"overhang" poems
The right winter
for dope and ice
for walks along the river route
home
The right winter
for arctic pin-prick wind
holes in boots
turquoise dress coat
far too thin
for walks along the river
But The Merrimack couldn’t find her way
when fabric moguls migrated south
Fascinated by nylon nasties
they traded their silks and cottons
for those petro-polyesterdays
While she—
could no more manufacture life
than mint their money
So, they blamed her
Pronounced her—“Dead”
Decried her *****
Now—
She wanders sadly under bridges
stopping to eddy in an overhang of birches
In dank canals, I found her sleeping
angered only at the falls
Poor outcast!
with current edge she splinters light
from cities sadder still
retching her oily stench
past Plum Island
into the sea— into me
What’re a few warm tears
falling from someplace on a bridge
to the icy waters of the Merrimack?
Rivers get lost in the ocean don’t they?
Let them find each other there
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 12:49 AM UTC
Mysterious, mist-kissed hills dismiss my dismal disdain
For Life’s strivings in the ivy wired mire.
Budding blossoms embrace my burgeoning bliss-filled *****
As my soul soars into the seething skies.
My wings are beating with breathless wonder,
My imagination sends me to a destination
Beyond discrimination, defying appellation,
But not exclamation, at this elevation.
Smooth pools of cool blue hue contrast with cliffs
That overhang the huddled houses
Of the hillside village
On the way to who knows where.
The mists are shifting, ever drifting
Hiding everything
Except the mountain tops.
A new dimension might await us
Always moving as
Our journey never stops.
Paul Butters
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 5:16 PM UTC
It is November
And all the leaves face my way
Overlapping tussocks of grass
Like long forgotten hills
Dwelling in the overhang of fall
It is November
Orange ribbons hand in tatters
Patched up yellow cloaks are draped
And whisking in the wind
Then drifting to the earth
And becoming winters pillow
It is November
And there stands a lonely tower
Base adorned with red bushes
Flags no longer flying
Crouched and crippled by the frost
It is November
My feet bear down on acorns
A thousand fold
All left and forgotten
Even to the squirrels
Just a layer ‘neath my feet
It is November
The solitary pines stand solid
Near the ivy covered wall
Their boughs raise and hail the heavens
And their needles fall
As the autumn wind dances a mournful dance
It is November
Bare branches rake the cloudy skies
And scratch out their heartfelt pleas
Against cold glass windows
Seeking what they have lost and will not find
It is November
An old gate stands ajar
Beckoning to no one
Standing solidly open
Despite the cruel fall wind
It is November
Trees make colored circles
A fading gold on fading green
A fireworks display
Now falling to the ground
It is November
Cold air fills my body
Cruel wind tosses my hair
I seek a shelter from autumn
My door is open
Now I am home
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 2:44 PM UTC
the fog
is home
to me.
I close my eyes,
I am still standing in Santiago Chile.
business people are
rushing back from the lunch break.
the outside restaurants
teaming with customers.
I look up,
the Andes Mountains are head of me
a weak pink fog veils them.
my mom turns to me,
‘honey, that’s pollution’
I’m glad we have the real fog
back home
I close my eyes,
I’m flying back from Atlanta Georgia.
my fellow San Franciscans and I
waiting to see our home, I almost tear up.
our water had gone out that Atlanta summer
and I remember there wasn’t a day under 105 there.
the fog looks so tasty
like I would be fully
refreshed and rehydrated
after only one bite.
I close my eyes,
I’m living in Boston for five weeks.
a storm passes by now and again.
the east coasters complain that
the fog is ruining their city’s
sunny reputation.
the southerners complain
that summer isn’t actually there.
I just smile and smoke,
I love watching the smoke drift into the fog
mingle, then disappear.
I close my eyes
I am standing in Rome
my family- taking cover in a store overhang
there was heavy rains and over cast
, but no fog ever descended for a meet and greet
on that day.
I close my eyes ,
I am looking at the tall slender buildings in Vietnam
along side the main highway of ** Chi-Man city
it is overcast- the storm last night brought down
a tree, crushing a poor shop with a sheet metal roof.
the overcast hangs, and I am feeling
a little nostalgia for home
I open my eyes,
I am back in the sunset district.
I’m laying on my reservoir,
looking out at the Pacific Ocean.
the wind blows inland
whatever weather on the westward horizon
blows in in a couple of hours
the fog sits at the horizon gathering itself up
for it’s long strut to the beach
and I wave to my old friend
it’s good to be home.
