"pocked" poems
Lovers entered a forbidden forest bower,
And as they stalked that range, with eyes glazed,
She offered up her hind. Now, with doe eyes,
Deep as his, deep in arousal's sleep, heels fell,
As he knocked and pulled her dark honey hair
And whispered, surrender, into wanting ears,
Softly he drove his hunting command, homing
To his huntress.
Her body braced, yet bade, with heat and vibrance.
Ruthlessly, he ****** his arrow deeper and then
Once more and then again. She bucked fiercely
And defiant, goading his prodding lance ever more
Ever longer, and parting the pink lines of her white
Rose, he was, and once again, Prince to the dark
Dominion of her quarters.
In the middle of this carnal match they paused.
And looking into the forest beyond they saw
A yearling fawn, a feral Goddess, grazing still,
Bathing in a vale, virginal, wholly unmoved
By their act of venery, lustfully playing, in the innocent
Leaves. It was as if they were among her kin, a gentle
Doe and a noble stag. From that moment on
The human hunters did not speak.
Falling, again, rolling eyes were deep in arousal's sleep.
Her back was a crescent moon pocked and wet with dew.
He could feel her heart beating in time with his piercing
Prong, her arching back glistened in the suns spittle
As it broke through the dark and vernal ceiling wood.
In the final shot her quivering buck lowered and broke
And a sound not heard, made a scene, a sweet murmuring
Shuddered and sank onto the floor of the forest leaves
With her tale, taken and told, her breathless breath,
Her nostrils cold and her heated and lanced openings
Dripping, draining; here was a New World’s beginning.
Sated, solemn and softly quaking, his woman sweetly laid,
And now, doomed with her doe eyes, two lovers, fated, made;
She glowed, divine, like the rolling brook that mellowed
Slow, in the vine-dark and golden forest stable,
In Artemis’s wood.
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 1:33 PM UTC
Shriveled & shrunken.
Intoxicated & drunken.
Hung over & agitated.
Mild to moderate brain activity.
Common sense & basic reason lacks mental ability.
Bad with money & squanders financial stability.
Passing a psychological mental health evaluation not quite.
Kept in a straight jacket & sedated in isolation they do spit & bite.
They go through everyone's trash day & night.
They panhandle at the street lights.
They have tempers & pick fights.
Nothing they do is legal or right.
Slobs with no jobs.
They lack work ethics.
The sight & stench of them is sick.
They're sad story is lies & tricks.
Not a truth that sticks.
They cuss & their pocked face oozes ****
Their frontal lobe is filled with dust.
About telling your teacher the truth they get homicidal & make a fuss.
They drive a piece of **** car consisting of smog & rust.
Getting arrested for 365 × 3 + 2 counts of child **** is never a bust.
Keep your children away from drunks.
Some drunks get violent, beat you & lock you on a trunk.
Most pedofiles & rapists are drinkers.
Not religious or moral thinkers.
With shingles, hpv virus, ****** & boyles.
Zero morals as hideous as an ugly *** gargoyle.
Enjoy arguing, screams & shouts.
Daily drunk driving & behind the wheel blackouts.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 10:51 PM UTC
*Blue is the boulder overlooking the bay
Loosely pocked by weather-worn stains
Unwavering guardian of all that lay
Enigmatic yet silently screaming its pains
Blue is the reflection dancing playfully
Laid generously by the twilight moon
Upon the vast canvas of the darkened sea
Elated ripples readily accepting such a boon
Blue is the halo encircling the moon
Lavish circlet gifted by the sun
Unnoticed by eyes that slumbered too soon
Evading the sands of time that run
Blue is the silhouette of a lone sailboat
Lurching and bobbing by will of the waves
Unknowingly catching the zephyrs that float
Eluding the fingers from watery graves
Blue is the man; perched upon the boulder
Lapping up the stars mirrored upon the sea
Usurped heart of his had never sung drearier
Ensnared by woeful wonderment...*
that man is me...
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 10:28 AM UTC
Do you remember me?
I am fed up, strung on night
And closed in by time.
When I dine with dearest
Friends there is always a place
Set for you, there is always
A story, untold to them,
But not for strangers
Who know even without saying
What you never said to me.
My eyes are cracked dams
Above the flood plains,
My heart is dented brass,
Bent, out of gear and turns,
Mournful, dried, pocked
As rust, tarnished red,
Petrified.
If I look at the diamond moon
I am hooked.
