"shuck" poems
*The oyster whispers echo
within its own silent shell
Its utters of longing
sought to bejewel
a pearl's essence,
as an ocean's murmur
heaves within its shuck
Some might call it lightly
fragile hope;
a fleck of light in dark
Or just a dream
of an unspoken grain of sand,
a diamond in the rough
someone you used to know ...June 2017
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 1:48 PM UTC
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Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 4:16 PM UTC
America, from a grain
of maize you grew
to crown
with spacious lands
the ocean foam.
A grain of maize was your geography.
From the grain
a green lance rose,
was covered with gold,
to grace the heights
of Peru with its yellow tassels.
But, poet, let
history rest in its shroud;
praise with your lyre
the grain in its granaries:
sing to the simple maize in the kitchen.
First, a fine beard
fluttered in the field
above the tender teeth
of the young ear.
Then the husks parted
and fruitfulness burst its veils
of pale papyrus
that grains of laughter
might fall upon the earth.
To the stone,
in your journey,
you returned.
Not to the terrible stone,
the ******
triangle of Mexican death,
but to the grinding stone,
sacred
stone of your kitchens.
There, milk and matter,
strength-giving, nutritious
cornmeal pulp,
you were worked and patted
by the wondrous hands
of dark-skinned women.
Wherever you fall, maize,
whether into the
splendid *** of partridge, or among
country beans, you light up
the meal and lend it
your virginal flavor.
Oh, to bite into
the steaming ear beside the sea
of distant song and deepest waltz.
To boil you
as your aroma
spreads through
blue sierras.
But is there
no end
to your treasure?
In chalky, barren lands
bordered
by the sea, along
the rocky Chilean coast,
at times
only your radiance
reaches the empty
table of the miner.
Your light, your cornmeal, your hope
pervades America's solitudes,
and to hunger
your lances
are enemy legions.
Within your husks,
like gentle kernels,
our sober provincial
children's hearts were nurtured,
until life began
to shuck us from the ear.
5.1k
grasses brown up nice,
this time of year, Sun slices,
through the spaces of
branches and the love-
ly leaves, shadow seekers,
and sun bathers wait on,
the changing dark shape,
to place their bodies and at
by the end of the day
such justifies the means,
while buckets of water
empty and fill and liquid
pill fertilizer, is a miser
of plant health, wealth
and chaotic growth,
you can't control your
eating or time,
so why should a ****
heed the call to stop,
why should a plant,
slow down instead,
cant toward the Sun
you worship or hide
your hide from, and
your dog or cat, just
lays about the place,
licks your nose or face,
serve wine over ice and
take a couple of ice cubes
from a heart, that there
is never a chance of thaw,
at the temperature of dry
ice and dry eyes that will
not shed tears, will not
shuck fears, like oysters,
on the life that is a beach,
shoals,
rip tides,
confide and confounded,
leave the corpse in the sand
until the waves have pounded
knowledge of gardening and
gardens of life, go on live
beyond the strife, soften the
take on weed(s).
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 8:23 PM UTC
partway along the path that all must tread
wrong turning taken in the dusk and muck
no hope to find the proper road ahead
so easy then to say that truth had fled
give up on life along with all my luck
partway along the path that all must tread
while many voices echo no words said
could quite convey how badly one was stuck
no hope to find the proper road ahead
darkness around the human world abed
so easy then the mortal form to shuck
partway along the path that all must tread
where none could scream from simple weight of dread
no light could come from passing car or truck
no hope to find the proper road ahead
the only message was you must fall dead
the world goes on no one will give a ****
partway along the path that all must tread
no hope to find the proper road ahead
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 10:01 AM UTC
Gazing south as if some wise, well worn fisherman,leaning against the wroughted railed pier in all its victorian, gordy, standing, splendor.
Warmed and held by the summer sun as close as shared spoon-cuddled arms.
On thermal air, calls and laughter rise from towelled steaked plots
blinding and shading the razor sharp hungry sea-gulls eye from flakey white flesh in all its golden battered salt-shuck sharpness,
competeing on the nose with hand-held melting creamyness, as they waft and weave gently by.
Below the slatted sound , the magic hypnotic spell of lapping waves lift and tilt me on a day dream of youthful lost love.
To a day we made our sun run in all its lazyness, dimming the enviour moon in its wake and kissing still the hands on the pasty-face black towering clock
As time slipped way and was some where else.
With worn drift wood and tingleling toes you defaced the sand with a graphity the council tryed but couldn't erace.
And there it lies still, benieth the smooth pebbled shore,
kissed each day with salty tears and remembered sighs.
A fearful screaming siren pieces the soft English air, Its doppled blast, chilling, pushing, demanding its screeching way through the brain, to some others pained, tear filled day,
then fades on the breeze.
