"mangroves" poems
Down in the bayou where the mangroves grow
There's talk of black voodoo, like Marie Leveau
The Swamp Witch, is legend, she has magic so black
That those who have seen her, have never come back
There;s tales of the noises that come from the dark
Of werewolves and zombies as rough as the bark
The mangroves are sentinels, to where the magic resides
Where even a longboat has no room to glide
Bodies go missing from the graveyards most nights
And there's always a fog shading the fireflies lights
The Swamp Witch is ruler and Queen of this world
Where souls are all taken and spines can be curled
They say that she came here from Canadian lands
She was a metis they say, from the Western Tar Sands
A mystic by nature, a dark witch by blood
She lives deep in the swamp, protected by gators and mud
The gators respect her, they do as she bids
They keep watch on the waters, they're her reptillian kids
She keeps zombies as gendarmes, collecting bodies to turn
Just how black is her magic, no one can discern
The Swamp Witch is legend, she is as old as all time
The air in the bayou is as thick as the slime
The cajuns say voodoo is the core of her heart
They avoid fishing where the mangrove trees start
The Swamp Witch, a legend ? or is she truly the Queen
She's the Louisiana Witch, no one survives once she's seen.....
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
Weave through the roots
Mangroves alike.
A foxtail, catch it quickly.
The birds sing for you help.
Grapes fall from their vineyard.
You have run too far.
Don't give up.
A cacophony ensues.
The nesting hens are disturbed.
The fox is gone and along with his prize.
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 8:52 PM UTC
Daddy takes me to the greenhouse,
behind our rotted trailer, deep in sovereign backwoods.
Marsh voices, thick like tupelo honey.
The coo of a loon, hiss of a cottonmouth, shiver of a snapping turtle.
The silver of swamp lilies lip the land in wild haze,
a veil of ochre moss tickles my nose like gauzey ginger ale
and soil clings to my ankles like a lonesome hound.
Daddy’s greenhouse is a shed, a haven.
A milieu of magic and fleur-de-cannabis
where pixies pull my curls and gnomes dance
under mushroom parasols.
My hands dip into a hollow of muddy earthworms.
I feel akin to the yellow blood of a butterfly
or pale jade of perplexing geckos.
Daddy is a shaman.
He trims holy blooms that come from spirits
who sing in the wind like the whippoorwill at dusk.
Snipping sticky bushels, he pads tufts into his pipe,
carved in the shape of a sullen armadillo.
I watch him inhale.
His breath
stiff
as a braid of mangroves.
He exhales a ligneous cough.
I don’t mind,
much.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 3:18 PM UTC
My body burns to rove far from man-made
buildings, prisons for the modern soul.
I need to traverse the frontiers white man stole
from those who made it their home.
I've been down to the Everglades of Florida.
Fan boats flew through the estuary lines with roots
of mangroves. I've been to the Hoh Rain Forest of
Washington where fog descended on the shoreline
and married the sulfur smell rising from hot springs.
I must experience America's coast to coast beauty.
Every spare seconds I spend luxuriating in the
sun, thinking of all the places untouched.
My list of desires grows as the glaciers
of Glacier recede in Montana, beckoning
me to the Rocky Mountain Peaks.
Old Faithful gushes, surrounded by wolves and grizzlies.
Someday I'll cross Yellowstone's expansive mountain ranges.
from Idaho to Montana to Wyoming. On the arches of
Utah I'll face my fear of heights and find solace at
the tops of time-layered sandstone towers.
Descending the Grand Canyon I'll study beautiful
colors exposed by years of erosion. In winter
Death Valley will be braved. The lowest and direst point
will exhilarate me with scaled creatures as sand
dunes whisper my name with every hot breath.
The Badlands of South Dakota will hope I come
backpacking through prairies to watch precious bison roam.
California Redwood trees and I will stand side by side
as friends. Yosemite will call me to her cliffs and I will chase
waterfalls and sequoia groves until I've seen it all.
