"nettle" poems
All strung
out
on
sadness,
empty shells
of needles
that injected
the next defense
to keep me going
splayed upon
the coldness
of metal
somewhere in a place
lower than
the floorboards
of the nether regions
of a private hell,
where no one sees
the truth behind
the doors of
beaten swords
of silken pictures
in frothy shades
of effervescent green
a smiling happy family
in which the
sounds of drowning
can only be
vaguely heard
a faded gurgle
in an ocean of sighs
Somewhere, there,
the pain in my veins
spreads like
a self-administered
drug
only it's not
my prescription, at all
just a parody
from the very
sick doctor
who shares
this house,
meant to
be a home
one who thinks
he knows it all
but knows nothing
In this dreamlike weaving
of staring blankly
into alternative spaces
when all is so heavy
that even breathing is a task
I suddenly remember
who the **** I am
and push my gaze through
the ceiling cracks
to look up at
the stars,
receiving their
shadows
of light
like a blessing
upon my
nettle-stung
tongue
and
rise
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 5:27 PM UTC
The stinging nettle only
Will still be found to stand:
The numberless, the lonely,
The thronger of the land,
The leaf that hurts the hand.
That thrives, come sun, come showers;
Blow east, blow west, it springs;
It peoples towns, and towers
Above the courts of Kings,
And touch it and it stings.
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He is a Fried Egg Jellyfish,
nonetheless he was ignorant
Always pushing things on me
He never considered feelings
Like the Phacellophora camtschatica
his sting is rather weak.
But that doesn't seem to explain
why it took me so long to see
that he was only after one thing.
-
She is a Pacific Sea Nettle
Glowing; always and forever.
I embrace her light even when
I'm feeling smothered.
She is amazing in many ways
But could become dangerous
in a matter of days.
Just like the Chrysaora fuscescens,
She is made of many colors.
Which is why I can't stop looking at her.
-
He is a Purple Striped Jelly
One of the most painful out of these
Oh sweet, Chrysaora colorata,
he truly stung me.
So beautiful inside and out
I should've looked but never touched
I just wanted to be his cancer crab,
but I never was one..
I was the ocean sunfish biting back.
-
He is a Golden Jellyfish
Beautifully mysterious as always
I want to dive straight into him
As I would the lake that the smack lives in.
Very similar to the lake
he is full of golden aspects
that I long to intake.
He hasn't stung me yet,
So why should I ponder mistakes?
He'll always be stuck inside of my head.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 11:19 AM UTC
Mayday: two came to field in such wise :
'A daisied mead', each said to each,
So were they one; so sought they couch,
Across barbed stile, through flocked brown cows.
'No pitchforked farmer, please,' she said;
'May cockcrow guard us safe,' said he;
By blackthorn thicket, flower spray
They pitched their coats, come to green bed.
Below: a fen where water stood;
Aslant: their hill of stinging nettle;
Then, honor-bound, mute grazing cattle;
Above: leaf-wraithed white air, white cloud.
All afternoon these lovers lay
Until the sun turned pale from warm,
Until sweet wind changed tune, blew harm :
Cruel nettles stung her angles raw.
Rueful, most vexed, that tender skin
Should accept so fell a wound,
He stamped and cracked stalks to the ground
Which had caused his dear girl pain.
Now he goes from his rightful road
And, under honor, will depart;
While she stands burning, venom-girt,
In wait for sharper smart to fade.
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Jellyfish in the dock
Quietly guarding his spot
An intruder drifts by
With a challenging eye
So he gives him all that he's got
The quarrel to settle
He showed him his mettle
Caressed him all over
With arms like a nettle
The stranger acts tough
Calling his bluff
Hanging around in a bit of a huff
He drifted off, he'd shown him what's what
There was no doubt who was king of the dock-
It was one of his better exchanges
But he thought how strange for a fish,
To have tattooed on his chest
Good food costs less at Sainsburys
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 12:59 PM UTC
in between the weeds
and the cactus
and the ever roaming
stinging nettle
and the occasional
blooming flowers
is where I settle
tucked away
in the corner
the only human face
weathering seasons
from first to last
covered in vine
pretending to be
the colour
just another comical error
to perpetrate the farce
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 4:49 AM UTC
Blackberries, fat with summer rays,
Burst sure and true, like ocean waves
Against my tongue they carry too
The scent, the touch, the taste of you.
