"huddling" poems
if I should sleep with a lady called death
get another man with firmer lips
to take your new mouth in his teeth
(hips pumping pleasure into hips).
Seeing how the limp huddling string
of your smile over his body squirms
kissingly, I will bring you every spring
handfuls of little normal worms.
Dress deftly your flesh in stupid stuffs,
phrase the immense weapon of your hair.
Understanding why his eye laughs,
I will bring you every year
something which is worth the whole,
an inch of nothing for your soul.
73.7k
There were dividing lines
between Springfield
and Mariners Gate
soft, subtle lines
that spoke of origin
and code
and biting union
it was all
the reason
for being;
alive and living
dead or dying
deep in a pack
of pint size resistors
hell bent on the
marsh crow
and cannabis tower
jumping the rush
with *** shots
and anchors
and tribunals
camouflage creepers
and transient floaters
marked rebellion at the gates
(skullduggery and taunt
high on their favor list)
jack straws and flat paddles
for the evening charade
beakers and flailing hands
from the foot washing baptist
(the Pleasant Street conservatives with their
own something to say…“there’s gonna be hell to pay!”)
there's a
lingering effect
to this sentiment
(evident in the pump house stride)
the river winds
blow gently
into the night
as the huddling packers
and **** backs
chase the evening hours
it’s a bitter sweet
end of an era;
those traction bars
hood scoops
and nickel bags
will always
be the rage
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 11:13 PM UTC
Slumming.
Slumming around downtown.
Slumming around downtown St. Paul.
A broke high school student.
A broke student with perpetual down time.
A broken down senior student letting go of time.
Slumming.
Slumming down to Raspberry.
Slumming down to Raspberry Island.
Walking across the Mississippi River.
The bridge had been raided.
Marching.
Marching down teal and raspberry stairs.
Icycle nose hairs.
Seeing my breath as my chest shivers.
I found my heart trapped under the solid river.
Teenagers ******** about freshmen that got the bridge raided,
Teenagers ******** about artists they've always hated
and artists ******** about things they've created.
Underagers slowly letting out smoke.
Underagers letting out what keeps their lungs beating.
Underagers slowly letting out steam, cheating.
Me.
letting out smoke that came from the ice.
Smoke of below zero temperature, freezing my insides.
Mindless.
Mindlessly walking.
Mindlessly walking through endless skyways.
Mindless.
Mindlessly talking.
Mindlessly talking about things I don't remember.
Until we've arrived at We-Be-Smokin'.
Huddling.
Huddling in a group.
Admiring the art that claimed the spot before we did.
Scuttling.
Feet scuttling.
Feet scuttling in place to outrun the cold.
Reminiscing of months before when I was sitting alone in Starbucks with my
venti white chocolate mocha listening to crazy George yell at his imaginary
wife. Not being bothered. Not being cold.
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 12:06 AM UTC
Can you spot those wild zebras,
trotting across noisy plains of green?
Can you spy them with binoculars,
huddling together in familiar scenes?
Can you observe these wild zebras,
emblazoned with their traditional stripes?
Can you recognize distinctive patterns
of opposing colors of black and white?
Can you form an opinion regarding
the thoughts of wild zebras at play?
Can any semblance of ‘Fashion Sense’
force a duality of stripes to rule the day?
Can you number the size of the herd
or even call out specific zebras by name?
See their necks encircled by dangling whistles,
as they continue… to officiate the football game.
-Joe Breunig,
Poet/Author, Reaching Towards His Unbounded Glory
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 2:32 PM UTC
He crouched in the corner,
Huddling up against his brother;
Who made him feel safe
From his mother.
Glass shattered, and the boy ran out,
To the other room where
His mother was found.
The blood and glass shards
Were everywhere;
He reached for a towel
To bear.
His hands clutched it against
Mommy's wound;
"More alcohol,"
Mommy crooned.
He relented finally,
Giving her the bottle;
By ruby blood,
The floor tiles were mottled.
