"noontime" poems
the preacher never wrote a poem
about dahmer's baptism:
1.
he leaned across
the jail cell table
and his eyes were honest
when he said he believed in god
deeply
his eyes were honest
when he said goodnight honey
and gently draped his body
in a tub of sulfuric acid
his open jaw glistening in the moon
dissolving in the dusty noontime soliloquy
of crickets outside his apartment window
2.
can an honest man
bathe in those kind of wounds
and be allowed to ask
for a penance?
3.
for two weeks they left
his baptismal robes in storage
they asked if he really believed it
if he could believe in all this
4.
“when i was a kid
i was just like anybody else”
he had said
he seemed to think
being like anybody else
could dull the bloodstains
reduce the skeletons
still tucked into his closet
to powder
make his wishes into holy water
5.
yes jeffrey, anyone can drink it
but getting drunk on holiness
isn’t enough to repent
all of their fingers are wrapped around
your heart
doesn’t forgetting seem foolish
to the brains in your refrigerator
isn’t it just useless
to the spare ribs, in your bureau
drink all the holy water you want
you will always carry their bodies
on your chest
have you ever had a heart
other than the ones you collected
and did you ever know
what a soul feels like?
6.
and that day
they took him to a prison tub
and his body
glistened under the water
like a drowning animal or a martyr
jeffrey doesn’t float
7.
as he opens his eyes
his mouth wide
he looks just like him
suspended in white
ripples curdling in currents across his pale skin
a solar eclipse
covers the sun
as he comes up
for air
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 9:44 PM UTC
i.
the poem has a beginning exactly as you’d expect it:
pa in sweatshirt, ma with purse; the funny thing is
i never used to call them those names:
“pa,”
“ma,”
always found them too cowboy-ish,
too un-me, un-like
us: who held chopsticks before dinner time and shared
stories of how grandpa came over from china.
ii. (at the dinner table)
there is no symbolism here. there has been none
for a while now. this household eats and
eats in quiet. my grandmother is a poet but their
books all burned down
back in ’45 when mao stormed into fujian and
all her uncles could eloquent on was that
“the communists were coming!”
“the communists were coming!”
and instead of poems took with them their
children, and their gold to pawn
and their clothes on their muddy
mortar-stained backs
and the japanese
iii.
my grandfather now comes twice a week to the
hospital for chemotherapy. it is a nice hospital.
good view of the cleanest part of our *****
city. there are lights and white folks now. two things
my dad said did not used to be there. they
used to be spanish. they tilled
our rice fields and spent the money on living rooms
with lots and lots of space to sleep. we on the other hand,
worked. he claims.
your grandfather and his grandfather and i
iv.
awake every sunday morning at precisely 8:30.
made to go down to the temple in kalesas
and told to fetch the office paper for
noontime reading. see we weren’t spoiled: grew
up just next to the pasig river which back in
the 70s did not smell as bad as sin only
sweatshirts
and the sweat we soaked them in we reeled along
steamed fish heads and chopsticks for picking at them with
and bowls of rice we never really ate with spoons.
v. (back at the dinner table)
i listen to my mom and dad
sweat profusely in the evening heat only we can have here
he in his sweatshirt and she
with her golden purse,
preparing to leave - a wedding party awaits -
an jacket draped over his shirt just like grandfather used to do it
in a sense,
but gripping the chopsticks delicately for all us
to see:
“pa,”
“ma,”
v.
it is not cowboys that give us our names.
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 11:55 AM UTC
mourning doves for late afternoons
a lament for the golden hour
the end of adventures
a little girl comes in for dinner
tiptoes upstairs
strokes her mothers hair
leaves little blue flowers by her bed.
I let my hair go dark again-
just like yours, do you see?
I'm a woman now, I have your mouth.
forget-me-nots for noontime
where the little girl would lay
violet blue healing shroud
and disappear
un-pixelating a photograph in the sky
the portrait that made her father cry
it was a five year old aesthetic of death.
