"hurries" poems
The light beyond the windowpane reads like the lines of a poem
And the headlights crash into streams on their way home
The lampshade brushes your arm and crushes you like a stone
You're still there but over here you're all alone
The streets are all black or maybe it's just the night
The day was long but now it's time to make it right
But when your memories are wrong and blurred out of sight,
Do you really have the strength to put up a fight?
You light your cigarette and close one, ****** eye
"Don't bat a lash" says the woman who last made you cry
And she follows you down to the depths of your mind
She complicates your soul and then she just hurries by
Somewhere down the alley, towards the church bells of dawn
You hear a voice that slowly carries on
Like a lost whippoorwill still whispering its song
A feeling comes over you and you wonder why you waited so long
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 4:09 AM UTC
130
These are the days when Birds come back—
A very few—a Bird or two—
To take a backward look.
These are the days when skies resume
The old—old sophistries of June—
A blue and gold mistake.
Oh fraud that cannot cheat the Bee—
Almost thy plausibility
Induces my belief.
Till ranks of seeds their witness bear—
And softly thro’ the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf.
Oh Sacrament of summer days,
Oh Last Communion in the Haze—
Permit a child to join.
Thy sacred emblems to partake—
They consecrated bread to take
And thine immortal wine!
5.3k
Stretching and shouldering night away a sun crouches
to birth black's ousting
by one more empty circle of dark's hollowed pouches
then outs in sparkling showers.
Spangled with myriad star-labour unfolding membranes,
like numberless leaves
dreamers listen to soft serenades as the universe favours
lullaby-songs to deep breathing.
Silvered surface shivers with night-eyes as glittery dust
follows with dart-swift
flight each soul's winged journey while murmuring such
mysteries to those sleeping still.
Glimmers on sightless horizon reveal light's celebration
while untrodden dew
newly writhing in close-capped life waits inertia's frame
stirring to shake before rising.
Piercing the brain time's needle regathers worn threads
and remembers that more
sown seed means now-grown grain needs re-collection
in daylight's mind-aware storage.
Open-eyed, naught is over as hinging on less or more,
sun, with slumber done,
now hurries to open the thin partition between yawns
of torpidity to more hours won.
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 5:12 PM UTC
On this my happy and blessed day
fondly I remember what Mother always said
upon some naughty day when I made her sad
stalling on her bidding and not being a good boy
Son, live straight and be easy to interpret
Life is a complex menu of choices. Still -
you can cruise along if there’s love in your life
I remember the wistful poetry from my father’s lips
Creamy words spoken in jest or in epic tales
and untutored philosophy when he spoke of his going:
Death has come and it’s time for last words
My life has dragged by but now how it hurries!
Be the person that you must and **** the rest!
A truly rich person shares what they value most
And so it is that I’ve shared my heart and my mind
In numerous lines of poetry that has dared me to write it
On this my 66th birthday I read no ills in this number
For I’m just a wayfarer looking for words along my route
I pick the gems that sparkle and dazzle as I stroll to eternity
The landmarks on my route are
The friends I made and lost along the way
The doleful souls that brought tears to my eyes
The pretty girls that taught me I could never have them all
I remember too the places I’ve been to
And the songs of my people – lively commentaries on everything
And how life always lay waiting to be lived
My day of birth is my day of possibilities
And I keep hearing the line from the jazz classic:
Get your kicks on Route 66!
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 2:12 AM UTC
i radiate light
most of my hours
but that's not to say
i am always okay
day after day
everything changes
you, me, the trees
my mood + their leaves
the sky never hurries
the mountains don't try
the bees and the moss
without judgement
_s u r v i v e_
unapologetically
spinning, the earth
moves along
qualities i hope
we all can
take on
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 9:49 PM UTC
When midnight comes a host of dogs and men
Go out and track the badger to his den,
And put a sack within the hole, and lie
Till the old grunting badger passes by.
He comes an hears—they let the strongest loose.
The old fox gears the noise and drops the goose.
The poacher shoots and hurries from the cry,
And the old hare half wounded buzzes by.
