"keels" poems
(for the unknown You) –
Sweep up a mound of achievements;
layer dogwood and newspaper beneath;
find a small, secluded shoreline to sleep an endless sleep;
shovel money (in at least twenty currencies),
some status and fame
onto the funeral pyre’s unremembering flame;
write furiously with computer or pen,
fill out the days’ whitespace with enthusiastic fantasy;
revel on a fallacy (or three);
win the gladiatorial games in the Corporate Arena;
rediscover a bit of ancient folklore;
set up nice altruistic societies to make orphans feel infinite;
plant a little garden – give guidance in its growth;
build four or five fine-but-small boats
with richly decorated keels;
fight for something worth believing,
though I’m still unsure what that means…
A(my) guess: lyricism and poetry and prose,
musical composition, simply being kind and open;
A suggestion(for You): lay Your hand on a patient’s slowing heart
in a cancer ward, catch their tears with a jar
and meditate on better things to do;
give the old folks a laugh;
steal the Elgin Marbles back for the Greeks,
or, for the memory of ancient Greece;
find where lay a psychopathic fascist’s bitter ashes
and give them to the conspirators for closure;
(for me) place letters on the graves
of John Keats, Percy Shelley,
Wystan Auden and William Yeats;
rescind, abolish, annul, invalidate
my station in God’s dysphoric, existential reverie;
heap up beautiful words and send them off to sea
inside a laptop on a cellophane-wrapped raft;
(for both of us) think thoughts uplifting;
smile thirty-three times a day (or more);
plan for the future of ourselves and others;
give just a bit of love to our mothers;
sweep the kitchen and the city streets for free;
by your garden plant a tree.
Beyond these things for us to do,
be proud-yet-humble, open-eyed and acquiescent;
just accept; all things inanimate and animate, accept.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 7:58 AM UTC
This pond is where I will die,
Squandering in owl hours to ****
Still, the Ducks swim by.
The blue moon is a Julia Dragonfly
Haunted by a lethal, green dream thrill.
This pond is where I will die.
Threadbare Marauder Rooks squawk a cry,
The stickleback flakes its dithering gill.
Still, the Ducks swim by.
Importunate possums chase ducks to comply,
How could my moon mother be so ill?
This pond is where I will die.
Bluebirds deflate their keels with a sigh,
I gravitate towards their beauty, I am still.
Still, the Ducks swim by.
Aureole Sirius tip toes the sky,
Nimbus withers, Kamikaze men shrill.
This pond is where I will die.
Still, the Ducks swim by.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 8:51 PM UTC
Anger consumes my body, like fire from hell
My body keels over from lack of food
Food which I purposely neglected to provide
Hate, abuse, deceit and anger take over me
Pure ugliness, staring me in the face
People that are supposed to care, supposed to love
Who claim to care and claim to love
Yet seem to me as wolves in sheep’s clothing
Wanting to control me, dominate me, constrict me
Who crush me over and over again
And wonder why we are always butting heads
Sadness creeps in my heart, but it is not mine
And it saddens me more that I feel her hurt
My heart aches for love, for touch, for affection
It longs to love and to be loved
But all it receives is sadness and pain
Crying out for love, my body cries too
Not with tears, but with blood
A deep crimson red running out of me
Staining everything in its path
As this blood runs out of me, so does my strength, my energy
I am exhausted and long to sleep
But my mind is forever going, going, going …
Why? Why? Why? Why?
The question of a thousand why’s consumes me …
Threatening to crush my very soul.
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 8:56 PM UTC
Far down, down through the city's great, gaunt gut,
The gray train rushing bears the weary wind;
In the packed cars the fans the crowd's breath cut,
Leaving the sick and heavy air behind.
And pale-cheeked children seek the upper door
To give their summer jackets to the breeze;
Their laugh is swallowed in the deafening roar
Of captive wind that moans for fields and seas;
Seas cooling warm where native schooners drift
Through sleepy waters, while gulls wheel and sweep,
Waiting for windy waves the keels to lift
Lightly among the islands of the deep;
Islands of lofty palm trees blooming white
That lend their perfume to the tropic sea,
Where fields lie idle in the dew drenched night,
And the Trades float above them fresh and free.
1.3k
I hold back
in everything I do
when I go to hit a ball,
I have a nasty habit of slowing myself down mid swing
and my driver send the ball
half as far as I could have before.
When I speak,
my voice does somersaults
and keels from high pitched to husky, low
but it's annoying
so I do my best to keep level and
not express how I should
but even that is annoying
because it doesn't sound natural.
When I argue my views I don't say the real point
I don't defend them all the way
I am too afraid of my arrogance
for I can be so full of myself
and level people
telling them the truth and
flattening friendships
but I only want friendships with the people who upset me
and they do not want to see who I am
I covet them out of pride
so should I not crush them?
