"huddle" poems
This world was built on a foundation of perfection
No weight lies upon our shoulders
Each person needs no other to survive
No others need to be added to this perfect world
For perfection is perfect
But the storm rips us apart
I huddle by myself
Covering my eyes to make it not true
The pieces of the world cut through the air
Not just the air, but my flesh, my soul
The others cower alone as well
We all hide our sobs
And muffle our cries of pain
For Perfection is not weak
The storm moves on
And the world is now dull gray
The wounded tend to themselves
And the children cry alone
We do not reach for the pieces we have lost
But instead begin to build a new world
For Perfection knows no past
This new world is perfect
Each person takes care of only their needs
Nothing can be added or lost to make it less perfect
But the perfection weighs upon my shoulders
And slices into me like glass
It hurts so much I cry
But no help is given when I reach out
For Perfection does not care
Doors close
Windows slam shut
The people scatter as they hear my rage
They do not want to talk of or hear about the terrible past
The future is what matters, they say
For Perfection does not know pain
But I find another who shows pain
The other and I, we search for the pieces of the lost world
The other and I, we lay them out
But the pieces do not fit
What has been ripped apart cannot be fixed
For Perfection is not in the pieces
The other and I, we show the pieces
To the citizens of the new perfect world
The past stands before them
Some faces are masked
Some are in tears
Worse are the cries of anguish
But each person does not acknowledge any other's pain
For Perfection is self-sufficient
The other and I now realize what Perfection is
It is covering what's inside
And pretending emotions do not exist
It is showing your faults to no one
And not caring for another
It is thinking only of the pain you are in
And being swallowed by your own misery
So much that you forget that you can heal another's pain
Just as they can heal your own
For Perfection is a mask for those too selfish and weak to show the pain inside
For Perfection is forgetting there are others like yourself
For Perfections is not knowing
That Perfection is not real
The other and I, we stop putting together the pieces
The other and I, we leave that perfect world
The other and I, we begin to make a new world
Full of imperfections
The other and I, we do not hide our pain
We show it to our imperfect world
And because it is shown
It drifts towards the heavens
And because the other and I, we show our imperfection
The imperfections fill our world
And the other and I, we begin to mend
For imperfection is healing
They all begin to see
The happiness that is brought to the other and I
The other and I, we teach them
How to show their pain
To display their imperfections
To heal the wounds inside
For imperfection makes our world beautiful
When new pain is found
We display it to the world
We help others as they help us
We are dependent on each other
Losing a person fills us with sorrow
A person being added fills us with joy
For imperfection connects us all
To say our world is perfect is far from true
Perfection and imperfection should never be compared
Pain is in our world, but there is also happiness
Loss, but also gain
Every pain we feel is matched with joy for something else
For imperfection means to have emotion
For imperfection means to live
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 12:45 PM UTC
No.1 I have a fear of heights and I'm okay with that because I fall for you every day which keeps me close enough to the ground that I feel safe.
No.2 The dark. I do not like the inability to see, imagine being trapped in a space with no light, nothing to reach for but just a void of emptiness. You cannot find a place much darker than a blackened, hallowed heart. There are no signs of life, with no trace of light. Yet you still managed to find your way around it, walking aimlessly as if you knew where to go. I was afraid of the darkness within, until you lit a flame inside Of me, trying to send a signal fire to my sanity.
No.3 spiders, nothing poetic I just think they are creepy. Eight legs of hell and they have no need on my life!
No.4 I imagine being on an island stranded alone knowing no-one could find me, while I sit there huddle next to a tree with no reason to move forward. I feel a warm touch press on my shoulder. I open my eyes, everything seems different the white scattered sand is now my bed. waves which held me back from moving forward, now my blanket which seems to feel heavier than a tsunami of depression and deep thoughts. I lay there stuck being buried by the sand and drown by waves. Being held down by my past and worries of my future. two hands lifted all the weight off me, I looked up and there she was, she grabbed me by the...
