"pickers" poems
there’s a barnacle scar
deeply ingrained
on the basalt stack
at mark thirty two
whispering summer winds
scented oil
cotton and roe
drift
as waves brush
and shape
the sandstone shore
the briny air
and lost erratic
set a tone to this
pollyanna portrait
it's andrews undulations
and gifted benches
its concessions
and traces of the barry burn
its sculpted driftwood
and sanko lines
make this picture
almost perfect
children play
as venom spews
from the caterwaul pair
those odd looking mates
casting smiles
with arrested despair
settling shots
swiping bugs
dipping and darting
as photo men
and muscles
and long neck seabirds
make their turn
the hunched hoody
and his sorted sidekick
get their fill
(of moss and rubble ~ chubby and kelp)
nice to meet your acquaintance
the pho man would say
an odd drop
and ironic turn
from those horrific corners
of timeless desperation
down by cannon bridge
harbor seals
and carriage horse
are fronted by
raven shade
jolly tides pause
in quiet bays
(with curious looters
and *** pickers)
sand merchants
and field totems
all streamed by the light
cirrus strands
blanket the
outer edge
hovering craft
and shimmering willows
bolt the evening frame
blood orange
and tethered
with a filtered glare
bottle-nose dolphins
and seabirds
(and shifting tides)
are all settling in
for the long night stay
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 11:21 PM UTC
if I suffer at this
typewriter
think how I'd feel
among the lettuce-
pickers of Salinas?
I think of the men
I've known in
factories
with no way to
get out-
choking while living
choking while laughing
at Bob Hope or Lucille
Ball while
2 or 3 children beat
tennis ***** against
the wall.
some suicides are never
recorded.
17.1k
her rigorous objections
are herded slowly down the sheep trail
by studious pencil thin men with stylish mustache's
who have deep pocket pickers for friends
they gather round the weak willed and the willing alike
looking for cheap thrills and spare change
everybody needs a new road
when the old one seems to never end
but she with eyes cast down
mumbles her unappeased desires
as she shuffles a little closer to the truth as she sees it
she has it all written out in secret languages
she has books filled with life's coded thoughts as she see's them
barn burners and dare devils grace the cover of her latest creation
self titled to her own romantic name
she is stylized in her own way
so she adores the pencil thin men
with their dashing devil may care good looks
i wrote her a letter yesterday
full of stories from the great highway
full of chipper go getters and the glum go gotten
she is a forever stone on a necklace
she is a moonstone on a bracelet
she is graceful when it counts and
thats more than enough for me
the pencil thin moustache men
come to conquer the all night diners
in the small shoreline towns
but slink away in dawns first light
with stolen smiles and borrowed kisses
that they promise profusely to return tomorrow
but never do
such is the romantic night by her side
such is the wonder-wheel days of our
journey on the great highway
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
the rat ******* has been re-purposed
(conscripted in a somewhat fodder task)
brandishing irons
and quarter lines
coiled and unwavering
insidious and cunning
pent up and fired
in his dripping shoes
and peel back skin
wheel bug and hookworm
are stolid in his wake
(all bursting grossly at the buckle!)
the heel on task;
slithering and rogue
merciless and coy
resolute and contemptuous
with his cotton mat
and quick ready quill
pungi and clapper
raise the clever snake
(croker sacks and wicker backs
dot the gasoline rainbow)
carnival barkers and kraken
(lewd in the distance)
taunting and vile
with their red beakers
and deep purple hearts
cicada and louse
high on alert
(ready to wreak havoc in the hog wallows)
the perverse cornered rat
snapping and soiled
foaming and inflamed
lurking and primed
inside his carefully crafted plan
easels and cover alls
suit this jackal well
(keefer’s little helper or so they'd say)
pickers running rough shod
all stirring up the stench
***** and conkeys
poised
and ready
to lime this cornered slug
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 10:57 PM UTC
Our bare, brief escape begins at the dance.
Steaming, smoking animals moving chance
that this ***** dancehall can yield loving.
Drug crazed pickers rev up their machined
Six string-ed orchestral Gibson guitars;
Yow! All the hipsters are making the scene
just now arrived in their late models cars.