They get a forked stick to bear him down
And clap the dogs and take him to the town,
And bait him all the day with many dogs,
And laugh and shout and fright the scampering hogs.
He runs along and bites at all he meets:
They shout and hollo down the noisy streets.
He turns about to face the loud uproar
And drives the rebels to their very door.
The frequent stone is hurled where’er they go;
When badgers fight, then everyone’s a foe.
The dogs are clapped and urged to join the fray’
The badger turns and drives them all away.
Though scarcely half as big, demure and small,
He fights with dogs for hours and beats them all.
The heavy mastiff, savage in the fray,
Lies down and licks his feet and turns away.
The bulldog knows his match and waxes cold,
The badger grins and never leaves his hold.
He drives the crowd and follows at their heels
And bites them through—the drunkard swears and reels
The frighted women take the boys away,
The blackguard laughs and hurries on the fray.
He tries to reach the woods, and awkward race,
But sticks and cudgels quickly stop the chase.
He turns again and drives the noisy crowd
And beats the many dogs in noises loud.
He drives away and beats them every one,
And then they loose them all and set them on.
He falls as dead and kicked by boys and men,
Then starts and grins and drives the crowd again;
Till kicked and torn and beaten out he lies
And leaves his hold and crackles, groans, and dies.
3.1k
Near a town of history untold
Where everyone knows each name
Wooden behemoths - obliviously old
Each unique but each the same
It was meant to be a perfect day
Of tranquility through the trees
Instead, the sky is brood with grey
And the leafs flow as they please
Alone, in nature's splendor spilled
In a rainy wilderness, seldom seen
The birds and insects grow suddenly still
In a spread silence of the green
Like eyes embedded in your back
You sense the stare of something sour
The mood hurries to horrid black
As you quiver into a cower
In bending branches blended
Creeping in creases - camouflaged
Nature's imbalance to be amended
In the forest's full mirage
Witness a terror appearing
Frantically floating from afar
Emerged in echoes and vaguely veering
Black, bleak and bizarre
A malevolent, monstrous maw
Snarls of hunger, habit, and hate
A malodor of meat, reeking raw
A violently increasing heart rate
From frozen still to fearfully shaking
You are manically mesmerised
Your pupils promptly dilating
As you and the beast lock eyes
Your meaningless attempt to run
From a stride to a collapse
The beams above crown the sun
As the twigs around you snap
A soar of pain as you hit the ground
Chest cavity cracked open
As you faint, you hear the sound
Of a language never spoken.
Gutted and gargling gore
Eaten by nature's nightmare
Convulsing on a forest floor
Indifference chokes the air
It's just another perfect day
Of tranquility in the trees
The rain has stopped, the leafs still sway
With the cooling, comfortable breeze
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 3:46 PM UTC
The wild duck startles like a sudden thought,
And heron slow as if it might be caught.
The flopping crows on weary wings go by
And grey beard jackdaws noising as they fly.
The crowds of starnels whizz and hurry by,
And darken like a clod the evening sky.
The larks like thunder rise and suthy round,
Then drop and nestle in the stubble ground.
The wild swan hurries hight and noises loud
With white neck peering to the evening clowd.
The weary rooks to distant woods are gone.
With lengths of tail the magpie winnows on
To neighbouring tree, and leaves the distant crow
While small birds nestle in the edge below.
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ACT I
DAD: in his late 50's.
TRISTAN: around ten or eleven-years old GLADWIN: in her early 40's.
TRISTAN Dad?
Scene 1
Interior of a cheesy, unkempt motel room. DAD
channel-surfs the cable television, the remote in
his right hand, a cigarette in his left. He's
sitting on the edge of the bed. TRISTAN is on the
bed behind him, crying.
DAD
Yeah bud?
TRISTAN
Is Mom gonna **** herself?
DAD
Well, I hope so.
TRISTAN Dad!
DAD
(Chuckles). What?
TRISTAN
Stop! I'm scared. What if she does?
DAD
Why are you worried? I'm not that lucky.
TRISTAN
(Screaming). C'mon, Dad!
DAD
What? (Chuckles again, longer this time). I'm not.
