"plows" poems
It snowed today and I hope
the plows find your body
under a snowdrift. I hope
you are frozen to the core.
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 2:31 PM UTC
*>¡<
like a cygnet
i await the
lilly strewn liquid
of your love
where i can lap my
feet luxuriously
in your
idyll
>¡<
like a patch of soil
i await your root and seed
harrowed by your hands
turned under by your
undulating plows
>¡<
like an old shoe
i wait to cradle your heel
in comfort, and give you
the freedom to
point
a
toe
>¡<
like these things
i am not
comely
but like a
caterpillar
i await your
cocoon of carelessly
crumpled sheets
to preform my
metamorphosis
into the beautiful
Blue Mountain Swallowtail
you always knew
i could be*
SoulSurvivor
(C) 2/6/2016
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 11:02 PM UTC
Snow plows beeping
Reverse whine and scrape
Swirling blizzard of waking—Strange
in this place where
boredom banks both snow and cold
Are my eyes running?
After all
there's a stiff wind, and it’s 18 below....
Pictures and phone calls make up my family
Stray cats eat suet I leave for the birds
who make names for themselves in sunlit bushes
Love these more than...
my hearse of a job
where that ice cream vat—slipped
smashed
my sodden dish-doin’
fingers against sink
Pain mounts its insurrection!
Ambushed!
from every direction
Fainting in steam
Squeezing my eyes
till the blood shuts my brain-failing
Down my wrist
all over
the front of this rubber apron....
Someone hates me somewhere
Someone found me more tenacious
than a road-kill skunk!
I eat I drink I work I sleep
between these vicious icicles
-18F = -28 C
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 3:55 PM UTC
The birches are mad with green points
the wood’s edge is burning with their green,
burning, seething—No, no, no.
The birches are opening their leaves one
by one. Their delicate leaves unfold cold
and separate, one by one. Slender tassels
hang swaying from the delicate branch tips—
Oh, I cannot say it. There is no word.
Black is split at once into flowers. In
every bog and ditch, flares of
small fire, white flowers!—Agh,
the birches are mad, mad with their green.
The world is gone, torn into shreds
with this blessing. What have I left undone
that I should have undertaken?
O my brother, you redfaced, living man
ignorant, stupid whose feet are upon
this same dirt that I touch—and eat.
We are alone in this terror, alone,
face to face on this road, you and I,
wrapped by this flame!
Let the polished plows stay idle,
their gloss already on the black soil.
But that face of yours—!
Answer me. I will clutch you. I
will hug you, grip you. I will poke my face
into your face and force you to see me.
Take me in your arms, tell me the commonest
thing that is in your mind to say,
say anything. I will understand you—!
It is the madness of the birch leaves opening
cold, one by one.
My rooms will receive me. But my rooms
are no longer sweet spaces where comfort
is ready to wait on me with its crumbs.
A darkness has brushed them. The mass
of yellow tulips in the bowl is shrunken.
Every familiar object is changed and dwarfed.
I am shaken, broken against a might
that splits comfort, blows apart
my careful partitions, crushes my house
and leaves me—with shrinking heart
and startled, empty eyes—peering out
into a cold world.
In the spring I would be drunk! In the spring
I would be drunk and lie forgetting all things.
Your face! Give me your face, Yang Kue Fei!
your hands, your lips to drink!
Give me your wrists to drink—
I drag you, I am drowned in you, you
overwhelm me! Drink!
Save me! The shad bush is in the edge
of the clearing. The yards in a fury
of lilac blossoms are driving me mad with terror.
Drink and lie forgetting the world.
And coldly the birch leaves are opening one by one.
Coldly I observe them and wait for the end.
And it ends.
2.5k
A special invite i got
To a ballroom party today.
Do I look like a ballroomer,
I'm a filth **** dirt
Hard working man who plows his field.
I'm not meant for some fancy suit dancing.
Unless.
There's a fine poetry lady to dance with me
Then I'll be whatever the invite wants me to be.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 9:59 AM UTC
In memoriam Asher and Franklin
Farmers flocked to Blossburg's mines
willing their abandoned plows
to perpetual dust and rain.
