"hefted" poems
The chilly camp-like home where I was staying,
had no running water, in winter all shut down,
but had—amplitudinous electric.
I must have been thinking extra sharp that morning,
when to electric stovetop I came; soon had boiling
Cumberland Farm’s bottled water
in a copper *** with four brown eggs.
With careful timing at last I took the four eggs out
and with the heated water applying
Barbasol and razor, so I shaved.
*Please take care to not spill a single drop
of soapy water into the winterized drain pipe,*
I heard in my head my sage sister say.
I discarded the contents of the ***
into a snowy patch.
Good morning, and happy happy, I sang.
I hefted one oak log onto a dying fire.
Two of the four eggs I ate,
saving the last for leaner days.
So complete--eggs
and hot shave breakfast.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 12:35 PM UTC
I pick up this book of Robert Burns poems
As my great-grandfather picked it up a hundred years ago
I put it down in exasperation
As I guess he put it down
Promising himself
As I promise myself
To give that sentimental Scot
(getting teary-eyed over a mouse)
One more chance maybe
1912
2012
The numbers swirl
As numbers can do
And I find myself
Talking to this man I never met
At a loss for small talk I just say,
“Hey, did you know I googled your surname and my middle name
And our roots are in the Isle of Wight.”
He smirked
Then took me out to his front yard
(If they had front yards back then)
Pressed his hand in the soil
Grabbed something
Hefted it
Pulled on it
And said to me,
“They’re in Texas now.”
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 10:44 AM UTC
yeah, read an old poem again and remember sitting across a dark sticky table, pitcher of beer to wash down the fear of losing control. the guys told jokes - called them "brain droppings", like intellectual pigeon **** puked on the window - but i was fighting not to get lost in the patterns of condensed water pooling from sides of the pitcher, laughing on cue because it seemed the right thing to do. i counted bright flashes, blue, a neon sign - froggy's bar open - for clarity, my fingers still melting into pencils at fine edges of the discussion. i carried a notebook to write in but nobody noticed. i thought i was a poet.
green sat there, slack jaw acid jockey, dead eyed silent fish out of water. educated somewhere. not here. it was hot. i think he'd had too much magic mushroom or that black sticky stuff we smoked in the bathroom that made me choke like a dying newborn, or maybe the pale colored microdot collage on paper rolls we all shared at a concert hall earlier. the humidity.
cool, man - i quietly pined for some brown-skinned chick away at college, home again but still not calling, so i wanted to forget my own name and split in some dime bag fog when the sugar slipped out over my lips; i spit, he didn't, i drank. green was hungry, brain-fucked, out of time, dreaming about some key lime trees in florida, ogres in fairmount's forests, the dealers from new york who wanted to **** us, then gut laughed at something funny he saw in his sneakers. we hefted him by armpits to the stairs and left him there; it was too hot to walk all the way up to the flat's front door. green **** himself; we left. green, by any other name, got lost like smooth longhairs on motorbikes, that girl, the pretend hit men from uptown, none of whom ever cared who i was, because i wasn't really anywhere. but i didn't realize green could fly. it was a secret he'd left on the pavement outside. i'd wished i could fly like green. but he died. i'm still here, bluffing i'm living.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 1:03 AM UTC
This story I am about to unfold,
is a favorite about my Grandfather.
In which he starts out acting very bold,
yet, ends running up a painful lather.
Down the dirt road, from where he lived, when young,
was a farmer growing watermelons.
Ripe, ready to eat, on the vines they hung.
From this patch, the farmer then, did sell 'em.
Being a boy with several brothers,
who were always doing as boys will do,
didn't take long, for one to dare the other,
to steal them a watermelon, or two.
Lo and behold, there went my young grandpa,
climbing through the barbed wire fence.
While his older brothers all watched in awe,
as he crawled through the tangled vines, so dense.
He looked around until he found the one,
that was the biggest that he could carry.
