"sassafras" poems
You brave heroic minds,
Worthy your country's name,
That honour still pursue,
Go, and subdue,
Whilst loit'ring hinds
Lurke here at home with shame.
Britons, you stay too long,
Quickly aboard bestow you;
And with a merry gale
Swell your stretched sail,
With vows as strong
As the winds that blow you.
Your course securely steer,
West and by South forth keep;
Rocks, lee-shores, nor shoals,
When Eolus scowls,
You need nor fear,
So absolute the deep.
And cheerfully at sea,
Success you still entice
To get the pearl and gold;
And ours to hold
Virginia,
Earth's only Paradise.
Where Nature hath in store
Fowl, venison, and fish;
And the fruitfull'st soil,
Without your toil,
Three harvests more,
All greater than your wish.
And the ambitious vine
Crowns with his purple mass
The cedar reaching high
To kiss the sky,
The cypress, pine,
And useful sassafras.
To whom the golden age
Still Nature's laws doth give,
No other cares attend
But them to defend
From winter's rage,
That long there doth not live.
When as the luscious smell
Of that delicious land,
Above the sea that flows,
The clear wind throws,
Your hearts to swell,
Approaching the dear strand.
In kenning of the shore,
(Thanks to God first given)
O you, the happiest men,
Be frolic then!
Let canons roar,
Frighting the wide heaven!
And in regions far
Such heroes bring ye forth
As those from whom we came,
And plant our name
Under that star
Not known unto our North.
And as there plenty grows
Of laurel everywhere,
Apollo's sacred tree,
You may it see
A poet's brows
To crown, that may sing there.
Thy voyages attend
Industrious Hakluit,
Whose reading shall inflame
Men to seek fame,
And much commend
To after-times thy wit.
8k
Only those who have used an outhouse would appreciate this.
The Outhouse Poem by unknown author
The service station trade was slow
The owner sat around,
With sharpened knife and cedar stick
Piled shavings on the ground.
No modern facilities had they,
The log across the rill
Led to a shack, marked His and Hers
That sat against the hill.
"Where is the ladies restroom, Sir ?"
The owner leaning back,
Said not a word but whittled on,
And nodded toward the shack.
With quickened step she entered there
But only stayed a minute,
Until she screamed, just like a snake
Or spider might be in it.
With startled look and beet red face
She bounded through the door,
And headed quickly for the car
Just like three gals before.
She missed the foot log - jumped the stream
The owner gave a shout,
As her silk stockings, down at her knees
Caught on a sassafras sprout.
She tripped and fell - got up, and then
In obvious disgust,
Ran to the car, stepped on the gas,
And faded in the dust.
Of course we all desired to know
What made the gals all do
The things they did, and then we found
The whittling owner knew.
A speaking system he'd devised
To make the thing complete,
He tied a speaker on the wall
Beneath the toilet seat.
He'd wait until the gals got set
And then the devilish tike,
Would stop his whittling long enough,
To speak into the mike.
And as she sat, a voice below
Struck terror, fright and fear,
"Will you please use the other hole,
We're painting under here !"
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 3:04 PM UTC
I wrote to you in broad bold letters.
I wrote it on a tree.
You know the one, remember
—it called to us from the middle of the garden.
Sassafras: our secret token.
Winter's stillbirth is soon upon us,
and our placement in the sun in peril.
But I have whispered it all to stones
now ****** into the sea.
Remember the tree, and pray I live long enough to dream in its hollow.
Oct 28, 2022
Oct 28, 2022 at 4:52 PM UTC
Such solidarity we created
On the hilltop with the cows
Discussing sassafras,
Our Chakras,
Summer-berry wine.
Per aspera ad astra
But without inhaling tar
We have come.
The cornbread with anise and wheat berries
Cruncy and sweet
Slathered with strawberry jam
Was such a luxurious meal
For us two tired wanderers.
