"sheering" poems
A wild man is not a boyfriend, he is a force.
Can you love me in the blinding heat of a birthing star, when I shower warmth on distant moons?
Can you love me in the hole of the cosmic Black, where no one can reach me? Not even you?
Can you love me then too?
Can you love me when I drag buffalo skulls through the dirt for days, to the rhythm of an ancient drum?
Will you love me if my beard hides the scars in my heart, from battles I cannot explain?
WIll you love me when I lack courage, when I am defeated, when I won’t let you patch my wounds?
WIll you trust me when I smell of sweetgrass and sage, and when I stink of whiskey and sweat?
When I drink from the cup and play in astral light, will you anchor me to Home?
What happens when my words don’t work, and I can speak with only my eyes?
Can you love me enough to let me go, without asking me where I’ll be?
I am no poodle to lay groomed on a leash at your feet. I am the wolf that fetches the bones of truth.
A wild man is not a boyfriend. He’s not built for animal husbandry. He is a force. He is a cause for an effect. He is a mission.
Are you afraid to let me inside you? Not just my flesh, but my soul. The wild man is neither burglar or vandal. I will not take anything from you. I will not trample on sprouting seeds or pick flowers as a trophy. I am the sun on flooded fields and the fire for tangled webs.
Don’t be scared, lover, mother, maiden, crone. Take me as I am.
Even if I have the power to destroy worlds, I will not destroy you.
A wild man is a protector. A father. A warrior for all that is good.
When the chaos seeks to obliterate you, sheering your flesh from bone, I will hold all the pieces together in love, until you are ready to reassemble.
When your seas boil, and your winds throw cars at corn fields, I will wait patiently for you to catch my eye, so that both of us can laugh.
When Hell opens up the fiery gates, and sends all the cosmos against you… I plant my heels deep in the ground. I lay my shield low. My sword is sharp then, my love. The steel sings sweetly. With a smile, Hoka Hey! My last breath a farewell kiss. Today is a good day to die.
For ours is the oldest love affair. The greatest story ever told. Cupid and Psyche, Shiva and Shakti, You and I.
Same same but different. Would we have it any other way?
A wild man is not a boyfriend. He is a force.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 9:09 AM UTC
Freedom of choice, can never be
Rather, a designed destiny
With
Accidents, default settings by design
Coincidences, planned occurrences in time
Surroundings, attracted by rhyme
Then what, is the influence of time?
A matrix known, to only a few
The rest a drift, never knew
Only filling gaps, for the few
Like sheep, alive in meadow
On man’s command, they go
Slaughter sheering feeding, they never know
So, do we really want them to row?
Do they want to row?
Do we actually harvest what we sow?
Or is it just, part of the flow?
Dec 24, 2009
Dec 24, 2009 at 11:57 PM UTC
The wind swept across sheering dunes of white sand
the way certain kinds of dancers sway
like flames
The way young children often play
free of their father’s shame
It filled his lungs with the fire of his innocence
and the longer he inhaled the larger he grew
no sooner had he rivaled mountains
did he hear the cries of his former self
this being bound in chains spoke thus
*Be wary Apricus,
many great men have had their heads over hills
and their fates delivered them to the stake.
Are you willing to burn, to crumble into ash
and return to the dirt of mother earth
for all that you believe?*
Broken by doubt,
the mountain becomes a man again
but the heart of a giant still swelled inside of him
It raged against his fragile frame like a violent slave
until it grew weary of its own restless thunder
and there it sunk into the deep,
the deep frore of a wintry slumber
Sleep for now my lively child
for the hearts of giants reside inside of all men
but first they must learn to love themselves
before the giants can walk the earth again
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 9:19 AM UTC
— for Victoria
Seasons shuttle the tall stoic figure,
Graceful and solemn as wafted mist,
When seen, as if he was always there,
Overarching into meek, gloamy skies
Of mornings and dusk, mid day, lost,
Seems not right for wading out kills
That crane from above into the mud
And murk of the penny eyed waters
Only the ferryman will tender, for time
Slips, sleeping with the fishes, spears
Puddle and rim in the wakes, sparks
Of waters break like a sputtering fire,
His dart eyes are as yellow as golden
Sun dancing in funeral pyre. So green
Creatures, must they always be gotten,
Gone, have it coming from the sheering,
Mercies of the Great Blue Heron who is all
Seeing, scything, down to dazed judgement,
Incited, pecking to order at the squirming fold.
