"runnings" poems
Hey Danny, I droped it twice but this one is just as nice
On the fly a small hummingbird on flittering wings just dusting the room
With dann dust and goodwill.
A quiver filled with curative pin point healing
She is wheeling and dealing
Danielle I presume is the full story.
Acufeel good. Feelgood ancient curative
Sent from the far east.
Miniature
Magic whipping about in sea blue scrubs
All good news .
Never gave me the bluesy tude.
Cool runnings miss danny.
Nuff respect.
A short poem for a big spirit. In. Small spirit
Country.
Seek and ye shall find I am inclined to believe
She has a good vibe.
Cool runnings hummingbird.
See you at the water cooler
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 5:56 PM UTC
Beyond the massif peaks of Europa,
Above the ancient pillars of Heracles
Where rain and ocean are weaving,
Lays a fabled kingdom born of waves
And noble strands, my beaten hearts
Haunting, the lost, lush sylvan lands
Of Galicia.
Where Incomparable, dark
Haired women, mythic, of Amazonian
Fairness, side the valleys and moors
Of soon forgotten dreams and secretive
Wolves slide amongst warmed runnings
Of the ram and moans of ewe, where
Way bountiful seas are over spilling,
In octopus and pearly gemmed shells,
The scalloped pilgrimages unfolding,
Where incense burns with under stars
Encased, the lost Atlantean temples
Of Egyptian sands and storied Gaels,
The clad forests of wandering Titans,
Where snow white beaches end forever
Unmapped in told footsteps, castaway,
As was the magi gift of treasured yards,
Enlightenments, of old and golden isles
Pearling the coasts, sailing the sweet airs
Crossing Iberian gates, to Elysian, eternal,
Galicia.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 4:08 PM UTC
Beyond the massif peaks of Europa,
Above the ancient pillars of Heracles
Where rain and ocean are weaving,
Lays a fabled kingdom born of waves
And noble strands, my beaten hearts
Haunting, the lost, lush sylvan lands
Of Galicia.
Where Incomparable, dark
Haired women, mythic, of Amazonian
Fairness, side the valleys and moors
Of soon forgotten dreams and secretive
Wolves slide amongst warmed runnings
Of the ram and moans of ewe, where
Way bountiful seas are over spilling,
In octopus and pearly gemmed shells,
The scalloped pilgrimages unfolding,
Where incense burns with under stars
Encased, the lost Atlantean temples
Of Egyptian sands and storied Gaels,
The clad forests of wandering Titans,
Where snow white beaches end forever
Unmapped in told footsteps, castaway,
As was the magi gift of treasured yards,
Enlightenments, of old and golden isles
Pearling the coasts, sailing the sweet airs
Crossing Iberian gates, to Elysian, eternal,
Galicia.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
Beyond the massif peaks of Europa,
Above the ancient pillars of Heracles
Where rain and ocean are weaving,
Lays a fabled kingdom born of waves
And noble strands, my beaten hearts
Haunting, the lost, lush sylvan lands
Of Galicia.
Where Incomparable, dark
Haired women, mythic, of Amazonian
Fairness, side the valleys and moors
Of soon forgotten dreams and secretive
Wolves slide amongst warmed runnings
Of the ram and moans of ewe, where
Way bountiful seas are over spilling,
In octopus and pearly gemmed shells,
The scalloped pilgrimages unfolding,
Where incense burns with under stars
Encased, the lost Atlantean temples
Of Egyptian sands and storied Gaels,
The clad forests of wandering Titans,
Where snow white beaches end forever
Unmapped in told footsteps, castaway,
As was the magi gift of treasured yards,
Enlightenments, of old and golden isles
Pearling the coasts, sailing the sweet airs
Crossing Iberian gates, to Elysian, eternal,
Galicia.
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 1:29 PM UTC
Beyond the massif peaks of Europa,
Above the ancient pillars of Heracles
Where rain and ocean are weaving,
Lays a fabled kingdom born of waves
And noble strands, my beaten hearts
Haunting, the lost, lush sylvan lands
Of Galicia.
