"rooves" poems
Sometimes
I feel a well
dug deep
into my heart
I try to stop it
but it quickly
becomes ocean
and overflows
into great tsunami
rises over all the levees
rushes past dams
breaks down tall
city structures,
edifices crumbling
in its path
all the squid and octopi
skitting forth
in wild pulses,
tentacles entangled
in doorways and rooves
slipping through narrow
window-openings
as they pour ink
in clouds,
shifting shapes
in cephalopod excitement
while blue whales
and humpbacks
breach over bridges,
phosphorescent jellies
light up
the dark streets of
my arteries
electric eels illuminate
the alleyways of
desolation's thick syrup
and I cannot stop it even
if I wanted to,
these darkened,
swirling waves
I am both floating and flying
like a jumping manta ray
curling around the ferries
bobbing in seahorse iridescence
weaving between buses
as if they were corals
And when the storm subsides,
colorful rockpools form,
rich in diversity
It is there,
in between the
multicolored ***** and
succulent shellfish,
in a mermaid's
voluptuous smile
and turquoise eye
that I see you,
so crystal clear
I could reach out
and bring you to me,
holding you tight
until the
gentle break
of
morning
Sep 3, 2017
Sep 3, 2017 at 5:31 PM UTC
dawn light
silhouettes the branches
dried leaves clatter
on the rooves and driveway
cardinal song
pierces the highway thrum
behind the rotting fence
a dog sniffs, whines and growls
the swimming pool scrubber
splashes and sinks with a shudder
one after the other descending planes
roar and then fade away
even in this labyrinth
of suburban sameness
everything is emerging
declaring itself
and then slipping away
like the feral cat
one moment
eyes locked on mine
next moment
disappearing behind the garage
Tom Spencer © 2018
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 10:36 PM UTC
unspared during my travels
prepared by an exchanging world
of appearances
i came to this place
at the base of
a hill of course fell
a whipped traveller i am
by the vital Spring weather
i am met
welcomed a night of shelter
led the way by a lace of monks
discreetly
i am put up
residence
bowed into an alcove
and left be
sun settles gloaming
bleeding out into the night
the night moves on
steeping
it plays on my solitude
a temple of awakening
freed from need of sleep
plush in the gloom
of this unfamiliar lodge
pulses lune from the lamp
calling me to something family
suckle
peculiar flares of incense
my heart at pace
gusted by the lungs
gushed with a nourishing charge
of remedy
i stand lightly
i take a stroll
timid
subtle bells
quake little tings
under a propelled circulation
engine utters
quivering the air
Sudden :
it buckles
yawn out from under a gallows
the spaces between the temple walls
drop away
fathomless theatre opens maw
barriers have dissipated
crumple
i am a mite short of distress
held
in keeping shallow
maintaining a sensible program
i give out breath hesitant...
and gratefully retrieve
i stand weakly
with care
this is temple
me, a guest
my travellers bed roll remains stowed :
i am a fool to be swallowed
a courtyard
compounds this pressed element of nature
i reached its edge
this building acts the amplifier
a spiritual device of development
bade by hemorrhaging darkness
i wade beyond any lamplight
each step taken when the tide pulls it
mottled perfumes now exhaust in punches
(powering from the baying boundaries)
look up
a royalty floods across the night sky
cropped by the yard rooves
chants and bells eddy about my ears
pants and tones mediate
worship hounds the clock
i finally do what is best
follow myself back the way
i make up my bed
(retire or
as a shade
i'll find my way between the walls
and flourish)
chuckle
i regain valued humor
i concentrate
close eyes and slow my heart once again
make peace in this temple of strobe
tomorrow i'll face agricultural land
and the sunlight
i'll continue my selfish travels
bedroll bound to my pack
my pack tight to my back
i shall weep and honour the departed
as i continue
this little i have learned
Jan 17, 2022
Jan 17, 2022 at 7:11 PM UTC
Impoverishment ?
The sheen
of sun
on parked cars'
rooves
and
bonnets -
materialistic gods
in many lands.
Jul 22, 2010
Jul 22, 2010 at 7:06 PM UTC
I was twenty years old when I started this lark
I'm older now but just as daft
Cos up and down all day I still go
In the wind and rain and sun and snow
Earning a dollar, earning a dime
On them old thatched roofs where I spend all my time.
I must have done hundreds in that time
Each one a challenge, a mountain to climb
Keeping the water out, leaving my mark
Making the cottages pretty and smart
Earning a penny, earning a pound
On them old thatched roofs where I can be found.
The work is hard, no easy days
No room here for lazy ways
I'm not quite as keen as I used to be
Those mountains get steeper it seems to me
I'm looking forward to an easier time
When I leave those old thatched rooves behind.