I guess I never really knew you, did I?
music box hidden in the mystery of a closet
shades of midnight, shades of dust
a ballerina's slow pirouette
called into life after forgotten years
the haunt of Sleeping Beauty.
I know you didn't mean to miss my birthday.
I begged you for a music box, you remember?
It's my most dear treasure on this earth.
mourning doves for missing you
forget-me-nots for remembering you
my music box will live for you
How strange that such wonderful things
should make me so sad.
May 25, 2012
May 25, 2012 at 9:59 AM 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
Oh Eliot, Poor Eliot, Your Fans Hung You in the Closet and I'm Feelin' So Sad^
<>
we tithed thee with donations plenty,
here a dollar, there a fiver, a coupon for free chips,
worthy of somebody’s eternal gratitude,
that would be you,
da Duke, Duke of York
the largest online free poetry site,
a million visitors a day, why you must be
the richest poet online billionaire, right?
you,
da Duke, Duke of York and
occasional poet...
in return, all we occasional poets demand
steady on instant access, immediate satisfaction,
after all, a part time job deserves your bestus-best,
just like every other large online site, that never crashes,
we’re not like just the rest, we are
p o e t s,
occasionally
so keep the servers engines, well stoked with Newcastle coal,
keep them up and running round the clock,
using only alternative energy,
of the unceasing sun light of merry old England!
quit that other job, you must,
instead of giving up on us,
give in to us,
a poetry break, a writing recharge,
though please add a limited liability
clause to the FAQ’s,
that poets’ lives must deal with the hiccup
occasional
you, da Duke, Duke of York,
newly now, an appointment royale as Major General,^^
you, the very model of a modern major general
possessing information vegetable, animal, mineral and
technical,
who knows the Queens of England, who,
maybe even now is telling tales of your heroics with the hordes of
hysterical
occasional
poetical
globalists
demanding
light brigadests
charging the redoubt
and
when you have a moment spare,
a haircut, please.
no, that is not a request,
naturally
<>
10/19/19
Noontime NYC
natalino
Oct 19, 2019
Oct 19, 2019 at 12:21 PM UTC
melancholy blanketed the whites
scarred voices muffled by
a ****** mind.
an avalanche stuck in my soul
severer than a bee at a forked road
how confused!
red-cheeked petals and afternoon birds glare
in confusions at the footsteps :
unbalance, shaded, muted!
the green umbrella's warm, so scorchingly cold!
all embittered, by solemn beams of the soulless sun.
their eyes widen,
for they had never seen such lone,
for such lone, rare, is forbid to the sons of nature,
never belong to happy child's arms,
that dreams in a mother's charm.
grieving droughts in the air and grass,
no dews, why!,
yawned the madden, soporific rabbit
Ah, so wild.
the windless noontime cross, my quivers stopped, mild.
lashes waxed, blacken like a coal,
mind stuck in a haze, or maybe a threatening maze.
stiffness of the air injected to my nostrils
into my white tongue they will soak, like perfumes to a clothe.
Selene will gaze angrily at this and say,
why no, it shouldn't be in there!
the midnight orchids waver and frown.
soon the frothing dreams peter,
but the bolded letters in a white board stay,
my chair stays.
creaks of an abominable burden became a din.
The smudges of grey-white dust I smelt
hover gaily in the air of pompous breath.
spellbound by the stagnant languor,
mazy, in hallucinations of the heat and homesick.
I sought the fount of hypocrisy and vile,
my hiding nonchalances rosen
(towards a flock of friends)
and loathes to an abominable sun frozen
(I wished it to die!)
Tilted to the windows,
I saw nothing, but fatal secrets of a heart rosed
like window dust to a nose.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 3:45 AM UTC
I was jealous of
jade green oceans,
and the way they dance
when the sunlight hits
them just right.
