"pickets" poems
You look me in the eyes and spit,
And I kick dust on the wet spot on the ground.
This is how we are, a conversation; you never cared to call me something like my name.
I never cared to see you in any way but under my boot with blood on your teeth.
There is no moon above us, even when the sun’s gone to hide at the nearest bar.
This is not a war that can be won with pickets and strikes.
The only way to end the battle
Is that someone has to die.
A standoff only ends when one is left standing, it’s the rules,
but you never did care for rules, and breaking is easier than bending.
You never apologize and I never want to hear those words come out of your mouth.
The sun’s gone to hide at the local bar and it drinks whiskey shots like water.
It has seen us fight.
The moon doesn’t want to come out, stays tucked safe in its bed.
It has heard stories.
Only the stars act as referee, calling out which one of us died better.
It’s all an act, a ******* contest, and you sure are good at wetting the ground.
I’m better at covering up where the bloodstains were,
stain chicken feathers red as the sunset, Please, I ask you,
Let him win one last time.
The hourglass broke, the sand mixing with the red clay,
And you claim to know that his time is up.
I claim to know that you’re a lying son of a ***** who takes what isn’t his.
And you claim that I’m just a child,
but children don’t know why their knuckles are
bleeding
and children don’t get why their jaws hurt
and children only bleed when summer is restless
and children never pull real guns anyway.
You brought a knife to a gunfight,
a gun to face the firing squad, a one child firing squad,
knees stuck together with blood and chicken feathers.
Please, you ask me,
Let me win one last time.
And I learn that breaking is easier than bending;
And I learn how my name sounds on your lips.
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 9:02 AM UTC
beyond Montana’s yellow lines
there is a field
~a field of painted soles
and laces rubber tread
~a field of ****** curls
and fallen headlights
where kaleidoscope lenses
look onto twisted frames like origami halos
where teddy bears hug stop signs like pickets
fringed in anger
runaway childhoods sleep cautionary tales
beyond Montana’s blushing acne
there are red cup melodies
blasting from blacked out tints
weaving blues notes through Rock & Rap
distant cries are drowned by Bass
or maybe Bud (light)
a haze of teenage eyes
they might as well be ghost riders
whip game copped from GTA
these pubescents are a Vice to their City
blooming sidewalk sloths
like flowerbeds
beyond Montana
is a country of bar stools
where bar tenders play therapists
and therapists play coroners
precedents are shots of whiskey - taken to the head
and reflected in flooded eyes
beyond Montana
is a country of MADD mothers and SADD students
beyond Montana
is a country of unexpecting pedestrians
beyond Montana
is a field
~a field of wing-clipped snow angels
That field is Mariah's home now
and she challenges you to change
yourself
your friends
your country
she challenges you to
STOP DRUNK DRIVING
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 2:22 PM UTC
Beat-Up Old Car
Vastly under-appreciated possession
In dull blue, a MK1, no less, with original rust
Inside lingering scents of Exchange and Mart
top-notes of WD-40 and miscellaneous mix tapes
A car like this gets into your life
in lumpy knuckle-barking unsubtle ways,
stays there in subtle ones
That long drive back to Yorkshire
in the quintessential exemplar
Clutch cable snaps.
****** and Crap.
Hardly helpful but can be accommodated
with enough thought
rough though it is
on starter motor
and nerves whenever
anticipatory powers inadequate
and we are forced
to a complete red-light stop
Brakes dodgier, exhaust noisier
than ideal or legal
Gender-ambiguous
elderly tyres flirt outrageously with slick tarmac
Showing their canvas underwear
and male-pattern baldness
Keeping this unstable, unsafe, unreliable
ultimately essential lump of metal
moving and on the road
is a fine art
Engaging, fluid and intense art;
The Clash and The Specials
Costello and The Cure in support
A distraction then
getting hauled over by plod
somewhere near Bury St. Edmunds
Thatcher's boys.
