"isthmus" poems
have you ever believed
in something so blindly
so genuinely
that the moment you realize
it isn't true, something inside you
changes forever?
i wanna tell you a story, see
seldom do i ever
go swimming in drinks
deep enough to drown in
but when i do
i speak in tongues
about things that none
of my memories
are allowed to talk about
like that christmas
at the isthmus
where my girlfriend
plucked a conch shell
whiter than gods teeth
out of the sand
held it to her ear
and stopped time
that day she was a shade of blue
the could've made the ocean sick
see, she loved to play jokes
when she held
the sea shell to her ear
she gasped, called my name
and said "i want you to hear this"
i said "yeah, right, everybody knows it's just the same old sea"
she replied "no. not this one. this one is special. listen. theres music in this one"
she handed me the shell
like a promise she couldn't keep
and i held it to my ear
with all the potential
of seeing shore
after being stranded
at sea for years
only to hear
a tired dirge of silence
spill from its emptiness
i guess she didn't know
how desperately
i wanted to hear it too
because ever since
something inside me snapped
now sand pours out
of every post card i open
i hear seagulls
in telephone static
sometimes i have dreams
where i bury my hands
in every beach
i've ever been on
and exhume this graveyard of noise
every time i try to sleep
i spit up fishhooks
and i guess i'm obsessed
but maybe
if i hold my ear
to enough vacant things
then i could have back
the time stolen from me
since it happened
maybe they would get it
if they knew what i wanted
when i blow out birthday candles
maybe they'll find me
face down in a wishing well
i watch eternal sunshine
of the spotless mind every day
pretending i can forget too
because this sea sickness
has followed me for years
because yesterday
i walked into a music shop
and all the pianos broke
but the only thing
i can think to say is
*do you know how bad
a memory has to be
that you fantasize
about forgetting it?*
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC
1
Grey sky greyer sea
a litter of rocks balance
coat bright hat blue mittens striped
as on these November steps
you collect the gifts of the ebb tide
2
Glint green this living tapestry echoes
Jilly’s field with tractor not Devon
but salt-flats rocky revetments moorland rising
a map crossed by a chiromatic line
our destiny marked out on this concrete wall?
3
Beached clinkered double-ender
a bay-courser sjekte strand-crunched
fit once for Viking raiders two abreast
now daubed with tin ends of patriotic paint
a sea-steed hobbled hard on the shore
4
Bow faced a sea helmet thrice rope strapped
slow moulded over the boat builder’s ribbanded jig
a spanglehelm of wood
curved sheer straked plank bilged a tuck stern
raising its proud head seaward
5
Viewed from the air a map rolls out
north to the tilted curve of the horizon’s rim
cloud scattered mountained red
betwixt seas sun chalked wine-stained a volcanic isthmus
provokes desert the western waste land of a brooding city
6
Oh face of ropes knot eyed!
you blue cheeked wide smiler
wild wild your head of hair
beachcombed and splayed
wrapped on the sternest post
7
She sewed sugar kelp on the sea shore
a sporophyte with sheltered frond
strap-like stem stiff and smooth
of the species saccharina a spring-tide
stalk set among substrates shells and stones
8
I the camera turned and caressed
by her slight fingers (the pinky raised)
my viewfinder close to her blue grey eye / I
focus on this kelp-needled novelty feel her breath
wait for the thumb press the electronic click
9
Here is the beach walked in darkness
the fishermen shadows against the moonstruck ebb
fingers laced the sea’s breath in our ears
wave upon wave un-folding on the sand and later
we unfold then draw back in love’s relentlessness
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 4:09 AM UTC
Twelve days on the isthmus,
trudging through the gap,
we sliced & diced
vines along the trail,
through a world all its own.
Iguanas & butterflies
accompanied us,
along with the tarantulas,
toucans & monkeys.
Everything was in tune,
nature at its finest.
But the bearded-dudes
we encountered
seeemed way out of place,
different from the nature
that was around us.
They were unusually
focused, out of touch
with their long line
of saddlebagged-mulas
& fully-packed mochilas.
The automatic weapons
& machetes finished
off the picture
of these serious hombres,
the runners of the jungle.
We traded Marlboro's
& Johnny Walker Red
for some tea & sugar
& they waved us on by,
gave us safe passage
into Colombia.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 10:07 PM 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
Willie sat by the side of
the river in a philosophical
mood under a weeping willow.
Midway, between the two
banks, was a small island
only paddling distance away.