Or, how I've ached
to wear a shade unbroken,
like the clear blue morning
with its cloudless skies.
I've even dreamed of dressing
in that cold steel gray,
that makes you want to stay
on those lonely rainy nights.
But, I've come to embrace
my amber sands,
that pull you in like the warmth
of the sun at noontime.
Only can my brown eyes
blossom and burst,
like the earth,
so tender and soft
after the storms subside.
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 12:22 AM UTC
It dances through the morning
With its thoughts all smug and loud.
Oh, my brain, my brain, my brain,
Oh how my brain sings aloud.
It controls the mirrors
Right through its glass
Any reflective surface
The brain is what it asks.
It prances onto noontime
With its judgmental stain
Oh, my brain, my brain, my brain
Oh, how my brain sings my pain.
It glances at my edges
It smirks at my thighs
Oh the brain is a torturous man
Filled with degrading, hurtful lies.
It sprints into the evening
With its cocky glow
Oh, my brain, my brain, my brain,
Oh, how my brain sings so low.
It breaks me down quickly
As if it doesn’t care at all
That I’m sinking into nothing
Or that my heart’s about to fall.
It creeps into midnight
With its final remark
Oh, my brain, my brain, my brain
Oh how my brain sings so dark.
It goes to hurt me once more
But I’ve changed up the game
I’ve broken all of the mirrors
To make my monster more tame.
I crawl into dawn
With my brain at my side
Oh, my brain, my brain, my brain,
Oh how my brain’s songs subside.
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 4:31 PM UTC
Long silver tresses grace her lovely sleeping face
There peaceful on the silken moss
Dreaming of rainbow skies and flitting butterflies
In a dewdrops shimmering gloss
She is off flying low with portly bumblebees
Collecting nectar sweet
From sunny flowers smiling up at the sun
Glowing honey is the feast
Noontime tea is spent with Black Widow Spider
Reminiscing in her spinning weave
Of days gone by when Old Moon would rise
Waving as New Sun would leave
She dreams on and on in such peaceful glee
Playing leapfrog with Mr. Toad
Scaling purple mushroom trees with a single bound
Landing on her perfect tiny toes
Oh, let us do not wake her from her dreamland
Do not touch her silver hair
Perhaps if we lie down and close our eyes
We can all join her there
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 1:36 PM UTC
•high in the
mountains, he grew we-
ary and ragged•
• his sight turned
cloudy, chin un-
shaven and face hag-
gard•removed his boots
for his feet did stink•
sleep he wanted but not
without a drink•one big
swig and he downed it all•
then he was asleep before the
sun could fall•many days visited,
many shadows cast•over this slum-
bering man, many moons had passed
•one fateful day, his eyes did twitch
and then did open•he sprung aw-
ake to the life he had forsaken•his
musket dusty, his clothes in di-
sarray•his chin - a long beard
that has seen countless days•he
ran to his home before noontime
chime•he found only disbelief, for he had slept
a lifetime•
Mar 6, 2019
Mar 6, 2019 at 7:08 AM UTC
The familiar complaints, the cozy ones.
Ambling through the hedges of grievance.
I never know what I'm feeling at any one time.
Usually more of the same. Bragging my inadequacies.
Winter is coughed from the addled coalsmoke sky.
Chimneys chugging ash. Clumps of duress.
Blake's choir of children lying in a heap.
Noontime streetlamps regaled in holly and poinsettia.
A ***** moss enters from the vacant lot, cautiously.
The homeless have been scraped from under the bridge.
Geese call and flee. The snow is flakes of ash,
the sun finally burnt itself down.
Disused meanings are flushed. A carefully wrought
vocabulary we have disabused ourselves of.
Crumbling monologue.
A new grammar forms. Light and Motion dances
from the screen. A panoptican of laughs and serenades.
