"ranchers" poems
Your colors are so heavy, how dare I, I cannot sleep. Years inundated under, through skin coils, marigold fields. Yellow crocuses, orange California poppies. Moors of cattle ranchers, yokes of oxen. Plasticine uber-confidence, silky white-skinned testubular thrice people harmonies. Blisses of contagion, contagious bliss. Wrists and incisors, tying down in a bedroom, waking up to live harps and choruses. You dance like you're so alive, but I'm so alive I can't dance. Or breathe. Or knead my fists of earthen wears, or sell my soul completely. I drove off a cliff last night, but the four foot fall ended neatly. The plateau authors my chance to sew my bright, beyond- my fortunes. But the hour before I fall asleep, seems to be the greatest torture.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:54 AM UTC
The Peace Process
I don’t know where I'm going with this
but there is peace in Colombia, the Marxist rebels lost
and their **** women soldiers in green fatigue and
weapons in arms will hand it all in for fashion magazines
Hair- dressing salons and babies in arms.
For women, a change from war to peace is easy to make
it will be worse for men who feel inferior without guns.
If Texas as an example had been a gun free zone you would
have ended up with tall queens as cowhands,
or what do I know left their oil wells and gone to Montana
So why did the Marxist lose, ******* I think more economical
beneficial, cash in hands better than a Marxist bible on the roof
28 years of peace the political parties in Colombia will have
no consensus as the blamed is car mechanics or ranchers
Everything is possible from the first female president in Colombia
or and openly gay governor in Texas.
Festive dresses and bulls with flowers on horns will be marching
down the Avenue in Houston.
Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 4:57 AM UTC
Many were their numbers
Living in city streets and slums
Brothers and sisters torn asunder
Gathered up like bums
Nineteenth century’s answer
Created by Children’s Aid Society
Indentured servants to farmers and ranchers
Shipped in cattle cars like propriety
Struggling in their suffering
Confused used and oft’ abused
Terror in their wayfaring
For being parentless accused
The disruptive ones placed in chains
Scattered to the winds across the land
The far west and the Great Plains
North to Canada and south of the Rio Grande
Billy here, Danny Boy there, and Sally who knows where
The Children of the Orphan Trains
r 13 Nov 13
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 8:20 AM UTC
THIS is what love is.
banana bubblegum and magnetic poetry
the crickets on my front porch at three in the morning
making origami cranes out of butcher paper
even when I forget whether it's mountain fold or
valley fold and my crane turns out looking like a
seamonkey in a blender
wildflowers!
striped button-down shirts and plastic dinosaurs
singing Juanes at the top of our lungs
(Gah, you know
I can't speak Spanish.)
laughing at the serious parts in movies
having the patience for when
the words don't come out
and I have to stop
and think
(for a very long time)
and half the time it doesn't make sense anyway.
impromptu dance sessions on the side of the road
doors flung open, radio up
chocolate chip pancakes
out-of-town adventures
mailboxes. LOTS.
balcony raves with lots of glowsticks
and let me borrow that top!
just letting me sleeeeeeep
the smell of new pointe shoes
of New Orleans
of bluebonnets
telling me when I look awful (please)
making me eat things that I don't like
SNUGGLEBUNNY TIME
drive-thru people who hate our guts
That's What She Said's.
praising Buddha naked
dysfunctional kites
paying in change at Chicken Express
late night phone conversations
when I sound drunk
(but I'm not,
I'm tired. I just would rather
talk to you
than sleep.)
silence.
cupcakes, uniform closets
not shaving our legs in the winter
shadow puppets, rap songs,
Slumdog Millionaire
making once-in-a-lifetime faces
looks that speak oceans
pecan pralines and symphony orchestras you'll
never play with again but for that night
you're family
and you'll never forget it.
matches (aren't always for candles)
thousands upon thousands of candids
and the not-so-candids
saving kisses in your pocket for later
Neverland, Disneyland, cats
yellow dresses and stage make-up
watermelon Jolly Ranchers
saying my name like it's wrapped in blankets
and knowing that
even though I don't say it
as much as I should:
I do.
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 1:51 PM UTC
When ranchers decide to do a thing,
Sometimes they just go through it.
What follows is a little fling
A neighbor did...don't do it.
The clearing of the land requires a little fortitude
Some ingenuity, and luck, and not a little courage.
So A.D. Volbrecht's story, though a little crude,
Is only strange to those who eat milk toast and porridge.
