"rangy" poems
Was it a surprise?
You have not the length of a tree,
Nor the beauty of a rhododendron.
Your friends are not of plenty like that of a forest
And none inhabit your “vast” wealth of knowledge.
So, how did it surprise?
Was it your shallow logic in which lethargic is defined?
Or the rangy alps of hope from which this preposterous “self-worth” first began?
No matter.
Here we are.
And lonely, despondent glances do no one good.
Time is of the essence, my friend.
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 2:19 AM UTC
When my eyes are weeds,
And my lips are petals, spinning
Down the wind that has beginning
Where the crumpled beeches start
In a fringe of salty reeds;
When my arms are elder-bushes,
And the rangy lilac pushes
Upward, upward through my heart;
Summer, do your worst!
Light your tinsel moon, and call on
Your performing stars to fall on
Headlong through your paper sky;
Nevermore shall I be cursed
By a flushed and amorous slattern,
With her dusty laces' pattern
Trailing, as she straggles by.
2k
this being
dedicated to wicked woman hiding cold eyes
behind overlarge sunglasses;
sporting blackest velvet dress coat firmly buttoned smoking
long, cruel cigarette lit from glare off your cartier-replete wrist
as hordes of men in line to perhaps hold your parasol
while you read tedious course material are turned away
by singular lazy wave of the unsympathetic hand,
ashes falling & cherry red nail polish flaming across
the patio panorama like hellfire;
with hard, rangy body and cut-to-shoulders
blonde curtain to hide behind, safe upon your wicker throne;
wary of males & their hidden, bursting sexes.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 2:03 PM UTC
I waited in one of the cities dark and dangerous alleyways. The vile odors. The Gads knows what forming puddles around my best leather boots. The ones with the shine to blind the eye.
There she was. A common strumpet. Drunkenly making her way towards me. Jingling her purse of meager coins.
Blood money.
Obtained by logging men on the heads whilst they took their fill of her. Only to have her sell them to sea Captain's that do not ask questions of where their crew came from. Or whether they were willing.
I could feel the evil in the air about her. I heard her heart beat and felt her blood pulse.
She was delicious.
Not a drop wasted.
As I sit here, the thought comes to me, that I shall
be ******
But wait! I am already ****** and I thrive within it. I not only thrive...I revel in it.
Now where is that odious, rangy, mouse burping kitten gotten off to.
GADS! She is up the draperies once again!
I will calmly go get the ladder, which I had to buy just for these occasions. I will place it up against the drapery staff.
I will climb up. Gently coaxing the little flea bitten darling to me. She will hiss and claw like the ***** she is.
But, alas. I adore her so.
~Lord Kellington
Oct 19, 2010
Oct 19, 2010 at 3:55 PM UTC
I see him walking towards me
he has a kind of loose limbed rangy walk
as he swings through rotating city doors
I can't find it in me to talk
his presence leaves me floored
a cowboy from out on the range
on a visit to city he's bored
and feeling more than strange
face creased like aged leather
he works out in all weather
how i wish we had met
on the range
not a set
and lived on into
happy forever
Aug 22, 2012
Aug 22, 2012 at 12:44 AM UTC
A chalky, sepia-washed room seen through an ailing CRT. Vantablack lines sprawl across my gnarled face in patterns, playing games with the sun that blares on through the rangy blinds.
Digital clock: 2:43
A cardinal red cigarette pack in my right hand, a turkey baster in the other, submerged deep within the sheet's motherly void. The simmering glow of the hallway dances like a pendulum; a vicious debutante, waiting to coerce me into life. I am enveloped by some capricious rhythm that has no origin, and no destination.
I'm coming to uncertain terms with this lucid halcyon.
Ink drips, from the pillow to my shoulder. I am currently a piece of fiction, held within a lissome frame. This is complete autonomy. Nothing is as it really was, only what it should've have been from the very start. A muted slur from beyond the window comes hurtling through my head. It starts to look like a tumor tree, having its branches, limbs, and spine torn to and fro in such a hideous manner. I've let something go to my head. The dream is broken, through no request of my own.
Aug 7, 2019
Aug 7, 2019 at 10:23 PM UTC
Fishing on a pier
In midsummer haze
With my grandfather,
Out on a misted lake,
The blues of the waters,
Stirring, deepening blues
Of drizzled sky, we baited
Our hooks, lapping waves
Caressed the drowsy pillars
We rode and so, were reminded,
That there is one colour for both
Joy and sadness. Over slow time
Different fish appeared, bass, pike
Trout, hornpout, but mostly the rangy
Perches, scaly pugs of yellow-orange,
Like slabs of weighted, tiered sun, they
Fought on the reel with high crested spine,
A quiet, noble ferocity.
Later, moving lethargically
In the grey of our pail, like broken beads
Of water shed from the morning sun,
How I wanted to toss them all back.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 2:17 PM UTC
.
Fishing on a pier
In midsummer haze
With my grandfather,
Out on a misted lake,
The blues of the waters,
Stirring, deepening blues
Of drizzled sky, we baited
Our hooks, lapping waves
Caressed the drowsy pillars
We rode and so, were reminded,
That there is one colour for both
Joy and sadness. Over slow time
Different fish appeared, bass, pike
Trout, hornpout, but mostly the rangy
Perches, scaly pugs of yellow-orange,
Like slabs of weighted, tiered sun, they
Fought on the reel with high crested spine,
A quiet, noble ferocity.