Sometimes there is a magazine no one has a
subscription to. It is the digest of a human heart
dressed to the nines in thorns and flame.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 7:00 PM UTC
Not for the faint-hearted
The highest peak is
Unconquerable is its tip
Cold and misty,
A stairway to heaven!
Bold climbers ignore
Step is the slope,
Help is the rope,
And the peak is their hope.
Surmounting the rocks
Resisting the freezing air
Holding back against the pull of gravity
Should the climbers do
With the vertical
That seemed infinite.
Escapade began.
In their heart, they held
The step and hope.
Crouching on the frosting rocks
They moved higher and higher.
'Till they could glance
At the abyss of horizons.
Passing the halfway,
Wild fortune they met.
Wind with wrath roared.
There came a snowstorm!
Hope began to melt
Their shriveling souls, too.
Buried.
Vertically jeopardized.
Lives ended with the limit.
Another team conquered
The mighty mountain.
Aroused a sense of adventure
Spirits unleashed,
Saying altogether, "We can!"
As tightly holding the guide
And pathway's light -
Their nation's proud "stars ans stripes."
Valiance flashed on their faces.
Higher and higher they went
Calmness danced with the rustling cool wind
Glaring were the ice flakes
Of noontime sun
The journey was near to its end.
Yet, a huge running bunch of snows met them.
Keen climbers bombarded
Explosive things.
Boom!
A hole was formed.
They went down
Into the hide site-like hole
Awaited the "limit" to pass by
then, it came.
The hole was filled
Shivering with cold
Heroes bombarded again...
Light rays entered as
Dazzling as their smiles.
Escapade continued.
'Till they stood and yelled
The voice of victory,
Overcoming the vertical's limit,
On their success,
On the most awe-inspiring place
of their dreams -
The earth's highest pinnacle!
Aug 10, 2012
Aug 10, 2012 at 2:56 AM UTC
Round white clouds roll slowly above the housetops,
Over the clear red roofs they flow and pass.
A flock of pigeons rises with blue wings flashing,
Rises with whistle of wings, hovers an instant,
And settles slowly again on the tarnished grass.
And one old man looks down from a dusty window
And sees the pigeons circling about the fountain
And desires once more to walk among those trees.
Lovers walk in the noontime by that fountain.
Pigeons dip their beaks to drink from the water.
And soon the pond must freeze.
The light wind blows to his ears a sound of laughter,
Young men shuffle their feet, loaf in the sunlight;
A girl's laugh rings like a silver bell.
But clearer than all these sounds is a sound he hears
More in his secret heart than in his ears,--
A hammer's steady crescendo, like a knell.
He hears the snarl of pineboards under the plane,
The rhythmic saw, and then the hammer again,--
Playing with delicate strokes that sombre scale . . .
And the fountain dwindles, the sunlight seems to pale.
Time is a dream, he thinks, a destroying dream;
It lays great cities in dust, it fills the seas;
It covers the face of beauty, and tumbles walls.
Where was the woman he loved? Where was his youth?
Where was the dream that burned his brain like fire?
Even a dream grows grey at last and falls.
He opened his book once more, beside the window,
And read the printed words upon that page.
The sunlight touched his hand; his eyes moved slowly,
The quiet words enchanted time and age.
'Death is never an ending, death is a change;
Death is beautiful, for death is strange;
Death is one dream out of another flowing;
Death is a chorded music, softly going
By sweet transition from key to richer key.
Death is a meeting place of sea and sea.'
1.6k
in the balcony one late afternoon
i saw a mossed cypress tree, with
curved and drooping branches
a shield from the glaring rays of the sun
at noontime, i realized it was
i sat on the wooden lounge chair
as my mind started reeling
brimming with words and lines
stimulated by the ambiance
provided, surrounded by the
picturesque views....but i
suddenly thought of a distant friend
a good soul, a good friend
i miss Cheryl, my friend
she would have loved to be here
in this seaside village,
for some time off, to mix her colors
paint something from the sea
a touch of Neptune's world, maybe
for her poems to write.....
some fresh air, walks any minute of the day
so worries and fears and uncertainties
may vanish, evaporate
like bubbles dissipate
.....into thin air.....
