"lofted" poems
If I knew, maybe I’d say something,
Why I miss my cats more than my parents
Why I miss the teal walls of my room and the full sized bed
more than I miss my family.
Why I miss the green trees and ravine behind my house,
all I hear is a withering beeping outside my five story window.
This room is so small
and I have to bear it with another
and although she and I get along,
Alone is weighted with wondering when she’ll be back.
Home is more an empty house than a room full of family.
Home is less talk and more birdsong in the background.
Home is…
Not these tight corners and partying bellowing music down in room 809,
not the concrete walls painted white, or the lofted beds I can’t sit up straight.
Getting away from my family was easy,
and my friends hard.
Leaving was easy.
And wishing hard.
I feel, less independent,
there’s only so many places to walk.
No car to escape, nor a room either.
The closest I get is headphones and online friends.
And yet they are so far away.
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 10:04 PM UTC
Know that my heart beats for you...
Every crank of the wheel, turn of dials...
Leading to my every breath and every sigh
Wishing every moment would stay a while...
Unaware of themselves hard at work,
The cogs in my mind are constantly spinning...
The gears in my head are lodged in place...
Cogs and gears like clockwork, carelessly turning...
Like a factory of sorts,
They keep churning out ideas.
Conceived notions that only had been
Spawned by my mind's nucleus...
Blinking lights signalling ways,
And means to sweep you into the air,
Then leave you lofted for second....
Without a trace of fear or care.
At that moment, what I'd give to just admire...
You floating against a backdrop of stars.
An image frozen in infinite.
An image free from blemishes or scars.
Then when gravity claims you back,
You'd fall the most graceful of falls...
A fall in the slowest of motion.
A fall led by my loving calls.
Fear not darling for my arms would be there...
To catch you and hold you close in a tight embrace.
Cheek to cheek, chest to chest... You'd then know that,
Cogs and gears spin only for you in this very same place...
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 10:44 AM UTC
Little king of sun toasting petal,
Cups the air with swirling wings
Flashes, flurries of wetted trials,
How you drink of nectar singing,
With invisible wings let whirring,
So robed in arc of rainbows' sky,
Even lofted mist of morn stirring,
All the shaped air, a moving eye.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 7:07 PM UTC
Raking leaves--walnut, maple, mulberry, ailanthus--
I saw how it was.
My dog Molly--sweet, skittish, a rescue--
knew the Aussie was the favorite.
She hid his favorite toy in a pile of leaves,
but not well enough--I saved it.
When we were finished, all the leaves at the curb,
the toy was gone, second time the wicked charm.
When you lose something--you lose the place you were
when you first saw it, who you were with, what you were doing.
Fragile things can fall and shatter and when you see them broken
your heart can break a little too--and there's nothing you can do.
I am thinking about broken things, lost things, hidden things.
The leaves have fallen, grown again, fallen again.
My Aussie is gone and the pure clear blue of September sky,
the lofted toy, and Molly too, have all passed.
Today I sit outside, careful with the mug on the chair arm,
even knowing that everything--and I as well--will fall in time.
Aug 30, 2025
Aug 30, 2025 at 12:38 PM UTC
Little king of sun toasting petal,
Cups the air with swirling wings
Flashes, flurries of wetted trials,
How you drink of nectar singing,
With invisible wings let whirring,
So robed in arc of rainbows' sky,
Even lofted mist of morn stirring,
All the shaped air, a moving eye.
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 1:08 PM UTC
I don't know much,
but I can tell you what "whole" looks like.
I've seen it stumble forward
with weary eyes and tired hands.
Come close,
I will hand you a mirror
and tell you to look carefully.
Can you not hear the galaxies
beneath your skin?
They paint in whispers
that even oceans cannot grasp.
I know it took a hurricane and two floods,
but there is soil in your ribcage;
your scars told me so.
Don't mind them though,
they're just reminders
that you love harder than anyone else.
I know you might feel hollow,
but there is a reason your heart
has lofted ceilings.
Never forget how you fought
for all that space.