No.5 my heart is beating faster and faster as I run an endless marathon. My palms get sweaty, it gets harder to breathe as if I was trapped in space with no air tank. I try to push through I will not let myself drop out of this one so early. I have a fear to love, not of love but to love. I want to find it but I'm too afraid of letting myself become vulnerable as if I'm joining a war with no gun just my heart hoping not to get shot down but be accepted with open arms. I have scars and battle wounds from past wars. But for no reason, you lent a hand to patch me up. You showed me not all wars are worth fighting Alone, so we joined hands and walked strong. I am afraid to love, I am not afraid to say I love. I am afraid to say I love anyone who isn't you.
Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 10:10 PM UTC
Red balloons litter the floor,
Out numbering the pure ones before,
What once was white now
Discoloured
Violated
Shrouded
Float from view
Each a moment of life
As the balloons once white
Now no more,
For all is stained red
Crimson,
Droplets,
Dried
Upon white like a tear,
It slides down marking
Before greeting the floor,
Expelled air, ruptured by the
Violence,
Anger,
Death
Still lingers, an after image
Of the life that was here before,
Red balloons float leaving their imprint
Splatter effect upon floor & wall
Cold eyes stare seeing both
White
&
Red
Balloons
Clinging around this fallen life,
Where white once was now all
That floats is the stench of death
Red balloons huddle around,
Each carrying a moment with them
When life became death &
White was scarred by crimson,
Life is static, still, for death now floats above the floor
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC
The last kiss from you
Lasted like a huddle in
The snow blitz
Rocking my anatomy
In the frosty glitz
The last words from you
That barged in my eardrum
You were in a hurry
To smell a new leaf
Draped in a diamond dew
The last gifts from you
Was an instrument
Which still I use
To recognize people
Or to refuse!
The last time
You said I love you
I remember I was laughing
Hysterically as if I was watching
Jared Leto’s jaded mimicry of Joker in YouTube
Intriguingly, when the last time I saw you ****
It felt like pretty Ivanka’s embarrassment
Noticing her dad is a lewd
The last time I was chatting
With you on Facebook
I was wondering why
I shouldn't hack your account?
To check your inbox
Yea, it was filled with the message of *******
F- Bombs, **** shaming and tagging you as harlot
All they were asking was your service of escort
Either in full discount or in hefty cash drops!
The last time I wrote
A letter of love to you
I discovered my Keyboard
Began to blurt out
No more, No more, No more…
The last time I had a chit-chat
With you in the Burger King or Pizza Hut
I listened to your hissing clack-clack
That someone else has become your puppy cat…
The last time I became sick
When I was with you
I heard you threw a party
Where you were whispering
To your besties, how
I become your double whammy!
The last time I was
With you in the bed
I felt like I was indentured
To **** a dummy toy
Sans spirit and flesh!
Loving you was like
Santa Claus gifted me
With a Pandora’s Box
As soon as I opened it
You decided to release
Our *** tape of your having ******
In pornhub’s forum of interracial!
The last time I heard of you
Is that you were giving an interview
To The Cosmopolitan’s board of review
Facing the barrage of inquisitions
You calmly joked, the series
Of latest uproar about you
In the social media or Internet
Is because certain people always
Love to rave about Women’s body
Shoving in and out of their pigeonhole
With their one night stand queen trophy
To flavor your form in their fantasmic mouth
You also smirked in a raspy voice
Defiantly declaring “we (women)
Have been locked indoors
With no air, no food, no water”
My last boyfriend is also no exception
He certainly thinks I came this far
Through ******* and deception
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 12:33 PM UTC
Shadows bless the night
As we huddle tighter
Sharing a sacred journey
Adversity piles upon us at times
But our human nature screams
Survival at all costs
If I reached out my hand
Would you accept
If I humbled myself at your feet
Would you stay
Or would you run
Afraid and confused of your own reflection
Cotton candy
As sweet as spice
Exquisitely the spider weaves her
Majestic web
As we weave our stories with the threads of time illuminated in the heavens for those who have gone before us
Be it a simple question of time
Of misunderstandings
Or lost promises
We will return
In circles we spiral upwards
Holding onto the very thread that bore our bodies from dust and turned them into the stars I see within your eyes
You are my muse
You are all and everything
Without means words don’t flow
Feelings stay intombed
And my body will return to dust before it betrays you
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 11:51 AM UTC
I:
In which
I
amid the
whirring lights
and emerald
felt
drift
through a
raucous
flashing casino
searching
for a
table
with an open
chair
so I can
finally start
to play
the game
II:
In which all of us
are together again at last
for a family gathering—
Thanksgiving supper, perhaps—
and, as we greet each other,
I happen to glance skyward,
unthinking,
and notice that clouds
of a turbid
cumulonimbus gray
are beginning to coalesce overhead.
