"pyrenees" poems
Our Pyrenees mix
is afraid of the small goats
he lives to harass
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 1:02 PM UTC
Leaves
Murmuring by miriads in the shimmering trees.
Lives
Wakening with wonder in the Pyrenees.
Birds
Cheerily chirping in the early day.
Bards
Singing of summer, scything thro' the hay.
Bees
Shaking the heavy dews from bloom and frond.
Boys
Bursting the surface of the ebony pond.
Flashes
Of swimmers carving thro' the sparkling cold.
Fleshes
Gleaming with wetness to the morning gold.
A mead
Bordered about with warbling water brooks.
A maid
Laughing the love-laugh with me; proud of looks.
The heat
Throbbing between the upland and the peak.
Her heart
Quivering with passion to my pressed cheek.
Braiding
Of floating flames across the mountain brow.
Brooding
Of stillness; and a sighing of the bough.
Stirs
Of leaflets in the gloom; soft petal-showers;
Stars
Expanding with the starr'd nocturnal flowers.
3.1k
Did I ever tell you of the day I cleansed my Saturday?
Saturday kept kissing me goodbye, telling me 'I need to be free, please let me be free,'
And I said,
"Acceptance,
Acceptance."
Once upon a time, Saturday weeped upon departure
But now I know that Saturday is fine
Doing a loop around the world
Tasting, touching, talking, taking,
And listening to tales from the Cascades to the Pyrenees
And every Saturday,
Saturday returns to tell me all she's seen.
And she tells me as I bathe her affectionately
Until she stops mid-sentence and we fall into a soft embrace, our essences dipping intimately into one another to recreate the world from those silver square circles suspended in a sunbeam
Saturday undresses me slowly
As if unrobing a long-dead Egyptian pharaoh
Gazing upon my naked body like shes the first in a thousand years
Each time a grand discovery of the New World
And we sink further into one another
As the silver square circles of the sunbeam imprint themselves beneath our eyes like diamond tattoos
And every Sunday I awake alone in bed,
With a note on the pillow.
"I am free,
And you understand
That this must be true love."
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 4:08 PM UTC
Those dog days of summer
Near forgotten and gone,
Are stored for the winter,
And remembered in song.
The dogs' days of winter
Tell a different tale,
Of dogs pulling sleds
In Alaska for mail;
Or searching the Alps
Bringing whiskey and ale,
Panting and pulling
In hills, waters and dales.
Siberian Huskies,
The Great Pyrenees,
The Alaskan Malamute,
Run off their tails
Battling death and disease.
The Keeshond
Doesn't wear
Wooden clogs,
Like the Newfie
And Wolfhound,
They're winter work dogs.
If working in snow
Isn't enough to freeze fur,
Look to the Lab,
In frigid waters
In layers of warm flab
Helping fishermen,
Or retrieving a lad.
These warm furied friends
Will work til their end.
The dog days of summer
Ran off with the pack,
Leaving the dogs
Of our winters
To haul, trail and track.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 12:13 PM UTC
Jimmy opened his suitcase in the room
at Lourdes and said Oh no there’s molasses
all over the clothes and shoes and I’ve got
a whole week here and he sat down in a chair
his head in his hands saying What have I done?
What am I going to do for clothes now? you
went over and looked in and sure enough
the molasses were over his clothes and shoes.
What am I going to do? he said and you said
Leave it to me Jim I'll sort it and you went through
the clothes taking out the items untouched
by the molasses and set them aside on the bed
and then carried the suitcase of black sticky items
Into the washroom and there one by one you carefully
washed them through with soap and water until
they were clean and smelt of soap and fresh air
and all the while 94 year old Jim sat in a chair
watching with his eyes watery and jaw hung loose
seeing the black water run down the wide plughole
and once it was done you wrung the clothes out
like your mother used to do when you were a kid
and hung them out on the balcony on the small
clothesline and placed the washed out black shoes
by the outside wall to dry out in the hot afternoon
sun and Jimmy came over and stood on the balcony
with one hand on the rail and the other on his stick
looking over at the Pyrenees in the distance and he
said That was real good of you. I owe you big time
and you stood next to him feeling the hot afternoon
sun on your face and arms and felt good and you
said You owe me nothing Jim I just did what some
good guy would and his watery eyes swept over you
matching the French sky’s watery afternoon blue.
