"mounded" poems
Hips hunkered, rise to dapple-blue-toned dusty seat
Flush arch cheeky blush, excitement
Droll eye-glazing blue pupil toned in sleepy drug haze
Wind whipping wild air rushing through tempered glass
Wubing whoosh of wheeled blacktop pavement
Colored in eerie sunshade yellow
Lined, darting-flash gold white boundary crossing
Tight knuckles, two hand hold
Blinking brown doe-eyed drowsy heavy lidded
Lolling head knocked back, head bash rested caressing faux blue
Ploom of dust
Dry-mouth open to catching fly’s
Or what’s left of dank-infused air
Quiet stillness
Blond hair crawling in busy wind,
Equally as gone
Thumping, jolting-momentum
White line boundary lost, wheels ended grass
Ditching down, dirt slid slide
Floating weightless suspended-nightmare phase
Snapping,
Awake! Awake!
Screaming slotted terrified,
Panic! Painful-heart-wrecking rob breath
Nose dive, mounded metal drive inching closer
Hairs-breath away
Afraid, screaming ****** ****** inside sealed lips
Brown eyes; lid white
Hands upon steering slack, loose light
Asleep, peaceful in calamity
Unnatural shake and tumble
Nail dug bleeding ache
Skidding gravel, tree lined doom
A god not believed in a prayer ensued
Shaking, the calm unglued
“Baby, wake I beg you!”
Brown quick electric wide
Screaming, Screaming
“Oh my God! Why!”
Swerve snake skin peelout
Black lane orange in night
An almost death.
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 4:08 PM UTC
Cabana, cheese and mustard sauce
Do grace the tablecloth,
White puffy clouds and warm south breeze
And joy in chilled beer's froth.
Hot sun doth bake these stony walls
Sweet mandolins do play,
And the pigeons peck at breadcrumbs caste.
And all fares well today.
Young darting men on Vespa's
Ply their arrogant good looks,
And those stunning senoritas
Strut their stuff while momma cooks.
Monsignors in scarlet robes
Do scurry through the town
Dispensing Catholic action
To any soul who is around.
Madonna's guard the roadside shrines
Where hot seal winds aloft
Toward the craggy mountain pass
And pastured alpine croft.
The peasant woman bends her spine
Trudging forth with strain,
Wood ******* piled upon her back,
Up hillward bound with pain.
Old men sit and ruminate
And watch the young girls pass,
Whilst nursing dark retsina
In an opaque thimble glass.
The olive trees look stately
In their crooked ancient way,
And cast a darkened shadow
Where the roosting chicken's lay.
And out across the mounded hills
The patchwork quilt of farm
And out beyond that deep azure
Of Italian coastal charm.
Seaward to horizon
The aqua blue intense
Extends as far as eye can see
Mediterranean immense.
Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
23 January 2010
Jan 23, 2010
Jan 23, 2010 at 2:30 AM UTC
Why does this mutt whimper
while lying on the table
before his euthanasia?
Does he not know of
the lush, oak-covered fields
and meat-mounded hills
that await him just past the horizon?
Or is it because
his owners do not realize,
a pup inside,
he still has the will to run?
His kicking legs ache as his heart cries, "Why?"
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 12:28 AM UTC
Cause of such a weighty plight
yet worthy of each new bulge.
Prepping is most of the simple delight
to a confection so rarely indulged.
Thank God for "Sammy's Gym & Sauna!
Sweet Belgium chocolate, melted and
cooled to fingers delicate touch.
Spooned in a slow perfect dribble,
covering in a shroud of flowing sweetness
the perfectly rounded mound, centered upon my dish.
Hardening...encasing within my final sumptuous goal.
Fresh whipping cream, beaten to
frothy clouds of mouth watering heaven.
Newly roasted pistachios, shaved coconut,
and the final crowning glory.
Candied cherries adorning
the mounded delectable height.
Not one, not two, but a few.
Still not nearly enough
my conscience won't be bothered.
Gluttonous greed must be snuffed.
With self-dedicated glee
I make me another.
