"patagonia" poems
I shake like a drooling fool,
exhale a snore
am spent as my drizzle creeps towards her ******
The loose flesh of me weighed down upon her,
but she wasn't there
She was running through fields of fresh emerald spears,
chases the wild horses of Patagonia
never catches them as she is overrun
carried away by the stallions from behind,
blooms a water lily opens and closes over and over,
Cereus opens with the touch of the Moon over and over,
feel the dust hear the waves of trampling hooves
as her face, a tense string,
shatters into an open mouthed smile and shout of,
"I am life, and you are the most blessed of creatures, here.
I am the glamor of everything.
I am Mother Earth in this moment,
screaming, fitting, wailing, quaking, coming.
Your diminishment has made this possible.
Bathe in the spinning cradle of life,
and stay still before you retreat from it."
May 1, 2011
May 1, 2011 at 7:15 AM UTC
Stars shining by the billion
There's a halo around the moon
The view is quite astounding
When I'm sitting here with you
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 5:21 AM UTC
hey there drummer boy
it’s only been a little over two years
(yet it feels like so much longer)
since we befriended and adopted you,
creating a new musical fam
and look at us now.
same church
same school,
immense musical growth
passion to worship,
new adventures
all year long,
smiles and waves
that remind me of
deeper friendships
that will stand the test of time.
although sometimes i tease and laugh
(and i sincerely mean no offense),
see it’s really because i care
and whether you like it or not,
you’re like the twin brother i never had
but secretly always wanted.
one of my favorite drummers
i easily follow your lead
you are reliable.
one of my closest friends
i never have to worry
you accept me for who i am.
whether it’s the denim shirts and hipster boots
or patagonia tees and baseball caps,
when life gets crazy once again
don’t forget that i’m always here;
i got yo back brotha.
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 1:02 AM UTC
and he does not think it strange,
watching two hours of the hottest hip hop,
in freezing cold surround sound air,
returns home to a medium warm bath,
where the drink served, icy cold vitamin water,
liquefying the mournful, dismal~gloomy,
lugubrious poems of lost love he finds
under his hello poetry pillow,
that gives no one relief,
neither to the writer or the victimizer
and he does not think it strange
reads strange takes n' poem tales from Avenida Paulista,
but his body dances to an Argentine milongia melancholia,
a contrast and a contest,
his heart asks where is Patagonia,
as the Arctic Vortex melts into the bath water
and he does not think it strange
for he know, he knows that this makes little sense,
but perfect sense to the poet-man,
try to see it his way,
there is a fussing and fighting inside,
that cannot be worked out
and he does not think it strange
but this be the funk groove of his extra
ordinary life wherein his body and heart,
and hundreds more,
can be held aloft
on a single wrist with fluid ease,
if allowed
and he does not think it strange
when he says,
aside aside fellow dancer,
and he does not think it strange,
he wants you to understand
for that, you must be
be beside beside, fellow dancer
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 11:34 PM UTC
The Dog
I found him, outside the basketball court
Sunday morning.
His golden coat seemed soft like
A Patagonia in dead winter, like
a blanket over your legs when the summer breeze hits.
I found him outside the basketball court
Sunday morning,
He came up to me with curious eyes; like
A child in a candy store, like
Detectives, always curious, like
staring at the phone waiting for your mother to reply
Curious.
I found him outside the basketball court
Sunday morning,
His gold tail hiding between his legs, ears perked like
when the caffeine finally kicks in, like
recognizing your best friend in the hallway, like
the addition of red roses to a bouquet, like
her ******* when the water is cold
I found him outside the basketball court
Sunday morning,
His fur was matted, his body emaciated like
The body of an anorexic, like
A child rotting from leukemia,
No longer soft, like a Patagonia.
So I covered him with a blanket,
His eyes fearful, not curious but wet
Like his nose hitting my arm, like
Carrying him in my arms, soft
Even in chilly November;
light as a feather.
