"lodges" poems
Look, stranger, at this island now
The leaping light for your delight discovers,
Stand stable here
And silent be,
That through the channels of the ear
May wander like a river
The swaying sound of the sea.
Here at the small field's ending pause
Where the chalk wall falls to the foam, and its tall ledges
Oppose the pluck
And knock of the tide,
And the shingle scrambles after the ****
ing surf,
and the gull lodges
A moment on its sheer side.
Far off like floating seeds the ships
Diverge on urgent voluntary errands;
And the full view
Indeed may enter
And move in memory as now these clouds do,
That pass the harbour mirror
And all the summer through the water saunter.
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Sacagawea's Capture
As I strolled the Knife River trail
a dust cloud swirled and fell
and earth lodges appeared by the score
extending from the path to the river banks.
Hidatsa women sang at their chores,
husking corn -
beading moccasins -
scraping a buffalo hide.
A band of hunters dismounted
and released their ropes -
dropping two deer and an elk
by the hanging rack.
Triumphal shouts from the river
turned all heads to the shore
where warriors, returned
from Shoshone fields,
lashed up canoes and dragged
their human spoils up the rise.
Several squaws reached out
from the gathering crowd
seizing two of the squirming children.
A Shoshone girl with terror in her eyes
cringed as a warrior raised his arm.
"No, tell your Hidatsa name!"
Sobbing she choked through broken tears,
"My name is Sacagawea."
I bolted to breach the walls of time
to face death in her defense
but a new whirling cloud intervened.
When the dust fell away
all the lodges had vanished
with all the Hidatsa villagers.
Kneeling down to the Dakota grass,
I caressed a circular hollow
etched deeply in the silent earth.
August 6, 2010
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 5:28 AM UTC
On the face of it, there isn't much about this bird
To stop me in my tracks.
Brown, oblivious, busy with the ground
It totters along on stilted legs
Probing among the frozen fields.
It's the name that's the trouble.
Childhood hours spent copying pictures
From the Readers' Digest Book of Birds
Call to mind the name, 'Curlew'.
In my house, though, birds had Scots names
and my dad, a linguistic David Bellamy
Urged us to conserve these rare words
or lose them forever.
Goldfinch? Gowdspink!
Starling? Stuckie!
Blue *** Umm...
But the undistinguished gentleman before me
was definitely a whaup.
Curlew or whaup?
Which is it to me?
The English of books
or the fading Scots, maybe closer
to the bird's wild home?
Textbook reality
or romantic poetry?
Or both - can the creature sit
in two states at once?
"Schrodinger's Curlew", I think with a smile.
("Schrodinger's Whaup!" bellows the bit of my dad
that lodges in my head.)
Here, under a cloud of my own breath
In the low winter light,
Neither seems quite adequate.
And then, untouched by my musings
The bird spreads its wings and lifts,
Naming itself, with a long, pure note
And my heart, in two states,
Leaps
and breaks.
Nov 26, 2010
Nov 26, 2010 at 12:03 AM UTC
The scent of death
lingers for years
in a place
lodges in the soil
rots
and slowly compresses
composting down
deep down
in dirt
earth turns
seasons pass
time and space and silence
until the coiling roots
draw back again
and all that grows
from baby's tears
to blood red poppies
oaks and elms
bear testimony
to the forgotten
dead.
© M.L.Emmett
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 8:19 AM UTC
i.
The atlantian theorists, of the Masonic order,
Wanted a new world, ****** indigenous quarter's;
They came by their ship's, to conceal native truth's,
Only coming for a plunder, to giveth satanic rule.
ii.
The warrior-painted faces, naturally painted by ash and red,
Sawest their shores, being broken by it's door's; mad-men in
Shiny silver, hand's open, yet were fed. Sachem prophet's
Bellowed the harbinger's long afore, now all hast come, these
aborigines weren't dumb; they prophesied this long before.
iii.