Lights flashed outside the cabin,
As the ambulance arrived;
The little boy would never
Forget that night.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 1:29 AM UTC
Can you spot those wild zebras,
trotting across noisy plains of green?
Can you spy them with binoculars,
huddling together in familiar scenes?
Can you observe these wild zebras,
emblazoned with their traditional stripes?
Can you recognize distinctive patterns
of opposing colors of black and white?
Can you form an opinion regarding
the thoughts of wild zebras at play?
Can any semblance of ‘Fashion Sense’
force a duality of stripes to rule the day?
Can you number the size of the herd
or even call out specific zebras by name?
See their necks encircled by dangling whistles,
as they continue… to officiate the football game.
-Joe Breunig,
Poet/Author, Reaching Towards His Unbounded Glory
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2013, All rights reserved.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 10:38 AM UTC
_[northern hemisphere: on a beach above the 50th latitude at the end of winter]_
_(Winter-export)_, the beach frosted by fingers of polar constellations. It’s too cold to walk without huddling, but we do it nonetheless, because we only have one more night together. Your frothy hydro-rhythm spears into pith, irradiance; I breathe again, deeply. _(Thick lips; quick still-hunt.)_ I rivet fronds of dependence into the seams of your boreal palms, never planning to return the floating colony of barnacles I promised I’d throw back; you, never planning to catch the sun bored through salt spray, clasping crisp foreheads, stitching on glistered lips and froze-shut lashes. And on a day when you didn’t rise early enough, I was left out in the water until my chest was steeped deep in ice over the thought of losing you. _(Glimmering isle)_; my hair disheveled in sea-foam. Annular light. You pushed me in, and I relented. My isotherm sent chthonically. But you, in your legendary mantle, adapted my eyes to see the light hidden deep within your belt; such pinks and fuchsias I have never seen before, suddenly inverted. At absolute velocity, I cut my foot on sea-glass, bleeding blueshift, aligning to the colours of the zenith. You take me back to the starry house and we struggle with your parallax, a nadir inseminated on the celestial pole. _(Parsecs quaking.)_ You whisper, I’ll heal you. I’ll heal you, only if you let me. Only if… you let me… Over and over and over until it’s as mundane as the crashing coast, and unrivaled, I concede to everything and wake up deep in redshift, the whole universe escaping, warmth-ribbons suffocating the abyss: without you, alone on the ecliptic at last. In the spring-sinking, you order me a silver sword, sharp in starlight; to remember you. You stand a guardian, beyond the sun, flinging tiny ice-hot rocks _(freighting gemstones)_; King of the Heavens. I submerge myself into the bathic depths, skulking in aestival despair, as you trade the night for day. Little do you know, my resurgence is also in your hands.
_[i watched Orion slip from view every night this spring. No doubt he’ll return next winter... it’s sad losing a friend like that, for so long]_
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 3:07 AM UTC
Fever-flushed children and
Broken bodies
Litter hospital halls like so much
Human refuse
….Wondering why
their need for care is treated so tepidly by a
Society which worships
Profits
Power and
Prestige
….Waiting while
they wallow in anguish as
Privacy
Paperwork and
Payment are
Debated by bureaucrats in cubicles
….Wanting to be refreshed and
restored to some measure of usefulness
….But
Free to Pursue Life on their terms in exchange for
Silence
Acceptance and
Despair
Huddling for warmth and in
Fear of discovery
they assemble in rag-tag formation
having scaled formidable fences
Seeking freedom from
Poverty and oppression
Searching for work of any sort
….No matter how
Humiliating or
Hard
….No matter the
Cost or
Conditions
Disparaged and despised they labor
in hope that their children will have a chance for success
instead of suffering a similar fate
…..But
Free to Pursue Liberty
in a land where their presence is
Ignored if not Denied
Unkempt in camouflage
One-legged and
Vacant-eyed
he rolls his rickety wheelchair along grassy median with muted effort
displaying cardboard sign
childishly scripted
in one weather-worn and gnarled hand
while clutching a decapitated jug in the other
Forgotten
Forlorn, and
Discarded veteran
Victimized far more by country than foe
….But
Free to Pursue Happiness while
Begging on street corners as
Upright citizens dispense
Unwelcome opinions or
Pocket change with equal
Self-righteousness
Life
Liberty and the
Pursuit of happiness….