Cutting the vine, he hefted the melon up,
running towards the fence, in a hurry.
Well, that old farmer was wise to boys
and had watched my grandpa crawl through the field.
With his double barrel shotgun, he was poised,
to make sure, no more melons, he'd steal.
The farmer had loaded his own brand of shot,
filled with rock salt instead of lead.
Grandpa's backside got peppered while he did trot.
I think nothing more need be said.
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 5:24 AM UTC
Three men hung the corpse of a shark
In a tree for its enlightenment.
They hefted rifles,
Pierced its side with bullets.
“We’ve taken him a long way from the sea,” they said.
The dead shark swam in the tree,
Its rancid blood raining down like manna,
Its eyes bulging, thick with burgeoning wisdom.
It lay in that tree for nine days and nine nights,
Soaking up knowledge in its mute way.
By the end of the ninth night,
It had supped fully on enlightenment.
A moth appeared before the shark
And landed on its shiny nose.
This tipped something already on the brink,
Freeing the shark from its ****** form in a sag, a slow burst,
And a mass of vermin churned forth.
Oct 22, 2011
Oct 22, 2011 at 10:24 PM UTC
we are lines that run parallel to the sea and never drown.
you are beautiful and i study every inch of your
body, hidden under layers of threads woven perpendicular,
crossing over your heart and back again, over and under and i’m
very nearly jealous, if not for the way you let me
into your body
and folded into your arms, skin to skin
miles of skin for me to mark and kiss and worship and baptize
with these earnest eyes welling up because this isn’t what i
wanted, this isn’t
right
because you’re supposed to get up now, and tell me to stop being a girl,
and pick up that shotgun hefted like an extension of yourself
and spray the world with salt and holy water because nothing is holy anymore;
not on its own
not without us,
and we are the sacrilegious baptizing saints, flinching away from rosaries and
counting sidewalk cracks.
but here you are on the horizon and you’re too still like this so i
shake you awake and i give you my sweatshirt because i can’t give you my
heart to replace yours, weary in your chest
and beating so slowly
.
i might as well be dead.
Aug 17, 2012
Aug 17, 2012 at 2:02 PM UTC
(last Friday)
My English class just ended and everyone’s packing up (18 students). The class is held outdoors under a tent due to COVID. My professor says, “Ms Vionet, may I speak with you for a moment?”
I froze, Oh, my God, I thought, is he about to tell me to quit - has he already identified some fundamental inadequacy in my work? The world seemed to go silent as I hefted my backpack and approached him.
“Ms Vionet,” he began.
“Anais,” I interjected.
“Anais,” he patiently started again, “We have a small professor’s choice (invitation only) writing group that meets every two weeks, 7 to 8 PM on Wednesdays - would you be interested in joining us?”
It was hard to hold back a pterodactyl screech of delight. “Yes sir, I’ll be there”
“Here”, he said, motioning to the tent classroom “weather permitting.” He had packed up, he turned and headed for some nearby stairs.
I did a twirl of joy.
Oct 24, 2021
Oct 24, 2021 at 7:39 AM UTC
Your eyes dwell
on the frailty of my ****** structure.
Yet, you find it pulchritudinous.
What makes it?
I have no idea, what you see.
I am as reckless as a child,
but it was my sophistication
that you’ve chosen to descry.
Your hands linger on my skin,
caressing every bit of insanity
and fragility, needing leniency.
What are you sensing?
I have no idea, what you perceive.
I am as sober as the night sky
minus the stars,
but you avowed your benevolence
towards my desolation.
Hence, you hefted such joy
inflamed such felicity that was lost.
What are you begetting?
I have an idea,
reciprocation, it is.
♥
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 7:51 PM UTC
she was the devil in a sorcerer's bones,
a wreath of thorns and skeletons
on her mind.
those words spilled
from the mouths of weaklings,
crowned heads; Jason.
oh, how she loved cruces - unraveling
another's soul to heed their
sins, virtues, luscious blemishes.
his were a pretty face and
the glint of sworn gold.
hers was mislaid ardour.
in her garden of ****** roses, her heart
was hefted with the measure
of a feather.
within shadows, she ruled once more.