The wigwams, longhouses, teepees and lodges, were uprooted from their sacred ground's, the creator's meek were ravaged; as giant bones were taken while found. As hidden beneath the surface, the haut monde made none sound; playing dumbed with Gun's, they ran their fun, fabricating lies, under the America's sun. As tis they gave the world alibi's to be one, O' what hath they done; O' what hath they done.
iv.
First the viking, with dragon ship thunder
came to conquer,pillage and plunder
taking lives without a thought
unwary of the cruelty they wrought.
v.
Then pilgrim's progress seeking new land
would have starved if not for the "savage" man
onward, westward, did they go
killing for profit, pleasure little did they know.
vi.
Grandfather, earth mother and spirit of wild
they watched as the white eye usurped the child
and still, no lesson has been learned
the people grew fat, their culture spurned.
vii.
Most of the tribes are gone away
and America has come to stay
but in my native heart i yearn
to see the Indian nation return.
©Brandon Nagley \Wolfspirit duo poem
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Indigenous harbinger's revealed
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC
People take turns inserting coins
attempting to grab plushy hearts and plastic capsules
the claws never were good at holding on for long
always went limp, dropping the trinkets, just before the finish line
only time it grabbed hold of something long enough
to flash all the lights and sing
was for children
who pointed a tiny hand
at something shiny they saw inside
parents step up to fail again and again
at winning it for them.
when the kids have a turn.
on the first try, they lasso this heart
resting firmly on the bottom
hidden beneath all the old ipods and heavy rubber toys.
would glow in the lights
when they lit all up and sang for them.
revered for their expertise and skill,
they reach in to claim their reward.
not even knowing what it really was.
but for some reason
grabbing it.
bringing it everywhere.
when the kids get older.
it was kept on their bed.
when they had their own children
handed down to toy chests
when they grew old, their children left the hearts
in hospital rooms...
they didn't think of it much.
seemed natural to lug it around.
everyone was so proud, that the machine chose them.
the prize was so soft, and familiar.
the machine, though.
could tell every day that it was missing.
held tightly onto the coins they left.
kept filling itself with junk and giving it to strangers
hoping one day they'd come back to play again.
a man comes by once in awhile to relieve him of his coin
then fills him full of new prizes to divvy out.
but the claw machine lodges some coins
far in the back, where his short arms can't reach
so he can remember
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 3:31 PM UTC
I
Here’s the mould of a musical bird long passed from light,
Which over the earth before man came was winging;
There’s a contralto voice I heard last night,
That lodges with me still in its sweet singing.
II
Such a dream is Time that the coo of this ancient bird
Has perished not, but is blent, or will be blending
Mid visionless wilds of space with the voice that I heard,
In the full-fuged song of the universe unending.
2.2k
The scent of your cologne and incense
always linger behind,
Attaching themselves to me in a cruel reminder
Of just how much I love the smell that is you.
Deep and woody,
It brings memories of fireplaces,
Winter nights,
And spiced chai.
Ski lodges,
Knit hats,
And gloved hands two sizes bigger,
Still holding on for dear life.
Cuddling under hand-made blankets
Sharing laughs,
Secrets,
Kisses.
Even if I don't have you I will always have your scent,
And the places it takes me are better than the places I have been.