We're left over from the '60s
Living in the past but in the moment
Listening to Mama Tried (well, she did!)
And crying over Wharf Rat
We model turtles, Celtic knots, a moose
Dream of yesterday and tomorrow
Say what we mean
Take a misguided turn driving home
And our minds meander to slumber and internal illusions.
Nov 21, 2010
Nov 21, 2010 at 3:25 PM UTC
I was chicken
dropped only a half tab--a quarter before midnight
and hurried back to my apartment
before the day changed
from a Monday
to a ruby Tuesday
where my walls melted
and music smelled like sassafras;
the flickering flares of light from two fat candles
tasted like toasted almonds
every eternal hour, or minute,
or so, I would try to tiptoe down the hall
past the sleeping neighbors who were all dreaming
of me, skulking past their locked doors
but I never made it to the street
a feat that would have demanded
I stop giggling, and my heart stop thumping
for any pig or narc could have seen
my crimson machine pumping
ready to fly from my chest
dawn did finally come--I was
coming down, down from the floor
on which I had lain from the minute
a ferocious fly dive bombed me
somewhere around three
I walked to the corner grocery store
where I bought pan dulce, and was glad the clerk
spoke no English, for surely she would have asked me
to tell her how I survived such an aerial assault
in peacetime
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 10:31 PM UTC
for the ladies who liquid lunch
<>
the finest young women of the wild west,
(the best of course just might be in Texas)
don’t always get educated in the things best,
no private schools, so somethings sometimes,
like the upscale training of the taste buds,
must be learned on the job, training the palate,
by growing up, self+taught, thank god, yes!
<>
your salty taste
reminds me of ruffled potato chips, bugles, beef jerky
and
your very own brand of
loving tears
it’s true you know,
impossible to eat
just one, which is
why my tonguing
of your body parts,
is unceasingly seizing
I will always be found
attached unbreakably,
to your moving image,
moving inside of me
so sweet your salt,
it’s your story,
your flavored lives living on
in poems unnamed, to disguise
but the authorship of whom,
in body, in mind, so obvious,
cause in all your poems is a tangy
salty
impossible to eat just one
****
<>
p.s. you tease me mean,
cowman,
bbq and béarnaise,
sassafras and edible petals,
molasses and kosher salt,
ingredient combination
which of course
you just made up,
so I show my appreciation
biting your arm so my permanent
teeth marks,
will remind me,
and you too,
just how salty
biting Texas heifers who
can or cannot be salt cured
when
it’s their turn to write some
real good tasting
poetry
****
back for more already?
****
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 2:54 PM UTC
Earth's children cleave to Earth--her frail
Decaying children dread decay.
Yon wreath of mist that leaves the vale,
And lessens in the morning ray:
Look, how, by mountain rivulet,
It lingers as it upward creeps,
And clings to fern and copsewood set
Along the green and dewy steeps:
Clings to the fragrant kalmia, clings
To precipices fringed with grass,
Dark maples where the wood-thrush sings,
And bowers of fragrant sassafras.
Yet all in vain--it passes still
From hold to hold, it cannot stay,
And in the very beams that fill
The world with glory, wastes away,
Till, parting from the mountain's brow,
It vanishes from human eye,
And that which sprung of earth is now
A portion of the glorious sky.
2.2k
i sat at her typewriter
wearin’ plain white v-neck,
plaid WalMart shorts marr’d.
i sat at her typewriter
as we discuss’d life problems.
i sat at her typewriter
dividing interest between her and
the powerful feeling received
through uniform ballyhoo.
i sat at her typewriter
feinging, waiting for her
to say she’s too drunk.
i sat at her typewriter
as she went on with her
first-world problems.
i sat at her typewriter
as they exchanged
insults yell’d and
shard’d glass of broken jars.
i sat at her typewriter
as she dispensed her drug.
i sat at her typewriter
when her and the secondary-Virgo
did move to grind.
i sat at her typewriter
as i forged fragment’d
statements to poetry.
i sat at her typewriter
when she had
that look in her eyes.
i sat at her typewriter
as my life end’d.
i sat at her typewriter
after the snow sweat.
i sat at her typewriter
when she snap’d the spine of
her first horse Sassafras.
i sat at her typewriter
when i deluded myself
about loving her.
i sat at her typewriter
never any longer.
