"hoists" poems
The street
filled with tomatoes,
midday,
summer,
light is
halved
like
a
tomato,
its juice
runs
through the streets.
In December,
unabated,
the tomato
invades
the kitchen,
it enters at lunchtime,
takes
its ease
on countertops,
among glasses,
butter dishes,
blue saltcellars.
It sheds
its own light,
benign majesty.
Unfortunately, we must
****** it:
the knife
sinks
into living flesh,
red
viscera
a cool
sun,
profound,
inexhaustible,
populates the salads
of Chile,
happily, it is wed
to the clear onion,
and to celebrate the union
we
pour
oil,
essential
child of the olive,
onto its halved hemispheres,
pepper
adds
its fragrance,
salt, its magnetism;
it is the wedding
of the day,
parsley
hoists
its flag,
potatoes
bubble vigorously,
the aroma
of the roast
knocks
at the door,
it's time!
come on!
and, on
the table, at the midpoint
of summer,
the tomato,
star of earth, recurrent
and fertile
star,
displays
its convolutions,
its canals,
its remarkable amplitude
and abundance,
no pit,
no husk,
no leaves or thorns,
the tomato offers
its gift
of fiery color
and cool completeness.
11.4k
Through frost-thick weather
This witch sidles, fingers crooked, as if
Caught in a hazardous medium that might
Merely by its continuing
Attach her to heaven.
At eye's envious corner
Crow's-feet copy veining on a stained leaf;
Cold squint steals sky's color; while bruit
Of bells calls holy ones, her tongue
Backtalks at the raven
Claeving furred air
Over her skull's midden; no knife
Rivals her whetted look, divining what conceit
Waylays simple girls, church-going,
And what heart's oven
Craves most to cook batter
Rich in strayings with every amorous oaf,
Ready, for a trinket,
To squander owl-hours on bracken bedding,
Flesh unshriven.
Against ****** prayer
This sorceress sets mirrors enough
To distract beauty's thought;
Lovesick at first fond song,
Each vain girl's driven
To believe beyond heart's flare
No fire is, nor in any book proof
Sun hoists soul up after lids fall shut;
So she wills all to the black king.
The worst sloven
Vies with best queen over
Right to blaze as satan's wife;
Housed in earth, those million brides shriek out.
Some burn short, some long,
Staked in pride's coven.
4.2k
1128
These are the Nights that Beetles love—
From Eminence remote
Drives ponderous perpendicular
His figure intimate
The terror of the Children
The merriment of men
Depositing his Thunder
He hoists abroad again—
A Bomb upon the Ceiling
Is an improving thing—
It keeps the nerves progressive
Conjecture flourishing—
Too dear the Summer evening
Without discreet alarm—
Supplied by Entomology
With its remaining charm—
3.7k
Savvy from a day of prerequisite joy
Cranked up like a wind-up toy
Dead in bed sick with grief
Happiness stolen by a ruthless thief
All I can offer is a comforting presence
A warm and friendly essence
To uplift the dreariness returned in an empty stare
Of half a person steadily fading into thin air
Placing the label doesn't change the facts
Or contain the feelings that seep through vulnerable cracks.
Late at night when sleep is suggested
She stays up through lonely darkness,
while her days are well rested.
Something lurks in every corner of her mind, waiting...
To provoke regrets left amiss, full of condemned hating.
Here I sit helpless, uncertain of what I should do,
In my haste, harsh words slip
"What is wrong with you?!"
Too late, I've riled a beast inside
Unleashing demons that left me terrified
Flames flicker flecks of light in sullen eyes
Burning all hopes in a pit of demise.
She's enraged with destructive intent
Loosing the battle to an ocean of chaos
where no hope is dreamt
In an instant, the fire recedes and her eyes die,
She lies down, back to bed
hoists the blanket over her head
Only three words to reply:
'why even try?'
Sep 11, 2010
Sep 11, 2010 at 5:36 PM UTC
HERE is a face that says half-past seven the same way whether a ****** or a wedding goes on, whether a funeral or a picnic crowd passes.
A tall one I know at the end of a hallway broods in shadows and is watching ***** eat out the insides of the man of the house; it has seen five hopes go in five years: one woman, one child, and three dreams.