Rather than tear an old house down to clear a farming space,
A.D. enlisted help from his oldest son to haul the thing away.
Together then, the two grown men took on a moving race
To see if they could jack the house and move it in one day.
The morning saw a Donahue, low slung and meant to haul,
Waiting as the house was raised, (unsteady on new legs)
Then slowly lowered down again. T'would make a feller bawl
To see the old home place prepare to pack its bags.
Son Zane began a steady pull to move the old house home,
And A.D. took his place in front, flashers and flags to warn.
Slow going was their pace, and traffic stopped up some;
The actual move was tougher than the plan they'd formed.
So seven miles became a half a day, and challenges arose
How ever would they move the thing through town?
The power lines and traffic cops were obstacles; who knows
What kinds of tickets they'd be writing down?
Up ahead the airport gleamed, the tarmac shimmered black.
"Aha!" old A.D. cried, "I've found the way around!"
Hard left he turned on a county road, and cut the fence in back
And guided Zane and the old home shack to airport ground.
Western Airways flight was due sometime that afternoon;
Old AD rattled on up Runway One, old pickup running fast,
To find a gate to let the old house through, (and none too soon);
The tractor and its load sputtered through the parking lot at last.
In June a few years back, a farmer and his son pulled off a heist.
Stole some runway time and cut their journey short...
No harm done, though they'd never do it twice
Without winding up defenseless in the county court.
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 7:56 AM UTC
You may think Halloween's great
But it's the one holiday that I really hate
All the little sweet-toothed children
Always forget to brush their teeth
Even the one's that normally floss
When it's me vs. the candy, I've traditionally lost
Oh Halloween, I despise you
And all the cavities you bring
The SweetTarts and the lollipos
Caramel apples with nuts on top
Hershey's and Reese's
Skittles and all their sugary pieces
M&M;'s and Snickers
Why don't we just give out stickers?!
Jolly Ranchers and Gummi Bears
Instant cavities, everywhere!
So when October comes to an end
I wait for the patients they're sure to send
Filling after filling after filling
Children crying while I'm drilling
I don't like it, despite the business it provides
On the night of October 31st, I always hide
Not wanting to fuel the tragedy that always ensues
I hate Halloween, I really, really do.
Jan 21, 2011
Jan 21, 2011 at 2:56 PM UTC
I’m busy as a bus.
Ten hours on the telephone, research resources,
school staff, counsel clients.
Some sleep.
Then invite Lorraine downtown, the lovely loyal
secretary, to hear jammin jazz crew. By taxi tonight,
sans subway.
I’ve never been to this joint before
but admire the women in their dresses and makeup.
In New York, they smell wild. Elsewhere
women are ranchers and gardeners.
We find a small table in the crowd,
order drinks. The band is four young black men.
Lorraine is black too, by the by.
We get up to dance and I leave my cowboy boots
under the table. I’ve always enjoyed
the way Lorraine puts her arms around me.
I’m the oldest cat in the club
which is frightening
since just fifteen years ago I was the youngest.
I wink at the trumpet player with my fairly abandoned mien
who comes over to our table between sets.
He likes Lorraine. They jukebox it.
She falls in love.
Jan 17, 2023
Jan 17, 2023 at 6:56 AM UTC
o darling oh wohw ohhh dar-ling oh wohw wohw wohw dahrrr-leeeing some gunman walked into the mall
who shot Gabby Giffords? why what’s the reason for I said Sarah Palin with my cross-hair target I shot Gabby Giffords who saw her fall? I said gun laws people with my little eye I saw her fall who caught her blood? I said Daniel Hernandez who placed pressure to her wound with my finger caught her blood who shot Gabby Giffords? why what’s the reason for who'll make the shroud? I said Cochise County ranchers pressuring for tougher Mexican border laws I'll make the shroud with my thread and needle who'll interpret what she stood for? I said Tea Party constituents with my pick and shovel I’ll dig her grave who shot Gabby Giffords? why what’s the reason for who'll be the minister? I said Washington lobbyists with my little book I’ll be the minister who'll be the clerk? I said the media if it's not in the dark I'll be the clerk who'll carry the link I said Twitter I'll fetch it in a minute I'll carry the link who shot Gabby Giffords? why what’s the reason for who'll be chief mourner? I said American people I mourn for my love I’ll be chief mourner who shot Gabby Giffords? why what’s the reason for who'll carry the consequence? I said destitute lost their homes to Wall Street banks if it's not through the night I'll carry the moment who'll bear the sadness? We said the world both man and woman We'll bear sadness who shot Gabby Giffords? why what’s the reason for who'll sing a psalm? I said the poet as she sat on a bush I'll sing a psalm who'll toll the bell? I said factory worker because I can pull I'll toll the bell for all people of the land fell a-sighing a-sobbing when they heard the bell toll for poor Gabby Giffords. who shot Gabby Giffords? why what’s the reason for some gunman walked into the mall 9 mm Glock in his hand shot a bullet through her head 13 wounded 6 dead including little 9 year old girl Christina-Taylor Green who shot Gabby Giffords? why what’s the reason for
