"littering" poems
With an essence of a sultry indulgence that will entice
as often as it excites;
my words seek passage --
penetrating your psyche,
as they crawl across your thoughts.
serenading your mind with
lustful passages;
littering your innocence
with filth --
saturated in honesty
dripping with vivid insight;
conceived through insanity.
raging with passion.
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 10:38 PM UTC
the daisy in the vase
sits by the window
with its feet dipped in water
its drooping head
drinking in sunshine
yet
it doesn’t stop
the blush pink from
littering the countertop
in hues of brown
leaves now,
shrivelled prunes
ripe of its
existence
love me
love me not
the daisy in the vase
remains only
a single stalk.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 1:46 PM UTC
Red and yellow leaves
with varying oranges
Littering my lawn
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 10:32 AM UTC
_1981_
They came in like diseased eagles; mutated
forms of those they wore on their chest and
with the change once again in the weather,
the ZOMO swooped in to quell what was
‘wrong’, what would bring them down. They
run in the streets as well as the miners,
running for different reasons and different
aims. I look down, out my window and see
the army helmets littering the street like rats.
Police. Rats.
I could no longer see a difference. My father
went to work that morning. I clutch my doll
knowing the chance of seeing him again is
Miniscule. Poor.
There is no more cereal in the cupboard;
there is no more cereal in the shop; there is
no more shop. The ZOMO set it on fire when the word
Solidarity
appeared in the window.
“We are closing the border for the safety of the People”
Incorrect. Unjustified.
For the safety of You, the Elite.
“Nine killed in mine shooting”
Which side?
Only the ZOMO carry guns.
Fascism. Communism.
I could no longer see a difference
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 9:40 AM UTC
I am 18 years old and I have seen more than enough.
I have made it through the darkest nights
where I just wanted to die.
I am paying the consequences for the pain
that others have cost me.
I have scars and lines littering my body
and I can not eat bread or go one day without
thinking about calories.
I am terrified of annoying people and can not fathom
someone staying by my side forever.
The demons will not leave but I have something stronger.
Hope breeds eternal misery
and they say relationships do not heal you but
I have to disagree with that.
My relationship with God, my Abba
is the remedy.
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 12:44 AM UTC
Epilogue:
The relentless tick of time
Changes things forever.
Stand on a piece of common ground
Look around and remember
Saturday afternoon outdoor charades
The local bring-and-swipe carnival-theft parade!
a spectacle event for all the family to enjoy.
“Come round for your tea” is how it often started:
Then sometime after you leave
The wee cousin Billy
does a quick shimmy
up a 200 foot drainpipe
In through the window, out through your front door
Shortly that fancy new recliner you’ve been bragging about
wont be there any more.
Not unlike tribes of indigenous peoples
they never took more than they could carry
and appreciated the karma of their actions on the jungle.
It would happen to them next week anyway
Till then at least, they had ownership of new leather recliner
People change shape and move places
Old is replaced with the new
Angry youths become middle-aged men with jobs,
carrying children with smiles on their faces
The big blocks were eventually torn down one by one
Nearly all that I remember is gone.
The wall tiles etched with a secret love
Have no place any more
Just junk messages littering another landfill
I spare a thought for the lovers
Did they ever get it on?
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 10:36 AM UTC
Cool black night thru redwoods
cars parked outside in shade
behind the gate, stars dim above
the ravine, a fire burning by the side
porch and a few tired souls hunched over
in black leather jackets. In the huge
wooden house, a yellow chandelier
at 3 A.M. the blast of loudspeakers
hi-fi Rolling Stones Ray Charles Beatles
Jumping Joe Jackson and twenty youths
dancing to the vibration thru the floor,
a little **** in the bathroom, girls in scarlet
tights, one muscular smooth skinned man
sweating dancing for hours, beer cans
bent littering the yard, a hanged man
sculpture dangling from a high creek branch,
children sleeping softly in their bedroom bunks.
And 4 police cars parked outside the painted
gate, red lights revolving in the leaves.
December 1965
5.5k
Violating a placid spirit
Memories transgress
desecrating the sacred.
Memories are
the dark side
of a full moon.
Memories are unsatiated desires
couched on sorrow
entangled in time
a perennial wrinkle on the soul.
Memories are trespassers
possessing neural atrium
wading saline sockets
slithering in to throbbing veins
tiptoeing to hollow spaces
burying all under their eerie weight,
Memories are an inescapable affliction.
