being, brindles of myriad meadow
In temple blossoms— numinous suns.
Of both earth and sky, shines a beauty,
Whose form is written in blistering bark,
The ciphers of tongue to Sanskrit leaves
And lost fruits, given over, unforbiddens,
Within old apple tree a great wilderness
And all the branch of wings are knowing.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 5:40 PM UTC
happy is not
a crime
it's just a circled thought
on which you cannot climb
twist of wood
gnarl of segment found
there will be sad enough
after you **** it
with slants of sounded furies
dropping you a line
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 6:19 PM UTC
1.
It's odd Time never came
To wonder under these beaches' loam,
To walk forty steps to a tide
Where sea-green foam flashes full its blade.
2.
Trammeled like a nun, the girl
Swept by me thoughtless. A root's gnarl
Could symbolize slim pain
Beneath the scleras: two jackals' den.
3.
*Hurt inwardly, like darkened stars,
So bursting silence is all one hears.*
4.
The monotony of this shoreline is a throwback.
What phantoms come: an electric shock.
Why ten years ago is all I know
Is not half as important as who or how.
5.
The autumnal tremor, the rainless moonlight...
Memories of little weight....
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 4:47 PM UTC
In the not too far off distance
I here the faint splashing of an indie song,
That reminds me of you ?
Maybe not of you,
But your gait
And if I want to reminisce about
Your demeanor I will twist
And gnarl and damage the song
To be who you were,
To me , it is as if
Whenever I think of the grand entrance
Of the natural history museum you are there
On the steps, in a deceitful black dress
And I weep like a wound infected
Half because you are heaven
An eighth because you are a day at the DMV
Or worse
I’m not alone
I have a partner for checkers
The computer
But I find that you can’t have a laugh
About how bad you are
With someone that much better than you
I’m now on loan
But what a strange feeling it is to own
Half of someone
Like when you take a lean
On a car,
Sure, the bank could take it back
But would they understand the eight-week-old,
Chulupa in the back seat?
Would anyone understand
Your tongue?
Or might they ****
The life out of it
Only to cut it out later
I recognize the song
And draw it closer to me
I have bent the sound to fit me,
To suit you,
Fake- deaf, I tune it out
Only to have my conk- shell –for- an- ear
Throw it back up in a fishy -mess
Then it laughs at me and says,
“Don’t be silly now, I’m your song forever.”
I can’t handle that
So I run away leaving my brain
Behind
My brain is on the ground bleeding
Saying, “Oh! How embarrassing to wear red after my birthday!”
Dec 23, 2009
Dec 23, 2009 at 8:18 AM UTC
.
In disused field is a blooming temple.
An ancient apple tree waiting eternal,
This stone bold sculpture was forged
With nimbus hands and windy eyes.
In hushed airs, Shiva dances to light,
Waves, sacred arms without swaying.
Bearded ones come to pay homage,
The solemn chickadees, the ranging
Sparrows, red robed robins— priestly
Doves, all who see are one enveloped
In graces of the New World Bodhi tree,
Waiting for blossoms so dearly come.
Edge of boughs brim under heavens
Landing with mystic verges of spirit
Into the mind of the eyes of nature—
Kali-flowered ears of lichen are pale
Green in their devotions, pummeled
By seas of seasons, foggy to the fray.
Finches, yellow, reflecting in a star,
Devout wee lamas golden with halo,
Are kneeling above berm, this nobby
Trunk, stave, inside bodacious stupa
Bell who sings clear, without ringing,
Body of elder grace, wisdoms, ages.
In cast irreverence, seldom do crows
Visit, when they do there is menace
Of the Jinn, dark giants in the levels,
Mercifully, out of shame, they do not
Stay, black wings due, die in luminous
Day moon, rain soak sun, balmy mist.
On pilgrim journeys, whirlings, prayer
Wheels, guide shy flocks riding gnarl,
Indie goddess, to overreaching love,
By sores of hollow in the steps, open
To being, brindles of myriad meadow
In temple blossoms— numinous suns.
Of both earth and sky, shines a beauty,
Whose form is written in blistering bark,
The ciphers of tongue to Sanskrit leaves
And lost fruits, given over, unforbiddens,
Within old apple tree a great wilderness
And all the branch of wings are knowing.