Tax? MoT? Insurance? ID?
No real interest shown
Any passengers in the back?
Clearly no. Pickets?
Pickets? What?
Please open the boot sir... Oh.
On your way lad. Drive carefully
I was, officer, I was
More than you will ever know
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 9:52 AM UTC
I am singing to you
Soft as a man with a dead child speaks;
Hard as a man in handcuffs,
Held where he cannot move:
Under the sun
Are sixteen million men,
Chosen for shining teeth,
Sharp eyes, hard legs,
And a running of young warm blood in their wrists.
And a red juice runs on the green grass;
And a red juice soaks the dark soil.
And the sixteen million are killing. . . and killing
and killing.
I never forget them day or night:
They beat on my head for memory of them;
They pound on my heart and I cry back to them,
To their homes and women, dreams and games.
I wake in the night and smell the trenches,
And hear the low stir of sleepers in lines--
Sixteen million sleepers and pickets in the dark:
Some of them long sleepers for always,
Some of them tumbling to sleep to-morrow for always,
Fixed in the drag of the world's heartbreak,
Eating and drinking, toiling... on a long job of
killing.
Sixteen million men.
2.2k
The moon shone full that fatal night
When Stonewall and his men
were returning from a scout
around their former friends.
The brightness of the risen moon
Put them in silhouette.
The pickets rose and fired;
an action they would soon regret.
Stonewall Jackson was unhorsed,
a Minnie ball in his arm.
The surgeons had to amputate.
One week later he was gone.
It marred a famous victory,
A masterpiece of Lee’s,
when Jackson crossed over the river
to rest in the shade of the trees.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 9:04 AM UTC
Alone on a silent shoreline,
sea breeze emotions paint my skin
Sands of time slip away as I count the stars
wondering why so many seem to smile,
when I don’t
Storm fence pickets stand straight,
weathered of years watching
Holding at bay the impending dunes
where my footprints once shared these moments
with another
Salt water teardrops fall,
meeting the beach in sorrow’d pools
lonely silhouettes of my heart shaped shadows
empty and vacant, longing for that one
to forgive
Disenchanted sandcastles disappear with the tide
as do these words we compiled together
never to be written again, on paper or in the sand
Now I only watch my dreams fade into the horizon,
missing you
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 9:36 AM UTC
The fingernails of my brain brim
Horizons of grime. Can’t seem to keep them paws
Out of the dirt.
And the dirt lives on the ground, so its head is always
Down.
And it claws like a dog spraying a groove under a fence
After he’s picked up in the scent what it would be like
To roll in the other grass, which is the same grass, but it’s
Across the pickets.
It’s the uncovering, and it’s dead awfully hard.
For instance…
Thinking I must scratch sound to hear sound.
Not knowing, like this, of course there’d be only
That scratch-scr-scratch-scr-scratch-scr-scratch…
Around me like hellrats…
For instance, hurling my eyes at vision, only
That they should slam against something like stonewall.
(And the crash, unscratched, unheard.)
Imagine how gravity would throw your skeleton
(Nest of forest twigs-become-tooth-pick birdcage)
Ten, twenty thirty stories
Meeting earth’s immovable bone—
That cold you’d feel crack your headrock—
That concrete is my vision.
Yes, finish off the senses, finish off the lines.
If you put your life here, in this poem’s lonely glass,
It will take its shape.
For isn’t that the oldest metaphor? Life—water?
Yes, water with yourself these lines.
My brain needs to rinse me clean from its hands.