marching bands make me cry i don’t know why they’re so dazzling beautiful fun playing their instruments marching in uniformed unison they melt my heart eyes wet with sadness joy who shot Gabby Giffords? some gunman walked into the mall
Jan 28, 2011
Jan 28, 2011 at 2:19 AM UTC
you tasted like ******* and I tasted
like blue raspberry jolly ranchers
you tasted like what am I doing
and I'm sure I did too
you smiled and leaned in and
I put my fingers on your dimples
you pulled me on top and I forgot to think
I forgot that drugs that taste like
gasoline when they're "the real ****
aren't flavors I'm supposed to enjoy
you kissed my nose and said it was
weird because you are so closed off
but I make you want to open up
I shook my head and pretended that
wasn't the millionth time I've heard that one
oh I make you want to throw away your past
and get close to someone again?
cool, write us a happy ending too
I woke up this morning exhausted
with matted hair and smudged makeup
I kissed your neck, kissed your neck,
kissed your neck....
your roommate said she liked me
and I kissed your neck again.
you are movement
you are time
you are start middle finish
you are finish line, winning by a second
you said you don't want to open up
then tell me why you're here?
tell me why you're looking at me like that
and kissing me like that
and holding me like that
tell me why you're touching me like that
your insides are ripping and
you're dying to crawl out
I can see it in your stare
you were not expected
frankly you weren't really wanted
but I put my fingers in your
dimples and I forgot to breathe
I always forget to breathe
you tasted like ******* I mean that literally
you tasted like this isn't a good idea
but I want it so bad and I mean that literally
you looked at me and said
"no like, if I'm doing this it's because I mean it"
I wanted to tell you same thing
but looking back I don't think
I would have meant it
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 10:49 PM UTC
POLAND, France, Judea ran in her veins,
Singing to Paris for bread, singing to Gotham in a fizz at the pop of a bottle's cork.
"Won't you come and play wiz me" she sang ... and "I just can't make my eyes behave."
"Higgeldy-Piggeldy," "Papa's Wife," "Follow Me" were plays.
Did she wash her feet in a tub of milk? Was a strand of pearls sneaked from her trunk? The newspapers asked.
Cigarettes, tulips, pacing horses, took her name.
Twenty years old ... thirty ... forty ...
Forty-five and the doctors fathom nothing, the doctors quarrel, the doctors use silver tubes feeding twenty-four quarts of blood into the veins, the respects of a prize-fighter, a cab driver.
And a little mouth moans: It is easy to die when they are dying so many grand deaths in France.
A voice, a shape, gone.
A baby bundle from Warsaw ... legs, torso, head ... on a hotel bed at The Savoy.
The white chiselings of flesh that flung themselves in somersaults, straddles, for packed houses:
A memory, a stage and footlights out, an electric sign on Broadway dark.
She belonged to somebody, nobody.
No one man owned her, no ten nor a thousand.
She belonged to many thousand men, lovers of the white chiseling of arms and shoulders, the ivory of a laugh, the bells of song.
Railroad brakemen taking trains across Nebraska prairies, lumbermen jaunting in pine and tamarack of the Northwest, stock ranchers in the middle west, mayors of southern cities
Say to their pals and wives now: I see by the papers Anna Held is dead.
2k
All these backyard stars are sailing, sweeping, spinning over me, still the ground is calling. Lay, stay, stare in awestruck wonder at the infinate diamonds as they dance thier ancient waltz. Who else stared at this beauty before these were my backyard stars? Farmers, ranchers, lovers, they must have stood here, on this calling ground dreaming, wondering, kissing. Now they are mine, my ageless lights. I give one her name, though it probably has been named before. The earth moves and still cries out, but it is too cold. I take my last drag blowing the smoke like a goodnight kiss, someday I will sell this house, stars and all.
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 12:16 AM UTC
It aches when I smile.
My State's a disaster.