Each bramble stripped with greedy hands
Felt no qualm from scarlet brands
Those such marks would wash away but
Stains of you will still remain.
The scratches heal, I’ll brush away
Those nettle prongs that stick and stay
I’ll brush the bracken, soothe the sting
But thoughts of you will always cling.
Those onyx beads, their shiny spheres
Imbued with Sunshine, wet with tears;
The taste is fading from my mouth
Their waves of sweetness drawing out.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 12:44 PM UTC
I met a gorilla
Gardener
In a jungle
Of native species
She kept her oxeye
Daisy on me the whole time
A cowslips past unnoticed
By the blush red columbine
Lily of the valley was
Sporting a fox’s glove
The cornflower and the cardinal
Seek guidance from above
A swamp of soured milk weeds
Seeps past your eyes
The firmly rooted ragged robin
Looks up awestruck at the skies
The bergamot was wild
Running circles round the yarrow
Black eyed Susan moped along
With her bluebell filled wheelbarrow
Good dogwood sets paw after paw
Creeping through the common nettle
As lance-leaved coreopsis
Charges in to test his mettle
I left a gorilla
Gardening
In a jungle
Of native species
Aug 4, 2019
Aug 4, 2019 at 4:19 PM UTC
A Volkswagen sinks in tainted ink
The purple bunny’s been painted pink
The hare is teetering on the brink
Of broken limelight square.
He rings the thing; it starts to sing
A duckling, suckling **** goes ping!
A nettle stings the bunny’s wing;
The duckling gets no share.
A shard apart that scarred the heart
Ripped out the one who passed the start
And darting past her cart, remarked
Upon her vacant stare.
A stare so vast that sticks and lasts;
She’s passed the post, she’s missed the mast,
What matters most: what’s passed is past,
Surrendered into air.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 1:25 PM UTC
Every morning when I am making tea,
I wish most fervently,
To become an electric KETTLE.
It most certainly won't matter to me,
I'll accept it most gracefully,
Be I of ceramic or METAL.
For one moment I'm dancing with glee,
The next sobbing most piteously,
These wretched hormones don't SETTLE.
Once I whistled so daintily,
Now I breathe so monstrously,
No longer a rose PETAL.
I may boil, then boil most furiously,
Then click off automatically,
Before I sting like NETTLE.
Splutter, bubble, gurgling I be,
Then cool and calm..so peacefully ,
There I ..in fine FETTLE!
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 9:48 AM UTC
If you're the blanket then I'm the stitches,
If you're the needle then I'm the mittens,
If you're the water then I'm the kettle
And if you're the rash then I'm the nettle.
If I'm the icing on the cake
Then you're the blow, the burn, the break.
If I'm the claws of a neighbour's cat
Then you're the nose of each dead rat.
If I'm the clock on the microwave
Then you're the cancer and the grave
And if I'm a schemer's dossier
Then you're the board on which he plays.
If you're the hair pulled at hysterically
Then I'm the teacher steeped in austerity.
If you're the cuff that's come unrolled
Then I'm the base camp unpatrolled.
If you're the tea leaves left behind
Then I'm the fortune undivined
And if you're the reason I'm capricious
Then I'm the reason you're pernicious.
If I'm the strap, love, you're the sandal,
And if I'm the drugs then you're the scandal.
If you're goodbye, love, I'm the foyer,
And if I am "je" then you're "tutoyer".
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 2:50 PM UTC
Tho we be like strands of nettle, each with his own drop of particular poison, tho over the years we have tangled now and then like tomcats in the alley....
Be it not the beauty and allure of this gathering of writers to appreciate and admire the difference found within?
T'were it not for the likes of Francis this site would lack bite, would lack spice and would lose much of its' erstwhile attraction.
So wherefore art thou Frank?
I miss your stuff. I miss your sharp tongue...
I miss your intellect and repartee!
Wherefore art thou Francis?
M.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 10:30 PM UTC
whenever you want to unchoke and talk behind your brain
better be seated, grab your pen and take down note that related spreading nettle amber grain
question mark your self fondly to lessen your train of pain
collaborate with your tongue unselfishly, so you can have a rainbow without any rain
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 9:07 AM UTC
This distance between us
is like 2 cars driving in opposite
directions,
but here we both stand.
