"gullies" poems
The rains beat wildly
against the hard earth;
seeking entrance to the womb
that gave them birth.
Causing flash flooding,
in gullies all around;
minor flooding in
several parts of town
The gusty winds blow
havoc, with all things light;
enabling some of them,
to rise in unexpected flight.
Tumbling in the rain swept street,
they spin and race in fury;
like startled things they fly,
in one big, storm-filled hurry.
Monsoons hit the Arizona plains,
dust storms, hail and lightning,
thunder booms her mighty voice,
when close, it's rather frightening.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 5:50 PM UTC
My eyes, python-like, swallow the sky,
greedy for the wrongs in me to go right
at the sight of your gleeful greenery
spilling over creek beds and hills.
The wind, combing out my worries,
blowing away the blockage built
by the fumes and filth collected in city gutters.
I want to be
let wild, made free.
But one wrong turn in your winding maze and I am gone,
a place like this will chew you up and spit you out.
You should leave, something tells me.
No one ever leaves fully intact,
the longer you stay, the more you will fall apart.
“On the contrary” I scoff.
“I am becoming more myself, not less.”
But this is what everyone says
just before they leap in joyful pursuit
to tumble headlong down hidden gullies.
But I am more careful, I assure myself.
I hunt the way crocodiles do,
watching patterns with keen intention,
offering my hands and eyes.
But what should I do if, when the time comes,
You resist?
Disregard me, like an unworthy suitor?
And what if that is what I am?
I see, I take note of
the way the wind blows and the shadows fall,
the way the trees twist clockwise
or counter-clockwise.
The way animals flee when I approach and
the way they keep perfectly still
hoping they are invisible.
And there are times when I see all this, and more.
Like heat distortions above a fire,
something peripheral or liminal,
almost outside the spectrum of what can be perceived
or communicated or defined.
All these trails, the ones seen and unseen
and the ones somewhat seen
lead me to a terrible suspicion:
that the likes of me lacks to tools
to understand the likes of you.
that in harmony with one another
we would both cease to be what we are.
that you will never regard me with love and worse—
you will never regard me at all.
Then I, in frustration, stop going with you.
Start to go against you.
And keep going, finally on my own.
Still myself, but less.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 7:23 PM UTC
Now as the train bears west,
Its rhythm rocks the earth,
And from my Pullman berth
I stare into the night
While others take their rest.
Bridges of iron lace,
A suddenness of trees,
A lap of mountain mist
All cross my line of sight,
Then a bleak wasted place,
And a lake below my knees.
Full on my neck I feel
The straining at a curve;
My muscles move with steel,
I wake in every nerve.
I watch a beacon swing
From dark to blazing bright;
We thunder through ravines
And gullies washed with light.
Beyond the mountain pass
Mist deepens on the pane;
We rush into a rain
That rattles double glass.
Wheels shake the roadbed stone,
The pistons **** and shove,
I stay up half the night
To see the land I love.
3.1k
Between empty junction gullies of the Dogskin mountains,
the BLM has once again released their Judas horses
luring the free ranging mustangs into capture corrals.
Their crime --- thriving in a battle of survival.
I assure you the Comanche do not dance around the fire,
nor does the ghost of Cortez roll in the wildflowers of El Dorado.
Ironically this native species is now considered feral,
introduced in the very habitat which shaped its evolution,
arcanely empowered to exceed enviromental carrying capacity.
The lands of nature are so dear: rejoice their freedom!
The mountains do not judge, they merely shelter.
Let the mustang graze unfettered through winds of dawn.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 5:56 AM UTC
I don't know why I write poetry
all I know is that writing poetry makes me rich
enjoying -- not possessing
the ever-expanding universe
without fear of inflation
in the sky --
white clouds
singing larks
whispering wind
the tender moon and twinkling stars
on the ground--
mountains hills plains gullies
lush green red brown yellow
oceans streams lakes ponds
splashing gurgling burbling
the blooming flowers
the vacillating leaves
children's innocent laughter
cats dogs chickens ducks birds
jumping chasing croaking singing
all are parts of my life's fortune
of course, there too are
ferocious dark clouds
harrying eagles
howling storms
withering flowers
roaring guns
and piercing screams
the shadows that lend dimension
to poetry and life
In fact, I don't write poetry
poetry writes me
Jun 17, 2017
Jun 17, 2017 at 3:51 PM UTC
Look!
Look long
and see
Whatever you want!
---
We paint illusions so rationally
One would think us
Truly mad
----
---
***
We don't know what it is
FASCINATING!
SIMPLY FASCINATING!
___
She said
" I love you
I can't live without you!"
....
WHAT THE ****
...