Burrowing into the Tioga hills
with Keagle picks and sledges,
they filled their trams with rough cut coal.
Black diamonds - carved for waiting boilers
of New England mills and trains
and Pennsylvania's winter stoves.
Brothers, Frank and Asher swung their picks
in tunnels deep beneath the hills
and brushed away the clouds of soot.
Their coughs at first seemed harmless
enough as from nagging colds or flus -
but deepened as their lungs turned black.
Pain and choking drove them to their beds
where no medic's art could aid them.
Then the coroner came to seal their eyes.
A stonecutter's chisel marks their brevity
on an marble graveyard obelisk
that pays no homage to their sacrifice.
September, 2007
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 3:57 PM UTC
Rain, rain, rain
My friend
Child of the heavens, that falls upon the earth and vast oceans
Rain
Rain upon the green leaves of trees and wet their trunks and barks.
Rain upon the flowers that have blossomed
from your mother’s *****
Instill life on lakes and river beds, their streams
that dry when you don’t come.
Catch a couple holding hands, and rain
Shower them
Closer they will come, under his umbrella they will hide
Where their hearts will touch.
Let him smell the aroma of her silky hair
That will drug him like *******
Full of love and passion he will stare
At the sparkle of her stare
Drag them closer even more,
Pour.
Sprinkle a droplet onto her nose,
And let him wipe it softly with his thumb
And kiss it gently with the lips of his mouth
For now, here your job is done.
Rain, rain, rain,
My friend,
Rain.
Rain enough to make a paradise,
But wait for the old man that plows his fields
Wait till he gets home
Then, rain at your will
But don’t bring ice, and much less snow,
For spring has been cold, and winter even more.
That, the man especially knows
Alone he’ll sit on his chair on his porch,
With a rubber ball that he used to throw.
In the summer and in fall his dog would chase it,
But that was long ago.
Do you remember?
You got both soaked last November,
before the man was left alone.
But do not weep, just rain
My friend, Rain.
Rain in big and small droplets on the earth and floor
Wet my bare feet and jump in between my toes
I want to stamp on the puddle of water that you’ve formed
Soak me and join me
Rain and accompany me
Let us form a camaraderie
We can tell each other stories
You can tell me of your journey as you fall down from above
And I’ll tell you of the plants and flowers that in your absence will bud
Don’t be scared, for I’ll be your friend
When people go inside when you come,
I’ll come outside
You will make the puddles and I the mud
Even with my fading eyes I’ll look up
At the sky to welcome you as you rain.
When you leave don’t leave too fast,
Else the rainbow won’t show up
And please, don’t say goodbye
Farewells are too sad
Instead, say an “until next time.”
But for now rain, rain, rain,
My friend,
Rain.
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 9:49 PM UTC
illusions soil damp with summer rain
we are silence creeping softly
in halflight carrying a farthings worth of sugar
for his bitter tea and stale buttery breads
our stealth footprints leaning to the shadows trail us
the thick scents of tilled earth
and the fresher faster scent of rain
turn to whisper your hush-now's and stifle the laughter
tis serious things afoot in the majestic night
seed lain with casual grunts
by the farmers son come of age
till foolish boy reckons what hes done
but storm riding in and no time to dawdle
bread in the basket and skittles in the cookfire
whats to be done whats to be done
he sweeps his mistakes aside and plows onward
like his pappy would have done
illusions soil fertile
and fools will take to heart any tale
so we have come sneakin' and creepin'
to harvesting our due
in halflight carrying a farthings worth of sugar
for his bitter teas and stale buttery breads
feed the fools mind with all manner of delusion
and while we sit and sup in the heavenly scented field
the thick scents of tilled earth
and the fresher faster scent of rain
he will be singing and dancing a madwoman's jig
under a lunatic moon
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
The birches are mad with green points
the wood’s edge is burning with their green,
burning, seething—No, no, no.
The birches are opening their leaves one
by one. Their delicate leaves unfold cold
and separate, one by one. Slender tassels
hang swaying from the delicate branch tips—
Oh, I cannot say it. There is no word.
