"perching" poems
notice the convulsed orange inch of moon
perching on this silver minute of evening.
We’ll choose the way to the forest—no offense
to you,white town whose spires softly dare.
Will take the houseless wisping rune
of road lazily carved on sharpening air.
Fields lying miraculous in violent silence
fill with microscopic whithering
…(that’s the Black People, chérie,
who live under stones.) Don’t be afraid
and we will pass the simple ugliness
of exact tombs,where a large road crosses
and all the people are minutely dead.
Then you will slowly kiss me
51.7k
My elbow pops
Like the way the word
Snap dragon sounds
My freckles aren't constellations
They're reminders that I am not
Dark and ancient
Like my ******* father
My hair
FRIZZY
Like a pumpkin on fire
Voice
So sweet it makes me sick
And now all my teeth have fallen out
My throat swollen
A cave with an avalanche stuck inside
Dead bats
And stalactites like toothpicks
I don't need
Nails
Like tree bark
Hollow in all the right places
Scars
Like a record
Of the way I hurt myself
Put it on Repeat
Till it scratches
Cheeks like high school
Like humiliation
With four eyes perching
Not lucky clovers
And eyes glued on
With one glued on wrong
And knees that I'm constantly falling down on
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 12:58 AM UTC
Sentient twas breeze on nights chilled whispers,
In the magic of moon and darkness,
A slip of silver cast her wing tips,
I watched told by those, whom lay with stars,
Athena billows near perching oak and tree,
Harbinger of spring hungry yet not starved,
Deceive thee, ah tis bane silent thoughts to hear,
Into the darkness of souls inspiration dances near,
Teach I shall be done by voice fire and silent air,
Listening to subtleties, I carry the hidden,
Many see my repose,
Malevolent mine eyes I can tear,
Standing near thy window I Athena
── Am owl peering near
© ASPAR (Arnay Rumens) 2014
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 11:28 AM UTC
How long the day,
Delivering letters to friends,
And cranky, bald dog feeders. Home
Is forward, past those poplars.
Always I’ve been in love with
Their almond scent, just as I catch
Past, dragging feet and who knows
How many heartfelt "Thank-you's".
Home is... where the wife is sitting.
She's not keen on laundry, but,
I’m an exception.
Always are my blue shirts blue,
She likes to make sure. Just in case I meet
With him; that carrion shaker,
Mr. Reaper.
“Hello.” I'd say, and tip my cap,
Along my silent nightly rounds;
Perhaps he'd humour me, if he could
See me. He's searching. For me? No.
That’s not right.
The lamps are thickest
In the dark, and that's just how
he likes it.
Even if I tip-toe, tip-toe, tip-toe around
Him, he'll still turn his hood toward me.
A courteous, creaking greeting.
That chill I get.
Matches only the fear
From losing fingers, as I push envelopes,
Catalogues, and restless dreams
Through many metal slats.
But even I, can't quite see,
When the sky turns milky-grey...
That perching, questioning hand
Placed gently on my shoulder;
Pushing down as I bend my back,
Kicking over milk-bottles, sometimes
accidentally. I shake it off.
Get to bed! I say to myself, mostly
Always, to myself.
Slap on some cream
And
Get to bed.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 5:56 AM UTC
Look, you have now broken your back bone
Because of climbing tall trees and high balconies
To spy on your wife as she roves the village,
You climbed a Tall baobab tree up to the apex
To play sentry and spy on your wife
When she went down the river to fetch some water
For you to bathe and wash your jealousy body
And when she met her brother-in –law;
The man from another village across the river
Who greeted her with a prolonged hug
Embracing your wife in his strong arms
They way a giant can do to a beauty model,
Feat of goofy jealous gripped you
And you forgot that you were perching in high danger
At the top of the baobab tree, you left yourself unsupported
As all selfish men can in feats of irrationality
Coming down like a sack of wet sand
Falling in a thud, breaking your poor backbone!
Dude; be warned from spying on your wife.