I ache to explore the terrain that bears
my name, the country I call home.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 1:09 PM UTC
*Despite the moon, the mood
And stars on foreign skyline,
From having seen the Earth, this world, teeming
With life, with breath, and breath Almighty,
And spirit in things which are perceived,
Still, I feel a deep longing, a chasm,
The feeling of missing, the want
For reliving a lot of things,
Like the beaches on the South,
Sagada, Batanes, the tarsier,
The reefs, and the mangroves,
Our fellow Filipinos eating Adobo
And the so-soft fluffiness of rice,
In celebration of our heritage,
Our famed resiliency,
I am a tourist all my life,
I remind my self,
Until I found you,
For they are all yours, all finest things.
You are the islands of our country,
And all these call me
As though to take me to you,
As though you were calling out to me
For an embrace.*
© 2015 J.S.P.
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 6:43 PM UTC
F*ck the postcards and dried mangoes, baby.
The prayers in The Philippines,
The prayers from and by Filipinos,
will be the best souvenir one can ever get.
The Prayers in The Philippines, by the Filipinos
are what has been keeping our islands, vintas and mangroves afloat
and why more new islands have been popping up like moles.
The Prayers in The Philippines, by the Filipinos
are what has been keeping the storms, typhoons and hurricanes all but a joke.
Another one? Bring it on and on and once more.
The Prayers in The Philippines, by the Filipinos
are what has been putting earthquakes and tsunamis to shame.
My grandmothers have been through worse,
what's a little bit of motion and shake?
The Prayers in The Philippines, by the Filipinos
are what has been keeping this country a curse and a miracle;
why we have mountains that we have today,
why and how they're shaped that way.
Despite the chaos of politics, corruption and news of crimes...
Why we have oceans that are bright blue
and how they could make a weary traveler or a desolate native feel brand new.
Despite the familiar dangers and age-old stereotypes...
The Prayers in The Philippines, by the Filipinos
are what has been holding Filipinos together,
be it with each other or to fight through another day for much longer.
The Prayers in The Philippines, by the Filipinos
are what has been keeping this country ever magical and mystical,
even if some days it's harder to feel that way.
The Prayers in The Philippines, by the Filipinos
are the reason why I'm here, why I exist,
why I'm alive and kicking,
full of dreams and spite and hope, writing,
the reason why I'm full of life, full of love
and will keep on living and loving.
I will live and die saying my prayers
in The Philippines,
as a Filipino,
for The Philippines
and for other Filipinos.
Dec 7, 2023
Dec 7, 2023 at 2:03 AM UTC
I am here, risen up
from dust
and I sit in the sand
beneath the mangroves
as fruits fall around me
thudding softly in the
strewn leaves.
We sit here,
where I am,
these fruits
and these insects
and small reptiles,
watching the clouds roll in from the east,
where the ocean sprawls,
lavishing the beach with delicate hands
under the phosphorescent moon.
We all sit here,
the fruits,
insects,
reptiles,
the ocean,
and I-
We watch dense clouds roll in
as distant flashes of light
and gongs of thunder
grow more frequent-
we sit-
we watch-
and we wait-
for the rain.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 10:07 PM UTC
Somewhere in the lake
of deep sleep
is an island, dark and mysterious,
entangled mangroves here, resist movements
where I snake in like a thief
excitedly breaking in to own house,
pretending to be an alien
and find
a body double living there
acting out one's secret-
fantasies and voluptuous desires.
I won't dare to speak aloud here,
where, the overpowering smell of
too ripe fruits of indecent passions waft.
The dark chamber,
the smoke filled ***** den of my mind,
is to take secret refuge and be one
with a dream that flies me
to the border lands of psyche.
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 12:20 PM UTC
(Mangroves shake the boy
Rapture tempts his will-
He will not eat tonight.
Only blue shades fill
a hole so deep
covered
with
ashes
he
eats
- Himself -
an ardent fill
of bruised light,
like chimeras on
the mantel.)
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 8:00 PM UTC
Wicked nether-land. Nether world, white, askance. Capitulating mangroves, verdant trees spliced with hyperbole, onomatopoeia, and manilla envelopes; her world is stuffed with secrets, she listens to gorillas cracking mussels a kilometer away, near a rill. Never she thought. Nothing that could provide....providence. Mangled heliographs sprayed all over the everywhereworld.
"Don't be S.A.F.E.," she whispered. A bouquet of gorse, cistus, and pimpernels squished in her small fingers. She climbed her way through the pedimented stairway, then collapsing on the porch. Legs spent, and spread out upon the desiccate grayed four by four planks of the portico.
