"logging" poems
Leg off the table
you red face recruit!
put on the offensive
and break down
the bolted door!
you are the soul saver
the peddle maker
the calibrator
with colored handbills
and front line
rhetoric
join the masquerade
in ivy league style!
politicking with
cunning guile
invisalign smile
blackened vile
bleeding the funnel
with gold plate omega
and crocodile shoes
get on stage
and dance you fool!
you are the headline maker
the pantomime juggler
the compromised closer
pull out that 5 page review
(bullet points only please)
and polish those weathered lines!
did you give it your all?
the door tags
and pleasantries
the tidings
and clippings
the irrevocable claims
and postured blames
all those impressionable basics
put to the test?
you know the call
(straight from
those cold academics)
the pie chart gurus
and contract killers
(complete with bone in finger)
whipping their
frenzied crew
in an all night
charade
old yellar
and the gatekeeper
sure seem amused
(sharpening their inquest
behind closed doors)
firing up the shiit storm
with those hostile priicks
and a slew
of insatiable
cures
there’s laughter from the back room
the dripping nose
and wavering hand
the cut white lines
and checkpoint tales
the pipeline romance
and lacking form
(of a basic essential
character!)
soundboard
and narratives
for logging time
slouching on the
steel case
over moot points
ready to play
the 3 weight
butter card
(if need be)
might I remind you
it’s only an inquiry
(with a slight hint of concern!)
surely no
malfeasance
or deception intended
so step back from
the melt down
and cut to the chase!
headlines to breadlines
penthouse to outhouse
those immoral pursuits
have taken their toll
(haven’t they?)
madman or rogue
(you take your pick)
for the scores
and tabulations
are final
shame on you
for the foul play
the bold hypocrisy
and order desk games
the back stabbing blames
and spurious names
just sign on the dotted line ~
this banter
is killing me
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 1:12 PM UTC
Hey Human! I am your Sibling.
Queen bee wings are Ripped,
bee niblings are Smoked
For Your Honey Sweet.
Hey human! Listen your Sibling’s Buzz.
Tiger lost bones for Medicine,
Fox lost fur for Fashion,
Sharks lost fins for Soup.
Hey human! Do Not Butcher Siblings.
Simba’s life is not your Trophy,
Jumbo’s tusks are not Decors,
Helmets of Hornbills are not jewels.
Hey human! Do Not Reap Siblings.
Emperors of ice continent lost land,
Economics is making Amazon less,
Logging makes Orangutans homeless.
Hey human! Do Not Invade Siblings.
Warm oceans bleach corals,
Water depleted in cities,
We ingest plastic regularly.
Hey human! Do Not Desert the Earth.
Overfishing is holocaust of aquatic life,
Livestock levitates toxic emissions.
Hey human! Do Not Prey on Siblings.
Lichens stunned by pollution,
Symbionts are disintegrating,
Biodiversity is declining.
Hey human! Be Together with Siblings.
Hey Human! We are Offsprings of Mother Nature.
Monera, Animalia, Fungi, Plantae, Protista
all have common roots.
We are branches of the one Phylogenetic Tree
rooting Common Ancestry unto LUCA.
Hey Human! We are Siblings.
Hey Human! Recall your Siblings.
Hey Human! Revive your Siblings.