A sun blushed child frowns through pink Brighton rock lips and eyes as blue as the sea, a secert smile is shared as if in that innocence I knew that one magic day she will run on skipping painted toes and giggles sweet to etch for him in soft blank sand her love on this dreamy day beach.
So off the sea and off the pier I strole, absorbed and lost among the tripping faced crowd,into the sun dipped west and home alone.
Yet knowing you will remain forever mine, held in crystal dimonded grains, whilst around the bitter -sweet changing tides ebb and flow
down
through
the
years.
Feb 25, 2011
Feb 25, 2011 at 1:41 AM UTC
The world is my oyster
No its not
Ever oyster needs a shuck
Tell me where mine is?
Another pill
Another suppressant
No
No more pills
A sweet shot of adrenaline
The other me takes the wheel
My devil behind the wheel
My foot pressing the gas down
Another monster releasing
Bloodshot vision
Crimson craving beast
Cutting
Stabbing
Ripping
Tearing
Maiming
Beating
Twisting
Biting
My my just can't lie
Its the love of the chase that created this high
My my I need a shot again
Sweet adrenaline
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 11:05 PM UTC
As a kid
you used to watch
your mother
shucking peas
over the kitchen sink
and see the skill
her fingers
and thumb had
of clearing out
the peas into a bowl
with a single move
and you asked her
for one of the shucks
to chew
and she said
shucks?
you want a shuck?
yes please
you said
and she gave you one
from her hand
and you chewed
the juices out
and let it move
around your mouth
like that old tobacco
the cowboys had
in the black
and white films
your father
had taken you to see
and then you swallowed
and asked for more
and your mother obliged
with a raised brow
and a continued
moving out of peas
from the shuck
with nimble thumb
and fingers’ grip
as another green shuck
sat upon your lip
cowboy style
and your mother
with a shake of head
smiled and carried
on her work
of pushing out peas
from the pod
as you walked off
into the cowboy sunset
thinking of the Wild West
with no thought
of Boothill or God.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 5:19 AM UTC
The sky is so polluted but it's beautiful, isn't it though?
Feel bad, so to relax, sit outside 7-Eleven with a smoke.
With the way I hold my head you can't even tell I'm poor.
Or maybe you can, because "What's that?" You ask. It's
the loose change in my pockets overfilled to the spilling
You hear me walking, it's no-cash, it's no-wash, the half
blood broke *** All the bad habits, no natural habitat.
Clothes from the Village feel almost as fine on your flesh
as the high class new tags from the corner off 5th/Saks
What makes you happy? What makes you happy?
With just a little more coming in you could finance your
fantasy, or get more freak and nasty. Green is the color
on top of the clouds that catches you falling before the ground.
Shuck corn, remorseless, you can get it paid. Mesmerize
at the numbers rising higher and higher, coerced too
easily to enjoy your stay. What makes you happy?
What makes you happy? The view from the penthouse
on top of the city. Pity. There's no love in the home you
built. There's no cause no effect no affection waking
you up to touch the world with the passion igniting
your eyes and pulsing out your fingertips. One step
from homelessness without one hope, but faith is
a better replacement in the end and I've got faith
in code.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 10:48 PM UTC
Some types of blood arrest this mouth.
Yes, some types of lips breathe fire and shout.
Some types of women shuck men of their gain, then some women run hurriedly back to their beaches again.
Some people catch anons between their legs. Others swallow vespers BeSpoke by the lust that they crave. Then envelop Gonzo love on the tip of their quill, if only boiling themselves for five minutes to ensure themselves potable.
I live for the taste of rust. I sit in the second-to-last seat on the back-left side of the bus. And I greet her legs with my aching skin, touch my fingertips to my lips to prove that I’m alive to myself.
If her scent was obeyed by royalty. I’m traversing the world if only once more as I’m praying that she’ll see me. I’m praying for our faces to believe in we. And her taste is the bang that is big from the beginning of time, one twist of the fresh zest of a lime, while the years are turned back into the furnace of time. I’m craving faces and loves I once saw. I need to feel the skin tailored for the female gods. I’m certainly loud and catering forth, I turn up the pre, and force the gain and amp up. If only to be noted again, in a bed with my goddess together we’d spend, every moment together in eternity. Immortality conceived of the beasts we achieve. Trampled by the light and tortured by the sound of ourselves. Please won’t you help me to not be forgotten myself? I’m pursing my lips and shaking my hands, I’m jumping off rooftops and eating mouthfuls of sand. Is our hero here or has she she run? Help me find Britni West, my one true love. She’s in California last I had a taste. It’s only everyone else that I lay chaste. With her I’m on top of the world, I’d quaff her spit and champion her skin. There is nothing nor no one that could come between. She’s the only one that is for me, and I’m the only he she’s told me.