I look up again and notice
that they have spun
into dozens of funnel shapes,
each of them
starting to reach down for us
like the ashen fingers of Death.
We huddle down in the cellar,
praying the storm will pass.
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 7:00 AM UTC
adj. wandering alone
She felt the wind rustle her hair
As the falling leaves caught her eye
*He allowed the drizzle to graze his skin
As umbrellas popped up on his sides*
The grass was soft between her toes
As the pebbles were firm beneath his heel
She absorbed the vastness of the land
And he wandered around his city of steel
Leaning back into the tree’s embrace
Her gaze landed on a flower of white and gold
*He listened to the drone of an airplane above them
As he stopped for a while on the side of the road*
She closed her eyes
And allowed the quiet calm her
*Basking in the rush of the metro
His nerves bubbled with adventure*
While she inhaled, she thought of a boy
Whose eyes lit up like street lamps
With a smile that would make it through
The rain that had his clothes soaked and his hair damp
And she wondered if he would
Think of a girl
With flowers in her hair
If he’d take her hand
Look her in the eye and say
Let’s go someplace, anywhere
They’d hike up a mountain
Or weave through the subway
*Maybe visit a museum
Or huddle under a tree on a windy day*
But today she was here and was comfortable
In her field by herself
*And he was calm and content
On the sidewalk with everyone else*
A companion would come one day or another
Right now she was happy to be alone
*As he was thrilled to be among hundreds
Yet still be on his own.*
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 9:30 AM UTC
It was December 27th,
Nineteen and fifty one
The day the Christmas snowball war
Had officially begun
It started in the schoolyard
It was supposed to just be fun
But, by the time the whole thing ended
No one knew just who had won
The grade five class were ready
All lying there in wait
As the kids from home form seven
Approached the schoolyard gate
With a yell the whole thing started
They were served up on a plate
the kids from home form seven
would not forget this date
The air filled with projectiles
Launched from wet gloves by the score
As the victims ran for cover
They were hit by four score more
They were bruised and hurt and battered
As they ran for the school door
Now, the kids from the grade five class
Lay waiting there for more
Two teachers came to stop them
Get them back into the school
but, the kids just launched more snowballs
Using scarves now as a tool
They would catapult their snowballs
which was really, really cool
And the teachers ran for cover
In the safety of the school
They'd built a wall near four feet high
To protect them on both sides
It channeled all who entered
The walls acted as guides
At most their little walkway
Was only eight feet wide
and their victims ran for cover
For the school, a place to hide
It was dark when the attack happened
The form seven kids came back
They'd left the school from the front door
And had now planned their attack
Their first snowball hit it's target
With a loud resounding crack
It was clear that old form seven
Was truly fighting back
The teachers had a huddle
Met inside and chose to fight
They would wait until the battle
Had gone on into night
They would sneak out of the building
With the absence of the light
And attack the grade five children
And show them how to fight
The air was full of snowballs
Bodies, gloves, scarves abound
there were children hitting adults
And there were children on the ground
They'd been at it for six hours
When they heard the alarm bell sound
It was time to get inside for bed
Before the prefects came around
The snowball fight at Wellesley
Public School in fifty one
Is the one that they remember
Out of all of those they've done
In all one hundred people
Were involved in all the fun
For next year they are building
A snowball launching gun!!!
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 4:07 PM UTC
*Evening has subsided with a whisper in the west.
It chased the sunset's final rays as she prepared for rest.
Night has dropped her curtain but the moon has come to play.
The overture begins, as lonely crickets have their way.
The breeze begins to soften and the grass is standing still.