Jul 20, 2019
Jul 20, 2019 at 11:19 AM UTC
If i was her lover
I would have *poetic *** in the ocean
reciting poetry to her
while I **** her
mindlessly
If i was her lover
She would be the mermaid of the ocean
Whom I am jealous to touch
and while I am here wading
wanting to make sweet love with its bride
If only I was her lover
I would whisper passions in her ear
like waves whispering on the shores
of her children
The water of the sea, he chokes me
surrounds me
but i am having *poetic *** in the sea
with she
and i say to her, my lover
"i met a mermaid out in the sea
she came to me and *poetic *** she needs
i grabbed her heart
and laid inside her
see i'm still a man who wants pleasure
and poetry together
i'm jealous of her lover
yet i'm having *poetic *** with her
in the ocean"
My love moans
groans
let's me own
her majestic bones
and her ravaged soul
is radiating
with every ******
beckoning passion
in this historic sensation
so intense
so loud
so real and unreal
and in her throes i hear
water logging in my ear
this moment here
of me ******* my lover
in the sea
i guess that's why they call it
******* poetry.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 7:03 AM UTC
Once I was alive and full of mystery
But now I am dying and full of misery
Soon all that will be left is dirt and dust
My molten sphere will begin to rust
Fossil fuels, logging, factories and pollution
I am dying but yet you have found no solution
Yet you continue to consume without any thought
Pretty soon resources, there will be naught
Time isn’t on my side nor is the human population
Only your obliviousness and ignorance has put me in this situation
The weather cycles are getting stranger and stranger by the day
Heat is building up on the ice caps dirt and clay
The sea level is continuously rising
And animal species are slowly dying
Soon I’ll be nothing but disastrous ruins
You must stop what you have been doing
Cries of agony are an endless groan
I am slowly dying and all alone
Sadly my unrenewable products are beginning to run out
You destroy everything that gets in your way without a single doubt
You say you are humans but yet you show no humanity
You have brought me to my insanity
Animals and plants are only just surviving
But yet you humans are still thriving
You know what you are doing
My broken world will be your undoing
Perhaps you will never learn that my awful slow demise
Was because you never even tried to compromised
If in the end you try to save me from my tragic fate
It will it be too little too late
/gt
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 7:55 PM UTC
Master, have mercy.
I am Master. I
Have no Master.
The planet
is atrocious.
I am It.
Planet Earth
is atrocious.
I am It.
Why is it so hard
to see
be yond peace?
Why is it so hard
to be
who you want?
The mind, secluded
in a prison rift
of copy paste
makes waste.
Where is my paper?
Where is my pen?
I write for me!
I repeat as if I
will soon
believe.
I write for me!
(logging on again)
The planet is horrid.
I am part of It.
Oh, Peace & War,
do we know it.
Yet with an audience,
my imagination
grows stagnant.
The once in abstract
gathers into form.
I did this misdeed.
A disservice.
Once a dreamer.
Now a journalist.
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 12:36 AM UTC
My creativity has created this creation.
The outcome of my creation reflects only to the Creator.
The inner Narrator narrates a repetitive monologue.
Believe me, I've seen the films, and I've read that ******* blog.
Long logging of nights.
Internal.
External.
Fights.
Anger lasts.
I employed that past to take power away from fear.
Aware now of being here.
Consciousness.
Humbleness.
This doesn't come from admission.
Remission of a previous mission.
My dispositions constriction from speaking up.
**** that.
That cup.
That rig.
Spoon.
***
Drug.
Love is what I need.
Love is what I give.
Creating only a creation to love to live.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
In the Boondocks of the Ozarks
Salty caramel smelt of August
Swathes stench of rotten trailer parks
Imprisons barren mid-west dust
Feral fevered kids a hunting
For to cool; shoot up, or drink
Arthritic railroad; tie and shunting
Ferrous old town wretched on the brink
Since the cease of mine and logging
Depletion of iron lead and zinc
Nag horse too dead for flogging
Folks futures draining down the sink
Some respite in the summer heat
RV’s; tourists and campers for trails
Like blackfly plague pick off the meat
Fly fast; escape as another harvest fails
Dark currents pepper darker mood
Intolerance grinds in the daily way
Resentment bread as only food
At someone’s door the blame shall lay
In the graveyard of the Ozarks
Rednecks dance on industry tombs
Burn brown smoke spice. Moonshine sparks
Oblivion; no life. Back to mothers' womb
©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness 2018 – All rights reserved)
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 8:06 AM UTC
Her name is Chang Champoo,
translated as ‘Elephant Pink.’
Met on the street in tourist Thailand.
9 years old.
6 months pregnant.
A beggar in an urban landscape.
Hungry,
grabbing sugar cane from my fingers.
Desperate for food.
Destined for an early grave.
“Where are you from?”
A question to her mahout,
in Thai hauled from fragments of memory.
“The border.”
Seemingly obtuse but not really.
Only one nearby.
Burma.
Elephants,
born in captivity,
used in logging,
now unemployed.
Teak forests of old but a distant memory.
Did I only fuel her belly
buying over-priced sugar cane?
Or did I also fuel
rampant exploitation
of disadvantaged animals?
Not everything in life
Is black and white.
Sometimes it is grey,
This night it was Pink.
How could I refuse her sustenance
when confronted by those
mournful pachyderm eyes.
