"herbaceous" poems
The smooth surface of a snooze button
Probably pressed enough for two people
Lastingly longs for a lift of his head
Heavenly hopes in hand the button wafts herbaceous
Scents seducing his sack of sullen
The button beckons in unbearable vain
Wishing his waste of space could find work
Or motivation to move about the mattress
Cause cheerlessness corrupts even carefree things
Including myself inclined to intervene
So I will surround the room with sound
In a frustrating futile fling of furry
Until I encumber bereavement from bills I beckon upon.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 1:23 PM UTC
My internal landscape was once a wetland. Grasses and herbaceous plants sprout from the ventricles of my heart. My rib is a birch tree, a deciduous hard wood crowned with thin leaves. My veins are wild ravines. Inside it is the torrent of rain water that keeps me alive.
My heart is a beating water lily, eternally blooming on the lake of my blood. I was a sullen mist, and I loved it that way.
But they mistook my solitude for loneliness, the crowd, the clever engineers. So they loaded sands on their trucks, sacks after sacks. They opened me up, covered my wetland, and built a city inside me. They paved roads. They constructed buildings. They opened cafes and pubs and restaurants. They turned on their neon lights.
A rave party is inside me at night, and they won't stop until I am filled with cigarette stubs and empty bottles and used issues and half-eaten plates -- litters and grime that I have to clean every morning of my life. My gutter is overflowing and they call this happiness.
I call this wreckage.
I moved close to the bed, pulled the sheet and laid down. I tried to remember my by-gone world -- my birch trees, my herbaceous plants, my wild ravines, my water lily -- before I was converted into a rattling shell called Happiness.
You wrapped your arms around me and press your face on small of my back. My spine was a hard wood once, and every October it shed its golden leaves. "What do you want?" you asked.
The neon lights and the avalanche of noise from everywhere drowned my thoughts, and all I can do for my defense is curl my mutiliated body. "Love me until the end of everything," I whispered. "And understand that this is not a plea."
This is a burning desire to have my wetland back.
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 12:13 PM UTC
I would love to drag my aura on a walk to the top of a hill; make room in my rain jacket pockets for oleoresin capsicum and a flashlight, my container of weeds and slow burning leaves
I would love to kiss the grass with the spilling light from my mouth **** on my broken finger nails massaged by earth’s dirt
I would love to fall asleep under the hidden moon covered by a blanket made of water; they will remember my face with a smirk
I would love to cradle you little rotating sphere, nurture your tired ozone layer
She would love to drag us all, bury you beneath her holy herbaceous there will be plenty of firing kisses and the waves will come, you wont feel the cold
I would love to take you on a walk to the top of a hill
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 12:00 PM UTC
Imperfect world, purposeless person.
I retired to pursue perfection
learn jazz tunes, woody and herbaceous plants,
read every inch of English literature,
Scientific American and Foreign Affairs,
have an affair with an American.
Oh, and by the way, before you ask, I'm from Mars.
Orbiting your planet, admiring the girls.
Paraphrasing prayers by George Herbert to share
with Jesus believers on talk radio shows
where we try to bring your lives into expressible states
before it’s too late and climate change inundates you.
Reversed thunder, savior-side-piercing spear,
one day you’re feeling fine, the next not.
We’re pretty matter of fact, clear about
the fact of death. Once you’re gone most of us forget
your face and previous accomplishments. The place
you lived is repopulated with the next generation (of aliens)
and that ought to be a comfort, a sort of restful
certainty all is well, nothing special need be done.
Bluebirds are back, crows are mating on the sky
and chasing hawks away from their nests. Juncos
and sparrows glean together. I hear pileated woodpeckers
jackhammering and barred owls hooting soothingly.
Herons smoothing feathers and spearing fish.
Everything is as one would wish.
Numberless are the world's wonders
but none more wonderful than aliens.
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 7:06 AM UTC
Blackbrush -- Coleogyne ramosissima
the dominant understory shrub
in the pinyon-juniper canyons.
Mountain-mahogany -- Cercocarpus montanus and ledifolia.
Single-leaf ash -- Fraxinus anomalus
and possibly a western hophornbeam
by the small birch-like leaves
and the shredding bark
in a moist stretch of joint trail.