Debris from a previous flood
had accumulated on the low
foliage of an uprooted tree.
A funnel of cold air from the
ten arch bridge made a wind
sock of a plastic net nitrate bag.
In all his time, Willie had never
ventured on to this little islet,
even wondered if he should flag it.
Off with the shoes, rolled up the
legs of his trousers and slowly he
negotiated his way over the stones.
On exploring the land mass, which
was an isthmus of a mere ten square
meters, he decided to return to land.
Just before his disembarkation, he
noticed a large denominational euro
note caught in the gills of a dead fish.
Eureka Eureka money and food all
in the one catch (was his thought as
he made his way back).
The sodden state of the 100 euro note
was what guided ******* wise decision
to take it, as was, to the local Credit Union.
In the queue whilst waiting for a vacant
teller, everyone was admiring *******
dead fish.
Eventually, at the desk, and known to
those working therein, a 100 euro note
was not his norm and created suspicion.
After tendering the note attached to the
Trout, that had apparently been fowl
hooked up the river by Johnny Logan,
The lady behind the desk called for the
manager, who immediately held the note
up to the halogen fraud lamp.
Willie had never encountered anything like
this when he made a 5 euro deposit once a
month to his savings account.
He enquired of the manager as to why he
was holding his fish and 100 euro note up
against the bright light.
The manager responded, “ It is the policy of
all banking systems to check high denominational
notes for visible water marks “ !!
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 4:01 AM UTC
we are windows with lapsed insurance but see fine print where there is none
and that makes us innocent pillagers. the village learns to ween the system
from an iron fist to adopt an irony. but i digress, where the last appearance
gypsied the locals with petulant integers. the riven burn ! to clean the wisdom
of our schadenfreude. the image turns to ravine
the slender
isthmus.
but
pry it
from the
vapor
you can
knot.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 3:27 PM UTC
the sun’s veins
a unique thot, it's magi source:
naǧí
my poem-joy instant-isthmus arises
and asks that I
cross, connect,
write of the sun’s veins that we will be forever unable
to see
but the veins will heat yours - and it is not shared blood it warms,
it is poem joy
<•>
a warmth organism that leaves one gasping wrestling
for words
so weakly I am grasping the connection
that snakes across
globes
and the poem joy that has no end, no boundaries -
that full fills me
And I say,
thank you
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 6:24 AM UTC
Climb into bed and...
Hearth embers of body heat circulate,
Tourists on self-guided walking tours,
Exploring the cabalistic eighteen chai holies of the
Human body, temple depository of spark divine.
Heat sparkles cross over the isthmus of Touching Toes,
Continental negotiators, swapping free heat for icicles,
2 X 10 interstitial connections, now land masses filled,
Global warming credit trading par excellence
Fingers, jew wandering, exiled to freedom,
Intertwined within soft-edged, graying sea grasses,
Coverlet over pounding chest,
Hands illegally mining tousled head hair,
Nestling, nesting, without proper permits
Lick away the rumbling hoarseness
Coating a neighboring sleepy throat,
Gate crasher bringing surround-sound comfort,
Seeking to seal and still the groans,
Escaping prisoners of the ills of the wearied mind
Your favorite parts inspiring, demanding
Song, word, drawing or simple quenching,
Tonic of revival, an affirmation of self,
Existence proofs met through need
I write this for me, for her, for you.
Suckers for iron pyrite, most will skip this polemic,
What you don't know about me could be a
Hit show on prime time cable TV.
Like a cute commercial that makes you smile,
For a product you'll never buy,
I write this for me, for her, for anonymous you,
I am the voyager, you the ******
Middle of the night envisioner,
Re-writer of The Gift of the Magi,^
If I die today, I leave this as my last
Will and Testament,
Just another love poem
You'll never read.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
My mind is adrift
Waves of 3 am Lap at the shore of an isthmus called psyche
There between the seas of reality and dreams
Three shots deep and diving,
I drown my better judgement in a pool of fireball
Music blares, but the words melt as I listen
White noise in a black night,
One more drink,
One more drink
The fire in my throat is burning
Like the fire that purifies the gold
The old verses ring in my head,
And the pastor spits a sermon over dr dre’s beats,
A prayer in the dark murmurs through drunken lips,
And then at last track ends, the priest descends from the pulpit
In the deafening silence, I leave my drink on the desk, still not empty
I stumble my way to my oblivion
And pull the covers up to my neck.