The question lingers…
Jan 11, 2011
Jan 11, 2011 at 1:55 AM UTC
i.
we spent the autumn day wandering
above the great river the woodland
of the bluffs as dusk fell, shots echoed down the
river canyon, we had completely forgotten
the deer firearms season had opened
down the old logging trail,
a glorious stag eyes wide with confusion
lurched from the wood
ii.
despite our noise, he stumbled ahead
down the road, and toward the hunters,
we could not turn him into the safety of the park
iii.
as the black night descended we
were surprised by a glow racing towards us
a man on a bicycle, brightly lit, not with just a
headlamp, but a whole string of lights,
wrapped around the tubes of his
bike frame, like a Christmas tree,
he nodded at us and rode past
iv.
as we sat around the fire back at camp,
silent, pondering the odd events
we had witnessed that day,
and the stag we had maybe sent off
to be killed by some hunter,
i wondered at the strangeness
of it all, this day, and all the days
like it, and all the days to come,
would they have been strange
without my being there to see them,
or, was the strangeness my seeing
them,
and my being, at all
stag, still, i am so sorry
Mar 16, 2012
Mar 16, 2012 at 7:07 AM UTC
Waters waltz land dancing,
Dragon flies flutter a buzz,
Cat-o'-nines torching tales,
Where beavers are logging
Time with fresh water fish
Who breach as they mouth,
Fly catching in a casted sea,
Mossy and bogged with peat,
And the colours, mottled, fey,
Brindled, brim, know they say,
There are lessons, hear stillness,
Punctuations in the spry singings
Of the never tardy larks, windrous
Riddles ripe rushing through reeds.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 8:22 PM UTC
Birdhouses and farm bell gone , garden spot now a tangled field of grass and small trees . Farmhouse , empty and dying from top to bottom , flower gardens missing , iron kettle hanging by rusted chain . Clothes line , henhouse and both red barns are at the ready, but sadly , empty as well . Logging chains , bale hooks , pitchfork and weathervane , put away forever most likely along with lifetime memories , good and bad.
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 8:50 AM UTC
this place is a scrapyard for humans
broken, beaten, barren souls
a dull pale loneliness is looming
in the hearts of burnt out coals
logging in to the hopes and desires
a jaded and solitary heart
rubbing two sticks to start fires
hoping for the flames to start
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 6:10 PM UTC
I really should be studying, I know,
but I can’t help logging in.
I’ve done some work today already, though,
would one episode be a sin?
Just to check on the friends with the apartment and the purple door,
or maybe the ones from the Scranton office who sell paper.
I also want to know what Eleven is up to,
and definitely Rory and Lorelai Gilmore.
I’ll curl up with a blanket here and i’ll make some popcorn later.
I think this was a good decision — it does say “Recommended For You.”
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 10:43 PM UTC
enters password
logging in...
connected
Online friends: 0
log out
Are you sure? Yes
Rinse and repeat
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 7:29 PM UTC
*trees, trees and plants
we see them with trunks round
Love them, laugh with them
cos you may not see them
all years, always a -round*
Trees, trees
they have no fingers
Oh, but they’ve got many rings;
and they still get on the internet
by logging in
Tulips grow on your face
and if you plant kisses
you get another two lips;
the cucumber goes mad
cos it’s in a pickle;
the mushroom is always invited to parties
cos he’s a fungi
and the dog loves the tree
cos they both have bark;
while the frog’s favorite flower
is the croak-us;
the elephant, on the other hand,
I mean on the other trunk,
loves squash;
and while the fruit
comes from a fruit tree
the chicken comes
from a poul-tree
*trees, trees and plants
we see them with trunks round
Love them, laugh with them
cos you may not see them
all years, always a-round*
the nut sneezes: "Cashew!"
And the lemon is sick
and the kind neighbors
give it lemon-aid;
the tomato turns red
cos it sees the salad dressing;
and baby corn says to mama corn:
"Where’s pop?"
and you humans
if you reach out with your hands
you can fit a palm tree in;
and knock! knock!
who’s there?
*"Leaf – yeah, just leaf me alone;
enough of your silly jokes"*
Trees, trees and plants
we see them with trunks round
Love them, laugh with them
Cos you may not see them
All years, always a -round
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 9:29 AM UTC
When humankind is out of control,
The world suffers a giant loss.
Threats of mass extinctions aren't
Difficult to come across.