In fragmented mindscape
Memories are violent winds
littering the past.
Lurking behind aches
in ethereal garbs,
Memories are assassins.
Or sema
of a swirling dervish.
Hurtling within, Memories
is an avalanche
pounding the abyss
choking the void
one gasp at a time.
Memories are
nameless apparitions
fused as shadows
to the very being.
Memories are an assault
on identity and belonging.
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 6:23 AM UTC
pulling back the covers
dimming the lights
an owl calls
from the holly tree
just outside
of my window
the garden below
has grown beyond my control
weeds sprout vines tangle
in the summer squirrels gnaw
on the green holly berries
littering the courtyard
with half-eaten haws
in the spring mockingbirds
gorge on the bright red fruit
their florid songs
celebrating
light sky life sun leaf air
closing my eyes
I think back through the decades
to when I planted the tree
it was a time of hope
a time when we dared dream
of a world without
mortal enemies
when you could imagine
shaded islands of calm
hidden coves immune to rancor
now look at us
heads down lost hurtling
stumbling
under a trance
we have turned on one other
distracted by those
who grab wealth and power
under the cover of night
confused by the constant
trumpeting and alarms
blind to what we share
we retreat
into the darkness
of our fears
Tom Spencer © 2018
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 7:50 AM UTC
scaled your apartment in one of my favorite dresses
right before sundown
watched the wind billow the blue silk up my thighs,
parachute like
as i looked down,
several stories above your neighbors
(wonder if anyone looked up)
swallowed my human fear, counted the rungs
had opened our forties prematurely in your apartment
sure didn't make climbing any easier
that big map stretched out yawning across the bricks in your living room
spotted the city you were headed for
blame it on uninformed geography but didn't
realize you'd be completely across the country
(didn't tell you but
your cat kissed my nose from the bathroom counter
while i was peeing
and i thought it was one of the most endearing things
that probably ever happened to me)
got to your roof outta breath
all adrenaline and eyes
took off that big leather jacket lined with fleece,
wrapped it around our backs and sat
facing the city you'd be leaving and i'd be entertaining
watched the traffic crawl on the BQE
the sunset bored, you spilled your beer-
kept rolling in it innocently- ******
laughing, god i just
wanted to keep touching you
couldn't decide what to eat
both didn't wanna impose
neither of us could remember the name of that tree
littering pink slippery offspring in spring
for you and me to exclaim fondness over
you were the birth of a simplicity
it was so
terribly easy to be happy
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 11:31 PM UTC
I got fined for littering
by the roadside –
just how unjust can the world get, you tell me!
Look, I agree I’m a *****
but think about it -
it’s just the normal thing to do
I was walking along the road
when I felt it was time
and I gave birth to puppies
by Rotweiler Road;
and this dumb guy comes up in his uniform
and gives me a ticket for littering –
well, I was really barking mad
What could I do? Well, at least I bit him on his ***
that’s what I did!
Imagine the temerity, giving me a ticket
for littering – hey, littering is
what ******* do;
it’s the most natural thing to do!
What will you fine next? Breastfeeding in public?
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 7:13 AM UTC
Vibrations of steel block engines have been lulling me to sleep lately
Eyelids swaying up and down like the back and forth of seaweed on the ocean floor
I count yellow dashed lines like others count sheep
Feeling my consciousness slip away, I’m drowsy, I’m dreaming
I dream of a golden city
A golden bay along golden grass rooted in golden soil
Golden streets with golden stop lights
Golden cars parked in golden parking buildings
Gold Telephone towers powered by gold electrical cables
I begin noticing something strange about this city, as it shone so brightly with a golden sun setting as the city’s own back drop.
There were no inhabitants.
No pigeons.
No stray cats.
No dogs scavenging for spare scraps on starving stomachs
Business Men in suits are found littering streets all around the globe. These streets lay barren
Little girls playing hopscotch and jump-rope gone as if the city misplaced them all.
My stomach dropping as I drop to my knees
Panic attacks bring back memories of family and friends
The beautiful faces of girls I once loved, and ones I may never be able to
Questioning if reality was the dream
I am alone in a wonderful Jungle
It’s not easy to be alone in a City of Gold
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 11:41 PM UTC
Peppermint creme-filled fingers
dabble nothing;
sleep through alarms and dislocated anger sockets
every morning.