Oct 13, 2010
Oct 13, 2010 at 11:04 PM UTC
her face a bold echo of all she left behind
a slow symphony of nasty things that linger in her mind
she lives them over and over
in the off color technical vision
of an artist trying on her own guises for a adventure
the night crawls over her thigh
lodges in the warm wet of her fingers
and spreads into the windows
grey fades into black
the slow devolution
into the jaundiced eye
into the nicotine stained tapping fingers as she impatiently
waits for words that can never be spoken aloud
the slow desire for tears
so deep and immediate that its a bible to the lonely soul
and her senses deny you
even as you touch the door
even as you evaporate down the hall
melt yourself into the humid night
so fair is her face that you live each of thouse seconds in dire regret
so fair is her touch that you must lean on your last breath
to let go
the night crawls
in her bed clothes
laying its fetid eggs
like a stain of pollution tender and sickly sweet
its insect face bitter staring from her soul
now i see you
you escape over and over
door
hall
humid night
door
hall
humid night
but you never leave
narrow her eye jaundiced and rancid
lay open for the world to see and be seen by
and she molds him to the stain of her hurt
deep impressions over the years leaves him little room to
wiggle wiggle worm, wiggle wiggle worm
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 10:02 PM UTC
Your soft words sink me in ten directions
my soul comes pouring out of a broken hull
this is not a fairytale
unicorns and rainbows
happy endings
no
yours is a verse for forgiveness
piercing
unwelcome
cold as nuclear winter
bright as nuclear day
a quiet explosion in technicolor tragedy
my ears shatter
nerve endings free-fall
vividly ablaze
cherished moments fuse as one,
ten trillion endings per second
i flinch under the gravity of the situation,
a black hole lodges in my chest
never to leave again
sparkle and fade
no light escapes
sparkle and fade
this twisted love
this stardust field
abandoned
unwanted
betrayed.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 8:46 AM UTC
people like us are never not broken,
we just learn
how to live with the pain
as it lodges in our souls
and stays there forever
-o.h
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 3:04 PM UTC
Everything stops when I see the blur
hear the low, vibrating buzz
RIGHT IN MY EAR
Flinch
spasm
FREEZE
My muscles
every last one
tense and rigid
Don't
Move
An
Inch
My head snaps to my shoulder
My hands fly to my neck
my signature tic
protect my ears protect my head
or the monster
the horror
the bee
will fly into my skull and-
I feel its legs covered in short fibrous tendrils oh god no
scuttling inside my head an itch I can't scratch
a whimper lodges in my throat
threatens to turn into a
SCREAM
-into my brain
the blur flashes by
as sweat r
o
l
l
s
down my back
MY SKIN IS BURNING EVERYTHING IS BURNING
the wasp in my head is
STINGING ME EVERYWHERE AT ONCE
Tears sting
Arms sting
everything stings
**** this phobia!*
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 8:59 PM UTC
Piercing the inner Sanctum
The trivial the less important will never even get a start into the bastion of peace and well being that is
Sacred and defended to the last breath the one irresistible caller that is never barred and who is as a
Master key is beauty to no avail can you post guards loveliness has no comparisons like spectacle in any
And all forms it governs and rules all of our hearts once seen the invitation is never with drawn like the
Vistas seen from a high mountain incomparable glory is touched sequestered in depths of appreciation
Moments of grandeur with this spell compression is ultimate the thick richness slowly sinks beyond all
Comprehension it will linger for a life time the blues are the high honor of dress befitting a person of
Rare quality to have and squander cherished gifts the emptiness can never be measured but to make
Contact with the sublime on a desert plane the one invaluable gift of solitude no pretense or frivolity
To cause error or a missed chance to speak and hear wonders undeniable voice that is attended by rare
Essences of tranquility that robes itself in splendor it beckons in pure language simplicity that astounds
Bewilderment of the highest order lodges in your soul the hush of holy beings are noticed if only by the
Assured peace that builds a walled fortress nothing can assail these attainments visited and began by
The unutterable beauty that moves with conscious and deliberate design to bestow upon you the
Perfection that once ruled in Eden
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 2:20 PM UTC
Beyond the light our demons bite
Our spirits gather in plasmatic flight
Upon entropy elementals feed
Used up magic, envy and greed
Portals open and bid us within
As we fight to regain our former sins
We are one yet containing all
Such is the force of kinetic law
A resonation of migrating souls
Not even the black stage can hold
Great White lodges, astral planes
Deities appear to rule and reign
Part I
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 8:10 AM UTC
A waxy, dimpled orb in my hand,
A tiny sunrise, sweet and sharp.
One nail-blade incision and the
Peel tears away when you find the foothold,
Then coursing acid fires through your cuts and bruises,
Burning and tasting wounds with sharp recoil taste,
An acerbic spark.
Pith lodges under my nails,
Tang cloys beneath my nose.