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 3:25 PM UTC
Pots, coiled ropes, orange, blue
Laid, at the harbor side, waiting
Waiting, for the tide,
An old fishing net, laid on the concrete,
A weathered sunburnt fisherman,
Sitting quietly repairing holes within holes
Birds perching patiently on the harbor wall,
Waiting
In the distance the sun dips towards the horizon
Casting a light over a returning trawler
The birds lift lethargically from
Harbour perch, beat their wings , wheel
Towards an incoming meal ticket
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 6:12 PM UTC
That time of drought the embered air
burned to the roots of timber and grass.
The crackling lime-scrub would not bear
and Mooni Creek was sand that year.
The dingo's cry was strange to hear.
I heard the dingoes cry
in the scrub on the Thirty-mile Dry.
I saw the wedgetail take his fill
perching on the seething skull.
I saw the eel wither where he curled
in the last blood-drop of a spent world.
I heard the bone whisper in the hide
of the big red horse that lay where he died.
Prop that horse up, make him stand,
hoofs turned down in the bitter sand
make him stand at the gate of the Thirty-mile Dry.
Turn this way and you will die-
and strange and loud was the dingoes' cry.
4.4k
Part I
The house is as haunted as its name,
The house really isn’t the same!
The people in it are dead and gone,
The trees and bushes are not cut;
There is a graveyard past the woodshed hut.
The graveyard is covered with leaves and moss,
Leaves that the wind has tossed,
To be tossed again no more;
One day like them in the sky I’ll soar;
Only to be known as them no more.
The rain is streaming down,
And there they are lying safe and sound,
While the rain beside them pours all around.
Low! A car pulls up to the house,
Yet there they are still lying as quiet as a mouse,
The lightning flashes and hits the ground;
With a loud and bellowing sound;
Yet the still it do not hear;
Even though it is loud and clear.
Why can’t you it hear?
Don’t you know its loud and clear?
We are the dead do you expect us to hear,
The things that to you sound loud and clear?
We are the dead and you are alive and you can hear things we can’t,
Don’t you know you’re waking the dead? Go away you little scant.
The rain is coming down in torrents,
Yet there they are lying dormant;
I thought this house would look better in Spring,
But no, not even when the birds begin to sing.
Part II
There is darkness everywhere,
There is lightning in the air;
There the lady ghost sits in her chair,
Look at the car sitting by the house over there.
The skeleton in the locked trunk,
By now hath stunk,
Until he could stink no more. . .
In that trunk sitting by the attic door.
Is he the dead that must be respected like the others,
Fathers, daughters, husbands, wives, and Mothers?
Must we be so quiet as a mouse,
That we aren’t heard in that dark old house?
Must we so soon go away?
And never again here we stay?
There is an air of creepiness about the place,
And they that are buried there do not run the humane race.
They were cold ever since that night,
When their family saw and told the sight.
Yet they so alive alive seem,
To me it is but a dream,
While I sit beside the clogged up stream
This place is haunted, I could scream!
Yet I keep it all in,
I can hear that dead old hen,
Still clucking her evening song,
Almost all the night long.
And while she’s dead I know she’s not,
It was her I loved a lot!
The big old rooster isn’t here though to scare her anymore,
Perching up on his perch behind the door,
He was a Rode Island Red,
And he isn’t here because the butcher cut his head
"I am so sorry," now I said.
*** _________Marian_________***
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 5:59 PM UTC
*This is a poem I wrote looking out my window this same evening in autumn I think I was just feeling a little lonely..