And there are flyers littering my floor
speaking truths I never wanted
and never knew
through band names shock factoring
their ardent prisons.
Attention is a world currency,
just like ***
just like symmetry,
and the plates shift
while my plates sit
in the aluminum sink
in my kitchen.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 1:02 PM UTC
Empty bottles of coke
faithfully littering the floor around my
desk, bed, anything they can lay their hands on.
A naive combination of sleeping pills and energy drinks
On my nightstand,
patiently waiting in anticipation,
for their next chance at tempting me into submission,
the poor man's deviled eggs with a side of Hennessy.
Ah, how great it would be,
if the lonely bottles of water by my television
could possibly purge me
Or, maybe, offer a Depression-era baptismal service
So I can find my peace of mind,
as another bottle hits the floor.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 1:43 AM UTC
Roaches litter my ashtray
and empty bottles litter my room
and burnt out incense litters my nightstand
and hollow memories litter my barren landscape of a mind.
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 3:28 AM UTC
where were you? my
umbrella, my saving
grace.
when i was standing in
rain, the drops littering my face like
tears
when the tears leaked
out and streamed down my face like
rain
where were you? my
umbrella, my saving
grace.
you never showed up when i
needed you.
May 20, 2019
May 20, 2019 at 12:48 AM UTC
everything echoes mother.
the paranoia.
the ****** abuse
the tears
the screaming
the threats
the self-hatred
the abandonment.
do i understand her more now that i am her?
the only thing i understand is that i
like her
am weak
her actions no more justifiable than before
but her state of mind
the frantic chase of terrified, irrational thoughts littering her brain
i now understand
and feel
the
fear
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 1:19 PM UTC
i have been swallowed by
my own reflection;
bones protrude through
pallid thin skin,
organs caving in
my stomach hoards a
swarm of bees,
buzzing through the
empty cavern that is
my translucent flesh.
i am a ravenous dog
teeth bearing,
devouring only water and air
i purge myself clean,
spill out empty calories
and irrational rumination,
skeleton hanging out of
a hollow casket,
appetite smaller than my waist.
i am freezing cold,
lanugo littering my body,
wanting to throw myself
in a fire,
to feel the warmth
that others feel.
i am a void -
this body is not my own.
Mar 17, 2021
Mar 17, 2021 at 10:16 PM UTC
A skeletal stag standing ten trees tall
Hanging moss adorning His wide antlers, patches of rocky lichen covering His driftwood bones
Large cloven hooves stepping carefully yet purposefully among the bleached remains littering the forest floor
He alone reigns here, in this place beneath ours
Even the pines fall silent as He passes
Even the stones
The air is old here
Thick with a power lost to time
Only He is left; a dimming flicker in a collective consciousness
Keeping a lonely vigil in an ancient forest a thousand miles deep and a hand's width beside us
No breath is drawn here
The soft rattling of His timber ribcage is the sole sound as He moves
Ceaselessly
Without rest
To a place always changing, never quite there
The ossuaries lay in a heavy silence
He assures the eternal slumber of all who rest here
The hollows in His skull seem to observe them, undisturbed
He moves on
His name has been forgotten for millennia
This sacred ground has become but a fleeting memory
Few old gods remain, lost to the quickening of time
He remembers, as He stands keeper of this place
Of an age before ours
When they would polish the skulls of the hunt with holy oils in His name
Dancing wildly and unburdened around towering flames
Primal sounds ripping raw from reverent lips
Now He is all but a wavering in the annals
He pauses in His endless march
Raises His great antlers to the thick canopy above
He listens
Feels the shift -- another one has faded
He will most likely be the last of His kind
A somber sentinel tasked with ensuring the dead wake not from their final sleep
Ensuring the silence is suffocating
A deep, weighted vibration
As if the place under ours was itself thrumming with power
Though none remain who once spoke His true name in fearful whispers
He will outlast
For all will eventually come to know
The one they now call death
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 8:14 PM UTC
The breeze sifted through the trees,
And the leaves started to fall.
A shower of orange, red, and yellow,
Littering the forest floor.
Summer had came to a close,
And autumn was here.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 12:01 AM UTC
In my own shire, if I was sad,
Homely comforters I had:
The earth, because my heart was sore,
Sorrowed for the son she bore;
And standing hills, long to remain,
Shared their short-lived comrade's pain.
