"propping" poems
Sun to set, to herald the arrival of my moon
Prepare my vessel for an odyssey, golden mast and all
Best be on my way, best be soon...
Done this a hundred times come every nightfall
This night, I wish it different, wish it otherwise
My head isn't where it's supposed to be
Swimming in the clouds, in the star spangled sky
Speaking of plans to which the heart would agree
Time is now, it's time to finally drift away
Let go of all worldly trepidations
Hold all unfounded apprehensions at bay
Be brave to pursue fantastical notions
This journey ahead, I want to immortalise
Don't think I'd want to turn back
Leave behind the pillow stifled cries
With the moon as my guide across an ocean of black
*"Close your eyes and just feel the drift
Know that the stars are protectively watching
Picture your moon; her hands bearing a gift
A gift you'd soon receive, after much longing"
"Feel the water, like a thousand hands propping you afloat
Passing you over to more hands that lay ahead
Lurching forward gently, this ethereal boat
Rest now upon your giant floating bed"*
I took that leap of faith... I'm sailing
Cresting and bobbing towards my moon
I hear the stars for they are singing
Lulling me by with a celestial tune
On my way, now on this nighttime adventure
Don't think I'll ever look back
Together this night would span forever
Floating endlessly in a sea of black
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
Rhyme, the rack of finest wits,
That expresseth but by fits
True conceit,
Spoiling senses of their treasure,
Cozening judgment with a measure,
But false weight;
Wresting words from their true calling,
Propping verse for fear of falling
To the ground;
Jointing syllabes, drowning letters,
Fast'ning vowels as with fetters
They were bound!
Soon as lazy thou wert known,
All good poetry hence was flown,
And art banish'd.
For a thousand years together
All Parnassus' green did wither,
And wit vanish'd.
Pegasus did fly away,
At the wells no Muse did stay,
But bewail'd
So to see the fountain dry,
And Apollo's music die,
All light failed!
Starveling rhymes did fill the stage;
Not a poet in an age
Worth crowning;
Not a work deserving bays,
Not a line deserving praise,
Pallas frowning;
Greek was free from rhyme's infection,
Happy Greek by this protection
Was not spoiled.
Whilst the Latin, queen of tongues,
Is not yet free from rhyme's wrongs,
But rests foiled.
Scarce the hill again doth flourish,
Scarce the world a wit doth nourish
To restore
Phœbus to his crown again,
And the Muses to their brain,
As before.
****** languages that want
Words and sweetness, and be scant
Of true measure,
Tyrant rhyme hath so abused,
That they long since have refused
Other cæsure.
He that first invented thee,
May his joints tormented be,
Cramp'd forever.
Still may syllabes jar with time,
Still may reason war with rhyme,
Resting never.
May his sense when it would meet
The cold tumor in his feet,
Grow unsounder;
And his title be long fool,
That in rearing such a school
Was the founder.
3k
I tiptoe across the wooden floor avoiding all the creaks.
Moonlight streaming through open windows of a silent summer night,
casting shadows over rumpled sheets of a well-used king size bed.
I hear the water running in the bathroom across the hall,
grabbing clothing strewed around the room I move with ninja speed.
Hunting for the elusive pair of ******* I just can’t seem to find.
Forget it, time is almost running out, I need to leave before that door opens.
Rushing now I grab my stash and head for the front door,
lightly hopping, stealthily propping as I pull on piece by piece.
Last, my shoes, I grab as I unlock the front door,
grab my keys, leave the note and run out barefoot.
“It was fun, I had to run, see you again someday,”
get in my car, start the engine, drive, drive away.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 10:55 PM UTC
the commander in chief
has a propensity
to use all kinds
of weaponry
his Nobel Peace Prize
is looking rather tainted
as he is a man
who so likes war pictures to be painted
he's stated he'll make a limited strike
on Syrian soil
but why would a so called man of peace
need to become embroiled
is he propping the Military Industrial Complex up
those poor arms traders who require billions
for their impoverished cups
he might yet be making a miscalculation
as to where his fires a missile
for it may be greeted
with not such a friendly smile
the Middle East is a place
where some moderation is sorely needed
there are others who have a divergent view
to the commander in chief
they may take it upon themselves
to act in a certain way
which shall lead to some
very grey days
an explosive situation
is on the horizon
and the ramifications
are too dire
to contemplate
may the commander in chief
not press to the brink
for it may mean
peace on the planet is bound to sink
he must take a level headed approach
to any military activity
as it will mean
that harmonic relations
are in a state of permanent injury
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 1:50 AM UTC
All our country's taxpayers are becoming enraged
Bailing out companies which have been mismanaged
Countless millions have been forked out
Dollar amounts which are exceptionally stout
Ever the taxpayer is called upon to cough up
Filling the always depleted company's cup
Giving generously has got to cease pretty soon
Helping them is a cost that's gone well beyond the moon
Injecting our hard earned is too much
Just let them stand on their own crutch
Kick those CEO's into a reality check fashion
Let them not receive anymore of our kind ration
Money has been misspent by our former government
Never ending the out flow it's time for some abatement
Offer not another cent to those ailing companies
Propping them stresses the taxpayer's arteries
Questions must be asked about those per unit costs
Regularly increasing and so high are their imposts
Shores abroad can produce goods for lesser amounts
They run a more efficient book of accounts
Under a burgeoning payout us taxpayers are gripped
Vast savings we'd make if they were nipped
We've been supporting the big end of town for years
X marks the spot where we've been left in arrears
Yonder the companies can take their travails
Zilch is what they'll be receiving from our taxpayer bails
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 9:15 PM UTC
I want a nobody.