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 6:53 AM UTC
three years- count 'em-
it was papaya and pasta. 'vegetarian' fried rice with ikan bilis in it. an assignment that i failed. my room is above the kitchen, and sometimes i smell meat and curry and i still think, i still think,
of the kitchen that isn't mine. of utensils under the stove. of fingers butter-yellow and dappled with flour. three years- the sink still drips, drips, drips, i still shuck garlic with unskilled fingers,
three years, and you still smell like home
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 12:42 AM UTC
If my heart was a flower,
Would you not pluck me?
If my hair was a meadow,
Would you nae huddle me?
If my hands wanted yours,
Would you not hold mine?
If my lips were cloudburst,
Would mine quench thirst?
If my dress danced windily,
Would you nae haply join in?
If my eyes were pearl oysters,
Would you freshly shuck me?
If my skin were of the Selkies,'
Would you offer me nae seas?
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 3:41 AM UTC
They are in the movies
They are on TV
You'll want everything they "have"
But, baby, it ain't free
They go about streets looking
I think you will agree
They will make you "better"
You, too, can be OT!
Just like John Travolta
Tom Cruise, Kirstie Ally
They target you to have you test
Your personality
Do you REALLY feel good?
Or are you kinda stuck?
Are you checking every box?
Or are you out of luck?
Well! They have the answers
To bring you from the muck!
YES. It is expensive
A few THOUSAND BUCKS!
You want to keep on paying?
Out those thousands shuck!
You do your engram Clearing
You do your TRs
You go through them religiously
You do them for hours
But you feel no better
And still the money showers...
Finally you're OT VIII
You're way past being "Clear"
But you still feel angry
You still have a lot of fear
On top of that you are in debt!
Your LIFE is in AREARS!
If you decide to LEAVE them
They'll pester you for YEARS!
If you go on staff
Folks, it is much WORSE
They'll own your life
A BILLIONS YEARS! They will be a CURSE!
But THAT is for another time
I'll tell you, of course
For now I will not speak of that
Then I'll SHOUT until I'm HOARSE!!!
Catherine E Jarvis
SoulSurvivor
(c) 2/22/2017
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 4:13 PM UTC
She loves it
when we go fishing,
enjoys all of the activities,
spearing & angling,
gathering & netting,
anything to get
down on the shore.
Her boy in the boat
always bounces,
craves more of my dangling.
She's a looker,
baits my hook just right,
I don't fight her
& it ain't no shrimp.
Nooooo,
no wimp here,
I always use my big long pole
looking for her sweet fishing-hole.
When I finally get there,
find the right spot,
I scrape her scales
from every conceivable angle
to uncover her tasty pearl.
I give her a whirl,
shuck the shell out of her
as she squeezes me hard
with her tight mussel,
ready to receive my roe,
a splish,
a splash,
a huge shot
of my hot cocktail sauce,
curling her toes.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 10:13 PM UTC
O sweet girl,
you lie so seductively,
teasing,
teasing me to no end.
You push,
you pull,
every single night,
you spread things
open to my delight.
O sweet girl,
you have some serious-magic,
you're a classic lady,
your moves & thighs,
your pretty-gorgeous-eyes
& heaving *******
drive me freaking-delirious,
you constantly
put me to the
passionate-test.
O sweet girl,
I must confess,
you are a delicious pearl,
please,
let me shuck you
tenderly,
savor your fluffy treasure,
play with a feather,
I can give you the
ultimate pleasure.
O sweet girl,
guide me,
take me deep
into your vise,
make me work
for your satisfaction,
hold me tight,
I promise not to fight.
O sweet darling,
it's much much more
than just a physical attraction,
it's a pheromone reaction,
hot-action made in Heaven,
******
not neurotic.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 4:26 PM UTC
I took a drink of cool, clean water,
That came from within a wishing well,
It tasted sweet and filled me deeper,
With precious life that came to me.
I wanted more, of this cool beverage,
So, took another drink, then took two,
It filled my body with such robust flavor,
That on my journey I could now venture on.
When coming upon a run-down farmhouse,
Where wind blew whispfully in swaying trees,
I picked a pear from the nearest pear tree,
And held the fruit in hand so gracefully.
The pear was sweet, the juice ran rapidly,
Down on my chin, onto my denim shirt,
I felt the grit, the fruit soon was tastefully,
Set fire to my tastebuds so endlessly.
I glanced upon the cornfields so lonely,
Standing tall and giant they reached for sky,
The greeness filled my mind with fancy,
Then, so I wandered to fields to further see.