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 10:05 AM UTC
Did you notice the painted trillium—
The way it freckled the dark sky
Or the hills below the Sassafras summit?
Scarcely scattered beneath the pines,
The blossoms live and die like love,
Or maybe not.
Perhaps the petals live like I’ve imagined after they die,
Boutonnieres pinned to the night’s blue blazer.
But even if they don’t, I envy the way they live
Their lives without wondering whether
Or not they might dream.
Our clothes fed the sweet pinesap,
Rotting with our minds on the forest floor
That night beneath the Lenten moon,
And the cold draped our bodies
In a film of sweat as thick as the sound
Of the falls flooding the valley.
Winter’s fear saturated our bivy’s fly
As Spring drew near, but still we slept.
Your pupils danced behind my eyelids
And God shook his head in disgust
While we sipped silver steins replenished from Lethe,
But only angels died that night in Elysium.
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 11:02 PM UTC
I fell in love with you on molly
I fell in lust with you on ****
Felt bigger than myself
Wanted you and no one else
on LSD
But heartbreak came with sassafras
You looked at me with eyes of glass
Because the high can never really last
And now my dreams live in the past
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 5:16 PM UTC
sometimes my mouth was too
sharp, my tongue was too
fast, my eyebrow would
arch just a bit too high
and you would get
that slow smile
I loved, s a y
"whoa there,
sassafras."
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
*Draw hither golden blade , brother to sassafras and veronica
Purveyor of delicate , sanguine architects in pastoral visage
Of ebony cloth cooling evergreen shadows within -
Rosin incense , spearmint infused morning dew seasoning
o'er felled timber escarpments , Summer rain infusions of
petit , lavender violet corsage and August whimsy
Petrichor , Persimmon Clover bouquets , juvenile , song filled
brook-sides , poetic diamond studded sandbars , Chattahoochee
Crayfish , Shellcracker , Blue Heron land of Creek and Cherokee
fathers
Of Towaliga , Bear , Moccasin , Indian streams
Emerald swept low country isles , songbird arbors , peridot waterways
beside whitewashed shoreline* ...
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 3:29 PM UTC
*The Wurlins sweeten muscadines on the vine , gather morning dew
in Petunia buckets , hollow out acorns to carry their Clover honey lunches
They ride June bugs by the light of the Moon
Entice Tree frogs to strike up a tune
Make Huckleberry wine and Sassafras brandy
Pecan coffee and Honeysuckle candy*....
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 1:44 PM UTC
You became my sun.
So easily and quickly.
You’ve always been one to light up a room,
And when this started up again,
My heart was empty space.
But even before I saw you again
You were so intense
Even if only in your mystery.
Mystery…that sounds more like the moon.
But I always kind of imagined myself as a moon
More in the background,
Coming out to play once those who shone had gone to bed,
Changing faces throughout the phases
Never able to decide who I was
Only sometimes disappearing.
The moon – always perceived as cooler and calmer,
An esoteric symbol of reflection and transition,
In a constant competition with the sun,
But with you I have changed.
You tell me I am sassier than sassafras,
An unambiguous product of the land,
And that I keep you grounded.
Does that make me your earth, my love?
Benefitting from your warmth,
You melted my ice caps when I was numb to the core.
Growing from your glow,
Your light refracts,
Illuminating,
You brought to life the parts of me that were forgotten,
Allowing the caged soul to sing.
No matter how I stand, I can feel your presence,
Even when you’re far away,
Enveloping me, encouraging me
Your heat preserved in my atmosphere,
My very aura.