TRISTAN
Dad, stop. What if she really does?
DAD
Trist, don't be stupid. No one who's really going to
**** themselves tells you like that. They don't sing it
out loud. She's whistling Dixie.
TRISTAN
(Sobbing at this point). Dad, I love Mom.
DAD
(Pause). I know, and I-
(DAD'S cellphone rings. He answers
immediately)
Hold on, Trist. It's your fat mother.
Hello? Yeah. Yeah, you have this kid scared to death.
Would you just tell him you're--What? Alright, Glad.
Well enough's enough. (Pause). Okay. (Reacting loudly).
Oh, quit screaming in my ear! Trist, (extends the phone
to TRISTAN) here.
spotlight comes up on GLADWIN, who is stageleft,
lying in bed and on the phone.
GLADWIN
Trist! Trist? Say goodbye to Mama. I'm going away.
TRISTAN
Wait! Don't do anything bad, please.
GLADWIN
I'm gonna swallow my pills, Trist. I'm gonna take them
all and I won't be around anymore, honey...
TRISTAN
No! Mom, don't!
GLADWIN
...so just say goodbye to Mama and don't ever...
TRISTAN
Mom! Stop. Please, stop, just don't!
GLADWIN
...forget that I love you.
Spotlight goes out on GLADWIN.
TRISTAN
No! (Looks at DAD). Dad, she can't!
(He drops the cellphone)
Oh my God!
(Leaping off the bed and fumbling with
the phone in his hands, he hurries it to
his ear)
Hello? Mom? Mom?
(He closes the phone and quickly reopens
it. He dials GLADWIN'S cellphone)
DAD
Trist, take it easy. She's fine. Stop calling and go to
bed.
TRISTAN
She won't answer! (Breaking down). She won't answer.
(Lets out a piercing cry). Dad!
(DAD lights another cigarette and pulls
TRISTAN onto the bed and under his right
arm)
DAD
(Rubbing TRISTAN'S back gently). Go to sleep, babe.
She'll be there tomorrow morning.
TRISTAN
But--
DAD
Ah, ah! What did I just say? Everything will be okay.
TRISTAN
(Calming, but still anxious). You promise?
DAD
Promise, kiddo.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 3:17 PM UTC
Knee length skirt, cotton cami,
lace shrug, and heels.
All black.
Fair skin, blonde hair, blue eyes. Very pretty.
My children edge past her, past the Other Women,
on their way to the park.
Son takes a second look, then hurries on. Vans squeak
through sodden grass.
Baggy jeans soak up puddles of mud.
Typical twelve-year-old boy.
They return,
plastered in cut-grass, flushed-pink and grinning.
Daughter cradles the ball, and
crows about winning, while
The Pretty One, the Other Women,
alternate tuts with
oh-what-it-is-to-be-youngs
…
but The Pretty One,
she's only
twelve.
Jul 31, 2012
Jul 31, 2012 at 12:11 PM UTC
Among the taller wood with ivy hung,
The old fox plays and dances round her young.
She snuffs and barks if any passes by
And swings her tail and turns prepared to fly.
The horseman hurries by, she bolts to see,
And turns agen, from danger never free.
If any stands she runs among the poles
And barks and snaps and drive them in the holes.
The shepherd sees them and the boy goes by
And gets a stick and progs the hole to try.
They get all still and lie in safety sure,
And out again when everything’s secure,
And start and snap at blackbirds bouncing by
To fight and catch the great white butterfly.
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There are crackles and scratches woven here;
bridges and highways where little things run.
Over tangles of brambles and berries
a bud’s coming out; a hand lying open in grass.
There is bracken crisping; brown and dry;
shaded by waxy leaves where water ***** roll.
There are bees in the air, flitting around.
Air which is thick with nectar and pollen.
It’s dense in here; cramped thorns twist,
ears are twitching, claws scratch on bark.
When the light goes away eyes start to shine,
the scurrying gets furious, noises in darkness.
An owl glides down and a mouse hurries up
but quicker than light, he’s swept from the ground.
