"populates" poems
The street
filled with tomatoes,
midday,
summer,
light is
halved
like
a
tomato,
its juice
runs
through the streets.
In December,
unabated,
the tomato
invades
the kitchen,
it enters at lunchtime,
takes
its ease
on countertops,
among glasses,
butter dishes,
blue saltcellars.
It sheds
its own light,
benign majesty.
Unfortunately, we must
****** it:
the knife
sinks
into living flesh,
red
viscera
a cool
sun,
profound,
inexhaustible,
populates the salads
of Chile,
happily, it is wed
to the clear onion,
and to celebrate the union
we
pour
oil,
essential
child of the olive,
onto its halved hemispheres,
pepper
adds
its fragrance,
salt, its magnetism;
it is the wedding
of the day,
parsley
hoists
its flag,
potatoes
bubble vigorously,
the aroma
of the roast
knocks
at the door,
it's time!
come on!
and, on
the table, at the midpoint
of summer,
the tomato,
star of earth, recurrent
and fertile
star,
displays
its convolutions,
its canals,
its remarkable amplitude
and abundance,
no pit,
no husk,
no leaves or thorns,
the tomato offers
its gift
of fiery color
and cool completeness.
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A Coffin—is a small Domain,
Yet able to contain
A Citizen of Paradise
In it diminished Plane.
A Grave—is a restricted Breadth—
Yet ampler than the Sun—
And all the Seas He populates
And Lands He looks upon
To Him who on its small Repose
Bestows a single Friend—
Circumference without Relief—
Or Estimate—or End—
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“i’m done with furries”
i.
i can’t dream your dreams,
but you’ve told me about them.
you wear an owl mask
shaped by fists and transgression;
a laceration splits your side
from a skin split
to your rib splits.
your love,
Bill Clinton or Donkey Kong
(whoever populates your thoughts),
crack your bare skin
until makeup
leaks out of your pores.
you dream of emulating art;
O hanging from a ceiling claw,
clicking heels against drywall
until leg muscles give up
and her diaphragm accordions close.
but who is your sculptor?
who is your artist?
ii.
alas, i am only
a paper mache bird.
i flinch when it rains,
i flinch when i move;
my paper skin
could cave in
from lip crack to *** crack.
(i hate
Inside Out.
but, i’ve only watched it once,
and i’ve been told
my eyes would adjust
on the second viewing.)
i dream of emulating art;
Marat in an ice bath,
tragedy and love and death
captured
without conflict.
but who is my muse?
who won’t break my bones?
iii.
you don’t know my dreams either,
but we could dream together.
two reveries in polyphony
of an owl and bird *******
making love
before they
make art.
our love
is ******* weird;
a childhood seesaw
we’re trying to
find the perfect balance
to with our weight.
we dream different things;
**** fantasies and intimate kissing,
but that doesn’t matter.
at this point in two years,
we can see through each other.
i can’t make art without you.
you aren’t done with furries.
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 11:15 PM UTC
In this age of 3D Entertainment
and surround sound speakers;
of high definition and films extra features,
electronic mail and internet dating.
Where tectonics fail yet can be shown on
paper graphs and charts and diagram art.
These decades of speed and cynicism.
Where digits reign as idols flop
from pedestals and into bars.
Where your wildest dreams lie not
in your heart but in your favourite shop.
In this land of greed and want
and discord of the highest scale.
Is it peace and virtue that won
you the right to work from home;
eating breakfast in bed, worrying
only if jokes are stale?
Is it fine that your success
has led others to fail?
In this game of snakes and ladders
who populates the pit?
Those who were unfortunate
enough to be born into it.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 6:36 PM UTC
Your long neck twists itself
into a graceful question mark.
Tall as a man your legs
carry you to waters where you feed.
Sloughs and ponds - even the
occasional drainage ditches.
You lend an elegance to the world.
You do not destroy or plunder,
but snack on fishy delights
taken up in your sword of a bill.
Blue heron, thrive.
Your estuaries and flood plains
are disappearing as civilization
populates the earth.
Pragmatists take the world as it is.
Lovers of animals sorrow
that one day you will be extinct.
What do you add to this world?
You are not a shopping mall
or housing development.
What you do is add grace
and beauty to our world,
making it a more beautiful
place to live.
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 2:47 PM UTC
How does the ocean paints so well ?
The inkblots of white
That populates the sky
How does a drop of water
Turns to a mirror
How can a cloud feel?