A little one carried in a leather box by an actress rides with her to hotels and is under her pillow in a sleeping-car between one-night stands.
One hoists a phiz over a railroad station; it points numbers to people a quarter-mile away who believe it when other clocks fail.
And of course ... there are wrist watches over the pulses of airmen eager to go to France...
2.1k
Alone she stands...
at the bottom of the mountain.
The beginning of her journey.
Her journey to forgiveness.
She looks at the steepness of the climb,
and wonders where is the strength she'll find.
Especially when her backpack is full of rocks...
The painful memories of emotional abuse and verbal attacks.
But, as difficult as this journey will be,
she knows she must take it,
in order to be free.
Then He whispers to her soul,
"Step by step, with Me,
this is the only way to climb
The Journey to Forgiveness."
She begins her journey,
one step at a time.
One foot before the other.
With the heavy burden upon her back,
which she knows she must surrender.
She makes stops along the way.
The memories surface.
Her wounds lay open and bare.
But she chooses to forgive.
To release them of the debt.
And empties some of the rocks
from her backpack.
She continues on.
The journey is tiresome,
and oh, so long.
She is tempted to give up.
Many times.
But He keeps reminding her of the prize.
Another stop.
More rocks dumped.
More forgiveness given.
More
freedom.
And another stop.
And another.
Until finally...
her burden grows lighter.
As her soul unloads its bitterness.
She sees the top now.
Oh bliss!
She climbs faster now.
She empties out the last rock.
The biggest rock.
The largest offence.
The one that was hardest to forgive.
The one that bound her in chains.
She releases it now.
Into God's hands.
And hoists herself up to the top.
She stands now in victory!
The burden she has carried so long is empty!
She has completed her journey.
Her Journey to Forgiveness.
And is finally free.
Until tomorrow...
when begins another journey.
To forgiveness.
Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 7:28 PM UTC
The eagle searches, circling, senses strum like spider silk.
Sorrow’s scent slides up on a sea breeze.
A solitary slave spits sullenly into the spray.
Silently, suddenly, the sentinel streaks down.
Beak breaks skin, breaches bone, crimson blots the ocean’s foam.
Defenceless, relentless, the bird blurs in a barrage of blood.
Banished, betrayed, the ravaged titan sways -
between the rocks that form his cage.
His foe retreats; a closing caw as crooked claws cleave meat.
Head bowed in defeat, our hero strains as chains bind
hands and feet.
Enduring bonds cut deep and bleed him bittersweet.
Cast against the crags,
this castaway’s castigated cries call out
to no-one.
Chastised, he squints with hollow eyes
towards a lifetime of the bird’s reprise.
Furious. Fists flex,
thrashing against his fortress.
Face furrowed into a frown he flings forward
and for once finds his foot…
unfettered.
Bindings broken, his bonds bite terra firma,
as first a foot and then a hand finds favour.
Boundless, he bellows at the sky
as the flotsam of his freedom floats on by.
Reprieved. Aggrieved. He is restless in release.
An errant righteous line repeats.
Relentless in its beat, it rings out like raw steel on teeth.
A ricochet that disturbs his sleep
“Is this victory, or defeat?”
Racked by reminiscence,
his reality and responsibility remain.
Warped roots rammed down
with rock-filled boots.
Resistance seems obtuse against such reoccuring fruit.
Reluctant, resigned, he rattles out a sigh -
the last gasp of this transitory high.
Reaching for the rope and tack he re-binds the knots
that hold him back.
With one last glance towards the past
he hoists his soul upon the mast.
Ceaselessly.
Senselessly.
The
sentinel
streaks
down.