Life, it passes by outside the cold chained window
As I stare out into the light, out of my lonely dark corner
My eyes burn a little, I don’t mind though, I’m used to the pain life brings me
It has grown to a dull itch rather then a perching pain
It has been made null and done in by the pain my heart brings me
For the love of my life, the one who lied about his feelings,
He, he has ripped it out of my chest, painfully and slowly
Taking his time and plotting each and every single step he shall take
To make me suffer more then I should
I see a copal, and how cute they look together
But then I look into her hims’ eyes and see, I see what I saw in my hims’ eyes
I shan't worn her for tiz her own petty fault as was my own when my "incident" happened
I’m not mad at him, I’m sure he couldn’t help it, it’s just one of those unfortunate inconveniences
I hope it was anyway, even so I’m not mad, it was my own fault
So as happy life goes on outside my cold chained window
I watch and wait to see all the unsuspecting victims who will end up like me
But they’re different, they think they’ll have someone to blame*
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 4:08 PM UTC
DRIVING A FERRARI INTO THE FUTURE
the house floated out of the darkness
as if it had been flying about in the fog
before perching on the mountain's side
the house was embarrassed
to be seen
in its ruin
this was the somewhere
she had come from
it now no longer existed
she felt that she too
no longer existed
an equation erased on a blackboard
she became naked
wearing only the lake
and moonlight
water flowed over her
like a silken garment
she the empress of this nowhere
only when she stood dripping
on the edge of this nothingness
did she feel the cold and shiver
the stars were like an atlas
of themselves...the Milky Way
reaching over a hedge...lapping the lake
time fell all about her
like a sudden rain
the seen and un-seen together
she drove her Ferrari into the future
leaving behind forever
the girl she once had been
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 10:53 PM UTC
Date someone who walks into a storm.
they may be pour at weathering it,
shoes soaked, shirts clinging to collar bones
jeans suctioned onto hips
But they'll make it through.
Date a person who gets caught in the rain.
They may not expect it,
but they can handle a surprise.
Love a person who isn't intimidated by thunder.
They know how to wait it out,
the heavy air will subside in the end.
Love a person who has experienced hail,
They may be bruised by it,
but they laugh at the ice pellets perching on their fingertips.
Marry someone who walks into the storm.
They like the excitement,
but they know when to come home.
Mary someone who walks into the storm,
They'll thrive in the abandoned streets,
walking barefoot through the puddles,
dancing to the beat of your heart.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 7:25 PM UTC
He whispers their name like a prayer,
says it carefully, beautifully as if it were the names of the goddesses.
He bathes them in praise
but is drowning them in holy water.
Repeating their sacred name
over and over and over,
blessed so that he can say he’s become enlightened
once he’s received the holy communion of their body
on his lips.
He’ll call them royals.
Dressed in purple
lifting them to their highest class,
placing them on a pedestal
sitting them, perching them delicately
on the throne held up by their womanly duties,
their feminine expectations.
He’ll call them his queens but in the end
he will commit treason against their realm.
Suddenly they’ll become a witch,
a hypnotist.
He says they enchant him.
Trance him with how they dress, move, breathe.
He’ll create signs of black magic in their eyes,
rituals in their steps,
and chants on their tongue.
Blaming his actions on theirs,
“they made me” he says
so he’ll have an excuse to curse them back.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 7:26 PM UTC
The world was stunned as the a Dark One fell,
His legacy blooming like a black-petaled rose.
The thorns pierced through the eyes of man,
And the Devil cried with me.
He showed the frozen skin of morals--
With gaping pride and ******* strength--
Adorned and caressed by machinery.
And the Devil cried with me.
There was babies in the barrel,
And an alter upon the horns.
******** cries far-and-wide.
And the Devil cried with me.
Harmonics perching on twisted limbs,
And darkness bursting from our chests,
Our greatest nightmares echo His sinister sight...
And the Devil cries with us.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 3:45 AM UTC
scuttling across the valley,
the trench was deep and steep
scorching heat of the dry sun,
dried blemishes on the weathered skin.
Settling along the rocky facades,
hackneyed by the haunting past.
Sleepless nights of the perching predators,
Hibernating in aloof worlds .
Stymied by the wind in the barren land ,
Harnessed by the futile fears.
Simone Melchoir of the sinking ship ,
would not you go down with the fault.
Shunning away from natures affection ,
for every rose does share its thorn .
Sunny ends are reached ,
when the raging ravines fade away.
Slithering away the swirling serpent ,
The sun lurks in the brewing storm .
Sanctity of the witheld winds ,
sapping away the deathly darkness.