Favor my idealism over my greed?
But no.
I hold myself back.
Is it out of mercy?
Cowardice?
I would like to think mercy
for I know my own strength very well.
The last time I sparred with my beau in earnest
(out of training, certainly not wrath
never wrath)
I broke through his block with two punches
and gave him a ****** lip,
a black eye
the guilt that grabbed me was
empowered by the power I felt
the black-belt struck down by the meager street boxer
It was something I had not felt in so long
a clear cut victory
But before my joy made it to my face
I noticed the blood dripping down his
and that joy became a mark of my evil
as I patched his wounds
Never had I wanted to hurt him,
never really
he was just training me
and I knew no restraint
Restraint
It would have been mercy and cowardice
for how could I ever live to feel that terrible guilt again?
I do not want to annoy anyone
not do I feel it right to hurt them
but mercy
that is the term that gods use
and I am as much a god as I am a demon
so perhaps it was cowardice
perhaps
it was some of both
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 11:51 AM UTC
remember those nights
we placed hooks in our eyes?
waiting in our sleep
to catch the white tailed lies
that swam inside our bed
do you remember those nights?
we should, instead, have walked
the chrome stacked streets
that rolled like silver eels
amongst stub ends
sailing on tarry keels
in that vanishing space between
the night -clubs gaudy hush
and a needful capital morning rush
before the coffee,
before the bread,
before the morning headlines
but we chose hooks
do you remember?
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 10:51 AM UTC
The comments of the ocean
Blend nicely with the brush
Of tipper topper dinky dinghies
That paddle all a hush
Ships sailing on the summer current
Keels are black and leery
With barnacles and treasures trawled at sea
They nose ahead worn and weary
I sigh a little on the plinth of my palm
Propped nicely 'gainst the ivory table
And clink ****** cups, you know
Those little things that make you remember
Shame? Not me. When I watch the birds
They hover without shame
Boasting of the clouds they've visited
And castles up high they are welcome to
Take, take, take the spring breeze that simmers in
I couldn't feel the grace of disgust
I couldn't, I'm too happy
With salt ground tea and seemly company.
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 4:58 AM UTC
my body and soul in a boxers ring
the ref has been shot, throttled, and kinged
compliant to no one, inside is a known run
yet all parties here are the foe
are the loser the liar and lo--
the body is violent.
the audience: god, and they sit there silent.
soul socked, blocked, and bruised, he shivers to quiet
and body, it staggers and quivers in triumph
but it shakes and it cries because its eyes are mine
for a fire inside
does not inspire
but burns and hollows to rinds
soul, he delivers a blind hit.
in stride and in mind, an inmate of wildness.
of trial-less, unending, childish depending, spiraling slightly askew
and of tiredness.
the soul, he kneels, and body, it keels
the ref has revived and is quick to the meal
she tears apart body and dips into soul
there's only one answer
as god keeps their hands still
no matter the way that it's told.
Oct 8, 2021
Oct 8, 2021 at 2:37 PM UTC
You're across
An ocean swell
You're across
A boat's plough crushing
Waves down down
You're beyond
An island crowned in orange cloud
Seagulls busy dancing tangos
On the greasy wind.
You're way past
The strokes of spits of sand saliva
Of palm trees clapping coconuts
Making feigned horsehoove beats
To bring the waves a shouting match.
Roars clean the salty, dry air.
You've passed,
The shallow castles
Of whale dens,
Keeping ships in new homes
Wooden kin with keels and ribs
Flies and jibs.
You're not here, that's for sure,
But,
I feel you,
Maybe somehow.
I do.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 8:37 PM UTC
folds over, keels over in a midday faint, too scorching for compassionate glances. . .
on display in a crowded menagerie of folks
who don't give a **** if it lives or dies?
who just want it to disappear
and refrain from disrupting
their precious status quo?
their delicate REM patterns?
their brilliant stream of thought
about what they'll **** for dinner?
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 1:27 AM UTC
She lived in a cottage, made with bones
Her garden, ringed by teeth,
All from the shipwrecked sailors floating
In from the hidden reef,
You couldn’t see when the tide was high
But the rocks lay down, and tore,
Down where the tide swept in the keels
That had sailed too close to shore.
The bodies were floating in for days
When the storm would calm, abate,
Bloodied and torn, their sailor ways
Were left to unfeeling fate,
The crows would gather and crowd the beach
As they ripped each corpse to shreds,
Tearing the flesh regardless, whether
The man was alive, or dead.
The beach turned into a boneyard, under
A blue and perfect sky,
With nobody willing to ask it,
The obvious question, ‘Why?’
But she in the boneyard cottage knew
When she harvested the beach,
For every ship, as her cottage grew
Left the bones, so white and bleached.