Apr 3, 2012
Apr 3, 2012 at 11:39 PM UTC
Forever sitting on the fence
You've placed me on the bench
Never will I see the green side
That's what I get for being this kind
Always watching dead grass
A lousy metaphor for left past
Trapped in a sense of grace
Yet you've put me in last place
Stuck in a reality that is no more
My body's the only thing left able to score
Even when I see the sun
My skills say I should run
Forever sitting on the fence
From here everything makes sense
Never will I fear the unknown
I see from both sides of the throne
Always looking out for number one
In this way, I will always be shunned
Trapped atop these wooden pickets
It's way too late for me to buy a ticket
Stuck in the nose bleed bleachers
No one is capable of being my teacher
Even when I see the sun
From my fence I will not run
Forever sitting on the fence
Where you put my heart to rest
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 5:15 PM UTC
Decipher the bowels
that slushes out through my imagination
Crystals and xylophone chimes
Pouring out the ink wells of sensation
Don't pivot pickets to my position
I can't stalemate this war for expansion
For my tongue is a swollen pickle
Dipped in bitterness
and ****** by the lips of semantics
I groove in the basses of basics
and grow a garden for further foundation
For my tongue is a swollen pickle
And boy is it's perfume amazing
I mean
Can you smell the awkward amps?
Pumping veins with Crayola visions
or a Chaplin transcript with deadpan humor
Are you experienced enough for social division?
My tongue is a swollen pickle
Say whatever the hell I wanna say
Crunch me when you digest this sour thought
For the reign of excitement's here to stay
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 8:54 PM UTC
Keep the cold drops in your pocket
Come in handy to fake sorrowful moments
Standing in a crowd creates the worst solitary confinement
Wicked hearts dug up from the graveyard
On pickets, bait for the hungry wayward
Fog so low, hazed, evaporated into pupils
Relieving the red hot, blood shot, what a clear head
Carrying shovels on their backs
Eat the dirt they shower on you
Sand between your teeth, bleeding gums
Warriors with sharp axe pix instead of guns
The ravenous never sleep
Blood thirsty they want their keep
String em' up high and watch the angels weep
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 1:05 AM UTC
1
listen to the silence of night
and the sounds of the crickets;
away from the city
the strikes and the pickets-
2
night has fallen
on the big meadow
children running to and fro;
crickets churning
gas lights burning,
tranquil nighttime
here at last.
Papst Blue Ribbon
near the end;
sandman time
around the bend.
3
The Rolling Stones
Exile on Main Street
Sweet Virginia
side one-cut one
right on.....
Aug 24, 2010
Aug 24, 2010 at 5:38 AM UTC
An anonymous terror
That hides in the halls
And burns down our stands
And blocks out our calls
An anonymous terror
That makes and it breaks
Breaking the real
And making the fake.
An anonymous terror
That points out our flaws
Gives insult to injury
And tears down our cause
An anonymous terror
That burns down our signs
You can break all our pickets
But you can't break our pride.
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 2:37 PM UTC
i glimpse the dawn
through alabaster-flaked rickety-pickets,
like the cavity-riddled ******* maw
of tom sawyer’s crooked-grinning demon
trying to reap its earthly exodus
and rail at the wind
for its squalling disposition.
i have a head full of grass,
and a trail of ants in staggered patrol
clambering in one ear
in hopes of alighting through the other;
their bodies breaching synaptic copulations
of thoughts and ideas assimilated in lucidity,
but turning, like the thrusting-seed of climactic joy,
only to find their first glimmer of stirring light
is merely a preamble to a yawning, abortive dark.
the sun is blinding,
and yet i stare onward - inward,
finding comfort in the dazzling blur,
like a drug redefining the transcendent pain,
and rending heart and brain to simple masses
without flex or flux to pierce the void
and conjure illusions wrought
of patch-worked memories and dreams
that i can no longer tell apart.
here i have come perchance to bleed
in pools to stain the shape of my words,
and your eyes to dance upon their drift,
like the mortician's arms embracing the husk
of cuckoldly bones and beguiling flesh.
here i have come to cackle at worms
that chew holes in the leaves strewn like a sheet,
to shadow the moment i stepped off of the page,
and splintered these whittled stilts
to tempt the proffered flames.