Dec 9, 2011
Dec 9, 2011 at 2:40 PM UTC
child- small voices sag
bomb-smoke rises from the ground
far off, birds still shake
Billy Striker blown
to Holland, the north sea wind
took weeks to fall
beforemourn chimneys
slate rooves yawn hunger,
one cigarette draws breath
moon crater on the
road to Derry, limousine
sarcophagus lands
siren scream and scrape
tears rigor mortis frozen;
the sea now quiet
hands across water
missing fingers, Gabriel
silent, the watcher
he’d stopped to look
smile asking the time of day,
pressing the trigger
one small death for man
one giant death for mankind,
eyes search behind moons
bicycle wheel turns
awkward lazy arm protrudes
broken flaying skin
obliteration,
scalpel dissects argument
camera’s detail
a.m. paper print
fortresses build stone by verse
each wall a chapter
retaliation,
leopard stalking, counter plot
begun in blueprint
burnt flesh of kingdoms
republic’s frost bitten dogs
bark anger blood ***
interrogation,
splattered kneecap agreement
hands shaking silence
investigation,
no stone unmoved, evidence
a silent quarry
old man keeping dust
one eye swollen, hunching armour
his grief in buckets
MChallis © 2015
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 9:53 PM UTC
moonbeam hides
in the corner
counting it's blessings
rooks settle onto old rooves
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 7:28 PM UTC
IS THERE IN ESSENCE A TIME ...
Is there in essence a time that seeks to stride?
A need that whispers through the false acacias
In the cloister calm of this secluded cafe,
Laced with the clink of couples' glasses,
The breeze in silvered trees,
Nodding neighbours
And children playing on gravel paths.
Is there at work behind the manicured lawn,
The Private sign and undulating conversation -
A dynamic presence,
Pulsing like sunburning blood, speaking of
Desire on summer's first weekend?
Is there in essence a time that seeks to strive?
The summer storm brooding the sight of sun away,
The ochre messenger of light on ruddy rooves;
The shafts that gild the new green shoots
Buff the gold and copper spires.
Squalls that blow the day away
Trap shaking feathers in the warning wind,
Join the indigestive rumble of hill thunder as
Heads poke from the cafe windows:
Bronzed figures watching the blushing tiles and
Watching the light. Watching the light
Forever watching for the light.
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 6:28 AM UTC
somewhere in there
sounds like a kid
searching for another permuta-
tion of himself, some
semblance of a would-be he won’t hate.
that’s me, I’ll never run out of pain.
this genteel ache,
this conclusion, has nothing to do with choice.
there are some ***** born broken,
those unobtrusives with chapped lips, glancing up for
drones that might pick them up
then throw them to another Earth,
those who like getting into strangers’ cars, laying their head on the
dashboard that’s softer than their bed.
they on cold nights like to whisper to God: ‘we
don’t like this experiment.’ we are more
than warning signs of civilization in peril.
dead and gone.
don’t refuse exploitation; that’s how we still feel useful.
don’t the characters in some books make rooves out of leaves? too
dogged to prioritize shelter, though. too
drugged to maintain another thing
doomed to crack and crumble. just never enough time.
days flow by like silk into a sawmill. In the
dark we try to see if we still stand on strong ground, or surface tension.
such is
the rhythm. feet damp with cakemud. in
darkness we see stoplights turn red, sometimes yellow.
Sep 1, 2017
Sep 1, 2017 at 1:39 AM UTC
send the yeah mate yeah kids to bed, 1 2 3 4 1 2 3 4 1 2 3 4
you see i am a man with a smoke and i am angry
and i am sending the yeah mate yeah kids to bed
they have to clean their teeth and have a shower and shave
and then hop into bed like two non heavy metal likers that they are
you see i am a hooligan sitting on my chair ya know rocking and smoking away
i am liked by all except my family
so i ,are them two scared to sit with me
and it ****** well worked, and now i can
watch my megadeth concerts and watch my youtube and watch my late screening of prisoner
watch women stripping off to their bare essentials, yeah i am cool
i can go out with my mates and throw beer cans on school rooves
and i am getting itchy toes, but it doesn’t matter because
i am sending you yeah mate yeah kids to your little beds
i yell you run it’s the only way to be, you see you f..n wet me with the hose
when i was being an adult you flaming see
i am not going to harm any kid, that is not what i am doing
i don’t like old army men saying, they know better
so i put my megadeth t shirt on and i will f..n scare you
because music is way better to reform
so, you old timer, get off ya chair and move around, and i want to see your old man, no more
woosey woosey woosey woosey
i am a big punkman, to play cool for yeah mate yeah kids, oh yeah
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 5:04 AM UTC
The Moon hung low in the sky
like the tarnished reflection
of my soul on that night .
☆
A night spent rambling
down lonely streets of
derelict dream houses ,
with forbidding peaked
rooves ,
stretching high into the
gloomy dark like knives .
☆
Now and then ,
a sound made by something unknown ,
would drift on the dank air
or round some
threatening corner .
☆
Was there faint stirring
of grey curtain in a window ,
☆
A muffled cry behind
peeling paint of bolted door ,
☆
A soft voice sighing ,
straining against the wind to be heard ,
☆
But then , no-one was there .
Nov 14, 2024
Nov 14, 2024 at 7:35 AM UTC
The horse and cart slowly meander along the cobbled village lane,
as smoke projects her pungent and spiraling emissions from thatched rooves - casting her grey contrast as she penetrates the menacing darkness and caresses the trees of the ancient forest, in her journey of elemental consummation.