Look carefully.
These gray skies inside your lungs
are simply a canvas,
and you rain so beautifully.
Oh darling,
you rain so beautifully.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 10:55 PM UTC
Mother Earth has birthed billions of nymphets
knees that flirted with their socks so much it left prints
coquettes gyrating Bubble Yum
on digits, her sunglasses’ stems, a split end.
Mother Earth gave us nymphs so
bodies would not be loamless either, so we can be as
fertile as gorges far from any lofted stone wall.
Mother Earth, that she was never nubile
labored faunlets with pink gumwads upon their genitals
and frothed when one creation alit inside another.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
Lofted over the Cedar murky
waters the color of coffee flow implacable
immutable towards the Southeast horizon
while Pleiades and Orion hunt above tenacious
juniper fingers driven into crags
boreal bonsai stands everlasting
in time
for me to fly this roost
Mar 9, 2010
Mar 9, 2010 at 2:49 PM UTC
.
Little king of sun toasting petal,
Cups the air with swirling wings
Flashes, flurries of wetted trials,
How you drink of nectar singing,
With invisible wings let whirring,
So robed in arc of rainbows' sky,
Even lofted mist of morn stirring,
All the shaped air, a moving eye.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 12:42 PM UTC
Little king of sun toasting petal,
Cups the air with swirling wings
Flashes, flurries of wetted trials,
How you drink of nectar singing,
With invisible wings let whirring,
So robed in arc of rainbows' sky,
Even lofted mist of morn stirring,
All the shaped air, a moving eye.
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 2:02 PM UTC
Masterpieces nailed to the sides of train cars
As they pass it becomes a flipbook
Made of names so grotesquely caricatured
(down to every last tittle and tisten)
They would become beauty through definitions
Written themselves.
It is scrawled onto napkins
Hoisted over the neon city
Crudely lined and curved into cardboard signs
Lofted between vagrant fingers that hadn’t touched a green thing in years.
Safety in the colors
Born from the rust of the river which runs when we walk
And fermented through years of gunfire
Which coincidentally spell out our names between the holes
And deteriorate when obscured by some passing train cars
That I cannot help but to stop and admire.
This flipbook of broken law and clever rebellion
In its own right, a masterpiece in pieces
In its terrible condemnation, erased
And the artist dies again.
Jan 7, 2011
Jan 7, 2011 at 5:22 AM UTC
Trapped on my pedestal lofted up high, shrouded by darkness, dreaming of sky, let me dance for you're enjoyment, let me pirouette and spin, release me from my prison it's you're jewelry box I'm in.
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 4:24 AM UTC
.
Little king of sun toasting petal,
Cups the air with swirling wings
Flashes, flurries of wetted trials,
How you drink of nectar singing,
With invisible wings let whirring,
So robed in arc of rainbows' sky,
Even lofted mist of morn stirring,
All the shaped air, a moving eye.
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 2:53 PM UTC
My eyes feel dry and heavier than usual;
coffee didn't do too much for me today.
I haven't seen my roommate in a few hours,
so I'm sitting in the dark waiting for sleep to come.
The mini fridge below my lofted bed
sounds like an alien spaceship.
It's strangely soothing, though.
I left the **** window open
and now I'm freezing my *** off,
but the crisp air has a nice smell.
Someone on the third floor is running around
and laughing like an obnoxious twelve year old girl,
which makes me wonder -
when was the last time I laughed that hard?
The mini fridge stopped running,
and my roommate has returned.
Monday is almost over.
CVT
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 11:21 PM UTC
Do I Dare To Breathe? Do I Dare To Speak?
If I Open My Mouth Will It Be Closed?
If Words Decide To Come Will They Be Meak?
You Doubt This "Rough" Life Waiting To Erode
Am I Not Fit To Love? Am I An Error?
All My Questions Are Going Unanswered,
Yet I'm Pretending I Do Not Care,
Life Throws Me Out And Reads Me The Hansard
May I Be Free As The Gull's Lofted Wing?
