"mammoth" poems
Route 84 would not lend me
the light of a star last night
Radio blazing at 75 mph
nonsense noise to chew gum by
Crackling political commentary
Static of distance and thick clouds
Invisible mountains blocking
Memories seeping through the cracks
coating the music in a film
I rub my eyes
watch myself punch alert buttons
But it’s the angels’ jukebox tonight
Roll down the window
Watch the heat escape
Summer again
I am building a castle of ancient stones
pulverized by relentless tides
Dragged across maps by mastodons
and mammoth glaciers
The scouring hiss
the ocean sighs
Time has lulled these smoothly
rolling them in the softest hands of sand
and gels of life’s comings and goings
tenderly tumbling
in the millionth moonrise—
Time deposits them here
wet and glistening
For the girl with the plaid two-piece to gather
Shoulders sun-burnt barely say
one week only,
one week of the fifty two
“It’s the time of the season…”
and daddies on the beach are watching….
She has chosen yet another stone
And the castle continues—
in oblivion to all but her legend…
The queen will be safe here
from the rabble
The disgraced Tristan will surely seek her
Among these lofty cliffs
Between the raging circuit of the tide
Here winds forbid the vengeful mob
Here lovers learn
the debt of love’s bad timing
“Drink ye all of it!”
--the potion that assigns our sorrow….
She will not sleep—
while I chew this gum-- GUM?
Roll down the window!
Angels escape with the heat
Waking me with the brush of their wings
As that eighteen-wheeler hugs my flank
And leans on the horn
Lights flashing
Rude rumbling under right tires
Tantrum of snow
In the draft of mass and velocity
…and the angels?
They’ve chosen another good one!
They must’ve liked the 80’s
Their wings slapping the windshield madly
Their hands steady the wheel
Sep 13, 2016
Sep 13, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
* * * * *
* * *
*
Faces of friends, of people i met earlier
are glittering stars on this late evening's
dark blue sky...their smiles are tattooed
in my mind...they're hunched, going
lower by the days...slowed down by years.
it must be hard and painful...the arching,
the drooping of the neck, the curving spine,
they endure all, 'til each day's end...they rise
each new dawn...do what they still can do,
lest they stagnate in their aging ponds,
diminish to a state, where food, pills, or
forgotten information are forced on them,
......like drugs, injected into the veins
........................
these wee hours bring back the years...
they have been good...never mind the
hard times...there were, there are good ones
life is a long, wide stream of changing hues,
flowing on and on....my water bears the
colors each new day brings...gray, at times
with sadness and gloom....other days,
blacked by despair...some summers, red,
roseate with glee, or green with life and
hope...blue, when trust is spilling, and
the tranquil sea and sky overwhelm,
with a promise of stability..........white,
when accepting......the unacceptable...
........................
the amber grains and i, are alike
ripened enough to be plucked
be pulled out from an existence...the
signs are known...shown...yet, i wait
for when it is due to happen...and while
waiting, the stalks sway, play and dance
and enjoy the sun and wind...and i,
while i still can...walk, jump, climb hills
and valleys in this mammoth space
of land and water.............called life
...................
the sounds of my days, i still hear,
i am a lute, a harp, a cello...playing
off-key.....out of tune at times,
my strings are my graying hair,
i still can't stop dying the gray
i still want to highlight the dark,
but, one day, all these will cease...
............
one night, my face will be in one of those
many stars...glittering on a dark blue sky
sending a smile, to my loved ones.
...................
(there is no other way,
but forward
all are headed
towards an end.)
Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
June 26, 2018
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 11:31 PM UTC
**** a polar bear's funky ***
**** a racehorse's **** with Heinz Tomato Ketchup!
**** a donkey's ****** ***
**** a male camel's **** with Hoisen sauce!
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a European bison's smelly ***
**** a woolly mammoth's **** with Miracle Whip!
**** a snow leopard's *** with whip cream!
**** a hyena's spermy ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a llama's ****** *******
**** a panda bear's spermy *******
**** a sloth bear's bootyhole!
**** a greyhound's musty *** **********
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
Polaroid, see what develops
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
Dreadlock Rasta;
No like informa,
No like imposta,
**** smoke; burning da trees
Mango scented leaves,
Burnt grapefruit scented breeze.