The leaves no longer beckon in the trees upon the hill.
I huddle in the darkness and await the rising wind.
A prayer is formed upon my lips, in homage to a friend.
And there ... I feel the sweet caress, a hand upon my cheek
A breeze that comes from someone ... from the passing soul, I seek.
And as I watch the lingering stars and hear the rustling leaves
I know that she has left this world and heavenward, she weaves.
I bid farewell to one, who loved this life, and all it gave
I dedicate this poem to her and toward the moon, I wave.*
Jun 8, 2017
Jun 8, 2017 at 10:33 PM UTC
The music drifts my mind away
Each beat shuddering through my whole presence
Making my heart thump and my blood frantically flow through my veins
The city lights hide the dark shadows of the night
Bringing warmth and safety to the room
Like a big blanket that protects you from the things scaring you
People huddle in groups, all enjoying the ebullience in the air
Smiles and laughter could be heard from miles away
Not a trace of unhappiness on this beautiful night
I look around me, my eyes shining as bright as the stars
Smiling at the sight surrounding me
My stomach fills with butterflies and goosebumps trail my arms and legs
And a warm feeling ignites within me
This is a night, a moment I’ll never forget.
Jun 28, 2017
Jun 28, 2017 at 10:38 PM UTC
I have been living in these huts lately,
As this life seems aimless and desultory,
Slowly flowing like the splash of drops over the board,
Hallelujah . For me, it's still our God's handwritten story.
Two cents quietly sit in my little pockets ,
And they still fit perfectly in each,
Same as our feelings, as they huddle around our hearts,
Occupying the bijou portions and trying not to leach.
I will hold on till the day, staggering away,
In my tattered clothes, till the color withers and my story stales,
Lingering in the huts, with a hue of nostalgia,
Ailing but not wailing, after a series of massive fails.
Before God finishes writing my story,
I believe he will hand me the pen, its a fact, not a lie,
And with you by my side, I will scribble my glory,
I'll dress you your Gossamer, and myself a Suit and a tie.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 11:08 AM UTC
I ******* rock it
Then I lay it down
I am not a quitter, sick spitter
**** I just flow in rounds
atmospherics an
******* stellar sounds
Lyrics of astrophysics,
like chemistry
I just shape the ground
just huddle
But do not make a sound
I crush a cypher, decipher words into crooked nouns
Instant reaction to actions,
My riddles break the crowd
I've adapted to hard labor now
Can't **** with the vision
I'm here to **** it
and change the sound
Bicycle wheel spinning, I'm grinding
I need to get around
Flow soulful, for the soul
like I'm the golden child
Y'all so so, I go super sayin
No super wild
No delaying, I'm not evening playing
You're played out
Penetrator is coming through now
Left-over flow ******* better eat their food now
2016 fiend, ***** this just a new style
I hit the restart button, say **** the hard drive, bike peddling to work say **** the hard ride, living life is easy I say **** the hard times
I'm choking the game, I'm looking to ******* hog tie
Business this
you can **** on my long tie...
Young killer
been spittin it for a long time
Past due with my ******* come up
Ain't nobody ******* with the vision I'm blowing up
Cutting all these lames like division
So I can it add up
All of the positives, at heart I'm an optimist, don't **** with my oxygen
You can't breath what I breathe, **** your accomplishments, I will squash all of them I just abolish bums
Don't **** with my vision, I will **** for what is mine
and do it with precision
All these hoes just multiply
I divided with the quickness
All these fakes just want to try
don't try cause your missing
**** all of the rules
***** I am a misfit
I am just a ghoul, no goblin, no riches
The world is full of fools
Who can't **** with my vision
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 1:19 AM UTC
Huddle on a sofa,
Watching some TV,
Reading a book,
With a cup of tea;
The wind is blowing,
The hail is thumping against the windows,
Lightning and thunder light up the house,
I thank the god that I am indoors;
Wood burning,
Fire crackling,
The smell of oak
Is so relaxing;
This is what makes my house a home,
This is what fills my heart with hope;
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 1:15 AM UTC
This Love Song seemed like a safe place to unpack my ****
But a safe place is where Lyrics go to die.