Black is split at once into flowers. In
every bog and ditch, flares of
small fire, white flowers!—Agh,
the birches are mad, mad with their green.
The world is gone, torn into shreds
with this blessing. What have I left undone
that I should have undertaken?
O my brother, you redfaced, living man
ignorant, stupid whose feet are upon
this same dirt that I touch—and eat.
We are alone in this terror, alone,
face to face on this road, you and I,
wrapped by this flame!
Let the polished plows stay idle,
their gloss already on the black soil.
But that face of yours—!
Answer me. I will clutch you. I
will hug you, grip you. I will poke my face
into your face and force you to see me.
Take me in your arms, tell me the commonest
thing that is in your mind to say,
say anything. I will understand you—!
It is the madness of the birch leaves opening
cold, one by one.
My rooms will receive me. But my rooms
are no longer sweet spaces where comfort
is ready to wait on me with its crumbs.
A darkness has brushed them. The mass
of yellow tulips in the bowl is shrunken.
Every familiar object is changed and dwarfed.
I am shaken, broken against a might
that splits comfort, blows apart
my careful partitions, crushes my house
and leaves me—with shrinking heart
and startled, empty eyes—peering out
into a cold world.
In the spring I would be drunk! In the spring
I would be drunk and lie forgetting all things.
Your face! Give me your face, Yang Kue Fei!
your hands, your lips to drink!
Give me your wrists to drink—
I drag you, I am drowned in you, you
overwhelm me! Drink!
Save me! The shad bush is in the edge
of the clearing. The yards in a fury
of lilac blossoms are driving me mad with terror.
Drink and lie forgetting the world.
And coldly the birch leaves are opening one by one.
Coldly I observe them and wait for the end.
And it ends.
1.4k
Day and night his field he plows.
Timely his good seeds he sows
In career and business and family.
He sweats and drains his muscles
Away. In a hurry he always hustles
Here and there to procure prosperity;
Yet, no profit upon his dear investment
In time and energy. No achievement
Great to show. He thus wonders aloud
To self: "What in life be wrong with me?
For my world lacks rhyme and rhythm
Of success." Soon his heart says, ''Proud
Man, plain is the answer. Be not confused.
Seeing Divine Guidance you have refused,
God also has let you alone. By power
Is not breakthrough! Yield to the Lord
Thy soul first; the wisdom in his Word
Heed - the direction to a life proper.''
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 1:52 AM UTC
In 1558 Pieter Brueghel painted
Icarus falling to the blue and green water
in a darkened corner, out of sight
He crashed close to shore
between a fisherman busy reviewing his catch
and a great ship with its sails being pulled
farther and farther into the sea
He sank and drowned quietly
while the whole world carried on
unbothered by death and tragedy
tending to their plows and herds
They’ll come back tomorrow
to plow their fields and steer their herds
with the same thoughts, an endless loop
even when a boy falls from the sky
And like my house falling to pieces
of white rubble and shattered glass
The screams are kept between the walls,
but the windows are paintings
of young boys falling to the floor
silently, unnoticed by the world
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 12:03 AM UTC
the closest we get to feeling alive
is by sleeping with death
tangling with evil and emerging
knowledgeable and sticky-fingered
((fruit juice, apple or pomegranate))
we do not know life but as a sidekick for
our suicidal tendency, our desire to lose our consciousness
within the ***** of mob or infatuation
to ***** out our selves, swallow our senses
this is the deepest secret nobody knows
but everyone feels,
we all want to be lost in them
to die while we live
to dream awake
we want to collar up our animal selves
and harness ourselves to the plows of art
and create
and die
Feb 21, 2011
Feb 21, 2011 at 7:21 PM UTC
Skeleton trees,
stripped down to the bone,
live naked within the walls of winter
Icicle boughs,
and branches buried deep in white
Conical conifers draped with ****** snow,
a blanket of diamond dust
They now enter my frozen world,
like life would now exist
inside of a snow globe
The drifting slopes
add white dimension
to this winter world
Frost upon the windows,
designed like crystal upon the glass,
sends shivers down my spine
The mass exodus of flocks of birds,
migrating south
for their seasonal vacation,
have gone away
These are the images embedded in the hynotic halls of my mind
The aging calender
upon the sunless wall
will soon give way to another year
The polar atmosphere
will have to surrender
its icy grip
but it is in no hurry
once January rolls around
In wintertime
we become like
weary, winter warriors
as we are manned with
shovels and plows,
battling the barrage of shellfire
of continuous cold, snow and ice
Shielded with scarves and heavy apparel,
shoveling and scraping,
salting and sweeping,
we are at war with
the fierce elements
that make us slip and slide
The salt trucks look like
army tanks on the move
Playful adventurers laugh at the scorn
The mammoth artic tundra
is their playground,
the ultimate winter utopia
They shall master
the slippery landscape
on skis, sleds and skates
in their pleasure
to conquer the frozen land
Winter is truly a wonder,
but soon my
Spring and Summer dreams
lie captive
I find myself
a foreigner of this wintry wilderness
My fair, flowery fields are gone
Barren are those beautiful images,
for Spring, Summer and Fall,
fables to my wintry world,
have slumbered all too long
Soon I am pondering.....