More than half of the world's primates
Are on the verge of extinction due
To agriculture, logging, mining,
And hunting. Where's the hullabaloo?
Lemurs, chimps, orangutans,
And lowland gorillas are under threat.
When we endanger others, we also
Endanger ourselves, don't forget.
Habitat loss, climate change,
Wildlife trade…. Scientists fear
That if these are not halted, many
Primates will sadly disappear.
We're talking about numerous species--
A couple hundred, not just dozens.
What is wrong with **** sapiens?
How could we do that to our cousins?
-by Bob B (2-6-17)
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 9:47 AM UTC
im logging off and deleting hello poetry no more poems im sorry
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 9:51 AM UTC
~
if i came to you with solemn
could we pretend things were fine
rest your head on my chest
with our heart beat rhymes
if i came to you swollen
would you fetch frozen peas
dampen the dark circles
around my eyes
if i came with a gift
from an overseas trip
smuggled through customs
for your surprise
it's foggy in our kitchen
it's foggy in my head
let's talk till morning turns night
logging all those tears
on the back porch with wolves
blessed be the saints of sunrise
~
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 10:32 PM UTC
The bones on bead shells hang on cemeteries,
left behind from the washing tide pushing to the open ocean. I too, left in the bay,
walking railroads and lost in the forest and the trinkling springs
of yesterday's rain.
I've been cleansed, I've been strong.
A mountain man soaring the world on an ancient feather's wind.
Halk feather soaring through infinite vastness.
I've felt deeper things.
Farther than the oceans surface, beyond the green of the cedar.
The smoke, cleansing.
And now,
the silence of the rivers.
Raged and battled, done and fought,
until next Spring.
It is dawning upon me
whether to keep walking this track,
or perhaps this road is empty,
holding nothing.
Old trucks, trees growing from red sawdust of old logging sites,
they too abandoned and left behind
like cabins on desolate mountain tops.
Beaming, vibrant,
for a season or two,
then surrendered to moss and lichen,
going down with rock and stone,
a jar of apple sauce still in place.
Damp, musty rusted iron,
dust on splitting wood.
The grey sky.
Numb on my neck hangs the bones and shell,
stolen from the cemetery.
Am I moving this thing forward or am I falling behind with it?
Forgotten in the breeze and the rush of cattle,
footsteps, as caravans and horses, men, women, echoes, laughter, shadows,
ran from these banks.
Have I become the grit on the gravestone,
my bones ashen and weary as I live this life,
elsewhere moon clouds and sunshine,
drums beat.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
For me,
it is the silence,
like a gentle tide
washed my flesh
from the grate
and now I hang in the wind,
like a pale sheet,
flapping slowly
to and fro.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 12:07 AM UTC
Do you feel how the air moves
Autumn, my love?
I have a secret to confess
Autumn, my love.
I have been blue like the summer sky
Among the cordial zephyrs
Those crowds and their pleasantries
Alight everywhere
As the trees in plumage
Concealing so much as they reveal everything,
Autumn, my love.
It has been a feverous summer,
Mad Augustine march of the southern breeze
Into the remote Tuscarora contemplation
Of lascivious concealing,
Autumn, my love.
You chilled my hands, leading me up
The logging path,
Ignored my glance and kept pulling
My insecurities up to the surface
The grief and lethargy I feel
Stomping through the moving pictures
Of the concealed revealing
Soon the sky will be very clear
And your darkness passes across your face
Much sooner now,
Autumn, my love.
Why did you bring me here, to the edge?
You pause and wait for the sky the perfect
Blend of grey and decay.
You speak and the leaves fall around me
And I feel myself melting into your *****
Covered by your many hands
Curving around my body, enveloping,
With your gravity putting me on my back
And carve my every sacred cerebra
With the twists and moistness, the cool
Air scent of the sleeping earth
Of your belly
Autumn, my love,
I wish to have you always,
Autumn, my love.
Your cracked embrace swims down the ravine
Seeming to wave goodbye.
It’s in time likes these,
Autumn, my love,
I cannot bear the thought of an equinox of passion,
Where the golden sun is soon on its way to setting
Autumn, my love.
You look out, where the sun will rise,
Your footsteps gliding over the edge
Where I cannot chase you out
The valley of your body and you giggle at the fact,
Autumn, my love.