Sally
Copyright 2013
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 7:12 AM UTC
It is noontime, Senlin says. The sky is brilliant
Above a green and dreaming hill.
I lay my trowel down. The pool is cloudless,
The grass, the wall, the peach-tree, all are still.
It appears to me that I am one with these:
A hill, upon whose back are a wall and trees.
It is noontime: all seems still
Upon this green and flowering hill.
Yet suddenly out of nowhere in the sky,
A cloud comes whirling, and flings
A lazily coiled vortex of shade on the hill.
It crosses the hill, and a bird in the peach-tree sings.
Amazing! Is there a change?
The hill seems somehow strange.
It is noontime. And in the tree
The leaves are delicately disturbed
Where the bird descends invisibly.
It is noontime. And in the pool
The sky is blue and cool.
Yet suddenly out of nowhere,
Something flings itself at the hill,
Tears with claws at the earth,
Lunges and hisses and softly recoils,
Crashing against the green.
The peach-tree braces itself, the pool is frightened,
The grass-blades quiver, the bird is still;
The wall silently struggles against the sunlight;
A terror stiffens the hill.
The trees turn rigidly, to face
Something that circles with slow pace:
The blue pool seems to shrink
From something that slides above its brink.
What struggle is this, ferocious and still--
What war in sunlight on this hill?
What is it creeping to dart
Like a knife-blade at my heart?
It is noontime, Senlin says, and all is tranquil:
The brilliant sky burns over a greenbright earth.
The peach-tree dreams in the sun, the wall is contented.
A bird in the peach-leaves, moving from sun to shadow,
Phrases again his unremembering mirth,
His lazily beautiful, foolish, mechanical mirth.
1.5k
The noontime breeze blows through my face
Refreshing my memory of things I left behind.
The summer sun scorches my dry skin.
As I endlessly yawn and give in.
I gaze at the clear, blue sky
Humming the soothing tune of boredom.
I let out a long sigh,
To release the worry and rejection.
I can taste the blandness of the afternoon
And all the bitter aftertastes.
The tingling sound of the glistening chimes above my head,
Remind me of the lazy days lying on my bed.
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 8:37 AM UTC
She lied in the unmade hotel bed,
in nothing but dark white underwear.
Dark-green black-out curtains,
with a slit in the middle, filtered
and framed the sorrowful light
of noontime; leaving a bar of sun
That made dust waltz in the musky air,
and illuminating the small
Of the woman’s back and hips,
making the skin shine. Her husband
stood at the foot of the bed looking
in the mirror and glanced back at her
napping and she looked so harmless,
like a child− or an animal; like she had
never been hurt, or sunk her teeth in another.
Two nights before they fought about silverware,
and he watched a documentary on wildlife survival
in which a hunter strangled a rabbit to death,
and it made him wonder how it would feel
to hold the animal by the throat, while it
squirmed and cried for breath within the hand.
For some reason, He concluded it would feel
easier to smother someone to death with a pillow.
The couple decided to leave the city,
To pretend they had a fresh start,
from the fact that it had been a whole
season since they had last touched
the room came with bed made,
and complimentary soaps on the
counter.
when the woman got up,
they walked to the shore a block away.
The sun was turning red, and falling
below the feminine silhouette of the earth,
and the wind picked up moving the water,
like a mirror unfolding and dividing indefinitely.
The woman walked farther out on the gray
sand and told the man to take a picture of her,
the sun behind her illuminating each tendril of dead
skin flouting round her head like threads of dark wine.
She laughed, and the sound carried
out through the water and came back, like an
invisible
twin.
Later that night the man stood on the porch
smoking. The moon was rising and full.