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 12:38 PM UTC
what,s beauty?shorn and tousled follicles.a b
-owlfilled with hushed buzzing electric teeth
masticating her hair fleetly. a soft waste deposited
in porcelain silent whiteness; a crevice kindly hard
to pertain the sheering
and rough gently her bobble i clutch and rub
its skein
the jostle gritty stubble rumbles contended
under my hands
but remains an onyx shock twaining sweetly
you
i love you
my little valkyrie; scream
Sep 15, 2010
Sep 15, 2010 at 11:37 AM UTC
— for Victoria
Seasons shuttle the tall stoic figure,
Graceful and solemn as wafted mist,
When seen, as if he was always there,
Overarching into meek, gloamy skies
Of mornings and dusk, mid day, lost,
Seems not right for wading out kills
That crane from above into the mud
And murk of the penny eyed waters
Only the ferryman will tender, for time
Slips, sleeping with the fishes, spears
Puddle and rim in the wakes, sparks
Of waters break like a sputtering fire,
His dart eyes are as yellow as golden
Sun dancing in funeral pyre. So green
Creatures, must they always be gotten,
Gone, have it coming from the sheering,
Mercies of the Great Blue Heron who is all
Seeing, scything, down to dazed judgement,
Incited, pecking to order at the squirming fold.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 5:31 PM UTC
*With heartbreak and loss...
does the Divine hear our thoughts?*
*Turning feathers, black and flickers,
spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning,*
WHOOSH!
On hands, on knees,
wind, hair, cascade, face.
I cry out -hoary breath,
sobbing, tender, the freeze.
FUP-FUP-FUP
Painful sheering burning ice upon my forearms...
to die is a warmth here.
*Turning feathers, black and flickers,
spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning,*
He lands and screeches,
talon'd feet below,
swaddling of wispy bandages
knees bent in reverse,
awkward pose o'er me
I look up and I see!
*Turning feathers, black and flickers,
spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning,*
Creature of arms species of wings, bandied, banded...
almonded eyes so black, large, -peering.
FUP-FUP-FUP
It knows of pain.
To deliver me, -here.
...away from the world
I exist in short space,
I lean back my haunches,
expiate my yeornful heart!
Torn out but beating and in pain no more?
I am leaving with this messenger...
*Turning feathers, black and flickers,
spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning,*
To the Van...
to the van...
*Turning feathers, black and flickers,
spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning.*
...spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning.
...spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning.
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 7:55 PM UTC
Between the cool-quarried kitchen
and paint-faded south facing door
runs a windowless wall
sugar-papered with childhood dreams.
Memories of roughly folded gifts
squirreled in satchels,
crossed creases still intact;
curled corners fixed with shiny pins.
Luminescent paint heartens the darkness of a pitch grotto
anticipating a flicked switch
to illuminate dimmed histories
of abstract symbols, visionless figures and countless fingers.
The small pink fists that captured
Time's most precious pieces,
now live with vaguely painted hope
of sheering unsteady walls
in their uncertain world.
May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010 at 3:05 AM UTC
The vultures roam low
Deserted in the middle of nowhere
Ready to begin their hunger show
To rip my body off and share
My heart is still at beat
I am not yet dead
For I am longing for our meet
But right now I am so scared
I pray for the cannibals to go away
The more I try to move myself
The more flocks dive my way
Inviting themselves
I peep at the sheering Sun
And hope for it to disappear
Water left, I have none
My vision so unclear
I get back up on my feet
Heading towards the shady creek
While vultures fight on decaying meat
Fighting with their sharp beek
Dear vultures,
If I become your fresh meal
Then please do me a favour
For I'll bare all the painful feel
Just spare my eyes for my saver
He who is my only love
Lost and gone out of my life, yes
God, shower mercy from above
And let me get over this mess...
©sim
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 7:06 AM UTC
It's night and I am to wonder
What is this sinister madness?
shocking me like thunder
an unexplainable sadness!
Sadness from sheering silence
Erasing all hope and guidance.
I wonder. But find no reasons
Why this sadness is needed
and like spiritual dry seasons
Wither the joy I once seeded
Drained and bleak, but why?