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 12:31 AM UTC
chain lightning blows across the sky like a radiant touch;
strikes the same tree in my hometown every time i fall in love.
what breed is it, this ruinous love? striking,
the white caustic light of it irradiating
the surrounding cornfields.
were you ever there to see it? from your bedroom window?
the arc and crackle? this tuning fork of astral flame resonating
between cloud and timber? this crippled elm where
my skinny suicidal teenage love bid me scale limbs?
where each time, like a surgeon, my shaky fingers stitched bark
with the corded sinew of raccoons and my fluids held it all glued?
in the dark? how so like an heirloom it seems now;
this lone tree, cordoned in scars,
all gnarl and char.
i turn to the map of my circulatory system in these moments,
follow the red army over a causeway of capillaries,
watch them fattened on oxygen.
how else to know that amongst all this,
there remains
a richness deep
down things?
make a supple leather from the hides
of the nights I knuckled crabapples down your roof.
It will be the color of a bruise; of a secret. all you do
is carve, slicing carefully to cut out my
silhouette projected against your bedroom wall –
all this, time and memory, just arts and crafts. molding
the vectors of us, hurtling through space
like coins drifting
to the bottom
of a well.
memory, the fashion and fashioning of it:
the way we wear our existence. our skeleton
to cobble and clothe. so while we’re at it…
let us forget the moments of trepidation.
Obliterate the clamminess of our palms clenched together,
the schoolyard drama of it all. pasted in layers
until it’s just a mess of glue. until the moments that matter
are traced with dotted lines
and lusted over
by the appetites
of scissors.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 10:33 PM UTC
Her footsteps echo
between the gnarl'd, elder trees
pursued by mem'ry.
Aug 28, 2011
Aug 28, 2011 at 5:34 PM UTC
Embedded in the crease of streets
Lies litter from this wasteland world.
Grandiosity of trees despoiled by plastic bags
Shredded to a baleful wind-whipped bunting.
Cans and bottles glint in summer sun.
Their quenching duty done, they figure
In a losing landscape, tinged by neglect.
Dog-eared gutters crouch against the kerbs,
Lusting for a sluice of cleansing rain.
At least the leaves all lavished beauty once,
To cast a vibrant coloured throw
Across a calloused landscape
Through the gnarl of tarmac
And turgid, timeless traffic.
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 30, 2010 at 10:55 PM UTC
In disused field is a blooming temple.
An ancient apple tree waits eternal,
This stone bold sculpture was forged
With nimbus hands and windy eyes.
In hushed airs, Shiva dances to light,
Waves, sacred arms without swaying.
Bearded ones come to pay homage,
The solemn chickadees, the ranging
Sparrows, red robed robins— priestly
Doves, all who see are one enveloped
In graces of the New World Bodhi tree,
Waiting for blossoms so dearly come.
Edge of boughs brim under heavens
Landing with mystic verges of spirit
Into the mind of the eyes of nature—
Kali-flowered ears of lichen are pale
Green in their devotions, pummeled
By seas of seasons, foggy to the fray.
Finches, yellow, reflecting in a star,
Devout wee lamas golden with halo,
Are kneeling above berm, this nobby
Trunk, stave, inside bodacious stupa
Bell who sings clear, without ringing,
Body of elder grace, wisdoms, ages.
In cast irreverence, seldom do crows
Visit, when they do there is menace
Of the Jinn, dark giants in the levels,
Mercifully, out of shame, they do not
Stay, black wings due, die in luminous
Day moon, rain soak sun, balmy mist.
On pilgrim journeys, whirlings, prayer
Wheels, guide shy flocks riding gnarl,
Indie goddess, to overreaching love,
By sores of hollow in the steps, open
To being, brindles of myriad meadow
In temple blossoms— numinous suns.
Of both earth and sky, shines a beauty,
Whose form is written in blistering bark,
The ciphers of tongue to Sanskrit leaves
And lost fruits, given over, unforbiddens,
Within old apple tree a great wilderness
And all the branch of wings are knowing.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 1:35 PM UTC
.
In disused field is a blooming temple.
An ancient apple tree waiting eternal,
This stone bold sculpture was forged
With nimbus hands and windy eyes.
In hushed airs, Shiva dances to light,
Waves, sacred arms without swaying.
Bearded ones come to pay homage,
The solemn chickadees, the ranging
Sparrows, red robed robins— priestly
Doves, all who see are one enveloped
In graces of the New World Bodhi tree,
Waiting for blossoms so dearly come.
Edge of boughs brim under heavens
Landing with mystic verges of spirit
Into the mind of the eyes of nature—
Kali-flowered ears of lichen are pale
Green in their devotions, pummeled
By seas of seasons, foggy to the fray.