He could hear the giggling of a young couple
room beyond the courtyard. They were
Skinny-dipping in the pool; the woman embraced
in the young man’s arms legs wrapped our his waist.
The old man suddenly felt warm, recalling his flash adolescence
in extinct lukewarm nights like this. A tinge of nostalgia
and regret that rose and fell for a second and then disappeared.
He then scoffed, threw the smoldering smoke off the porch,
walked back to his room, and slammed the door.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 2:50 AM UTC
Not for the faint-hearted
The highest peak is
Unconquerable is its tip
Cold and misty,
A stairway to heaven!
Bold climbers ignore
Step is the slope,
Help is the rope,
And the peak is their hope.
Surmounting the rocks
Resisting the freezing air
Holding back against the pull of gravity
Should the climbers do
With the vertical
That seemed infinite.
Escapade began.
In their heart, they held
The step and hope.
Crouching on the frosting rocks
They moved higher and higher.
'Till they could glance
At the abyss of horizons.
Passing the halfway,
Wild fortune they met.
Wind with wrath roared.
There came a snowstorm!
Hope began to melt
Their shriveling souls, too.
Buried.
Vertically jeopardized.
Lives ended with the limit.
Another team conquered
The mighty mountain.
Aroused a sense of adventure
Spirits unleashed,
Saying altogether, "We can!"
As tightly holding the guide
And pathway's light -
Their nation's proud "stars ans stripes."
Valiance flashed on their faces.
Higher and higher they went
Calmness danced with the rustling cool wind
Glaring were the ice flakes
Of noontime sun
The journey was near to its end.
Yet, a huge running bunch of snows met them.
Keen climbers bombarded
Explosive things.
Boom!
A hole was formed.
They went down
Into the hide site-like hole
Awaited the "limit" to pass by
then, it came.
The hole was filled
Shivering with cold
Heroes bombarded again...
Light rays entered as
Dazzling as their smiles.
Escapade continued.
'Till they stood and yelled
The voice of victory,
Overcoming the vertical's limit,
On their success,
On the most awe-inspiring place
of their dreams -
The earth's highest pinnacle!
Aug 10, 2012
Aug 10, 2012 at 2:56 AM UTC
when it slips down the stairwell
only then will you revel
in the light of the moon
passing strangers at noon
lit by the spring sunlight
imagining futures too soon.
when it all goes to hell
ignoring the noontime bell
ringing with presence
breathing remembrance
always there to remind
of your first winters hesitance.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 11:01 PM UTC
It is noontime, Senlin says, and a street piano
Strikes sharply against the sunshine a harsh chord,
And the universe is suddenly agitated,
And pain to my heart goes glittering like a sword.
Do I imagine it? The dust is shaken,
The sunlight quivers, the brittle oak-leaves tremble.
The world, disturbed, conceals its agitation;
And I, too, will dissemble.
Yet it is sorrow has found my heart,
Sorrow for beauty, sorrow for death;
And pain twirls slowly among the trees.
The street-piano revolves its glittering music,
The sharp notes flash and dazzle and turn,
Memory's knives are in this sunlit silence,
They ripple and lazily burn.
The star on which my shadow falls is frightened,--
It does not move; my trowel taps a stone,
The sweet note wavers amid derisive music;
And I, in horror of sunlight, stand alone.
Do not recall my weakness, savage music!
Let the knives rest!
Impersonal, harsh, the music revolves and glitters,
And the notes like poniards pierce my breast.
And I remember the shadows of webs on stones,
And the sound or rain on withered grass,
And a sorrowful face that looked without illusions
At its image in the glass.
Do not recall my childhood, pitiless music!
The green blades flicker and gleam,
The red bee bends the clover, deeply humming;
In the blue sea above me lazily stream
Cloud upon thin-brown cloud, revolving, scattering;
The mulberry tree rakes heaven and drops its fruit;
Amazing sunlight sings in the opened vault
On dust and bones, and I am mute.