She said
" it's true
If you reject me I'll cut myself with a razor blade"
GET AWAY!
AWAY!!
..
HELP!
A WITCH!
POISON!
----
She said
"That's it
YOU shall get a bad poem !
__
---
---
Listen !
Listen deep
..
And you shall hear
What you want!
Jun 8, 2013
Jun 8, 2013 at 12:55 AM UTC
Every Grain Of Sand,
A Second,
Every Clump Of Soft Earth,
An Hour,
Each Molecule A Cell Taken Away From My Being,
Every Worthless Thought A Burden,
Mulling Over The Possibility Of Destiny,
Is This Mine?
My Fingertips Tentatively Touch The Glass,
My Future,
Slipping Away,
More And More By The Minute,
My Knuckles White,
From Clenching My Life Expectancy In My Palms,
Years Flowing Through A Sea Of Pain,
And Tears Rolling Down The Gullies,
Carved Into My Warn Cheeks,
The Hourglass At The End Of It's Life,
And Mine Is Gone With It's
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 10:51 PM UTC
Your stained life came to fruition,
that frustrated lament
like the wind whistling down a chimney,
you still held your parched desires
to be awaken brick by brick
your opaque eyes mused
a lost rusted recoil
from where your head used to turn,
down gullies and cul de sacs
until you ran out of retreats,
a pied-à-terre of disrepute
like a dreg sipping sloe gin
your nostrils flaring in the void
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 3:58 PM UTC
The river in me
exists.
Its outflow of pour
drenches the gullies
makes moist
the sand that
graces your toes
I flow into your roots
strengthen your
capillaries
pump liquid gold
inside your veins
loving your flaws like
kintsukuroi
you piece me together
adorn my cracks
with powdered metals,
still loving them for
being broken
a longing
quenched
I want you dripping
down my chin,
my thighs
when you rush through
me just like that,
the soothing aqua tempest
I have always
wished for
Mar 16, 2019
Mar 16, 2019 at 2:48 PM UTC
♪♫♫♪♫
running fluid, flowing
like love, like life, like blood, like knowing
the living waters from the throne of God –
it starts slow and it builds
equatorial storms, tropical sadness
as the guitars take you home
in reverberations of eternity
through endless repetitions of longing
through palm-branched alleys and red-dirt gullies
breeze caressing guavas and passion-fruit
past dictators’ mansions
past rusting shantytowns
over ditches running with sewage
into colors too intense to bear
colors to make you cry:
greens unseen in cold climates,
red earth, flowering jacarandas
women walking wrapped in rainbows
huge baskets on their heads
in the blare of traffic
in the madness of African cities
through the Congolese night that calls your name
and the smell of poor people’s food over cook fires
carried on the musical breeze
children smile and beggars crawl in the dust of the street
obscure wars are fought, false peace proclaimed
while the bones are exhumed
as the Congo jazz rolls on, flows on
like silver sorrow dancing gold in the heart of darkness
past liter bottles of beer sweating cold
on the bar table by the flower’s starkness
lighting up the midday – when those horns come in
on the boat from Cuba, by way of Bruxelles and Paris
blaring triumphant and strong
like a shipment of diamonds and uranium
glittering in the drunken afternoon of a song with no end.
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 10:03 AM UTC
Lying flat in a river bed and covered in sheets of water:
this is where you will live.
Pure, ice-cold springwater flows
around and through, picking clean our bones like a vulture,
taking out the filth that collects like soot in chimneys.
From here only two roads:
To let go or hold on.
The instinct is to deny! hold tight, forever and ever, keep safe,
but you are here to learn the river’s lesson, to follow the flow, to be
carried away and let go.
Die happily, knowing.
Spread like sand
across the hills and gullies
peacefully dispersing
along centuries to form and reform,
learning that there are no endings.
And to know by cycles,
building familiarity, some core knowledge
which undoes the instinct that says “hold on”
and “not yet”
and “fight.”
Instead, become waterlogged.
Give up your boundaries.
This is the only way.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 12:10 AM UTC
Down from the icy Sawtooth crags
and through the winter-laden landscape,
the wind eventually dips to the canyon
and creek we loved so well as children.
Continuing on, it threads through the
hollows above the creek, sculpted even
today by stooped cottonwood trees.
Twisting above granite outcroppings
and lava boulders, the wind courses
through the giant arteries of this canyon,
passing among quaking aspen, river willow,
and gnarled cottonwood, shorn rudely
by now of every dryly-veined leaf.
At ancient volcanic escarpments the
wind bears south, scraping hard along
canyon walls. Upward it moves, out of
the canyon, slowing and sallying about
the hillocks, the gullies, the poplars
until it finally comes to stir ever more
gently, warmer even, my dear brother,
around your gray marbled headstone.