And some forest leaves, smile as emeralds
And a rose, sings love
And a sunflower, passes as a guide to a star above
How one does not appreciate a star
That is inside his eye but yet still far
How one does not appreciate the moon
That soothes the air not too soon
That caresses the expressions of the ocean
How one does not feel the sun
That is ever-present inside each and everyone
Mar 26, 2021
Mar 26, 2021 at 8:12 AM UTC
The night was rainy, hot and humid. It was the kind of night that populates steamy, black and white, noir movies where someone is murdered. The stars seemed reduced to sloshing behind moldy gray clouds, as damp and listless as seaweed in the surf.
“Let’s go see a movie,” Sophy suggested, as she brought up the Fandango website on the 70” smart TV. This quickly drew a brouhaha of excited interest.
“Ooo!, Bullet Train,” Anna said. “Elvis!” Lisa gushed.
“Where the Crawdads sing!” Sunny gasped.
“Super pets!” Leong declared, pointing - producing groans all around - THAT was a no-go.
“Maverick!” I said. “I could do that,” Sunny agreed, “he’s crazy but I’m a Cruise fan.” she added.
In the end we decided to do a movie marathon with “Maverick” that night and “Elvis”, “Bullet Train” and “Where the Crawdads sing,” on Sunday.
As we ordered our treats at the theater concession stand, a tall, skinny, spotted, teenage boy attempted to flirt with Lisa. He smiled at her as confidently as a lizard, but sagged, like a shirt whose coat hanger was removed, when she pointedly ignored him.
Aug 6, 2022
Aug 6, 2022 at 1:10 PM UTC
Take me home With lovely streams of water and no tears
Take me home where greenery over populates the land
Take me home where a swing hangs from a tree
Take me home where the sun light always cuts through the towering trees
Take me home where clouds are like water color
Take me home where vines grow up ever wall of brick
Take me home where there is no pain
Take me home where there is days of thunder and rolling clouds
Take me home because I can use these tools
To make me a better person
Take me home
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 6:13 PM UTC
The full moon makes a shiny appearance, briefly, through the bars.
Not for more than five minutes she dances for me. Not for more than a glance, but enough for her face to again haunt my thoughts.
Darkness takes over the sky from where I stand, once again. But the mere faded memory of her light populates my thoughts with a glow of hope and joy. Sadness mixes with this joy, tears turn into courage when she smiles at me, her name echoes with every rhyming word, her face shows up on every shade, every single star brings back memories of her eyes.
Sleep now seems like my only ticket to be with her, so again I lay with none but my memories, hoping for her to visit my dreams.
Night has been my best companion. Alone, left with my thoughts and nothing else. Now I can be myself, can at last meet my beloved again. She awaits me in the realm of my dreams.
Time spent these days seem like a looping nightmare, and when finally asleep is when really I am alive and back in reality. Daytime feels a coma-like state.
I shall leap out of these bars and walls one day and never allow myself to daydream like this again, and my only warranty is that she will be with me, asleep or awake.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 12:00 AM UTC
MANY MOONS AGO
"Ahhhhhh...!"
she ahhhhhs.
"Another one!"
The moon doesn't let on
it's the same old moon.
"Moon gone....moon gone!"
she had cried in alarm
on becoming a watcher
of the skies.
Once her mind had latched on
to her idea of "moon"
she was relcutant
to let it go.
I watched my young ancient
see her hold a moon
in the palm
of her mind
for the very first time
observe her
come to the conclusion
that the new moon is
indeed a new moon.
She imagines all the other moons
hiding in the night.
Or maybe that stars are moons
that are dwindling out of sight.
Maybe this moon is the daughter
of the one that's gone before?
Or could this be a "son moon."
I smile as I see her
put one and one together
come up with 10 and a half.
I let her follow through
her thought.
She populates the sky
with many moons
before reluctantly letting them
all go
settles for a singular moon
that forever changes
its faces.
I too unwilling to let go
her night of many moons.
Rather sad that my mythical girl
has to settle for the knowledge of
the ages.
I enjoyed her
making the world
in her own image
the Goddess inside her
fading...fading.
When she has entered
the time of being
16 and three quarters
moon has long been
a single creation.
I smile at who
she was
creating a cosmos
with what
thought was
available to her.
She many moons
removed from her
first astronomical self.
I laugh as she whistles
in stops and starts
"No Moon at all"
( the Julie London version )
dealing as she does
with differential calculus.
"See...?" she says
"...m equals change in y over change in x."
I unable to follow
where she goes.
The moon and I both
letting on
she is the same
little girl.
Nov 25, 2017
Nov 25, 2017 at 5:21 AM UTC
As we listen to the silence,
A world of noise
Populates our barren mind.
We bring life
To the once subdued void,
Only to ***** it out
Like a whimpering candle
When we inevitably forget.
Mar 20, 2021
Mar 20, 2021 at 12:35 AM UTC