Finches, yellow, reflecting in a star,
Devout wee lamas golden with halo,
Are kneeling above berm, this nobby
Trunk, stave, inside bodacious stupa
Bell who sings clear, without ringing,
Body of elder grace, wisdoms, ages.
In cast irreverence, seldom do crows
Visit, when they do there is menace
Of the Jinn, dark giants in the levels,
Mercifully, out of shame, they do not
Stay, black wings due, die in luminous
Day moon, rain soak sun, balmy mist.
On pilgrim journeys, whirlings, prayer
Wheels, guide shy flocks riding gnarl,
Indie goddess, to overreaching love,
By sores of hollow in the steps, open
To being, brindles of myriad meadow
In temple blossoms— numinous suns.
Of both earth and sky, shines a beauty,
Whose form is written in blistering bark,
The ciphers of tongue to Sanskrit leaves
And lost fruits, given over, unforbiddens,
Within old apple tree a great wilderness
And all the branch of wings are knowing.
Dec 18, 2016
Dec 18, 2016 at 7:18 PM UTC
*Darling please encumber
My heart with strains of
Robust, consuming love;
I’ll carry the burden.
Toss me face-first into
Your boiling pool of ripe
Seduction; drown me
In its piquant waters.
Drag me to the pulpit
Of your sins; Bury my
Lips with myriads of
Sweet couverture kisses.
Gnarl my brittle feelings;
Beleaguer me with chaff
& teasing; conquer my
Heart & claim it as your own!
J’ai besoin de toi.
I need you!*
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 12:23 PM UTC
Underneath a willowtree
twists your summerbeard
with your winterbeard
entwined
You think your greenthoughts
of gnarl, leg, branch, and twig
of foretime kisses under moonlight
of nowtime creakings under foglight
You grasp with groaning fingers
after a moth in flight
and catching him
lick the dust from his wings
You crunch with rotten legs
through leaves in swirl
and crushing them
soak sunlight from their blood
Underneath your willowtree
your bark whitens
and in breathing out
unwinds
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 6:30 PM UTC
Gnarl your toes,
Know that you can’t catch everything
That comes flying through the rye
We are rosebuds trying to
Find the right window.
The right person to pluck us apart bit by bit
Trying to make up their minds
Yes’s or No’s
Gnarl your toes
Because either way, you will face
Him, Bruce Wayne
And cast your conscience in to the dark
but somehow you’ll come out of it
Harry Pottering your way through the darkness
finding her in front of you
And you’ll show her all the reasons
To the hate the sun
You’ll pour galaxies in cups
Trying to measure what this feeling is
You’ll take her words like nebulas
meek and hazy swimming inside your
ears
Show her where the stars sleeps
Where they go when you die
tell her the stories that your
parents told you at night
you will love her until the snow falls
upward
and when she’s gone the streets will no
longer be slippery
So gnarl your toes like you use to do
For there’s plenty of things to be scared of
Plenty of things to be angry about
Plenty of things to corrupt you
To change your mind, to make you Darth Vader
Down the path you did not want
and if you do, know that it is fine
because you will grow like the universe before you
and in that process you will find
poetry etched in between chopsticks, lips, fingertips, maps of big cities
and small towns. first loves and second dates .
you will find them on the places you hate—
On your parents graves.
know that they were the ones that left them for you
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 4:16 PM UTC
Hey girl
(you boy too)
before the thumbs gnarl
use for sweeter things to do.
There's a sky awaiting you
a cloud paused from sail
a poem in your heart overdue
fetus of one tale.
Hey girl
(you boy too)
leave the shell to find the pearl
before times flew.
There's a grass still growing green
in wind love's whisper
a birdsong to catch from din
before years stray too far.
Hey girl
(you boy too)
the hidden is for you to unfurl
color them in your hue.
Piece together each dormant word
on scrap of leaf in ink
pour out within's flutter unheard
before runs out time in a wink.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 2:54 AM UTC
we slept all
bundled up in
beds too tiny
meant for
one
limbed and
twiny under
breathy blanket
quilted by
your mom
in pokey dorm rooms
loud and
clambersome
we slept all
upside down
in princess bed
of brass ornate
and painted
ceramic of
flowers pink
and dainty
pulled and
rubbled out
from rummage
sale in
somebody's
front yard
enclosed by walls
of wood
a-seep with
rugged deep
grotesque koala
gnarl
we slept all
pulled out long
on foamy
futon
slats a-stick
in ribs and
jutting out
to wailing
whooping
siren sounds
and tv screams
and chopper
chops
and others'
midnight
lovers' fights
a-pound and
hot and grimy
we slept all
lofted up
and alcoved
cozy
high in castle
attic
nunnery
monastic
circled round
by clouds
and crows and
osprey
wings a-soar
wings a-flap
dizzying up our
weathered dreams
with
cat a-curled and
purring at
our tender feet
and farback
memories
swirling sweet
of bygone nights
of bygone plights
of sleeps
slept other
places
© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 1:08 PM UTC
.