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 2:20 AM UTC
ITS CEASELESS BLINDNESS IS ITS POWER,
IT HOISTS ITS POWER BY THE HOUR,
NO OUGHT IF DWELLING, FORT, OR TOWER,
THE EAGLE EYES GLARE THROUGH ITS GRIM TERRORS,
ITS LUCK IS POOR, THUS IT ENCOUNTERS,
ENDLESS PROBLEMS, ENEMIES, ERRORS,
WHEN TIME HAS COME TO FACE THE BEARERS,
IT GOES, DEFENDS WHAT IT SEES FAIRER,
THE CIVIL PRAY FOR PEACE FROM BATTLES,
IT FIGHTS TO TAKE WHAT IT CAN HANDLE,
ULTIMATE FORCES USED AS RAFFLES,
YET MAN IS STRONG,
STRENGTH IS IMPERIL,
INTEL IS THE ORAL,
THAT LEADS TO HIS QUARREL,
THE PLACE WHERE HE KEEPS HIS BOWS AND ARROWS,
TO WHERE THE SHIELD AND SWORD HANG BY THE MARROW,
THOUGH IT’S LIFE IS HARD, ROUGH AND NARROW,
ITS TRUE LIGHT NOUGHT BE EQUAL TO ITS DARKEST SHADOWS…
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
At midnight, out on the cobblestones
There’s the sound of rolling wheels,
And a shadow cast on a window pane
From the road outside, it steals,
A wagon, black in its livery,
And pulled by a single horse,
As black as the heart of the man that steers,
Whipped up from the watercourse.
From down in a tiny inlet, deep
Enough for a man of war,
A French corvette is lying, waiting,
Just metres away from shore,
It carried a cargo of brandy, wine,
And cases full of tea,
Smuggled into the tiny cove
Its goods all duty free.
Now it’s waiting upon the tide
To turn the ship around,
Its cargo gone in the wagon now,
Headed for higher ground,
And then the galloping hoofbeats echo
Over the cobblestones,
The crack of a couple of pistols and
The air is filled with groans.
The horse breaks free of its halter and
The wagon rolls back down,
It’s shadow passing my window pane
A second time around,
It rolls back into the harbour while
I hear the boom of guns,
Firing from the French Corvette
As it hoists its sail, and runs.
Once a year on the fifth of June
And late into the night,
Whenever the moon is lying low
And casting down its light,
I see the shadows and hear the sounds
From that deadly time of yore,
As the ghostly French Corvette departs
And sails from the ghostly shore.
And glistening out on the cobblestones
There’s a dampness, looks like mud,
That dissipates in an hour or two,
A pool of the smuggler’s blood,
I dare not go to the window, look,
Or even open the door,
In case I’m carried away by them
From two hundred years before.
David Lewis Paget
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 1:51 AM UTC
LONG AGO,
I S P R A W L E D.
I WAS THE OCEAN FLOOR
I WAS AN ASTRONAUT, A COSMONAUT
Still impressive,
I am now
Harry Houdini
in the worlds'
smallest box
Less impressive,
I am covered in my own ****
which is soaking into the cracks between the linoleum tiles
in the ****** kitchen
of the ****** apartment
i live in
with my ****** ex boyfriend
(But he is not home)
Serenity, alone
It's rare
To feel love
From inside
Serenity, together
It's hard
To have help
from outside
An hour and a phone call later
A friend hoists you up and carries you
Mopping your floor
wiping your genitals
Tenderly, platonically
The way we hoped had already happened for the last time
A moment between you as a baby and you as a parent
Before you gained a real memory
But that moment is happening right now
But, somehow, your whole childhood is ahead of you still
Dec 3, 2020
Dec 3, 2020 at 4:57 PM UTC
An explosion of motion
It is morning
The day lies open
Water runs between my claws
I pretend I am the permeable colors of glacial melt
Where I am distinctly heedful. No eyes. No hands
I want to be invisible;
the lazy colors of gold and blue;
unable to recall any identity or reality
I can’t say why. Invisible hurts. Maybe its easier to feel the hurt of invisible but know that the struggle of existence will never be in me
I’m sick at the prospect of a cage but it’s easier than freedom
So I quietly dismantle myself during your sleep. I wait in my constraints for the machinery in your mouth to turn
That sound is my cue. The only evidence I know
Maybe I’d be good for a living hell; tied to the incessant bluster of gods with animals heads, munching holes in each others pale golden horns
But the war is at a pause for now. The cavalcade is sitting down
Is it still morning?
I sleep to shelter my head. But good sleep never really comes
The drop line reaches down my throat and hoists a voice
How condemned I feel
Condemned to action and reaction, burdened with contempt, choked by doubt, commanded to love
How can I be, if I cannot know what I am?
