"implements" poems
128
Bring me the sunset in a cup,
Reckon the morning’s flagons up
And say how many Dew,
Tell me how far the morning leaps—
Tell me what time the weaver sleeps
Who spun the breadth of blue!
Write me how many notes there be
In the new Robin’s ecstasy
Among astonished boughs—
How many trips the Tortoise makes—
How many cups the Bee partakes,
The Debauchee of Dews!
Also, who laid the Rainbow’s piers,
Also, who leads the docile spheres
By withes of supple blue?
Whose fingers string the stalactite—
Who counts the wampum of the night
To see that none is due?
Who built this little Alban House
And shut the windows down so close
My spirit cannot see?
Who’ll let me out some gala day
With implements to fly away,
Passing Pomposity?
6.5k
I want you to paint me,
and leave your mark.
Use my skin as your canvas,
Make me your work of art.
I want you to draw on me,
make me your personal sketch.
Using implements as pencils,
With each mark that you etch.
I want you to colour me,
in your signature shade.
Rosey pink with crimson red,
Then bid it not to fade.
I want you to hurt me,
as only you can do.
Make me pay for your misfortunes,
Tell me i deserve it too.
I want you to punish me,
show me you’re not weak.
Dispose of your bad luck,
Make my pain your winning streak.
I don’t know how to love you,
if you don’t hurt me too.
I don’t know how to treat you.
I will end up hurting you!
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 1:11 PM UTC
Last night a young poet’s voice
tore so deep within
that it ripped my soul apart.....
Her words of birds and cages and gravity
and what human does to human
brought me back to wind swept hills
where the was sky blue enough to drown in
and vast enough to blanket all corners of the earth
where I, as a boy, worked and wandered
wandered through words
words spoken in telling
and words raged in rage
As I pulled the implements of grain through the soil
I learned to think
the dust I raised drifted across the land
bringing with it my thoughts
passed horizons, passed the hills
to distant lands
torn by the pains of love, of war, of loss
and
of what human does to human
His rage was the desperation of a soul shredded
by war
by what human does to human
he was caged
between what he had seen
and that he should still posses some hope
between witnessing the destruction of a world
and believing in a world
But deep within him I had always heard a voice
a voice buried deep beneath his rage
a voice..... he could no longer hear
but I
could always hear
“no matter how long I am caged
no matter how long the gravity of ignorance and hate,
the gravity of hubris and destruction binds and
holds down my soul,
I was alway meant to fly,
we were all....meant to fly....”
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 10:30 AM UTC
1574
No ladder needs the bird but skies
To situate its wings,
Nor any leader’s grim baton
Arraigns it as it sings.
The implements of bliss are few—
As Jesus says of Him,
“Come unto me” the moiety
That wafts the cherubim.
2.4k
dead bodies while alive poor Porphyria
strangled by her own hair
which could be no Fairy tale ,
jabberwocky, listens
as does that famous semicolon concise;
By Ezra Pound.
creepy
innocence or infamous
we all get to sooner.
On to Popeye
"Farm Implements......"
title and poem supplied by Ashbury,
hang an albatross but don't shoot it
Mr. Coleridge,
it will hang around your neck.
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 12:53 AM UTC
It is simple, and yet sublime;
Incapturable.
You need not go in,
Take away the man, destabilising the economy
That you so love
Letting them die
You need not assassinate and collaborate,
Scheme and puncture
Spheres of influence that stretch and bubble
In Latin America and Southern Asia,
You need not sign secrets away
Safe and deep
In silos and bunkers
Where Armageddon sleeps.
You need not supply, buy and axchange
Implements of violence and rage,
Picking sides in civil war, tribal conlflict
And bigger,
In lands you do not understand
Lands where the mountains resonate with holiness,
Lands of spiritual awakening awaiting for the young;
Concepts you can’t grasp, that don’t sit well
You need leave them be.
Enough has been done,
Not always with bad intention
But rarely for the greater good
Enough has been said and bought and replaced
Captured, shot at, disgraced,
Caricatured into funny cartoons
Taken over, the masters’ role assumed.
For all the radars and sonar
It seems impossible to listen;
Simple, yet sublime.
Incapturable.