Wolly mammoth size locks,
Steal wool, ***** tied in a knot,
Jamaican colors wrap tie; sitting on top.
I and I, believe it or not.
No woman no cry,
No problem;
Him cool as a rock.
Charles Dickens by his side,
Studying stanzas, deciphering plots.
Prayer's meeting;
meditation- never stop.
Water’s blue waves,
Fresh fish after 12’o clock.
Under the bridge, find my spot.
By his sweet Sugarcane from,
Miss Parker Sugarcane shop
Burning a spliff, because the ****
is his only green; pastures plot.
Mary Jane, his only queen be,
Never leaving he; love him or not.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC
I cried at the breakfast table this morning
my father carefully explained,
"wives must be submissive to their husbands"
"housecleaning is the domain of the woman"
"God created woman because man asked for a partner"
This past semester I wrote two papers
One, a fire and brimstone sermon
I quoted Anais Nin
sending the creators of sexist commercials to eternal suffering
**** them!" I said. "May they burn in hell."
For the women they portrayed were doormats
Misconceptions
Monsters
The other, the role of women in the 1920s,
No longer confined to the kitchen
they dropped ballots with their new freedom
they wore short dresses and short tresses
fingers wrapped around cigs
they quoted Wilde instead of Alcott
they danced until their feet hurt
I read of Anais Nin's "new woman,"
her partnership, not submission to man,
I craved a room of my own, neigh demanded it
For sheep stayed in the kitchen,
The Woolf had a study.
I read poetry
Sexton,
Plath,
I wept for their starved, depressed selves
caged, suffocating inside the clasped hands of a man.
Loved like rib-cage jails.
Adrienne Rich made me angry,
her daughter-in-law
forever trying to fit into a box
she was always too big for, spilling
at the edges, her shaved
legs like "white mammoth tusks"
I was finally
happy with my womanhood.
****** ****** ***** ********
they are mine.
******* free to move unrestrained,
jiggling under my shirt.
Wetness between my thighs.
Menstrual blood,
they are mine.
mine.
I am not ashamed of what I am
because there is no shame.
I am woman,
I am girl,
I am lady.
I am a creature
with a voice
a mind.
a creature who endured much abuse,
continue to endure.
I am woman
and I don't have to be wife or mother
unless I want to be.
I was not created for man;
I was created for the same reason he was,
to serve the same great purpose on this tiny blue dot.
I am not rib.
I am ****** ****** ***** ********
******* free, unrestrained,
Wetness between my thighs.
Menstrual blood,
I am a per.
I am a wo.
I am a hu.
Man and son need to back down,
collaborate not dominate,
speak not command,
for when less are forced into silence,
the maddening scream
hidden inside skin and bones and muscle-meat
becomes song.
this world of car horns and tire screeches
crying and wailing from raw throats
angry protests of indignation
could use a little music.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
I need to change the circles I'm in
Because I fell into the trapezoid
Of trying to fit a square peg in a round hole
Making people believe I was a square
When I was really a rectangle
You just had to look at me from the right angles
The shape of things now
Is me looking at you from the wrong angles
You're pretty hot
90°
When you turn away from me your hotness doubles
180°
I think my Pompeii worm could survive the temperatures
But if you were to turn back around
No creature could survive
360°
The paradox of the parabola in my pants
Will never be solved
It's not your math problem
We're just two points on this rotating sphere
Where time is a straight line
And our's is a segment
I wish I understood the formula
So I could predict the outcome
But there are too many variables
Leaving my head spinning in circles
And myself running in circles
Meant to be avoided
Because within those circles are triangular trials
Where two points create a perfect line
And a third point ruins that
As points are added to the population
Lines only get larger
Like the welfare line
Mammoth shapes grow wider and more complex
Like the Pentagon
Lines become more easily crossed
Angles more easily tangled
And my freezing point becomes my boiling point
While I wish for a world more two-dimensional
Because once I consider depth
I realize I could never measure up to my ruler
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 12:35 AM UTC
Freezing dusk is closing
Like a slow trap of steel
On trees and roads and hills and all
That can no longer feel.
