"scaped" poems
~
i stand before this kneeling bench,
no sanctuary of our making;
its walls here open thrown,
on stained glass windows found
strewn upon the sand,
its tide-washed, polished glass,
my feet find holy ground;
my sandals left at driftwood door.
incense burns upon the wind,
its salty spray is mingled,
with my own upon
these joy-stained cheeks.
the worshippers that went before
have built a temple out of wood,
hewn, untouched by human hand,
a steeple to the sky is lifted,
and within its shelter,
remnants of a ring of fire,
smoke once lifted to the
heavens by believers true;
this church i see through salted eyes,
this scape awash in teeming life,
here i drink this living wine;
its ebb, its rush, its living in
each moment without need,
to connect each dot, or even speak.
i long to live at razor's edge,
where sands and tides collide;
the rocky shoals where dungeness,
find sustenance and shelter;
the coves where seabirds feed their young,
above the sandstone cliffs;
the bar beneath a setting sun,
in flames awash in waves;
find comfort ‘neath
the storm-shaped pine,
feel longing in the stinging air.
these cheeks that weep,
though want of tears,
not in sorrow mind you,
but in joy of freedom,
the lure of siren alter call;
of a close horizon on a misty morn,
the haunting breath of orca,
just beyond my sight;
the bark of ocean’s lion,
the roar of distant waves;
with these my prayers i send,
as i offer this my praise;
this church of no man’s making,
here i come for cleansing,
to breathe the life that i am given!
~
*post script.
by nature we are spiritual creatures;
spiritual... not religious. reading your
sea-scaped prose inspires me; planning
changes in my own life even more so!!
it is said that we return to what we know
best... the ocean calls...*
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 10:05 AM UTC
At morn the Count of Greiers before his castle stands;
He sees afar the glory that lights the mountain lands;
The horned crags are shining, and in the shade between
A pleasant Alpine valley lies beautifully green.
"Oh, greenest of the valleys, how shall I come to thee!
Thy herdsmen and thy maidens, how happy must they be!
I have gazed upon thee coldly, all lovely as thou art,
But the wish to walk thy pastures now stirs my inmost heart."
He hears a sound of timbrels, and suddenly appear
A troop of ruddy damsels and herdsmen drawing near;
They reach the castle greensward, and gayly dance across;
The white sleeves flit and glimmer, the wreaths and ribands toss.
The youngest of the maidens, slim as a spray of spring,
She takes the young count's fingers, and draws him to the ring,
They fling upon his forehead a crown of mountain flowers,
"And ** young Count of Greiers! this morning thou art ours!"
Then hand in hand departing, with dance and roundelay,
Through hamlet after hamlet, they lead the Count away.
They dance through wood and meadow, they dance across the linn,
Till the mighty Alpine summits have shut the music in.
The second morn is risen, and now the third is come;
Where stays the Count of Greiers? has he forgot his home?
Again the evening closes, in thick and sultry air;
There's thunder on the mountains, the storm is gathering there.
The cloud has shed its waters, the brook comes swollen down;
You see it by the lightning--a river wide and brown.
Around a struggling swimmer the eddies dash and roar,
Till, seizing on a willow, he leaps upon the shore.
"Here am I cast by tempests far from your mountain dell.
Amid our evening dances the bursting deluge fell.
Ye all, in cots and caverns, have 'scaped the water-spout,
While me alone the tempest o'erwhelmed and hurried out.
"Farewell, with thy glad dwellers, green vale among the rocks!
Farewell the swift sweet moments, in which I watched thy flocks!
Why rocked they not my cradle in that delicious spot,
That garden of the happy, where Heaven endures me not?
"Rose of the Alpine valley! I feel, in every vein,
Thy soft touch on my fingers; oh, press them not again!
Bewitch me not, ye garlands, to tread that upward track,
And thou, my cheerless mansion, receive thy master back."
1.4k
I stand upon my native hills again,
Broad, round, and green, that in the summer sky
With garniture of waving grass and grain,
Orchards, and beechen forests, basking lie,
While deep the sunless glens are scooped between,
Where brawl o'er shallow beds the streams unseen.
A lisping voice and glancing eyes are near,
And ever restless feet of one, who, now,
Gathers the blossoms of her fourth bright year;
There plays a gladness o'er her fair young brow,
As breaks the varied scene upon her sight,
Upheaved and spread in verdure and in light.