Irreplaceable.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
Frail demeanor of library index cards
packed with Dewey’s decimals
stared upon so many times
some of you stigmatized with graffiti
“Read This” and “Don’t Read This”
as if the vandal knows
I wish to ****** each one of you
good precise direction you give
care in punctilious hand print
of maimed athenaeum tenders
all with long stretched noses
bridging reading spectacles
eyeing out naughty gigglers
stigmatized themselves by
rolled up quaffs
with pushed in pencils
or retractable ballpoint pens
writing implements held so delicately
while you were ascribed
O index cards of my shielded youth
how you protected me, informed me
Guided me on treasure hunts
where my imaginings still take me
away, in isles of knowledge
information coded in numbers and letters
Yours is the power
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 8:21 AM UTC
Tossing the pigskin
Burrowing and displaying the Ostrich effect
All applause for the chairman of the board of trustees
And all the spiddle on his back up shirt
Mortify them
An incomplete pass
Rally the troops
For unfinished business
Shift gears
Reread the post script
"P.S. The unzipped flies of store owners trying to replicate the success of their fathers. Piddle about, play with implements of torture, instruments of destruction. Wander in the wilderness, grunt and sigh as your civilized brain rattles. Make way for Plan B, and fill out the forms in triplicate. Fumbling at the controls, emergency landing. The gear shift and crankshaft have given out. Listen to the titillating chatter of the disappointed passengers who all longed for the window seat.
Always your's
Edmund Balthazar "
Take two
I could slap you
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 8:59 PM UTC
The sisters:
http://beautyineverything.com/2185290505
There will be no rest tonight for you and me,
for soon we shall meet the Sisters three.
T'was on this very night back in 1969,
three sisters lived in this house of mine,
happy, healthy as such their youth would be,
until on a dark chilly night came great misery.
From beyond the closet door had there dwell,
a phantom beast from the rank depths of Hell,
how came it summoned, no one yet knows,
but, with a silent lurch and bellow it then arose.
The siblings stared with terror and disbelief,
whilst the creature tore away their linen sheets,
fell upon them in a monstrous screaming rage,
tore them limb from limb with its claws like blades.
The horror though had not yet reached an end,
for it tore their flesh and hung their hearts in offend
upon it's black ragged cloak-sleeve as a trophy grim,
then ****** and drew at their soul-sparks with a grin,
for to take their lives was not enough to sin in hate,
but it was to enslave their spirits, the goal to activate.
And now, where we together lay in wait,
here come the sisters three to date,
and with our implements of revision,
we shall attempt our exorcism.
Hark! Now from beyond our chamber door,
the sounds of the undead wail and roar,
and as they near the entrance-way,
we shall stand steady, fearless and not as prey.
(What will happen to our exorcists?--Anyone care to complete the saga?)
Oct 10, 2010
Oct 10, 2010 at 5:05 PM UTC
I am an
emotional
archeologist
digging d
e
e
p
into the contours
of the heart
trying to discern
what spots
need tender healing,
how to treat and
soothe its
fissured parts
I am a soul-mind
excavator
discerning
temperature and hue
measuring the depths
of textures
as we get down
to the root
We work hard,
my team and I
mapping earthen layers
we use the implements
of wisdom
to try and heal
this pain acute
and as we gently
cut through the strata
of history, of scars
I know that this
explorer's work
is worth it
for we will reach up
to the stars
So we continue on
in patience,
into the
blazing core
like truth-warriors
like healers
unlocking secret
ancient treasures
that will rise up
to the
fore
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 8:40 PM UTC
Tractors chug
and the new ones Zoom
up the road
Pulling all sorts
trailers and implements;
all to tame the Earth
and help thrive livestock
to fill fridges and freezers
and bellies needing feeding
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC
Dietary supplements
Self-inflicted implements
Gastronomical desires
Quenched as if fire
Turning heads from meat
To vegetables and wheat
Years pass by
You shrivel and die.
Feb 6, 2010
Feb 6, 2010 at 4:24 PM UTC
*The insidious wrath of age has pilfered her beauty ..
Rusted chains hang in quietude , wrenched in dubious functionality ....
Superfluous stockyards , fencing long in need of repairs ..
Barns that once bustled with the drudgery of agriculture can only whisper ..
Wind chimes trill in the cold afternoon , the crack of the hammer to the anvil gone ..
Tractor implements lie frozen , a lone Crow stands guard over barren orchards* ..
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 5:36 PM UTC
With lift-off intention I jumped to fly.
I was something like root grounded tree.
Taking flight was so absolutely hard,
though my guru counseled me.
With acquired and studied implements
I tried to cut each holding.
My intellect in truth was rather dull,
though Spirit bolding.
In hieroglyphic's manual page 222
I intuited hints, incantations true.
Here for scheming:
Fly-O Fly-O Fly Fly-O!
I recited that fortissimo for a week
in lucid dreaming.
Then my weighed body, my un-weighed soul
together I suppose remembered it simply,
that God had intimated flight for me
(gratuitously gave).