Ideals that slowly incinerate on the
Altar of Capitalism
….Songs forever lost in the
Cacophony now
Played on the
Instrument of Politics
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 7:17 PM UTC
There's something majestic, yet also extremely gloomy, about a streetlight at night in the rain. Something, some unplaced dimension within the echoing cars and within the particles of water, as they spray...into oblivion
Mother, do you recall that rainy day?
The day my gumboots soaked through,
I beleive we were waiting for a bus. It was one of those city rains, when all you could dream of was home or the warmth and comfort. When all you wanted was a bath and hot-chocolate or another item of food, steaming with love. Mother, I remember holding to you're body for warmth as we sat under that old wooden bus shelter.
I clung to you're body and melted into you're lingering scent, you're falling breath and you're human form.
You held me, you hid you're shivers so as to warm mine.
We watched the cars spray etheral mist into the orange lights of the city.
We watched lovers rush by under umbrellas, we watched rain curve down the cement like a snake on it's own journey.
We listened,
oh did we ever listen, we ate up the noise, the stories within the rain, we cuddled until we felt the warmth from our bellies rise out of us like smoke or a dragons breath, tainting the air.
I, you're daughter. You, my mother.
You're long hair curling down your breast. Me, like a little berry scrunched up as close to you as I could get. Like our bodies would drip into each other as one, our breath the same. Only my gulps of air came much sooner and you silently resisted my subtle games. When the huddling was done you reached out to me with you're strong hands and you led me along the night of echoes. I can't remeber much else, asides from sitting with you in the empty pizza shop as we both savoured and satisfied our cravings for comfort. Cold-handed laughter as we danced over the most delectable pizza.
Then we caught the bus home, you sat on the red leather, grabbing the creamy yellow bar, I jumped onto the ratty blue seat beside you and leaned once again into you're body, melting into sweet harmonies.
Eating in the sounds of humans and the sound of the bus, splashing through water
and journeying on through the deep
and endless city night.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 3:18 PM UTC
Do women want romantic or authentic.
What do I know, I'm simply an imperfect guy.
Do I know what is more romantic and why
Do I know what is authentic and can I cry
Romantic or Authentic
Is it being at your favorite cafe
Or walking on your favorite trail
Is it listening to the Fray
Or is it feeling alone and abit frail
Romantic or Authentic
Is it cuddling on my couch
Or huddling in a rainstorm
Is it mending your recent Ouch!
Or dancing with awkward form
Romantic or Authentic
Is it holding each other's glance in a crowded bar
Or holding your hair lightly after too many shots
Is it allowing chance to connect from afar
Or revealing our weak side as we become besot
Romantic or Authentic
What will be adored
What will be remembered
Will it be our public shine that is scored
Will it be where we stumbled and clamored
Breathe slow . . . . . .
Breathe deep . . . . . .
Breathe as though . . . . . .
You can't keep . . . . . .
Romantic and Authentic.
I would hope we see each other's shining moments until we fade.
I would hope our memories linger even when frayed.
I would hope we bring our best selves with full abandon.
I would hope we both learn to dance in tandem.
Authentic and Romantic.
I feel it is not just about me
Or just about you.
I feel it's about moments shared free
And feeling what's deeply true.
Authentically Romantic.
It starts as a bubble
Not immune to trouble.
It contains a droplet
Not created by a bracelet.
It's a belief that feels thin
But it needs both feet in.
Romantically Authentic.
Our space becomes a quiet hue.
So white it's blue.
Our true selves expand
Centered and contained.
So fragile and clear
Let's hold it dear.
Aug 12, 2012
Aug 12, 2012 at 1:19 AM UTC
It is docking it is tocking in the winter garden locking
over still and heavy knocking that defies the very dew.