Am I Not Worthy In Fate's Glassy Eyes?
Songs Play--But Do I Listen To The Strings?
What Am I Missing In Life, I Ask, "Why?"
The Moon Holds Me, A Heart Soft As Cotton,
Stars Smile To Keep From Being Rotton
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 2:32 PM UTC
Powder erupted around the wheels of
the careening steel. Many questions
remained added to the enigma,
the empty wreck.
Glances over the deployed air bag
indicated that the zeppelin would not
fly, wrinkled, as it was, by the impact
of the road. Limits implied, in advance,
that the wheel could be expected
to break off of the parked vehicle, not
as often as a blue moon. This warning
did not reach the pilot deeply immersed
in an adventurous dream. A tree
arrived to confront the day without
troubles, and, from the leaves, a mistake
was coaxed into being through the use
of incredibly attractive and accented
meanings always intended to provoke an
event, the stormy scene which exploded
in a shower of sparks from the clattering
steel. A long wait resulted in a deluge of
water across the green strands of hair that
were floating implicated by the color and
the formal presence lofted so easily into
the sky. In this fashion, they were able to
send passengers far out into the universe,
entering the deep space, where cats became
stable creatures, and the long neck of the
new dinosaur was reaching through the door
of the hay loft asking to be allowed this
journey into the green rivers, which painted
hair, wherever they could be found. The
stare of the eye, in this storm,
had a memory of endless days spent
manipulating aggravated spirits to create
trivial, game points. Although winning did not
matter, discovery was losing. It could not be
escaped with a simple misdirection. The
crisis was in the middle between departure and
arrival. The bewildered animals discussed this,
thoroughly, before deciding not to participate.
They were lucky when allowed to watch
quietly from a nearby star system.
Balanced on two wheels, the bell chimed
periodic lengths to extend the race sleeping in
chests in the hall. It all related to experiences
floundering in relation to news events and
plans to engage in safe travel, indefinitely.
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 8:00 PM UTC
The teenagers smile through their misery
as they learn to love the taste of beer.
I learned from then on that no actions of ease
are ever sincere; that we all struggle to keep pace
with all that is expected - a grade-mark percentage,
an overtime enthusiast; a steady-state consumer
who is always bright, bright, bright and on time;
who is never bleak and twisted, or overcast and out of mind.
I see the couple's silent feud
as they hold hands across the road;
I see the womanizer pop a zit in a wing mirror
on his way to the latest ***** call.
The sales assistant yawns through the breathing spaces
of professional enthusiasm, scouring the pages
of the company magazine, whilst the radio sweats
in the corner of the room. Last night's words
are on her mind as she signs the papers
with today's date; today's place in time
amongst all of the others that dominate her life,
whilst leaving scars and no memories,
punching the clock and throwing the fight.
I see the hang-man wince in empathy
after his dog had died last week;
I see the expert in the hotel mirror,
feeling sorry about his ****
The Beautiful People are walking the ugly track
back home, amongst the rubble of Snapchats
and bad scratch-cards; the cardiac nurse
meditates in the restaurant corridor
before going to meet a woman.
I learned from my lofted position
on top of all the walls I have built,
that no matter how vivid the flower in sunlight,
in the darkness, it will always come to wilt.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 9:28 AM UTC
Well the dogs begin to bark, disembodied
on the cemetery hill. Gravestones are silhouettes,
furniture in the night. From here you can see the housing estate,
constellations of halogen bulbs and bicycle reflectors.
All is still but my mind and the sound of the dogs in the distance.
A lofted branch, a hanging thread:
when did the rope-swing become a noose?
We came down from the trees
to burn them to the ground.
A thousand signals pass overhead. Unintelligible.
Unseen. The homeless leave piss-bottles of cheap cider
and backwater in the flower bins
but no one has seen them do it.
A chapel reflects the distant street-lights, unmoving,
so that only the trees share my discourse with living.
The dogs have shut up. The signals continue.
I lost my way again on the cemetery hill.
Scars have become medals.