The joint-fir, green ephedra
looks like an ocean plant.
Could the wind or white water rivers alone
have shaped these sandstone, red rock forms?
Network of canyons, inverse of mountains.
It had to be ocean
ebbing and flowing, emotionally, like wind,
moving atmosphere, thicker
shaving, scraping, polishing, gouging, digging
fish canyons
then, shallower, dinosaur swamps
now, dry, rock gardens.
Explain the human history with water:
did the Anasazi visit neighbors
along the canyon rims and deep within,
combination caves and red-rock houses
small windows, doorways, just crawlways,
with corn gifts on summer evenings
when the canyon bottoms held permanent, not intermittent,
streams? After them
came the Ute and Navajo, Spanish and English.
Ravens dine on road ****
A few long red roads connect some canyons.
The unprotected flats are overgrazed, rabbitbrush.
It is interesting
that as I learn the woody and herbaceous plants,
walk the desert foothills, I too could stay.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 2:19 PM UTC
What poetry do we say sounds like the truth or life?
How many paint a proper picture of things before us on an internal canvas?
But how many things bring out the poetry all on their own?
In this way, a proper tomato sandwich contains much more than juice, seeds, skin, and pulp-
It contains the thanks of a season's worth of work, wrapped up in a translucent layer, tough enough to veer a dull knife into finger, but thin enough to steer a sharp blade into herbaceous flesh,
Deep enough to pile high on a plateau of simple starch, waiting for the juice of a life grown outside rather than mixed in a sterile kitchen.
This fruit emerges from a jealous ground who would stockpile these gems away from the mineral salt and the crushed spice that brings meaning from the ground
Is this why the tomato harvested from another's nearby garden tastes all the sweeter than that plucked by an anonymous picker miles away from the pleasure it provides?
The summer provides the climate to agitate one so deeply that they burrow into the soil to find the refreshment that would quiet the tongue of hunger and bring resolution to a disquieted mind, so far removed from comfort.
Jul 21, 2023
Jul 21, 2023 at 10:03 PM UTC
They danced the bow,
an ole' burning skiff;
never taking his hands from her helm.
Did he even blink?
Blinded by the heat of her omnipotence.
He tried to discern her face proximately;
the impermeable remnants of
the flame impaired his vision .
Frère Charles couldn’t distill an elixir strong enough
to manipulate his compass’s rationale.
The ripest grapes, the deepest roots,
her herbaceous lips; his soulless old boots
laced with diffidence.
A despondent moon, a tear,
the asymmetry in her shadow.
She, whom he blindly confided in,
is painting a landscape of a fairytale.
The lily’s blossom eternally,
the dirt taste like chocolate,
her oceans motions
propagate love.
When?
He’ll never know.
His imagination undulates in wildflowers,
while she swims inauspiciously
in stormy seas.
Inevitably, a slave to the wave,
he thank her forest for the oak he step.
The old oak is opinionated,
and charred.
Heedless it seem,
full mast against the wind;
somewhere their currents will convene.
A confluence relentless and unyielding;
even Moses ponder.
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 11:26 AM UTC
In fossilized forests
Of evergreen
Streams flow
Stoically
Because snow hides
The furry canine species
Away from the caribou
Herbaceous and sought after
They approach the gelid waters
With the eyes of the wolves
Seemingly pernicious
And deadly
Somehow
From somewhere
A hermit enters
Without any care
To hunt from the same shore
Ensnared by the bloodied river
Forlorn
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 1:45 AM UTC
As I walked to you,
your high green limbs moved with me.
Your path covered in old dream leaves,
so the crackle of my foot steps reveal my presence.
Your aroma gave off a slightly herbaceous scent,
with elegant woods and hints of citrusy amber.
That musk was so nostalgic,
it reminded me of past dreams,
when we would lay together and,
I would roll in your pine sipping on whiskey and mesquite.
After breathing you out, a rush of fresh air penetrated my lungs,
forcing me to become aware of the life that surrounds me.
Commanding attention from all of my senses,
humbling me into a seduction.
Each time it seems your path is further and further,
stranding me in your remote timbers,
so that I may live off of you,
forever in my dreams.