A couple more hours in the sauna tomorrow.
One final decoration...
for presentation's sake.
A newly budded rose
centered for my eye to behold.
My pleasure mostly done
I am ready to partake.
Mouth salivating,
taste buds anticipating,
I reach for my spoon.
Just as...
*Warming flesh...
Streams flow the valley of your breast...
Cherry cascading down a descending
river of melting cream...
A rolling boulder of passion's anticipation.
Tickling and enticing heated flesh.
It's cantering end at the pooling pit of your navel.*
My spoon is tossed away.
With luxurious sublimity
I dine from your hallowed plate.
My pleasure is most certainly won.
Yours, my tasty,
"Sunday Morning Delight"...
not nearly done, only just begun.
© S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 5:05 PM UTC
He lays there at my feet,
Deaf and nearly blind.
Wearing upon him
All the traces,
Of his 15 summers,
(105 in people years.)
His coat grown sparse,
A body gone frail and thin.
Fatty benign tumors below his skin.
A worn tired expression,
Almost always visible,
On his still sweet old dog face.
Yet there is something regal,
About this aged fellow.
With the dignity of maturity
He moves about his domain,
With a cautious measured pace,
And conserved energy suited
To the elderly among us.
He prefers one mounded spot,
In our yard, on high ground,
On the greenest grass,
In the summer sun,
That restores and warms
His old bones.
Diligently working the breeze
with his still receptive nose,
Sensing the things he can,
No longer see or hear.
Appreciating and feeling all
That he has left to him.
This likely his last summer.
And he and I both know it.
We two old souls can sense,
The end is drawing near.
I reach down rub and scratch,
His soft Yellow Labrador ears,
Tail rhythmically thumping the deck,
He succumbs and leans into my touch.
Closes his eyes and receives my love.
He is my son’s and grandson’s dog.
The first dog my son ever owned.
The companion that has slept
At the foot of my two grandson’s beds,
Since both of those boys were born.
Protector, playmate and devoted friend.
Without question, he shall always remain,
A most important part of,
This our own little,
Family Of Man.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
I need to go to the grave yard,
need to dig some dirt.
Make a nest for sleep.
Let the dirt infuse into me.
Infuse with me and the dead.
I want crosses on my forehead.
My forehead mounded upon with dust,
the soil of all this West Texas, impacted upon my chest,
and the sticks of skeletons shall ***** my flesh.
Make me parts of them.
Splinters, perfect spacing, spectral spines.
Barrow injecting me with creativity.
We all come from the particles left of,
by the demise of life.
We are leftovers of after thoughts,
left in attics, filled with soot in peoples minds.
Then I can make art.
Then I can cut out snow,
to shapes of stars.
Tin man in the ground, grows rust as he settles into moist dirt.
He wont grow any more like a plant.
But as sugar in the ground he rust and melts,
oxidates into nothing, then transmuting into,
crystals.
This is cemetery life.
I need to go to the grave yard.
So I can make a home.
Build me a little mistress,
make a family in her bones.
The cottage that we build there,
will have ivy, we'll have friends,
the gates of it will say welcome sir,
madam death waits to have you in.
Drinking milk thistle tea,
dancing waltzes in the fog light.
Diffusing in the spectral photons,
bowing down to afterlife.
Kissing the lips of the grave yard.
Opens the doors, hands extend.
I need to go to the grave yard.
So I can find a place, I fit in.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 1:03 AM UTC
Sometimes, when poets write of love,
we speak of body parts,
but the part of you that I love best
is hidden in your heart.
How can I kiss your kindness?
Caress your thoughtfulness?
That's what I adore the most,
beyond your mounded *******
The fount of understanding
flowing from your lips
is even more attractive
than your shapely waist and hips.
Your ready sense of humor
is very **** too!
You get the joke that others miss--
I love that about you.
While others pant of naked skin
and love that's passion-driven,
we share a secret smile because
our love is baked with leaven.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 2:09 PM UTC
Four years of hopes flung into the sky like clay discs
of a ***** shoot and foolishly, I think
that they are real pigeons with wings colored
in iridescent shades and cooing softly to me
“I am coming home.”
