"rookery" poems
A follow on poem to 'In the Sunroom (Suicide)" (1)
writ many years later...
~For MWK~
<>
A stray thought. a burring burrowing, thorny tawny:
A wish, yet to get, but vetted for each of us.
*This within, this redoubt, a contemplative oasis,
my indoor poet's nookery rookery sanctuary
each one, each is, deserves, all, one such,
a place holy filled, with lice and dirt of a life,
strained and trained for emission and transmission
of the best of the worst, and the triumphant emergent commission of
our individualized most excellent fresh best
where crumbs of apple crisp pie solidify, vanilla bean ice cream
melt offsets the oven heated warmth, and from this interactive
contrasts combative,
a poem pie reborn, newly disguised, familiar words,
yet unheard and before this very never,
went unspoken and now goes forth
svelte and unbroken
*rhymes of yore, forgot from a before, but making up the walls
of the here and now,
a sunroom to spread out the lit lights of egress and entrance,
of fire door no exits that now are chiseled closed,
lock in, lock up, and somehow, one, stills to learn from
the stilling quiet solitude.
to penetrate the prostrate kneeling grinning grief,
how to expel and spell the words
that grant
relief
visit my sunroom, though no fiction.
the sun rays *********** create the friction
of that which cannot ever be withered nor contained,
and your mouth opens wide and a poem birthed and delivered,
pastiche paste composted of truth and dreams of fiction, fine diction,
with a shrug, a smile, a satisfaction extracted extraordinary,
you garner moments of satisfaction but cloud cover returns,
and the process of sunrise exposition recommences,
and one revisits the elemental sequencing of
all the predecessor pain, but this time,
for gain, for gain,
<>
written this sabbath Saturday
12:38am EST
Sat Aug 2
2025
in the sunroom,
on Shelter Island
Aug 2, 2025
Aug 2, 2025 at 12:59 AM UTC
Take me to the Rookery with its many paths
A tea house selling refreshments in pretty glass
Three striped lollies covered in chocolate beads
Biscuits and sandwich are all that we need.
The garden was set out, in brick oblong beds
Raised from the ground and divided by hedge
Many bush roses, of the older kind, smelling of
Cold cream and sweet camomile.
There was a terrace with steps leading down
To a sunken garden where the roses reclined
Hanging over arbours, pink , white and cream
And other perennials added to the scene.
This place a haven at the top of Streatham hill
Does anybody know it, it might be there still?
My daddy took me often on a Sunday afternoon
To ramble in the sunshine, and play at my will.
Love Mary x
Jun 15, 2018
Jun 15, 2018 at 8:02 AM UTC
i left her on the side of the road near the rookery in southern indiana. her body was still warm, not as warm as the time she told me she wished she had a thousand teeth but not yet as cold as the time she grew them all at once and stuck them in me. she taught me many things, like how to forget and how to see through the cataracts and necrosis. she kissed my face and told me i was beautiful and boiled me in a metal bin inside the barn and watched as my skin separated from my bones as easily as slicing butter. she assured me i looked prettier this way, all bones and flaying meat and a thousand little exposed teeth i had no idea were in me.
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 2:03 AM UTC
the drill holes outlined in the survey plan for
photo points 23 and 46 could not be located.
the roots from garnet palace, promised to a
great moon-axis deity, chiseled from an
artery of zeus could not be located.
we have received contact from the physical
plane, and are now awaiting direction. we don't
yet know how to manifest our vibrations into matter.
if by any chance a moth should feel
the waves of this distress
call, we urge her to embrace
her fur immediately; to lie without worry
or obstacle in the slow delicious darkness.
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 8:18 PM UTC
Vestiges
A morning pills
Rookery dismissed the asphalt veins
Upload to the guts
A long pipe with loop end
Useless
Any place is ready for a shred gaze ..