With you, I have become my best self.
The attraction is tangible,
Me pulled towards you, you pulled towards me,
An everlasting orbit,
A never-ending dance.
One without the other,
Just doesn’t make sense.
You are my sun.
I might be your ground.
In any galaxy,
Any universe,
I’d want you around.
It’s funny,
How meeting someone new,
Can redefine a concept
You thought you knew.
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 9:06 PM UTC
You spoke through light fixtures on Peach street,
gave my bellowing laughs the spot light on Sassafras.
I told you the voice in front of us was as
smooth as honey and you called me crazy.
I should have asked if you’ll call me maybe,
but I couldn’t rearrange my position or
work on my posture long enough to wonder
whether I was talking about the voice in front of me
or the one speaking into my ear.
So, we planned to go to New York City instead of
talking about warm, golden honey that thickens voices
and shines through your iris or the infectious
grin that gathers in your laugh lines.
Rivers of honey spread warm in my belly,
as we pass street lights on Peach and Sassafras
and I hope that you will call me tomorrow.
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 7:36 PM UTC
A Cerulean precipice grows
wrinkles. Blouses scatter into oblivion.
Rusty chain, in the room with no time.
Tea-kettles antagonize moonlit lovers.
Shotglasses chase, through ghastly cornstalks.
Cascading lights speak incantation.
Flash dance to late night serenades.
Phoenix plumes in Sunday hats.
Laying poolside, argyle splashes.
A magnetic lioness creeps.
Daring glances spread gossamer lies.
Alabaster halls consume infant minds, while
Dusty caps unlock elusive touches.
Black widows drink white wine.
Anise waters drown lycra mermaids.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 1:15 AM UTC
Clover honey sunshine o'er Sassafras rivers
Proud Martins sing for notoriety , full bloom-
white sugar , shivers in the afternoon pasture
Our last Raven of the hard day season
Roaster , stained glass color kinda holidays -
liquid Kildare clover valleys , euphoric July nightshades
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 8:32 PM UTC
Oriental paper cranes
and waterfalls of lemonade.
A sunshine-scented, smoky haze
covers candy-coated everglades
while whispers waltz with time and space
and raindrops roll down ceiling drains.
Sacramental epitaphs
and water streams on sassafras.
A dismal, dark decrepit path
mourning missing morning's sunlight laugh;
singing songs so sweet at last
and flying free oe'r breaking glass.
Artificial floating clocks
and water droplets burning hot.
A million, melting mountain tops
shadow somber sunken river rocks
as amber ash advances spots
and transverse travel never stops.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 12:00 PM UTC
Picasso understood
That most beautiful people in the world
Are unfinished
Still in the process of learning all the letters
To spell out their names
Sketches on a canvas
Waiting for the laughter of paint
When she left him
He knew he could never
See her again and left
Her portrait, a wedding gift
Unfinished
Buried it in the rack
Forgot about it for many years
When he found it again
As an old man
His eyes still full of fire
And the green of sassafras
He took her down to finish her
But couldn’t
Something’s he knew
Were meant to be left
Undone
Jun 5, 2011
Jun 5, 2011 at 2:53 PM UTC
Sassafras,
kiss my ***
Wash your hair,
with mayonnaise.
Death rays of the dark days.
Tissues, for the weak,
crime’s, at a peak.
Do not stain your white clothes,
play the oboe of hope.
Listen to the music cry,
now fly, now fly, now fly!
Death rays of the dark days.
Death rays of the dark days,
death rays of the dark days,
death rays of the dark days!
The dark days, the dark days,
the dark days, the dark days.
The dark days, the dark days,
the dark days, the dark days.
See the way,
the moon shines on the water.
A beautiful image,
the death of a brother.
We are looking for change,
that we can’t find.
But we are in range,
we’re not far behind.
Death rays of the dark days,
didn’t last long,
just a phase.
Death rays of the dark days,
to a false god,
we will praise.