In classical mind's eye I spied
Icarus sploshing in a wave.
Entered in-- Ab-or-ig-inal Self.
Whoa, I said, hello!
shocked at that showing.
I know... I know... I know...
with ease -- be natural, just be still.
Unequivocally state
(this way make your start)
I need help.
so I believed it
I spoke it
and then I sailed and sailed away
with freedom, my heart.
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 7:05 AM UTC
Frightful abilities were pressured into
responses as the computer children
failed at hitherto reliable performance.
This was a description of the synchronous
effect brought into the shudder with a
catch in the breath of the mother,
and written by frenetic action that
destroyed the logical sequence of requests
presented by the mouse and the typing keys.
As directed through an esoteric process of
recovery, the minds of the device reoriented,
again attaining the ability to perform simple
and repetitive tasks as obliged by designated
prompts. There was no certainty this was not
related to the telephone connection which
picked thinking out of the air like a television
receiving a network broadcast. In the same
way, the exhaust pipe rambled as the engine
of the truck idled too rapidly and, then,
stalled. Everything was restarted. The vehicle
operated right away. The computer bumbled
along flashing through scenes and blank screens,
the curser pulsing like a heart beat in the upper
corner. This had to be worn like a sign of
concentration, meaning that the (citizen, computer)
was being observed, and the sensitive response
would be, literally, automatic, but sometimes
the potentiometer brought, to sight, a gesture
of communication. It was cute that such clever
trinkets were hiding down in there until the
spirit tapped the muscles of the shoulder blade.
It became apparent this relation depended upon
keys found in ancient aliens such as arcades and
magic books. A tiny soul was stored in a pocket,
in the telephone; it reached out with its vibration
and launched into the world to grab news with
its operating, search engines. It had eyes and
could see in the dark. So, the age was over in
which it could be expected that photographs were
the result of special manners and the courageous
offer of friendly snapshots. As torches confused
ferocious animals, the excuse depended upon dark
difficulties in the chemical room. In the garden,
the televised betrayal generated a crossfire of live
video, and, thus, fools were unlucky. Energy and
conflict had been misguided. New, public devotion
protected the evolution of tableware or discrete
implements that chimed to be taken into other rooms.
Discourse was enabled and following discursion,
long, private moments carried visitors away.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 6:54 PM UTC
The old farmer hung back,
as rickety and battered as the
‘50s Allis-Chalmers tractor upon
which he leaned, hunched,
clung, as if the auctioneer's words
and the wind might carry him off
like the implements he'd treasured
much of his life, machines with
which he had toiled and sweated
and which had helped him chisel
out a meager existence in his
40 years on the farm. His wife was
dead now, his children scattered
like the clucking chickens and hissing
geese, all he had left were memories
and the old homestead, and it was
leaving him bit by bit on the backs
of creaking pickups and low boys
and stuffed into the cavities of shiny
new Cadillacs and Buicks. The cruel
wind had driven in from the southwest,
stealing a little more topsoil from the
threadbare farm, swirling and *******
at tattered curtains still hanging in
the mouths of grimy windows left ajar.
With each piece of his life leaving
down that gravel road, a draining
of his dreams and energies followed.
A few more raps of the gavel and he
too would be as dust in the wind.
--
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 9:39 PM UTC
It's not hunger for flesh to matter,
glucose and life.
It's a feasting pain for soul,
it's emptiness between ribs,
lungs torn in fold.
Christen me a black hole,
cardiac's no response to a dead soul,
ghosts haven't a say.
please it's no compatibility
please me with fangs,
fashion thistles and ripping implements,
non-human descends always to the fiendish of gruesomeness,
bloodless and monstrous.
Haven't a prayer,
haven't a soul,
haven't got a vessel to scream
wretchedly home.
It's best to let demons lie,
let spirits die,
burn out our dying phantom cries.
It's to feed the slaughtered
with platters of blades and bullet shrapnel,
ghosts give,
ghosts speak,
ghosts don't truly wish for a living peace.
Please may we take a taste of rifle barrel,
please just a second helping of buck shot
and spoiled brain splatter.
Bless what we become,
all ghosts eventually become undone.