But the carp is in its depth
Like a planet in its heaven.
And the badger in its bedding
Like a loaf in the oven.
And the butterfly in its mummy
Like a viol in its case.
And the owl in its feathers
Like a doll in its lace.
Freezing dusk has tightened
Like a nut ******* tight
On the starry aeroplane
Of the soaring night.
But the trout is in its hole
Like a chuckle in a sleeper.
The hare strays down the highway
Like a root going deeper.
The snail is dry in the outhouse
Like a seed in a sunflower.
The owl is pale on the gatepost
Like a clock on its tower.
Moonlight freezes the shaggy world
Like a mammoth of ice -
The past and the future
Are the jaws of a steel vice.
But the cod is in the tide-rip
Like a key in a purse.
The deer are on the bare-blown hill
Like smiles on a nurse.
The flies are behind the plaster
Like the lost score of a jig.
Sparrows are in the ivy-clump
Like money in a pig.
Such a frost
The flimsy moon
Has lost her wits.
A star falls.
The sweating farmers
Turn in their sleep
Like oxen on spits.
6.8k
[Dedicated to George Raffalovich]
In the Years of the Primal Course, in the dawn of terrestrial
birth,
Man mastered the mammoth and horse, and Man was the
Lord of the Earth.
He made him an hollow skin from the heart of an holy tree,
He compassed the earth therein, and Man was the Lord of
the Sea.
He controlled the vigour of steam, he harnessed the light-
ning for hire;
He drove the celestial team, and man was the Lord of the
Fire.
Deep-mouthed from their thrones deep-seated, the choirs
of the æeons declare
The last of the demons defeated, for Man is the Lord of
the Air.
Arise, O Man, in thy strength! the kingdom is thine to
inherit,
Till the high gods witness at length that Man is the Lord
of his spirit.
6.4k
Within this jungle, which is ours
I ride the back of Thunder-cloud, my friend
Around and through the thickets
thick banyan trees & palm fruit fallen leaves
Down muddy earthen paths
until everything is green and shadows
until inside its heart, the rain forest
trees of this jungle are city buildings - tall
and choir of fauna high and low
do not fear to sing beneath our cathedral's shade
In this kingdom of flora and ruby rich dirt
belongs to thunder-cloud and dirt-poor me
A Mowgli on his elephant,
hollars ahead to any that hear "We are free!"
Here, far from the whips' lashing, guns,
away from the loud business of murderous money
They who say that I am nothing
in their eyes who abacus my worth with looks
with upraising lust of wolves
but I a free man, a simpleton for beloved (Earth)
I am dark skinned
Krishna on my steed of thunder-clouds
A native son of brown & green wilderness
caterwauling to the beyonds unknown
Within our jungle, brother thunder,
my elephant of deep clouds gray
we are Mammoth and as wild as wide
as open as free... with every step forward
on this living journey
we will take
a peaceful kind of smile
will only be what is written
upon each lovely lovely face
*(Within our jungles...we live simply
without the Man's hate
not today will I hunger, nor will I thirst
fed on real wonder, drank clouds of Himalayan rain
without a rupee to my name... on the back of thunder
my gentle Ganesh - I have no one to blame.)*
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 3:11 PM UTC
Within a world of azure blue,
the mantas glide with angel wings,
and fly on winds of ocean waves,
inside their realm of mystery.
Like ancient beings from the deep,
they flash and shimmer in our light,
with other-worldly mammoth forms;
cephalic fins and flattened frames.
These gentle giants of the night,
draw fishes from the briny deep,
their vivid forms flash to and fro,
feed on the banquet of the sea.
They dance balletic in our lights;
exquisite, rings and summersaults,
with bubbles lit to guide their path,
they glide just past our mortal reach.
These stunning marvels of the deep,
are but a finite sampling,
of what our planet offers up,
far past our wild imaginings.
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 5:51 PM UTC
Gunboats ahoy there’s pirates about
Speeding from Somali’s shore,
A fast flimsy boat and some black skinny men
With grenade launchers, cannon and more.