The fruit now pulled apart, the ceremony over,
Segments of the sun lie exposed.
Eat half and half a year you'll remain.
The stringy web of white
Latticing the fruit-flesh
Is a pain to unentwine
What with the juice.
An explosion when you pierce the pocket,
And the gamble of what the burst will be.
Hedge your bets by eating the tasteless ones too.
Then the bathos of a pip
(the pebble inside the fruit, too small to be a stone)
Punctuates the sweetness you'd been enjoying.
Now the fumbling spat to get it out.
And after all the effort it's flavourless,
And you ask was it worth it?
Wasn't even really orange.
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 4:22 PM UTC
Past meadows of dewy green
Far above the tree line
On mountains peaked
With snow
A marmot comes out
To drink from
Rivulets of a melted
Glacier.
Walkers trek
Up the Alpine
Trails, past the
Lodges.
They passed a country
That belongs to another
World, another century,
Where fairytales were born, to get there.
But the marmot neither knows,
Or cares, as he drinks, drenched
In a dazzling light, Reflected
Off ****** snow.
I saw him as he stood
On a rock, surveying the
Humans nearby,
Striding upwards.
He turned his head
And met my eyes.
Just another human.
He turned away and left.
I stripped off my boots and dipped my feet
In the chilly stream,
Breathed in the startlingly clear air
And waited for him to reappear.
Aug 3, 2011
Aug 3, 2011 at 2:58 PM UTC
The Church in its awesome majesty
Looked down, from over the hill,
From faith, to hope, to travesty
It stood, and is standing still,
So proud in its fine regalia
Its ritual, and never the least,
Its potent God who would wield his rod
Deter the jaws of the beast.
The Bishop of Saint Ignatius Church
Was a proud and holy man,
Who wouldn’t suffer the jibes of fools
From Rome to Afghanistan,
And certainly not those down the hill
In the new Masonic Lodge,
That beastly, secret doctrine that
He advised his flock to dodge.
He’d stand at the steps of his church and stare
Down at the barbarians,
He hated Lodges, he hated Mosques
And Rastafarians,
‘There shouldn’t be anyone else but me,
I hold the eternal God,
What gods they worship could never be,
For they’re all distinctly odd.’
While down at the Lodge of the Masons
They were cool with their golden rule,
They had to believe in a god as such,
But how, it was up to you.
For some would practice the Baptist faith,
And some Presbyterian,
While some enrolled in the Primitive state
Were a type of Wesleyan.
There was only a single Catholic
And he wore a glued on rug,
He wanted to still be young at heart,
Was known as the Grand HumBug,
The Antidiluvian Mason’s Guild
Was the name he’d chosen himself,
The others differed, but he was keen,
And he was the one with wealth.
Their God was known as the Architect,
They carried the masons tools,
The set square set them apart from all
The disbelievers and fools.
They worked on their secret rituals
And kept a goat at the back,
For leading a blindfold novice in
And guarding the Lodge from attack.
The Bishop heard that a Catholic
Was leading the Masons there,
He fumed, choked on his rhetoric, but
Was heard to firmly declare,
‘I will not shelter a wayward sheep
Who has taken to ways I hate,
The only fate for a traitor here
Is to excommunicate!’
He gathered a dozen priests to march
With candles, down to the Hall,
Surrounded the base heretic’s Lodge
And named HumBug in his call,
Sprinkled his holy water ‘til
It fizzed, and gave off a smell,
Doused his candle and closed his book,
Consigning the man to Hell!
But Humbug patted his glued on rug
Went out, untethered the goat,
He let it loose on the dozen Priests,
It butted the Bishop’s coat,
They ran in confusion up the street,
To the church, set up on the hill,
While the goat was hard at the Bishop’s heels
Like a demon released from Hell.
It butted the Bishop’s altar and
It charged, knocked over the font,
Scattered the pews for the devil’s dues
In a hellfire sacrament,
While HumBug muttered he might end up
In Hell, with his Mason’s sect,
But the Bishop’s God, had failed with his rod
In a clash with his Architect!