When the flower brushes my calves
The lifting scent caresses, teases,
Rising with my memory of fire and stone.
If I travel to the balm Paris
Of the southern hemisphere
La Belle Époque is wearing your
Dress, the pampas fires and undulates
Like your hair, the Polaris star
Points at me, dreaming
Of you, dreaming,
My jewel, my,
Little moon.
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 12:02 AM UTC
We started out with Armistead
from the shelter of the trees.
A jackrabbit raced past to the rear,
no dumb bunny was he
The heat rose up to meet us
As we started up the rise-
The prospect of the copse of trees
Before us was the prize.
The flower of Virginia here
displayed upon Parade
We must have looked magnificent
Just before the cannonade
They piled on Double Cannister
and tore holes in our line
We staggered from the weight of shot
that fearful hissing whine..
Then enfilading fire came
From the Yanks behind stone walls
Just then post fences six feet high
briefly caused our charge to stall
Brave **** Gannett was unhorsed
Upon this very spot
Kemper, wounded mortally,
Was retrieved from shell and shot
We made it past the final fence
And up the grassy knoll
Defiant in the cannons mouth
"Turn those guns!" I'm told.
But at that very Moment
General Armistead was downed
The attack lost its momentum
Our wave crested on high ground..
The blue bellies yelled Fredericksburg
As the Crimson tide retraced
Half in Anger, Half in relief
that the challenge had been faced.
The hill before the copse of trees
Pocked with our dead and dying
While the remnants of Picketts men
Towards Longstreets line were filing
Matthew Brady took my photograph
before I was led away
My face a study in defiance
A true man of the gray.
Dec 19, 2011
Dec 19, 2011 at 8:56 PM UTC
.
Lovers entered a forbidden forest bower,
And as they stalked that range, with eyes glazed,
She offered up her hind. Now, with doe eyes,
Deep as his, deep in arousal's sleep, heels fell,
As he knocked and pulled her dark honey hair
And whispered, surrender, into wanting ears,
Softly he drove his hunting command, homing
To his huntress.
Her body braced, yet bade, with heat and vibrance.
Ruthlessly, he ****** his arrow deeper and then
Once more and then again. She bucked fiercely
And defiant, goading his prodding lance ever more
Ever longer, and parting the pink lines of her white
Rose, he was, and once again, Prince to the dark
Dominion of her quarters.
In the middle of this carnal match they paused.
And looking into the forest beyond they saw
A yearling fawn, a feral Goddess, grazing still,
Bathing in a vale, virginal, wholly unmoved
By their act of venery, lustfully playing, in the innocent
Leaves. It was as if they were among her kin, a gentle
Doe and a noble stag. From that moment on
The human hunters did not speak.
Falling, again, rolling eyes were deep in arousal's sleep.
Her back was a crescent moon pocked and wet with dew.
He could feel her heart beating in time with his piercing
Prong, her arching back glistened in the suns spittle
As it broke through the dark and vernal ceiling wood.
In the final shot her quivering buck lowered and broke
And a sound not heard, made a scene, a sweet murmuring
Shuddered and sank onto the floor of the forest leaves
With her tale, taken and told, her breathless breath,
Her nostrils cold and her heated and lanced openings
Dripping, draining; here was a New World’s beginning.
Sated, solemn and softly quaking, his woman sweetly laid,
And now, doomed with her doe eyes, two lovers, fated, made;
She glowed, divine, like the rolling brook that mellowed
Slow, in the vine-dark and golden forest stable,
In Artemis’s wood.
.
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 2:50 PM UTC
It's in the heart of the grape
where that smile lies.
It's in the good-bye-bow in the hair
where that smile lies.
It's in the clerical collar of the dress
where that smile lies.
What smile?
The smile of my seventh year,
caught here in the painted photograph.
It's peeling now, age has got it,
a kind of cancer of the background
and also in the assorted features.
It's like a rotten flag
or a vegetable from the refrigerator,
pocked with mold.
I am aging without sound,
into darkness, darkness.
Anne,
who are you?
I open the vein
and my blood rings like roller skates.
I open the mouth
and my teeth are an angry army.
I open the eyes
and they go sick like dogs
with what they have seen.
I open the hair
and it falls apart like dust *****
I open the dress
and I see a child bent on a toilet seat.
I crouch there, sitting dumbly
pushing the enemas out like ice cream,
letting the whole brown world
turn into sweets.