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 9:55 PM UTC
i want to sit in
Buenos Aires
drink coffee
till i am as wired
as the skyline
at midnight
i never sleep anyway
i want to kiss strangers
fake-ly
like they were my friends
i lost somewhere
but recently found
i need new friends
i want to tango
with a white Patagonia
rose
clenched in my teeth
while my clenched *******
rise and fall
to the beat of the waves
in my water bra
i never had lessons anyway
i want Argentina
full of faux marble
dance hall floors,
scuffed shoes, burned beans
and fish markets full of thorny
roses
i need to feel full
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 7:40 PM UTC
catatonic patagonia rumbles off beyond the tilt in world spheres unknown unproven
a wasteland
not there, here but who wastes land decides where the waste lands as mist obscures trees like it knows its aesthetic knows the beating heart the focused eye rolling forming subversive lands and wanderings unmasked only by forward march and direct sunlight move like mist feel the fog crawl up rock faces and empty spaces foot calf hamstring submerged in secrecy
shoot bearings lose bearings shoot bearings lost bearings the bering strait rushes further than the south andes get strait to the point the peak the top unfolding dips and precipices, teetering on the edge of identity can't see can't see where what
but the fog relents revealing a why that sits a while then crumbles like a letter left in the laundry or the will to lift both feet from this earth
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 6:33 PM UTC
Patagonia Free my mind
gazing through the sun
we having nothing but the time
what is free
you can't happen to believe
what you can perceive
high up in those trees
Patagonia free my mind
gazing through the sun
we have nothing but the time
set me free
I am just a simple thing
wondering this world
I believe it to be a dream
It was a simple decision
and I was lonely that day
just my disposition
led me to enjoyment
and a moment of cognition
a thought
I believe it to be dormant
sitting in that broken diner
simplicity was on my shoulder
unlike those insecure and brainless lonely
shareholders
i'm not looking for the finer
materials
I just seek a little water
dying of thirst
I am in need of what I can't find
these distractions bring the worst
humanity you'll never come first
Patagonia Free my mind
gazing through the sun
we having nothing but the time
what is free
you can't happen to believe
what you can perceive
high up in those trees
Patagonia free my mind
gazing through the sun
we have nothing but the time
set me free
I am just a simple thing
wondering this world
I believe it to be a dream
There comes a moment
in every beings life
add the sun
of every component
some may be frozen
while others they are broken
like the lost poet
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 12:55 PM UTC
you are so lovely in your wicked ways
you are heavy
i can feel it, so can the room
everyone is waiting for that pause
the one you find yourself existing in
you are so lovely in your wicked ways
finding the quirks
the imbalanced romanticism in their dialect
'yeah, i’m a southern boy'
the kind you swore you’d stay away from
you spent too many nights with knights at rogue water
underage but over your limit
oh boy, that patagonia
slinging country song quarters into the jukebox
take me home!
you are so lovely, even in your wicked ways
do you like country music?
he turns left for the freeway
do you know how to drive stick shift?
you are so lovely, even in your wicked ways
i didn’t fold her laundry
she left my XXL t-shirts without wrinkles
pink, without wrinkles
you are so lovely in your wicked ways
he mixes a couple of drinks for you
reaches to grab your hand from across the bar
seared by the tea-light candle
i waltzed out of that bar like i had him
he is small and beautiful with a temper
i could love him all while hating him
i’m just a gal whose nose bled
after falling into his bed (more than once)
more than once
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 12:13 AM UTC
Two world travelers, one small town
Unfinished people, unfinished house
More thoughts in my head than I should probably say out loud
Sitting there at your kitchen table
Writing backstories for all your neighbors
Talking about the things that we want to be famous for
Funny how I barely know ya
Sitting there in your Patagonia
Envisioning a world with the both of us
Nov 15, 2020
Nov 15, 2020 at 4:46 PM UTC
Be careful who you tell empty promises too.
I'm afraid I've heard one to many from you
and from him and from him before that.
These lost words of living up to your word
decay
day by day.
Hit me up if you'd like, but don't tell me you will
when you know you won't.
I'd love to love you, I'd love to hold your hand.
Thats a promise I'd love to keep,
if you'd ever let me.
I just wanted a friend. I just wanted to spend some time with you.
So, Mr. Starbux-Colorado-Patagonia man,
I'd love to live up to my promises
if you'd ever live up to yours.
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 7:30 PM UTC
Frost is longing
I longed for the thaw as soon as I saw
icy blue eyes and a navy Patagonia
reflected up from a small square of light.
Longing to see you in person
but settling for bantered texts
and drunken FaceTimes
Longing to reach across the copper table,
clasp your neck,
and pull you into candlelight
Longing to collapse twelve days into one
so we can stop rehearsing
and begin.