And there on the hearth of the kitchen lay
A skull that had been her own,
The one true love of her darling years
Who had promised to build their home,
He denied her plea and had gone to sea,
Was caught in a sudden storm,
Came rolling over the reef one day
With blood on his uniform.
And now, whenever a distant sail
Appears from near or far,
She runs on out to the bluff and screams
To God, ‘Wherever you are.’
She summons up from the depths a storm
With wind and a blinding rain,
And giant rollers that head for shore
That carry her lover’s pain.
It’s then that the skull on the hearth lights up,
A glow from its empty eyes,
And then a terrible screaming from
A mouth, that had once been sighs,
She knows he wants her to save the ship
She’s luring onto the rocks,
But whispers a curse at the fatal rip
‘On all dead men, a pox!’
David Lewis Paget
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 6:40 AM UTC
An imagined being,
The mitigated reality,
Beset on all sides,
Makes you wither,
in comparison,
to the deception,
To enhance the enviournment aboutnd,
that fits upon themselves the wworld,
Under watch,
kept under lock and key,
the universal truths,
hidden under their *******
the single timeless entity,
That turns the world over,
in onto itself,
keels into oblivion,
touching back to the abdominal,
fact that it retaliates,
fought behind reason,
Love behind common sense,
The world undone,
By the limitless one,
The being that lasts,
Something,
Beauty,
In repetition,
Found to be prevalent,
In excessive inquiry,
What's and Who's and Why's,
It means no difference,
When facts speak for themselves,
Examples are found in the outside,
Shuddering ample reflections
In the tide pool,
Spiraling.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 9:58 PM UTC
An incomplete face
in its glass slab,
pulls a distance over me.
Mournful, I watch the neighbors
streaming down the toothy walk
in black and brown coats,
their laundry massed
on shoulder tilt,
or in little onion cart.
They are all right here,
in this winter identity.
Washington accepts them.
If they should crane
& launch a _coup d'œil_
into this hunched pane
they'll know I am not of them;
what body I have
stalls on this laminate -
the black fume
behind fastened eye
has already bolted
to keels of poetry
across furrowed Atlantic:
completing a glass face.
Jan 19, 2021
Jan 19, 2021 at 9:08 PM UTC
The Tasman sea is a treacherous maid,
She sweeps with a heaving sigh!
Old sea dogs shake as their keels are swayed
By her cleansing salted spray!
All the captains sent her way,
Be advised to grow wings and fly!
Take heed, take heed, of this treacherous maid
And teach yourself to fly!
By day she swells as she washes the decks
Of the merchants passing by!
She will catch the sailors, scrub their necks,
Clean sails on their washing line,
Till the whole ship starts to shine,
As they voyage beneath blue sky!
Stand clear, stand clear, as she washes the decks
Unless you want to shine!
By night she pounds upon the mighty hull,
Till barnacles are knocked clear!
Her undercurrents will push and pull
And polish the outer skin!
With the whole ship looking trim,
She waves them off with a lonely tear!
Away, away, sails the sea-swept mighty hull,
As she waves them with a tear!
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 3:05 PM UTC
You make a good bed,
Sophia said.
I smoothed the top sheet
of Mr H's bed
with a motion
of my hand,
trying hard not
to look at her
by the sink
in the corner.
It's a firm bed,
isn't it?
It's metal framed
for endurance,
I said,
lifting my head,
seeing her standing there
with Vim powder
in her hand
and cloth in the other.
We have ****
I pulled up the blankets
and duvet,
pretending I hadn't heard.
No one around,
she said,
be safe.
Until Mr H
or some other old boy
comes along
and keels over
clutching their heart,
I replied.
She smiled, turned
and began powdering
the sink and scrubbing
with the cloth.
I looked out the window
at the grounds below;
the grass
was a bright green,
the few trees
in full leaf.
I turned
and she was
standing there
with one foot
on the bed
and her skirt hem
lifted, showing
a fair glimpse of leg.
You sure
we not have ****
Not here, not now,
I said,
taking the glimpse
of leg inside my head.
She pouted her lip
and shook her long
blonde hair.
Shame,
it could be good.
I went out the room,
closing the door,
thinking of my next task,
giving Sidney
his morning bath,
and as I walked on,
I heard her
mocking laugh.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 2:27 AM UTC
Don’t cry because you have lost something,
Be glad because you have room for something more.
Consider it, an opening of another door.
Don’t laugh because someone you dislike is hurt.
Ask yourself inside, what is their life worth,
To someone whose disposition with them isn’t as curt.
Don’t be sorrowful, because something is never coming back,
Be joyful because it’s less to pack.
There’s more space on your incredible, ***** rack.
Don’t shout to the skies,
When someone you loathe, keels over and dies.