Anne,
who are you?
Merely a kid keeping alive.
3.2k
Plot a course through downtown doors
then drift along the concrete shores
of asphalt oceans navigated
under stars
imitating
broken curbside glass--
over crunching gravel miles
measured in half-hours
and meted out in heavy, fogging breaths
and squinting, midnight eyes...
Counted out the blocks, counted steps
and concrete squares by metered
three-four thoughts dancing across
reflected skylines, just behind the eyes.
Each step's a held breath,
each footfall a prayer on crumpled paper,
each set of shoulders, a hanger for...
coats are homes
for hands
rolling up in pockets
fishing for some solid anchor,
sinking into years of walks and silent words like these.
*** * ***
Listing hard, adrift for years
water-logged and pocked--
no anchor--
shredded sails and leaning masts
tell stories
of deck fires:
leaping rats,
and charred strakes
Clear deck,
empty hold,
abandoned helm.
this coat's Atlantic fog.
Frayed rigging like cobwebs stretch
down and across
like lines on faces aged by the frost
on midnight walks.
Strike the colors, mate...
Admit you're lost.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 12:41 PM UTC
Let the poetry...
Write itself....
As the ripe new moon
strums the swaying
silhouettes of the night.
Let the poetry...
Write herself...
With the vast
expanse of obsidian sky.
Pocked subtly with the shy
murmurs of the stars...
Offering solace and peaceful respite.
Let the poetry...
Write of you...
As the splendour...
Envelopes each unspoken letter.
Embedding words of warmth,
that seize my heart
in a state of enamour...
Before taking its majestic flight.
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 10:57 AM UTC
In Farmington the misfit suffers the jukebox and dances to an unknown song. He dances on the pool table. He wears black—black skull cap, black
duster, black shirt, black slacks, black boots. He's in Farmington and
the women here drink Bud Light. He dances slow. It's similar to a dance
you've seen before. You have that friend that climbs on couches after a few and half staggers, half sways. The women here watch him with unhappy eyes and hands stained blue from the textile mill. He seems to mouth the words although he clearly doesn't know the song. They, the women, dig their elbows into the bar. Pocked and graffiti'd, the bar soaks up spilled beer and ash and nail polish. Behind the bar a sign reads: Free Beer Tomorrow. And for some reason, you must admit, this sign's effect never dulls. The Misfit pantomimes a dance with a pool cue. His face is severe, serious. He's in Farmington dancing with a pool cue on a pool table to a song he doesn't know like a drunk friend of yours and the women are watching. Next, he does something amazing. He removes his cap. He's got shocks of bleached hair and burn scars run like rivulets between the patches. He tosses the cap toward the bar. One lucky woman catches it and summons herself to the pool table. You want them to have a bit of dialogue here, to say something oblique and innocent. Instead the lucky woman dances at the man's feet. He surrenders a smile and he's got small tracts of bleached hair and burn scars and he's in all black and he's dancing. The lucky woman, she's in a canary yellow patch dress. Her dance, although clumsy, still mesmerizes you. It's without ego, without shame. She is a child. She is the light in the room. She is, in this moment, the world entire. He pulls her onto the table. It's time to appoint the Misfit and the lucky woman names, you think. His name shall be Joshua. Her name shall be Anna. Palms together, her head resting on his chest, they sway. The smoke and the tracers of light meld and Joshua and Anna's outlines become muddied. Their bodies merge and they are both yellow and black and covered in burn scars and bleached hair and the women are still watching. As the song starts to fade, someone—maybe it's you—drops a few coins in the jukebox and it begins again.
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 12:13 PM UTC
these foothills
rolling in pine and
grassland meadows,
where silvery lupine
follow the melting snow,
hint of the mountains to come
in spiny crags that
catch a cumulus pocked sky
cottonwood tufts rain
this day after solstice
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 2:23 PM UTC
Lambent planet burning bright
In star-pocked shadows of the night
Gigantic storms doth wheel around
Tumescent whorls forever bound
Oh mighty planet Jupiter
(For 'tis how I look on thee)
Thy reddish eye is looking out
On all eternity
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 9:57 PM UTC
Lovers entered a forbidden forest bower,
And as they stalked that range, with eyes glazed,
She offered up her hind. Now, with doe eyes,
Deep as his, deep in arousal's sleep, heels fell,
As he knocked and pulled her dark honey hair
And whispered, surrender, into wanting ears,
Softly he drove his hunting command, homing
To his huntress.