And bound for the same bourn as I,
On every road I wandered by,
Trod beside me, close and dear,
The beautiful and death-struck year:
Whether in the woodland brown
I heard the beechnut rustle down,
And saw the purple crocus pale
Flower about the autumn dale;
Or littering far the fields of May
Lady-smocks a-bleaching lay,
And like a skylit water stood
The bluebells in the azured wood.
Yonder, lightening other loads,
The seasons range the country roads,
But here in London streets I ken
No such helpmates, only men;
And these are not in plight to bear,
If they would, another's care.
They have enough as 'tis: I see
In many an eye that measures me
The mortal sickness of a mind
Too unhappy to be kind.
Undone with misery, all they can
Is to hate their fellow man;
And till they drop they needs must still
Look at you and wish you ill.
2.6k
icy shards are left in
my heart: once
it was filled with the
soft radiance of something
special;
you: an icicle piercing
on my heart insistently
until you yanked it
With your own words. it was to be
a heap of pieces of abrasions
littering at my feet; yet it melted
into a cooling puddle of water
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 4:54 AM UTC
A pair of blue jeans, baby,
A cut-up magazine.
Quotes in the air,
Quotes on the fridge,
Quotes on our bodies,
Tattooed across our ribs.
The meaning has changed,
Yet the words are the same.
I know, it’s not quite as clear,
But the feeling’s still here.
You know, art does that, sometimes-
Have you ever seen the Mona Lisa?
She’ll laugh
Now and then,
She’ll widen her elusive grin,
But don’t blink, boy,
‘Cause now she’s only smiling again.
A hundred pairs of socks, baby,
Some bath tub with a ring.
Someone is arriving,
Someone is even smiling,
And here comes someone with
Bible verses on their back,
And…
By God, they’re thriving.
The needle has skipped,
Yet the words echo on.
I know I’m older than all the things I’m surrounded by,
Than a dog or two, and a chewed pair of shoes.
This memory of a life is like
Seeing my house burned down,
With all my possessions
Littering the ground.
A wall full of photos, baby,
A brand new television, for you but not for me.
These days have finally matured,
These days have decided to let us go.
These days are down the road, without
So much as a ‘goodbye’,
Or a passing glance
And you pass them on the road.
But art, it does that, sometimes.
In fact, baby,
Have you ever seen Van Gogh’s sunflowers,
With their heads hung down in defeat?
One would think they died in the summer heat,
But it was love that did them in-
Some protective barrier that failed them again.
It happens, sometimes;
I’ll laugh now and then,
Widen my elusive grin,
But soft, soft as I am,
I can’t turn around,
And allow this to happen again.
I’ll give you my blue jeans
And things;
Take my quotes,
The socks, my
Magazines.
For now that the past has disappeared,
The future is growing clear.
In March, I’ll be born again,
Like every sunflower who deserves
To be treated like a princess becoming a queen,
I’ll be…I’ll be.
And then, baby,
It’ll be…It’ll be
Like we never passed each other in the hall,
Five years ago,
Before I was short and you were tall,
It’ll be…It’ll be
Like you never even
Knew me at all.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 5:00 PM UTC
I can’t help but mourn the frogs, flattened
like Wile E. Coyote after the inevitable boulder
plummets from a great height, leaving him
mashed on the pavement while the Roadrunner
speeds off - vroom, vroom, beep, beep.
I try to steer around them, but they blanket
the road in biblical numbers during the rain
and it’s like some impossible video game
weaving through masses of randomly hopping life
a certain amount of death is unavoidable.
When I walk the road I can’t stop
counting one, two, five, ten, twenty
cartoon-flat bodies littering the pavement
where I extinguished their glittering
copper and golden-green existence.
Last night, on the panes of every lit window
frogs of all sizes and colors gathered
outside, they covered doors, watering cans
even lined up single file on the coiled garden hose
like they were climbing the ladder to frog heaven.
Through the glass, I admired their rhythmic
throats and soft, creamy, underbellies
one, two, five, ten, twenty
fragile creatures seeking warmth
in the hastening darkness.
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 1:14 PM UTC
Picture pecan.
Plastering, painted prints.
Plummeting.
Languid Leaves.
Listless, lethargic lives.
Littering.
Sacrificed scenery.
Shattered, struggling space.
Sabotaging.
Beauty dies
This time of year.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 5:06 AM UTC