And as time elapses, the shuttering shake of the hemlock, which writhes through her skinny nimble dactyls, upwards straining the heart as its toxic bends appendages- crisp cerise lumens bend on the Titanium White walls, where only shadows bend time. The hour, still nine. Every adornment, furnished with red and its hues. Not purple, periwinkle, or any masked enhancement.
These are the symbols that reticulate splines, that curve temperatures, perverse hemispheres and debunk worlds. Upped antes, verbs that terns flirt worth, birth words. Ooh. Aah. Camera. The forest wraps her in its verdant pasture, where at last the moribund tamarisks disperse.
While at the plateau she is quiet and longing. Arms astride, dangling. Vaunt with highs and bliss- a kiss of withstanding pleasure serves her the cure for a lifetime of whining. This, yesterday where her body rattled through crooked vines. Square ships toasting her vocal melancholy in the sweet-waters of Time. So that all of her ripened limbs could grow, no more sheepishly than the magic she knew as a child. Stress free. First among the Earth-words, verbed-up and made jealous by pronouns that encompassed her joy-brimming hide. Closing down her voice and hugging her from behind.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:44 AM UTC
Rise softly, rise gently, waking dawn
And let the drowsy sun yawn a while
Beside me, my love sleeps in peaceful bliss
With crescent eyes and a crescent smile
The morning breeze may tease the blooms
That wait to unfold with the sun's blush
- But softly, blow gently, oh morning breeze
Let the wind chimes be still, quiet, hushed
Rest your melodies, singing birds and bees
And cease the fluttering of your wings
The hum, the drone, the medleys
Quiet the rustling and the whispering
Why gurgle so loud - river- change your course
Flow far away, past the mangroves
For how lustily you gush, bubbles and froth
Shhshh...love sleeps - eyes closed
But alas - the river stays, making its music
The birds from their songs shall never cease
And the morning breeze breathes free
Tinkling wind chimes, hustling leaves
Rise - the sun shall and burst in gold
And the world'll be in daylight's warm embrace
My love will waken yet I still revel -
For sun lights the grace of my love's face
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 10:34 AM UTC
~~Overwhelmed by the raw talent and emotion with which my students think and feel and write. Thank you, A.N.--Chuukese woman~~
Early in the morning
When the dark cloud covers the light
And hides my brother from seeing the light
I woke up along shocking news
That glazed my face with sadness
Brought tears to my eyes
I heard an awful voice
Coming from the mangroves
Just right after my brother
Hung himself with a thin rope
The voice said that
He had to find a hat
Before Uncle Priston
Forced him to drink the poison
I smell his perfume
When I start to feel the pain
In my heart
I feel the cold air
When he appears in my dreams
And he touches me with his cold hands
Apologizes to me
We cry to each other
Among the mangrove trees
Hugging each other
Talking about the truth
I lost his warm hands
And his warm heart
That blocked the cold air
From entering our house
His love and his memory will not be forgotten
But I hide it in a secret place
Because his love was exactly like a fire
That makes the people feel warm
As they come closer
by A.N.
representing Chuuk, Federated States of Micronesia
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 4:56 PM UTC
Lazy days and choppy waves
Upon a copper sea,
A breezy, warming westerly
Is blowing down on me.
Sunlight striking wavelets
Below clouds of cotton cool
And seagulls hang in squadron lines
Aloft from oyster pool.
Road signs judder in the breeze
Ripples weave amongst long grass,
Mangroves bend in unison
And asphalt bakes in molten glass.
A parasol of brilliant blue
A picnic basket brimming high
With lemonade and icy beer
Whilst sausages and onions fry.
Two barking dogs cavort with joy
Chasing hard on sandy beach,
Leaping high in summer air
Running, fetching, ***** to each.
The lazy summer saunters in
Engulfing us with solar heat,
The pretty girls wear tiny shorts
Which breathless boys find such a treat.
Pohutukawa’s bursting forth
In waves of rich and scarlet red
Which juxtapose dark olive greens
Of leafage midst each flower bed.
A sky of brilliant powder blue
With salt spray aura in the air
As swimmers splash in gales of fun
Hot sunlight baubles kiss their hair.