They’re coming to capture the tankers
They’re coming to capture the crew
They’re coming to take you hostage
Because fat cats will pay cash for you.
It’s happening more every day now
Ships are held to ransom for gold,
This contagion is out of hand now
The Somalian pirates are becoming so bold.
Hard men in the west prepare crackdowns
Gunboats sail for the Gulf as we speak,
With instructions to shoot to **** now
And make eradication of pirates complete!
But you ask, why is this happening?
Why does a man, a pirate become?
What instigates this crazy morphosis
From fisherman to pirate with gun?
Somalia has no Government to speak of,
It collapsed and went long ago.
No law or army in place here,
Life is dangerous, chaotic and low.
Some fat cats made use of the vacuum
They ditched toxic waste in the sea
They irradiated the coastline region
Making this a poisoned place to be.
The coast folk were dying in thousands
Sick mothers lost babies and kids
Black illness spread madly in villages
Then blind panic and pain hit the skids.
Some fat cats made use of the vacuum
They trawled the coastline clean
Somalia’s fishermen were destitute
The catch went from vast to lean.
The villagers were starving and hopeless
And what was pain became death.
The leaders appealed for salvation
But those with the means, had turned deaf.
Who would take this problem on now?
Who would make these ******** pay?
Most turned around and shunned them,
The world had turned and looked away.
So hit transgressors where they’re vulnerable.
Strike in sea lanes where it’s free.
Hit them near the Horn of Africa.
Attack with blades of piracy.
Hooray for the small man’s justice.
Hooray for his skinny, black shanks,
Please God help their quest for deliverance
For the West has arrived with their tanks.
Now I ask you, in all fairness
To stand back and view the scene,
Where the richest and most powerful
are doing something that's obscene
For not only are they poisoning
The most vulnerable race on earth
But compounding it with genocide,
And I add, for what it's worth,
The West, in righteous arrogance,
are crushing poorest fellow man
In his struggle for survival
Against their mammoth, global hand.
Marshalg
@theGate
Mangere Bridge
25 April 2009
Jan 19, 2010
Jan 19, 2010 at 7:33 PM UTC
Loving someone is a confusing task.
Its that point of time when people don't really understand what they are upto.
Maybe its because, when we fall in love, we are not only driven by the modern world instincts, but also by traits which we've inherited from our earliest ancestors.
Its an amalgam of varying emotions resulting from numerous hormones.
We get involved in the act of love either to enrich out lives or to generate lives...its all logic.
However, the simplest act of expressing or explaining this strange feeling, appears to be a mammoth task for most.
We call it 'love' just like we call God 'God', but its just a verbal pronunciation for things we don't understand, for things which are much greater than just the words...
We say 'I love you' but we mean so much more, even the most beautiful poems cannot possibly explain it properly.
Hundreds of letters written by a lover cannot compensate for the lover in person,
10000 words cannot compensate for a simple gesture or an act of love.
Words are just sounds which transmit thoughts from one mind to the other,
But in order to touch the deepest core of the brain, which is the heart, one must go way beyond the thoughts, way beyond those 10000 words.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 2:40 PM UTC
O Tulip Tree,
Towering titan true,
A fond memory I have
Of splendorous ventures long ago!
O Tulip Tree,
Timid and taciturn,
I remember when you,
Paragon of the forest,
Stood tall with power
And eclipsed the noontime sun!
O Tulip Tree,
Tallest tree that be,
I recall when you,
Pillar of perfection,
Were as mammoth in my youth
As you are this day!
O Tulip Tree,
Tremendous yet tender king,
I pray for you,
Noble giant,
That envious naysayer
And usurper alike
Stay their distance
From your domain!
And when the hour is nigh,
O Tulip Tree,
I shall stand tall with pride
Between these vile fiends
As you taught me to long ago!
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 10:04 PM UTC
train to Chicago...
See it from a train.
Should have called it
the Rust Apocalypse.
Endless piles of industrial
woolly mammoth skeletons
turned red by the rust
that never sleeps or blinks.
Miles and miles of factory,
mills, and foundry corpses.