A single leaf falls from your hand,
I wish to have you always, too
But this joy can only perch on the precipice
Of despair
Each day must flee quicker and quicker
You tell me, you’ll love me more when I am gone,
Autumn, my love.
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 11:41 AM UTC
She is a butterfly...
hiding under sunspots.
He’s a gecko,
lurking in that velvet corner where the light forgets to go.
She is chaos—
he’s the eye of her storm.
They were born from deep sea vents,
rose up to the skies like they meant to crack open clouds,
pull humans into a frenzy
no weather pattern could predict.
She calls it life.
He? He just stares into death,
like it’s a familiar hallway with flickering lights.
The question of origin?
It’s always that stupid finger—
pointing,
blaming,
laughing at the moment they both thought:
"Wait… was any of it even real?"
Hey, ****
It’s all tiny signals,
she read.
"It’s all eternity,"
he preached,
like a god with a broken clock.
They walked through each other’s ghost stories,
talked all night in a language made of
fake memories,
false starts,
and déjà vus shaped like abandoned houses.
They locked eyes—
those traitorous, trembling eyes—
and whispered vows
to nights that haven’t happened yet.
To days that only those **** aliens have seen.
Yeah. Those aliens.
The ones living on the edge
of the universe’s bubble,
eating popcorn,
watching this bubble bursting program
on cosmic cable.
And when the light consumed the darkness,
when the tiny capsules cracked open like old seeds—
they were left raw.
Naked.
Shivering in the gift-wrapped curse
called "Time."
She ran away.
He walked away.
Moments…
split.
Time…
parted.
While million-dollar math problems
sit unsolved on cluttered desks,
watched over by smoke-drenched visionaries
who know something’s wrong
but can’t solve heartbreak
with equations.
This is the program.
It’s always been the program.
We’re just signals,
wrapped in skin,
playing roles,
in a show
with no rehearsal
and no pause button.
So if you’re watching,
dear alien—
just know…
We improvised the whole **** thing.
May 8, 2025
May 8, 2025 at 4:24 AM UTC
Disconnected but available
Alone but one of many
Smiling to those reading my words
Crying this side of the shiny screen
Feeds scrolling in front of our eyes
Organised randomness of peoples lives
Vague questions, happy memories and sad ones
Others trying to connect, to matter, to belong
We show only what we want seen
As if being held by viewers to some higher standard
Afraid to express our true selves
In fear of losing a friend we have never met
Logging out after farewells to those in foreign lands
The monitors glow extinguished
Days meld, loneliness is back
Waking on a new day that mirrors the last
Clicking a button a fan spins
The glow reignites the software boots
The browser loads, the friends appear
Its just another day, another year.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 6:23 PM UTC
Why try when ya can buy?
I made like seventy comments.
Yeah he donated tweenty bucks and has more
points than I.
Respect dont come with the side of a card.
It's not totally broke.
But to demolish it were trying hard.
Mr Robbins can you just please keep your
mouth shut.
we'll buy ya a case of wild turkey
you drunk *** pain in the but.
Point and poetry really dont mix.
what is this nascar?
Nothing that some strong drinks cant fix.
The doors are locked lets semd in a spy
to see whats going on in that joint.
Hey i just won at beer pong
did that get a point?
Were all about exposer so get your beads.
Avoid the restrooms at the Pub.
look in the red light district of hello
cause everyone's got needs.
I gotta point for logging in and one for
coloring within the lines.
And got no license for like
few thousand dollars in unpaid fines.
Heres a point for me.
And heres a point for you.
With the middle finger a few
fellow poets did point and said they were threw.
Yet here i stay slightly sober
happy to stir the ****
That i refuse to play the game.
Hey how many points do i get to quit?
Drinks are always on the house at HPs
number one joint.
And if ya waste time getting anry with
me then ya really didnt get the point$
Mar 17, 2010
Mar 17, 2010 at 8:39 AM UTC
In a stream of wrought
Invisibly
I reflect ripple and wave
thirsty for sun rays
my moments dribble by
these keys tapping beneath thumbs
my boss appreciates the drum
rocks against my body
easily downs the dream
my tone a calm serene
a frosty sheen but between
the cracks emotion currents
ebb and flow rushing to where?
longing logging lobbing for air
her head bobbing to the trickling sound
fishing through a stream of movement
distant in her delusion
work is getting done;
and I am like water
in a stream of thought
Be like water my son.
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 8:25 PM UTC