I do silly things, like clean my house, buy new
******* and his favorite foods. I push all other
men away and wait, so I won’t risk rejection or
inflict wounds by betraying this man who
does not even belong to me.
As the date approaches, the estimated time
of arrival becomes more and more obscure
like the day he left for California and never
came back. And the innumerable
broken promises every day thereafter.
“I won’t be here a year” he says. But year two
hides him safely in west coast crevasses. “No I
won’t come to see you” declares year three
“they confiscated my electronics,
I am not supposed to talk to you.
I beat myself in the head with a golf club, don’t
you see how much I love you? I am coming back
for you in year four; why didn’t you wait for me?
In rushing water I stripped naked
37.83 N, 122.54 W and carved a poem
about us into a rock but I needed to prove that
I am normal, so I loved and ****** the autumn
haired girl. Why won’t you talk to me? How
could you hurt me this way? My song set
tells the story of you
but I cannot let you hear it because you have
abandoned me.” One by one, the hopes are
shot down, “pull!” cries his fears and erratic
behavior, because I broke his silent contracts
by moving on with my life.
How many times will I scold myself saying
that I never should have answered the phone?
If your muse is tragedy, you must continually
feed it. Now is it he or I with the spoon in hand?
Mounded spoonfuls of clay pigeons.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 2:05 PM UTC
neath the maple's boughs
copper leaves were tumbling
in a mounded pile
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 9:08 PM UTC
Lemmings living lusciously in tiny boxes all the same – splashes of color
the whirring buzz of a paved path lures them like fish to their shiny frames
drab claims to a cube – clickty clack,
guffaw guffaw goes the lemming in cube 102
cube 104 pounds and releases, click click click, whirring slides overwhelm the brain of the lemming.
Beep beep beep,
ring ring ring,
millions of delicate digital lemmings walking off cliffs
plummeting to their pasteurized expiration
glued to more tiny shiny brightly lit boxes wanting verbosity and novelty
superficial thoughts grasp until every little living lemming wanders into the last chest,
the box made of satin, and silk, hammered shut and dropped into a rectangle mounded with dirt.
What comes next – nothing but more lemmings living in smaller boxes to their expiration dates
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 8:08 PM UTC
Old men tell stories to recruit the young
and they listen
'round
that dancing fire,
tales of heroes
that do god's bidding
with swords and holy shield words,
smiting infidels that would, if not stopped,
they're told, "violate our women",
but these very women know all too well
that the morrow will be a land of sorrow,
mounded high with soulless bodies too numerous to tally.
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 10:25 AM UTC
So much hope set in the height of 8"
The curlewing curls of
pea plants
decadent
Continuos flowing of the firmament
Breaking the concrete walk of the beat to the scene we live our lives between street meat
Imploding our boundaries while humans surround me no air or oxygen just fountains trying too hard to be scenic
I have a garden
I own the earth
But not In the end
It will be my dad
All carbon and cozy covered in primrose plots moldy and pozy'd
So many flowers mounded on the grave of a detritus that it worthy.
To be part of physics
Oh happy squeaking willow branches I remember
Oh china tree blossoms white
-just soon to come out-
Ou the bombs though
The agony hanging over me when I know that there is not a peace treaty from betwixt man fingers plotting graphs of how to not hurt each other
Yet I swoon to the garden and it befuddles my every move tripping me with plant with organism with hippy mumbojumbo
Convoluted material
That makes an aqueous pressure and fluidity to drown all the youth
Thou must grow but this isn't this fixed rates word attack
No. I am here to be the garden
To show walden in myself for my selfs joy
I am here for selfishness
Not evil as you couldn't see me
To pick apart the pieces
If the leaves rent in the movement to just create me
To tease and toss the strings ran from below them to the trees seams.
To root the ever awesome conglomerated picture of a fixture of an ornament
Of the human life that Seams to stem from what is Lendon.
