"gulley" poems
1. Every month when I have ***
It's like a hurricane ripped through my sanity
Tearing the curtains
Shattering the glass so I can barely see out the window
My perception of myself is distorted
I feel like a sandbag being carried through Arizona
Useless, purposeless
I lie in my bed staring up at the ceiling
My hormones are writhing, mixing, I lose my balance and teeter off the edge
Into the gulley below.
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 6:15 PM UTC
The stream
twists, slithers, binds
two banks to each other,
slinking ‘cross the dry gaunt gulley,
unpaired.
Under
the faded trees’
blinds, I sit on stone from
where riparian-paradise
explodes;
California’s stolen soil, air,
are logorrhea in
the toilets of
my ears.
I sit
stream-like, apart, meditative –
echoes of Kumeyaay
swirl inside
my head.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 7:56 AM UTC
regional dissidence marked by ****** exchanges
tempered anger lends itself to psychotic episodes
and the children lay in gulley’s attempting to remain hidden –
shattered glass crashes onto unpaved streets
complete with ditches dug to expedite waste removal
as the filth of a nation runs freer than the citizenry –
enter technological gods bringing stories of prosperity
visions of democracy and unity begin to shape in the heart and minds
or so they tell themselves so sleep will find them –
battered emotions bubble to the surface of faces
pressed hard against stained glass doorways
fleeting images of food strewn tables and shoes un-holed
dance across impoverished and diseased brains
incapable of self-supporting, they line tourists spots
holding shabby signs and juggling rocks for pennies
brandished with the gentleman who claims slave freedom –
desert boarders separate families languishing for acknowledgement
true Americans generationally linked to the very soil
toil in agricultural hell as whites get fat
on the backs of today’s slave system
immigrant workers bury loved ones on the edges of factory farms
saying Catholic prayers to a corporate god
most well known for being the root of child molestation –
cartel kingpins hire babies to mule ******
DEA agents load them into vans destined for the inner city
As the forever war against minorities takes yet another turn –
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 10:46 AM UTC
The water chuckles and frolics
Finding its way over the rocks
It gurgles around boulders
And swirls and tumbles and drops.
The banks of the streams are strewn
With flower petals, pink and rosy
They settle gently on fern fronds
Looking peaceful, comfy and cozy.
The steep sides of the gully are shale
And water seeps out in places
It finds its way into pools
Where the minnows are having races.
I know about oceans and lakes and rivers
About power dams and high waterfalls
I appreciate the importance of water
I love it from wherever it calls.
But my private stream in this gulley
Teeming, insected', berried and mossed
Seems akin to a forest primeval
Where the Hand of the Goddess just passed.
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 3:28 AM UTC
Row mine carcass down to the Shangri la valley's
Between the mountain's of amour'
Wherein peace floweth in mine essence
Through the heavenly gulley's
Wherein I'll meet mine queen of far shore
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
Let's go back in time
Climb the tree in our gulley
And just keep climbing.
-------------------------
If you built a bridge
Out of promises and hope
I would walk it home
-------------------------
My bed half empty
I dream you back by inches
Each night, losing ground
-------------------------
Every day we sat
And I got to hear your voice
It was everything
-------------------------
Poems in my mind
Speak about you constantly
I can't write them all
-------------------------
Can we watch something?
Hold eachother from the cold
You can pick the show
May 13, 2025
May 13, 2025 at 9:52 AM UTC
FIELD MARSHAL AT THE COMBAT FRONT
By Abraham Esang
The Field Marshal popped in with a brand new red beret
Down to the carcass-ripped front where the combat was;
Alongside with an affectionate General by his noble right hand
He established his path in the direction of the No man’s land,
Afterward a Resilient excellence Lieutenant General there they found,
And a Major General as well, to take them about.
Passing through the trench, their heads bow low,
In the direction of the attentive foe
They advanced through the dusk and the dust stink
Till the Lieutenant General muttered, “one-three-stance gulch!”
And the General repeated “one-three-stance gulch!”
And Field marshal responded-Not in gulch
“Okay, I notice it. “One-three-stance gulch!”
Once more they trooped with watchful pace,
Trailing on where the Lieutenant led
Across the damp and the gunk as well,
Till they popped into a different lateral.
They rested there in the slush and drench,
And the major general muttered “one-two-stance gulch!”
And the General repeated, “one-two-stance gulch!”
And Field Marshal nodded; “one-two-stance gulch!”
Still, as they went across marsh akin to slope
Till they popped into a neat and comfortable gulley
Good mimicry from airship
Where soldiers mounted their guns for firing command
And the Lieutenant General muttered “one-one-stance gulch!”
And the General repeated “one-one-stance gulch!”
And the Field Marshal muttered, “Okay, I notice.
How distant is the foe?”
And the affectionate General the Field Marshal questioned, questioned he,
“How distant is the foe?”
And the Lieutenant inhaled in a lower tune,
“How distant is the foe?”
The quietness placed in tons and piles
And the Lieutenant General whispered, “Just nowhere near.”
And the Major General whispered, “Just nowhere near.”
And the affectionate General repeated, “Just nowhere near.”
“Just nowhere near!” the Field Marshal swore,
“Why in god name are we muttering?”
And the Major General said in a gentle growl,
“Why in god name are we muttering?”
“Muttering?” the reverberation roar;
And the Lieutenant General muttered, “I am freezing.”
Oct 17, 2017
Oct 17, 2017 at 11:54 AM UTC
missing you quietly
is very unbecoming.
i should be spiraling into
a deep dark gulley
of whiskey days
and tear stained nights,
mumbling my name in your sleep.
it's what you deserve.
instead i add a little more
milk to my coffee
and put my books down
after a few pages.
i am able to laugh.
and i smile at strangers
on the street.
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 12:12 PM UTC
Walking over the moor on a sunny day, the wind at my back,
I saw before me a woman over-burdened by a voluminous rucksack
She trudged along face against the wind
Reached a gulley filled with bramble bushes and turned around a bend.
I looked for her when I reached her point of departure
But could see nothing. In fact as I looked I became increasingly unsure
That I seen her that day. The moor was full of mist,
And in truth, I was fairly ******
Walking over the moor the following day
I searched the land for the best possible way
To reach Croven, a village first settled by the ancient Brits,
Whom the Romans had routinely cut to bits,
Where I had left my wife and car.
Going around in circles, up and down, lost in the mire
Of marsh and bog, the mists kept descending
And my return to Croven, wife and car, seemed never-ending
When I saw the woman approach me again
The rucksack straddling her back like a fin
I called out in a tired and plaintive voice
She walked through me over the purple grass in a trice
Stopped, looked back, noticed my agonised expression of a man completely lost,
Squealed, dropped the rucksack and began screaming about a ghost
I did the same belting headlong into the marsh
Dying swiftly there, which I thought was kinda harsh!
I still see the woman when I trudge a sad spectre through the moor
But we greet each other now, knowing each is Nevermore.
Jun 13, 2017
Jun 13, 2017 at 12:37 AM UTC
this footbridge leads to nowhere
so it seems across the gulley
just winter grass and cactus
low mountain ridges
and low clouds all
in almost black and white
between subdued and somber
open shadows leading
in straight lines
some joys are not bright baubles
a frozen moment
a quiet image
just breathe and sit
and take it in
Dec 13, 2019
Dec 13, 2019 at 8:20 PM UTC