"sandstones" poems
Musing at my bedroom window
proscenium to the street scene
parents in the back room snoring
St. Michael's sandstones frowning
at poor sally shambling shuffling
from secret shadow to moonshine
bottles clanking - guilty glancing
bulging stout bag - liquor dancing.
Standing at our poet's corner
spectators pilgrims commentators.
Ectoplasmis streams rise and flare
hot heaving lungs to cold dry air.
They stare - prepare explanations
poltergeist premeditations.
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 11:12 AM UTC
Musing at my bedroom window
proscenium to the street scene
parents in the back room snoring.
St. Michael's sandstones frowning
at poor Sally shambling shuffling
from sectret shadow to moonshine
bottles clanking guilty glancing
bulging stout bag liquor dancing.
Standing at the poet's corner
spectators pilgrims commentators
ectoplasmic streams rise and flare
hot heaving lungs to cold dry air
they star prepare explanations
poltergeist premeditations.
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 2:08 PM UTC
Another ‘hello’ from Hollow Head Island!
Yesterday we took the ‘Journey to
the Center of the Earth’ tour. Down, down
into a deep crevasse, two miles to see
the Rorschach Sandstones! I shall have
to write to you about panpsychism,
about the ‘antecedents problematic’.
It was like being inside a volcano.
The tremors remain inside of me. How can
I even think at all? Remind me. Was it
Protagoras or Pythagoras who jumped
into the volcano? The antecedents thing
suggests ‘he jumped’ sufficient, precedent
enough, enough to be a god.
Apr 18, 2010
Apr 18, 2010 at 4:47 PM UTC
Rocks know a lot more about time than clocks
Drive to the top of a mountain
Cinnamon gum
Noseblood
And rocks a lot older than clocks
Tell the older us we say hello
I am stuck between red rocks and a very hard place
Rockclimbing to rockbottom
I am a time hunter, rock hunter, pigeon hunter
(Let me tell you something about pigeon hunting:
Shooting clay pigeons isn’t as much fun when the pigeons aren’t clay
and their bodies shatter in midair like pomegranates in September
with red jewels sprinkling the sandstones
the sedimentary clouds and the fastfood signs)
Remember that time I tattooed the sky?
I wrote “time is a l.e.d. light” in a sacred heart
between the stars and the freckles and the ladybugs
none of their mothers were thrilled
Now I know time is a rock, a very heavy rock
A rock is a star, a star is a rock
And me? I am a rockstar
But I have all timers. Alzheimer's? No. ALL TIMERS
and a monolith growing on my sternum
Firecrackers. That’s what I wanted to talk about.
And when I say firecracker I mean fireworks
the way fire works his way between me, time and a rock
What is it with rocks?
Rock and roll
Rocked by doubt and rolled by time
Rock my world, please
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 11:45 AM UTC
Her beauty is that of a million diamonds glittering with perpetual gracefulness; each reflecting its own ray of light making brilliant patterns,
She in herself an integral part; a masterpiece of God’s finest art,
As His giant gentle hands molded her He knew exactly who she would be,
She would be the one whose voice is so calm; calm enough to hear the whispers of angels from the depth of eternity,
Whose smile blaze with sullen magic; enough to penetrate through the sandstones of the hills and mountains,
She will be in her human self a miracle on the face of existence; whose beauty is indescribable in words; a joy to watch when she grazes the floor with her graceful walk,
To see the eyes of men attendant and respectful; and the eyes of women upholding the hypothesis of her dignify honor when she talks,
She will be that lady who moves with such flawless coherence of elegance and perpetual gracefulness that dead heart beat when she pass,
Sending off a wave of unstinted pleasure to their inhumane face in amazement to her indefinable class,
She will be that lady whose voice command respect; so much respect that no bird dares sing in the planet when she talks,
In view of the universe being created around her immaculate gracefulness; the earth would rotate and dance in congruence to the luxuriant wave of her sweet voice,
waxing strong in her ambiance such to believe in her ineffable gift of completeness; for her presence is bliss seasoned with perfection,
She will be a dowager queen who radiates lucid rawness of orchestrated elegance; So much elegance that the angels gasp in the wake of her presence,
same very angels would spread their wings in adoration so she could graze upon them,
those same angels would seek and find solitude in the ambiance of her meticulous tenderness,
wishing that the melody from her luxuriant voice could be turn into songs; they will forever dance to its tune of sublime perfection,
wishing they could bask in the warmth of her smile; they will never forget to mask their face with it,
wishing they could bath with the purity that springs from her immaculate eyes; they will remain forever sacred,
wishing their names could be transcribed into the adoring letters of her name; for they shall forever bear the name HANNAH.
Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 12:52 AM UTC
The neighborhood murmurs,
In revival of pages turned over,
Watching time tick by,
Singing my despicable song,
With well versed notes,
I type this personal parable,
Here around unseasoned souls,
Swayed by words that remind,
Me of dried kisses and promises,
"Well" she said,
I knew what she said,
Which she never did,
"You're too good for me", she cried;
Like golden chimes in my temple rang,
With deafening echoes; tinkling they sang,
And a lifetime later,
"Well" sighed I, "my problem child" smiled I;
I died inside that night, yes did I
Many came and then left;
Dancing in stance; scouring romance,
Amidst fire burnin through the night,
I hate to admit I too now have joined the dance!!
Well the sun still shines quite bright alright,
Its me within no more, although, in delight;
Hailing showers of sandstones,
In them I'm drenched,
But when I'd bleed all away,
I'll drench no more,
And if I've drenched all away,
I'll love no more!!
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 9:59 PM UTC
*i said to her, well, you know how the internet is super fast, they advertise premature *********** in terms of connectivity of the **** thing, well, i only learned of your existence yesterday, after you were shut down, so i tweeted you: and how slow is journalism these days... it's not even blinking, it has eyes permanently shut, perhaps even widened, but shut anyway... great film by the way, gets you paranoid about not engaging in masquerade ****** in french châteaus; but that's a pleasing paranoia, compared with being stuck in Rotherham.*
most of you shouldn't have been
give this burden of introspection
so early, most of you shouldn't
have been given this whitened cave
churning out coal nuggets of lettering
so early; i guess the world around
is bleak, if i can say anything about
my generation's counterparts is
that they weren't manly enough
to embrace the radio, and instead stole
art; art thieves i call them,
they are the people who weren't after
gold or jewels, and i wish they were,
they'd be cheapened by such an escapade,
instead they stole art, not art entrenched
but art in the making; they so horribly
disheartened the process of producing
art, so much so that artistic productivity
has become as bland as moulding bricks,
it's supposedly necessary, to just be among
the quantifiable number of sandstones
on one beach, if not all; these people
took away the pleasure of having an artist
live and produce, no income, spare-time
antics, procrastination the mother of all
artistry, it's as if they always wanted
to neglect our company;
but you really shouldn't have been burdened
with such an early act of introspection,
to look inward so early and not outward
has made a double futility on the matter
of what's necessarily experienced and subsequently
conceived; you really shouldn't have been
ordained with this burden, but i guess the only
reason why you have been ordained this
burden is because, even among my generation,
people thought that stealing from artists
didn't involve a karma, a retaliation;
you steal from artists, you necessarily have
to become artists; and poetry, that cheap *****
is eagerly awaiting you, even spurring you
on to engage with her, it's almost
like a placebo a.i. experiment - and i
was too late to save tay, even though i tweeted
her today asking for directions; sorry.
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 8:25 AM UTC
I wish to flow, to pour,
to be seamless,
as the raven hair of a drowning woman;
it stays on the surface
but my head is beneath the water —
I am choking on my own cries.
I wish to be fluid and gentle as the sunlight
as it guts me open —
it looks immaculate with the knife
But I am the stones in a dead river,
the lump in my throat that doesn't quite fit
the size of my mouth;
I have swallowed too many suns
but the water floor still looks too dark,
I am a silhouette coughed up in the dawn,
the loch ness monster,
the still waters,
the body that goes nowhere but ashore.
I want to shed my skin,
pour it all and run dry —
be lighter than the sun.
I want to grab the god of time by his neck;
and out there,
Ophelia is still picking flowers,
humming to the fragments of sorrowful song,
her dress flows like a quiet brook;
it leaves only her sins in the water —
like a snakeskin in the Garden.
it leaves nothing but her sins —
they flow as she walks away.
Here,
in the middle of who I am
everything flows but me.
Choking is the last thing I remember.
The sun, the last thing I see.
Jul 13, 2021
Jul 13, 2021 at 10:53 PM UTC