For I have taught her, with delighted eye,
To gaze upon the mountains,--to behold,
With deep affection, the pure ample sky,
And clouds along its blue abysses rolled,--
To love the song of waters, and to hear
The melody of winds with charmed ear.
Here, I have 'scaped the city's stifling heat,
Its horrid sounds, and its polluted air;
And, where the season's milder fervours beat,
And gales, that sweep the forest borders, bear
The song of bird, and sound of running stream,
Am come awhile to wander and to dream.
Ay, flame thy fiercest, sun! thou canst not wake,
In this pure air, the plague that walks unseen.
The maize leaf and the maple bough but take,
From thy strong heats, a deeper, glossier green.
The mountain wind, that faints not in thy ray,
Sweeps the blue steams of pestilence away.
The mountain wind! most spiritual thing of all
The wide earth knows; when, in the sultry time,
He stoops him from his vast cerulean hall,
He seems the breath of a celestial clime!
As if from heaven's wide-open gates did flow
Health and refreshment on the world below.
1.4k
Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;
Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross,
join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
And do not drop in for an after-loss.
Ah, do not, when my heart hath ’scaped this sorrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquered woe;
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
To linger out a purposed overthrow.
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done their spite,
But in the onset come; so shall I taste
At first the very worst of fortune’s might,
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
Compared with loss of thee will not seem so.
1.2k
Sat upon clay colored cushions
In the breadth of foreign land
two young men and a boy
listen in,
to Spanish TV
Mosquitos hover intently
upon warm humid air
lowering to replenish
with itchy precision
Flowery aromas,
of fruit-scaped hills
pour through parted Windows
of 13 glass panes
a white sock and a black sock
the moment feels the same
still typing
trying to find,
my purpose here
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 6:16 PM UTC
The first ones they killed were the poets.
They crowned themselves, the sterile
And sexless acorns who fell from the felled
And split the air, writing with bark,
Would have us not desire experience
But describing trees. To the naked kings
The word is a wonder, a tool to be used
Like any other. With a forge, they called
An altar, they pitted heaven and made miners
Of the Gods. In high places they read
Their grounded works, sogged with rain
Water from a red wheelbarrow, they list
And bludgeon us with their hammered similes,
Scribe their poems, they are the painters of one
Colour and high priests of alchemy, turning
Salon into echelon. When the falcon stoops
They name him hawk. Standing **** flat-footed,
In bumpy skin, their honks go unanswered,
For they are no kin to the swan that glides
And sometimes they remember that,
The first ones they killed were the poets,
When the sky is etherized, prose made
Verse and their subjects yawn the great
Slaving maw. Steeped in stale erudition,
They man-scaped the garden, pulled out
The weeds and by their words, they decreed
That only grass should grow, in strident
Chorus they are ringing in the sheaves.
But their poems are only like poems.
The naked kings are clothed in word only.
In the thirsty kingdom, water spills
Stagnant from the stein and the droplets
Echo, "there's no there . . . there."
Incestuously they christened
Each other, one hundred years of virgins
Making love with a dead word
They know not of— Poet! Asters
Among the daisies, yet on the fields
Of praise, they shall deflower
Themselves and though they strut
And prance as stallions and mares,
You will know them by their brays.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 2:26 PM UTC
The first ones they killed were the poets.
They crowned themselves, the sterile
And sexless acorns who fell from the felled
And split the air, writing with bark,
Would have us not desire experience
But describing trees. To the naked kings
The word is a wonder, a tool to be used
Like any other. With a forge, they called
An altar, they pitted heaven and made miners
Of the Gods. In high places they read
Their grounded works, sogged with rain
Water from a red wheelbarrow, they list
And bludgeon us with their hammered similes,
Scribe their poems, they are the painters of one
Colour and high priests of alchemy, turning
Salon into echelon. When the falcon stoops
They name him hawk. Standing **** flat-footed,
In bumpy skin, their honks go unanswered,
For they are no kin to the swan that glides
And sometimes they remember that,
The first ones they killed were the poets,
When the sky is etherized, prose made
Verse and their subjects yawn the great
Slaving maw. Steeped in stale erudition,
They man-scaped the garden, pulled out
The weeds and by their words, they decreed
That only grass should grow, in strident
Chorus they are ringing in the sheaves.
But their poems are only like poems.
The naked kings are clothed in word only.