Aug 28, 2011
Aug 28, 2011 at 12:21 AM UTC
emaciated faces placed hastily in waste filled space
graceless shapes, mass of flesh
lidless eyes scanning endlessly
searching for rest
impoverished waifs piled
on the mentally ill homeless
skin pressed together
inappropriately –
lost child wildly blinded, bound
gagged on diesel rags used to clean tools
torture implements rented on ebay
scented candles transmogrify blank surroundings
and color splashed lashes shine red in the afternoon
glistening –
fake baking ******* easily ballooned
ozone less atmosphere cooks plastic skin
releasing Botox and wheat germ
creating orange clouds engulfing tanning booths
light skinned pretenders swish across foray’s
looking both fabulous and abhorrent
frolicking –
camera angled babies
in thick foundation hide tears
so as to not disappoint
or fail in the eyes of the media sharks
fear and gun-rights send them into a frenzy
seeking to raise and destroy
everyone –
political ridicule in a public tribunal
grandfathered unborn wait to rule
wombs of power hold genes of control
eggs designed to tax
meeting ***** engineered to manipulate
deform –
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 12:59 PM UTC
Bleeding earth,
Of motioning limbs,
praying to the tethered sunset,
wooden seasons snubbed,
abandoned and slathered,
Between almost everywhere,
Unnamed and shrub covered,
Something found in the endless,
plain and comprehended,
Civility manifested,
cottoned on to,
scratched out with plastic implements,
roaring blood cascading,
mechanical timidity,
tongues are on a journey,
naked and dead.
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 1:46 PM UTC
Some years ago, there was a Mensa convention in San Francisco .
Mensa, as you know, is a national organization for people who have an IQ of 140 or higher.
Several of the Mensa members went out for lunch at a local cafe. When they sat down, one of them discovered that their salt shaker contained pepper, and their pepper shaker was full of salt. How could they swap the contents of the two bottles woithout spilling any, and using only the implements at hand? Clearly -- this was a job for Mensa minds.
The group debated the problem and presented ideas and finally, came up with a brilliant solution involving a napkin, a straw, and an empty saucer.
They called the waitress over, ready to dazzle here with their solution.
"Ma'am," they said, "we couldn't help but notice that the pepper shaker contains salt and the salt shaker -- "
But before they could finish,..........
the waitress interrupted. "Oh -- sorry about that."
She leaned over the table, unscrewed the caps of both bottles and switched them.
The was dead silence at the Mensa table.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
We rode white lightning across state lines
To a little town in the mountains over the tainted river
Where the entire strip is full of bars
Buzzing barflys hoping from tavern to tavern
It was mid day in broad daylight
We found the place
A hole in the wall
You would only be able find it if you were actually looking
Solvent Reflections
It was called
We went down the stairs, passed the wooden Native American at the front entrance
A marvelous collection of glass implements
Colorful fabrics and alluring smells
A man came out from behind a beaded curtain
Eyes glazed and a zonked out look on his face
"Right this way"
He showed us the assortment of extracts
We chose the middle way
Purchased twenty scented sticks
Descended from the mountain
To a sketchy out post
We fought a pool shark
While waiting for the evening to come
Our friends had come out to play with us
To the market for brightly colored cans of caffeine and ethanol
Torches lit and music playing
We sat in a circle
We opened the little brown vile
Releasing the leaves of deeper knowledge
We put in the vessel of self-exploration
Put fire to it and inhaled
Immediately she ran to the highest point to admire the art the moon and stars had fashioned on the black and blue firmament
His head became a cardboard box
And his body began to look like wicker
I was somewhere between an animated reality
And a three dimensional fantasy
My friend went on a cruise upon a swaying pirate ship
And found his face under the word "fabulous" on every single page of his dictionary
Then saw himself in a magical grassland
But then we stopped and stood in awe
Of the mighty Cricket Lord
Within ten minutes it came to an end
Our voices hoarse from laughter
Lets go again
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 7:58 PM UTC
As the ink flows, to paper, from pen
manipulating power, knowing where, and when
Swords and greater weapons, never entering the duel
implements of dictators, tyrants, presidents, and fools
Give me this day my words and will, to pour upon the page
not in halls of gallantry, but in hopes, that wars will not be waged
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 7:29 AM UTC
has jaded become me
or becoming in me?
or is it merely
these words only go inspoken
barricaded by better judgement
never breathing the air
outside my grey matter.
the burns and cuts i
swallow back against weaponizing
become acidic and brokenbottle edged
implements of self imposition.
i appear human
but i am a statue inside.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
Gross exertion, infatuation
Flagellating the root
Of embellished insecurity
Begging for a meal of ashes
Early morning pain, infatuation
A ****** companion's invective
Reminder of our unworthiness
As we consort with teardrops
Inquisitor's interview, infatuation
Smiling torture chamber
Turning idly in hand the implements
That will extract the truth of our ugliness
Gravedigger's labor, infatuation
Burying our faces in clenching fists
Knowing our hearts have finally done it
And sold us out for a smile
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 7:33 PM UTC