We see storms and angels crumbling under load of dearest kindling and the fire and gases burning in the skies where clouds are churning and the snow, hail, sleet, and ices come to split the air in slices as it settles over houses, villages, shoes.
Waiting huddling drawing the blankets hot and heavy with a fear of powerful nature in the windy savory few.
Now we see and hear the howling like a wolf entangles scowling as she tries to say her fowl and angry message to the blew.
I am never quite so settled as when all around me crumbles and the anger of the desert makes the inner anger moot.
And the people seem to gather in their individual lathers but they all believe the madness that the storm will never pass. But pass it does and finding with the dawn a calm descending, yes, a calm that is so different that it seems to crush our ears. We are happy to look outward and even hear a skylark and to see the streaming sun rays flitter over piles of snow.
Ever angled up in heaven we almost see a dragon or a cannon that's protecting rampart walls.
And we know that we are safe here but it was such a battle that the scars are not quite healed.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 2:17 AM UTC
Because I wanted to be the shade of lace
that hugged at my arcs and ridges,
blushing deeper as you peeled it away
from my skin.
Maroon,
because it painted the
the constellation,carefully planted
down
my
spine
and coloured the speckles of tiny stars,
huddling beneath the fortress of my jaw,
while the others were lost,
but cradled safely
in the dimple of my collar bones.
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 12:30 PM UTC
Tracks trembled, catering for my destination westward, field
alongside industry courted, dancing the miles ahead, celebrating
scenic mystery, roaving in splendour, hills pumping spellbinding
grassy greatness, devouring, readying for mountainous masterpieces
I am sun drenched in strobed springtime, relishing the thaw
of rivers running forever, snowy peaks holding onto winters
shivering tale, huddling cold coats like pashminas trailing....
unfinished,their needlework on pinpoint exercise
Inside I sit next to myself, folding minutes into moments of memory,
tracks decreasing inner city air, and I regard
evermore with special splendour, the developing rocks and craggy cliffs
arriving neatly at the foot of the sea waving white flags, receding, chasing....
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 5:35 PM UTC
*journey slow
and so we go*
donkey carriage over cobblestone
cool morning air, crisp in purpose
head-cap on driver, huddling on whip
daisies on open field, bright faces up
sky still closed ere the eye of dawn
hot perils on heels towards that spot
baker shakes apron.. tiny particles
chemistry bursts into a rolling sun
*I swear it feels familiar
have you been here before?
only wish I could recall
what comes next..*
(hark.. nematoblast-pain!)
but how can one remember that
which....?
st - 22 march 2014
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 6:44 AM UTC
THE MOUTH of this man is a gaunt strong mouth.
The head of this man is a gaunt strong head.
The jaws of this man are bone of the Rocky Mountains, the Appalachians.
The eyes of this man are chlorine of two sobbing oceans,
Foam, salt, green, wind, the changing unknown.
The neck of this man is pith of buffalo prairie, old longing and new beckoning of corn belt or cotton belt,
Either a proud Sequoia trunk of the wilderness
Or huddling lumber of a sawmill waiting to be a roof.
Brother mystery to man and mob mystery,
Brother cryptic to lifted cryptic hands,
He is night and abyss, he is white sky of sun, he is the head of the people.
The heart of him the red drops of the people,
The wish of him the steady gray-eagle crag-hunting flights of the people.
Humble dust of a wheel-worn road,
Slashed sod under the iron-shining plow,
These of service in him, these and many cities, many borders, many wrangles between Alaska and the Isthmus, between the Isthmus and the Horn, and east and west of Omaha, and east and west of Paris, Berlin, Petrograd.
The blood in his right wrist and the blood in his left wrist run with the right wrist wisdom of the many and the left wrist wisdom of the many.
It is the many he knows, the gaunt strong hunger of the many.
2.3k
Vast, empty, midnight hour,
hunchbacked lampposts glaring over parasitic black earth
choking its host.