David Lewis Paget
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 12:45 AM UTC
Loveth thee with flowers
wilted round your
theatre borne
Thou hast listen
to the romantic soul
to old indian songs
thee playeth the prophecies
drumming on windchimes
and dream lodges
all along
Lovely to see me
maketh me grin!
when the angulo
hahahahas
you sneaketh
inside
grabeth me!
rollin' and spinin
making my day
simile to this widest smile
present's to taketh miself
to the moonlit skies
Thoughts thus
transported us
to futuristic realms
of imagineth energy
sipping too real
For noweth
I
am embraced
by the photons
and waves
'cause
my darling seeps
melodies strumming
n' fingerin strings
I would loveth thee
dearly if you were
nearer to me.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC
this moment music plays
this moment we dance
this moment you whisper lyrics in my ear
this moment i feel happieness explode within me
this moment a stone lodges its way into my throat
this moment a warm tear forms in the corner of my eye
this moment we both know we will never be excepted
this moment we will always have
this moment when everything in the world is good
this moment when societies opinion doesnt matter
this moment when eachother is all we have
this moment when we both know how the other feels
this moment when i realise ill never truley be over you
this moment when i realise you are the reason i live the reason i get up in the morning
this moment when i realise we can never truley be together and never truley be with one another forever.
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 10:33 AM UTC
Pale winter sunlight
pours over my left shoulder.
Swelling gibbous moon
lodges itself,
lives here,
for now,
in my tiny chest.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 8:44 PM UTC
Embarrassment.
We all know what it is.
It's the son of Mr. Miscommunication
and the lovely Ms. Stupidity
Embarrassment isn't a kind thing
It crawls into your stomach and pokes at you
only to remind you
of your misfortune mis-step.
With all of Embarrasment's toying
you become uncomfortable
you sweat
you fidget
but it's still there
that, hopeless feeling of stupidity that
eats at you.
Embarrasment's quite flexible,
he likes to move around
the more you think, the farther he goes
from your stomach's trouble to your chest
where he hurts your heart
and lodges your lungs
At this point,
we all know what happens
but
I'm far too embarrassed to explain it.
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC
I'm doing this no justice.
Saving my tongue for dryer days, keeping the ones I actually love from losing their own pinkish tails in my waning nonsense.
Sane and civil... because I am my fathers shifting chameleon; his white blazer and my mothers blood orange; her Lorazepam.
My name alone is treaty.
One lonely gabble lodges itself inside of my esophagus.
Get lost founding father.
Burn harder rebellion.
I need me on my surface, not buried under the expected ammunition of ink.
End your sparkle, sparkler.
Here, your exploding gold only crushes the windpipe of flowers.
I have nightmares that stretch my fears towards our waking sun.
Yawning out the last sighs of moon.
Once again, I hesitate and stumble on tongue.
I've seen my words startle rust like the flat cat call 'boos’ of halloween towards November.
Since I've been buried, halloween hasn't missed a year.
And the gibberish of its mask will always sting as resonant.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 2:35 AM UTC
Once upon a time, somewhere
When the seagulls speeded
With a bike to a night that
Popped new tyres and did
Not wipe the rain, storm and
Long blue letters that spoke,
I remember you, I remember you
Chillies that swam across the earth
To a milky way where seasons
Changed, candles blew over
Secret nights and lodges Mum
Did not know, emotionlessness fails,
Don’t fly away because
I remember you, I remember you
There’s a standing table and
Papers all around, the ghost
That tiptoed into a bedroom
Where an insomniac fooled
With magic pen and blue eyes
I see you smiling and you know
I remember you, I remember you
Get on the chair and climb
Up to my swing, I’ll take you
To my city and show little jingles.
I caught the sun inside my-
Palm, your little town and
A comic store, look at this!
I remember you, I remember you
I should start making sushies,
Swim across a little ocean
To find a Mickey world of
Endless topics and FIFO workers
You're probably goanna **** me
For the good things I did not write
But you do remember me, don't you?
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 12:07 PM UTC