Her body braced, yet bade, with heat and vibrance.
Ruthlessly, he ****** his arrow deeper and then
Once more and then again. She bucked fiercely
And defiant, goading his prodding lance ever more
Ever longer, and parting the pink lines of her white
Rose, he was, and once again, Prince to the dark
Dominion of her quarters.
In the middle of this carnal match they paused.
And looking into the forest beyond they saw
A yearling fawn, a feral Goddess, grazing still,
Bathing in a vale, virginal, wholly unmoved
By their act of venery, lustfully playing, in the innocent
Leaves. It was as if they were among her kin, a gentle
Doe and a noble stag. From that moment on
The human hunters did not speak.
Falling, again, rolling eyes were deep in arousal's sleep.
Her back was a crescent moon pocked and wet with dew.
He could feel her heart beating in time with his piercing
Prong, her arching back glistened in the suns spittle
As it broke through the dark and vernal ceiling wood.
In the final shot her quivering buck lowered and broke
And a sound not heard, made a scene, a sweet murmuring
Shuddered and sank onto the floor of the forest leaves
With her tale, taken and told, her breathless breath,
Her nostrils cold and her heated and lanced openings
Dripping, draining; here was a New World’s beginning.
Sated, solemn and softly quaking, his woman sweetly laid,
And now, doomed with her doe eyes, two lovers, fated, made;
She glowed, divine, like the rolling brook that mellowed
Slow, in the vine-dark and golden forest stable,
In Artemis’s wood.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 12:46 PM UTC
.
Lovers entered a forbidden forest bower,
And as they stalked that range, with eyes glazed,
She offered up her hind. Now, with doe eyes,
Deep as his, deep in arousal's sleep, heels fell,
As he knocked and pulled her dark honey hair
And whispered, surrender, into wanting ears,
Softly he drove his hunting command, homing
To his huntress.
Her body braced, yet bade, with heat and vibrance.
Ruthlessly, he ****** his arrow deeper and then
Once more and then again. She bucked fiercely
And defiant, goading his prodding lance ever more
Ever longer, and parting the pink lines of her white
Rose, he was, and once again, Prince to the dark
Dominion of her quarters.
In the middle of this carnal match they paused.
And looking into the forest beyond they saw
A yearling fawn, a feral Goddess, grazing still,
Bathing in a vale, virginal, wholly unmoved
By their act of venery, lustfully playing, in the innocent
Leaves. It was as if they were among her kin, a gentle
Doe and a noble stag. From that moment on
The human hunters did not speak.
Falling, again, rolling eyes were deep in arousal's sleep.
Her back was a crescent moon pocked and wet with dew.
He could feel her heart beating in time with his piercing
Prong, her arching back glistened in the suns spittle
As it broke through the dark and vernal ceiling wood.
In the final shot her quivering buck lowered and broke
And a sound not heard, made a scene, a sweet murmuring
Shuddered and sank onto the floor of the forest leaves
With her tale, taken and told, her breathless breath,
Her nostrils cold and her heated and lanced openings
Dripping, draining; here was a New World’s beginning.
Sated, solemn and softly quaking, his woman sweetly laid,
And now, doomed with her doe eyes, two lovers, fated, made;
She glowed, divine, like the rolling brook that mellowed
Slow, in the vine-dark and golden forest stable,
In Artemis’s wood.
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 7:25 PM UTC
You sit now
stranded,
moored to nothing,
going nowhere,
your bilges dry,
your engines shut
down
and
up
inside the salt-rusted
skin, pocked with rot,
where once you
sliced across
the water's top,
a vessel full
of
life,
bow and stern,
prop and anchor,
never
ever
in your mindless
dreams believing
you would stop,
and
no one
would even care-
no sailors,
no cargo,
no sunrises,
sunsets,
waves and beasts of the
deep
to sound their fare-thee-wells,
no more those chimed
8 bells,
you,
now stopped,
docked
and
alas,
forgot.
_______
Derelict:
http://beautyineverything.com/5096209757
Oct 20, 2010
Oct 20, 2010 at 4:42 AM UTC
How eloquently and beautifully we hid from each other.
You with your righteous truths, hard and cold like granite.
Marking lost-love’s old bones.
I gripped your proffered broken shovel. Worn blade rusted, and shaft broken.