Rotten teeth, debauchery and tankards of ale abound at the candle-lit inn, where the curvaceous ******* and buttocks of the wanton ***** are roughly groped in medieval lust.
Her shrieks of surprise are an expression of unleashed restraint, that release a shower of blazing embers of interconnectedness, which prohibitively fertilise the barren land of depleted social mores.
Let us now share explicit and superstitious tales around the crackling moonlight fire tonight, as the screech of the owl shatters the eerie silence of Olde English folklore.
Look at the children as they gaze wondrously with sleepy eyes and open mouths, in a state of nocturnal slumber.
The tension is tangible.
Long live the King.
Apr 9, 2018
Apr 9, 2018 at 2:53 AM UTC
Minarets stand tall and sleek and
proud, announcing prayers at
intervals at odds with the
hourly bells of the basilica
Red rooves jostle for space
amid bullet-ridden history and
rejuvenated, freshly painted
homes and tourist-inducing
restaurants and market shops selling
trinkets: silk scarves, bronze pots
wooden flutes and ubiquitious
paintings of Stari Most
Crowds fill the lane leading
to the revered bridge, like pilgrims
A heady mix of peaceful
nations, short skirts
passing by headscarves
trading surreptitious glances
snapping photos of the bridge or
themselves and the bridge or
loved ones and the bridge
Watching with a rooftop drink
a bold and daring young man
small and youthful from a distance
encourages support and jumps
into the cold Neretva river
vigorously proving life goes on
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
A christmas carol brightens
a day of gloom and sorrow
on eve, my roof is whitened
the sleigh skids through tomorrow
The Christmas tree it sparks
some joy in times of dark
and if my way was had
each day we'd sing the Hark.
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 11:01 PM UTC
I've seen sand flooding through city streets like a torrent of hot gravy drowning sprouts and beetroots, park benches and church rooves.
Or maybe more like the final sprinkle of salt, baptising the parsnips and chicken breast in some sick meal time ritual.
It bursts through stained glass windows, choking the streets and preserving the locals. It rains down.
They used to mix it into a paste and mould it into city scapes - arches topped in humble salute through holes in the clouds.
Nowadays they melt it down and make office blocks out of the stuff, 500 metres in the air propped up like a million glossy middle fingers.
We bake it into computer chips and pluck digits from the stars. We predict eclipses and the dances of the planets with only slightly more accuracy than Ptolemy.
It'll come again, and nothing can slow it down
Dec 5, 2019
Dec 5, 2019 at 5:42 PM UTC
why do i build my houses out of leaves
each house for each Name
i stand them up, fingers coaxing them, willing them to stay
knowing full well that even the sunlight weighs too heavy
but i stack one on top of the other, a skyscraper of myself
hoping it'll be different this time as it sways, a sickening motion
a drop of rain causes the rooves to collapse as i struggle to keep so many of them up with my palms, using my spine load-bearing
they are stable, my fingers braced against the walls, my feet digging into the mud, my back arched and twisted, and i tell myself it's worth it
the large storm finally grays the skies and my houses are rustling at the pressure and i rearrange it all to cover them, godless prayers
lightning crackles and burns through the clouds to impact the ground
and i can't stop it
my houses begin to flutter apart like frightened birds as i try to grasp at them with damaged hands but i miss
a flash of bright white, the sun devouring the earth, and a splitting snap of wood and facade
a tree motions towards me and my pile of scattered leaves
but the mud is to my knees and my hands are clambering at fistfuls and my eyes are wide as it gets closer
And I find out nothing you said ever meant anything at all.
Sep 1, 2020
Sep 1, 2020 at 9:24 PM UTC
I clear my throat, because that
is the thing one has to do to not
sound Gay. The vocal cords will vibrate,
come awash with a thin liquid film to evince
the Tough Male Sound Format for five seconds, so
I can answer yes, and no, and say
how are you, how have you been, what’s your name to
anyone who does not know, to anyone
who must not find out. When I talk to myself,
It is heard, though: The high pitch, the twang, the flirtations.
It sounds honest when I’m alone, singing in the bathroom when I ****
When people are with me, I keep it
like a password in my wallet.
So it knows two things:
Hide and unleash, and honestly? It is getting tired
of knowing it has two voices for each.
I sound like a *** There’s a jump in my As,
a wider opening of the mouth when I do my As,
the teeth showing with As, the identifying lilt,
the **** **** **** of a laugh, the longer tail
of end-syllables, the Mms and Ohhs not enough grit:
All embedded sound files that can get me killed,
that can make me see that I haven’t really stepped out
of the closet; I just opened it, and I can close it each time I like,
each time I find necessary,
like the wallet where I keep my password, like my mouth when
I say keep the change in the borrowed voice of
an Alpha Dog Anymale.
I was inside of my home one time, though.
Clasped in my religion of boundaries.
And then it started raining,
water droplets pelting rooves and shingles and wooden planks,
clapping
on the boardwalk where plants sit.
Closed my eyes. Funny.
the rain sounded like a crackling fire.
Oct 27, 2017
Oct 27, 2017 at 12:18 AM UTC