A faceless commuter swearing as the machine ignores his credit card. Or the guy two tables to the left who isn’t checking his watch because he isn’t waiting on someone. Any hoodie-wearing, adidas-laced, prospective english major rambling along the sidewalk.
I want a nobody.
‘Cause there’s never a somebody that won’t say “I love you” because it’s numbed by too many mouths that don’t form their lips the right way. The somebodies slide it off their careless tongues—
because little words are pennies in tip jars.
But Nobody, he’ll say
I love the way you put on a jacket
like some kind of whip-snap in the lapels and collar
tipping your chin up and
hooking your silver-ringed thumbs in the pockets
and I love how you flip through books
eager to break the spine but not fold the pages
holding your breath to hold the focus
propping open a paperback between long tapered fingers
and how the barista at the coffeeshop knows your face!
and blush rises like foam on your cheeks
because it’s so ******* incredible how
when you drum your fingers
you don’t drum you press
into a phantom piano
the treble clef of Linus and Lucy
or The Entertainer
or, if your eyes have already gotten deeper
—in a mossy well of thought—
it’ll be Augustana’s Boston
dancing C-E-C-E-G-E-C-E
in the jumping tendons of your right hand.
*
oh darling, I’m in love with
your clumsy movements when you fall into bed
wrapping a thick comforter over your bare shoulders
curling your legs as you settle on your side
hair fanned out on the bedsheet because
the pillow’s too close to the wall
but lovely, I don’t love you
because I’m not real at all
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 10:23 PM UTC
Lost in Assimilation...
Propping me up
And down with the victim
Lost in Assimilation....
Detach the guilt
And lead from the symptoms
Lost in Assimilation....
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 5:26 PM UTC
There’s a horse in my backyard,
Most magnificent to regard,
Black his colour, long his mane
Upon his shoulder tangling down.
Jet coat shines and muscles ripple
As he rears and prances danger.
He’s a stallion, powerfully built.
His name is Anger.
There’s another little pony,
Very lovable is this one.
Bright and sunny is her nature,
White and gold her bristling colour.
As everybody’s favourite choice,
She works the long, extended hours,
But overworked, she has a voice!
She is Compassion.
Next, the pinto comes for breakfast,
Trotting sweetly to the repast,
Tough and wiry, head tossed gaily,
Snorting, stamping, propping daily,
He’s the one with his own mind,
Hard mouth, slow to understand
What is needed tags behind.
He’s called Willpower.
Can’t leave out the lovely racer,
Chestnut, and the red lights lace her!
Most eye-catching, charged, and ready,
Whipping round upon a penny,
Found where other horses run,
She’ll toss you off if she thinks she can,
Ever dancing in the sun.
Dependency.
There are many steeds at stable
In my backyard. I am able
To learn to manage every one
Under tuition of the Son.
Jealousy, Envy, Hope and Fear
Are some of the others that I hold dear.
Each has its place and each its task
And each its sting.
For the rider who is highly skilled,
And has his mounts all daily drilled,
Will play life’s game of polo well.
His coach will keep him on the ball.
And every horse will become his friend,
Learn good manners, when to stretch,
When to pull and twist and send
The ball to goal!
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 8:13 PM UTC
She might be beautiful
On the outside
Hair, makeup, false smiles
Perfectly applied
She reflects warmth
Taking credit for stolen heat
She claims to protect
But she welcomes their defeat
A symbol of humanity
Though she possesses none
Propping up evil incarnate
Isn't a job for just anyone
NCL August 2019
Aug 4, 2019
Aug 4, 2019 at 7:35 PM UTC
Taffy stretched streaks of color in the sky
Propping up cotton candy clouds
That pour lemon rain drops
upon lollipop trees
and fill syrupy rivers
that overflow onto sugary shores.