The workers long scattered
to $10 per hour ***** jobs.
Businesses gone with the workers.
Globalization at its finest.
The end of the people's value.
Amerika crumbles of dry rot.
Enjoy your stuff, good citizen.
This will all come to you.
There is no immunity
to endless, mindless greed.
~mce
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 4:51 PM UTC
the narrative does not cling to classicalism of stating whether the pronoun usage is either singular or plural or both to allow an armchair of expression; after all... there's enough for us to bypass the classical philosophical debate about subject and object, simply investigating pronoun usage in relation to singularity or pluralism.
there’s a theory where poetry came from,
one read: cleopatra wanted to hear sweet-nothings
calibrating a razor with a viper’s kiss...
another read: she báthory?
she báthory? she the one that turned milk into blood?
she can burn in hell.
i thought we were un-dialectical in the realms of concern?
no... you see... poetry came from punctuated-impressionism...
or a fear of it... punctuation of course, not from the impressionism...
poets fear punctuation...
give them a semi-colon
and
they
treat
it
like a sidelined line of verse.
this is poetry in mathematical equations:
i had a pear(,)
it was a spare(.)
i had a care for traffic(-)
so i missed( )
the expressions and started using an obelisk to quarter up the mammoth
into chop suey...
poets simple say: next line! when prose says next paragraph
and the prized execution of the 100m sprint . . . (.)
that’s universal alpha romeo with alfa bravo charlie delta (echo)...
come on in the u-turn... give us a smile......... :),
poets says... i need breathing space
without sentenced timing of silence, for the toad to feed inspiration
and envy!
no wonder you came with the alpha - zulu
alphabet given that you used ɪɡ and zoʊ...
so tell me... where’s this copernican west upside down
(this heliocentric west with east being the big bang)?!
i'd swear the thing stopped orbiting in circles
and a thing that's on it's thought started to become
orbital... a fashion sense of the 60s 70s 80s 90s repeated -
that's right, the whole thing became heliocentric
and we became narcissists instead of solipsists
in the geocentric system of worked-up plagiarism
with adequate excuses.)
it's here it the poets apprehensive of punctuation symbology
and instead writing "sparingly,"
to write, e.g.:
i
hate
this
love
affair
claimed
to
be
the
world...
i
rather
chisel
chequers
into
geometry
of
x4
90º.
makes sense poets begot fear of
punctuation and not grammar, they
serviced to explore nothing else,
leaving grammar open long enough to *****
mathematics in... remember...
poets are firstly concerned with punctuation...
secondly with grammar...
philosophy for poets is grammar;
**** i'm um um so drunk i'll need to revise.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 9:27 PM UTC
On the platform rolled the morning train,
I arched into position like a predator on the prowl,
I jumped into the rake and sustained a sprain,
and like a wounded dog began to howl.
I bought myself to stand and staggered towards an empty seat,
as hundreds rushed through the compartment door,
I dint get a seat, but space enough for my feet,
and that's when my phone clattered onto the floor.
I dived into the mammoth crowd,
and began to ***** unsuspecting toes,
Several people yelped out loud,
and i sustained a few hard blows.
Wounded and abashed i almost gave up the search,
when the phone came into my hand,
with relief i grabbed it amidst a jolt and lurch,
but soon realized I couldn't bring myself to stand.
I sat crouched on my fours,
and soon developed knee sores,
The crowd was so large, I couldn't squeeze through them all,
and to my horror, other phones began to fall.
Soon, we were quite a gathering, all perched on our knees,
merrily discussing the Lokpal bill and the Cricket match in West Indies,
We were soon forced to balance on a single toe,
as the crowd began to grow even more.
After an uncomfortable half an hour,I brought myself to stand,
with delicate ease on the platform I managed to land.
Fighting against the oncoming crowd i pushed through with a shove and ****
dusting myself here and there I made my way to work.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 7:08 AM UTC
Past rolling hills
green valleys and beautiful woods.
Over falls wondrous
and meadows gold.
Through towns and villages
snow covered and cold.
Over oceans vast
and jungles deep
Lies,
the mountain mammoth.