Never-ending it seems,
forest of mine,
until next time, be well.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 10:47 AM UTC
I felt the sting of nightshade bubble up inside me,
Once more, I cough up the bloodied Solanaceae.
Purged into my lap, budding with flesh,
Pallid petals ripe with Persian plum mottle, gored and fresh.
Racking my body in waves of herbaceous excruciation,
Crawling up my throat, clawing in botanical mutilation.
Lain out on the creased stone,
My macabre of a garden is blotted with the watercolour of my own.
Weary from retching, I stare at my withering ***** with distain,
I shrivel internally at the burden of mopping each and every stewed stain.
But I know I must clean the mess I've forged,
Because its nobody apart from me, who impulsively gorged.
Dec 12, 2024
Dec 12, 2024 at 2:00 PM UTC
Parable of Torvisco: “branched among the thickets of ignorance, their foliated stems speak of the white blood that has fallen from the souls that resiliently endured the solitude of their limbs and who enjoyed their ruddy bark and the pubescence of the Daphnes that gawked at over them turned into Laurel, she being a spatulate flower of Vernarth, like Apollo elliptically adoring her with the underside, and something fuzzy hiccuping over the teachings of someone who is not loved. Being the Daphniform Torvisco, of appressed retractable sepals that are pronounced on the laurels in Dafnomancia of the pubescent Torvisco on the first ************ of Daphne, leaving the ovoid crusts near the foliate stolon of the grayish spurs on the fins of the Pelecaniformes Petrobusjos, leaving the Malloga the lice. of their plumage that they are eaten by laurels, as a carminative antispasmodic digestive degassing, in the flora of the intestinal Torvisco engulfed by their pride and eagerness of nobility.
Parable of Sacred Bud: “first the animals and the buds that emanated from the inflorescences were venerated, as gods of the occult sprouting from the long-lived saps being miscellaneous family taxonomies that were consecrated to gods trapped by the mists of their foliage, over the colonies of other species with outbreaks of bud expiration in the distant buds of the leaves, towards non-renewable woody plants, for critical tempering to germinate on the dogma of woody herbaceous plants, as sacred shoots of ferns without their cell walls. Here is the tree of evil and good, sprouting one of each but as hyper-sprouting, which deceived the eyes of those who wanted to cut it because of the human snooping in bloom, on the shores of Medea's hands, growing on the shore of a headless river deity, who was not yet poisoned by an Olympian gesture, agreeing to have long fragrant and rosy hair on the pubescent teenagers who dared to call themselves Medea "
(Prócoro redoubling his sinister imagination of the Rosé of the Witches and grotesques, he was still ecstatic at the expectation of the extensions of the Rosary of the Evangelista San Juan simulated in the crowned Torvisco, for purposes of the genetics of the world in the hands of pubescent bodies that were embodied in the bodies and their stolons, like retrograde shoots going towards the spheres of the pelecaniform Petrobus and its little lice that resided in it as vital alarms. Structuring thus, the grazing that ran from its wings with vigorous fine pediculosis, which was abstracted from the scalps Medea decked out in megalomania in the sprouts of the Enchanted Torvisco)
Jan 23, 2021
Jan 23, 2021 at 6:16 PM UTC
We are our favourite flowers
Steeped in a full vase
Seasons pass -
with the dipping water.
We forget / or were not
taught. To add our own flower
food. To cut our own
stems. To cultivate our own
cuttings.
Seek not to be
crisp, divine, distinct
For it is already
apparent.
Be it if you
are fanned, variegated or needled
voluptuous or diffident
fresh or heartfelt
Or just ****** herbaceous
We are own favourites.
We forget that to be in the vase
was a choice
For we can always resettle, reposition, repot,
for the coming season.
Feb 10, 2019
Feb 10, 2019 at 2:39 AM UTC
This morning on a walk
Propelled by utter joy
I couldn’t help but
Nudge my nose into
The end of a juniper
Bough bursting with
Crystalline rain drops;
Oh the emerald eyes of
Heaven I did look upon
And into, as the herbaceous
Tears flowed from my face.
Nov 11, 2016
Nov 11, 2016 at 8:16 PM UTC