Sadness and silence, no reply.
Time passes days and weeks
I am still with no explanation
And when the sun finally peaks
I feel this relieved sensation
But why did the sadness go?
why did it come? I don't know.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 12:45 AM UTC
.
Etched in smoke, burnished by olden sun,
The runner grasses wave below into maze,
For eyes in cloud to clutch on mottled vermin,
Higher in stations, a judgement for all grazer,
Pleated feathers arched in weightless stone,
Are blades as steely as any burnt ploughmans
And airs that break, lift hawk far into sun shone,
As quake of earth strikes up a still haired louse,
For blades of green shall call, bleed in grasses
And whisper will shout, downing smallest might,
Tiny beasts who crawl among waveing masses,
To hawk over hill, sheering in raiments of light.
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 3:29 PM UTC
Conseal the pain of this broken heart
Let there be flashes of light
Unveil this darkness, O' sheering rain
Drums of thunder thumping tonight
Blots of ink dubbed on paper
Melting candle wax shapes a figure
Breeze of glory, sound of chimes
My trembling hand on the trigger
Drowning deep in this nights swamp
Swallowing pins and needles of taste
Tears break into silent cries
This life is just a waste
Do I or do I not
The fight is still going on
Live or die
Coz I am already torn
Helpless, but there's a guilt feeling
Why be a coward for someone elses mistake
Live and start all over again
Give no time to fake
Pulling the trigger gives no escape
My soul would be barred in this world of fake
Why should I take my life
Why not, correct my mistakes...
©sim
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 6:24 PM UTC
Tonight in front of the early AM infomercial,
I overturn,
And flip through a few times more
Finally, to attribute self dialect
Still watching images on a soundless screen,
mimicking their actions,
One thought only fills the mute void
___________________________
Our leering fog days under freeways
Waiting all hours during school weeks
to hear you fill the mute void
___________________________
Technology, I claim,
Surprises the electro brain currents at such hour
Given the right two and a half hour sleep schedule,
A lack, made proceeding day event sheering
___________________________
I just wanted you to realize that before your double self died
That monster we both made in unison
Is my death of a hideous past
The thought of him at this hour
Always fills the mute void
Puts me to sleep under fluorescence glowing
from the early AM infomercial.
Sep 20, 2010
Sep 20, 2010 at 1:18 AM UTC
I don't know, how many heartbeats are left in this body. But I can assure you, that my time is quite near. Near to the gates of freedom from this sinful body. I admire, the ticks on the old wall clock. It gradually reminds me of my choking last breaths. The treasure chest in my heart weighs heavy with sorrows. The key resides in my mind, where the memories churn. My eyes stare wide at the pillars and the high ceilings. The energy to raise my hand has drained to the point, where I can't even get up. Blurred vision and twinkling micro lights fly whenever I blink to see, to see what I've missed more. To see that one peace that my soul craved for. To see you, being successful. Sometimes, I hold onto my breath...to get the feelings of death. But then, I am suddenly perched with enormous pain, like a million needles stamped over my chest.
A pin drop silence, then a siren sheering sound bust in my ears. And this, my dear I believe is a tour of hell.
It's just a bad fate, I carry with me, and this will leave me only.
Only, on the day,
I leave this needless body, for good
And all the pain, the sufferings, the sounds shall stop
...
A pin drop silence
©sim
Jun 28, 2017
Jun 28, 2017 at 6:31 AM UTC
Etched in smoke, burnished by olden sun,
The runner grasses wave below into maze,
For eyes in cloud to clutch on mottled vermin,
Higher in stations, a judgement for all grazer,
Pleated feathers arched in weightless stone,
Are blades as steely as any burnt ploughmans
And airs that break, lift hawk far into sun shone,
As quake of earth strikes up a still haired louse,
For blades of green shall call, bleed in grasses
And whisper will shout, downing smallest might,
Tiny beasts who crawl among waveing masses,
To hawk over hill, sheering in raiments of light.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 5:33 PM UTC
*women are like that... the chair isn’t there, no one will ever sit on it... but she still plans for the chair to be there. men are like that... the chair isn’t there, no one will ever mind the chair should it be there... and he still doesn’t consider the chair to relate to the possibility of impregnation with his *********** of the ideas she will have to eat as the prime protein... unless of course he’s forced to go against his freedom and enter her will and make god prove himself freely kinned to her will and the chair.*
i love the fact that i can
drink,
write, watch the internet,
then watch the t.v.,
think about the bones of imaginary ******
of my hand,
switch off the t.v.