Where Incomparable, dark
Haired women, mythic, of Amazonian
Fairness, side the valleys and moors
Of soon forgotten dreams and secretive
Wolves slide amongst warmed runnings
Of the ram and moans of ewe, where
Way bountiful seas are over spilling,
In octopus and pearly gemmed shells,
The scalloped pilgrimages unfolding,
Where incense burns with under stars
Encased, the lost Atlantean temples
Of Egyptian sands and storied Gaels,
The clad forests of wandering Titans,
Where snow white beaches end forever
Unmapped in told footsteps, castaway,
As was the magi gift of treasured yards,
Enlightenments, of old and golden isles
Pearling the coasts, sailing the sweet airs
Crossing Iberian gates, to Elysian, eternal,
Galicia.
Aug 4, 2012
Aug 4, 2012 at 1:46 PM UTC
Woke up with children in my mind, wrote two new,
then stumbled on this...
I give this poem to an orchestra leader I know, who understands better than most, that conducting and being surrounded by many, is oft the loneliest task and who knows best the meaning of
"finally, all synchronized in time and space, on a single continuum, within, without and through."
Thanksgiving Day 2011
Through
the picture window,
watching
restless generations,
multitudinous compilations,
children's backyard runnings,
all about, hide n' seek,
uncoordinated coordination,
well calculated randomness,
perfection in its
discombobulation
Within
my bloodstream,
chemical changes,
blow thru my veins,
direction home,
like leaves,
on a November weekend,
windswept from a thousand directions,
endless energy, noise, and commotion,
results of internal tremblings,
the side effects of satisfactions,
in ways I could only dream of...
Without
knowing, nonetheless,
the knowledge rests within,
footage of future days of
quietude and satisfaction,
recalling earlier simplicities,
records recorded somehow
before it happens,
records recorded now and then,
but only for
future consumption.
Harmonies of times,
well deserved,
to be future spent,
now, finally, all synchronized
in time and space,
on a single continuum,
within, without and through.
They say that Einstein erred,
time cannot outrace gravity,
therefore it cannot be
that I have seen the future.
Yet, I know with
unerring certainty,
these truths
posses the gravity,
that thanks,
I have and
will again,
gave,
and will give
The remainders,
the children,
the net of our gains and losses,
within them,
my thanks lives,
without them,
I am lessened,
through them,
I am whole,
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 7:04 AM UTC
and i can feel you in my nerves and i can see you in my skin and i can't look away from your
your soul is so promising just a hatchling of a chicken i am with my head cut off running loose in the barnyard
barnyard lazy days are what i had and then i saw you and colors everywhere sprockets and gadgets and loose-runnings and shoes
shoes without feet only energy only anticipation exhilaration in our eyes looking feeling touching
touching toes with no shoes on cold toe warm toe is a good sensation a broadening horizon a war zone in my belly
my belly rises and falls in time with yours the sun is up and stars are hiding we slept soundly fingers crossed between the others and then we knew it was
it was everything we read about from old men's minds in starched collars with big dollars who dreamt these things couldn't have them sat in foyers with long pipes smoke filling lungs tears filling eyes
tears filling eyes because i can feel you and
and i can feel you in my nerves and i can see you in my skin and i can't look away from your soul.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 10:47 PM UTC
We can’t take it back
No we can’t take it back
We’ve been here once before
In the dead of winter
I know it’s not there
As we crawl along searching for what’s gone
The white noise
It’s closing and it’s closing
Evacuate and follow procedure
Another stop, another mistake
Step back and watch it go
In the back most window forlorn
I’ve been chasing cars
Through the runnings of your mind
We’ve been treading unmarked territory
Looking into windows of what was once glory
Settling into the soul stained glass
To tell stories of unidentified faces
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 5:53 PM UTC
.