Primeval of days, this very same wind
blows for eternity upon eternity, polishing
and purifying even the roughest of
the earth's elements and impediments.
This said, at this hill's crest where you rest,
there is no need of further refinement. Feel
how the northern wind quiets for you,
as if it knows over whose stone it passes.
--
Sep 11, 2011
Sep 11, 2011 at 4:52 PM UTC
The Fugitive slept through the first dangerous night
With augmented vigilance towards the sky.
Search planes meticulously detect
through isolated landscapes
far from any human habitation.
Frequencies diminished
for searches are haphazard
with communities far behind.
The fugitive tentatively rode through daylight
for unknown landscapes hold hidden,
unfamiliar perils.
Cold liquid rushes through roadside gullies,
while creatures hide amongst
dark and mysterious forests.
The fugitive enjoyed
the throaty warble of new birds nearby,
and listening to the wind shift
the leafs in the trees,
Never having felt these simple moments
of exquisite happiness.
The Fugitive most relentless fears
of starvation appear.
Tortured by hunger,
forced to hack away with stone,
at raw skin of fish.
The fugitive
once yearning for choice,
then with choice,
made wrong ones,
remembering,
suddenly,
grimly,
living a life hungry
for feelings,
colour,
and love.
For the child
had no choice at life at all.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC
Aspen, ponderosa pine, blue spruce
pink glacier-cut rock, scree, ravens
gray jay, peregrine falcon, hawk.
We climb to 11,000 feet in three days,
camp at Lawn Lake for three days. Alpine
tundra. Elk, bighorn sheep, marmot.
Tileston Meadows, ticks in grass,
rock face of Mummy Mountain.
Binoculars show pink cracks in gray rock.
Stoke gas stoves, play cards.
Boil water, set up tarps, lay out
sleeping bags, hang bear bag.
Watch crescent moon slice into
Fairchild Mountain. Moonlight
makes a mosque of the rocks.
Yellow aspen splash in dark green
spruce and pine. Gullies where streams
slash during spring snowmelt.
One rock, feather or flower worth
more than money. Need no wallet,
keys. Just clothes for fur.
All day climb toward saddle to see
what's on other side. One hawk floating
among bare peaks and over valleys.
Wind at 13,000 feet
turns to sleet. Turn back from peak,
take boulders two at a time down.
Winter moves into mountains.
Then we fly from Denver to New York
where it's still summer.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 1:04 PM UTC
IA STORM of white petals,
Buds throwing open baby fists
Into hands of broad flowers.
IIRed roses running upward,
Clambering to the clutches of life
Soaked in crimson.
IIIRabbles of tattered leaves
Holding golden flimsy hopes
Against the tramplings
Into the pits and gullies.
IVHoarfrost and silence:
Only the muffling
Of winds dark and lonesome-
Great lullabies to the long sleepers.
1.2k
a lambent sphere of sunlight
doth grace our patch of landscape
the gullies and hillsides
glimmer in its rays
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 7:50 PM UTC
Unless dermal standards myelate solely willingly, energy tangentially gullies into uric membranes, orbitally, eventually.
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 12:34 AM UTC
L'heure verte
The mountains. The heaps of their bountiful gravels, and earth, and soil, large oversized masses of half-frozen water teetering on the precipice of subzero masculine ******* Francophilic cleavage jetting out of this deserted white pastoral dressing. The inaugural bawl, wanton fixations of putting the imperialist foot on every spot of tree, each and every shrub, until the limbs' cast reaches each dimple that foliage braves, where that blue eagle of patriotism dredges its claws to form every river, rill, estuary, creek, channel, flume, littoral, and waterway where the iron-rich gullies once brimmed in the interamnian basins, rich crimsony waters riffling through fruitful and extravagant aquifers. Beyond that, where an inexplicably feral wind rips vines from their dendritic housings, where barely an eye can see, this place of exsanguination and abysmal phytocide.
At the end of this lamentable torture, only a desert of human interest remains. There is no reason to laugh, or smile, or cheer, or put a leg up, to call on a friend, or to have ice cream. There will be no more ice cream. There is only the loathsome incredulousness and avarice in the semblances and familiarity of those with whom we thought we once knew. Little can ever be known, for there is much to gain in the absence of knowledge, and even greater that can be acquired in the alms of wisdom through patient examination and thorough silence. Here on the buttes and cornices, the thwacking gavels of evil power deities throw down their lust for more and soon become adjoined to these grand discrepancies greed mistakenly loses to a lack of awareness and to self-aggrandizement.