Serene air of the seraphic angel,
brought the plighting dreams to the refugees repose
Smelting ores and melting poles,
brimming with brightness the cradled cirque .
Summons of the exalted virtue ,
To burn the lizard and fly away like the phoenix
Succumbing to the wilderness,
to soaring heights and rising spirits .
Swanking in the soothing winds,
the phoenix looked down on the plundering valley.
Scorning at the downtrodden spirits,
The fraternity of the Desert lizard
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 1:23 AM UTC
I am perching
I am searching
Sitting still
My mind filled
With the vigilance
Of a militant
Looking to invade
By throwing grenades
And committing atrocities
At a high velocity
Yet I'm made to lay and wait
My love feels like hate
Stuck in this crate
It's getting late
My feral fate
Makes me shake
Like the love intake
That makes me break
When you're raising the stakes
I see your fin in the water
Moving in for the slaughter
Acting like a shark
You go dark
Like a silent submarine
You float near the bottom
Your gun is submachine
That's how you caught them
Now it's my turn
For a bullet burn
Treat me like a ***** distractor
You're a fractured compactor
Leaving me partially intact
But most of me I lack
After your attack
I should thank you for taking out the trash
But I could've done without the clash
Because now I'm just a pile of ash
Stuck in a bird cage
At an increased age
If I become a phoenix and rise
It'll be an imprisoned surprise
I thought I had prepared
Yet now I need repairs
When it's my love I share
And it's casually broken
To be used as a token
You must be joking
There's no way I could've ever prepared
For the fact that no one ever cared
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 5:14 AM UTC
A lone dewdrop from heaven falling down and down, no idea where it shall land-
Would it be the beak of a bird, quenching its overnight thirst, diminishing itself for salvation?
Would it be on a red rose, waiting to be plucked by a lover for his love, wiped by the lovely hands?
Would it be the blade of a grass, perching atop, paving way to the eternal slide down to non-existence?
Would it be the stinky gutters, where a war rages: purity against the filth, a lone drop against the gust?
Would it be on the web of a spider, when an endless wait begins, incineration by the cruel sun?
Jan 28, 2011
Jan 28, 2011 at 6:51 AM UTC
It was the boys’ bath night
and you had bathed
and were drying yourself
with the white towel
they had given you
when the bathroom door flew open
and Anne stood there one-legged
in her pink flowered nightdress
perching on her crutches like a hawk
her eyes bright and dark
a smile lingering on her lips
well ****** me
she said
what a sight
for a girl’s lovesick eyes
and she entered the bathroom
and pushed the door shut
behind her with her bottom
almost uncrutching herself
in the process
you pulled the towel
tight around you
and stared at her
it’s the boys’ bath night
you muttered
girls aren’t allowed in
while boys bath
she moved over
to the mirror
and gazed at herself
you’re right
she said
I’m not a boy
I’m a tight titted girl
and she laughed
and crutched herself
over towards you
making you flatten yourself
against the wall
gripping the towel with one hand
and holding her back
with the other
and she leaned down
and kiss the back of your hand
then looked you deep in the eyes
what have you got hidden
behind that towelling skirt then?
she said
and you gripped the towel tighter
with both hands
and she menacingly moved
one hand cautiously towards the towel
her armpits gripping
the crutches tightly
as she moved
you shouldn’t be in here
you said
I’m not in there yet
she laughed and grabbed
the towel away with a force
that took her and the towel
toppling to the bathroom floor
where she lay
like an overturned beetle
you stood naked
your hands covering
what your father
called your toolbox
gazing down at her struggling
to get up
well don’t just stand there
like a prize parrot
help pick me up
she said
and so with one hand covering
you knelt down to help lift her up
but then she pulled you
down beside her
and laughed
and her laughter echoed
around the walls
but then she paused
and put a hand
over her mouth
hearing Sister Bridget’s
nearby footsteps
and noisy calls.
Mar 15, 2012
Mar 15, 2012 at 3:16 AM UTC
A parade of leaves dancing within the willow,
Draping branches dangling in the breeze.
Chattering sparrows
Laughing with the hint of rain.