Great stones
mere bones
before its sprawling feet.
Standing in awe
at its Gothic magnificence.
All creations lying under the shadow
of this monstrous heap.
They dance in reverence
they bask in the terrible embrace,
of the mountain mammoth.
This far away mountain
oh fiery fountain.
Oh ginormous mongrel
oh hideous evil.
Enveloping all life
purging all love.
Decimating madness
the end of all things.
Fear erupts from it
like water from a spring.
Darkness covers the mountain
darkness blacker then pitch.
Darkness that no light ever can touch
not even the stars
those resilient lanterns.
All hope is dashed at the walls
of the mammoth mountain.
All hope is forsaken at the foot
of the great fiery fountain.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 12:14 PM UTC
I was raised in a house that seemed big on the inside
With a garden that was larger than the rest of the earth.
My bedroom was shared. But there was more than enough room.
So proportionally, I always felt small.
The curtains were vines in a furniture jungle
The bookcase a tower of riddles.
I used to spend my days inside the wardrobe
Because I heard there were whole worlds inside of them.
The sofa was a cloud, I liked to sink into it.
The bathtub an ocean, that I was constantly floating adrift in.
The TV screen might as well have been
A stage compared to me when I was younger.
Even the cupboard was a cavernous place, my sparrowbone limbs
Would fold up only slightly, but still there would always be too much space.
Space blank as a bullet hole
Like the gaps between stars.
An absence you're constantly falling through. When you're so tiny,
And surrounded by nothingness, its easy to forget that you're not nothing too.
I was compressed in the classroom behind a scrawl splattered desk
The lines of graffiti looked mammoth.
The teachers were giants
And I was just jack
They ground up my brains to make alphabet stew
And gave me only a handful of A, B's and C's back.
The playground was Olympus, I was acting atlas
I felt as though the whole world was on my shoulders.
See I was a really loud kid, always shouting out
Because I thought that was the only way to get anyone to hear me.
Lungs like an opera singer by the age of just nine
And in the habit of using embellishment.
I've been where you've been kid,
I've seen it all.
I know exactly how the sight of a bullies hand-down button-up
Can be enough to make you choke...
Sometimes it still is enough.
And I know I don't look so tiny now
I expanded as I grew more constricted.
Trying to compensate for the empty place,
I had made a habit of occupying.
See I understand, I know
But I promise you, one day you'll stop standing under things
Find your feet and grow.
The leaves of your family tree do not define
Who you'll be
You do not have to hold up those branches all alone.
And I know I look so small right now
But in here, in here
I'm mammoth.
And I promise the world is not so nothing filled
When everyone is giant.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 3:18 PM UTC
There is no night like a bayou night,
the air pregnant with expectancy and
mystery, mingling scents of wisteria,
trumpet honeysuckle and gumbo mud -
a Dark Ages alchemist seeking an elusive
golden fragrance. It's a night dark despite
the nearly full moon, a night in which
fireflies pulsate as so many flickering
neon bulbs and the cacophony of insects
reaches toward an unattainable crescendo.
Mammoth cypress trees line the bayous,
letting fall Spanish moss as strands of ghostly
gray-green hair, and the oppression of dark
is waiting just beyond the searching lantern.
At times the wind moans like a sated lover,
at other times it howls wildly, but it's always
present and always vocal to those who
would listen. There could be fear in such nights,
or there can be a love of the mysteries inherent
with the bayous - I choose the love of the bayous.
*I lived in Louisiana about nine years,
and there are many things about that
state I still love - bayous being one of them.*
--
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 4:45 PM UTC
snow comes early this year
in southern climes
- records broken
radio man talks
of a warming globe
- a broken record
seas have risen
many, many times
and frozen, too
- in southern climes
have I shown you
my wooly mammoth tooth?
it's very old.
r ~ 11/1/14
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 10:33 PM UTC
An illusionist by trade, he
Could transport her from where she stands
To a magical spring rumored
To harbor manatees that turn
Into mermaids under the sun.
He needs only one volunteer
To help him spin the great machine
Until its wheels move too quickly
To see the metal spokes between
Its three hubs and rotating rims.