Adults aping adolescents boldy down
drinks, belch bad beer and sweetly perspire
while you seething, hot and so sensuous
put my hand to your breast showing your fire.
Baby let's dance! Let's have our fun!!
Our brief escape has just begun.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 2:19 PM UTC
It’s dusk
Lustful grapevines curl around my ankles
And I’m thankful it’s wine season, the pickers should be around shortly to save me
And bathe me in last year’s crop to scare the grape vines into submission
It’s a decision they have to make
Do they care about a perfect stranger enough to waste
Roads of trucks of crates of bottles of red velvet
Or white sunshine
Or do they allow this ensnarement and turn a blind eye whilst I sink
While thinking; pondering the fertility of the soil under my feet
I’ll wait for the pickers, just to see how they view me
And in the meantime the vines are spinning yarns around me
Crawling up my skin, holding me tight while telling me bed time stories
Once upon a time there was a vineyard struck by a drought
Caused by unrelenting calm, and clear blue skies with no clouds
And they resisted, rationed their water between them,
And it seemed then that everything was fine
The crop was harvested and won best wine, but failed to mention how many vines
Died in the making of their own blood
Morbid and dry, a pinot noir fashioned out of pain and scars
And tears in flesh, not human flesh, but the flesh of the landscape
I didn't smile
But it did make me sleepy
I couldn't fight their grasp
Addicted to their emotions
I let them take me down into their fertile ocean
And when the pickers came to discern the source of the screaming
A new grape vine had sprouted and was teething
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 2:19 PM UTC
String pickers,
violinists
Poets
Bad Boys
The lot of you
We fall in Love
with you
a thousand times a day
We listen to your songs
poems
Voices,
over and over
Common thread in crystals
cloud bursts of feeling
that you each sharpen
daily
You
Bad Boys Of Poetry
You
cut we
black butterflies
and
dark diamond
poetesses
daily,
hourly
We butterfly bats
dance,
sing
write!
Yet,
you
Bad Boys Of Poetry
Still
Lie, there in
to your ownselves,
and say
"No one loves me,
I'm alone
Forgotten"
Well,
No.
We each see
as we wish
Pluck your strings!
Sing your songs!
But know,
you're LOVED
A thousand times a day
By black butterflies
and dark diamonds
Poetesses
~only a poetess
A
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 4:17 PM UTC
Casually caressing
the comedy of life
A child knows not
tragedy’s strife.
There is always another dream
toy or friend
for their fetal-esteem.
They spell their grammar
with candy and curiosity
while maintaining a history
in smile and laughter.
The heroism of Joe
the G.I.
and the beauty of a Barbie
are created impulsively and
fueled by imagination and apple juice.
A bike is not
a means of transportation
but rather
meant to be raced and jumped.
Scooby-Doo
and the ****** Tunes should
rule Saturday mornings
from their throne in the tube.
Monkey bars and playgrounds,
are not merely a facility
to upkeep physical activity.
Instead
it is a kingdom of escape
engineered by make-believe
funded by risk-taking
and motivated by the
eradication of the cootie-plagued
and ****** pickers.
Where did time go,
when these bones grew old
this brain grew dull
and these hands lost their callus?
The world is cruel
for the elder mind.
Yet, for our youthful kin,
Society does not exist
in coloring books
and world peace is only found
in imagination and apple juice.
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 2:02 AM UTC
Wide, grey waters rolling in
Invisibly it flows
Like a spreading carpet over mud
Inexorably it grows.
Created by a lunar force
And global winds at play,
Twice each day the tides do surge
To crest and flow away.
Twice each day the tide rolls in
To cover shoals of sands
And beds of oysters, muddy brown
With squirting water glands.
And twice each day the seabirds flock
To alight on draining shores
To harvest succulents and *****
And other tasty mores.
Oyster pickers congregate
In flocks of white and black
Red beaks plunging deeply
In green pastures for a snack.
Amazingly, they all take flight
A thousand beating wings
Which heel about collectively
Inking out all skyward things.