In the thirsty kingdom, water spills
Stagnant from the stein and the droplets
Echo, "there's no there . . . there."
Incestuously they christened
Each other, one hundred years of virgins
Making love with a dead word
They know not of— Poet! Asters
Among the daisies, yet on the fields
Of praise, they shall deflower
Themselves and though they strut
And prance as stallions and mares,
You will know them by their brays.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 4:55 AM UTC
The first ones they killed were the poets.
They crowned themselves, the sterile
And sexless acorns who fell from the felled
And split the air, writing with bark,
Would have us not desire experience
But describing trees. To the naked kings
The word is a wonder, a tool to be used
Like any other. With a forge, they called
An altar, they pitted heaven and made miners
Of the Gods. In high places they read
Their grounded works, sogged with rain
Water from a red wheelbarrow, they list
And bludgeon us with their hammered similes,
Scribe their poems, they are the painters of one
Colour and high priests of alchemy, turning
Salon into echelon. When the falcon stoops
They name him hawk. Standing **** flat-footed,
In bumpy skin, their honks go unanswered,
For they are no kin to the swan that glides
And sometimes they remember that,
The first ones they killed were the poets,
When the sky is etherized, prose made
Verse and their subjects yawn the great
Slaving maw. Steeped in stale erudition,
They man-scaped the garden, pulled out
The weeds and by their words, they decreed
That only grass should grow, in strident
Chorus they are ringing in the sheaves.
But their poems are only like poems.
The naked kings are clothed in word only.
In the thirsty kingdom, water spills
Stagnant from the stein and the droplets
Echo, "there's no there . . . there."
Incestuously they christened
Each other, one hundred years of virgins
Making love with a dead word
They know not of— Poet! Asters
Among the daisies, yet on the fields
Of praise, they shall deflower
Themselves and though they strut
And prance as stallions and mares,
You will know them by their brays.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 2:40 PM UTC
There is little here
in this sun-scaped city
to press a frown onto my face.
I feel free
I've lost ten pounds
my skin is smooth
I bought new fashionable clothes
and I laugh more than ever before,
and that is what people see,
will amber annex buster dani skyla rashid duane kiki chase adrianna
all these new people
who laugh at my funny name
only see this happy smiling girl
who is kind and quick to help
and make jokes
and dance
and offer advice
and yet despite the freedom I feel
it comes with equal parts guilt.
have I ever smiled so much before?
The me people meet now is so new to me
it feels like a lie
it's nice of you to ask me on a date
but how could I tell you the horrors of my past?
with all this smiling
you'd never believe the years of frowns and tears
no one would think to look for the lines where you can see my burn scars
they wouldn't look at my differently
when I trace old bruises
they don't think
to be careful when touching me
they don't have a clue
and it's all I've ever wanted
to have people think nothing is wrong
for me to be like the other girls,
but now that that's what people see,
my smiles though real
make me feel like I'm lying to everyone around me.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 10:56 PM UTC
The first ones they killed were the poets.
They crowned themselves, the sterile
And sexless acorns who fell from the felled
And split the air, writing with bark,
Would have us not desire experience
But describing trees. To the naked kings
The word is a wonder, a tool to be used
Like any other. With a forge, they called
An altar, they pitted heaven and made miners
Of the Gods. In high places they read
Their grounded works, sogged with rain
Water from a red wheelbarrow, they list
And bludgeon us with their hammered similes,
Scribe their poems, they are the painters of one
Colour and high priests of alchemy, turning
Salon into echelon. When the falcon stoops
They name him hawk. Standing **** flat-footed,
In bumpy skin, their honks go unanswered,
For they are no kin to the swan that glides
And sometimes they remember that,
The first ones they killed were the poets,
When the sky is etherized, prose made
Verse and their subjects yawn the great
Slaving maw. Steeped in stale erudition,
They man-scaped the garden, pulled out
The weeds and by their words, they decreed
That only grass should grow, in strident
Chorus they are ringing in the sheaves.
But their poems are only like poems.
The naked kings are clothed in word only.
In the thirsty kingdom, water spills
Stagnant from the stein and the droplets
Echo, "there's no there . . . there."
Incestuously they christened
Each other, one hundred years of virgins
Making love with a dead word
They know not of— Poet! Asters
Among the daisies, yet on the fields
Of praise, they shall deflower
Themselves and though they strut
And prance as stallions and mares,
You will know them by their brays.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 10:17 PM UTC
I met a man with a Y for a hand.
