"ruggedly" poems
A few of you
have seen my face
One of you
has kissed my cheek
so ***
you can now see me
in full frontal ******
I am the ruggedly handsome
man,
who as usual
is on the floor looking for
something to hug
beside the *****
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 3:30 AM UTC
You like my bird-sung gardens: wings and flowers;
Calm landscapes for emotion; star-lit lawns;
And Youth against the sun-rise ... ‘Not profound;
‘But such a haunting music in the sound:
‘Do it once more; it helps us to forget’.
Last night I dreamt an old recurring scene—
Some complex out of childhood; *** of course!)
I can’t remember how the trouble starts;
And then I’m running blindly in the sun
Down the old orchard, and there’s something cruel
Chasing me; someone roused to a grim pursuit
Of clumsy anger ... Crash! I’m through the fence
And thrusting wildly down the wood that’s dense
With woven green of safety; paths that wind
Moss-grown from glade to glade; and far behind,
One thwarted yell; then silence. I’ve escaped.
That’s where it used to stop. Last night I went
Onward until the trees were dark and huge,
And I was lost, cut off from all return
By swamps and birdless jungles. I’d no chance
Of getting home for tea. I woke with shivers,
And thought of crocodiles in crawling rivers.
Some day I’ll build (more ruggedly than Doughty)
A dark tremendous song you’ll never hear.
My beard will be a snow-storm, drifting whiter
On bowed, prophetic shoulders, year by year.
And some will say, ‘His work has grown so dreary.’
Others, ‘He used to be a charming writer’.
And you, my friend, will query—
‘Why can’t you cut it short, you pompous blighter?’
2.4k
An old cowboy who was ruggedly cute
Was bedding down his best friend’s wife
Having the time of his life
Drowned in rot gut *****
Mistakenly thought his wrangler buddy didn’t give a hoot
Until the sudden moment his ex-best friend began to shoot
But he was in luck with uncommon fate
When St. Peter let him in the gate
Knowing he was just a crazy old cowboy coot
Drinking heavenly whisky straight out of his boot
Oct 19, 2010
Oct 19, 2010 at 6:30 AM UTC
i read your poems, but i can't read you.
what's the point?
other boys, they call me pretty-
well,
sometimes they do.
but still,
other boys, they touch my hand,
they like my hair,
they think i'm funny.
but they're not you,
and that rips me up.
the boy who once said i'm not his type
doesn't think
you are good
for me.
but
he doesn't know you.
he doesn't know
your pretty
folded
inside out
folded
right side out,
folded
into the pit
of my stomach, giving me butterflies.
oh, my god, i think this is what love feels like
when you’re stuck on the rewind
of a cassette tape,
because the player
doesn’t auto-stop,
and you don't feel like getting up,
so the tape snaps or tangles or knots.
either way it can’t be the same ******* song,
it sounds too different to be.
warbled.
but the beat is the same.
it starts off slow then speeds up
as the eyes get bluer
and her cheeks get warmer.
tha. thump. tha. thump.
tha thump. tha thump.
thathumpthathumpthathump.
if you love me, baby, just say so.
because i’m so brand new,
i’m so full of darkness.
you’re so ruggedly smooth,
so full of lightning.
i’m so brand new,
that i can’t read you like your poems.
i’m so full of darkness,
that i can’t feel loved anymore.
but, baby, baby, bubby.
i could love you like a poem.
i’ll be the body electric.
(i love as hard as a whitman)
i’ll be the master, the dream, the fool.
(i love as illogically as a kipling)
i’ll be immortal.
(i’ll love as sweetly as a dickinson)
i’ll be everything
you’ve ever read about and wanted,
if you’d just come clean.
so if you love me
if you love me
come clean.
Nov 30, 2016
Nov 30, 2016 at 9:42 PM UTC
A quaint cabin amidst pines
Gently tucked into the backdrop
Of modestly, snow covered mountains.
Echoes of unprompted elk cry’s bonded together
by the ever-present sound of rolling water
Inaudibly peering through the dirt stained window
Of this serenely placed cabin
Feeling a kiss of tender coolness
As your cheek touches glass
A sight of marbled walls
Which glisten with auras of green
As the sun peeked over the mountain
Floor covered in ruggedly thick black tar
while old pink gum disguised the ceiling
a shaky skeleton walked out of a closet,
as if to come and say hello
The sun tucked itself back behind the mountain
as if it suddenly grew tired of rising
Darkness embraced the scene,
then the shaky skeleton flipped a switch
Which caused colors of reds and greens
To re-embrace the terrain
The once green pines, now strangely red
The once blue sky, now strangely green.
Could this really be?
Grabbing the rusty doorknob
To enter the cabin
Turning it twice
To compensate for friction
Inside
A step into the black tar,
Leaving a shoe behind
As the shaky skeleton
Motions a laugh.