It was along that riverbank that I first saw her. Ignoring my presence, she gazed quizzically into that river, silently counting each ripple in the water, and with only a few hours of sunlight left,
to quit now would make her day a waste.
You see, she had this theory that if you time it right, a person could dodge every wave and submerged stone on their way upstream.
When I asked her, "Why not just float downstream?", she responded simply,
"Because everyone goes that way".
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 7:37 PM UTC
Outside a church a girl with permanent
mine deep scratches on her face
silently sells me matches-I light a match
and through the round church window
I see a crucifix propping Gods eye open-
the earth his spinning eye-the cross and eye
bridging time-humanity's leap into a new religious
paradigm; cross and earth meet, man's divine
awareness is complete.That night I light two
matches beneath a full moon and place my
hand beneath the flames and see God the
hooded falcon and Jesus his falcon-they cannot
see the fire in the eyes of each other.
Dreams were my bird of prey as i slept-
I was drawn to a wilderness where Christ
wept nails and howled beneath a full moon.
The wind caressed my wings and his hair-
he looked into my eyes and intoned a prayer
and rain-stones came down onto the plains
and bounced off my bedroom window pane
waking me-in the mirror I could still see the
figure of Christ preserved within my eyes.
I watched the TV and Jesus witnessed history
in documentaries. Jesus returned in a dream,
watched the earth in two streams and altered
its history- ended poverty and war, then drank
from the waters. After waking, this was replayed
in my eyes- Jesus they would vaguely recognize
and in return he didn't accept his reflection
in the waters of the streams.
Dec 30, 2011
Dec 30, 2011 at 4:18 AM UTC
A torrent gushes from the serpent’s mouth
wave upon breaking wave; it’s ALL fake news
swiftly eroding what is left to lose.
Democracy’s waterlogged corpse drifts south,
a bloated mess; all waters to infuse
with putrefaction, thus to breed disease
uncivil war invades our fantasies;
the polarized extremes now pay their dues.
Propping things up: it’s what they do the best—
business as usual, pawns all occupied
in scaffolding facades upon the West
and sculpting the friezes of fratricide…
but underground, the currents cave away.
Media will fail; God brings a brighter day.
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 3:03 PM UTC
I watch the loping invalids in the courtyard
nil by nil by nil feet
How to describe a sensation such as heat
to them? The interminable sun and so on
I wonder if they understand that
Light itself is not heat
whereupon the bell sounds
their minds divide and fog in the somnolent air
I look at a Dupuytren in the room
Cord around the chair
His clothes hanging off him
Trying to move his remarkable shock of hair
From his eyes
My room looks out beyond the yard
It is high up - precarious
Through that picturewindow, the world without
is framed, beyond the walls the oldtown
spires and roofing
I see my own sadness, my impotence
In every inch of the heights
the girls come back, propping black bikes against
the gate;
my legs are wrapped in a blanket
and I feel nothing below my waist
Through a system of cables and consent
my companion molls in Bergonic poise
each day the room behind his eyes receded, the heart
lessening
the birds gathered around the bathroom doors to be fed
He read about Escher in bed
waiting to be plugged
unbeknownst rigours of treatment, and
unbeknownst methods
until he forgot those days in Margate
the sound of his nieces
and everything he read about Escher –
the light makes dull
the precision of the thorn
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 12:46 PM UTC
Scaffolded, encased in mortar
Propping up bricks of self esteem
Doubt had set in. Crumbling top
Layers absorbed....did they notice?
Felt but.....did they see it?
Who are "they"? Seemingly
Important and high ranking
Well....on a scale of 1-10 "they"
Pushed the 100 button golloped
Up all you can eat buffet.
Sit tight on your swing swaying to miss
Their broken sentences to avoid choking
In the solid efforts to snap your
Backbone, your spine tingling 'sit in'
Scares the beige from its safe spot
Red rioting around alerting the bull
Standing in the corner field, far left
Of your vantage point. Scraping hooves
Kicked up a stink large enough to have
You believing "they" hold all the cards
You trodden underfoot bilging cement
Running through your veins.
"They" didnt just see it
"They" designed, patented and claimed
The rights to "You"....