Aged and useless now, worked and worked on too much cold, hard ground.
And so the old, cold, bones below lay undisturbed.
Deep and all but forgotten
Forever waiting to be found.
Mine? Barbed wire…a measured demarcation simply, efficiently separating a field of dreams from a shell-pocked Somme….taught, unyielding, sharp and unforgiving.
You, a brave soldier hacked and bit and and gnawed at the unforgiving steel wire, tormented by the verdant vision, which lay beyond.
Striving to reach that goal.
That which lay beyond the muddy battlefield….
Beyond the rigid stinking corpses….
Beyond the ghastly horror.
I know you saw a bright field of soft scented blooms and dreamed of resting, head pillowed on sweet, rainbow petals, scented nectar and soft green grass.
I would have gladly surrendered the wire cutters, but, blunted and useless, dulled by one or two, too many tries… there was no use.
You see my dear, they were long ago worn down. Worn down on many a marbled headstone.
Their once keen edge, ground and blunted on words which said ‘here lies love’
(May it rest in peace).
There they sit and there they lie, the gravedigger and the soldier….
The soldier, torn and tattered upon the ****** barbs……
The gravedigger, frail and worn, broken shovel resting on broken feet…..
These were the culmination of our defences
Our defences…
Mine a spiked barrier,
yours an epitaph in stone.
****** battered love hungry body
and weeping gravedigger by loves tombstone.
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 8:21 AM UTC
the Saskatchewan plains (planes,
plain) stretch eastward beyond you;
sumptuous emptiness pocked with
the 14 hour streetlight of the sun- -
you are out of your mind and in
everything else. you are free now.
remember that you do not find
yourself. you create yourself(z)
you create yourself(z) - -
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 1:42 PM UTC
Some are lissome, jowly,
blossomed or pocked, teeth
of old horses—eyes white as flour,
a few clubfoot with sisters
pregnant as October gourds. Not
Norman Rockwell’s Americans,
but they are us and live in lopsided
bungalows with leaky roofs,
heaved sidewalks, bare
refrigerators.
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 7:59 AM UTC
This world's a story
filled with stones: those five
smooth ones; some temple
tumbling to; a mountain's
stubborn bones. Take this one,
pocked, rounded, smoothed,
rocked by currents sure
they'd find the way. Blue
(or vaguely gray), flecked gold
no miners mine, or can,
diminished thing from David's
bolder day, it chooses you.
Palmed in your closing hand,
it's good, the heft of it, live weight
to tell a tale that's true.
Nov 2, 2011
Nov 2, 2011 at 3:31 PM UTC
She broke his arms, his ribs, his legs, his heart.
He was a man who loved with all he was.
She ripped a very loving man apart.
He gave her money, pushed her shopping cart,
he bought her heart's desires, and without pause,
she broke his arms, his ribs, his legs, his heart.
His crime was having loved her from the start,
and far beyond her limits without cause.
She ripped a very loving man apart,
and though she was a very sour ****
he loved her still with everything he was.
She broke his arms, his ribs, his legs, his heart,
hock-spat at him, and in his face did ****
to agitate that love wrapped tight in gauze.
She ripped a very loving man apart,
and stomped him in his sleep, stiletto darts
pierced flesh and pocked him, loving as he was.
She broke his arms, his ribs, his legs, his heart.
She ripped a very loving man apart.
(C)2008, Christos Rigakos
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 10:20 AM UTC
Mumble Rappers be on something like:
"gotta bad b...she ain't be walking righ°..."
Double-dipping,
No-stopping
Frames-dropping,
No-clipping,
wutta glitchy sight ..
I've been sitting super stealthy cypher.
I've been running with my do-or-die fir.
[Careful]
I would die for what
What you would eye for
Cloudy with the red eye
Insight, eyesore
I swore, pops, that I'd be different
Spec ops man, Mine's been misting
Foggy froggy frothing
when I spit distance
3eyes shifting
2Split da difference
Any1 asking Meh:
How have I been getting....?
Guru Minds have been sitting
squarely as a cube in cypher
Make mah breathes for human
CubanS matter as I decypher :
Life is living truth
or daring to choose to live
or die for ...
Ai just a silly Scyth0r snipping sidebar sowings
stow no baggage. That's what I'd be towing.
Rats staining, stinging
pocked and potent.