A thousand, million wavelets play
Across the level span
Pursued by wind’s relentless glove
In a patterned, surging plan.
And each reflects a kiss of light,
Each wavelet in the run
Collectively illuminate
Like diamonds in the sun.
Above the waves the seagulls ply
In corridors of air
In squadron flights of symmetry
To weave and wheel with flair,
Their raucous calls at distance
The poetry of sound,
In tidal terms, a symphony
Of seaward things profound.
The haze at the horizon
Of salt spray in the air,
White ,crunchy shells on beaches,
Pohutukawa’s everywhere.
A feeling of things tidal
In a lazy, salty way,
And enjoying the quiet beauty
Of this lovely, coastal bay.
Marshalg
@ the Gate
Mangere Bridge
4th March 2009
Nov 27, 2009
Nov 27, 2009 at 2:20 PM UTC
tight are the waxers
with gelatin scrub
their alcove smiles paired
on a check-board slate
dive jackets
and coveralls
mark the blue persuaders
stuffed lockers
and lattice straps
for a cold
pilgrim's stare
cork boots
and poly rot
rest in the C block
rank and file
mask a heavily
worn charade
windows wide
and curtains
thread bare
greasers
and **** rats
pardoned
on principle
chain link and
tether held
firm in the grasp
bead bites and
castle tops
slip in the **** steam
chants and speakers
blast from the back wall
elements stacked wide
for tainted leaners
strummers and pickers
held high on the jimmy jack
a chilled base breeze
at the ****** hole
rogues and hatters
stir at the mixer
an imitation face
closing in on the feast
maiden hands clasp
hard at the inseam
scuffed heals shuffle
on the peripheral scene
a cloaked man scurries
(chilled in his double sock)
moonshine
and mickeys
turned up in the jar
light streams blind
the paranoid eyes
laggards peeled
from the wretched
framework
veneer shattered
on a point strip groove
an overwhelming trauma
from slaughter
harbor
Apr 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019 at 3:16 PM UTC
it’s windy i think,
at least the windows are rattling.
the men in hard hats,
yellow motes off in the distance
and their jackets the colour
of poison,
they scale the façade
of the contralateral building.
they’re speaking, yelling,
probably catcalling, singing
their ugly songs on cherry pickers
like some crowned nest
of wagtails.
it’s early i think,
though the lights are always on.
they’re fluorescent, staining,
unflattering colouration, rinse
your skin to poverty,
to jaundice.
i’m here because of pills
i’m here because school is out,
i’m here because i’m tired
and i’m here because of you.
flowers sit at the side,
already dry upon purchase.
gifted awkwardly;
do we give flowers to a man?
a boy in sheets, foolish drunkard,
balloons with helium
to lift my spirits.
its lonely i think,
though it’s filled with people.
wristcutter, lupus, chemo
all thrown into one.
we’re what’s left post-production,
left to sit in an outlet store;
buy me for half-price
or else half an hour of company.
i’m the young one,
nurses scan me with motherly eyes,
the radiator warmth,
their rounded bosoms,
‘you remind me of someone’.
at twelve to three, she washes me,
asks me to lift my *****
so she can get at the two-day grime
of indolence.
it’s sad here i think,
at least the television is boring.
daytime ghosts and broken families
make my bedsheets gain weight;
even the balloon sags
in heavy misery,
nothing is mine.
sleep comes in fits
and starts in blankness.
it ends with my questioning
of where the dream began
and where hope had perished.
you haven’t come,
i knew that you wouldn't.
it’s hard to blame you,
what with my post-use pinings
long after you’d given up
and the way i act familiar
after treating you like a stranger.
i long to leave here,
so much the windows are rattling.
i’m here because i am
i’m here because of my job,
i’m here because i’m tired
i’m tired because of you.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 11:09 AM UTC
Sausages and chips,
sauces and dips
thoughts of them
has me licking my lips
then I remember the hips
So I’m going to back away
as I remember what my granny used to say
makes me smile as I remember her sniggers
“little pickers,bigger knickers”
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 7:58 AM UTC
I have a friend who plays guitar
I've worked with thousands ... but none quite like him.