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
at most points of your life you have to take a stand
this usually means propping up your own causes
in a way that allows everyone else to take a step back
the myth of the strong individual
every once in a while you have to shed a tear
when young, as a means of attracting attention
as you age, you cry toward yourself
as true maturity takes over, the plaque of the years
puts an end to this ridiculous practice
truth is unknowable
the unicorn just told me
so I spread it around
coldly, life is based on shared lies
how anarchy lifts the soul
great heights of blessed freedom
from you
of course he was right
we are built for small communities
where information dribbles in
in a process called understanding
not this ever accelerating gyre
it is just too **** big
so what good does insolence deliver?
well, it can be very inventive
and people are left confused anyway
no matter what you say
or how you say it
whats a middle finger for, anyway?
maybe there’s a point to all this that everyone has missed
everyone but Voltaire
and he still ran out of time and space
I thought I was finished but I was mistaken
you see, warm air can hold more moisture than cold air
and grass grows in the direction of the sun
fences tend to separate things but cannot go on forever
and once you see a fractal, that’s about all you can see
there in the cinema
everything is staged for a purpose
maybe comedy or tragedy or adventure
then its all edited in order to present its very own meaning
that is not art
its tomfoolery
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 8:14 AM UTC
thick skin;
born from years
of frustration
exile
and failure
a diamond fella
they called him
a gentle man
by any other name
in my book
always with open arms
giving his time freely
helping people
was his vice
and ultimately
his undoing
understated in beige
camouflaged in denim
cloaked in 3-0-1 zips
sipping a beer
I've never even heard of
all the time I knew him
every time I saw him
sat on his own
or propping up the bar
he was playing Worms
the 2007 Edition
on a retro brick mobile
just to be around people
the social animal inside
drawn like a moth to the flame
the flickering glow
the background chatter
the clinking of glasses
the deluge of laughter
surfing the vibes of waves
drowned in the welcomed
cacophony of bar culture
he was everywhere
and nowhere
the man with no name
seemingly knowing everyone
but he always
sat alone
tonight my friend
someone
somewhere
is raising a glass
with your
name on it
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 6:53 PM UTC
It was like a dream -
a paradise of intoxicating scents,
the heat of passionate caresses
then the moaning, convulsive
transfer of genetic information.
Rolling on top she declared her love.
Still panting, he combed
his fingers through her hair and
whispered, “Make me a dad some day, ”
“Good as done, she said”
and clicked her ring to his.
With head thrown back
he said the word again,
“Dad”
It had a solid ring to it,
“Dad”
“Dad, Dad.
WAKE UP, DAD! ”
Searching his way
through the pastel haze,
he saw the visage
of a largish boy-man
hovering over the couch.
spoken sounds gradually coalesced
into familiar vocal code –
“The car keys…”
“To the mall…”
“You promised…”
“Tux for the prom…”
Propping his head on his hands
he surfaced in the land of now.
“You OK Dad? ”
“Sure son and so are you.”
He drew a ring of jingling metal
from his pocket and gave it over -
pointing with his free hand
like a cue for the clarinets,
“Drive carefully son.
Always drive carefully.”
December, 2006
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 5:19 PM UTC
are as acorns. I bury
them; by noon forgetting
them. The rain and snow
mix. The earth beneath
my feet freezes with all
my bright ideas of making
a brighter year. So, I skate
on the topping. And as fall
arises I’m propping myself up
as a scarecrow. The ground melts
the snow. And I see the buried
wish, crisp as apples in a dish. I’d
make a pie with them all. So, high
it’d topple and fall. But this year
I shan’t. No, this year the solution –
No resolutions!
Jan 1, 2021
Jan 1, 2021 at 11:05 AM UTC
Watching all the grey haired men, propping up the bar with the lines of age on their face
Their sordid desires pretty clear as they watch you dance in this place
Your skin is framed right above your knee high boots and below your little skirt
I just watch you from the corner of the bar dancing on the dust and dirt
I see the wildness in your eyes your brown hair flows to your waist
You don't want none of her they tell me, keep your distance or you'll loose your faith
But Rosie, I've seen you running barefoot through the puddles, screaming at the top of your voice
Rosie I don't want to need you like this but you leave me little choice
The way you dress, it's absolutely crazy, like your ahead of the game
And when e fat trucker orders 5 pints you say I'll have he same
When you should have been studdyimg real hard you were always out playing
Catching the eyes of the white collar boys with the beauty you were displaying
Running off in the summer heat, carrying the puddle water that still clings to your feet
Singing loudly, when the lights are all turned out, that must be Rosie the boys all start to shout
You can often see her, dancing in the all boys bar, or getting into the back seat of some random boys car
Wearing nothing, walking along the beach, Rosie tell me why it is you never notice me
I don't have nothing much to give I could be the anchor that grounds you
You could bring to me the laughter you have or the madness that surrounds you
Rosie where do you live, I hear it's a tent out on the pier
Come into the mainland and walk with me you have nothing left to fear
Who's the show for, what went wrong let me find out
Rosie if I could walk with you just please in me don't doubt
I want to find out the ingredients that were used to create someone so wild
You told me two crazy lovers had some fun and then along came a child
So you walk these streets, and never play by the rules
You said people that live there life to please offers well aren't they all just fools
You said I see the way, the old men stare in the bar I'm the one thing they can't have
And if I was only half as wild they wouldn't want me half as bad
Those girls who are never tied down they're the best you see
But maybe when I'm old and grey I'll settle down they they'll look for another Rosie
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 5:36 AM UTC
I wish I have wings
Flapping and flapping
Leaping and propping
I would have gone searching
It’s so long
Since I have seen your smile
That shines to make me happy
Those eyes
That harbour an ocean of love
Behind the black spheres
It’s so long
Since I heard your whispers
In my ears
That brings a bouquet of smell
As earthy as the orchids blooming this spring
It’s so long
We have not sat together
Talking to the twigs
Singing with the breeze
All your songs,
Sweetened with the wrongs
I wish I have wings
Flapping and flapping
I would have gone searching
You and only you,
Today and tomorrow,
Morning and evening
Autumn and spring
Flying and flying…………………………!!