Beyond the massif peaks of Europa,
Above the ancient pillars of Heracles
Where rain and ocean are weaving,
Lays a fabled kingdom born of waves
And noble strands, my beaten hearts
Haunting, the lost, lush sylvan lands
Of Galicia.
Where Incomparable, dark
Haired women, mythic, of Amazonian
Fairness, side the valleys and moors
Of soon forgotten dreams and secretive
Wolves slide amongst warmed runnings
Of the ram and moans of ewe, where
Way bountiful seas are over spilling,
In octopus and pearly gemmed shells,
The scalloped pilgrimages unfolding,
Where incense burns with under stars
Encased, the lost Atlantean temples
Of Egyptian sands and storied Gaels,
The clad forests of wandering Titans,
Where snow white beaches end forever
Unmapped in told footsteps, castaway,
As was the magi gift of treasured yards,
Enlightenments, of old and golden isles
Pearling the coasts, sailing the sweet airs
Crossing Iberian gates, to Elysian, eternal,
Galicia.
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 10:47 AM UTC
Amber eyes and fleet of foot
on these moors a spirit put
born to run for runnings sake
nothing will her brave stride break
distance all the fastest hounds
queen of green she skims the ground
fears no clutching claw or beak
high among her purple peaks
a gentle creature hurting none
as blessed to see as winter sun
in her proud eyes freedom holds
beneath her feet her world unfolds
Feb 7, 2011
Feb 7, 2011 at 9:33 AM UTC
It was in wander
For not lost was she
It was in wonder
For without sin she led,
The tree bearing sweet fruit
Enticing her
Forward.
Lust sent a lumber puncture through
her spine.
Upwards it shot
to the brain, cerebral forms
into a red beating heart.
It excited her, the
Freedom found in such innocence
pulsating quivers.
She waited
Adam to her Eve
daisy chains falling from her neck
framing a prepubescent chest.
Such tender collar
Bones, hooks temperately fastening
white knotted cotton,
hand sewn dress virginial
White.
Annabelle's life, a melody of
melancholic cacophonic
raspers,
from asylums.
Former patients; Briarcliff Manor
residing in her; misery.
Innocent runnings from grave
Dangers of,
stark raving madness.
For, today, she wasn't embroiled
as Arden's pet.
Instead she was the little girl so born
to be,
before the woman was stolen
bound by a physicians sick
nightmarish reenactments.
For, today she was
Free.
a starling
passionate
darling.
© Sia Jane
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 8:39 PM UTC
This poem is dedicated to Steve Yocum,
author, poet, and soldier
farmer, father, grandfather,
man exemplar,
whom I honor
and honors me,
with the noblest title in all humankind,
friend.
But above all,
I honor him most,
as a tireless, truthful, harpooner
of the examined and the unexamined life
~~~
*"Be the harpooners of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody, comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders into
crinkly eye-lined smilers."*
~~~
these mine words writ many years past,
dusted off phrasings,
on dusty shelf long lain,
mined from notes,
decades steadily collected by steadily diminishing ears and eyes,
gathered most from self-taught lectures
and self-deceiving dances,
garbed and wearily grabbed
by the addict-strong
observational need,
persistent and perpetual,
to pay off fresh debits,
renewables owed
to the lovely,
to the loopy,
inhabitants who excite and inspire
my so far, rebirthing, youthful,
yearling heart
who provide the special crazy that
justifies existence
just men,
connected by a bond of sonship,
kinship crowning kingship,
blood types as different as an
A is to B
both shall weep in one blood,
I, as I do now,
while midst the nascent commencement of this sonnet,
He, at its commencement,
for a good friendship has no
beginning or end,
but is a circular track,
a loop,
familial by repeated runnings,
yet never, coursed in the exact
same manner or speed
this thought,
this knowledge,
bring a smile to this crinkly eyed composer,
that the metaphysical
will always surpass the binding physics of mortal physical,
that two man,
who have
never met,
race side by side,
not in competition,
but in the mutuality of composition,
each a candle holder,
both writers,
observing the dark illusions,
re-making each into a carrier,
a shedder of light,
each a debt giver and a
debt holder to each other,
hosts to all the loopy,
comfort caressers,
to each other
and to all
who too,
are light-bathed by being in possession
of the title
friend
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 3:39 PM UTC
Everybody get your *** up on the dance floor.