Out of the Cabbage patch
that I've been growing
01011011 01111101 01111011 00101110 00101110 00101110 00101110 01010000 01110010 01100001 01100011 01110100 01101001 01100011 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01110011 00101100 00001010 00100000 01101001 01110100 00100000 01110111 01100001 01110011 00100000 01110110 01100101 01110010 00100000 01100010 01101111 00100000 01100100 01100101 01101110 00101110 00101110 00101110 01111101 01111011 01011101
Sorry to be blunt, man
.... it's a sour twist,
Undid the trap mode
went too lavish
>> the-Gentle-Ghost-o'-ghetto
hopes at most to let go,
Building out hell bricks
Pave- too -close -to -level<<
it's all in the mental,
in the same lane stack
Shake a Lil when treble trains track,
Shake, shake when the train track,
shake shake, shake when it trains
shake when the trains track.
I swear, it's not a bad tick.
Just bring the brains back.
It's not a bad tick. Just get the brains back
it's not a bad tick. The brains back~
just bring the brains back
bring the brains back
Bear with me. >>Music turned up.
Are the windows cracked?<<
..............Who should have brought the show...vel? And the WAXWHALESTACK.....................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
Dec 9, 2023
Dec 9, 2023 at 12:28 PM UTC
Watch out, the stove is hot.
White iron teeth that will bite your tongue,
split chapped lips,
then eat salt and vinegar crisps.
Sharp streaks of nerves,
grinning with missing incisors
drip in lines down your chin
of green and brown copper.
If I had a fish pond
to throw these dimes into,
I would never have to know
where they came from,
why they didn't fall out of
my coat with the turned up collar.
Unwashed wool wraps and rots
round warped shoulders,
gnarling strained fingers
between ball and socket joints.
Fussy tea cakes and strands of hair
relinquished to the wind
hobble up and down outdoor train stations,
old-fashioned floral prints swept aside,
a puppet show of sickly chicken legs
pocked, potholed and pickpocketed.
Lost in the war, between couch cushions,
baked into blackberry crumble
in go egg whites, out come memories
of snow that tightroped power lines,
good dogs that stayed,
coauthors of the oxford english dictionary.
Badly rolled cigarette smoke in the streets
writes gregorian poetry for darned socks
snagged on shoddy repair jobs,
splintered wooden bones.
Pour yourself a stiffer drink,
it’s going to be a gangrenous winter.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 2:38 AM UTC
The craven wakes.
It is alive with narrow insect grace
And hung with trailing cobwebs,
Swathed in shadows red and brown.
Its scalp is silvered down
And pocked with craters nape to crest;
The craven cracks a rigid stance
A sideways glance
And twitching muscles break the skin of dust.
Wet limpid eyes absorb the calculated gloom -
The cluttered claustrophobia of that morphine-scented room;
A spastic jolt - a helpless wasted cry
A moment of collective silent-mouthed insanity
A sad hand flutters open like a flower.
A sour taste;
Lack of blood inside an unfamiliar face.
Long fingers trace the lines of unknown years.
A stark solidity of truth; a dreadful revelation
A cloying yellow smile hangs like a joke
A laugh begets a croak.
A human starts to choke.
The craven sleeps.
Slumped in a peaceful sprawl upon its chair
Clutching a point made moot by modern logic like a prayer.
Jul 2, 2012
Jul 2, 2012 at 12:02 PM UTC
Embalmed skin -
seemingly made anew,
yet pocked with sores…
from a life past.
The then waylaid heart
needed only whisper…
And long was the walk
through the cursed labyrinth
of sharp worldly things.
Nov 14, 2023
Nov 14, 2023 at 11:55 AM UTC
many of his posts tilted
like trees tired of the wind; wires sagged,
red rusted, but still jabbed the errant cow
when duty called
three quarters a century
he rode the same trail; of late,
he had gone afoot, the saddle too heavy
for him to heft
walking, he reconnoitered
the tracks with more care--hooves of his myriad steers,
a few equine signs of the farrier’s labor
still there, fast fading
his boot prints were
more numerous now, and sometimes
tamped down by the few beasts left
in his herd
across the line lay his dead
neighbor’s pastures, peppered with mesquite,
pocked by fire ant holes; no livestock grazed, but the giant turbines whined, white whipsaws slashing not timber, but blue sky
driven by the relentless winds,
they called to him, in chanted chorus, issuing a premonition:
one day soon, your fence will fall, and the path you trod
will bear no new tracks for other souls to read
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 10:40 PM UTC