Rumbles of thunder humming
A loud whisper.
A growing whisper
Takes shelter within the willow,
Quietly humming
A song for leaves in the breeze,
Droplets of rain
Shower the chuckling sparrows.
Feathers of the sparrows,
Drift away, soft as a whisper.
Sprinkling rain
Gets lost within the branching willow,
The feathers play hide and seek in the breeze,
And the thunder continues humming.
The thunder is still humming,
While the feathers of the sparrows
Float in the breeze,
And storm clouds whisper
A strong kiss of wind through the willow,
Allowing a canopy of rain.
The creek floods with rain,
While the rumbling remains humming,
Dancing willow,
The sky imprisons the sparrows
The lightning sings a whisper,
Disguised as a breeze.
The fall leaves stir up in the breeze
Drenched in fresh rain,
Rainbows whisper
Over the thunder’s loud humming,
The return of the laughing sparrows
As they perch within the willow.
The humming of thunder in the distance, the whisper of lightning,
The after smell of rain, lingering in the breeze
The buzzing of sparrows, perching within the willow.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 9:53 PM UTC
MEMORIES OF SAND
I gave up sweeping that year
Like a penance
As sand permeated
Everything in my condo
Clung to my scalp and feet
Blew in with the fog and landed
In my tub, between my sheets, the sink, the carpet
Gritted between my teeth in the early hours
When i would reach for her still
Before the memory would detonate around me that she didn't come.
I would follow you anywhere.
Morphed into
I can't.
I hate those dagger give-up words.
Unlike the sand
I reviled in coaxing the beach closer still
And sand blurred the boundaries of my life
Inside. Outside.
Past. Present.
Old. New.
I could pull the blanket of crashing waves around me in hypnotizing hues
Breathe in the turquoise or gray or navy blue
Of the mecurial moods of the sea.
Each morning ritual of coffee and perching 8 foot tall on the sea wall studying the swells and tides
I could palpate the energy of my spirit rising around the waves
Curling and mixing as
Aqua-purple-red dragonflies hovered at my veranda hibiscus that murmers truths
I do no want to hear.
And in all that aloneness settled a great quiet still emptiness.
Because I couldn't cry I'd go diving in the persistent waves of salt and kelp.
The cold violated my eardrums and for a moment I'd go spinning-disoriented and weightless-suspended
Surrender without air as the Pacific held me buyouant
Only surfacing to breathe like a Baptism. I was ok being alone.
And sometimes I wasn't.
As the sand exfoliated my old self I'd grasp hold of the new wonders of phosphorescent tide under a harvest moon
And the fading memory of her would rise like a helium balloon I held down for 2 hrs and 4 weeks at Surfers Point in Ventura
Then let her go into the abyss of acceptance
Like granting permission to the invading sand
Gathering like whispers
In disappearing corners of her absence
And leaned into the redefinition of myself:
Barefoot. Sandy. Expectant.
The memory of sand.
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 2:19 PM UTC
In the jungle, green and lush,
a familiar cry breaks the hush,
A sound,
Of foot falls that trample dry leaves,
Low figures strutting amongst the trees.
Then a feral cat on the prowl, for a meal,
shadowed, perched looking for a life to steal,
listens, looks, waits without a sound,
closer...closer...measuring the distance in a bound.
And it had been so long since she had hunted,
had a good feed, at the memory she grunted,
the flurry of feathers and a beak, in her face,
caused
her to recoil, reeling backwards in disgrace.
The rooster stepped to where she had been,
perching crowed loudly and just looked mean,
A speckled hen emerged, from the shrubbery
clucking with timidity,
the orphan cat skulked away in the humidity.
The rooster with white wings, black back, red comb topped head,
crowed loudly again, the rooster announced, their rights instead,
they would rather chase on foot and protect their hens,
as they are the wild chickens of Maui, without coops or pens!!
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 12:11 AM UTC
As I wait, I see on an uncomfortably high stool
the grandmother perching opposite
the comfortably bored teenager
replete in his distressed Ramones tee shirt
and ripped white jeans.