write,
remember the internet is static unless there’s an imput,
forget that too...
think of something...
that’s like a surgeon’s last sight of life
that’s more than a funeral mantlepiece...
well that’s me... it’s un-rhymed and less classical
that you might feel it might be...
i want to ********** to be honest...
but what’s that, sex’s a handshake?!
well... with so many sorry and soapy faces
i would look uncaring and clean faced to say hello
un-inhibited again... again... again:
i can say say it with a life... or sway saying it
with a profession as an actor; your choice... ha:
he who laughs last laughs true, and all interpretation comes last
as first to define wages in consideration of historians -
i might have said something like iodine matched up the
creases.... although the creases never scented iodine...
and the creases where never a wedding-dress... but skin’s leather
care for aged 80 in homeric blindness:
i might have... should have i doubt unless i was schooled
to be the envious of a circus played...
it doesn’t really matter... like poetry of
girls desiring a contract and newspaper snippets of likes...
for that biography of sylvia plath ending with:
#fucktartbollockshitbiographywaytoolong!
of course... then my ironing playlist changes
and i hear xednomorph’s satan’s presence...
then ooo la dip d’e doo d’ah becomes a *******
that just wanted to **** on santa’s beard to
hear the sunshine song of lapdancing reindeer
turning lapdancing into a shave / sheering:
***** tonk thomas engineer said: plot the blues
in plural for a patched up sacrifice of itchy thumbs up
for the sacrament: icon for a scarce testimony - icon for a scare -
pears i can juggle walking up the stairs...
juggling crucifixes walking up golgotha... i can’t:
if i did... i’d be a pope or a jew!
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 11:18 PM UTC
Etched in smoke, burnished by olden sun,
The runner grasses wave below into maze,
For eyes in cloud to clutch on mottled vermin,
Higher in stations, a judgement for all grazer,
Pleated feathers arched in weightless stone,
Are blades as steely as any burnt ploughmans
And airs that break, lift hawk far into sun shone,
As quake of earth strikes up a still haired louse,
For blades of green shall call, bleed in grasses
And whisper will shout, downing smallest might,
Tiny beasts who crawl among waveing masses,
To hawk over hill, sheering in raiments of light.
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 3:18 PM UTC
.
Etched in smoke, burnished by olden sun,
The runner grasses wave below into maze,
For eyes in cloud to clutch on mottled vermin,
Higher in stations, a judgement for all grazer,
Pleated feathers arched in weightless stone,
Are blades as steely as any burnt ploughmans
And airs that break, lift hawk far into sun shone,
As quake of earth strikes up a still haired louse,
For blades of green shall call, bleed in grasses
And whisper will shout, downing smallest might,
Tiny beasts who crawl among waveing masses,
To hawk over hill, sheering in raiments of light.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 5:30 PM UTC
.
Seasons shuttle the tall stoic figure,
Graceful and solemn as wafted mist,
When seen, as if he was always there,
Overarching into meek, gloamy skies
Of mornings and dusk, mid day, lost,
Seems not right for wading out kills
That crane from above into the mud
And murk of the penny eyed waters
Only the ferryman will tender, for time
Slips, sleeping with the fishes, spears
Puddle and rim in the wakes, sparks
Of waters break like a sputtering fire,
His dart eyes are as yellow as golden
Sun dancing in funeral pyre. So green
Creatures, must they always be gotten,
Gone, have it coming from the sheering,
Mercies of the Great Blue Heron who is all
Seeing, scything, down to dazed judgement,
Incited, pecking to order at the squirming fold.
Sep 1, 2017
Sep 1, 2017 at 3:42 AM UTC
.
Etched in smoke, burnished by olden sun,
The runner grasses wave below into maze,
For eyes in cloud to clutch on mottled vermin,
Higher in stations, a judgement for all grazer,
Pleated feathers arched in weightless stone,
Are blades as steely as any burnt ploughmans
And airs that break, lift hawk far into sun shone,
As quake of earth strikes up a still haired louse,
For blades of green shall call, bleed in grasses
And whisper will shout, downing smallest might,
Tiny beasts who crawl among waveing masses,
To hawk over hill, sheering in raiments of light.