His chord choices, the melodies and the riffs that he plays
They can only come from within.
He's been out living as a big rock star
But that's not quite the world that you'd think.
It's a rugged, rough struggle of perseverance and passion
And your life flashes by in a blink.
He isn't a shredder as are many these days
Never cramming notes where they don't belong.
He is tasteful and creative, a sound so original
His strings envelop the songs.
He has no need to display some arrogant plumage.
He doesn't show off with any thousand-note solos.
He doesn't do intros that are way too long.
His moody style transcends virtuoso.
He is my friend and proven it so
Once guiding me through a valley of black.
Not with his music, although that helped.
He did so with his hand on my back.
A music teacher once told me that
"Music is the silence between notes".
If that is true, then his silence is golden
As I love every song that he's wrote.
So all you pickers, players and shredders
in garages or with gold albums on the wall.
Take a lesson, from this humble man
You needn't over play at all.
But don't think that he is timid or without some flair
Don't make boastful quips that you think are so witty.
If the mood and the moment strikes him just so
He can make that guitar sound like Godzilla destroying a city.
I am so proud to call him my "Brother"
Such a musician, such a friend.
His music and his camaraderie have both touched my soul
and I hope that neither see's end.
Mar 12, 2018
Mar 12, 2018 at 7:41 AM UTC
the motionless air hung heavy
with late summer heat
at a distance a woman's voice in song
the rich sound reaching for your heart
with feelings of life lived joyous and bold
i walk the sunsoaked road
to the farm field to find her
where the dusty faces of the pickers greet with smiles
their great baskets filled with the newly picked crop
its thick scent filling the air with intoxicating fresh natural beauty
**** and tangy ripe to the souls tastebuds
they gather round the water spigot
laughing and speaking
a family of strangers
come to harvest the land
they invite me to join them
for the midday meal
so i sit in the shade of a truck
sipping the cool clear waters
eating the thick rich bread and cheese
such people of the earth
their hands worn with its labor
their hearts alive with its loves
such kind souls of the land
sharing their moment with me
the meal done
the baskets for the picking ready once more
they wander back to the field
and she begins to sing once again
as the sweet summer sun lulls me to slumber
her voice a beautiful tapestry woven with her
love of her people and her life
a rich tender sound
she carried me into sweet deep dreams
of the kindness of people who harvest
with their hands and hearts
the bounty's of the earth
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 12:26 PM UTC
I truly fail to understand
Why it’s gotten out of hand.
It seems so very odd
There are so many God
Is supposed to have ordained
Some aren’t even trained.
There is an absolute dearth
Of an actual true rebirth
In the revivifying blood of Jesus.
It’s almost like allergic sneezes.
Pastures full of pastors.
Priests and beasts.
Defectors and rectors.
Pickers and vicars.
Bleachers full of preachers.
Clerics and hysterics.
Papal delegates and celibates.
Televangelists and Adventists
And hostile Pentecostals.
We are becoming overrun
With an ecumenical kind of fun
In which before we can holler
Another puts on a backward collar
And starts tell us what to do.
When the rebirthing is through
They are on their park soapbox
And ******** about our Xbox;
Telling us what we should watch
And the coffee in our coffee klatch
Is unGodly because Jesus never drank it.
Makes me want to grab and spank it
Before it multiplies. Jerks, those guys.
Pastures full of pastors.
Priests and beasts.
Defectors and rectors.
Pickers and vicars.
Bleachers full of preachers.
Clerics and hysterics.
Papal delegates and celibates.
Televangelists and Adventists
And hostile Pentecostals.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 12:34 AM UTC
Sung and did not miss, watch this, where'swung
a dub when we need vees lots and lots of vees
the first friendly used many vees where we use double yous
vees and bees sound so much alike, s'ard to tell
Simultaneous, as always,
other-ther things begin and end while I am contrating on
a single point being made
on a single pin,
which is
bearing witness to my assertincertainty that at least
one thousand three hundred and ninety-two messages in lieu of angels,
numbering in the billions if Sagan was right,
fit
per pineal node post initial exterior inhalation and that first draft
look at this will you wontyou willyou wontyou
one thousand three hundred and ninety-two
guitar pickers in Nashville,
Ten percent of whom are sworn to sing Rocky Top
at every open mike in town every Saturday night
and we survived, didn't starve or go plumb crazy, though we tried.