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 11:41 PM UTC
They cut down the trees and then urge the young to plant them again, about how life goes, as if age is just a number, and we no longer believe in power.
They cut down the trees, clear land,
make production, then shop spree for a vision and mission because life only once and needs to be enjoyed, wrapped in a paper bag and then thrown away and become a homeless person's sleeping mat in front of the overhang of shops.
Oct 19, 2021
Oct 19, 2021 at 8:28 AM UTC
I am a boomerang.
You throw me out into a blur,
of unanswered questions that reoccur.
No matter though, I turn around,
and come back to that unsteady ground.
I am the song you sang.
The one that got stuck in your head,
that you hummed softly as you went to bed.
From time to time though, forgot it,
the words would gradually lose their pitch.
I am that scarf you hang
The one so easily covered,
that suspended there amongst the others.
They cater to your separate needs,
since weather changes so drastically
from summer to winter or in-between.
I’m now an overhang
I see above everything,
and the waste of time it all did bring.
The cloud that loomed over my mind, (is gone)
can’t bring you back around this time.
I’ll no longer be the blood on your fangs,
I’ll no longer be your boomerang.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 11:05 AM UTC
Evenings a lovable sensitive thang.
Opting to pass usual good morning greetings as some sang.
Skipping morning bits.. rushing into the afternoon.
She welcomed the mid day
Knowing with it a smile was on the way.
She allowed early evening to greet letting things bloom.
Working away late evenings as sleepy eyes rang.
Conversations a quick cute head nodding overhang.
Good nights are like lullabies of verbal hugs sangs.
Wasted evenings are snatching from beneath feet taken for granted rugs.
All to start another night in shimmering thoughtful plights.
Tugging away ribbons in flights.
Meaningful minds quietly dreamin.
As others may be secretly scheming.
Attentions paid to faded good morning hello's.
With hollow tones from yesterdays grading zero's.
Wash rinse and repeating..
Behaviors seems to be overwhelming.
Creativity craves new feelings.
Rare moments seems to be fleeting.
Evenings are acceptable, noondays are welcoming,
as are the rushing of mornings.
selinasharday rosePoet s.a.m 2019-5-1
May 3, 2021
May 3, 2021 at 8:28 AM UTC
I’ve begun “The Wasting” once more.
That ragged uncovering of bones and peaks and ridges that crop up along my spine and shoulders.
My scapulas revealing themselves like the bed of a lake as the waters recede.
Indents beside and under my kneecaps, hollows that match the ones slowly sinking themselves back into my cheeks.
And the hipbones…the things I truly crave to see through the paper thin layer of my skin…
Those…I’d starve myself to waifish proportions just to graze my hands along the mountaintops of those things, those sharp little things.
I lose my hair and my colour and my shine just to dig my fingers into the hardness of my breastbone, just to know that my jawbone is an overhang, just to plunge headfirst into the thrill of being thin.
“The Wasting” and I are friends, and I want to drown in her.
Jul 6, 2023
Jul 6, 2023 at 2:50 AM UTC
flip of the fingers house of your hands
steepled fingers like wooden roofbeams
diamond studded knuckles, rugby thumbs
palms over the dome and push doors
blueberry jars clink with raspberry under
the faded overhang of the balcony, leaves
me for sale and fortunate, slated skin,
mouthed promises against pixel skimmimg
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 4:43 PM UTC
spastic discs swirl and swivel at times
when the dream machine follows through
it's good intentions
it's at this time i'm held up at the overhang
on the rainy day
sputter gutter and mess.
take it from your acidic siblings that
brothels are for the sissies and the missies.
i know not of the time or place
but the measures taken for this dream
to make pace.
sometimes even jelly fish can jive to this tune.