A parking lot,
an ecosystem’s blemish—
hot tar seeping into the pores of the earth
like a stubborn blackhead in a lip line.
When no cars burrow into the blackened hide
like lice
the great absence of life
is an atrocity.
I imagine myself skateboarding across the tier
as the small town cops
watch languidly with vague interest—
A skateboarder’s paradise
where wheels and accomplice minds roll across celestial barriers
blasting infinite pulses
into the microcosm.
What greasy punks have their mother’s van parked here,
huddling by the heat vents
and jerking off into a Pringle’s can?
Empty parking lot
looks like a cemetery
filled to the brim
where headstones meld
over a mass grave—
delineated by white lines,
the apparitions of vehicles and their hosts
haunt the frozen space.
Another horrible excuse
to waste land,
a wasteland in and of itself
where Tom Eliot saunters aimlessly
and buries the dead.
The saddest sight to behold,
this vacuous parking lot
littered with stray shopping carts,
phantasmal plastic bags,
gum splotches,
***** stains,
candy wrappers,
cigarette butts,
used condoms,
lonely cops
and patient drug dealers,
ambulant skaters,
tired punks,
bored teenagers,
somnambulists,
stumbling drunks,
hunchbacked ***** lights
prying for life beneath its sallow gaze—
The air encapsulated within the perdition
stifling,
the pavement below stifling,
a constriction only visible
when emptied of its contents.
A cop wakes from their choking nightmare gasping
to find themselves trapped,
****** in this parking lot
where the walkie-talkie buzzes
with the weeping and gnashing of teeth.
The warehouse store
looming above the waiting room
lifeless, silent, dark countenance—
Big Brother sees all in the gaping maw.
Cascading before me,
stretching towards the highway passing by,
waiting for the panorama to finish scrolling,
the treadmill to cease its cycle—
all the while lamenting life’s absence
and reveling in the potentiality it possesses.
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 10:18 PM UTC
this is what you call life
wasting minutes in front of a mirror
to make sure the fresh ink on your eyes isn't smudged
and the time melts away as you search
for your second skin in your closet
showing up an hour late
to a street you've never been
to a house at fire capacity
to grind to music you hate
with people you've never called your friends
wiping a spot of powder from your upper lip
as you get thrown from the bathroom filled
with moth girls only attracted to the
harsh light above their reflections
pouring ***** down your throat
as a chaser to someone else's prescription
stumbling into the cool air
with a warm body pressed up next to you
and huddling together in the back of a cab
with their mouth on your neck
waking up to the frost blue light
in a strangers bed
and choking back a sob
with only the memory of perfecting that
black line on your eyelid
writing a note to apologize
for the mascara smear on the pillow case
as you try to find your second skin
this is what you call life
but are you really living
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 10:12 PM UTC
Van Gogh wanted to mix a material rainbow of colors
From primary red, yellow and blue in the sense of divine.
In the Holy Light, the love time of the flower clock discolors.
The empty glasses on the tables lack the Holy wine.
The ideal round tables assume their infinite regress,
While huddling down in a stupor the lonely men around.
Their eyes do not see the sense of life and true noblesse.
From a corner view, silent colors search for the sound.
Tables for awakening, for life and for the fate's game.
In life, a complete circled awareness needs time.
In many forms, the epitome of tableness is the same.
It keeps a purple silence for the painted mother of thyme.
This irreconcilable demon -woman hung on the left wall
Needs that freedom engraved on the emerald green door.
The watch on her hand shows the time for a masked ball.
Destined never to meet are the parallel lines on the floor.
Love is for completing the time as pink is for the emerald green.
In the mirror, this nuance of green reflects the sadness of life.
Against the red, pink and white, in games, the cue tip can lean,
Because all the main complementary colors are at strife.
The white coat of the waiter is a symbol in the glow of the lamp.
The perspective looks somewhat downward toward the floor.
Extending to new dimensions, Eve sits or she just up to vamp.