Spiralling up from his hawthorn nest
He’s stolen away; into the night.
Sparrows whistle, a feather snags on a branch
and the moon bows down to the lilac dawn.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 8:32 PM UTC
He looks at her lying there sleeping with a smile on his face
He shuts his eyes
Opens them and sees her beckoning to him
He goes to her
Takes her in his arms and murmurs sweet nothings till she is asleep again
He shuts his eyes
Opens them again and he's still standing there watching her sleep
He watches her as she speaks so animatedly
The light from the harsh fluorescent bulb hardly diminishes the angles, the planes, the beauty of her face
He watched the pleasure in her face turns to sorrow as she recounts her troubles
And as he wished with all his might that he could take her in his arms to comfort her
He shuts his eyes
And opens them
He goes to her
Takes her in his arms
Comforts her as she cries out her anguish
He shuts his eyes
Opens them again
And he's still sitting in his seat
Watching her pour her soul out
He's standing by the door
As she bids him goodbye
She saunters over to him
Hugs him goodbye
As she walked away
He shuts his eyes
Opens them
And hurries over to her
With a whisper as soft as butterfly wings
He says "I'm in love with you"
He shuts his eyes
And opens them again
He's still standing by the door
As she hurried away to her ride
With the words still unspoken
He lay down in his bed
Thinking about the day
As he closes his eyes
He goes back to dreaming about her
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 1:46 PM UTC
It is the same garden that holds,
Prickly rose bushes,
Healing basil and spritely marigolds.
It is here the bees fly, birds rest their wings,
It is here every morning the nightingale sings.
It is here the hare scampers, the squirrel scurries,
The snake slithers, the rodent hurries.
It is here the gecko hides, the worm crawls,
The bat flies when darkness falls.
In the mud and the dirt, the soil and the gravel,
In coarse little stones, smooth little pebbles,
In topaz skies, in waters azure,
In a lotus that blossoms in a world impure.
In the siesta of flowers, the fiesta of leaves,
In the dance of raindrops serenaded by a breeze.
In summer's golden glare, autumns russet finger
In the green breath of spring, the white hand of winter..
Beauty in His creations, in every season,
In every color for a rainbow of reasons.
Each special and each rare,
Each, in a bough or burrow,
Has a niche somewhere.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 9:12 AM UTC
The baby can't stop crying
As she places it in the box
She finds a dumpster to throw it in
As she walks along the docks
There was nothing else, she could do
A mother, at only fifteen
She hurries away as fast as she can
As she hears her baby scream
A runaway, she's all alone
An addict, for years on crack
Her baby left alone to die
But still, she won't turn back
Thrown away, like a piece of trash
A baby, without a name
An innocent child abandoned
By a mother who bears no blame
Another victim of circumstance
Shamelessly, cast aside
With no one there to hear it's cries
The abandoned baby died
Apr 11, 2010
Apr 11, 2010 at 4:35 AM UTC
The moon, a sweeping scimitar, dipped in the stormy straits,
The dawn, a crimson cataract, burst through the eastern gates,
The cliffs were robed in scarlet, the sands were cinnabar,
Where first two men spread wings for flight and dared the hawk afar.
There stands the cunning workman, the crafty past all praise,
The man who chained the Minotaur, the man who built the Maze.
His young son is beside him and the boy's face is a light,
A light of dawn and wonder and of valor infinite.
Their great vans beat the cloven air, like eagles they mount up,
Motes in the wine of morning, specks in a crystal cup,
And lest his wings should melt apace old Daedalus flies low,
But Icarus beats up, beats up, he goes where lightnings go.
He cares no more for warnings, he rushes through the sky,
Braving the crags of ether, daring the gods on high,
Black 'gainst the crimson sunset, golden o'er cloudy snows,
With all Adventure in his heart the first winged man arose.
Dropping gold, dropping gold, where the mists of morning rolled,
On he kept his way undaunted, though his breaths were stabs of cold,
Through the mystery of dawning that no mortal may behold.
Now he shouts, now he sings in the rapture of his wings,
And his great heart burns intenser with the strength of his desire,
As he circles like a swallow, wheeling, flaming, gyre on gyre.