it is a moment lost in orbits spent,
revolutions spiraled, twisted and turned,
like bitter shells spat from that forgetful sea,
where i cast line after line of salty breath,
to avail the deep with my own sullied hook.
so here i lie with a head full of grass,
thoughts taking flight on thorax and gaster,
staring onward - inward, of the blinding sun,
to purge the umbrage of a threadbare soul,
and wander the void
perchance...
to bleed.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 12:47 PM UTC
~
(old beach fence)
pickets set,
once in symmetry,
straight and white...
young teeth;
now in weathered state,
discolored by
the salty spray;
rust-formed rivers
trickle down from nails,
barely tethered
to its frail frame.
in places, shifting sand,
overruns its posts,
like a winding score,
it's rhythm lagging,
holding yet its notes;
fulfilling purpose,
like an old musician,
though beaten down
by wind and storm
the music strong,
sometines pouring out
in gentle song,
oftimes belting.
out in haunting tune;
lyrics pointing,
shaking voice
still croons,
the heart still beats,
though the mind
is drifting on;
like an old,
weathered,
beach fence...
has not lost
it's relevance!
~
*post script.
in conversation with a beautiful mind, about her photo of an old beach fence. she says, “I love the loneliness in that picture, though I'm not sure why.” his answer just a hopeful guess, “i know why... it speaks of purpose and usefulness, despite age and state of repair; it speaks of direction, despite its apparent randomness... too oxymoron-ish to not be drawn in...” conversation ’tween two friends, conceiving thoughts, in particular her encouraging response with these words... “You should make that into a poem! And yes, that is exactly it!" yes indeed, she is a beautiful mind, this precious, poet friend of mine!!*
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 12:26 AM UTC
Is it all just cheap hash (and)
****** shopping malls (and)
identical housing developments
anymore
?
nevermore
is it expensive Asian dinner (and)
mom's special casserole on the stove
left to simmer (and)
a sticker on your school paper about cars (or)
a lucky four leaf clove
found innocently playing in the front yard,
hidden from the world by pickets white but barbed
(and) beautiful (and) normal.
Is it all tricks turned cheap, sudden loss of breathing (and)
smoke inhaled (and) powders breathed (and)
emotions bottled to be beheld kept seething.
A ****** cold Mexican TV dinner, fake.
A sad sloppy American lunch break, for Christ's sake.
A couple of teens talked on tinder set up a date (and)
put each other in a relationship so fake,
it was lost to the scrap yard.
A pair of adults met on eharmony (and)
scratched, picked, clawed at each others minds until
they were **** blistered, scabbed.
Wet hot beef (and) (or) dry cold spaghetti on a plate,
makes the post nuclear family come together feeling
just great :)
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 1:11 AM UTC
.
What do you do with a fried pickle sandwich
when lavender leaves have messed up its hair
How do you cut it in two equal pieces
while no one is home and you don’t like to share
Why is it sitting alone on the counter
as saucers of milk perform on the stage
Where is the flavor when bland is in fashion
and comic books sing on the very next page
Will you surrender to appetites chanting,
crossing the line where the pickets are white
Shoveling corn flakes when it is not snowing,
flying a kernel instead of a kite
Serving a side that is right down the middle,
leftover vegetables mashed into paste
Like a potato but not very filling,
smothered in ketchup to drown out the taste
Do you like tablecloths made out of vinyl,
just like a record but square when they play
Nothing to spin when you can’t find a needle,
looking through stacks that are covered in hay
Cook books too heavy to fit in your diet,
checking your math while subtracting a pound
Running in place when you’d rather be singing,
wishing the dining room table was round
Can you believe that a poet would write this,
watching a hummingbird outside his door
Smiling from one ear but not to the other
feeling the pinch when his cheeks are too sore
Maybe his mind is a swirl of affection
and it is her that he is thinking of
It’s a safe bet amid all this confusion
the poet who wrote this has fallen in love
Jul 21, 2016
Jul 21, 2016 at 6:51 PM UTC
Putrid smells of dirtied innocence,
A veil of eager stupidity,
Misfortune converts to violence,
Roots caged by the ashes
Of what once was,
My hometown of resilience- staled,
Replaced with glory seekers
Spewing words void of value,
Pickets of dishonesty,
Weekends of gloom,
Shame.