Tonight we gotta show out for Bay Shore.
You got stress? Go ahead and check it at the door.
Let the bass move somethin’, hit you at your core.
Let’s get disconnected,
No phones.
Let these strangers be your friend,
You not alone.
It’s hard to dust it off, trust me I understand.
But it’s hard to be depressed, we partying on sand.
Ain’t none of this was planned, love is in high demand.
We got you covered so why you still acting like you worried?
We gotta capture this for the IG stories.
And you holding back, but it’s alright.
Go and let it loose, cuz it’s alright.
This is our night.
The music’s live and the music’s bumpin’.
Feel the rhythm, feel the rhyme? Cool Runnings.
I’m not tryna get in your pants,
That’s a no no.
I’m tryna show my Charm City dance,
How I go go.
Babylon at noon, Gilgo soon.
Fire pit on Fire Island under the moon.
Move the party to the boat, set sail for the cruise.
Sit back, have a drink, enjoy the views.
I don’t wanna wife you up,
Not this evening.
I only wanna life you up,
I’m just teasing.
I see you working now, come out of that shell.
Don’t you leave here without a story to tell.
Put your hands up, this a celebration.
Give yourself a standing ovation.
Live in the moment, and it’s alright.
Let’s just own this, cuz it’s alright.
This is our night.
A Bay Shore night.
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 8:05 PM UTC
Amber eyes and fleet of foot
on these moors a spirit put
born to run for runnings sake
nothing will her brave stride break
distance all the fastest hounds
queen of green she skims the ground
fears no clutching claw or beak
high among her purple peaks
a gentle creature hurting none
as blessed to see as winter sun
in her proud eyes freedom holds
beneath her feet her world unfolds
Feb 7, 2011
Feb 7, 2011 at 9:31 AM UTC
Swift winds run through the park, at dusk
Carried on legs of leaves
Temporary, as they blow from the path
Onto the verdant sheet of blades
Laid beside the pavement.
The contestants occasionally collide,
And tiny whirlwinds
Untether their foliage feet from the terrain
As they fall onto the track
Whistling merrily as they bounce upon the ground
And rebounce into their lane
To commence the runnings again.
No pace is kept
And each man is one moment a sprinter
And the next a marathon chaser
The disciplines remain inexorably tangled
In their fleeting eyes.
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 9:26 PM UTC
One composes a poem, in a singular fell swooping,
the words, previous, unknown in that particular order,
are felled like trees in a ****** forest, newly saddened,
an emptying and simultaneously fulfilling sensory battle,
a dressing and an ********** and the
poem (again) writes itself
This literary body, literally is birthed with realized labor pains,
actual aches, a pulsing pursuing, and you dare not
stop to fix an errant knight of a typoe or an out of placed
CapitalizatioN, lest the streaming be broke, mind's momentum
be disturbed fiercely feared, lost to the vagabonds that
exist solely for the express purpose of denying your self-expression
One such poem, written yesterday (1), reminded me of another (2) composed, years ago, inspired by a ferry trip returning home, an ode to an old dear friend, a lover of the fulsome of life,
who had recently
passed away
Twelve years passing, yet well remember,
the utter urgency
of its composition, the purging of the sorrow,
and leaves me bereft, very sad,
for after writing thousands of scripts,
like a ****** obsessed,
feeling in the quietude of a sleeping household,
soon to be tumultuous with morning to and fro
runnings around and about, a/k/a errands,
wondering
Where and Whence
will come such a poem,
my next fix(ation)
a desired damnation of emotion,
and fearing its potential
unhappy origins
5:39am
Wed Jul 23
On the island
In the sunroom,
shushing hesitation
with chest pounding,
mouthing my forefinger
in puzzlement, befuddlement
Jul 23, 2025
Jul 23, 2025 at 2:15 PM UTC
What I still and will continue to love about your eyes are...