Another shrapnel of a flinch
Skins die young
A mile *** and feet misconception
Reach-less away the cloaked steps
A ****** stores in a single snapshots of a wake
||
Sat
A few verso to unlock the night
My shadow disarray me
And all roads weep in flinchlike
A **** turfs beside the sole entance's city
Lost in rhyme
A sleep or else no more an option
An occupying air extort my corpse
And plant an images and flanks in my head
Sat
A few steps to unlock the night
And the door mute
And all cities are falling now
|||
Mock the pain
Will perish if you passed away
Reach the escape pod
And no one will ever stain the quietude
Will provoke the gypsy body
Sad cars agonize my civilized body
Mock the pain
Nothing left to pay a visit toll
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
more often than not, a knightly surge
combs a pawn me,
especially after the stroke of midnight, when
hermetically sealed in my rookery,
where bats in the belfry
flap their wings at the speed
of sound times ten
thence, this king heads to his counting house
(which doubles asthma
Perkiomen Valley bishopric)
to economize on space,
especially during tax time
(as April fifteenth slowly approaches,
me heartbeat doth) quicken
though becalmed, when imbibing
idyllic, fantastic, and bucolic kingdom
Americana paintings courtesy, sans nomen
Percevel Rockwell, thus jitteriness pacified,
particularly speaking
on the telly phone with Ken
Burns, whose trademark documentaries,
particularly War between the States,
where even roosting hen
got into the frayed scrimmage vis a vis, even
chilly being egged on to surrender as Ben
a fit to this American
Civil War Yankee incarnate,
whose doodling word
ya probably don't give a hoot -Amen!
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 2:21 AM UTC
She has long gone, my lady of light!
And left me alone sitting here;
Murmured sweet nothings, slipped into the night,
I thought I’d had nothing to fear.
Her memory burns so bright in my heart,
Like torchlight in the darkest abyss,
Causing shadows that shimmer, and shiver and dart,
As they do with the sun’s setting kiss.
Her memory waltzes in the halls of my mind,
As light penetrates from above:
The dance that we shared wends its way, and does wind,
A slow fading, bull fight of love.
Oh beautiful memories, locked deep within,
But as high as the skies that ascend!
Within me your spirit will eternally spin
For my heart you will never transcend.
Dear, beauteous vision! The jewel in my heart,
Glittering in your unmined, purest form;
What mysteries you still whisper, and faintly impart,
The calm in the eye of my storm!
Like the calm of a rookery at midday, which you’ll know
Is long after the flock has first flown;
And where sing those birds, and forage they now?
That to me does remain quite unknown.
And yet back you return, in some beautiful dreams
Singing songs like a caged bird set free:
If I kept you, you’d fall apart at your seams
For I’d hold you so tightly to me.
If a flame was ever hidden, deep in a grave,
It would never burn bright, or burn strong;
To encase you, and hold you, eternally save
Would **** you, you would not shine long.
Oh beautiful Universe, you created us all
To dance high, and dance strong, and dance free!
Liberate our hearts from this world, as you call
Us all back to one true liberty.
Matt Revans
09/12/2015
©Copyright
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 3:25 PM UTC
2/11/2015
*"Never though, my mortal summers to
such length of years should come
As the many wintered crow that leads
the clanging rookery home.
... I remember one that perished
sweetly she did move, such a one I do remember
whom to look at was love.
Comfort? Comfort scorned of devils!
this is a truth that the poet sings,
that a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things."*
- Alfred Tennyson, "Locksley Hall"
Something about the florid, languid grass that
cooed in place on the turfs and greens,
stagnant in their newfound summer discovery.
The malleability of the universe seems incredulous to me certain days
the days before future people, sanguine
nights in the weaver fields wherein blocks away or a mile
they slept, before prior meetings.
So with this i am curious as i write
what lies in the field of frozen prospect garden?
where agrimonias will soon sprout jaundiced hairs
and I will sit around alone as i do in town
maybe, publicly intoxicated, slurring
along to a Ramones song with my friends
as empty as campus after a year
**** it. **** it?
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 5:52 PM UTC
My memories took flight from Spring's rookery,
Nurtured by Summer's warm seas and
Trade winds soft under blue skies,
Reinforced by Autumn's harvest and happenstance
Pray my memories remain deep within me like a
Fortress securely established on a rock-mass,
High on golden hills, impregnable,
As Winter's cruel seas and merciless winds approach
Oct 27, 2019
Oct 27, 2019 at 1:27 PM UTC
Momentous occasion of new arrivals
Signaled an eruption of joyous celebration
Cacophonous rookery
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 6:59 PM UTC