If only I can thaw
these stone solid feelings,
as the land soon melts
into Spring tears,
and can light a lamp within,
defrosting the sub-zero
feelings inside of me,
I will fully embrace the dreams
of warmer times,
and I shall find myself once more
A woman who knows why
she endures such a season,
shoveling my way through
the stormy periods of life
to thrive amid
the firsts of Spring
Sep 10, 2010
Sep 10, 2010 at 8:17 AM UTC
The cab moved quietly
Beneath the street lamps
Pleather seats: torn, faded
There we sat, silent- content.
The driver, a portly man, hacked
Struggling, his breathing deepened
Panting, gasping to regain regularity
Quickly, his breath filled the
Confined, litter-shrouded,
Van with the stench of
Cheap cigar smoke
We arrived at her home
The driver approached slowly
Carefully avoiding the icy snow
Banked earlier by the cities plows
Sliding the van door open I step out
Still holding her hand, the night air
Enters my lungs, sobering me
Just for that brief instant
Hastily, she leans in
Without hesitation, I meet her
Ambitious advance, reciprocating
The kiss is brief; I’m no longer cold
Her lips are warm and soft against mine
Retreating, she smiles. I gently brush her hair
Behind her ear unveiling a dark brown eye
My glazed, drunk, stare meet hers
Her grin, now beginning to fade
She looks down in confusion
I sense the cab driver behind me
Growing impatient he lights a cigar
Before turning away she whispers night
Her hand lets go of mine; our fingers part
Complacent, tomorrow she will return to him
Revisiting that feigned, simulated, infatuation
The kind they falsely advertised as ‘love’
Standing alone, I’m cold once more
Keying in, she doesn’t look back
Reaching into my pocket
Scrounging for what cash is left
To the cab, I surrender my last five dollars
This pays just enough to get me where I stand
Dissatisfied with his tip, the driver departs cursing
Unsure what to make of the evening, I begin my walk
Now, not so sobering, the night air dries my throat
The chilled breeze that once blushed her cheeks
Now stings my nose, ears, and finger tips
Alone, I continue west- home
Cold, I have miles ahead
Spirit torn in twain
I walk them.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 10:03 PM UTC
Has arrived.
Silent rows stand breathless,
Sweating in the dense heat,
Of August.
Blackbirds do not yet circle;
The sheaves are still too young,
Kernels burgeoning sweetness,
Hiding from the ravagers
Soon to come.
The tall field, burdened in the heat
Broods over tassels brown,
Ripens corn beneath a yellow sun,
Waits the pickers' marauding hands,
The tractor-roar of silage foragers,
And relentless tearing of plows.
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 2:30 PM UTC
The cold kept us inside
the police declared a state of emergency
but for us it was a state of emergence
we filled our veins with alcohol to keep warm
and lit fires in each other for days
burning through what brought us together in the first place
we said our love would remain solid once the ice melted away
and ventured into the bright blinding blanket of white
feeling like we were even brighter
feeling lighter
but when the plows cleared our paths back home
I took another
and somehow ended up back in the cold
alone
so I lit a fire
poured myself a drink
found myself mixing liquor with blood in the sink
a makeshift blanket with every drop screaming back at me
DON'T YOU THINK?