Still as the mountains.
I want to reach out,
touch you,
and hold you close to me.
Tell me you'll never let me go.
With arms that chain and hands that lock
we can protect each other,
but I can't seem to stretch myself quite far enough
for us to come together.
I'm losing my balance, catch me.
You hold the antidote,
the doc leaf to my nettle heart.
I've let you come so close..
Taken you to my secret places,
where it was just God and me.
You're the only one I've wanted to swim with,
so just please Felipe, catch me.
Apr 24, 2012
Apr 24, 2012 at 4:15 PM UTC
The nettle stings, scrapes, scratches, and scuffed shoes were
far removed from us; the last worry as we cut,
crisscrossing to create a crawl space
through a wall of flesh-hungry growth -
at first - to gain access to more flesh-hungry growth
The discipline - for me - was an exhorted departure but the
product was worth every scab; an open space where we
could be: undisturbed, unfettered, unchained, and with
a live canopy we were free to create more, build more,
care more and leave a sliver of our growth
Perhaps more than a sliver. Perhaps it has become my
definition of what it meant to be young and to find a fit;
connect with the other forgers - akin to a close-knit
military unit - collecting driftwood, desks, drawers, drapes,
and designated seats to burn or to use as decor
And decorated it was. Spectacularly so! Swings hanging
from the sturdiest branches, discarded rugs coated
with muck, leaves, and filth dragged in to line our atrium,
a place for every member and a code:
"Nobody but us"
Simple society solidified with barbaric politics.
A system preaching tribal nonsense can't last long.
Mostly the damage was done when things got less simple;
when we grew and outgrew and the fences were put up.
The homes and the simple society were moved in shortly after
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 6:09 PM UTC
There are none so blind as those who will not see
A prophet is not without honour, save in his own country,
Let the cobbler stick to his last; the nearer the church
The further from God; speak the truth and shame the devil
Every bullet has a billet, curses like chickens come home to roost
Comparisons are odious we are light years of discretion away
A little tin god enough to make angels weep
Sitting on thorns telling **** and bull stories,
I'll sieze the nettle and foul my own nest
Straight from the shoulder the sinews of war
To smite hip and thigh cut to the bone playing
Merry with lotus-eaters an elephant never forgets
Pull devil, pull baker man proposes but God disposes
Theres nothing new under the sun
Pitchers have big ears and pride goes before the fall
Even a worm will turn as fine words
Butter no parsnips, still waters run deep
Physician, Heal thyself.
ELEETE J MUIR
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 6:30 AM UTC
IV
Before your work
you sit, so still
as in a painting
by Hammershøi
(Isa’s hair,
so like your own).
Beyond the desk,
the bay window
stretches your gaze
to the fox-frequented garden,
the hedged less-leaved beech,
the un-blossomed pear.
Now, in the mind’s eye,
your son, your daughter
bed-bound in a doorway:
(a tender moment witnessed)
then the silent grace,
the shared meal.
V
Night falls
and done for the day
the violins unravel.
Only on a brittle guitar,
a Prelude:
Subtle Mysteries of Sleep.
As you close your eyes
tomorrow beckons (in a list),
and thinking backwards:
the nettle soup tale;
a birthday cake adventure;
breakfast on the patio with sunshine.
Premonitions? Perhaps.
But in yesterday’s paper
a shock of poetry,
plants the seeds of blank verse -
no pointers given
(save these folded words).
VI
That evening
I asked the questions,
and later you said:
‘If I’d not wanted to tell you
I wouldn’t have’.
I’d already guessed. I knew.
out in the garden
a sunny day
skuddering clouds
white as the blossom
left and loose
leaving lightness
That evening,
as the minutes
ticked away,
I seemed at last
to see you entire,
even your quiet hands.
Oct 27, 2012
Oct 27, 2012 at 11:26 PM UTC
sea, soft slumbering
its ghosts green nettles
once woven into shirts,
princess with fingers
badly stung
for love you sew
nettle to poison nettle
bearing the pain
for brotherly love
and as the nettle shirts
are thrown over their
backs, they become
human once more
and the bonfire to burn you
becomes soft flowers,
under a wintery sky that was once
a flock of wild swans.