Why can’t I be invisible?
Some enchanted morning senility will be upon me. And when my body begins to cool, let it be
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
A bit of rope
hoists dry wood,
an ark to sail through the seasons.
Dry plank kissed with snow,
you sit quietly awaiting the spring
when children will find you
and laughter abounds.
Until then, sit in the silver silence
of dusted snow,
wind caressing your gnarled wood
as you watch over wood pile beneath you.
Dizzying, the canopy of leaves sways above
as toes touch sky
leaving the ground
far below.
Sun glints off leaves
and filters the new breath of spring’s promise
as grubs burrow deeply
confessing dark secrets to succulent earth.
Wood warms to the syrup of summer sun
twisting through shady pine
the still air weighty in
somnolent afternoon.
Pine needles blanket the scuff
where small feet have
leapt from earth,
trading fear for the promise of freedom .
Cold air bites and nips
as it pulls leaves desultorily
to ground around you.
Days shorten.
Wind sharpens.
Few attempt flight now.
A bit of rope
hoists dry wood,
an ark to sail through the seasons.
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 9:41 PM UTC
Man made of glass
Transparent to the naked eye
Commonly walks the town
Smiles upon the sunrise
And beauty of the safe place he calls home
Safe because he keeps all evil at bay
Grabbing the bumper of young drivers' vehicles
Preventing a spin out that would ultimately result in fatality
Watching the restless children who run into dangerous ravines
His existence is the sole reason for this town’s livelihood
His heroics go unnoticed
But he does not save for gold & praise
Unselfish in his deeds
He only longs for one
Another soul be it metal, wooden, or even human
To share in his humble existence
Running through the parks at night
Searching for another to see him
To notice him
See who he truly is
To absorb his rays of bliss
A widespread fire in the western village
Torments the secure town
Like a tiger pounces on prey
Glass runs through the scene
Up the fiery staircase he hoists a young man
Repetitively storms into the swirling building
Not thinking of his own truth
Spectators relieved lives are spared
When one stares into his eyes
Into him
With a tear falling
She points to the roof
Overwhelmed with stimulation and thrill
he sprints once again through hell
Climbing the ladders
Darting all hurdles
the appendages begin to lose shape
Dripping like candle wax
The center of the sun is no match
A final pool of liquid
Is all the succeeds
This gallant spirit
Jun 30, 2010
Jun 30, 2010 at 4:04 PM UTC
You sit there and cried
About the man who has lied
That you thought that you loved
A match made from above
He cheated on you
With someone new
You scream out
Why me oh why
You hold a gun in your hand
Ready to die
Then a handsome angel
Descends from the sky
He grabs a hold of you
And hoists you up high
A tear escapes from your eye
You fly through the night
On a wonderful flight
Knowing that when he's holding you
Everything is all right
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 10:25 AM UTC
How infuriating, knowing
of the infinite supply of “hope”
and how it is and will continue
to be so—defying the abyss of
our debt.
Smug! That’s the word, not
what Emily Dickenson wrote
in sympathy: hope
is a thing with feathers,
is a bird’s song, Extremity.
Somehow made heroic
by abstinence from reward.
“Hope” does not hold it’s hat
out to us for crumbs and drinks;
we have already buried hope in
bread and drowned it in wine—
for with each hope that hoists us from
the depths, another lets our grip slip
off its palm greased with
false promises.
Mar 22, 2011
Mar 22, 2011 at 1:43 PM UTC
There is a false face behind a false breast
That beats out a tune that was never its own
And the thrum of the notes in the din of the night
Is a scourge to the dreams it is shown.
Wherefore sits he so melancholy? By
baked glass lines of chairs, all written up for
the task which he cannot but perform. Waits
with a cruel mouth; a crueler waist that
hoists him from the waste with watermarked wells
beneath his eyes, his staring eyes. Up there,
how many faces press against him? In
the well of his neck, the silver skin holds
back the mouth for all it might be worth,
to be seen by His appreciative teeth.
There is a false stage where stands a false man
That speaks with a passion that never was known
And the beck and the cry that is elsewhere not heard
Is a tear for the man that has flown.