This is homage to myself
And so is the thought.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 8:27 PM UTC
Quailing from the mounded earth
Dethroned and lashed from heaven's sight
A shadow strode where man had wept
His hollow husk engulfed the night
Howling deafness gnawed and chewed
Within his arms she'd come to rest
Calm agony besieged his bones
The flame of gasping eyes suppressed
Darkness drank his memories
Piercing loss cavorts in mind
All false reflections need be snuffed
To end their taunts he sought be blind
Tearful hands roared overhead
And all the stars were furiously hewn
His head flung back threw mouth agape
Gnashed his teeth and ate the moon
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 4:30 PM UTC
Last night, they tried to teach me
to tango and waltz
at the YMHA
on 92nd Street and Lex.
Am here to report
made it out alive,
creaks and internal croaking
are the residuals
I'm getting, in spades, paid.
why they tried,
why they let me in,
a wonder opus mystery,
but someone must be the
teacher's ****
and my mounded ****
a wonder opus de la o'pus.
did not they know
I leap,
make crazy eights,
two-step fly unbridled,
make mouths open gape,
when flying round,
box step, shift weight,
en trance Viennese high society,
when ten dancing writing fingers
pen these little voyeuristic recipes for
noodling cup-of-poem soups.
besides, the YM in YMHA
stands for young men's
and everybody knows,
I am just a
big baby.
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 12:17 AM UTC
Life’s hustle and bustle has ended,
Now I’ve passed away, deceased,
My new terra firma home,
A guarantee of eternal peace;
Never disturbed by clamour or noise,
I don't even hear a sound,
In this world unknown to the living,
Within the ravenous ground,
No one here is the least impressed
By status, rank or class,
Deep below the skylit realms
Of fresh-green, new-mown grass,
The worms treat everyone the same,
Whether noble born or serf,
As I idle away my leisure hours,
Under neatly replaced turf,
No need ever to work again,
I've had my share of toil,
As my weary bones I rest forever,
Amidst the once feared soil,
I reflect on life's rich journey,
A long winding path, well-trod,
Time for contemplation assured,
Beneath the mounded sod,
This place is now home to me,
I don't think of it as a tomb,
Birth and death entwined as one,
In Mother Nature's womb.
Mar 26, 2018
Mar 26, 2018 at 3:14 PM UTC
I was well-armed,
And I dug in.
Bolted the garrison gates,
Posted my defences on turrets
Of pity and self-loathing;
Attacked with self-righteousness
And posturing.
After the expected one hundred years,
You retreated and fled,
Yet I awaited another on-slaught,
Sharpened my sticks,
Mounded my stones,
Prepared for a signal.
The Keep has long fallen,
The moat is weedy and dry,
But I've left the drawbridge down,
Dismissed my guards,
Examined my scars.
I am a veteran of domestic wars,
With no benefits.
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 9:05 AM UTC
When in September sunshine
The yellowing leaves mounded over our memories
Under the beautifully - painted tree
It made a noisy rustling
Humming sweet talks
When the world was still a magnificent dream...
Under the blanket shade of date palms
Rosy sunshine rained on us back and forth
The seeds fell in harmony
The world was not yet awake
At the lustrous dawn
We slipped into each other's hearts..
I close my teary eyes leading to a vaulted tree
That world was a debilitating dream
The yellowed leaves and fallen seeds laid bare
As someone crushed the two ants parting way
The tear trickled down my cheek..
Sep 11, 2019
Sep 11, 2019 at 12:21 PM UTC
freelance free baller
freely falling in the fresh foliage
looking up at the slowly drifting clouds
head cradled by mounded crab grass
lifes little ponders
begin to take shape
fleeting images of bitten cupcakes
and rattlesnake bowties,
dandruff flakes
and broken rake handles
dialog follows, at first innocent
but soon more sinister
“Will I be rich?”
“Could I live on grass blades as if I were a cow?”
"When I stop in traffic does the momentum from my car effect
flapping butterfly wings?”
darkness follows
psychic energy blotting out the sun
“I ought to **** that ************
“She thinks she just… just can act like I don’t exist.”