Marshalg
Port Waikato beach
15 November 2011
© 2011 Marshal Gebbie
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 12:28 PM UTC
Sara L Russell, 27th Oct 2015, 00:50am
I send you out into the world my dear ones.
Here is light and shade; and I see that it is good.
Here are the waters of life poured forth in shimmering splendour
all for your delight and to nurture your thirst;
behold, here is a paradise of sunlight scattering
diamonds of fire on the ocean,
sunlight filtering through the leaves of tall palms and little olive trees
in splinters of dappled emerald light and shade;
here are dazzling white sands and shady mangroves
it is all for you, for I love you, my children;
you belong to me
and to all of the earth.
I send you out, dear ones, amid the steamy jungles,
out to swim free in the dancing liquid light of rivers and streams,
I set you free in a garden of plenty.
Here are fountains and waterfalls overhung with intoxicating
swags of white jasmine and scarlet hibiscus
entwining with vines heavy with ripened grapes.
Flamingoes and bright parakeets fly out of the
greenery before you, in a flurry of rainbow fire.
Rejoice in this life I give you
and take care of this beautiful domain.
Keep it safe; make it last
and you in turn will last;
safe in an infinity of peace.
I send you out into the world my treasured ones,
free to walk naked, resplendent in the satin of your skin;
needing to conceal nothing from the sun's nurturing rays
or the eyes of beasts, or each other's loving gaze.
Behold, you are pure and untainted with shame;
you have the freedom of earth's bountiful beauty
and you are lovely as the flowers that carpet the forest floor.
Taste freely of the berries and the sweet delight of earth's nectar,
Let the pollen of the lotus bring you dreams of deep serenity.
Only touch not the fruit of the tree by the dark
fountain sealed. The Tree of Knowledge
is mine to know and yours only
to behold in silent wonder.
Mark this well, my children,
for it is my only rule.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 9:07 PM UTC
We walked along the ocean for about an hour
Lost in conversation
I suppose it was needed after misunderstandings six months ago
We encountered lots of things on the way
There were mangroves and wet sand, hot coral, dry sand, sea **** couple dried up sea urchins
A bunch of other ****
Just things the tide had dumped
We stopped for a while to watch the sun
Which was setting, and do you remember how you said
It looked as if, far out on the horizon, this great orangey-yellow ball that was suspended in the sky with invisible ropes
Was slowly being lowered into the ocean, sinking
Never mind me, you said, I’m not making any sense
I understood what you meant, I think, I wanted to kiss you
Waves were breaking, gently crashing into our bare feet
And I noticed this cut on your foot, just a little one,
I think you hadn’t even realised it was there
But I kept quiet, didn’t say ****
And all your toenails were painted blue
And the waves would break over them and slowly retreat,
Leaving your feet wet and toenails glistening,
It was kind of a pretty thing to look at.
I don’t know how to be romantic
I don’t know how to write poetry
All I know
Is that you are a mermaid
And I am drowning,
Will you save me?
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 4:42 PM UTC
ONE day,
a log
said to the bog,
"you're all mud
and you ever survive,
i am all wood
but i always die."
the bog spoke,
after a long sigh,
"it is transformation,
which you deny.
I turn into nothing but soil,
when it is too hard to toil.
the sun smokes up all water,
i become a happy crater.
then comes by, the rain,
fills my bowl once again.
i see wild weeds,
some dormant seeds.
water lilies, papyrus, mangroves,
are all that come to me and grow.
i laugh with them, they sing with me,
castaway afar, but glad are we.
together we live and fear not fate,
that is how i live ahead!"
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 2:39 AM UTC
I tried to walk
About in the woods
And dense evergreen forests
That are filled with monsoon
Which would've hit it moments back
And before the roots could actually seep it all in
The mangroves witness the shower again.
I tried to romanticize
Scribbling about the way he'd curl up
Beside
His fingers in my hair
Each strand longing for his affection
Longing this magnetic attraction
Between my hair and his stubble face.
I tried meeting people
Having interactions in my head
Portraits of people and learning
About their cultures and
Means of existence and more.
I tried to write
I tried to write impossibly
Of the things I'd never lived
Witnessing is an act,
Living is a dream.