DON'T YOU THINK?
DON'T YOU EVER ******* THINK?!
A carefully crafted cocktail of doubt and DNA down the drain like the melted storm
but I finally felt warm while alone
Emerging, raining,
Saying "I am fluid
and I am coming home"
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 6:53 PM UTC
the feeling of a fleeting summer
the anxiety of a loss
snow plows out at
2:30 am
and in my bed I toss
momma fell asleep at the wheel again
mommas on her meds like always
I took a few pills
from her purse for thrills
they end up tasting like empty hallways
poignant, pulsing, peppered pills
give me some water to drown it out
you know I've always hated the sound
of open doors closing
what a little girl
would give
to have
a mother back-
healthy
to have a mother back-
again
to have a mother that was present;
a mother that wouldn't resent
you for being part from him
Is the blanket blue or green?
Who's blind now?
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 1:18 AM UTC
Somewhere in this place
I came around
Someone spoke a word
into my soul
Somewhere in this house
my heart was found
Someone took the reigns
and made me whole
cause I've been running
so long now
changing horses
switching plows
mending fences
milking cows
chasing varmint
from the fields
charming farmhouse
harvest yields
and plenty more
of what is everything I need.
this old life
out here
just what the doctor called for dear
for there's no time like the present
which gets better every year
no time clock to keep the hours
and as for lunch we'll sit 'til three
let the sunrise til it sets
because we work for you and me.
Keep the cowboy
coyote calls
guard my mind
from stumbles and falls
take the plug out
from the wall
listen close
for natures call
love is near
just hold her steady
cut some slack
and take my side
easy does it
Trust our Maker
take a rest
and let her ride.
Somewhere in this place
I came around
Someone spoke a word
into my soul
Somewhere in this house
my heart was found
Someone took the reigns
and made me whole
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 10:14 AM UTC
© 2009 (Jim Sularz)
Faith pierces the gray morning clouds,
and a new age has dawned.
A faith that outstretched wings of peace will soar,
through stormy skies now calmed.
With faith we’ll wake to see that promised day,
when swords are hammered into plows.
Faith that moves hills and mountains about,
a faith that believes and will never doubt.
Hope with hearts bared and prayers extolled,
that only good will come to pass.
When disease, hunger, the orphaned and cold,
are no longer memories of our past.
Hope that shapes a world of dreams,
and one that keeps us safe.
Hope with a soft and warm caress,
a hope that will fill our emptiness.
Love, an unbreakable golden thread,
that weaves through hearts and souls.
When love resonates with truth from above,
the Heavens open, a Universe unfolds.
Love heals those who stand in it’s light,
and guides those lost in the dark.
Love without blame and endless in scope,
a love that forgives all, through Faith and Hope.
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 5:25 PM UTC
In the mirror my skin is white
White.
Like snow, like clouds, like ashes.
Pure and milky, porcelain and unblemished, pale and alabaster:
White.
Such a pride, such a power.
My skin is white, but my soul is not.
In the mirror, wide dark eyes in a pale face.
They are ashamed.
I look at them, study them, wondering:
Am I?
Could I?
ARE we who we were?
We, who beat down the broken, scorned the helpless,
Yoked our workhorses to the plows of liberty.
We who doled out lashes and harsh words.
We who stood idly by, apathetic and indifferent.
The blood that courses under my white skin, almost translucent, showing blue veins- that is the blood of generations.
It IS we, is it not? Us.
We killed them, we used them.
Doubt blooms, full and supple, spreading inside of me as I stare at myself.
We'd all love to think we are above cruelty,
but could I be so blind?
Could these eyes have looked the other way as another person was wronged, broken, chained?
Could this heart have made excuses, hidden behind "God", hardened against empathy?
Could these pale hands have lashed an ebony back, in another life, another world?
All for what?
A color, a heritage.
Could these ears have heard the songs, assumed the meaning, mistook the words?
Sing of a brother beaten, of a child sold away, of a way out.
Where is the land of "liberty"?