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 8:54 PM UTC
That sheering pain in my toe was wonderful
Why?
Because for 1 2 3 4 5 seconds.
The pain in my heart was absent.
The pain in my toe makes it hard to walk.
The pain in my toe is ripping my skin.
The pain in my toe is drilling my bone.
But the pain in heart makes it hard to breath.
The pain in my heart rips my dignity
The pain in my heart drills my soul.
So for a second longer,
please let my toe hurt.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 1:43 PM UTC
Hazel eyes, hate is very much alive.
Bleached striped hair, parents never cared.
Desaturated makeup, abuse save up.
Branch like lashes, left the guns in the attic.
Bloodied pores, closing doors.
Chipped nails, bleeding Dale.
Scarred skin, occurring sins.
Bloodied skirt, exposed hurt.
Bloodied sneakers, driving by the bleachers.
Steady hands, acting out plans.
Pressurized trigger, pull back finger.
Black handle, blood covered handles.
Full magazine, gruesome scene.
Empty canister, a new cancer.
Staring scope, deprived hope.
Heated Barrel, death written peril.
Dispensing bullets, anger she’s full of it.
Chipped desks, severed heads.
Impacted walls, faint police calls.
Shattered glass, death attracts.
Bodies down, the flag is proud.
Blood soaked tiles, bodies litter the aisles.
Wounded souls, doors closed.
Narrowed screams, a violent portrayal gleams.
Distant sirens, victims silenced.
Blurring smoke, the gun provokes.
Gas mask on, a tragedy in the dawn.
Emergency services, the hurt she did.
Police, she’s loaded to release.
Erupting explosions, a bloodied corruption.
Officer down, **** she’s proud.
Reloading yet again, pain is about to begin.
Hit through the torso, she still has the guns though.
Hard to move, starting to lose her homicidal groove.
Sheering pain, every scream sounds the same.
Another shot, her moment is lost.
Killed by the law, psychosis remains a common flaw.
Aftermath: A tragic path.
Overlooked as a simple girl, an untouched disturbed world.
Within the fragments of abuse and fantasies. Unknown abnormalities
She herself was very misunderstood, had no teachings of the common good.
Parents exposing death, they just didn’t know it.
Breeding a killer, giving violent media to justify a sinner
And they wonder why their daughter made violence a neighbor instead of a impostor.
Mar 22, 2019
Mar 22, 2019 at 4:20 PM UTC
Ukiyo-e
Thin curls coaxed from the grain
released from all claim by the dogged
rooting of the spoon gouge
bone white ribbon
easing itself to the fragrant floor
spiral cherry rivulet lost in the churn
at the feet of the carver, the first
thing I remember. A churlish man
as I recall, the burl of his squint
screening detail and smoke
from his cigarette, blue double
helix rising in mirror image
a lowering ceiling steeping
his head in stormy weather
gimlet eye weighing heavy seas
a tempest lipping
the canted rim of a petal thin
tea cup, striated wave
reaching for the heavens
top lopped clean by sheering wind
the fluter and the veiner alive and biting
in the hands of the carver who cuts me free
at last, rendered in stark relief at
the boiling crest of the surf break.
Nov 15, 2016
Nov 15, 2016 at 3:30 PM UTC
.
Seasons shuttle the tall stoic figure,
Graceful and solemn as wafted mist,
When seen, as if he was always there,
Overarching into meek, gloamy skies
Of mornings and dusk, mid day, lost,
Seems not right for wading out kills
That crane from above into the mud
And murk of the penny eyed waters
Only the ferryman will tender, for time
Slips, sleeping with the fishes, spears
Puddle and rim in the wakes, sparks
Of waters break like a sputtering fire,
His dart eyes are as yellow as golden
Sun dancing in funeral pyre. So green
Creatures, must they always be gotten,
Gone, have it coming from the sheering,
Mercies of the Great Blue Heron who is all
Seeing, scything, down to dazed judgement,
Incited, pecking to order at the squirming fold.
.
Aug 16, 2020
Aug 16, 2020 at 1:10 PM UTC