Frost is two roads not yet contemplated.
We have barely set out.
There will be many chances to diverge,
Each one a "what could have been."
For now there is only one reality -
A fantasy of who I want you to be.
Whatever we will be,
we will never be that.
Frost is nipping at my nose
With teeth like wintergreen chiclets.
Seduced by the smell of roasted chestnuts,
I am always disappointed by the taste
Yet, ever optimistic,
I try one again.
And each time it comes closer
To making fantasy real.
Frost is on the window.
Scratch with your finger to try and see through.
Delight in how it rolls under your nails before it melts.
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 1:18 PM UTC
I once met a man,
with a remarkably even brow,
who promised me we’d dance naked on the ice caps of Patagonia.
He swore it like I was the torch that lit fire to his blood;
swore it like he could already feel the earth beneath us melting away.
He called to me, “Kendra”,
and ate all the letters as they slid over his tongue.
I believed him only for the way his mouth moved.
I followed.
I poured myself into the stream of his praises, poured my breath onto his hungry tongue,
I poured, and poured, and drained myself empty.
I awoke alone
to my first crystal splintering: the crisp and brutal dawning
that most full nights will waken to empty mornings.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 11:52 PM UTC
We woke one morn
To the song of storms
And the iron grip of fever.
Torn between the call of war
Fleeting dreams of Patagonia.
The afterglow of horror shows
Shadows left upon the mountain.
Nightmares rise from water falls
Sanguine spectres in the fountain.
Preachers drink long, far, and deep
While prophets speak of profits reaped
And treasures yet to be found.
Among andean condor calls
Those who seek live weak to greed
Forever bound enthralled.
Jan 3, 2024
Jan 3, 2024 at 12:41 PM UTC
North I go
to deeper cold and longer night,
once I was certain but I lost hope.
East is better?
The dawn in my eyes does blind me,
who now knows the way?
South to Patagonia
sheep and trees riled by the wind,
then to rocks crouched in the cold sea.
West where the sun rules the late hours
and we on tiptoe stretch high
to postpone the losing of the light.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 1:56 PM UTC
Han contado el oro que tiene
el territorio del maíz?
Sabes que es verde la neblina
a mediodía, en Patagonia?
Quién canta en el fondo del agua
en la laguna abandonada?
De qué ríe la sandía
cuando la están asesinando?
560
at best, tonight ends in rest-filled sleep with possibilities
of an old lover probably taken for granted
at worst, well, it can always get worse
no use dwelling on such things
those scenarios receive more than their fair share
quick one at the ale-house
heart open this january evening
dimly lit by coal-fueled electrical responses
illuminating habitual relapses of overconfident tones
and dishonest scared shitless eyes
clothed in the modern pigmented
grey and black dyed organic Patagonia cotton
everyone wearing grey and black?
even the messenger bags?
caps beanies glasses hair-clips
holding nothing against
fearless beauty loses the modern-cliched surroundings to be validated by none other than the undercurrent of the entire universe
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 11:48 PM UTC
Del mar hacia las calles corre la vaga niebla
como el vapor de un buey enterrado en el frío,
y largas lenguas de agua se acumulan cubriendo
el mes que a nuestras vidas prometió ser celeste.
Adelantado otoño, panal silbante de hojas,
cuando sobre los pueblos palpita tu estandarte
cantan mujeres locas despidiendo a los ríos,
los caballos relinchan hacia la Patagonia.
Hay una enredadera vespertina en tu rostro
que crece silenciosa por el amor llevada
hasta las herraduras crepitantes del cielo.
Me inclino sobre el fuego de tu cuerpo nocturno
y no sólo tus senos amo sino el otoño
que esparce por la niebla su sangre ultramarina.
501
i’m falling for the little things about you
like the freckle on your right ear
or the way you fiddle with the emergency brake when there’s nothing to talk about.
i like the way you turn completely sideways in your seat to tell a story,
daring me to maintain eye contact from the passenger side.
i like the hat with your dad’s company’s name on it
and your patagonia pullover that you always wear.
i like that you bring a cup of coffee to school everyday
but make fun of me for drinking tea out of fancy teacups;
it seems as if i could like every little thing about you...
Mar 10, 2019
Mar 10, 2019 at 12:59 PM UTC