Death rays of the dark days,
didn’t last long,
just a phase.
Death rays of the dark days,
to a false god,
we will praise.
We will praise, we will praise,
to a false god,
we will praise.
Mar 11, 2011
Mar 11, 2011 at 5:05 PM UTC
With my friends, I goose-stepped down a dingy street, us all chomping down on pigs’ feet meat
My wet ears, inexperience glistening, opened up to the city eagerly listening
Heard orders for ****** and boy toys which, essentially, created walls of white noise
Found my way onto a queen-sized lump of trash and determined it a quality place to crash
Woke up suddenly to find the third eye of my mind permanently blind
Watched my body plunge into the absolute abysmal solely due to a habit of feeling terribly dismal
Started painting an accurate portrait of daily life using the ornate hues of continuous strife
Made a recipe for misery with some sassafras and a dab of the other side’s greener grass
It wasn’t until I chomped down on a half-finished Baby Ruth that my noggin’ tuned into the truth
Turns out, birds of a feather are held together by the absolute weakest of tethers
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 7:29 PM UTC
He curls my toes
But where did he go
I have met many scoundrels
But now I reach for the stars
To hard.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 10:16 AM UTC
Good morning birthday girl , it's your special day ..The apple of your Mothers eye , one year older today .. Blueberry waffles with pancake syrup , chocolate milk and your favorite cartoons ! We'll put on our coats and mittens , then head to town , find a gift for my precious little child !. A tea set or jewelry box with a tiny dancer inside , roller skates , Barbies or a baby doll that cries ..We'll set by the fireplace on this chilly October day with sugar cookies , cinnamon sticks and sassafras tea !
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 8:15 AM UTC
*Waiting for the ransom of daybreak
For Oak boughs in care of Wisterias child ,
for warm ploughland breath seeking the chilled morning address ,
Sunbeams held in gray cover , windmere hillsides
in earthly redress
Lorn , incognito Cottonwoods hosting the Mourning Dove
rituals , Sapphire flowers mingle in wetted Thistle ,
Crescendo showers telltale an oxbow brook with
clear quartz reflections , bathing the Sawgrass banks
Crimson , Nutmeg , Sassafras scent surprise , Wild onion teasing
the Dawn palate , dark earth fragrance in colorful green disguise
Gravel road , broom sage borders beneath Hickory canopies ,
leading to home*
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 6:28 PM UTC
...No wonder,
no numbers,
all blunder with,
scarred slumbering,
do you compute the math?
Most don't but luckily I’m only half as bad,
a psychopath on sassafras off the track and on the attack,
but at least I don’t stick my neck out like a gangly giraffe,
shoulders limp as seaweed baked and bouncing to whatever wack raps,
not even understanding what you said,
clowning everyone else but honestly,
everything you dis you are that,
and like I said before,
I’m bad but only half as bad as that,
I’m only half brainwashed and somewhat sheepish,
so at least I’m able to write about how stupid we are,
false egos fake libidos we played ourselves and that’s a well known secret, still we dye our hair dress up get on stage and play the air guitar,
and it all sounds like,
egotistical *****
reincarnated regurgitated nonsense,
narcissistic linguistics characteristic of conflicts,
nobody cares about how much money you’ve got,
not even you...
**** I just published a new book. If you could take a moment to check it out and even write a review it'd be most appreciated. All profits go to a charity that prevents ****** assault and abuse against girls and boys. So not only are you getting an epic book of poetry, but you're also supporting a good cause. I spent 6 months and thousands of dollars on creating this book, all I'm asking for in return is a few minutes and a few dollars to help prevent the abuse and assault of our children. Thank you SO much ∆ Here are the links for my new book as well as the link to the charity I’ll be donating all of the profits to:
www.createspace.com/6393238
www.amazon.com/dp/B01I4621OE
www.nomeansnoworldwide.org
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 11:58 PM UTC