She holds her black coffee with both hands, while he plays
with the long spoon in his tall glass of hot chocolate,
her eyes focused on the top of his head,
his engrossed in the puddle of brown milk around his saucer.
Below the music, she pleads for a friendship that he
shows no interest in until she reaches into her bag
and emerges with perhaps something that he’s been waiting for –
And beyond the counter, shielded by formica, the percolators and stacked cups, the apprentice barista drops his tray and from the back two men in ill-fitting suits give a half-hearted cheer, while his boss withholds her anger in front of the paying customers, but judging by her face she would gladly take her protégé by his stained apron and string him up – I think this isn’t the first time she’s taken the cost of breakages out of his salary.
And I’ve missed what it is grandma has presented to her grandson
– all I can see is a suggestion of his fingers playing with silver,
a ring perhaps? The hot chocolate is pushed aside and his shoulders straighten.
She still looks uncertain, and the seconds drag until his face seems to soften.
He looks up and mouths what might be a thank you.
And he doesn’t withdraw his hand when she covers it with her own.
Jun 19, 2022
Jun 19, 2022 at 3:33 PM UTC
The swan perched its calm head
Above the dewy pond
To show it was there
The other swan fluttered
It’s wings wider
And the sun gazed on her
The perching swan sighed
The other swan sung
It’s enticing song
And the perched swan
Swam away with the widest of wings
The most beautiful voice
But
No one saw her until the other swan
Went away
And the dewy pond cleared up
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 11:24 PM UTC
My face blue
I race through
A misplaced zoo
Where disgrace grew
Into a mistake stew
Like the River Styx
Where people mix
Into a wall of bricks
That makes me sick
They steal my serenity
But when I look ahead of me
I see that I'll need them
To experience freedom
So I amass suitors
But I don't see them as sons or daughters
I see them as polluters
I see them as pirates and marauders
They see love as a doorway
To their own complacency
In order to see me more days
They take away my agency
Instead of aiding me
They start grading me
No longer elating me
They start deflating me
I shoot a missile
Of dismissal
Into the barricade
Of the bed I made
And keep sailing on
By flailing on
The floor
Begging for more
More people
More walls
Another sequel
Another fall
I have erected a maze
Where I've elected to graze
Deflecting their gaze
To enjoy wandering days
I experience happiness
Without their craftiness
But I begin to get lonely
My mouth starts foaming
I search to find ramparts
That can't part
Where landsharks
Eat the parked
Stuck searching
Perpetually perching
On the ledge
Of the wedge
Between myself and others
Looking for cover
I built protective walls
That became too tall
Jun 21, 2018
Jun 21, 2018 at 1:45 AM UTC
)
~
(
~
It comes anytime,
like a blowing breeze,
tenderly caressing,
but.....invading;
it creeps in, and
softens the toughened,
this breeze of fragility
makes ****** tissues
indispensable.
some days,
a *playful little girl
steers a paper boat
on a big basin of water,*
plays with dogs...watching
spiders weaving webs, perching
birds and butterflies, pretending
they are dwarf friends...while
munching a red, crisp apple, like
snow white.....playful, sleepy,
and.....forgiving.
on an undaunted mood,
wonder woman determinedly
crosses her gauntlet-wrapped
forearms...to protect loved ones
and in so doing, makes possible
the impossible,
come hell or high water
some days, a blend of all three
occurs, but, the child and the brave,
try to rule over the fragile...me,
every day.....is an adventure...
Sally
©Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
August 26, 2020
Sep 7, 2020
Sep 7, 2020 at 9:49 PM UTC
i meander at the
depths of rock bottom stumbling
upon newfound grace and
gratitude.
the spiking stone all around
is dull to the eyes but makes
the ever-blue sky
come alive.
when i reach up to
touch it, i know that
i am too small to caress
those faint cotton candy
wisps.
but in my dreams,
i greet the sunrise by
perching on the shoulders
of those who dare to rise
above.
Apr 21, 2024
Apr 21, 2024 at 4:06 PM UTC