The flowers wither and the life disappears after an endless war.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
A leaf falls
Brown and wrinkled
Starved of it's trees sweet nectar
A leaf falls
And while they are shedding their summer cloaks
We are adorning ourselves with scarves and hats,
Gloves and mufflers
Shivering at their barely clad skeletons
Huddling around their burning flesh
A leaf falls
It twists and dances in the wind
joyous at it's freedom
joyous as it plummets to the earth
Nourishment for it's mother tree
We watch and marvel at the beauty in the entropy
At the renewal that comes with destruction
A leaf falls
A change is upon us
A rebirth into a crisp and clear world
A leaf falls.
May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 8:07 PM UTC
(Mount Pinatubo and the Aetas)
the mountain god that has slept
for so long
has decided, it is time to rise
and as it opened its eyes
and stretched its invisible limbs
it unlocked a deep fury of destruction
kept inside for years and years
of restraint
not wanting to disturb the people
lying at its feet
worshipers and true believers they are
the few good people left
in this wretched earth
and yet the mountain god
would not keep them safe from
enormous grief and physical pain
they too must suffer
but they are flexible children
they never really complain
ashes flying while lava flows
one by one properties and creatures
were struck down like pins in a bowling alley
it was so fast and so vast
they never really knew what hit them
until it was all over
there are only shadows now
plus sporadic eruptions
the mountain god had made its
presence felt
and as it resumes its former
pose of quiet repose
i see the little black people
huddling together
and coming around
back to sleep at the feet of
the mountain god
as of the start
they said
this is where they were born
and whatever may happen
this is where they will die
so as they reach their
prized destination
i hear a song coming
from their lips
they are dwarfs in stature
but giants in character
i reached out to touch
my little black brothers
with pride
for i love them true.......
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 5:09 AM UTC
**once there were three kittens
three fluffy blue-eyed kittens
huddling in the dusty corner
of a disused swimming pool
where mother cat put them all
one day the rain poured down
in sheets to make all three drown
but they had nine lives by three
so after the rain the kittens still
huddled together waiting still
for mother cat to bring the mice
one morning one kitten was gone
on another morning another went
to join it's semi-wild cousins in the dark
then at last the third kitten leapt out
and was gone to cat hunting grounds
in all this drama the fluffy kittens were cute
cuddly and demure with soft pleading eyes**
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 5:21 PM UTC
the telephone rings at eleven on a weeknight
and i can see you
huddling over a stranger's phone in the streetlamp glare
your skeletal fingers slow and stained with nicotine
pupils shrunken
deer in the headlights
what do you need
the telephone rings at eleven on a weeknight
and i can see you
plucking pills from carpet fibers
scraping your hands through the couch cushions
snatching my allowance from beneath my mattress
prince of thieves
what do you need
the telephone rings at eleven on a weeknight
and i can see you
smiling for the kodak
cooing sonatas against her cold pretty ear
nervous fingers tying the corsage
casanova
what do you need
the telephone rings at eleven on a weeknight
and i can see you
peeking out behind worn fort walls
sketching monsters over saturday morning cartoons
fishing pole in hand
sweet thing
what do you need
the telephone rings at eleven on a weeknight
and i can see you
rewind the tape
first tottering steps
gummy smile
child of love
what do you need
the telephone rings at eleven on a weeknight
and i can hear you
hello
yes
what do you need
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 5:48 PM UTC
Go, my friend, to Tbilisi, where the War of Roses was won. Run the mountainsides and fall into the canyons of lapsed eons. Sunk in the valley wide, past huddling of trees that open and yawn, sprinkles a misting of sunny, dewy rocks where a certain party of gypsies gather. You will only find them there after the picking of the cherry orchards, and if they welcome you, they will feed you their cherry soup. It will intoxicate, but no more than the captivating dance of cherry stained aprons you may be privileged to witness. Dark haired and dark eyed sultanas, ****** from healthy eating and laboring, do motion a curvilinear spell. Band with the men of that tribe, if they will have you. Let them choose for you, a server of cherry soup. Though cherry season is short, your life will lengthen.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 1:44 PM UTC