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 4:04 AM UTC
welcome home!
i don’t have money for balloons but i figure since the county had enough money to repaint the roads, white and yellow might be just enough color to welcome you back to northeast ohio.
it’s a nice contrast. against the grey sky and the grey grass and the grey trees and my greying hair.
but enough about me. tell me what you’ve seen.
you’ve seen the pyramids and the pyrenees and the pygmies and the phillipines and i’ve seen pennsylvania and passed through Paris township
you’ve seen thailand and i’ve seen a therapist
you’re taking your life as far as you can take it and i take a pill because there are times when i just can’t take anything but enough about me
welcome home
i don’t have money for flowers but i figure since the county had enough money to repaint the roads, we could take a drive while you talk to me about all the girls you’ve seen.
the ones who are prettier than me with beautiful accents while my tongue is heavy with the cleveland “A” and my hair is turning grey and i’m starting not to wear so much makeup but you won’t notice anyway
you’ve crossed mongolia while i threw pennies in the monongahela
you’ve leaned your head on the wailing wall and i’ve leaned my head on my bathroom wall, wailing because i actually wanted you after all
i looked so beautiful that day and you know it. i looked at the mirror and thanked god for giving me at least one day.
and then i looked at you and i cursed him for not giving me at least one more.
welcome home.
i don’t have any plans but i figure since the county had enough money to repaint the roads, we could end up wherever you wanted.
i don’t know what the roads you’ve been on were lined with, with but here they’re lined with telephone lines and cash advances, even though no one talks to each other and we’re not advancing on anything, let alone cash
things haven’t changed. except my hair is getting gray but you’ve known me for twenty years, it was bound to happen someday. and i’ve decided that not wearing a lot of eye makeup is okay because i can see my family every day that way
but enough about me. tell me what you see.
i don’t have any place to be.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 6:44 AM UTC
1087
We miss a Kinsman more
When warranted to see
Than when withheld of Oceans
From possibility
A Furlong than a League
Inflicts a pricklier pain,
Till We, who smiled at Pyrenees—
Of Parishes, complain.
1.2k
snow-water dribble dots are mountain spheres on my sweater
outside, the cold is hol-ee ****
the weather is wholly enveloping wooly anythings
so good luck telling skies to quiet.
I tried, and the skies whispered back
by breaching the bottom lip of my jeans to crawl a great big
'ha
ha
ha
haaaaaaa'
up my Pyrenees spine like God had laid out a line of coke days ago and was only now ready to gracefully snort.
they said 'blizzard' last night,
I said 'blurry blank' in the morning
rain and slush and cold and rush and
no no no, my veins weren't heating up.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 11:18 PM UTC
There was a walk I took
When I was younger,
And love held my hand.
Crossing the Pyrenees barefoot and carefree,
I felt everything.
But your eyes were empty.
I remember when the rain came.
All the pain I carried,
Fell away behind me.
My footprints heartshaped in the mud,
Soaking deep into my soul.
You walked without a trace.
Something told me this was it.
I had dreams
Wider than the sky.
And you closed your heart
To all my love.
While I tried to fly,
You kept walking.
You kept walking;
That's all you could do.
So, oh I took that flight across the seven seas.
Hungry, I ate the world up.
I took my love with me.
You kept walking.
You kept walking.
That's all you knew how to do.
A journey into the light and darkness.
And I'm just beginning, baby.
Somewhere out there
I'll live my dreams.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 10:21 AM UTC
O Woman!
Speak!
Shout!
Yell!
Your voice
Though it seems
So low
Speak!
Shout!
Yell!
Let them know
That you
Are woman
Speak!
Shout!
Yell!
Let your voice be heard!
Through the grasslands of the Serengeti
In the swelling waters of the Mississippi
Past the scorching sands of the Gobi
High above the Pyrenees.
Speak!
Shout!
Yell!
In the Godless cities
Paved with fear and hate
In dark alleyways
Where the dead
And the desperate
Congregate
Through the suburbs of apathy
To the congresses of none
Demand that you be heard
You must be heard
For you are woman
Your voice
Is strong
You must speak for your sisters
That had no voice
That could not speak as woman
O Woman!
Speak!
Shout!
Yell!
Fight!
For you are woman
And woman is strong
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 10:00 PM UTC
*A stunning blue illusion with India yellow , crescent Moon , most assuredly the view from the Pyrenees in Spain , or possibly the beaches of Cancun
The 'Evening star' reflects her glory from snow covered Alps back
to enchanted celestial friends , but tonight it's back to factory boots , safety glasses and ear plugs , eyeing the clock for fifteen minute breaks , moving plate
steel down the line on concrete 'killing floors' for that Friday paycheck*
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 9:55 PM UTC
There is, or so I am told, a debate raging
In fashionable rooms and the halls of government
Which concerns snowflakes: specifically, whether each one
Is of a unique and heretofore unknown shape and formation,
Or whether God sees fit to send down identical reproductions,
Like so many Wilton Diptychs being flogged at market.
I have, on the odd occasion, have seen the snow
As it piles up in billowing waves or lumpy bluffs
In the Alps and the Pyrenees,
And, although I lack such learning
Sufficient to dispute the notion of their individuality,
I can say that, in collections of the thousands or millions,
They are indistinguishable from one another,
And, I suspect, all of their like that has come before.