I know where I am
As the gum leisurely rains
I'm in my mind
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 10:08 PM UTC
(20 minute poetry)
Hands turning blue
Ice running through
my veins.
no longer the season of goodwill
and it will not be again and until
the Summer runs in
In its bare feet.
ruggedly sluggish in leaving a trail
down on the tube every day
without fail
Generally,
in matters of colour
blue is my favourite
but
on days like this
when the cold makes me miss
the hot summer sun
I could go for a tangerine
an aquamarine
an orange or lemon,
must put my gloves on.
The draft through the door rushes in and pushes cold air in my face
oh God
I have to get out
leave no trace
can't face another day
living this way.
Mercury freezes if mercury can and if mercury can then so can this man,
they'll end up chipping me out of an ice block.
Old Holborn
for a smoke
but it's the station
I'm sat in
no smoking allowed.
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 1:49 AM UTC
Cassius Bartholomew, a dapper gentleman
Oh, two-toned fuzzy suit, and smile so genuine
Regarding his tough muscles, a good workout regimen
Gracious with affection, his love is never tentative
I greatly love that Cash, so I write these sentences
Cassius is a cuddle monster who snuggles day or night
Oh, that Cashboy is such a manly man despite his tiny height
Ruggedly running through rolling hills, superlative delight
Gusto! Cash's cry of joy when his name you cite
I hope you understand by now, Cash's character's airtight
Cassius is a Corgi, a big-eared loaf of bread from end to end
Cashboy is the best of dogs
He's truly man's best friend
Feb 20, 2020
Feb 20, 2020 at 3:08 PM UTC
They spit and they spat,
Cursing under they’re demeaning stare,
Arrogantly pressing for more and more,
Soliciting our worshipers to have no remorse,
They incessantly beat down our blood red doors,
Not asking but taking what’s rightfully entitled “yours”,
What man shall I make of myself if all I am is treated unfair?
A square on the piece of pavement, walked on and spat on,
Here and there ****** on and ruggedly sat on,
The job to make the worlds people happy is a seedy sordid affair,
Constantly they forcefully beg for more and violently pursue to no bore,
They scratch and tear for no amount of fear could tell them go elsewhere,
We unite once we all go to war but still hate and take advantage,
0nce we forget the worlds up in roar,
The ****** gore does not sleep or snore,
It lies and waits to feed on the incapacitated poor,
Littering the bones of the forgotten on our city floors,
Rich or Poor we all end up shedding tears and asking the meaning,
“What’s in store?” My hungry heart is teeming for a life of folklore.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 12:27 PM UTC
the covers slipped off of her again,
and she wasn’t the one who slipped them off.
her eyes went vacant as the hands that she had once found so comforting
made her feel nothing but discomfort and angst.
his large, harsh hands
ruggedly ran down her prepubescent body and frame.
every touch
felt like a burn
and because she was paralyzed with fear and utter confusion,
she could do nothing
but lay still
and let him brand her delicate skin.
and while her clothes were being stripped,
so was the little girl’s peaceful set of mind.
leaving nightmares to forever burn,
she disappeared.
too young to understand.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 7:46 PM UTC
Always a country lad was I,
and in the country I’ll hope to die,
for there’s nothing like solitude
found in a land, ruggedly rude,
which thrives about and around.
Where spiritual serenity found,
is removed from noise and bustle
of the endless metropolitan hustle,
that chases and constantly chivvies
office workers and menial skivvies,
who chase a hopeless dream.
All part of the urban scheme
that promises followers gold,
if they trample the lesser bold!
Me? I let the world go by,
as I idly sit and gaze at the sky,
to watch fleecy clouds pass on.
I blink. Suddenly they’re gone!
I never wonder as to where they went:
what of their destination or their portent?
for I know others will follow as before,
as I spend hours doing nothing more
than watching, enjoying the day.
Such is this country lad’s way!
Some say I’m wasting my life,
but hours spent free from strife
I’d say with all honest sincerity,
have made my life, in all verity,
a journey of lasting pleasure.
With special moments, I treasure,
captured in my hours of solitude,
I allow no one or thing to intrude
that might spoil my sacred reverie.
This is the life well suited to me,
and not one I’ll swap readily
until I go to eternity - happily!
Until that day, I’ll be content
to see my hours and days spent
in the serious consideration
as to what in all creation,
I’d do if I were city bred?
The very thought hurts my head:
how would I endure the noise?
Now as thinking upsets my poise,
I’ll quietly ruminate again today,
and listen to what nearby birds say
in their knowing country way!
Yes, I’m glad to be a country lad,
for rustic ways ain’t so bad,
and as I regard haste a crime,
I take each day in slow time.
There is much more I could say,
but feel I’ve said enough today!
Rhymer. September 17th, 2020.
Sep 17, 2020
Sep 17, 2020 at 9:02 AM UTC