Later, moving lethargically
In the grey of our pail, like broken beads
Of water shed from the morning sun,
How I wanted to toss them all back.
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 8:55 PM UTC
When the flowers begin to grow
the tender sprouts require constant
vigilance: fed, watered and shaded
babied as they begin to grow.
Long and rangy, the show the promise
of buds in the tips of their long bodies.
Then they bloom, no assistance needed
One day just needy stalks
the next a profusion of gentle lilac
and vivid yellow and ***** red
blue, white, pink.
The delicate petals entice the insects
and charm the air with sensory beauty.
But comes a colder time
buds may crumble and revert to weeds
blossoms browning and begging for release
Bulbs straining to escape the clay *** on the patio
It’s a careful gardener who knows when
the time comes to cut off the blooms
plant the bulbs in the wild
where they will bloom for strangers.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 1:43 PM UTC
Fishing on a pier
In midsummer haze
With my grandfather,
Out on a misted lake,
The blues of the waters,
Stirring, deepening blues
Of drizzled sky, we baited
Our hooks, lapping waves
Caressed the drowsy pillars
We rode and so, were reminded,
That there is one colour for both
Joy and sadness. Over slow time
Different fish appeared, bass, pike
Trout, hornpout, but mostly the rangy
Perches, scaly pugs of yellow-orange,
Like slabs of weighted, tiered sun, they
Fought on the reel with high crested spine,
A quiet, noble ferocity.
Later, moving lethargically
In the grey of our pail, like broken beads
Of water shed from the morning sun,
How I wanted to toss them all back.
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 5:31 PM UTC
Open for breakfast and lunch,
It closes every day at two
Perfect for the working folk
In this factory-life milieu.
So, every day, I made sure
To be right there on my stool.
Those people could cook eggs.
I know how to shop, I’m no fool.
Now, let me assure you all before
You knock them down a few pegs,
Not every eatery in the world
Knows how to cook decent eggs.
But that rangy old cook did
And the hash browns were great.
This place knew what to do
And performed it all at first rate.
There was deliciously brewed coffee
And wonderful Danish to be had
And like everything I ate there
Nobody could call anything bad.
They did a cinnamon roll, with butter
And they warmed it on the hot grill
And, while I am not easy about food
That gave me an oralgasmic thrill.
And the people were just people
Nobody there had a bad attitude;
They greeted people like family
And showed their great gratitude.
They told us they were glad
We didn’t rely on the coffee truck.
I can say it better right up front.
Their success was not due to luck.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 8:01 PM UTC
the drive down hardscrabble is filled with
the rasp of Jim's feed truck and the heavy
jangle of steel parts in the side compartments.
For a while we don't speak and i lose myself
in the stars, eaten up by Ursa Major, broken down
and condensed, blown out and away--
His headlights wash across the aspens
with their rangy bodies congregated on the
western slopes; spectral and reminiscent of
dancers or other sylphlike beings captured
unannounced.
when I think back on this moment
I realize that's where it all ended
the last moment where for a few
idle seconds, it seemed like
maybe it could work
out.
there's a barely-there eroticism about the
way he touches me, with rough, seasoned
fingers pressing eagerly between the tendons
in my wrist, racing up my shin or gingerly sweeping
the inside of my thigh.
I
used
to feel all the time
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 10:18 PM UTC
A large Alsatian barks at a passerby stranger
as the pond geese honk sensing grave danger
Trudges back home a rangy lone ranger.
Big and little aubergines cast a purple shade
In the twilight birdsong begins to fade
Night makes navy-blue of the greenery's jade.
Wolves howl in the distance
Panthers prowl near pig pens
Ocelots growl around the dens.
Dolphins perform in the aquatic circus
Kids count on the time-old abacus
All in all the miracle of creation's fabulous
Elsewhere the morn dawns upon wee ladybirds
And shepherds go about grazing their hungry herds.
A rare sight of starfishes settle upon beach pebbles
Pink salmon in a see-through lake breath out bubbles
Bombed by tech; corpses found in debris and rubbles!
Wild species lurk in the murky forest
Stands tall and hovering high mount Everest
A chance to enjoy nature at its very best!
Admit it O' mankind no one can ever be
at par with your and my versatile Creator
The billions of species is far too extraordinary
He single-handedly created all that variety in nature.
For even the clever human who invented the radio
did not as well model the computer.
The one who designed my dresser couldn't design my patio
It'd be rare for a shoemaker to also be a tutor
But God He made both ant and elephant
and there's absolutely nothing that He can't.
Mar 10, 2020
Mar 10, 2020 at 2:48 AM UTC
*sometimes writing poetry
purges the brain
like the mourning toilet ritual
like shock treatment
or a whopping good lobotomy
gets the cockka demons
and snails out of my ears
refreshes like
sweet dreams dryer sheets
and gives one a sense of having
accomplished something
when one has not
i'm purging
the hobgoblins of deep grooved nuro patterns
a stunted caged mind
that keeps me safe
like a lidded box
for small entertainments
trivia and vast ****** ****** of *** prancing
girls on girls
leggy acrobats begging me for diabolical
**** and tongue gymnastics
a small time writer
haunted by picayune ideation's of craft
daunted
in the midst of nowhere
i seek the asylum
of
rangy jungles and great stone cities
that languish in depths
of word mists vainglory
as i hide from dark storms
fearing doom
and mythic hells
fumbling through
labyrinths
vacant, isolated
a crying mouth*
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 5:02 PM UTC