Two persons, four legs, and three wheels,
Travel through time and cross the space
Between the parking lot and springs –
Voila! All appear safe and sound
At the edge of Wakulla’s gem.
And in a moment – close your eyes!
Now open them to see the sun
Shining for the first time all day,
All the way down to the bottom
Where the manatees swim and dream.
The mammoth manatees awake
And begin to grow back their scales.
They transform and wait patiently
For the human girl to toss her
Wished-upon shell into the spring.
She finds the one and makes a wish,
Then closes her eyes once again,
While the practiced illusionist
Works his magic hidden by smoke,
And the shell falls from her fingers.
It floats to the coldest waters,
Slowly shifting back and forth as
Though it were swimming – and it is!
Transformed into a mystical
Creature, it sets the mermaids free.
The human girl jumps up and down
With glee at the beautiful sight:
Shimmering scales and flowing hair
Dart through water in their delight
And invite her to join and play.
The girl jumps in and kicks her feet
But must come up for air to breathe.
The illusionist watches this
From the sandy shore and he – ****
Bubbles at her feet slowly form
Into one glittering green tail
And her hair grows several feet,
Turning to gold under water.
The girl smiles wide and dives to
Join the joyful, playful mermaids.
They jump and swim and practice tricks,
Splashing around under the sun,
But the girl missed her life on shore
And looked longingly at the sand.
The illusionist saw this, too.
Since she had been the one to free
The mermaids from their trapped bodies,
He thought to grant her one last wish
And with a puff of brim fire smoke,
She was transported back to shore.
Her adventure complete, she spun
The wheels of the illusionist’s
Magic machine and was brought home
With the help of her companion,
The great entertainer himself.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 10:34 PM UTC
I feel like a mammoth sometimes
stomping and clomping and trying to find
Where all the other mammoths went.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 12:24 PM UTC
heavy timber fall
crushing mammoth stone
circle crumbles still
regret in living bone
air a crackling cage
a rack holding tight
guilt the thorny blanket
gripping iron might
where’s the other hope
started that same day
we ate their dreams
swept them all away
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:31 AM UTC
I saw yonder—
leaves the colour of rusted coins
flattened into the soil,
their veins crumbling at a touch.
Coffee-stained envelopes lay scattered,
their paper-thin as skin,
ink bled blue by rain,
a Paris stamp whispering 1928
from a corner eaten by time.
They kept company with a bruised brown apple,
bitten once, abandoned,
its sweetness turned to rot
in the chill of a narrow room
in the mammoth province of Brandenburg, Prussia.
The rickety Tudor house groaned—
timbers bowing like old men,
windows clouded with breath
that had not been drawn in years.
The past lingered here,
a pale thing pacing the halls,
knocking without fists,
begging to be loosed.
Cobwebs clung to my wrists,
dust rising like breath
as I pried open the forgotten mail—
letters folded and refolded,
addresses crossed out,
sentences that never found their mouths.
“Let’s ride the rails,” he said.
His voice—young, low, certain—
rang through me
like iron striking iron.
My knees softened.
The floor tilted.
“We should get going.”
Two women in white scrubs
smelled of soap and starch,
their hands firm, practiced, final.
Step by step,
I was lifted onto wheels
that hummed and rattled,
carrying me through corridors of echo
toward a place newly named,
a place I would never call home.
The economy collapsed like wet paper.
The war broke what remained.
Yet memory stayed—
warm as breath inside the chest,
refusing burial,
refusing silence.
It never died.
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 5:43 PM UTC
My Words would have touched U,
in so many different Ways
and turn both your Hands,
Cold and Numb.
The Sense of Touch,
is so Wonderful to Feel.
A Hug, A Kiss, A Nudge, A Pat.
add up to a mammoth Sum.
I was a Fool to have fallen in Love,
Head over Heals and Blind.
I went blushing, all through the Day
and at Night, I lost My Mind.
Love can move Mountains I'm told,
it can Calm the Storm out at Sea
I had built, a Mansion for both of Us
and a Wave took that, with Me.
Sep 25, 2023
Sep 25, 2023 at 8:27 AM UTC