Gazing straight at the sun, half his pilgrimage is done,
And he staggers for a moment, hurries on, reels backward, swerves
In a rain of scattered feathers as he falls in broken curves.
Icarus, Icarus, though the end is piteous,
Yet forever, yea, forever we shall see thee rising thus,
See the first supernal glory, not the ruin hideous.
You were Man, you who ran farther than our eyes can scan,
Man absurd, gigantic, eager for impossible Romance,
Overthrowing all Hell's legions with one warped and broken lance.
On the highest steeps of Space he will have his dwelling-place,
In those far, terrific regions where the cold comes down like Death
Gleams the red glint of his pinions, smokes the vapor of his breath.
Floating downward, very clear, still the echoes reach the ear
Of a little tune he whistles and a little song he sings,
Mounting, mounting still, triumphant, on his torn and broken wings!
2.4k
They walk beside me
always late for something.
Quickening loafers
compete against themselves
emphasising their importance.
Go!
Choking on their breath
in an over-zealous attempt to identify
What's freedom?
This fastened reality
Punctures inner peace
my energy disperses
Like a balloon buzzing as it loses momentum.
When did Life become a marathon?
When will I decide where I want to be?
Conversations shout themselves out..
an energetic argument before their words reach the air..
Will you ever confront your disguised pains?
My mind's elsewhere..
I'm trying to figure out
the last time I saw your body unclench itself.
And i'm a little confused,
because I don't know whether to accept your denial
or
continue to disconnect from reality.
And I question,
If we all mirror eachother, what part of myself cannot find peace in you?
I observe this anxiety in motion
stuck forever in a hurry
leading itself down roads that end where they began.
And I wonder,
*If their legs were to rest
would they have to pick their head up from the floor?*
Like buddhas in a city,
their lives are a fast forwarded tomorrow
as the present hurries along.
And I ponder,
Does the truth stop blinding when silence doesn't teach?
A quickening motion
Changing with every step.
Acceleration..
human race...
Go!
Chasing of thy death..
Apr 17, 2012
Apr 17, 2012 at 7:15 PM UTC
Southeast, and storm, and every weathervane
shivers and moans upon its dripping pin,
ragged on chimneys the cloud whips, the rain
howls at the flues and windows to get in,
the golden rooster claps his golden wings
and from the Baptist Chapel shrieks no more,
the golden arrow in the southeast sings
and hears on the roof the Atlantic Ocean roar.
Waves among wires, sea scudding over poles,
down every alley the magnificence of rain,
dead gutters live once more, the deep manholes
hollow in triumph a passage to the main.
Umbrellas, and in the Gardens one old man
hurries away along a dancing path,
listens to music on a watering-can,
observes among the tulips the sudden wrath,
pale willows thrashing to the needled lake,
and dinghies filled with water; while the sky
smashes the lilacs, swoops to shake and break,
till shattered branches shriek and railings cry.
Speak, Hatteras, your language of the sea:
scour with kelp and spindrift the stale street:
that man in terror may learn once more to be
child of that hour when rock and ocean meet.
2.2k
WHAT woman hugs her infant there?
Another star has shot an ear.
What made the drapery glisten so?
Not a man but Delacroix.
What made the ceiling waterproof?
Landor's tarpaulin on the roof
What brushes fly and moth aside?
Irving and his plume of pride.
What hurries out the knaye and dolt?
Talma and his thunderbolt.
Why is the woman terror-struck?
Can there be mercy in that look?
2.2k
ordinary morning, late, bright and clear
weekend, no hurries, lets stay on in bed
in a flash, thunderous roar from above
mountainuous rock crashing, my mind saw
the skies echoed, rumbling in agony
rumbled and rumbled, on and on and on
strange sinister sound, trapped constant droning
UFO? baby superman landed?
rushed outside: no crash, just clouds in clear sky
rumble, rumble, rumble, man-made or what?
thundering, faint and far, near and muffled
none thunderous as the first rock that fell
then it rained: heavy; a soothing warm rush
droning masked, but strangeness etched, and lingered.
