"hummock" poems
On the sky's hummock
she is like a ziggurat;
a gardener of
stars who takes care of
their shining watching over
their sparkling glimpses.
My only hope that
maybe she intend to look
after our little
and unfortunate
star too. The dim one under
whom our love was born to beam.
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 3:03 PM UTC
Step down from the drone of mid-afternoon sting
to the cool of a bowl in the shade of a spell
where the sphagnum-crawled rocks crouch with buttermilk blooms
and the bog violets pour out their purple perfume.
You will find in the hollow a sparkling jewel
erratically spattered with glittering pools
where the shards of the sun slice their way through the haze
to repose on the throne of the hummock's soft plush.
And all is deep-rooted in moist verdant freshness
with climbers entwined around cascades of vines
and all that's contained in the small mountain's hollow
perpetually thrives in the gold dappled light.
Creep cautiously down to that cavernous bower
immerse all your senses and drench every pore
with the contrast of coolness and shimmering beauty
where you'll tremble and shiver for want of the heat.
May 24, 2010
May 24, 2010 at 7:43 AM UTC
11/15/2015
it has been a while since
i've been to the wetland coppice
teetering close to the neck of
a somerset sourland hummock
soft rushes and pickerel ****
wild lavender and marsh elder
a Canadian goose choking on a
birch branch
it died.
it has been a time since I've been there
timber rattler and weasel
playing in the grounsel
September,
like Wallace Stevens: lonely in
Jersey city.
November dead
cold bright annihilating days
i sometimes walk a mile
cutting across dead garden snakes
they sit in the living room, playing
the Nile is full of waste and bile
i wait alone by this little grove,
hoping that my fickleness of
Conversation topics
can help me now
but my mind, it raced
like a dead horse at a betting show
Sunday morning,
Saturday night really
I read Wallace Stevens in the field
And dream about jersey city
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC
To all those who are love-sick:
Some cry, I want love; I need love!
I am loveless; pity on me;
Love me, love me, love me
PLEASE!
Oh dear, why don’t you see!
Your eyes are closed to it.
Love is a breeze:
It moves the trees, sometimes just the leaves.
It can create waves in the ocean.
Love is whimsical and deep.
What will you give to your lover?
Do you possess a moonstone or stardust?
Have you planted a thousand roses?
Have you mapped the earth
To take your lover
On a journey full of mirth?
No—
I don’t have a moonstone,
nor do I have stardust.
I am poor but have roses and flowers
in all colors.
I will be kind to her limbs.
I can fill her life with passion.
Her organs will thank mine.
Her eyes will peck at mine.
Her hairs I will brush,
Igniting the passion in her soul,
Her vale merging with my knoll,
A hummock
just for her pleasures,
ever waiting, ever desiring.
Your lover is there—
look, look, O young lover!
She is standing right behind you.
When will he make her an offer?
When will he be
on the horse
with a ring?
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 12:32 AM UTC
Molehill to earth
Thud, thud and thud
Hurtling
Molehill to grass
Hair flying
Heart to breath
Thud, thud and thud
Flowing
Heart to head
Feet hurtling
Hummock to leaf
Thud, thud and thud
Flying
Hummock to sky
Arms flailing
Foot to root
Thud and thud
Stepping
Falling
Thud
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 7:10 AM UTC
anxiety stampers on my stomach
worry hampers with my heart
in my throat there lies a hummock
slowly tearing me apart
as it sits there, suffocating
obstructing my wounded airways
my mental health begins degrading
and leaves me in a foggy haze
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC
i enter,
entranced,by the aboreal entrance of the lush and
verdant place,
in which you
choose to exsist
the mist, smelling of
earl grey tea and
ginger cakes.
beckons,
me forward,
thru the curlique trees,
with lemon and limedrop
leaves
and drifting clouds of,
bright sunshine flowers.
in my wake my footprints
become little ponds with
goldfish toes.
ahead, i see you,
all shades of green
swinging,
lacksadaisically
to and fro...
in a hammock,
on a hummock,
between two aged, sandlewood trees
and in your hand,
you hold an island
of purple sand,
and polka dotted,
umbrella trees.
at your feet,
a crooked street
of pastel, pixie condo's
all curves and swerves,
with mushroom roofs
and teardrop windows.
your voice,
like that, of a finely,
strung cello
sings songs of welcome
to my jubilant heart
and i stop and think
you are a curious fellow.
i sit myself down,
with care
for the pixies fair
and soon fall asleep
to the lullaby of the aforementioned cello....
...alas when i awake
your no longer there
and i wonder if
you were,
just the aftereffects
of too much cake....
.....but wait
did i just hear
a pixie,
giggle,
a smiggle
up there,
behind my left ear.
...i so hope
that i did....
don't you?
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 8:39 PM UTC
outward brain stem hummock
analogously, (asper bound
minuscule magnum opus)
figuratively paginated with drowned
atavistic animal instincts
roar back to life upon found
perceived or real threat adrenaline
splashes cerebral hemispheres
triggering body electric
to become alert as a blood hound
countless millenniums ago
the flight or fight reaction apropos
when savage beasts
threatened tribe with bro
whizzing primitive creatures some forced tweet crow
wing, thence railing, swooping,
trouncing dough
main housing small cluster of emo
ting primates (gabbling in primal
grunts and groans witnessing ruminants
scurrying to and fro
survival of the fittest danger field
thus by dint of inherent smarts didst grow
outwitting wily coyote, or other lion eyes, ***
ping automatic saving grace tactics recalled,
when looming predator doth woof
and warp emergency arises,
when debacle fore stalled
for time against getting mauled
whereby each subsequent ruse
out foxing fierce-some, hungry non a mew
zing potential breakfast, lunch,
or dinner as the sorry loo
sir aye sic newt ton, sans this non nonsense game of "Life",
which thru countless millenniums strategies grew
layered upon left and right cerebral hemispheres few
till hetty became diminished
as con tra bands of bipedal hominids drew
upon accumulated storied history
learned from Bubba Zayda's
many times over motley crew
squirreling modus operandi
wove (traversing eons)
corpus collosum hair
(more so nerve fiber weave
a microscopic whirled wide web linkedin
left and right fist size gray matter
coated with transparent integument
custom made swiftly tailored sleeve
ah...proving grounds,
when forebears of **** Sapiens
touch and go tagged on permanent leave
on par with imagining dragons easy to believe.
Mar 17, 2018
Mar 17, 2018 at 7:22 PM UTC
There are more blood in the fields
crushed in the dust of the land
and in the roots of many young sprouts.
It is born with the sun
the spirit of antiquity and eternal existence
long time ago that I used to construct.
In the fields the wind still flows
and carries the voice
where it is heard more.
In the woods near the hummock
irrelevant and empty,
where streams continue to roar...
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 8:24 AM UTC
The Hummock
There is a hill behind the houses rounded and soft
I call it a -mother hill- and it welcome you and softly
Murmur, how do you do and leave you alone to sit
On a boulder and think how incredible life is.
If you sit there too long enjoying your sentimentality
It wakes you up the rock get cold and the northerly
Blow that has a fragrance of Siberia, reindeer and *****
So you walk about to keep warm and see wildflowers
Hiding behind stones, but pick them you cannot they
Are not yours will wizen in your hands and bring rain
Walk softly now the aroma of spring is in the grass.
Just behind the hill a hillock grey as October fall, but
Out of sight and no trees grow on it scrawny side it
The mother hill's burden which it bears with fortitude
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 3:37 AM UTC