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 2:44 PM UTC
Ivy of lies,
Wrapping, shifting;
Hoists him by the throat.
Woodwitch, in glee,
Cackles in delight;
Dangling by the neck, he floats.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
time: ceaseless, rapid,
rippling, uncertain, kind.
it hoists me up, meeting
its mouth to my ear and speaks,
softly,
but does not elaborate.
it is a tidal fever, borne of crash
and rage.
a vagrant rush of purpose,
hope, and malcontent.
i listen intently
before it finally puts me down.
Apr 9, 2023
Apr 9, 2023 at 10:31 PM UTC
Help me shatter this day. Our bodies make
transitions unbearable. All of us here hiding secrets. By design,
we are silent. It takes me days to fully sing.
We think walls are our doing, bridges our undeniable shame.
There are things following me: the bird soaring, another one flat on
the roof, and the other atrill on umbilicus of powerlines.
This day is composition – let this day atonal. From where I sit,
daily pursuits key in difficulties – eyes closed deep but not aslumber,
are purblind: gauge me in this order: feel the world scabrous like Braille. In a world of continuing
breakage, what is there to hold together.
If not, a debris pattern. A held rigor in suffering – there is that
crisp, sweet taste in the air again like some air winding out of ***
Look at me through dappled windows as reflection of an oncoming storm.
Help me splinter this day. Placate my tremor of, and fasten me dearly
set beyond the grooves of this day. I teach myself a coruscating example – to reach for
and break. To stop you climbing, plodding your way to a conclusion,
waylaid you in your place and summoned your fiddling of chance – the duration is
lined by obeisance towards an endorsed situation issued, not accrued.
We are somewhat conveying this burden to equal our weight. Must we
be afloat, what hoists our rebellion? What must we be
to endure, to witness these wondrous beatings ballast our gravities,
no warning of, and against reliance. Is our being here what we determine.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 12:13 AM UTC
"I'm tired of pretending,
I'm tired of having to lie.
I'm sick of being who I'm not,"
she says as she lays down to cry.
"I know you're tired,
and you feel like you're done.
But baby this isn't the end,
your life has merly just begun.
"You can't throw in the towel,
you've gotta keep your head high.
Be true and be yourself,
baby you don't have to cry."
He tilts her chin up,
and wipes her tears.
"Baby don't cry,
you got nothing to fear."
She smiles weakly,
as he smiles back.
He gives her support,
when it's confidence she lacks.
He's her knight,
in shining armour.
He keeps her grounded,
like a heavy anchor.
The sun shines bright,
as a new day begins.
For them to walk together,
the very best of friends.
"You have such a future,
lying straight ahead.
So together we'll start the journey,
get you're *** outta bed."
She smiles again,
a little more convincing now.
As he hoists her up,
and he'll never let her down.
Jul 24, 2010
Jul 24, 2010 at 9:52 AM UTC
Wallace Stevens
Wazzup?
With the widows and the maidens?
The name
dropping
the distancing vocabulary that
we scurry to look up
look up
train our eyes
train.
If I came into your office, in downtown
Hartford a city
I knew framed - as my father grew up in
Wethersfield always said
be careful –
downtown Hartford is
not a good place to be alone.
So I saunter, prink, and
perambulate
plonk myself
past your receptionist.
A widow?
And she’d holler:
-Mr. Wallace I asked her to stop!
And your desk which you requested almost 15 years ago
already looks out of date in too heavy oak is
caught between us, a horizontal surface filled
with paper.
There will be one sentence.
And one exclamatory remark.
-Wallace, you’re only human - you put your pants on
one leg at a time.
-No!
he says, jumping up from his desk,
-Watch!
He undoes his belt, he drops his trousers
he steps out of them –
He steps out one leg at a time.
BUT
Wallace Stevens, god bless him,
arranges his pants carefully on the floor of the
Hartford Accident
and
Indemnity Company
just so.
And grinning,
hops into both puddled legs
at the same time.
Then bends over and hoists the waistband
the belt dangling
in triumph.
Lesson learned.
Learned, schooled like
St. Ursule with her radishes
Just another lady
Just another confabulist
Just another story.