It's good to be alive and remember imagining being
abundantly more alive, and
you know
or not, I can't say.
Did you read how Paradise, California burned for lack of rain?
We heard, Down here in the Lagunas.
All kinds o' folks prayed all kinds o'ways, and it rained.
Mud-makin rain.
Is it wrong to think the rain was called, if you can't imagine
rain obeying a request for the jetstream to dip?
Not here, we think right happens
right here on purpose
if you can imagine that a prayer,
wave of a wing tip, an eagle's
with permission.
this is the eagle wing effect, rightused,
should any attribute this to butterflies in China or Brazil.
The eagle acknowledges the Pine Valley hummingbird
who consented to make its final migration,
so the rain had a path to follow.
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 8:21 PM UTC
Quite horrible
draw your gun
stand in sun
look into the eyes
and your funeral
conductor.
A crisp breeze
is out circling
like a ghost
planting whispers
in your skull
You stand before
me parked
finger
nipping
at that gun of yours
whilst the sun
enters its prison cell
and the shade grows like a ****
transforming blood a little sharper,
judgding us in this alley
in this cooking kitchen
are peeping standers on a natural
strike- bear witness art exhibition
on the cusp of religion,
two dogs about to bark
and stray
a little more deeply into one another.
Soaked in the black theatre
many chimes of skeleton pearl
crying down the alley
its a dead sea.
hearts choking
in their own blood
sweltering standing two stick insects
feeling steel burn on em’ their finger tips
Daisy pickers glaring at the picker.
Its a field day in hell and someones staying.
One with wings will fly off as soul.
Uprooted in the *** plant of anguish out form within
the solitary dust world.
Steel curtains
and rainbow lizards…
Three streets
one alley
one sun,
one cloud
one keeper.
one judge.
one hell of a shoot off.
Look into the eyes of the timid dog.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 7:58 PM UTC
Mysterious , Tennessee nighttime wind , what fables do you bring on a cool Spring eve .. Tales of Mountain 'lore , of whispering rivers and moonlit hollers , black Bear antics and coonskin chapeaux , pristine valleys and hillside shanties , Memphis Riverboats and Elvis Presley .. Cascading brooks , foggy morning dales and Bluegrass pickers , Dulcimers , twisting highways and Nashville Telecasters ..
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 8:52 PM UTC
Living in fear
Remember who you hold dear
The ones that let you down
Will only do it again
Don’t avoid the words
The actions of those who care
The lies from the ones who don’t
Know the only reason they have
To get close to you
Ego trips.
Cherry pickers.
Nothing but insecurities
Every aspect put up for the
World to see
Don’t judge those who keep far
They know best
Till the day they come to see
Come to live like the rest.
Nothing but gratification.
Loss of love
Loss of soul
Empty thoughts
And nothing but keepsake hearts
Internal clocks ticking
To announce the day that will come
Sooner than later
And everyone will see the real truth
Beneath all their talk
The end of the show
Surprised no one showed for the
Curtain call?
Feb 28, 2010
Feb 28, 2010 at 2:26 PM UTC
Baby boomer farmers tailgating Carolina red apples ...
Engaged in whittling , rocking beside a powder blue Dodge pickup ..
Mother hens in white aprons selling cocoanut cakes and peanut brittle .
Bluegrass pickers drawing a small crowd , children feasting on corn dogs
with Rock candy tucked away in their shirts ...
Funnel cake fragrance on joyous September nights ...
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 10:03 PM UTC
She collects the rice after weddings
Looking for prophecies in her cupped palms
Searching each grain for a story.
She thinks of the children they ought to have
And their names with deeper meanings:
Against birth, defender of man.
A blonde girl
And a precocious boy
Who she knows will one day learn
The language of suicide
Their starfish hands
Never to be the pickers of rice
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 4:26 PM UTC