Could these lips have uttered insults and racial slurs, at people who were not people, about lives that were not lived?
What right have I to think I would be different?
In the mirror, I see not just myself, but all of us.
I see the privileged whites, men ruled by avarice, women corseted by tradition, fooled into believing that they were always right.
That WE were.
I look at us, and I do not see white.
I see souls, stained red with black blood.
And I see tears on an alabaster cheek in the mirror.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 12:53 PM UTC
on soft feet the children
move on the leaves
tumbling up the color
and waste of warmer days
I wish we had
forever to cross this place
dust blue foliage fringing
the rocky edges up from the water
and air
and history
behind you quickly
the black cockatoo
plows the tight air
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 7:01 PM UTC
Today, I let it all out.
I've ignored the situation and pushed it to the back of my mind
the way the snow plows push the snow to the side of the street.
But for some reason today I just couldn't activate the plow in my mind
that let's me forget about everything and concentrate on the moment.
I started to reminisce and with that came intoxication. I became intoxicated
by the past memories of every time you looked at me, smiled at me,
talked to me, stared at me. I was so foolish, under a rock of such false hope
that I couldn't see the signs clearly directed towards my blind eyes.
But now I can; it all didn't matter, and I don't matter. I highly
doubt you take time out of your day to allot to thinking of me
even in the slightest sense -- it's easy to fill your mind with school
and other occupants that seem to fill whatever section of your
heart could potentially be left for me. Maybe it's only convenient
for you to acknowledge me when you want to be kind or when you
just want a self esteem booster. Funny, how with one single phrase someone's
self esteem is raised while the other person's is crushed under the weight it took
in order to get those words out just to be greeted with another disappointment.
And so now I spent a while just listening to sad songs and letting out all
the tears I promised myself would never leave my eye for you in realizing
whatever I thought we had was never true.
I can't sleep because you're the first image that flashes in my head
but I can't stay awake because all I do is think about you and how
much I want to talk with you and how I can't because then I'll know
a friend is all I'll ever be but all I just want you to do is see the real
me.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 8:58 AM UTC
Nothing on my mind
but a tired eye
heavier the slits close
tighter wanting to be shut
A yawn assumes my destiny
sleepless I sit
and loathe being awake
To dream, to conquer,
to be everything I make
A gleam of bursting
tangible light,
humming
The tune as if the bulb
were turned too tight
as my head bobs
up and down
Like the nods of the yes-men,
the beggars and their plows,
Acquitted with nonsense
foretold tomorrows vows
Feb 23, 2011
Feb 23, 2011 at 3:53 PM UTC
I hope you never experience the distant, dark corners of your mind overlapping like molasses in a metal drain
I hope when you open your mouth to speak you don't expel whispers of ash from your burning soul
I hope you dream of colors that aren't me
When she plows into you
You feel edges of malleability
I hope her tongue doesn't burn you
And her thoughts don't **** you.
I float from smoke-filled lungs
And the crackling of fire keeps me up at night but
Amber and honey
I love the taste of my volatile soul and I'm sorry you didn't.
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 1:00 AM UTC
These four walls
Familiar yet new
Close in
Expand out
Industry calls
Preys upon dreams
Sets its goals
Upon those who crave
The glory days
Built up from birth
They permeate all forms
Of things that touch
The human heart
The human mind
The human soul
They serve themselves
Before all
They serve themselves
There they stand
Like new again
In the mind
Think tank back
Spots on the map
Where we've been
What we've seen
Who we are
Refects upon today
Looks the other way
Ghosts of the past
They haunt the ground
And alter the course
Of travelling sound
Those that rise above
Seem somehow to know
That they are the ones
Needed in the plows
That grow the fields
Of wicked wheat
And then there are
Those that are unknown
Here as nothing
There as something
Also an expance of futures
Calling and drawing
In all directions
And for all reasons
They can't get enough
And you push some aside
Only to have them
More overtly contrive
A decent explanation
For what they provide
Soon they say
We will be
And it is believed
But the truth is alive
In what we perceive
The outcome of which
Is nothing without
The garden
We grow
Go
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 6:37 PM UTC