Coal rollers, burnouts and days full of rapturous
laughter and "Red Face"
down in Lusk in the hot days
of Summer--it's boiling;
Winter winds burn up your face.
I first learned to hate
myself in a snowstorm
on Dow Street in Sheridan.
My best friends are the slow warmth
that spreads through the chest,
lifts a cold heart, grabs popcorn and pints
at the Blacktooth on hundreds of nights.
And 500,000 simple souls are a sight.
Still they're just half a million salty
drops in the ocean--
A quick squall of rain on the Bighorns.
They've opened the floodgates for *********
morons, bigots and rednecks
and rich, ******* ranchers thinking
everyone owes them.
And their dollars are deadpan
gallows jokes down in Cheyenne.
But I've seen cheap smiles 4 miles wide
out by Sundance.
And I've got good friends that I still carry with me
like the potent, sweet, earthy afterburn of good whiskey,
or the smell of the lodgepoles in the Spring
up in Story.
And it's still my home
even though it's so empty.
It's still my home
though it sometimes seems ******
That State's in my bones,
I don't think it'll leave me.
So please understand that some nights
when you find me,
you've stumbled across a small splinter
chipped off of Wyoming.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 1:12 PM UTC
They nutrients facts say all artificial flavor,that fake smile is like your faces screen saver,they always talking but I see they watch they behavior,they imagining like the equator,theo this theo that let me be the translator, I don't got a thing so Ima make theo bound to fail like he married to a ring,Ima control his future like its on a string,he blooming I'm not I wanna feel like spring,say he flying well Ima rip off his left wing,making a black man fail I'm guessing the white mans there King,
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 11:44 PM UTC
Geometric Considerations and Nomenclature for Reflectance, U. A march section in B flat minor follows.
Cordelia is nervous about her father's tax position but does not tell the others. Japan's Olympic judo team.
Rehberg married his high school sweetheart, Jan, a water attorney who represents farmers and ranchers. In four games, he had been sacked 23 times and had a pass intercepted 12 times.
Eastern Europe, and conspired to spread communism throughout the world. There are 55 schools in Kortrijk, on 72 different locations throughout the city, with an estimated 21,000 students. Go through all tools, materials, and so forth in the plant and work area.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 7:25 AM UTC
How much I loathe you,
You have no idea.
Your eggs are little, brown specks that merely sit on the leaf.
When you hatch, you destroy all the squash plants in your path.
Mercilessly.
Nobody ever pays any attention to you.
Very few even know you exist.
Unfortunately, I DO know you exist.
Every once in a while, my mind floats towards you…
Those agonizing hours out in the squash patches.
The horrendous sunburn that followed.
The tan lines that stayed for weeks afterwards.
And the smell.
I will never think of Apple flavored Jolly Ranchers in the same way…
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 10:54 AM UTC
When I was 18 I learned a lesson in jewelry:
A pocketwatch that taught about loss
that was never mine to lose.
I borrowed the euros I paid for it.
Most loss is something felt by ranchers
and bankers
and stock brokers.
Because they own the things they have.
You are not mine and so I cannot lose you.
That's free sadness
and free happiness, too.
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC
He saves all the grape jolly ranchers for me
He hates everything grape
But he’d swear he loves me
Until he’s purple in the face
And even on my worst days
When my skin is flushed
Rouge with rage
He reminds me that the color of love
Is always present on my tongue
And can be any shade
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 5:43 PM UTC
I have
a confession to make;
that I go to sleep every night
hoping you'll visit me
in my dreams
that I like smelling your hoodie
when you're not with me
just to make sure
you weren't a dream-
that blue punch-buggies make me laugh
and sour green apple Jolly Ranchers
make me smile
(by the way, my last two cavities
are all your fault)
I confess that I read over our conversations
so I can hear your voice,
and play back every kiss
we've ever shared-
That I think of you
when I'm sad
when I'm excited
when I'm angry
when I'm happy
And oh,
before I forget,
I stole your flip-flops
the day before you left-
sorry
I was going to return them-
honest.
And by the way, I do confess
that I miss you
a rather lot.
Jul 29, 2010
Jul 29, 2010 at 6:10 AM UTC
The water had risen to just below the brim and
cracks were observed along the poured concrete rim.
For days now such troubling signs had appeared;
The Dam Keeper had expressed concerns, then been told not to fear.
The Chief engineer had come up and opined
that the mighty Dam’s walls would stand all tests of time.