the multitudes of hues and moods embedded within
Gripping abundant roots of attractive backwoods
and memorable fruits beside a glass of sweating beer that is on its way to finding room temperature
To name a short plethora of goods
Not to mention but rhyming about Emotions that ensue
from a few
all inclusive spring rays shining into branches of oak and cedar needles
painting shadowy sharps on the
greening blades
cast out under and around them
Summery flares shot between the solar
sparking luminescence
Shutters of blue steam breathing when winter is looming and when it has come
I don’t even need to mention fall
since I would wager
Mother Nature stole every grade and color
from your visionary pair of awareness
Like a psychedelic alchemist enhancing each wordless life form into artistry
From her droppers of autumn in associated definition
anyone sees when thinking of the 3rd quarter
From trickling infrequency of leaves falling
spread out on course
with all end-of-the-line runnings of any pillow top creek
sweeping across the horizon tiring out in a dry bed of mossy river rock
These are what I still
and
will continue to love about your eyes
and the day will come
when someone will ask
requesting me
not to write about them again
Opens the arsenal
for the most tragically moving poetic scribblings
leaving their ring
in the dust with her silent questioning
“What in the ****
and
The meaninglessness of their dollars spent
Sep 28, 2020
Sep 28, 2020 at 12:57 PM UTC
She breezed in like a Chevrolet,
drove me out of my mind and
she blew me away.
Sassy and chic
she
redefined sleek.
'how classy the chassis',
said the working class man
who knew of nothing
except the runnings of
his second hand van.
Beauty will always be
running wild
when she's
running free,
but who could detain her,
indeed
who could refrain her
from
putting the
chains around
me.
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 8:04 AM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
I put all my trust in you,
Use to love the way you did what you do,
But it happen to me,
You stole my heart from me,
It was so easily,
I was so easily,
I was determined
I put all my trust in you,
Use to love the way you did what you do,
But it happen to me,
You stole my heart from me,
It was so easily,
I was so easily,
Youth with a stolen love,
I put all my trust in you,
Use to love the way you did what you do,
But it happen to me,
You stole my heart from me,
It was so easily,
I was so easily,
Mist of dawn and cool runnings,
I put all my trust in you,
Use to love the way you did what you do,
But it happen to me,
You stole my heart from me,
It was so easily,
I was so easily,
So easily alone .. I was.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 7:10 PM UTC
poems and people striving to be recognized on the mean
streets, here and there,
I wish I could catch their yearning
in a jar like a firefly and light every one
of my nights
up like I used to,
in hot summer wind runnings
and fumblings
when youth and naivete
had my ***** tangled in knots
in my crotch
experience every verb as if I was living it
and touch once again the essence of young spirits,
but comes a day when,
all you can do is say,
go on young love's,
experience
say you'll be there forever
and at the time you feel it,
and you and I did
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 12:07 AM UTC
How many deaths are we allotted, then?
It depends on the strictness of your definition, one supposes,
For it comes in several degrees of fatality and finality,
And most often in fits and starts,
A process by which we offer up limbs,
Bits of heart and soul,
So that we can forestall some disaster
Even more wretched, more unwelcome,
And even if we walk more slowly, more cautiously
As the repeated runnings of the gauntlet exact their toll,
It may not be the implacable onslaught of age
Which roils our sleep and the periphery of our waking hours
As much as the knowledge
That, unlike our multi-epoched feline brethren,
We may not land on our feet
As the unseen hands blithely toss us
Down one more set of stairs
Which lead to the abyss.
Jun 8, 2017
Jun 8, 2017 at 10:36 AM UTC