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 9:32 AM UTC
Hurtling towards Earth, a black catacomb
alight and bright crashing through the stars,
encrusted with web-strung spores crawling, bloated,
seething with giant skeletal arachnids from Mars
pincers snap-snap-a-snapping in tuneless melody,
vying for the taste of air and wet flesh
with eyes frail, skin milky and pale,
regurgitating from throbbing juggernaut *******
ruled by a mother predatory and spoilt
soft flesh under her carapace sagging and gravid,
feasting upon her own scuttling children
injecting pain sultry and rabid,
baying for blood
sweat dripping off her charred shell
she hoists herself up on spindly legs
drags herself from the pits of hell
[she begged for my love but
instead I gave her a dangerous smile -
now she rots in outer space
up into the black 'bout a hundred mile]
round 'n round she spins a web
wreathed in skulls and threats galore,
in a meteor she fell from Heaven
and she's here with the spiders, of that I'm very sure
dead but wholly alive
encapsulated within an eight-legged freak,
inhuman screeches upon the wind
her vengeance and caustic fury shrieks
Am I to feel the bite of poised fangs?
Am I to be cursed by the darkness from where she hangs?
Will she lurk beneath one of my many beds
my insides to crawl with her hairy legs -
I loved her then, I love her now
alas jealousy drives us apart
she passed me her trusting love
-
I drove its shattered blade deep into her heart.
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 6:31 PM UTC
TLACAELEL
Two hundred years have we known only strife,
Kept innocent of peace, to fortify
Huitzilopochtli, our grand god of conquest,
Who hoists aloft our death-denying sun
And handsomely escorts him through the east.
Such toil demands the selfless sustenance
Of that most precious sacrifice, our hearts;
Small, hot, red gems- we grant them gratefully.
Our god need not stand waiting for affronts
Or hissing disrespect to rattle arms.
No, rather let us seek convenient markets
Where our Blue Prince of war, when whimsy strikes,
Might carve downed captives to refresh his plate
And tie his bib with dead men’s winding-sheets,
As if he strolled through cheap tortilla stalls,
And clutched our legions for his currency.
To this emporium shall we caravan,
Procuring crocks of blood and priceless hearts
By bartering to swap our solvent lives.
Oh, let it be Tlaxcala, gentlemen!
For if we pitch this depot to the north,
The taxing hike to those unconquered tribes
Should prove an inconvenience to our troops.
Besides, the tough and stringy flesh of those
Bare-bottomed grunts, rock-knocking savages,
Must strike our god as stale as sandal-leather.
Then let Tlaxcalans be his board of fare:
Moist cutlets, fresh and steaming from the range,
Shall furnish forth his sanguinary feasts.
We must not waste these others totally,
But make a handy pantry of this foe,
For war- alone undying- must endure.
CUITLAHUAC
Bravo. I’ll side with you to storehouse them,
So that we hamstring their free trafficking,
And thus declaw our sole belligerent.
TLACAELEL
I’m pleased your verdicts are adaptable.
HUNGRY PRINCE
Either to weaken or to waste this threat,
You’ll have my armies at your hand.
TLACAELEL That's nice.
MOTECUHZOMA
Now, Hungry Prince, let’s brace for weighty words. . .
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 12:23 PM UTC
The prophylactic coolth you shed when in your girth,
My troubles, my angst, my qualms go vicariously submerged.
Oh you miraculous body of ineffable wonderment,
How you cleanse my body, my soul so pure, only you understand.
You take the spirit off my body and fly it like a balanced kite,
Your water, tiding and ebbing, hoists me up above an unfathomable height.
Birds see me fly at a height they can never desire,
Burnt in envy they wonder how he basks so, what a privileged flier.
I look down to see how you tranced my corporeal abode,
It's poised, lost in you, my eyes, my brain shut close.
The Azure of yours swallowing all my murky blues,
My lips gradually widening and my hands suddenly arose.
The Panorama cloistered by the earth with its assent,
The planets, the Stars, the Sun ceased their celestial movement.
The Aurora cropped up donned its best attire,
A sprig of thunder appeared, and conched the desire.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 7:12 AM UTC