"resins" poems
The burning flowers underline the sunset and
Dash before the fire (k)night catches them.
Ripe berries cheaply
tremble
but hopefully their vitality won't burst the pulp pulsating
beneath.
Crumbling flowers
crumb the floor
And Prisms of catching silver refract rose quartz and petal
and crimson
dust.
Bejewelled in Scarlet,
the air,
as the (k)night approaches, grows colder,
Unsure of whether he will bring
solace or strife.
In his chariot
he flies faster than the bees which buzzed around the fruit flutes
in the morning and among the trumpeting bluebells.
Stars fleck the (k)night
like freckles
and the milky ways resins stain his spouting steams lovely.
The (k)nights kind onyx reaches his crescendo and the floating moon danced drowsily through the cloud's spiralled tendrils
Which diminish as dawn
approaches
so their Tentilcles
droop to crinkled tissue paper sheathed in pink.
And so the (k)night
rides on into
The frivolous sunrise.
The lowing, glossy calves
in sage beside the ***** fields
cast a beloved ambience
As though
we are safe
in the knowledge
that the sky will remain
forever
topaz and the leaves
forever emerald.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 4:05 AM UTC
Essence, raw resins
Yellow, brown sticky substance
A scent too earthy
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 11:59 PM UTC
drowned the Earth suddenly.
underneath honest light,
all
submerged. this cataract of feeling —
waters pursue beginnings. cradling them
to unknown ends, washed by the shore.
gluttonously the night swallowed
all — parliament of birds warble no longer.
midnight, the Moon
claws the supple skin of organized stone
displaced
where all the edges bloom
forth torrid froth of dappled light which kills no less than a brief life of matchflame. tenuous spar of wind on
the unserious twilight; bulge of death
in the stream — a body haul, rafting
in compost; stench of all topple like
resins held loose in vats. rat **** becomes
as inviting as moulding bread;
tantric music for no instrument, hoarse
cries unbeheld —
until the flesh no longer flounders
pressed against sleep-shaped youngness
hewn lissome in the hours of no succor,
modeling silence in the thrill of
this enthusiastic space,
hands scouring muddied
obscure, atremble,
shadowless hours fill stomachs with
the plump word of rescue yet none
of these fingers unwished the
ingenuity of dull gods — this twilight
nor twinight could ever grive
in forethought, striking bells to signal birds
to arrive again so we could feast
in silver fish, with bare hands scaled to callouses,
looking at it twice-over, this battered yolk
of whiteness, with deeds of the viridian
now atrill in new fragile woodworks
lurching and
ameliorating as we all
stutter and sing
haunts dabbing open
lips of small wounds that
wish to shut quietly, almost
every threat of gray or pummel of
wind startles the flyblown ornate,
hurrying us back to cornerless homes
where all photographs washed away,
very few hang
swayed by verdure
of the gradual throne of sea
curving perpetually the several stars
we have ignored for a while,
where everything quite begins
again to enthrall with a melodic
leitmotif of the most tender of
instances loose
in mouths
and in endless recall
breathless—
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC
we’ve traded knowing apples with
lush green mothers of cadmium
and fiberglass
veins of copper,
silver, and gold
siliconed our brains to currents
of controlled thunder
we ****** flat breasted,
hand-sized puddles of glass like
only lesbians and lonely wives
can wish for
iron our souls out
in selfies of people
we wish we were
epoxied our hearts to
shallow resins of hope
we’ve
followed polyester roads
of truth
have we forgotten the
simple flesh of carbon?
the
naked
nitrogen
of our belly buttons?
the
happy
hydrogen
of our eye lids?
the
oxygen of ******
**** me not
with metals of progress
but with
ancient odes of
skin and calcium
teeth
i’ll take the devil of
old
over this
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 3:17 AM UTC
Call it a yard, call it a shed,
That vessel grew up in bed,
With a covered head,
So that its frame did not get wet,
But better yet,
Many times,
Resins used were left to dry,
Into the cracks their poxys pry,
To amalgamate the creaking ply.
And only when the final *****
Twists its way to something new,
To tie the lace of this floating shoe,
Still sitting under rusted roof;
When the metal files are swept away,
And the hazel mast accepts its stain,
By a whitened brush proclaimed,
Only then does she take her name.
For a day or two she’s left to linger,
Poised at the top of her sheltered slip,
A proud and shining ship,
Held in place by the gasping grip,
Of the steadfast holding line.
Her ivory sails lie week and flat,
And there is irony in that,
For a girl already waxed and named,
With canvas cut and metals tamed,
Perched there upon that ledge,
Has yet to take her newborn breath.
Through forward rings two ropes are thread,
To heave her from her resting bed,
Call it a yard, call it a shed,
Into the water below,
A world she does not yet know,
But there she is bound to go.
Soon her airtight helm will taste that salted swill,
Her rudders will shoulder the force of a thousand men,
And by her maker’s will,
She will not meet her end.
Bang,
Goes the steadfast holding line,
As the forward rope force applies,
Without a wince or a whine,
Does our vessel bid goodbye,
To her sheltered bed,
Call it a yard, call it a shed,
And with one final gracious bow,
Into the wet of the sea she ploughs.
May 26, 2018
May 26, 2018 at 4:51 PM UTC
things to change and trust I lust
here I am to stand just past the cusp
strength beyond the rust
feign the skills and bluff
drilling in on things unglued
and presents of essence blushed
presence that resins crushed
be pleasant like the heavens must
and well imbued like nectars too
falsehoods folly summoned who
and not so fragile yet unshrewd
flowers echo feelings flew
grow upright and sometimes through
shadows beckon who but you
mirror dancing in the ****
rampant chanting as you knew
and ended with a thunderclap
something soft like horror lacks
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 12:57 AM UTC
Within
The recesses of my Soul
Three words I have
To utter
In these bones of misery
Do all things
pass away?
Just know
Within my core
A fire burns brightly
For you
Though I know not
The spaces between
Your lips
That drip
myrhh and honeysuckle
These rationalities of my dreams
This day, will soon discover
The smooth outline of your body
On this sheet of paper.
Lo, and behold
I write for you
These resins
Cause heartache
Because you are not here with me
My Queen, My Life, My Love
Together, as One, Forever
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 10:22 AM UTC
all i've wanted is to sleep
to tip over and land
soak in distilled whiskey
like arthropods preserved
in amber, except me
lost in an extended
trance, dissolving
into resins, ointments
oils--
i don't want to feel trapped
i fear me leaving more
than anything else,
me leaving to beat
the traffic, catch the
train, board the bus
to Abilene
a roundtrip
god I'm
tired of tryin'
so
hard.
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 9:49 PM UTC
Mencius, what is that they're doing?
Zhǐ! Another immortal walked from the sea;
Leaf & cordage finely chopped,
Throughly masticated & combined,
Left to the air to then reside
And collected after dried.
How most strange & curious!
You say the nobility call this parchment,
But for humor as irony
And because of the sound made
During the process of hammering,
The craftsmen call it paper?
And, like with tattoos,
They use pastes & fluids like dyes & resins
To stain drawings, shapes, and characters?
The lesser the weight of tablets,
Well-traveled with, easily read & clearly,
Markable with ease; readily inviting change
After change, reflecting our fragileness & resilience, offering record of our thoughts & accomplishments, a chance for the more prolific scribe and the library diverser & denser?
How wonderous a creation,
How gifted the craftsmen,
How genius the inventors.
Wow. That was so long ago
Before I was born.
But then compared to much else,
This fledgling has yet to have flown
From the small enclaves it nests as home.
Feb 11, 2025
Feb 11, 2025 at 4:11 PM UTC