Now I lay me down to sleep
And languid waves wash me out to sea without a shore
The nightly giliad of a lonely druckard
Sipping steel in an empty room,
And talking to the voices in my head
Lost on a road with no lines
Lost hold of the iron rod and see no signs
To guide me on my way
And so I float away on a magic carpet
Seeks the genie in that bottle with only one wish
The only one it can grant me.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 12:36 AM UTC
At harbour’s entrance, a mile or more away
beyond high water, hunkered down
the old Quarantine station
on a flat patch of land
etched from the tangles of coastal heath.
The Barrack buildings besieged
by brooding sky and sea
and choking landscape – bush
thickets clambering the steep isthmus
backdrop of granite tor.
Chaotic angled peaks everywhere
indecisive stony sentinels
offering no certainty in the grey cloud
chiffonade of morning.
Slow, lingering clouds
wandering in confused circles
or passing over, casually
bringing squalls and showers.
Washing the pock-picked stone
to glistening newness of a palette
of fresh browns – tan, taupe, fox-brown
chestnut to black murky sludge
as if recently erupted
from earth’s muddy tender skin.
A cluster of cottages
a settlement of sorts with cannon ports
and flagpole and a fenced graveyard
still telling stories of pathos
pity and waste filling this place
with a strange, pressing silence
an atmospheric numbness felt
in dread and gravity.
© M.L.Emmett
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 8:21 AM UTC
i.
I slumbereth inside her soul
Whilst I glory amongst her gold;
There art treasure's there of old
As Angel's singeth hymn's of solomon.
ii.
Her spirit to me is a guide
Her eye's I sinketh in, slide;
From her Filipino Tagalog
I'll taketh a celestial ride.
iii.
Calm I am with her ambience
Embalmed I am, in her gladness;
I shalt swimmeth across the isthmus
To reacheth her, in the Asiatic distance.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedication
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 3:12 PM UTC
Like a solemn
blossom,
he makes his appearance,
this hindrance,
in my rooftop,
with a flip-flop,
in cherubic
outfit,
oh so tiny
and limy!
This perplexing
cherubim, mixing
beams and a pigment
from a distant
perfection,
shouts 'action!',
up on my rooftop!
I climb the immense
leather
in my underware
- oh what a brilliance
of a ****
homemade!
I say 'salutations,
in this christmas' occasion!',
he moves backward,
the makeshift,
and then forward,
in his heart a lift,
engorged,
in my beauty scorched!
As his host
I had started a toast
but went speachless
finding him flightless,
for a wingless cherubim
was he...!
But it's Christmas,
so in ranges
we had some oranges
and tequila,
for pain healer.
On my rooftop
as a isthmus,
oh gods of Olympus!,
we hear a pop,
a cackle,
stars as sprinkles
of kringles!
- Oh oh, is it Santa?!
- Oh no, it's my Claus...!
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 7:18 PM UTC
Bending my brain to a mighty confusion
Casting tangential thoughts back through the years,
Try to come to terms with opposing profusion
From the conquering of Everest to Locherbie’s tears.
From soaring the heights in the conquest of cancer
To scouring the depths of depravity’s bin,
In rescuing pilot pods beached at the isthmus
To severing heads in The Killing Field sin.
How man can conceive of a Monet’s magnificence
Yet “Zeig Heil” the field grey of Germany’s brute,
Whilst fashioning spires of Westminster’s cathedral
To pushing ******* in a blue, pin striped suit?
A tenderness shown to a toddler at bedtime
Depravity’s best when they used Zyclone B,
The grace of His Holiness blessing the children
Hiroshima’s glowing from mountain to sea.
This weft in the weave of the psyche of the people,
This black and the white and the right and the wrong,
As long as he breathes on this beautiful planet
Man’s behavioural leap will determine the song.
The yin and the yan, the fall of the domino
Depicting the way the human mind bends,
The roll of the dice and the fall of the cards
Shall determine the outcome… in the way it all ends.
Marshalg
Pukehana Paradise
Auckland
NEW ZEALAND
25th January 2014
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 3:53 PM UTC
This poem was written to describe/honor a boat-shaped wooden sculpture on which a town was built.
Here’s humanity chucked on that tub
Figure the fuss in the ship’s hold
Roaming ‘round the deck, helm is hell for holding
How come that outland ship ain’t capsizing?
They ****** up their toll of ****** *****
Thrown out, left behind, they’re coping with that schism
Roving ‘round Ocean blue between two small isthmus
Grinning like they used to ain’t gonna be easy fun.