And this is Not a Song.
and it starts like this. all the time.
II
i fella sleep in a widdle boat and told a seagull that i was having a dream
about talking to seagulls and he was astonished to have the pleasure of meeting a boat
that had the good sense to plug the hole with a poet…. because they never wake up
and they do so with extreme prejudice. that simply screams Resident.
In Fact!
He’d never even seen a boat. So there’s THAT. I offered Seagull “ The Cool -Side of The Pillow. “
So I could sit upright for a moment and jot this down. He was like “ What’s a pillow? “
And I had no idea what it was that brushed against my legs
but It was There. then It was Gone. when i stopped using the metaphor.
I was treading a fathom
of pixie dust and transgender proto-gods, all cuddling in a huddle of metaphysics
as adorable as a radioactive abrupt
stop.
III
Ah yes… someone was cooking bacon… and bacon is sleep’s kryptonite. so the dream was a wrap.
and i had a bird’s nest woven from the silk of my discarded cocoon. codename: Chrysalis.
and my mouth was dry. a stubborn dry that follows a deluge of phantasmagoria
on a Futon that is a God to cat hair. My Futon is Oblique and Omnipotent.
Apparently.
Uber Mecca for Cat Hair. I fell asleep on that.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 7:59 PM UTC
As the sun rose up and the stars came down,
Morning dawned upon the town,
but the darkness didn't fade, as something came along,
To finally right the drought's wrong
Temperature dropping, birds chirping,
Thunder roared, as the aves beat wing after wing,
The scent of fresh mud clouded our nostrils,
and the crashing of water droplets had our ears filled
We ran as our footwear pounded the drenched land,
Only to notice the street dogs huddle under shelter,
Shaking themselves to get rid of body sand,
and expose their glossy fur
Soon enough, mother nature ended the delightful downpour,
Leaving us craving for more,
but the best part is the fact that monsoon has just begun,
So leave a smile on that face, for things are still great without the sun!!
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 10:11 AM UTC
Since that Day when you gave your Best Cuddle
That Winner you saw on your Left Eye's speak
You chanted your Last Blessing; And in Huddle
Breathed to him a Promise never foreseen
It was your Spirit, infused into his Heart
The kind where your Values gave their Best Brew
And to him, Fortune's Delight would impart
The Greatest Message he had since did knew
I only realised once you left this Earth
How my own Dad reached out and hugged me Dear
I gave this back, crying for Month's own Worth
Hoping you return for another Year.
He needs your Cuddle again, Sir; Just because
He may have missed it; A Medal at Loss.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 1:13 AM UTC
You were born in the cold black heart of the Cold War, under the fist of
Eisenhower, under the satellite eye of Mother Russia—1960 America.
Chinese Year of the Rat. U-2 Pilot Gary Powers forgot to **** himself.
Space Race Baby looking up at stars she does not comprehend—
the world is big, the sky is bigger—Shhhhhhhhhhh: huddle under your desk in case a big, black, bomb falls down and burns you so bad you feel nothing but cold
cold cold;
huddle inside yourself in case your plane is shot down over Soviet soil
and everything turns to red, turns to blood, turns to your fingers shaking and your eyes stinging, and you think about that time when your mother told you about the Year of the Rat being associated with white,
with the Chinese color of death. You think: This is it. There is where it ends,
but this is not it; this is not the end. You will die in a hospital bed
in 49 years, so just give it some time, alright?
Khrushchev and Eisenhower can play Tug-of-War and
Vietnam can burn in the meantime.