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 6:06 AM UTC
There's something special about Grandmothers
That nobody knows
A sweet little kept secret
Like kisses to your nose.
Her heart is made of gold
And filled with honey to the brim
Her eyes were specially picked
From fallen stars that never go dim.
Her spirit comes from rain
That fell from the sky
Caught in God's bucket
And poured to make her alive.
Her legs were made for dancing
And propping when she gets old
They were made from strong tree trunks
Chopped by God's axe made of gold.
Her hands were made from leather
Polished with God's tears
And become soft and papery
After so many years.
Her hair is like the finest silk
Whether it curly or straight
Pulled from God's head himself
And sewn into her scalp on her birthday.
Grandmother's are beautiful
Fashioned after the Lord
Loving, kind, and strong
Trustworthy, intelligent, and adored.
They always know right from wrong
And mend things when they break
Their words like band-aids
Healing up your emotional scrapes.
There's something special about Grandmother's
That nobody knows
A sweet little kept secret
Like kisses to your nose.
Nov 23, 2010
Nov 23, 2010 at 1:51 PM UTC
*we’re merely strangers
disguised as a family.
four cornerstones
propping up the dinner table --
a doll house
when seen through a telescope, though
the peachy porcelain pillars are tarnished by
the cracks at their corners.
“perfect family” shines in neon lettering on the threshold.
it looms over us, frantically peppering the conversation
long gone stale.
it stings my eyes,
and burns my tongue
to speak.
my teeth are plastic,
my fingers plasticine,
pieced together carelessly
a millennia ago,
when warmth still existed in the spaces between us.
now, we are cloaked in our own despondencies,
eyes staring not at each other,
but through.
we float past each other
as ghosts;
though I’m the only one
who hears the echoes.*
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 5:51 AM UTC
I remember when
I first read Bukowski
I thought he was a
joke
his poems weren’t even
poems
they were just a bunch
of lines
and sentences
strung about like flimsy
washing telling
mundane stories
about insipid things
who was he to venerate Cummings
(as if he had any of Edward’s
profundity)
and who was he to write
poems about poets not
writing poems
or his simple lines propping
up grossly defective and out of
date words
like jeroboams
or how he’d drink
(four-fifths a gallon of wine)
then write more derivative
lines
who was he to live so long
and write so much
drivel
and
claptrap
to other poets’ literary
athleticism
our darling Chuck was a
pedestrian
he was born a pensioner
but never received a
pension
his poems flow
like a river
to
no
where
and after reading them
the first time
I withdrew
my poetic concern
but then I read them again
and then
again
and I
realised
I was in his poem’s
stories
and that foolish girl I knew
that dense and brainless
denizen of triteville
was the heroine of
his ‘splashing’
and his love for classical
his love for wine
and even his love
for Edward
matched even mine
but most of all
and here
my rhetoric ends
the moment I sighed oh yes
when I read his poem
yes
you guessed it
‘oh, yes’
if not for his whimsical
words
or his misaligned wit
love him for his
grasp of regret
and the sheer sentiment
he can emit
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 2:08 AM UTC
Open the door with pockets full
of preconceptions,
only to be led out the back
with words of commiserations
stitched together by the man,
second-door-on-the-left:
public relations.
Because the PR man
will always paint a prettier picture
because they brush by number and
read from the holy business scripture;
that one no-one knows about- it’s a fable -
the paper that’s propping up the corporations table.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 1:00 PM UTC