“That dog better not *** on the sofa.”
settling in, a bee bounces aimlessly of a reddening shoulder
invoking a quick slap
enough inertia to send the small insect reeling
rolling over and propping himself on an elbow
the thought crosses his sun soaked mind
“At least I am alive.”
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 3:54 PM UTC
DecemberDreamer
I’ve fought the give and go sensation and the suited man on my shoulder hunched under the flickering light post divided—drawing stale smoke trails. Reflections wreak imperfections living in present dim dimensions lit liberations tinted temptations longing for lost love as fickle perseverance ****** me I’m dreaming. Poised stars seaming secrets of wisdom tell me what do you know, where do dreamers go, how much further below twinkling upon the silent tear drop as she goes forgotten desires follow as so without a sound—worn wanderer waiting to be found. My thoughts scream loud but my arms and legs are mounded to my body my gift granted chemical sins straining my soul 20 dollars to sleep pay the toll watch your step 6 feet holes lined in rows of tales however years old and yet here I am the one waiting wasted without a hand to hold. Dearest distraught darling december dressed in gold.
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
my alive:
this awakeness seems to breathe
of being close through skin
to heart and muscles
singing softly stroked
by peach parted
over pit stinging;
the gross and fuzzy pash
bristles and bur
catching on roughness of
lip:
has two eyes
completing after darkness
hair in pale perfusion,
lipping with flowers
curled in mounded heap;
whose breaking sound
(star startled)
shook with saliva
–throat can't
but to
unkeep
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 1:57 PM UTC
You forget how light your steps fall
and how quickly the tide
and wind weather your footprints.
So what if you’re not standing on sandy beaches,
go stand on the frozen lake and
leap over the snowy mounded waves.
Take this moment for what it brings.
You’ve been ill—but you’re standing here
better out in the open, your feet cold and wet.
So you don’t enough money to
fly to wherever you want whenever you want.
Your eyes fly upward now,
over where blue meets white endlessness.
You breathe in cold air and blink.
You’re where you’re at
in life because
you chose
to be here.
Every day your choices accumulate
like snow that refuses to stop falling
even on the first day of spring,
and they bear you
over a mound of frozen opportunity.
Sure, 90% of what happens in life is beyond human control,
but 10% is how we react to it.
As time passes, choices can’t always be undone,
but
May always comes.
And in March
we always have the option to continue.
Mar 26, 2018
Mar 26, 2018 at 11:18 PM UTC
have you ever seen or felt
or pressed apart the lips
of dying girls who
23 years less of life
split tenderly–
wetly caving
into
eyes
hair mouth
shoulders spine
a tiny breath
fluttering lids
tense cording of
sinew
dancing sharply
pulled sternly after
wrist
hands onto
scalp
the buzzing
of coarse
tightness
against lips(mylips)
and dies
one dying
final revolution
of ecstatic
breathing
(who
in her mounded purse
tastes of salt
sweet and
earths
?
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 10:05 AM UTC
it's november 21st again
2016
the snow is piled
up on the tips of
the tree branches
mounded on cars
blown down my neck
and through the sky
i know it didn't snow
seven years ago but i
can't remember the
weather of every anniversary
2013
just a dusting on the
grass and on my
braided hair
red plaid tunic
i have selfies and
pictures of the dog
my legs covered
in red plaid wounds
today would have been
three years clean
2011
windwhipped trees
black walnuts naked
it rains all month
and never seems to stop
2010
dress me up
take me out
fall back in love
with life but my
past is starting
to bleed
i just can't remember
the weather
i just remember
the date
things get burned into
our minds so we can
never see them the
same way again
we remember moments
and faces that don't even
matter they just stick
in our memories
it's november 21st again
2009
we're all afraid
of dying and
we're all afraid
of changing
terrified of
growing up
i don't know why
it scarred me why
it changed my
family but maybe
i need to stop asking
why and just move on
**it's november 21st again
and i'm not saying anything about it**
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 9:41 PM UTC