In disused field is a blooming temple.
An ancient apple tree waiting eternal,
This stone bold sculpture was forged
With nimbus hands and windy eyes.
In hushed airs, Shiva dances to light,
Waves, sacred arms without swaying.
Bearded ones come to pay homage,
The solemn chickadees, the ranging
Sparrows, red robed robins— priestly
Doves, all who see are one enveloped
In graces of the New World Bodhi tree,
Waiting for blossoms so dearly come.
Edge of boughs brim under heavens
Landing with mystic verges of spirit
Into the mind of the eyes of nature—
Kali-flowered ears of lichen are pale
Green in their devotions, pummeled
By seas of seasons, foggy to the fray.
Finches, yellow, reflecting in a star,
Devout wee lamas golden with halo,
Are kneeling above berm, this nobby
Trunk, stave, inside bodacious stupa
Bell who sings clear, without ringing,
Body of elder grace, wisdoms, ages.
In cast irreverence, seldom do crows
Visit, when they do there is menace
Of the Jinn, dark giants in the levels,
Mercifully, out of shame, they do not
Stay, black wings due, die in luminous
Day moon, rain soak sun, balmy mist.
On pilgrim journeys, whirlings, prayer
Wheels, guide shy flocks riding gnarl,
Indie goddess, to overreaching love,
By sores of hollow in the steps, open
To being, brindles of myriad meadow
In temple blossoms— numinous suns.
Of both earth and sky, shines a beauty,
Whose form is written in blistering bark,
The ciphers of tongue to Sanskrit leaves
And lost fruits, given over, unforbiddens,
Within old apple tree a great wilderness
And all the branch of wings are knowing.
.
Nov 9, 2019
Nov 9, 2019 at 2:19 PM UTC
I could not see the next summit,
the gashed gnarl of its face.
I guessed only that its steepening
inclines had been set against me.
I could hear all the echoings
of the dead in their ice-tombs
where their aims had led them
and buried them, then, deeper,
the incredible footfall
of sherpas, spirited, light
and deft, unbetraying. A silence
stretched on toward a night
long with unhuman testimony.
Then it came: the world-clearing
hammer-blows of distant avalanches,
the palpitations of chaos,
one whiteout of potentiality.
My tent fluttered and gripped
at the snow that stored for spring
all paths to the peak, leading
through veils of embraces,
inconsolable losses, charms,
fantastic indictments. Swelling
its stormfront, then collapsing
into a voice like winter, the wind
took up a human song and broke
across the horizons. It sang,
'You are an unborn fjord,
a chasm yet to be. Only water
sculpts its beauty: let it pass.
Throw no harness over the clouds,
they hold no secrets, but are.
Here, while you plan your ascent
each night, exalting the fey,
the indolent, the totemic, you are
like a thief on a watchtower.
Until every such night has passed
you will light, tend, and watch die
a small, tense fire, but awake
surrounded by footprints.'
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 2:15 AM UTC
the worst feeling in the world, to me
is feeling stuck.
it's worse than having to dig out the wheel
in the limbs of sloppy rain,
or the shock value of biting the inside
of your mouth.
it's the opposite of the realization you have
when you remember the mouth heals quickest; and then
there is hope.
imagine the life path of dreams -
with a lush natural fence on the threshold.
one step over summons vines from under
that lash and snag and gnarl and gnash
and you're frozen stone: forest
desert arctic all in one.
the stuck swallows me inside
an imperial chamber
that i am not in the slightest bit worthy
to be surrounded by.
a perception of the world
in your mind...
it cracks,
shatters, hiss,
obliterated.
i welcome struggle into my arms as i go
to the bittersweet valley below;
maybe i will find the seeds that
will allow me to grow.
Jul 31, 2017
Jul 31, 2017 at 1:05 AM UTC
By saying none, I have promised more than enough.
To her, the word means as much as "them all".
My ways and words prove only to be rough.
When in fact, I'd wish for our distance to fall.
Rhymes and songs to me come crawling.
Yet from herself I feel but love.
Gnarl all I may, my heart is howling.
I wish her not, to see from above.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 2:52 AM UTC