I feel foolish as I reside here,
Bleeding within the garden of thorns,
Punctured by the claw of the bird.
Apr 10, 2021
Apr 10, 2021 at 9:38 AM UTC
~
steps beyond his stalwart hedge,
white pickets lined with flowery speech;
’cross a boulevard of words,
the shade of tree-lined poetry;
he’s drawn to her celestial sound,
seeks comfort in her sultry voice.
pandora's lounge, her nightly stage,
in every breathy note she sings.
their presence here he’s prearranged,
respires her palette’s offerings;
each tapestry-a-washed crescendo,
her every soulful whispering,
incites his heart to joyous tears;
his ev'ry sense engulfed, aflame,
her afterglow, like sun's refrain;
to hers, two eyes an opening,
his ears to sounds beyond;
the tongue to taste, a bounty waiting,
her touch too sweet, his blood is racing.
spellbound by her bluesy song,
raptured by her fragrant breath;
to her rhythm his heart beats strong,
he's captured in her blue’s caress.
~
*post script.
i make no apologies in the admission that i'm easy prey for a bluesy voice, the feminine variety in particular. add a British / Euro tone and my soul may just melt. Norah’s... i’ve a jones for hers!
~
**Come Away With Me
Norah Jones
Come away with me in the night
Come away with me
And I will write you a song
Come away with me on a bus
Come away where they can't tempt us, with their lies
And I want to walk with you
On a cloudy day
In fields where the yellow grass grows knee-high
So won't you try to come
Come away with me and we'll kiss
On a mountaintop
Come away with me
And I'll never stop loving you
And I want to wake up with the rain
Falling on a tin roof
While I'm safe there in your arms
So all I ask is for you
To come away with me in the night
Come away with me***
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 2:22 AM UTC
Lush neatly manicured lawns
Fence pickets in white, ornate light posts in bronze
Luxury cars and such perfect houses
Mask the evil that rouses
Behind the Stepford smiles
Flow rivers of fear and pain
Horrors, **** and violence
In their suburban domain
“In marriage there’s no such thing as ****
“I make the money, if I want *** I’ll take it!”
“I’ll end your life if you try to escape.”
“I’ll cut off your money, you’ll never make it.”
“I’ve explained to your family you’re crazy as hell.”
“You have no friends left, no one to tell.”
“It’s always your fault you make me hit you.”
“Now tell the **** doctor you just tripped on a shoe.”
“Get yourself tested I brought home the clap.”
“You’re lucky to have me, I’m the real catch.”
“Keep eyeballing me, you’ll get a fresh slap.”
“Stop crying your eyes out, it’s just a rough patch.”
“I love you so much, why can’t you see?”
“This creature is something you force me to be!”
“NOW STOP YOUR WHINING AND MAKE A NEW DRINK!”
“ELSE IT’S YOUR HEAD, NOT MY GLASS, THAT SHATTERS THE SINK!”
“YOU’VE DONE IT AGAIN, AND YOU WON’T GET AWAY.”
“YOUR NIGHTMARE IS HERE, AND HE’S GOING TO STAY.”
...
“Lock the door? I’ll kick it in!”
“Fight back? I call that a win.”
“The struggle is what turns me on!”
…
The terror carries through to next dawn.
Behind the Stepford smiles
Flow rivers of fear and pain
Horrors, **** and violence
In their suburban domain
Sprinklers water the grasses
The sobering monsters cover their *****
They put on a grin and dress in fine suits
Greet peers with **** salutes
Off to work he goes to make cash
The kids trudge glumly off to school
The night before? Just a bad dream
She’s buying clothes, spending's her fuel.