now can it, Betty Lou Ann.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 1:43 AM UTC
"Tread with caution
Construction ahead"
The sign passes behind her
Lost to ecstasy and joy
She crashes through
Brush and thicket
On dream-paved paths
To where the little white cottage stands
Spit-cleaned and rag-polished
Waiting
"Caution-sinkholes
Beware fragile earth"
She slows her pace
Bouncing slightly
Till the ground caves in
She leaps as earth sinks at her heels
Consuming her spirit
Leaving dirt on her knees
And the little white cottage stands
Cobwebbed and dust-lined
Waiting
"Beware- cliff ahead
High tide, rough waters"
She approaches warily
The dirt still caked
To the soles of her shoes
But ignores the sign
Arrives unprepared
The cliff comes as sudden as a drop
Land to air in seconds split
Frozen water breaking her fall
And the little cottage stands
Stone-cracked and rain-streaked
Waiting
"Danger- falling rocks
Avalanche prone zone"
The water drags at her fingers
As she crawls to the shore
Huddled under the cliff
Overhang so close
She can smell the mossy wear
Water-clogged she fails to hear
The rumble of stones
Till they crash to the ground
And the little cottage stands
Foggy-black and death-caked
Waiting
"Construction Site-
Building in progress"
The stones crash against her
Down to the sand
She falls to her knees
Pinned by the boulders
With the weight on her shoulders
She remembers the signs
But wishes she remembered sooner
And the water takes her
As the little black cottage stands
Time-worn and wind-torn
Waiting for the future
Never to come
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:09 PM UTC
Jumpercable dreams
Defibrillator epiphanies
Wet streets of this city.
Rain way rivers down
Alley and walk.
Fumble for the seventy-five cents,
Slam!
Crack!
Vroosh!
The heights are drowning!
Shared awning storefront,
It's not stopping and it won't ever stop.
The Lee Rd. sidewalk,
Now the new Rio Grande,
Flows to the big parking structure,
Now an Atlantian City,
Relic to a cryptic past,
Arcane acropolis.
Dry overhang is my raft,
Only it,
Too,
Is sinking.
The spider hanging from the wall,
Does not even notice.
Perfectly at peace,
Master Spider has his web,
His dinner,
His enlightenment,
All of which are part of the
Arachnid awning and web zen garden.
Jul 23, 2010
Jul 23, 2010 at 10:52 PM UTC
Slipping through the willow curtain
Easing among the leafy overhang
Green sheltering cloak that sways
With an invitation to be my guest
I pass through, broaden my peripheral vision
Turn my cheek and my eyes lock
Pulled toward fierce or friendly
Mottled door, camouflaged grey as a stone
I swivel to listen before leather soles
Respond and move me without guard
I feel fear, uncertain to obey my instinct
Ruining the scene for the ticket holder
The choice it seems is taken from me
Though temporal, the entrance hides...it is coy
The gatehouse of resistance clangs
Its repertoire stumbles but my vision
Knows its route....the pathway falls away
And unwillingness encircles me like a bear hug
I cannot turn or go back, the door makes way
To tumbling steps gaining their advantage
Driven pathway recedes and I stalk the
Shadowy shapes that spill out to paralyse
Locking me to the wall
Solid and comforting yet stalling
The dreaded moment of choice
Invites its gangsters to dine with me
The here and now overwhelming
Its clues forlorn and disadvantaged
Rounding the dark corner of courage
I strengthen my resolve, and
Claim the light I so desire
It throws open a vivid saffron
Vibrant colour penetrates, seeping into me
I wade through this maze of superb
Splendour and I am feathered to the ground.
Book in hand … I gaze toward the.....
Willow Curtain
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 11:44 AM UTC
Five children, a sixth on the way,
the eldest around 7,
the others barely walking.
The Dad looks like a Kevin,
heavy arms bringing his shoulders down
to the top of his daughter’s head,
he feeds and is fed on
nothing but steak, pan fried and
broiled
for succulent juices to run down his shirt
uncoiling and picking up the pace
from face to stomach, a slight overhang
so his belt never sees the light.
The Mum stays quiet,
a Kate or Collette,
but she says nothing,
just stands there carrying his sixth baby
keeping it away from the narrow traffic to the side of her.
Five children, a sixth on the way,
the eldest around 7,
all waiting to start another academic year.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 9:34 AM UTC
I want to feel you one last time
Suddenly I’m at the airport in line
Off to a smaller town while you sleep big in my bed
Your toes overhang the edge
The covers are covered in juices
That I said – would clean and I did
And cobes is dead
My head races off to familiar faces
As I try to get home because tasteless
Individuals of different races
Invite me into their homes but not their lives
And I strive for meaning on and island
My eyes land
On an early arrival
Greeted by a great wait where I go out in style
And mourn the death
Of the heaven I left
In a bed while I was still worth while
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 7:06 PM UTC
My pulse quickens when I descend those stairs,
and when I reach the bottom and look to the place
where we used to lay, where you slept so many times,
I wonder if it's called a heartbeat because of the bruises
I feel forming on the inside of my ribcage
from how hard my heart thuds.