My heart refuses to still.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 6:12 PM UTC
Come, silver moon, alight on troubled clouds,
Gift them thy saintly glow lifting the gloom
Levied below, with flowery haloed buds
Springing forth like the lamb from mother's womb,
Light up anew hedgerows and quilted fields
Where cattle sleep in clusters like faint stars,
Constellations huddled upon the wolds,
Breath nebulous as fogging stale cigars;
Ill omens thrive to drift in darkest times
From cloud to stony cloud above the night,
Watching for victims from high lofted climes,
Raining full pent up fury of their might:
Come, silver moon, gift troubled clouds thy lining,
Hope lives in thee as long as thou art shining!
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 10:26 PM UTC
Little king of sun toasting petal,
Cups the air with swirling wings
Flashes, flurries of wetted trials,
How you drink of nectar singing,
With invisible wings let whirring,
So robed in arc of rainbows' sky,
Even lofted mist of morn stirring,
All the shaped air, a moving eye.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 4:34 PM UTC
…
Some birds are blue
Carry the sky
Earthwards
Ground birds nest
In bushes
Bursting like sun
Water birds
Swim to what is there
Always reaching
An eagle is like wind
Never chasing
Simply lofted
Crows are busy
So like tribulations
Spots of wind
A swan knows
Water will carry
As water in cloud
Some birds are dressed
Forthright on earth
The wren, the robin or quail
Each bird is dream
Miracles for us to see
Feathers fall from heaven
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 8:50 PM UTC
…
Some birds are blue
Carry the sky
Earthwards
Ground birds nest
In bushes
Bursting like sun
Water birds
Swim to what is there
Always reaching
An eagle is like wind
Never chasing
Simply lofted
Crows are busy
So like tribulations
Spots of wind
A swan knows
Water will carry
As water in cloud
Some birds are dressed
Forthright on earth
The wren, the robin or quail
Each bird is dream
Miracles for us to see
Feathers fall from heaven
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 2:18 PM UTC
I feel like taking a tab of acid
and disappearing
to town in my worn suit.
Buskers bathe in the eternal winter,
clamouring sounds at passers-by
until Jericho falls in on itself,
money spilling out of its sides
like a fast food waiter
on his cigarette break.
Trawling through the record shops,
I feel as if I've travelled through time;
each bootleg, a manuscript,
each seven-inch, a sonnet.
Pulling fingers through Venetian sounds,
I have found my place
in the library of New Alexandria.
The pigeons are swollen at the ankles.
Like humans, they are losing height
at the promise of another meal,
at another chance to rifle through the crumb.
School kids are waiting for the bus
as I go walking past.
They're unaware of the ease of tread
they have over land,
unaware of how quickly it can fall
and the scathing jealousy
I feel for each of them.
In eyes wet and wide, I turn to go home,
I walk in the rain, before settling for the bus
and returning to that familiar, lofted view
of the world passing by through a maniac's eyes.
It is only then that the world shifts in focus
and lotus flowers crop up through the carpet,
the world outside has grown far too unreal,
to the point hallucinating makes sense of it all.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 11:05 AM UTC
.
To saunter through the chiming world,
Downy and white, a cloud burst wafted,
Fresh as the sight of a newborn furled,
A glimpse for mortals gazing gods lofted.
How lovely a way to sail through world,
By streaming to seas or wondrously land,
Fresh as the wave that breaks and curls,
To come from airs breezing from heavens.
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 2:10 PM UTC
I have wrapped the coast of Miston, walking from The Haunted Plains to the old church, Once More, once again, never stopping, except for a cool drink and the gentle repose of shade.
I have walked a pale road towards Golgotha, where our Lord, our saviour, Jesus Christ, was crowned with thorns and lofted in pain.
I have walked into old Seabridge town, all the way to where the water runs and where the snow rests on frozen days.
However, there are still many souls to be found in these towns, if only— and I pray— my feet stay supple and take the strain of my long, wandering days.
Dec 5, 2023
Dec 5, 2023 at 6:55 PM UTC