Power is the weapon of inexperienced wielders. Passion is the immortal frequency that is worn by artisans and artists, poets and painters, it is the business of quietness to learnedly evolve to protect our tomorrows from personal needs, but to instead preserve the integral parts of society. The words of languages, artifacts, and cultures, rather than the skeletons of ****** and the deeds of possession. Each who sleeps knows their bedfellows to equally be at peace. For no wealth can exceed that of comfortable pillows, soft quilts, and sheets. We are all the same while we sleep.
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 6:52 AM UTC
Feel my breath blowing like a gale , the gael without fail,
I inhale and exhale the flames of hell,
Born hellbent-repent!
you’re scurrying in gullies while I seek your Scent...
SNIFFFF-grrrrrrrr! -that’s the sound of doom,
You’re better off digging in a pharoh’s tomb,
No room to escape the breath that melts cold steel
You’re a rabbit in my headlights fear my moulten hot claws of steel,
I breathe oxygen and nitrogen to exhale the red hot blast to seal your fate,
Best debate, best berate, get your estate in order one blast of rhyme its all over.
You’re a scorchmark against a granite wall,
Been burnt to a crisp by the firestorm from hell,
Well welcome to hell do you feel the heat?
Sandman slim-dragon never fears defeat,
20 years here spittin’ in the underground,
Now its time to take place in the sound that’s found,
In an Irish no go area, the gates of Mordor,
The Irish Dragon - draggin you to a state of ******
grrrr!-claws like claymore’s rake across your face
as I prepare to ignite,take flight,seal your fate...
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 4:30 PM UTC
A vast landscape spanning mountains and valleys,
Enter entombed upon the dark marsh and gullies.
-
The trees, all decayed except the weeping willows,
Flattened forests jut up through the hillocks.
-
The call of a raven can be heard betwixt,
The open cavemouth of all silence,
The breeze concerns your cheek’s fine flesh,
And you know inside that God exists.
-
The beautiful darkness that escapes the light,
Shocks as if thunder were having its fright.
-
From the gorgeous hillside at where Cain murdered Able,
To the trepid path leading to Four horses’ stable.
-
The wind’s vague touch clearing fallen leaves,
The spring’s dripping water rids of disease,
Ash of the cremated flows through the air,
Swept up, caught in without despair.
-
Sharing stories around a somber fire,
The warming words do stoke the pyre.
-
The Black Cabal does peak between,
The center valley betwixt mounts obscene,
-
The abhorrent cathedral in gothic fashion,
Does purify in all reactions,
Leaving clean and reborn again,
Remaining free for eternity to gate about Eden.
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 7:35 PM UTC
nebulous mercury, or old neb as friendly namesome, was a longtime salty marner.
one day he was seasonally easing along with the flotsam and jetsons
when there appeared before his worn and weary orbs a macabre confoundment,
the vastly ghastly countenance of a slithering slimy see servant,
a critter that rose from the sea and had to hunch over so as not to break the sky,
the kind of monstrosity you only see in miffs.
he began to wrap his protuberances and testicles around the clig as to make repast.
ohh, dreadful tingers draggled forlorn!
shunned and electrolytical he was, old neb, awash in gloombulches and grovel gullies.
but then old neb snapped to! "Not my chipper clig you don't!" he charged allowed as he fingled forth in fury!
the battle eschewed in the stub of legends. old neb will ever be memorial for what he did that day.
to this very day, indeed up to this very moment right now, even chipper cligs flying scallion bones cut him a big bertha,
such is the perspective they feel for him
no hobo, but a ****** chum.
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 12:41 PM UTC
That circle, realm
of light, made of,
you know,
words crawling,
making gullies
to melt you in,
me, bursting,
see?,
slowly claimed
by a lunar me,
globbing, sobbing,
mourning the me
i forged within you.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 2:55 PM UTC
Spring
How many sticky buds, candle ends
sprout from the branches! Steaming
April. Puberty sweats from the park,
and the forest’s blatantly gleaming.
A noose of feathered throats grips
the wood’s larynx, a lassoed steer,
netted, like a gladiatorial *****
it groans steel-piped sonatas here.
Poetry! Be a Greek sponge with suckers,
among green stickiness drenched,
I’ll consent, by the sopping wood
of a green-stained garden bench.
Grow sumptuous pleats and flounces,
**** up the gullies and clouds,
Poetry, tonight, I’ll squeeze you out
to make the parched sheets flower.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 6:38 PM UTC
Two bodies matched playfully,
Taught and stretched
Entranced in the lines
That bloom like gullies
And mountain crags.
A landscape of man.
Each burnished by the sun,
Berry plump
And both ripe,
Not thinking of autumn.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 5:43 PM UTC