Here’s humanity beating it to starboard
If they had behaved themselves, possibly
God almighty wouldn’t have batted an eye
Zealous lots in exile on that ****** city-boat
They built up walls ‘gainst their bitter heartbreaks
Alleys, their homes and even small gardens
On a boat! Oh my, isn’t that tub gonna sink?
The wind-facing prow is a freakin’ chimera!
Such a craft is like a merry-go-round
You feelin’ sea-sick ? Looks like a hiccup!
It’s not rocket science, maybe a bit pitchin’
Here’s these talented convicts’ last resort!
Translated from the original version in French, July 19, 2018, Oullins. Appoline
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 7:46 AM UTC
he goes
swinging arms set on
leaning shoulders and
feet that climb pavement
every step
taking inches before miles before the span of her heart
infected with a childhood
an unfitting frame for
such words and
sometimes he feels sick,
at the size of his own hands
isthmus, island
sick at the foreignness of being
skin native to all the touches
but blood that tastes only enemies, shies away
she thinks how, how,
beautiful the white skin
light strains he looks at nothing, not her
dull eyes, white eyes,
never enough of night,
eyes
he will bend and glance
deep, to taste a bit of his own death
trapped in his clutched palm
annoyed,
she thinks what sweet bitter held hands
I don't want to be your friend
don't want to lose a friend
the child builds love where it doesn't belong, everywhere
stacking towers against God, unlearning,
the child fights, he fights
they resist and scratch and embrace
and he bends
his fingers
May 29, 2011
May 29, 2011 at 9:26 AM UTC
As far as I can see, elocution and declamation
Thee this and thou that
Whence and wheresoever
Isthmus and anemone
Vitriolic and Diatribe
Bloviate and aplomb
But feeling has no discrimination.
Rococo words are not needed
Simply put is just as good
Too much icing makes a cake too sweet.
Bon appetit
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 2:01 PM UTC
I begin anew
I begin with you
You are my isthmus
You are my tombolo
You connect me
You ground me
To this place
To this duration
One heart
One love
Sep 12, 2020
Sep 12, 2020 at 7:58 PM UTC
.
Happy Christmas!
My love is a long isthmus,
Separated by fleshy mounds,
On its way to your jaunty seas,
My jingles, tingle, jug your jiggles,
My candy cane wants lips *******
Please, little red dressed helper,
Santa needs your jumpers
Teared off and flung,
Into a sleigh ride
Of slides an fun.
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 1:40 AM UTC
The rooster crows.
It’s 10 a.m.
Slacker. Just like me. No.
Better than me.
Remember that too-true-for-tears passage
where our beloved Paul D
walks across his isthmus of shame
to the wild and holding foliage of another?
(he tells her)
It was the rooster named Mister.
The beat for survival had sheltered Paul D from himself,
had dimmed enough the iron bit’s hacking at his humanity.
Mister’s sovereign grin shone away the salve.
Relativity entered side by side with recognition—
lowest.
It’s 10 a.m.
and I’m still in bed.
Worse than Mister, I spit on Paul D’s reality—
I could remove these chains.
That tardy **** is better than me.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 5:07 PM UTC
Taint , 'tween ****** and great
is the isthmus I paint
white and creamy,
a middle ground
down among red cheeks.
I do not mind behind
or front and center,
I handle either with aplomb,
It is when I am middle ground,
when I slip out,
you have the habit,
of laughing out loud!
I ain't!!
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 11:34 PM UTC
How is it that someone could hurt you so much and you still want nothing more then to have them in your arms?
Wrote know thing but habits, friends, and families.
Carry the box upright, take care with the contents.
Dancing on tables falls on birth dates.
Stop... Don't let doubt drop the Vase.
freed far of freed fear freed fear few from frock
rare reached rifts rot Rin value
A say Nile is the isthmus they claim Nihilism
Nickels and Tins greco-roman viscious in sin
So fragile, white and plain as clouds
evaporate the traffic the classes laststanded
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 8:31 PM UTC
I was co-joined
By an isthmus of words;
Ringed as an island.
If I walked away,
I was snapped back;
If I rolled over,
I was chosing sides;
Getting dressed
Was a dialogue;
Eating was identical.
But now,
Now that the separation
Has set in,
I'm next to an idiot,
I'm beside myself.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 11:20 AM UTC
my desire is my fear
at the isthmus of greed
a pinnacle of disappointment
i fall upon my knees
the apex is high
but the fall is eternal
when we never really
learn how to speak
Jan 26, 2021
Jan 26, 2021 at 3:15 PM UTC