I spent nine hours awake in bed yesterday,
hungover,
or is the word overhang?
Thoughts of you looming overhead,
whether or not I'll ever kiss you again.
You see your scent has stained my clothing,
my couch, my bed,
and although it's now subtle,
I still smell it from time to time and I mostly smile.
Yet I start feeling unsettled because I know not what we are,
old friends in love?
Or should I call you my ex?
You held me last week,
for the first time in over a month,
and there were no hard feelings.
No feelings except love and confusion.
I'm confused.
You got drunk the other night and messaged me,
telling me you missed me.
I thought I'd made it obvious that I miss you too,
your fingers tracing my curves in your bed on those late winter nights,
the way your lips molded with mine,
proving that maybe I am an artist,
because never before was I part of such a beautiful piece of work.
Work, because it was not easy,
but no masterpiece is.
It's late nights of thinking, frustration,
and sometimes, no sleep at all.
It's compromise,
it's accepting the faults and moving past them,
learning to embrace them.
Though when it's finally over,
you can't help but think of how breathtaking it is.
The problem is, our canvas was massive--
we were far from filling its empty spaces.
I can't help but hope that as we are,
completely aware we love each other,
still too far in to stop loving each other now,
that maybe,
we will pick up the paintbrushes
and finish this masterpiece.
Maybe my ribs will get some rest
from the beating they've undergone,
maybe we can finally earn some repose,
together.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 2:39 PM UTC
Hot August winds
Blows across dried yellow grass.
The shimmer of heat.
Rippling off the blacktop.
At a roadside Motel.On the
South Dakota Landscape.
I see the arrival of
An Amish family all,
Dressed in Black.
Arrive dragging their
Simple bags into the room
As the door closes.
I head inside to escape the heat
The smell of sulfur.
Rises from the water faucet.
Mixed with the smell of
Bacon and Eggs frying
In an electric skillet.
I head out under the overhang.
To escape the heat and my parents.
Down the way, a boy in Black Hat
Black shirt open,
White Tee showing.
He walks over to meet me.
I show him toys I brought,
Bored in the blasting heat.
We hop across the hot blacktop.
Barefoot trying not to get burned.
Off to the park, We find
The hollowed out carcass.
Of an F-16 Fighter Jet,
We bonded as pilot and copilot
Jetting across the Badlands.
We strafed and bombed.
Enemy installations.
Cutting off troop Supplies.
We blasted the afterburners.
Breaking the sound barrier.
On a hot August afternoon.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 4:01 AM UTC
paradise's parking lot
vast field of asphalt and lampposts
empty in daylights hours...
on its most distant edge
where trees overhang and
weeds have encroached in pavement's fissures
the buick sits in shade and silence
immersed in birds song and seabreeze
she sits on the hood
her patchwork quilted hippy dress brightly shines
in soft textures and scents
beads and bracelets with bells on her ankle
she is deep beauty in soft sand
an agent of the souls better natures
her form embraces the sunlight
that escapes through the overhead canopy of leaves
it dances on her skin like liberty's celebration
like lovers entwined in
passions kiss aftermath of lonesome song
a bird lands nearby and with
loud cry speaks of the hot sand and threadbare grass
with a hot voice describes the lush life it lives
and its dreams of rivers of wind
my pen has paused
she is talking to me in such soft voice now
asking if i am hungry
we sit in the peaceful edge of paradise's parking lot
where nature has stained manmade perfections
with its vibrant life
eating the salty butter bread sipping the **** wine
and wait for my pen to find its words again
waiting for the time to pass
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 11:56 AM UTC
Ay! gloriously thou standest there,
Beautiful, boundles firmament!
That, swelling wide o'er earth and air,
And round the horizon bent,
With thy bright vault, and sapphire wall,
Dost overhang and circle all.
Far, far below thee, tall old trees
Arise, and piles built up of old,
And hills, whose ancient summits freeze
In the fierce light and cold.
The eagle soars his utmost height,
Yet far thou stretchest o'er his flight.
Thou hast thy frowns--with thee on high
The storm has made his airy seat,
Beyond that soft blue curtain lie
His stores of hail and sleet.
Thence the consuming lightnings break,
There the strong hurricanes awake.
Yet art thou prodigal of smiles--
Smiles, sweeter than thy frowns are stern:
Earth sends, from all her thousand isles,
A shout at thy return.