Jul 22, 2016
Jul 22, 2016 at 5:21 AM UTC
Winter listens, listens.
Meanings, breathe imperial
Tis difference.
When like –
When the it –
When it listens.....
Tis it, the difference
Winter like scar, comes,
He the Landscape
– An –
We, the breath,
-NO-
When Hurt,
goes, –
We imperial none
We hold - are seal,
are afflicted lights
-The Distance -
...of the us...
– None listens –
Where it holds hurt,
it comes as,
Cathedraled Despair
Any listens – '
Tis –
the goes, '
tis of the us - goes,
Distance On light,
But comes, gives us –
Death -
of certain slanted despair,
None listens - goes,
We find the Distance Of it –
That a Hurt,
Any meaning –
Heavenly Meanings,
Teach us Hurt,
The like of-
tuned,
affliction,
shadows,
imperial despair.
look-teach-look-find-listen-look,
Send imperial light,
Shadows of light
Any Heft- Any Slant -
Of their affliction,
scar-differential.
Sent like winter
– An –
heaven
None on hold,
goes,
There is it – There is it -
Shaft of hefted light
Sent slanted - sealed compassion
falls from internal, elanic height.
●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 9:55 AM UTC
She points at the door, by raising her voice not her arm,
Items scattered on the floor, no longer familiar, lost their charm,
He knew it mattered not, lips would move in the frosty air,
Anything he said would be held against him.
The air grew colder between them.
He put on his coat, the room temperature dropped already more
His hands jingled with the keys, keeping just the ones for his store,
She turned away as he hefted the two heavy bags she had packed,
She said her lawyer would call, he said "I'll be back", voice cracked
" If there is anything ..."
Not a sound
Not a noise
He closed the door
behind him
breathing fresh air
for the first time
And just stood there.
They had no kids, no pets, each a car.
The door open behind him and she said,
"How did it feel this time,
Remember it is your exit strategy
and one time, this door will stay closed and locked."
He began to walk away.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 11:46 PM UTC
Every ninth wave turned red,
The ones in between, were dead
and grey, as her day was, her past,
The man with the biggest pay-check
had the biggest mouth, her job he said
almost went south, without her.
Alone with her thoughts instead of
wearing beer in sleeves, her eyes
wearied from tears as she drove here,
no co-workers to try to cheer her heart.
heart, red, same colour as the waves, every ninth
now fading with her sobs,
fading red and she knew there was
going to be no moon tonight.
Music played from across the bay
as a crab scuttled to avoid the smallest waves,
the fireworks would begin, to light fires in the distant sky,
the mushrooms began to glow about her
near the blanket of sand and grass.
She tilted her head back
and looked at the stars
begin to be lit by the night
and kicked her heel and struck
the ground hard, there was no soft
sand but a cloth bag and an
object hard, tied inside.
There was no scent, no stench,
she hefted the bag with two
hands and untied coarse twine
rolled back soft fabric open to find
a large golden egg easily
even in low light, suddenly
she looked around quickly
the only noise was that, that
the dark always made, but
in her mind a noisy trap door
to freedom fell open for her.
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 10:17 PM UTC
my mama used to tell
me I had something special
and I used to believe it with
every fiber of my being,
and when i was stretched
thin into highschool thinkin'
I was a sinner I still hefted
her words up on my
shoulders and plowed on
sure I could do no wrong--
you gotta off the weak limbs
**** out the poison, cut the
bad blood so I did and
realized that I'm no
special child, no bell
around my neck
nor gold in my veins
and I've always equated
worth to *** or how
well I can shake my hips
Strangest thing, enough
when I ain't no thing at all,
just a regular doe,
jane smith
baby blue
mint green
with a different
name.
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 9:18 PM UTC