"intimidations" poems
The Rusted creaking lies,
whispered through putrid crooked teeth,
from underneath his ragged brim.
Time-worn top-hat sits tilted on his bony head,
yakking jaw, spitting prostulations, intimidations,
while swirling tattoos filled my eyes and propagandized, and hypnotized.
He is here, he is there,
on mossy rock, on broken chair,
floating phantom through foggy air,
to tear into my heart with his dark despair.
His words......his words, I can not trust
they haunt me as the moon.
His chilling breath fowl with death,
my skull becomes my tomb.
And then I hear a distant bell,
it breaks his grip on me.
I run and fall in gentle new snow
and am once again a child.
I close my eyes and drift to our place,
away from his gaze and grumblings,
to our mosaic covered Sacristy.
And you take my hand to bring me back.
You, with your Spring scented breath,
kissing away my hoary dreams.
The bells clang pure as midnight snow,
and I am safe again in your arms.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 10:44 PM UTC
A soldier controlled by his heart.
Had a bright sword to cut apart.
An author controlled by his mind.
Used pen with wisdom designed.
Soldier was a strong, hardy fighter.
E'er bullied the young, weak writer.
Lowly pen was no match for sword.
Inharmoniousness, always discord.
Firm soldier in winds admired trees.
Author liked grass in gust or breeze.
Tolerated intimidations with smiles.
Concealed his anger with guiles.
Mildly used poison day and night.
And sharpened pen's nib to fight.
One day pen broke sword in two.
And soldier's soul bid him adieu.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 8:39 AM UTC
To lay my head upon the tawny cover of softwood pines once more
as I pry the manifest question of youthful travail and insecurity ,
to garner the earthen tier beside natures vested , rippling waters ..
Churning runnels lending delicate directions , whirlpool portrayals that countersink their matriarchal beginnings , only to gradually disappear ....
To wander the carpeted trail with arbitrary resolve , free of pious
intimidations .. Fixated with superb creativity .. With the eyes of an eagle .. Determined . Pithiest .. Invincible ..
As heat obscures the blacktop ahead , the shade of home is but a dot in the humid distance , tar laced Georgia roads in the month of August are quite dangerous to young , bare feet ...
Sorghum fields , hog wire boundaries , darkening skies ..The unbounded Sun dragging each step , briar patches line the road shoulder , painful reminders of lonely boots foolishly left unkept ...
Fire ant mounds hide in tall grass , Cow Killers forage alone in Summer swelter , brown scorpions , cottonmouths and the list goes on virtually
forever during Dog Days , legends of wounds refusing to heal , double headed rattlers and rabid foxes , Longhorn bulls turning wild , growing bloodthirsty , hunting down unwary farm hands .. Men turned lunatic
from tainted moonshine , waiting at the wood line for clumsy boys and girls , well water made septic from lack of rain .. Bobcats running in packs for any food easily obtained , including boys that refused to listen
to mother , leaving their cowboy boots when warned not to do so ... This will be the last time I'm caught barefooted , all alone , left to my own wit and minds reserve , Mom and Dad can be sure of it !
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 9:44 PM UTC
To property with a high degree
That puts to shame anyone with soft soothing tea
Moving along past inscribed miseries
On peoples faces
Oh, further fast, going places
Board that silk laced train without hesitation
Gather white flowers, take no intimidations
For the poet writes only about rays of mitigation
That breaks open the shaded
Which is ignored and faded
For the true painter paints, only what they care to see
Not what others are faced to be
Once they decide their messages for he and she
Each tree they will chop with a fake type of force
For the poet now has stolen their horse
On which they rode to the promise land
With the dead, the unborn, & the hand
Of what is what & who tears the bands
Apart for they don't speak
Only listen, repeat, and creak
Soft now please, go to the beach with the swirling keeps
Perhaps there will lay the sleeping sheep
That you wish not to be, for they are meek in heaps
And do not know every meaning
Behind every tower leaning
Learn something there, then return
For not your destiny everyone yearns
Rather it is peace and a chance to learn
About a prophecy new
And culture few
Or perhaps that is a lie
Like every tear shed through an eye
That hopes to gain something through a tight tie
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 7:55 PM UTC