Down there in the valley with the last of the light
The ranchers and their families bedded down for the night.
Their ignorance was bliss for no one foresaw
That flood waters obey an immutable law.
The Saint Francis Dam in the San Francisquito Valley
Was about to give way. There’d be no time to dally.
At three minutes to midnight came an unearthly sound;
Twelve Billion gallons of water knocked the dam down.
Bodies and boulders, stone structures and trees
Formed a wave of destruction that raced for the sea
A mighty Tsunami; a hundred feet high
All those in its way were those destined to die.
Man, in his hubris, seems always to feel
That he is the master to whom Nature must yield.
Yet, in reality, we are helpless and small;
Overcome by flood waters we are nothing at all.
Mulholland, the department head shouldered the blame.
Bravely I think- Who today would do the same?
The ruins of Saint Francis Dam still stand to remind us
That our works are ephemeral; Nature reclaims our dust.
Our land’s infrastructure is in need of repair.
We must not wait for more cracks to appear.
The innocent suffer if we fail to heed this call.
Its three minutes to midnight for us one and all.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 9:08 PM UTC
*a follicle of light is falling from the house of our master
troubadours warp our imagination
with jasmine and other heady fragrances
gypsy eyes steal salt water from tides
and return them to our adjacent lives
slaves and slaveholders, slews of cattle
ranchers, and fathers battle
keep mustard seeds by the bedside
and burn irises like incense
hours fly by and leave us hurting
in piles of rusted shirts and clothing
her luck has begun to expand but man still demands his fate
so redecorate your cottages and receive the visitor's hate
make music burst throughout the garden
as lonely brushstrokes reach out to touch your bottom
i am moving, doing, and having faith only in the theater
she is carrying fetid water with feet bloodier
than the skyscrapers bound to her posterior*
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 11:48 AM UTC
Back road red dirt
Sipping Zima with the jolly ranchers
Hanging with the guys
The girls just too much drama
Having to be carried in
Only 17
Momma shaking her head
Waste basket and a hair tie for me
Growing up small town
Cruising the drag
Drinking at the tin barn
Watching fights turn into love
Memories were made
The ones that'll never fade
Had my first boyfriend
From the rival town
We were the talk of everyone
Twenty years later
Giving it another go round
Had my first kiss
Parked by the y
Being carried in again
Momma just shaking her head
Cruising the red dirt
Mesa's all around
No guardrails to protect
When my heart was broken and down
These are the memories
Ones that'll never fade
Hitting that red dirt
Even to this day
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 2:58 PM UTC
My heart is buttered cake
with brown sugar frosting.
It can't take much.
It melts at the edges sometimes,
and there's mold on the corners.
My eyes are made of green-apple jolly ranchers
that are sticky in your hands.
My lips are two halves of a strawberry,
sometimes purple and bruised
like the words that come out of them.
My hands
are made of milk and honey
but sometimes
not
as warm and comforting.
There's apple juice
blue slushies
and hot sauce
running through my veins
and cookie crumbs
behind my brain.
I am a feast
and
not
prepared
for
you.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 8:30 PM UTC
With the lick of a lollipop, you gain my affection. Forgetting everything, but the saxophone in the corner, possibly the stares will stay. winter is around the corner or was it spring? I can’t remember, my mind is filled with pop rocks and soda. Stars burst as you laugh, creating juicy flavours that spill out over the world. Allowing people to laugh and cry. Jolly ranchers, farming for the last echo of your laughter. I imagine the juicy fruits crying out of joy as they pull them out of the ground and pick them from the vines. I can’t stop caring I can’t stop enjoying my time staring. Its who I am. I obsess over ones I can’t have. Its my curse. Black liquorice, filled with the dark liquor. My mind wrapped up, twizzler. I’m attracted to ones that are a shelf above me. I’m a yellow star burst, thrown into a bowl of rejected m&ms; and skittles.
Your candy flavoured lips covered in bright sugar and harden sprinkles. How many small glances does it take to get to the center of your heart. Stuck in the centre of my tootsie pop,beating on the glass made of pre chewed gum. I can’t see where I’m going. Getting my hands stuck. Replicating what you gave me the first time we met. I filled my empty stomach with sweets. Not so sweet now that I think about it. 40 winks and telephone calls, Small glances and hard gum balls. My obsession will be the end of me. From the chosen one to the brunette, to the lesbian. I’m stuck in an endless cycle of headaches and sick stomachs. All this candy wasn’t good for me.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 3:24 PM UTC