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 12:35 PM UTC
You and I were
explorers of the first degree-
I was the leader but it was never as
fun without you, you know-
you were essential too.
We dammed streams and
built castles, drew maps and
hid in ferns
taller than our heads.
I named our places but
only for you (we spoke in
code; spies and pirates,
explorers of the first degree).
We had Greendip,
The Bracken Bubble,
Glory Glee with the ash tree
(your branch, and my branch,
and the Nasty Nipping Nettle Nasties
that we drew red – danger – on the map.)
We slid down hills on plastic
bags and ran up them with
matching hair tangling in
the wind and
I was the leader,
but you were my crew.
Your hair still matches mine
and although we no longer draw
maps on paper we are drawing one
every day (and when I see any
Nasty Nipping Nettle Nasties,
I mark them in red for you,
and you do the same for me).
I am no longer the leader (we’re
equals now, matching pioneers,
and I love you).
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 6:20 PM UTC
there is a fire, somewhere.
the sun/sun making mad love to the mother earth like hey.
hey to the water,
hey to the waves,
& all bits below.
endless mad love.
& electric, sing the youth.
swung the tooth of photosynthetic children trickling like tributaries
into/onto/toward all worldly tufts.
prisoners of the wild.
prisoners of the city, yet swords of something like the heart.
like an amber ale popped spare
& nowhere but up,
baby.
old cassette-tape
as bottleneck netting. this is
stellar
fishing.
who’s wet khakis?
mine.
visitors from the great stars and lush.
tall nettle, tall tent-
city &
popping sap campfires. acid-
dropped and cooler cocked.
rekindle this
bliss,
cosmos.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 6:26 AM UTC
The sunrise burns the sky
A carefully coloured explosion
Blooded light flooding the low Kent fields that lie
Before Maidstone, excreting soundless motion:
Yellow carnation shards sway
With this violent advent of day.
In Hucking Estate diaphanous bluebells nestle
Beneath the groping canopy
Of Ash. Oak; the encroaching stinging nettle
Shields the frequent woodland scree
Covering with a verdant flush
Brooks that through the stones invisibly rush.
Within the hour, the Gorgon-headed sun
Sweeps aside the cloud-
The red into blue and orange has run
And in Lower Fullingpits Wood the increasingly loud
Shuffling of badger attacking vole, fox strangling rabbit,
All compounded into daily habit.
The Kent Downs rise and fall
Like resurrected earth-bound music from a time
When hill, wood and pool
Emerged from unfettered chalk and lime.
Before the Cantii hunted in ancient Wents Wood,
For deer and boar, spurred not by hunger but for the love of blood.
Above the sparrow-hawk attacks the sparrows
Claw enmeshed in feather,
Beak unravelling neck. The unalterable sorrows
Of nature and weather.
Cruelty never ceases, but just gets more efficient-
Kindness remains deficient.
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 3:41 PM UTC
In sandaled feet we stroll beside the hedgerow
And Satan’s nettle bites with wicked teeth;
But doctor leaf is growing in abundance:
Open all hours to provide relief.
For God created all things bright and wondrous
And took his rest upon the seventh day;
Then evil set to work with Mother Nature
And led the birds and beasts and bugs astray.
The owl and hawk prey upon helpless creatures:
Vole, shrew and rabbit are their daily bread;
While fox sneaks up and steals the farmer’s poultry
And banquets when the farmer’s in his bed.
Way up above our heads in lofty tree tops
A greater crime’s committed than the rest:
The infant cuckoo murders all his siblings,
By pushing eggs and fledglings from the nest.
Survival of the fittest is important
In order for a species to survive;
If only dodos had been more aggressive-
Then those peculiar birds might be alive.
Jun 25, 2010
Jun 25, 2010 at 11:44 PM UTC
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
The song-splayed sounds of light
And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
Brambled in bay, garland in violet
When blades could ***** and not make bleed,
And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
In that glow, once knighted we must serve
Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
And the vernal song sang lowly
Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.
At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
Brown as the yellowed beech
Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.
Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
Damp fires hailed the rising
Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 2:41 PM UTC
It nods and curtseys and recovers
When the wind blows above,
The nettle on the graves of lovers
That hanged themselves for love.
The nettle nods, the wind blows over,
The man, he does not move,
The lover of the grave, the lover
That hanged himself for love.
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