It is noon; the bells let fall soft flowers of sound.
They turn on the air, they shrink in the flare of noon.
It is night; and I lie alone, and watch through the window
The terrible ice-white emptiness of the moon.
Small bells, far off, spill jewels of sound like rain,
A long wind hurries them whirled and far,
A cloud creeps over the moon, my bed is darkened,
I hold my breath and watch a star.
Do not disturb my memories, heartless music!
I stand once more by a vine-dark moonlit wall,
The sound of my footsteps dies in a void of moonlight,
And I watch white jasmine fall.
Is it my heart that falls? Does earth itself
Drift, a white petal, down the sky?
One bell-note goes to the stars in the blue-white silence,
Solitary and mournful, a somnolent cry.
1.3k
ephemeral laurels,
those lullabies of may,
became fungi while i was still asleep;
none preserved for the non-punctual
who dreamt of spring through spring–
another missed migration.
i walk along the ridge alone at noontime,
songbirds seemingly on strike against the straggler–
the prairie warblers so persistent in july
have gone, with august, silent,
nestled against the mountain walls
of cicadas’ seventeen-year symphonies,
those long encores–
i listen but do not hear.
i press my ear to the escarpment
and feel i’m missing something–
like ice ages are whirling still within the cool conglomerate
in spite of summer and sweaty palms,
like the passenger pigeons blurred
and smudged into oneness under the strata
have become,
without my knowing, the stratus clouds above–
or perhaps there is no spite in spindly evergreens
that flower for flowering’s sake;
that wilt to wilt;
that winter with or without listening.
Aug 20, 2025
Aug 20, 2025 at 12:31 PM UTC
Golden bronze rays
shower light and
ooze heat in the
noontime hour of
the unforgiving days
of wet June warmth.
Sticky, moist, slick
skin falters under
pressure impregnated
with exhaustion and
unquenchable thirst.
Steam rises from
now viscous tarred
streets after rain
falls with no warning.
Waves of lurid heat
evolve from every surface
in sight near and far.
Wet, hot, moist, sticky,
sultry, intense, stifling.
Summer has made it’s entrance.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 5:02 PM UTC
---
fuzzy denizens of desert
strange, unearthly, every one
they wake up softly to the morning
reaching up to find the sun
saguaros, huge, regal, majestic
silent in their special ways
pincushions the size of quarters
brush protect from the sun's rays
from the blazing heat of noontime
to the freezing winter's gloom
these living jewels survive the onslaught
even burgeoning with blooms!
looking out from my front porch there
I see a bird who's home is made
within the side of a saguaro
within its chicks get warmth and shade
I see beavertail and golden barrel
mammalaria in special pots
lining up along the ledges
of where I sit, my favorite spot
before the sun has even risen
this is my safe and holy place
then i feel the creeping warmth
of the sun upon my face
this is where I worship singing
though the neighbors find it odd
this is where I thank my Maker
this is where I talk to God
SoulSurvivor
(C) 1/11/2016
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 10:32 AM UTC
So closely, too long have I walked with Death,
Nothing shall ever look the same again;
Flaunting in face his tainted, foul breath,
Stabbing me anew with tears of sharp pain.
How many years ago it seems to be!
When I mused beneath noontime's honeyed rays
Dappling ev'ry lichened woodland tree,
Whilst mocking and beckoning brighter days.
May's gentle, sweet breath of pine-scented night
Redolent with newly mown meadow hay
Stifles song and dulls each thrill of delight,
Reminding sweeter yet shall pass away.
So closely, too long have I walked in dread,
Crippled by pain within agonized breast;
Too long lingered in the land of the dead
Whilst only parting shall mock my request.
The scythe of the grim reaper draws e'er near,
Terrorizing each sleepless night and day,
Making game of wildest nightmare and fear
As a gleeful child delights at his play.
~Hilda~
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 6:26 PM UTC