Keep in mind, all the questions and whys.
May 24, 2010
May 24, 2010 at 5:06 PM UTC
How I loved those harbour lights,
as shipwrights, we worked through those long and lonely nights and laid keels for Queens that rode the sea.
She was one,
The S.S mv Lexicon, a giant of a lady she. would leave her lipstick marks upon the sea and we just loved her, built her dream in funnels square and clean and launched her late one Monday Eve and when steam had scorched the boilers, we've seen our Queen go sailing far away.
That day has gone now, steam no more, a passing fancy but I adored the smoke and grit, the wit of Bosuns as they spat at this and that and harried cabin boys who touched their caps out of respect, I expect it's for the best.
And tomorrow what will be is a lack of joi de vivre and the sea will look so flat.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 2:13 PM UTC
My hands fumble to find the switch
A change from light to dark
To drown my trembling imperfections out in a numbing abyss
A blinding black blur that calls the demons out from under the bed skirt
Where they’ve been playing with dust and fraying my trust and squeezing my brain and pressing my pain
And laughing
Oh how they laugh at me
With their pointy teeth slapping the air that denies my breath
I beg them to leave
Let me sleep! I say.
But they tickle my ear with their fiery tongues
And jump like a bounce house on top of my lungs
My body keels over and I pull my chest close
Prepare to deflect the next daunting dose
My hands clutch crush and my knuckles weep white
A basket of bones by my skin’s sorry sight
That hangs like a wet carpet outside to dry
Old and forgotten by a golden goodbye
But the sun forgot how to simmer and shine
And the air carries a vapor heavy with signs
That point down to the ground but I know there is more
They call me to a place that is far past the floor
Yes darkness drums dream demons for in it all I see
Is my soul’s own inferno forever beckoning me
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 3:05 PM UTC
Insanity soothes me,
Smooths me over,
Keels and kills
The pain of normality.
This breath I breathe,
Comes with it a seething grain of salt,
A grain I'd rather see crumble,
in the stumbling bumbling idiosyncrasy,
you call a ******* culture,
Choke.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 12:23 AM UTC
she goes freeing herself
and stops to break her fall
suddenly to gather herself
and begin again with such brazenness
was it the moon
and not the far-flung bird of song?
was it the brigade of shadows
and not the heady kisses of night?
she keels over like a vast wave
stretching her arms into the sky
once again, permitting herself to be seen
not by the moon,
not by the hale of such night that struggles not to
tipple over her hair that demands a different hue
of silence
but by herself in the mirror
the metamorphosis,
true to the claim of the world
except she is not to flutter away,
just yet –
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 8:42 AM UTC
everything
feels that it keels
over
like a
pinball
in a machine—
hits green
and falls to your fingers.
save it
or you die
but you have two ***** left
and that's all you need.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 7:35 PM UTC
It is towards a slow keeping-together of themes
from a missal-thrush memory
that words keen and are made.
The place matters little:
a furrow of ponds, a wet landscape
curved like a dish, the brittle stare and awkward movement
of spread-eagling duck on a cup of ice –
what do these matter? unless
the memory keels to the retina a shape of things to come,
teases and minnows them down to a flashing fin
in a chamber of shapeless streams, in a chamber
of crosses and thrushes.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 11:51 AM UTC
Hmm, what’s that smell?
I’ll follow it through the house.
It lingers wherever I go,
Perhaps it’s me.
I recognise that smell…
The sickly stench of failure.
What’s that sound?
I’ll follow it through the house.
It rings in my ears wherever I go,
A tinny, shrieking laugh.
Of course,
It is the sound of cynical laughter.
Mockery.
Every second of it impaling me.
What’s that darkness
At the edge of my vision?
It is creeping further in.
Of course,
It’s the blinding death of guilt.
It is the poison that seeps throughout
My every cell.
I cannot see,
I am choked, unable to breathe,
The sound, it deafens, it deafens.
The floor is colliding with my knees,
And my vision is running away.
My ears are being crushed into my head
By my hands,
In a desperate attempt to shield them.
But the thundering howling overdrive
That my senses are in…
It is melting me from the inside.
My body caresses the floor,
Slipping…
My hand curls away from my head,
Falling.
My vision keels over.
Darkness.
And my nose breathes in the last breath of failure,
As it rattles into my broken lungs.
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 12:40 PM UTC
It is towards a slow keeping-together of themes
from a missal-thrush memory
that words keen and are made.
The place matters little:
a furrow of ponds, a wet landscape
curved like a dish, the brittle stare and awkward movement
of spread-eagling duck on a cup of ice –
what do these matter? unless
the memory keels to the retina a shape of things to come,
teases and minnows them down to a flashing fin
in a chamber of shapeless streams, in a chamber
of crosses and thrushes.
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 9:01 PM UTC