Mother, when you were born you could not breathe. Mother,
when you died it was because you could not breathe. Mother,
when you are not here I think of Gary Powers not having time to press “Self-Destruct,” of the Year of the Rat
choking to death on
Lily of the Valley,
of learning how to talk to the 58,286 dead Vietnam War soldiers. I want to
know what it is like to look up at the sky and fear a missile strike smack in
the middle of winter. I want to know how cold the Cold War felt to you in
the Chinese Year of the Rat, and what he felt when U-2 Pilot Gary Powers
fell like
Lucifer
into the arms
of Mother Russia.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 6:45 AM UTC
shirelles
monday night
alone in a big house
light the candles
another one of my rituals
born one hour,
dead the next
to make room
for other
prayers
postures
pen tips
but the way candles
flicker in the sweet
soul
is not another ritual
warm life
to the tune of golden
notes
swimming through
once bleak
once empty
once impure
air
and suddenly, I am baptized
more than I ever was
in that sterile, dead
chlorine
more than spent hymns
in drafty cathedrals
so, the sound lives.
my bed would tilt
at twelve years old
I'd wake
startled of the
psychic death
spread like bodies after
a paid for war
I'd scream like the cats
fighting by the window
at my aunts house
I would huddle with
my childhood
hiding from the puberty
that stalked me
like a jungle cat
the mind reeled with
my spent pulse and
at night
under shamed
covers
bitten fingertips
the white light
on the street
looking on
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 2:30 AM UTC
There are a bunch of peeple
who seem to think it's fun
to get together and have a party
so they can watch each other
*** on America
They are rude and they're crude
and they're disgusting and lewd
and they make a big mess when
they puddle where they huddle
But that's OK
because this is America
where we all have the right
to our own beliefs,
even if they are stupid,
and to fight for our causes
in our own ways
and as causes go
they are just a splash
in a teacup
Besides, they can't help it
because they have tiny brains
and tiny wee wees
and don't realize
that mostly
they are just
******* on
themselves
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 6:56 AM UTC
Two billion years ago
the river we call Colorado
opened a **** in the Kaibab Plateau
sculpting sandstone, granite, and limestone spectra
on the rugged canyon walls -
reflecting the seering Arizona sun.
Millennial torrents scoured the surface.
Juniper and Aspen, torn from the expanding banks,
****** into the river's red-stained vortex.
All the while the restless Colorado,
obedient to gravity's law,
scoured its bed a mile below the rim.
The last dinosaur perished - choked by volcanic soot.
Pangaea rumbled, groaned and split
and an eye-blink ago our African parents
stood to take their first faltering steps.
Their progeny crossed the Bering bridge
roaming south to build stone shelters
tucked against these canyon walls.
Did the Havasupai huddle in fright
of the jagged firelight searing the skies -
pounding the air across the hollows?
And emerging at storm’s end
did they gaze at the rainbow mist
spread over the buttes and valleys?
After dusk, with fires withering to embers,
did they rest supine,
heads pillowed on their arms,
pondering the jewel case universe above?
November, 2006
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 10:51 AM UTC
Mannequin smiles with masks of plastic
stand and huddle, fight and juggle,
for their space in the crowd.
Elbows touching torsos,
torsos touching hips;
kisses under the darkness,
bonfire warming the lips.
A child sits on the shoulders of her rock,
hands resting in the lap of his head,
waiting for the fireworks to be ignited,
set off, lit and begin.
Eyes of raw astonishment,
watery with cold,
a deer eye mould,
looked up at the firework display.
Sharp colour crayon lines
were drawn in the night-time sky.
Sound followed,
cheers and claps, applauds too.
They were lost in the hollow hole
of the houses around,
this’ll be the one she remembers.
Her first display of sound and light
and she’ll remember how she jumped up and down
to carnival music and carnival folk, rides and light,
menagerie sights.
News from the blog regarding my new poetry pamphlet, check the link out>> http://www.coffeeshoppoems.com/2012/11/homeland-borderland.html
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 1:07 PM UTC
#
*River running..
That rushing sound in these parts
spell out the words, crystal-clear..
Tree-lined banks, giving way
to the Dark Hills, upslope
Giving way, to
granite-rocked outcroppings
giving way to elk-hidden quakeys
Surrendering their holy-huddle's
pristine stances
to tall prairie-grass, waving
wild raspberries and tall pines
And I, myself..
am surrendering also
She is watching the water, believing
That as it flows,
she will not lose herself in it
That it will not steal, but heal
That I will not rage again
within my fear
I am watching her,
watch the water
I am watching the water-- believing
That as I give of myself
further into the flow
that I will not become diffused
by humanity
By the love of man
and all of its dishonesty
and all of its diabolical treachery
Of its lack of concern,
or understanding
Or ability to break through
its own, self-centeredness
Or its need to swallow me up
into the mundane.