Like so many of her age, barely beyond the blush of childhood,
My poor sister saw her world in stark colorations;
Thunderclouds of black, endless sunbeams of white,
With no room in her orbit’s spectrum for anything in between
(Sadly, she left this life before she could learn to embrace
The beauty to be found in fine raiments of beige, gray, and taupe).
I have buried siblings, buried husbands and lovers,
Buried memories and mistakes,
And in the endless cycle of embrace and bereavement
I have learned of life
That it is the process of accommodation and compromise,
And that it is only dark, austere death
That refuses to give itself unto the joys of negotiation.
It has lately come to pass that the wretched and lovelorn have,
Seeing no way out of their particular predicament,
Began writing my long-dead sister letters
Asking for her advice, indeed her blessing.
Can you imagine such a thing?
The postmaster of Thurn and Taxis (a very old and dear friend)
Has taken to bringing me some of these abjectly weepy epistles.
I’ve long since stopped reading them, of course;
They sing no new song, tread no new ground.
I simply feed them to a good strong fire,
As anyone seeking the aid of a dead young girl
Has already passed beyond the refuge of last resort.
Aug 7, 2017
Aug 7, 2017 at 1:25 PM UTC
A vessel borne from wisdom
Fit to sail the high torrid seas
A crew of vagabonds and heroes
From South America and the Pyrenees
Guided by the Captain Sir George the fifth
Set sail across the treacherous Atlantic pond
A message comes from the crows nest
An island east where the coast line stretches at the front and beyond
Moored up on the sand
The rusty anchor drops into the blue
The Captain demands exploration
From his uneducated but loyal crew
A vast Island of cliffs and sand
Where the trees touch the blue diamond sky
Etched into rocks are the tribal marking
Saying 'No further or you will die'
Captured by the natives
And slain one by one
A voyage of discovery abolished
Under the eyes of the blistering sun
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 8:09 PM UTC
Dabble in travel duel citizen?
Come from the land of elims?
Most are not from Rome or Turin,
Berlin or Bavaria-
Most don't speak Italian or German.
Likewise with Russian, Mandarin,
Arabic, the King's English, Hebrew.
No winding Rhine,
No rushing Niagara,
No swelling Yellow River.
All the ponds & gulfs left behind
Like Aden, Bothnia, Carpentaria.
No more Urals, no more Himalayas,
No Alps, no Andes,
No Atlas, no Pyrenees.
No more blackcurrants,
Going without papaya.
Put back that whiskey,
Send back that bourbon.
No more Jarlsberg cheese,
No more bottles of champagne.
Cut out the list of avocado,
No more palm or olive oils extra virign.
No more fancy foreign fruits,
No more spoiled rotten vegetables.
Right?
This is nationalism
As it's being directed,
You'll get to watch the film.
I'm sure it'll be inaccurate,
But I doubt it.
Feb 14, 2025
Feb 14, 2025 at 10:38 PM UTC
The end dear friend is just the entry and he pointed, but he never meant me, it was the old man sat inside me that the message was intended for.
I sat and wondered about the door and what was it the entry for and could it be he meant me after all?
Then the timepiece changed into a watchtower and it changed back on the hour, every hour
what tricks these eyes can play
what puzzles and to blind.
In the end I wouldn't mind a new beginning
somewhere with a decent climate
and
slightly South of the equator
where I could do a baked
potato
on the rocks.
but don't worry
they'll twin you with a town up
in the Pyrenees
which
you'll find out
will be full up with
the Chinese who'll
be
making origami
chewing gum from
Sorghum and
reciting verses from a book
by ...tse Tung
The end is just a fixture
another game we play
away.
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 12:17 PM UTC
"Red Right Ankle" by Colin Meloy
This is the story of your red right ankle
And how it came to meet your leg
And how the muscle bone and sinews tangled
And how the skin was softly shed
And how it whispered,
"Oh, adhere to me for we are bound by symmetry
And whatever differences our lives have been
We together make a limb"
This is the story of your red right ankle
This is the story of your gypsy uncle
You never knew cause he was dead
And how his face was carved an ripped with wrinkles
In the picture in your head
And remember how you found the key
To his hide-out in the Pyrenees,
But you wanted to keep his secret safe,
So you threw the key away?
This is the story of your gypsy uncle
This is the story of the boys who loved you
Who love you now and loved you then
And some were sweet and some were cold and snuffed you
And some just layed around in bed
And some, they crumbled you straight to your knees
Did it cruel, did it tenderly
Some they crawled their way into your heart
To rend your ventricles apart
This is the story of the boys who loved you
This is the story of your red right ankle
copyright Colin Meloy 2003
May 30, 2018
May 30, 2018 at 9:48 PM UTC