"loggers" poems
The head losing itself
A rainforest
Lake in the heart
Hundred tombstones
Named Narcissus
They Echo
Icy, bluish lungs
Pallid violet nails
Lips still yet loving
Salty bamboos
Necrophilic whistles
Siren's footsteps
Illegal loggers
Burying selves alive
Love, love that is
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 8:29 AM UTC
On old mainstreet, sits an old café,
Where home-town-grown musicians play.
Sometimes they like to change its name,
But the clientele stay just the same.
When times are tough down in the town,
You know you can’t get the Black Dog down.
Rednecks and faux-necks and used-to-be-loggers,
Crafters and rafters, and activist bloggers,
And poets and hippies and mystics and fools,
And outcasts from the secondary schools,
And gypsies too: you’ll find them here,
Drowning in local, hand-crafted beer.
At night, locals sip organic tea,
And turn up the menagerie
Of lights and mics from another age,
Pieced together to make a stage.
And there, the guitarists waste their breath
Beating the Same. Four. Chords. To. Death.
There are some new lyrics, there and here,
But all of them memories of yester-year:
A year spent in the same **** space,
With others who’ve never left this place.
They sing of their dear loves and pasts,
And how much longer the wandering lasts.
And on they wail, and on they moan,
And twang the antique, rustic tone,
But their faces show they like it here,
This breaking haunt of yester-year,
And after the set, they carouse with cheer,
And smile contentedly to their beer.
On old mainstreet sits an old café,
Where home-town-grown musicians play.
Sometimes they like to change its name,
But the clientele stay just the same.
When times are tough down in the town,
You know you can’t get the Black Dog down.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 3:17 AM UTC
..for every bear that ever there was
is gone today for certain because
illegal loggers are flogging the guts
out of nature.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 3:31 AM UTC
the little tree
took root from
an acorn nut.
the years passed,
she watched the loggers
come and go.
taking her friends
and family off
on the big beds
of the timber trucks.
year after year,
season after season,
there she stood,
winter, fall, spring, and summer,
one slow grow.
first she was short,
barely a spurt,
then she branched out,
and up and up and up.
the trees stood
all around her,
so serious,
oh so silent company.
however,
never a mean word nor
loud shout was ever heard.
never any other music
but for that of the birds,
and the wind and the sun
and
the creatures walking the
woodland floor,
those traveling through to
far distant exotic lands.
at least she never heard
“girl, you are some fat tree.”
or was the target of any joke,
“when you sit around the house,
you sit AROUND the house.”
nor any
“you gotta do something with them leaves,
they are looking like a rat’s nest.
Oh i see, it IS a squirrel’s nest.”
or for a stray bump or large hideous growth
no one ever said,
“you better go get that removed,
that's one ugly lump!"
years and years passed,
her soul inside,
couldn’t be heard,
not a word.
then one day,
the fellows came through,
looking and measuring,
measuring and looking,
out came the chainsaw.
eyes alighting on she,
on all of her
tall, majestic beauty.
with swift, quick work
she fell,
down,
to the earth.
loaded on the flatbed,
chains wrapped securely around,
engine roared to life,
and she took off,
racing into the darkening night.
she knew tears did fall
as forests thinned
and were laid bare,
but all she could think,
all she could say,
was
“so long suckers!
i’ll see you on broadway one day!”
and so it became true,
her dream of yore,
it was finally in,
Radio City Music Hall,
she landed as the floor.
night after night
to her lasting delight
tap dancers tapped
making her sing
bringing out the music
in she
so previously
imprisoned inside,
for so long.
sanded and polished
varnished and cleaned,
her secret inner beauty
finally brought to life,
finally brought into the light.
she beamed and sighed,
every time a new star
stepped on to her,
to her extreme delight.
any day or night,
when every eye of
the house,
every one of the audience
was riveted on she.
oh what a thrill
when the Radio City Rockettes
did finally come out,
for only for she
could they dance
so straight,
so evenly.
Sometimes i look
at the woods laid bare.
my heart drops low
so sad i feel,
a tear spills out.
then i recall,
the tale of this tree,
the little acorn nut,
how a trip to
a city,
made her so
lastingly
happy &
so very
pretty!
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 3:04 PM UTC
Resting couched and cross-legged
by the hearth at Old Faithful Inn
I read of fire-seared Montana.
My restive mind roams back
a century and a half
to when flames ruled Yellowstone -
cracking open Lodgepole cones -
spending seeds on blackened soil.
Youthful pines soared skyward:
tutored by seven score seasons
of showers, frost and sun
nourished by leaf-meal and char.