The glory that comes down from thee,
Bathes, in deep joy, the land and sea.
The sun, the gorgeous sun is thine,
The pomp that brings and shuts the day,
The clouds that round him change and shine,
The airs that fan his way.
Thence look the thoughtful stars, and there
The meek moon walks the silent air.
The sunny Italy may boast
The beauteous tints that flush her skies,
And lovely, round the Grecian coast,
May thy blue pillars rise.
I only know how fair they stand
Around my own beloved land.
And they are fair--a charm is theirs,
That earth, the proud green earth, has not--
With all the forms, and hues, and airs,
That haunt her sweetest spot.
We gaze upon thy calm pure sphere,
And read of Heaven's eternal year.
Oh, when, amid the throng of men,
The heart grows sick of hollow mirth,
How willingly we turn us then
Away from this cold earth,
And look into thy azure breast,
For seats of innocence and rest!
991
I saw a man once,
walking slowly.
and
once behind the plexiglass wall of a bus stop overhang
I saw an advertisement that read
BLONDE IS GOD
and the model was thin- and her skin was enhanced by zeros and ones-
and I was entranced by her.
and she was GOd
and she was made to be beautiful.
and she was made out of beautiful.
and then, on my way home I passed by the place again and her picture was gone
and instead was the image of a raven haired beauty-
***** and lustsome with bedroom eyes
and she looked at me and said,
I AM EVERYTHING
and smiled, adding bluntly,
BUY MY BODY AND DRINK MY BLOOD.
I gazed upon her airbrushed ******* and breathed,
No,
I refuse you,
BLONDE IS GOD
and bleach touch-up foam, Our Savior.
and *** is God
and the Natick Mall is my favorite place to be
and I love you.
and I am i
and barely . -
and
YOU ARE EVERYTHING
and I will always adore you.
and
everything i have ever done, becomes quantified in this, tell me how to be beautiful- tell me how to be worthless- tell me-
once, behind the plexiglass wall of a bus stop overhang
I saw an advertisement that read
BLONDE IS GOD
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 2:40 PM UTC
This is expository in nature
Hang on tight
Serenity of life
Gray skies for the choices I
Find time to make
Right up until the rain
Comes down
Real time precipitation
For the sole reason
Of flooding my soul
Charging the clouds
With negative energy
Eventuality says they'll burst
Sooner or later
And as the water flows down to the earth
Then up and over my teeth
Nearly up to my shoulders
Growing ever higher
Ever getting closer
It was all inevitability
Trying to change the sky
Is slowly ******* killing me
With every single storm
That rolls by
Its beyond me
And you too
Too soon
When will I be taken?
Who can tell
But hell, if I don't know when
When time itself never began
**** estimations, and **** plans
One way to escape
We all know the way
A darkened cave
A lonely overhang
No one dares approach for
Fear of going missing
There's so much more I wanted to say
Words and phrases before
I made my final escape
This cave I know
May be too cold
For The embolden spirits
Who hold on dearly to
Earthy merit
But know this
No one will be missed
In a minute
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 3:59 AM UTC
Please grasp me,
press me to your chest.
Hush my frenzied inhalations,
I can bear this pain no longer.
Dip your fore-finger,
across the roughed wake,
of my cheek.
Blot away the trauma.
Rest your chin
dangle its weight
my head -jeering-
screeching
little girl-
clutches her temples.
It flickers, clarifies.
Back and forth,
Rocking, in fragmented, jerking
motions- her underweight
figure slammed along.
Blood purges with each
maddened- hoarse gurgles
the spittle deposits at
the overhang of her lip.
Snagged in the animosity,
of gnawing, writhing inhumanity.
TASTE IT rusted copper
An ashing purple, crusty
and running over engorged rims
of milky cocoa.
Darling, tip out your tongue,
lap up the shrivels
of failed organs and deprived marrow.
Images, flicker.
Pulse, with the steady
throb of an aching yawn.
shift
Reality sweltering
Chilled moisture scoffs-
the nape of your neck.
Muddled, focus,
focus.
honing in
back-
and-
forth.
Rocking back and forth,
no good.
Not good enough.
No help.
Flicker
malicious snarls.
Fluctuating horror,
impales your upper thigh.
-SILENCE-
Whispering -hush-
-hush-
don't
let him hear
hush
whispers
Make it STOP
whispers
-hush hush-
help
ME
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 8:00 PM UTC