Lush neatly manicured lawns
Fence pickets in white, ornate light posts in bronze
Luxury cars and such perfect houses
Mask the evil that rouses
Jan 2, 2019
Jan 2, 2019 at 10:09 PM UTC
if you walk on the front lawn
past the library where –
free of charge –
you can take some
if you leave some
if you approach the front
windows she will likely try
to claw the screen
attesting to her
ownership
if you walk up the driveway
and duck under the
grapevines or
poison-ivy – some say –
will tickle your legs
if you look upward
you can barely see the sky
between the
older-than-the-4th-of-July
burr oaks
if you walk past the
once-was back door –
into the backyard –
a forest of weed-trees
shades leftover plants
if you stroll further
the spring bulb-mothers’
dead stalks
cover the leaf-mulched
soil
if you climb up two rotting
steps to the bird feeders
squirrel-ridden –
and treated with suet –
is the cardinal family’s
year-round home
if you like critters and
engage them in dialogue –
natural ambiance –
you will have an annual
prayer rug for a yard
if you let the white pickets
go gray beside the curb –
looking wrinkled –
the shimmer-light of the
street lamp will guard the
paw prints of winter bunnies
© Lewis Bosworth, 2016
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 7:40 PM UTC
sordid silhouette
sing sigh's
savage grace
tongues akimbo
a pink laughter booms over silent cloudy grays
(the day's sister
was all the same
differently purple
in that way which
so is the night)
in such was the straight little pickets
onebyonebyonebyonebyone
marching in oscillating
still
-ness
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 9:13 PM UTC
she told me so many lies &
they were all so
beautiful like she was.
she told me
she didn't mind meeting behind the
woodshed in the hours before the sunrise &
after dusk, she didn't mind
passing her guy without a word for the day.
she told me so many beautiful lies &
i told them back with a kiss.
brown skin, cat eyes like those models &
she said she loved me, loved me true
through the window the door
leaves blew on the wind &
sticks rattled hollow against the wall of our shed &
we
forgot
in the moment of things.
miss those days, before pickets &
red-faced neighbors
before
well, you should have seen the headlines &
cat eyes are gone.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 9:29 PM UTC
Take your medication
Do as you’re told
Swallow the pills with
A cascade of water and
Watch your money fill
Our satin lined pickets
So heavy our belts snap
Our trousers fall
And the world can see the
Tattoo of your face on our *****
And the funniest thing is
All you needed was a good laugh
Apr 17, 2011
Apr 17, 2011 at 8:48 PM UTC
Well outside my circle,
Beyond my paltry reach
Of influence,
Nasty, spinsterly, unforgiveables
Happen.
Across from The Farmer's Market,
Just two days ago,
Two young males were...
You've no doubt read it.
Before that, a young teacher
Was kidnapped, stabbed and lit,
(can't believe I just wrote that)
Well, she was ******* lit... burned...
Who can live like this?
Then, I remember Tom's mother
Who invited me on family picnics;
And Crazy Jack,
Who put the chain on my rear sprocket;
The Squires who actually cleaned-up the yard
For the Downie sisters.
The befriendings in neighborhoods.
Mrs. Tethercott, probably the oldest woman
To ever live on a street, once handed me
A hard red candy through the green pickets.
Just me. The sibs never saw it going or coming.
An especially special treat that has stuck with me
For decades after her death.
But the Mayor arriving in full Santa regalia
On the trunk of a sleigh-red car,
With burlap bag slung heavily.
What a first memory of Christmas.
Daddy burned his leg
With diesel oil
On the job site,
Far away, in Kapuskasing,
During our first winter
In Canada.
Did the Downie Spinsters make the call?
What unknown friends reached out
Beyond their circles.
Who aspires to such a height?
I can't let it stop me.
For now,
I carry a hard candy
For just such occasions.
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 4:43 PM UTC