Then loggers came to notch their trunks
and sent them arcing to the forest floor.
Carpenters fixed them to the wall
where the moose head stares me down.
Montana pine cones crackle as I read.
After soaking rains have quenched the flames,
those seeds will rise to giant towers
before yielding to the whine of chainsaw teeth.
A gray haired man will enter
a rustic Montana lodge,
a coffee mug clutched in one hand,
the morning paper in the other
and sit fire-warmed by a granite hearth
set in a wall of Lodgepole Pines.
January, 2007
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 1:40 PM UTC
The careful moon maunders through the glass ceiling
on these long nights
when I try to alchemize my visions into ships.
I imagine the mist moping among the larches—
the dewy bark that wakes,
looking for shadows of loggers in the grey.
On cold nights like this I sleep beneath a sheet, sweating,
dreaming of China’s violet sky exploding with hues
of a butterfly’s paper wings.
The summer air crackles above the pale girl’s tent—
a counterfeit ankh hangs between
her naked, sagging *******
and she sees the future in the reflection of her eye
on an Opinel’s blade—her iris wheezing into shapes.
She tells me there are gales ahead
like ones in schoolbook etchings of Poseidon.
Boys will choke on salt, she says,
or the ice will kiss the little princes to sleep.
But she coos how they look like dancers at a ball.
How many boys will be lost? I ask the girl.
All of them, she says with ***** on her breath,
but this won’t stop you, will it?
In my favorite dream yolk sizzles on a cast iron as mother sings.
My older sister laughs, cheeks full of sourdough and jam,
and father’s wet hair drips onto his paper—
the ink of little letters smearing into bare branches.
The dream helps me forget that rain never ends where I wake,
where guilt’s proboscis feeds on hardened veins.
To whomever’s my son, please don’t put me in an elegy
where the memory of me will rot like wet wood.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC
bless this restlessness
as it is success
but a mess none the less
I confess
when wearing a dress
there is no guess
just bad press and distress
impressed?
the need for rest seems
incessant and persistent
yet I remain resistant
by playing an instrument,
one reminiscent of distant
enlisted men
transitioning
to some sort of agricultural
based life of subsistence
subservient serfdom
on poor farms in Tennessee
with plenty of hens running free
and a still out back brewing grain whiskey
frisky miss’s with pesky kittens
rub dainty mittens
smitten with ripping the
cotton-topped children’s
collars and slipping dollars to poor
babies fathers
while bothering loggers
robbing old codgers –
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 10:57 AM UTC
I'm excavating your ribcage
Looking for answers
Of when things went wrong
I'm no mathematician or buddhist priest
But I'm really good at French toast
And overcomplicating myself
I convinced my coworkers I'm a vampire
Even though I'm vegetarian
The only kind of bloodlust I have
Is for loggers
(They took away my Mother nature)
I'm also really good at being over-dramatic
In a non serious way
You're wearing broken ankles on your wrists
How did those get there?
Did you walk all over me
With your hands
Around my neck
Your hands were the noose that will pull the trigger and make me swallow all those sleeping pills so that people realize my pillows aren't made from the ocean
You are that critical blow, K.O.,
last breath,
That push over the edge
I'm really good at letting my
Scars be neon flashing lights
and/or ants that are
crawling,biting, poisoning
my memories
Letting my past,
Make me a Ghost of Today
I'm excavating your ribcage
And everything checks out
But I think you left your
heart at the train station
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 7:03 PM UTC
She buried my body at Loggers lake,
Her sweet revenge,
my bitter mistake.
The leaves were brown and yellow and red,
at the final place
I crashed my head.
Dec 9, 2009
Dec 9, 2009 at 7:36 AM UTC
Heart like wax thrown into a furnace, Bones as a tree in the loggers hand. So goes the peoples who’ve lost those they loved.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 3:48 PM UTC
In the forest, there lives a tree,
its hidden well and hard to see.
Loggers came and chopped it down,
the surrounding trees all started to frown.
That poor lonely tree is now gone,
its now the paper that we write on.
In the ocean there lives a fish,
an endangered species on a rich mans dish.
Fishing boats illegally catch it with a net,
they get paid extra and have no regret.
This once thriving fish are dying out,
don't they know there are plenty of trout.
In the world there lives a person,
whose cancer condition is about to worsen.
The chemotherapy is not working,
death is now slowly lurking.
This is a disease that has no cure,
is there anything left that is pure.