I tried dreaming
I tried dreaming of all that could be
Could have been;
All the intricate fallacies
The make believes.
I was trying to write impossibly
Of the things I'd never lived
And then reality struck me.
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 1:19 PM UTC
“Sundar means beautiful,” the natives write—
The mangroves of south dance beneath daylight
With the flair of a gypsy drunk and bold
Swirling her skirt of salt. And callous gold
Prowls the swamp after trotting prey in flight.
The sentinels of south guard through the night
And push and pull against the windy might;
Behind their sieving shields, beliefs still hold—
Sundar means beautiful.
The men of south venture without invite
For honey, wood and fish into the plight;
The wives, like fortune, wait at the threshold
Praying and cursing gods foreign or old
As sleepless children scramble to recite—
Sundar means beautiful.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 9:23 AM UTC
It took fog to realize
There is no use in growing
Things that grow will always be cut down
Dew on the grass, peppered by spider webs
Hills full of red angry fire ants
It took fog to remember
That I could always go back home
That I could skip the canal
And pick an orange straight from the tree
Peeling it with a rusted pocket knife
Would you sit in the grass with me?
The stick of the juice between your fingers
It took fog to show me
That I can still walk down the rows of sugar cane
After playing hide and seek
That I can still **** snakes
And get cut by the sawgrass
It took fog to remind me
That the mangroves were
Full of mosquitoes and fish
And the yellow sun
Was only a round disk
Through the fog
Feb 18, 2012
Feb 18, 2012 at 7:57 AM UTC
Let's row into mangroves
Run by sandy shores
Let sea wash away
The salt in our sweat.
Nov 6, 2017
Nov 6, 2017 at 12:19 AM UTC
fronds of palms
bougainvillia drapes steel frames
taken root in silt
river depositing
minerals for strength.
fifteen years after
lost love & other chapters
tangled branches present
to a cloudless blue
all melts
across copper water
licks at mangroves
camoflauging a walkway
swept away by a record flood
new planks anchored
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 10:01 AM UTC
Moldy sprocket of time piece.
Stop watching my every crease,
As it folds into my cheeks.
Wisdom grows my crows feet.
Twinkly locket locked in.
Place based on my chest, breast plate,
Sternum pinned beside the window sill.
Watching the sun bathe.
Light.
Bring it to lips.
Hold that picture clutch it, touch it,
Smother with wishes, pictures held of
Long dark hair,
Sprinkle, glitter eyes and twilight of moon, inside,
This prize.
One small 1 inch circumscribed ebb and flow of milky skins.
As you can see in this tin man trinket,
Winks and blinks, under blankets and springs,
Of the bed setting marched upon by dark hair love speech.
To my Juliet, who never sweats, never worries, knows best,
Knows truth, no jealousy, nothing more than a friend.
Living in Austin.
Our paths never crossing,
This entire Texas will always keep her away from me;
But nothing will keep her from me like the grand canyon we've created between each other through pain submitted to.
“Christian. You should leave.”
walks away.
Ran through the hedge row, directly through head bowed,
Crushed it's leaves and vines and twigs, ten thousand mangroves didn't stop my legs.
Rammed my head into a wall with all the force to knock me out.
Collapsed my lungs.
In the middle of the night, sixth street and east.
Hated me for months. Maybe years,
Embalm some dead.
That night, she hit me with an oak board, over 70 times,
My buttocks bruised black and blue hue of the night like broken
Maxillary bone black eyes, the perfect color of sleep.
I Never Flinched A Bit.
I Hope she never reads this poem, I hope my future lover doesn't either.
It will still be just ****
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 11:43 PM UTC
Where had been the sky,
The superhero and ruby chip?
They lived here, ignored,
A while ago floating with
Ghosts of my mangroves and
Things I did not know
How to say- how to say.
I cannot gape anymore,
Let’s go back to Damascus,
Istanbul and verses you-
Did not know that spread
Wings beneath my skin
I have got stamps and ink,
Frozen food and deck of cards.
Sit with me and adapt
The ways how a mirror shake
Herself off the dirt and break
Her bones, his, endless ways.
There are plenty of things
They did not know how to-
Take, you and I, we dance.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 5:15 AM UTC