Addressed him timidly, "which war?"
An earnest reply: "the second."
He then went on.
His words were water, gently flooding my mind.
'O pliant paper sea, kindly permit those words to flow from me and into Thee!' For I fear I may drown, held under too long by the rapids I have become.
This is my stranger, the moments he shared:
'Father gone, too young to forgive.
The neighbor boy's '41 Buick leaves dust on his new bicycle.
Upon a cinder track, Father's fleeing footsteps spur him on,
For his is a sadness only speed can overcome.
I know not by what good grace he 'scaped savage Okinawa, with her Endless line of bayonets, but I do know this:
That cinder track, in devotion absolute, forgot its form, stretching from an Imperfect oval to a path at once straight and serpentine, leading you from foxhole to foxhole, past ambush and anguish.
No victory lap here; just heavy iron tread snapping shoots of bamboo spread for a finish line.
Silence and silence alone greets him as he collapses post-race, leaving three fingers to Okinawa and departing post-haste.'
I had all but succumbed to his tale, each new sentence a towering breaker Pummeling me into the darkness of my aquatic consciousness.
I reached out, finding a precious grasp extracting me from jealous eddies and Lonely currents.
Though our handshake held seven where ten should rightly go, it was yet more complete than any I have known.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 8:31 PM UTC
The six-turned horns with yellow eyes
shivers in the crispy Olympus air
as a wave of clasping hands
claw at his wet blooded hair.
A man of the pebbles and mud,
a crook that grazed the land.
He grazed sixty years, but then,
anchored a fair folk on the red sea,
babes in the arms of the slopes below.
They were green and white, with smiles
and ears that savored his wispy white hair.
But a harsh winter came that
uncovered the black, they
dug it out of the caves; and so,
Gaia took their warm green away.
The people fought and spit as they
stole more slick from shadowed pits.
Friction sparking fires to burn their ire.
and the Ire spewed fire back at Him.
Now, the Horns stands betwixt their heat and the pit
shedding salt over their fall, not his, and
with a bleep tosses his cloven hooves over.
to leave them their green, to drown in black..
Sep 10, 2017
Sep 10, 2017 at 3:00 PM UTC
Tilt the life liquid,
from occupied plastic;
so rivers stream
where you can't see,
but you can hear.
It is kin to phlegm
in the back of my throat
And 'scaped from my lips,
a hero drops,
Too worn from tubes
To accept another.
Askew a tongue
to a soldier who's fallen.
Rescue the numbed.
A soldier.
What makes a hero is loneliness
Because feeling lonely is all he is.
So pity on him. Folly it is.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 2:29 AM UTC
You must not wonder, though you think it strange,
To see me hold my louring head so low,
And that mine eyes take no delight to range
About the gleams which on your face do grow.
The mouse which once hath broken out of trap
Is seldom ’ticèd with the trustless bait,
But lies aloof for fear of more mishap,
And feedeth still in doubt of deep deceit.
The scorchèd fly, which once hath ’scaped the flame,
Will hardly come to play again with fire,
Whereby I learn that grievous is the game
Which follows fancy dazzled by desire:
So that I wink or else hold down my head,
Because your blazing eyes my bale have bred.
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 11:07 AM UTC
that double standard
don't feel so good
when it's you on the other side
but it wouldn't be you
because i watched you burn
as the arson just scaped by
and no i didn't look for good
in a place where
there was none to be found
i didn't wanna hear his story
or see his face
or become adjusted to the sound
of lies and violation
belittlement and manipulation
i wanted nothing but to see you okay
but you laugh with my abusers
and flock to my tormentors
like you didn't see any of my pain
and maybe
just maybe
you didnt
at the time
but what could you speak to now
Aug 24, 2022
Aug 24, 2022 at 6:43 AM UTC
The soul bird city sleeps
While my dawn dust eyes peek
Cracking open as my window
Light flooding out of my eyes
Dream-scaped colors illuminate
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 2:06 AM UTC
What it is
is neither love nor hate,
collated tattered spirit
scaped a folly
of indifference
-a brave-face disingenuous-
and all to keep it safe
spread the weight
about the skeleton
re-christened it acceptance,
... enchanted
by this eloquence
I lollop on my way..
Apr 6, 2025
Apr 6, 2025 at 4:17 AM UTC