With the way things are going,
there wont be anything left worth knowing.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 9:04 PM UTC
darkness covers every invisible flower building a body of water towns have turned to ruins and dust A forgotten vehicles left to rest until one day a green stem arises once again turns into a magnificent flower and sits there everyday to every hour soon grow more until all that is seen is flowers in the bright grass plus the color green tree sprout and animals return and people are born to relearn Huts are made to houses that sheltered the people and little mouses huts turn into towns then to cities and then loggers get ready and down come trees grass and flowers soon nothing is left by the last hour people have gone and animals have died and once again God will cry over the land and bodies of water until one day grows a lonely flower
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 7:21 PM UTC
From my chair
Through the air
I want my info now
Truth or dare
I don’t care
Give me info now
Hip wired infolites
Something bout usage rights
Whereas my info wow
Flying flags ever knowing
Looking back never going
Here’s my info now
Meaning without content
Exists without it being sent
The contents meaning slowly dies
Contending feeds on sore full eyes
Mercy typo pings brindle blogger
Immortal mention 2 NSA loggers
Wikimaster with google goggles
Seeks truthess acknak for boondoggle
Give me just a little push
My parental burning bush
Life lite the snippet deluxe
Youtube the world gone amuck
Sep 9, 2020
Sep 9, 2020 at 9:51 AM UTC
distant visions of dancing women
giving pause to the loggers
reeking of pine
wine glasses *****
and clinking friends make amends
sending bygones to faraway lands
bark chips in unkempt beards
appear in the florescent glow
to show a road map to the mountain
crags and snags left
for wildlife habitat
rabbit foot key chain bangs
the leg of a drunkard
who flunked out
yet runs the equipment of
a multimillion dollar outfit
no quit in the eyes
of men realizing self-worth
through **** of the earth
taped fingers set chokers snug
upon trees laid like rungs
up the barren hillside
fireside chats about bobcat tracks
and the rack on the elk that got away –
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 11:45 AM UTC
There are thirty of us under a torn canopy
where the sound of wind blowing against canvas
assaults me as if I were being beaten. We will
soon ride into the hills and **** pine; to fell
the mighty as if the mighty are horseweeds.
Every callused man here hates his weapon;
worn chainsaws that would make better
tools to fight wolves than walk the earth
clearing stands of timber.
********************************************
Twelve of the original thirty loggers come back
for our 48th consecutive day; it rains as if prehistoric
elk hover over the camp and **** a lake upon us. Six men
go home within an hour because farming and stocking
cans of tuna at grocery stores appear more plausible than
wallowing in mire with saws, wedges, and chains with links
the size of your mother’s fist. It is work and God ****
every man needs to eat or help feed a family. The money
is not good, conditions like Czechoslovakia WW II.
The six of us who remain, leave.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 9:13 AM UTC
thanklessly the bankers
of Wall Street
meet in discrete fields
just outside of Tupelo
plotting to further victimize
the middle of America
through interest rate hikes
and trickle down economic theory
clearly they only have our interests
in heart…
corporate hedge funds
send tons of
industrial sludge
to ponds near elementary schools
where the rules are
pick up your messes
I guess they skipped that day of class…
rash covered babies
with minimal lung function
sit at the crossroads
or junction
of a nation in transition
the plight of the people is lost
on the wealthy unregulated
impoverished men sit
waiting for a V.A. date
and the medication necessary
to combat PTSD and hold down a job
loggers with broken backs attack
environmentalists
for risking their lives to save
species…the flora and fauna
but the powers that be don’t wanna…
the United States needs a comma –
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 5:17 PM UTC
Where there is a will there is... a dead relative.
There is a light at the end of the tunnel... but no one has ever seen it.
Every cloud has a silver lining... the gold ones have already sold.
If a tree falls in a forest and no one is there to see it... the loggers make a killing.
It costs an arm and a leg... but its way cheaper than getting married.
You can lead a horse to water... just follow the stink of dead fish.
Is your glass half full or half empty... then hurry up its your round.
If the shoe was on the other foot... you would look pretty stupid.
Better late than never... especially if you only met her/him once.
Mar 17, 2019
Mar 17, 2019 at 12:53 AM UTC
Literally, loitering litter
leaves landscapes looking
like labyrinths leading lonely
lethargic lads lacking lustre
lame lamenting Lu Lu's Lingerie
laundered locally lampooning
looser's lost leaders landing
lecherous louts leftist ledgers
legacies legally legitimised
libellous loafers lobbying
locksmiths logically liaising
loggers longliners lubriciously
lucid lookalike lunatics luring
lasses lustfully locating low
level latino's lavatories.
Mar 31, 2019
Mar 31, 2019 at 8:53 AM UTC