Her hands are in the air now,
praising..
Worshipping
the true nature of the flow,
Believing..
that I will let all of this, go
And as she wades in
I ease, back--
Retreating
up the Dark Hills, slope
Clutching tightly..
To granite-rocked outcroppings,
weeping.
Hiding in the quakeys,
among the majestic elk
Begging for the tallgrass, cover
among the wild raspberries.
Now, fully concealed
in tall pines.
Her hands
are stretched out, now..
as if hovering over the waters,
participating
While I hide from it all
While I hide, from humanity;
From the fallen, love of man
She is wading in,
Believing
.
As I am leaving;
Believing
As the cloud-hidden sky,
starts raining--
playing the most incredible, of tunes.*
#
Aug 8, 2021
Aug 8, 2021 at 8:01 PM UTC
*The man with green hair and green hands.
A long long time ago
When army’s wore uniforms.
We were khaki they were grey.
My grandfather was fire warden
In WW2 he had seven sons
And three daughters .
You could say he was
a bit of a pacifist.
Make love not war
Was his mantra.
He married my Grandma
when she was seventeen.
They were to stay married
for over sixty five years.
And produce tribe of ten children.
He had spent his whole life
Working as a coppersmith
For the same company.
His hair and hands tinted green
From the metals Verdigris.
My father was a baby just born
In the middle of the war.
We lived in Manchester.
Money was always tight.
But we were happy.
Just as Herr ****** invaded Poland
My grandad bought our first house.
We always rented until then.
It was a large town home.
The six older boys
All joined the marines
At the outbreak of the war.
They did one act of preparation
That ultimately saved the family.
They took down an old barn for a farmer
And used the beams to shore up the stone cellar
of the house.
When the air raids came later.
We would all huddle under the stair well
Until the all clear sirens sounded.
When the bad raid came
It was the early hours of the night.
Grandad was out on fire watch.
Six of the sons were on ships
In Europe and the far east.
My aunty told me much later.
When the war was long over.
She heard the bomb falling
It screamed as it fell.
Exploding just outside our house
the house caved in and they
were all buried under the rubble
in total darkness.
She said grandma was
breastfeeding the baby my dad.
Grandad was busy the raid was a hard one.
A friend said Frank your house has been hit
It’s bad.
He dropped everything and ran and ran
Breathless he reached the fallen house.
In his heart he thought we were all dead.
It took ten neighbors four hours to reach us.
They pulled the girls out first
Then the baby my dad.
And finally the dimutive figure of my grandma.
She was weeping.
She said Frank we’ve lost everything.
There’s nothing left.
He held her in his big arms
Tears flowing from the eyes of a man
Who had had a hard life.
Who never cried.
He kisses her full on her lips
A single sign of public affection
That was out of his character.
He whispered to grandma.
That odd Mary
Because I just found
Everything I ever wanted or needed.*
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 12:36 AM UTC
1.
seeds of crimson, slightly sweet
alien pods of ruby meat
like exoskeletal teeth.
scores of crimson, holding in
like breath, its babes of sin.
little beetles; ****** tears.
one swarming conglomerate.
as if in fear, they huddle close
to await their fate in quiet fits.
2.
the
unfurling!scarlet!starfish!mothership!
sprawls out
fleshyfingers, fatwithfruit.
seedling children populate her innards
like a red-skinned race of juicy mutes.
Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 11:54 PM UTC
They huddle in the cold damp darkness
grateful for the sheltering sandstone
shuddering at each echoing blast
a remorseless dull ache
like their meagre rations
eyelids shutting wrinkling between attacks
seeking peace and inner sleepless solace.
'Them docks is taking a pasting.'
'Me Dad works there.'
Another attack, tunnels rumble
evoking century old echoes
of rusty trundling drum-line wagons
bearing sandstone blocks to build the docks
now being blitzed blighting the night sky.
The morning brings a dusty disquiet.
Merseyside emerges curses soldiers on.
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 10:42 AM UTC