Apr 15, 2019
Apr 15, 2019 at 3:43 AM UTC
The hiker cannot dwell there long,
concealed on a high gull-lined cliff,
overlooking the grey of the Sound.
Framed in a solemn March day,
two curiously juxtaposed species hold her gaze.
Silent as a fawn she watches
a black wolf beneath her arboreal outpost,
hunched in the fashion of Asian street vendors,
observing the other creatures.
Great humpbacks frolic in icy waters ---
spouting volcano plumes of spray
that catch the freshened wind ---
riding white-capped waves,
till entropy dissolves their mist to atomized brine.
Whale-song, too distant for the hiker's gentle ears,
comes rolling in tsunami-like
to the aurally attuned wolf,
which ***** its head and nods
in musical agreement with the odes.
Then little lupine brother
rears back his head and howls,
so sorrowful a moan, as she has ever heard ---
answering his water-brethren,
hunters of krill upon the seas.
Giggling at the incongruity of this lone celebrant
singing pack-songs to leviathans,
she hurries on her way,
lone wolf herself returning to the pack.
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 10:12 PM UTC
I wake to touch the September morning chill
The early dew glistens in the mornings hue; it softens the low mist that abounds
A fox scurries away after his night of slaughter
Whilst mushrooms make their early morning rounds, only to disappear before the dew dries
As the day takes over from the dawn
Crows proclaim their territory and squabble with the rooks
The last murmurs of the morning chorus end its melodious run
A field mouse hurries away and awaits to coming of the warming sun
This September morn sends a shiver down my spine, its beauty personified by its stillness
My breath, fogs the air like a puff of smoke that mingles with the early morning mist
Only to lose its authority to the surrounding break of day haze
Crunching sounds of each step echos on the frosty grass, leaving a first impression
The only clue that I had walked this way before
Soon many will follow to hide my trace, as in my life, my achievements are marred by those more worthy of recognition
September morn I cry out to you: Be my inspiration, and warm me with your promise of the day ahead
Too soon I will bewail your passing, to soon will Mother Nature cast her winter cloak
But I know you will return once again to thrill me with your splendour
I will awake once more to touch your morning chill
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 10:56 PM UTC
Her voice echoes through the empty hallways. She is loud but alone. The tears that you see are only a fraction of all the tears she actually cries. Her hair is long and blonde, but she despises it. She wants to shave it all off, to tattoo her skull to show that caring is superficial and WRONG. She lines her blue eyes with a liner called "denim". She throws on jeans that hug her body and a t-shirt stained with hot chocolate. She covers the brown stain with a scarf. She puts on chapstick because who knows? Maybe someone will think she's important enough to kiss her. Her brand-new bangs cover her forehead and eyes. They cover the hoop earrings that feel too girly, too pretty. Everything about her today just feels WRONG. The boy she likes is just one table over, and he doesn't glance at her once the entire hour. She hurries out of the room , not looking back. She bursts into spanish class, out of breath and ready for the boredom that will be the next hour. And then it is back to study hall. It is all too repetitive for her. It is her first day back and already she looks out the door, ready to go home. It isn't like she's got any friends there either, she's an only child and her dad works overseas. The rest of the day is a blur. It passes and she doesn't notice or care. And that boy still hasn't noticed her. No one has. She is but an empty shadow of a heart in a hollow shell of a body that wants to be warmed by another.
But it isn't meant to be...
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 10:20 AM UTC
As often-times the too resplendent sun
Hurries the pallid and reluctant moon
Back to her sombre cave, ere she hath won
A single ballad from the nightingale,
So doth thy Beauty make my lips to fail,
And all my sweetest singing out of tune.
And as at dawn across the level mead
On wings impetuous some wind will come,
And with its too harsh kisses break the reed
Which was its only instrument of song,
So my too stormy passions work me wrong,
And for excess of Love my Love is dumb.
But surely unto Thee mine eyes did show
Why I am silent, and my lute unstrung;
Else it were better we should part, and go,
Thou to some lips of sweeter melody,
And I to nurse the barren memory
Of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung.
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