Within the field, a lovely, young beauty,
Was pulling corn from the green, green stalks,
Her smile, a greeting, to me weary wanderer,
I took her hand and handled it so tenderly.
She said she spent her days in the cornfields,
I sensed she wanted to switch places with me,
To wander aimlessly, through nearby counties,
In search of self so then so senselessly.
But me, a mortal, mere man of mans' time,
Would what give readily to find all the day,
To stand silently within cornfields, green I see,
To shuck corn from the cornfields so handily.
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 11:49 PM UTC
His uncle **** asked Benedict
if he would mow the lawn
of the old lady at the cottage,
which he did, then clean out
the cowsheds at the farm,
which he did, then take some eggs
to the local shop, which he did.
It was a hot day, he felt a thirst
so went to pub called the Battleaxe
and ordered a pint and sat and drank
it slow outside in the sun. He thought
of the clarinet he'd brought with him,
the jazz he played in the front lounge,
which his aunt Eileen said was very good.
Do you still have and play your accordion?
he asked her. No, she said not now;
I've not played for years. He remembered
her playing and singing Goodnight Irene
on it when he had stayed as a kid.
Long ago now, he thought, finishing his pint.
He also mused on his recent visited
to see the MJQ in the City and afterwards
he met the band on the coach at the back.
Asked questions, got autographs.
Then another visit to the City with his
two cousins to watch them do their martial arts
and afterwards showed them judo moves
he and his friends had done a few years before.
He took his empty glass to the counter
of the pub and walked out in the sunshine
wondering what his uncle **** would have
lined up for him next. There was talk of
digging trenches in the churchyard some
evening to lay pipes to the church and there
was that mowing of the grass he'd been
shown the other day. Yes, he'd do that now,
he thought, while the sun was out, the grass dry.
The mower was in a shed at the back, one
of those modern jobs, less work, less elbow grease,
less sweat. But also, those peas to pick
and shuck for his aunt. He wasn't done with his
chores for his keep, for six weeks, least not yet.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 3:23 AM UTC
i've a pale carnivore,
slaying passively the night
in my cotton ember
and with velvet detergent she sprays me
***** loose hinges cravenly and pink
and disheveled lips
i split
unmutable vast minute vines
snare exactly my naked burning crust
an shuck absolutely
the dull sheathe of my so
unlovely
****
Nov 19, 2010
Nov 19, 2010 at 1:53 PM UTC
A plastic bag is snagged in the branches where I can't reach to stop its crackled song. The bag is an organ—its kidney? Stomach? Heart?—of the thing that's dying. The thing's given pills and powders, and graveyards are robbed to replace its parts. When it dies, it'll be brought to the taxidermist to be stuffed, and its stiffened corpse will be strung in lights—a beacon for people to arrive, two-by-two, and scoop out the void from behind its glass eyes. And when the void has been doled around, the dead will shuck, jive, and shuffle step to plastic song.
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 4:56 PM UTC
Stuck in a rut
of fear.
Guck, through I cut,
now clear.
Shuck, here's a nut;
no beer.
Pluck until ****
then jeer.
Struck at the glut.
New sheers
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 6:52 AM UTC
My little dear
Is that you I see running
Up a creek
Past splashes of blue
Through blends of green
In the heat of the black night
Laying out crumbs
For me to see
As the creek creaks
As you dear dares
Wandering wonderings
In a lea of clovers
You pull my fate
Two leaves of effigy
I love him
I love him not
Pluck, peel, pass
Shuck, seal, stress
Why, my little dear
Do you bob your tail
Pass the buck
Flutter those chocolates
And you love me
And you love me not
If only
If only the creek could sing
The music calming the blues
The grass is just as green on my side
And the black of the night
Had a new day
... And dawn
For us,
My little dear
Do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do
So-do!
Logan Robertson
9/18/2018
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 9:03 PM UTC
the disagreement palpable
gotta seriously disagree
the reversal is the course proper
*** backwards you are, right back at ya*
forward forward, never confuse what’s past infused
never go back to old, it’s a dead weight carrying
the past is now a pretense, what we saw, believed and wrote
shuck that mao shirt, those cowboy boots, older vista visions,
the capsule you saw gone immediately to forward the blessing
get some slim jeans, fancy sneakers, a new way of seeing seeking
then the music muse interferes interfaces!
There's a feeling I get when I look to the west,
And my spirit is crying for leaving.
In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees,
And the voices of those who stand looking.
Ooh, it makes me wonder,
Ooh, it really makes me wonder.
And it's whispered that soon, if we all call the tune,
Then the piper will lead us to reason.
And a new day will dawn for those who stand long,
And the forests will echo with laughter.
If there's a bustle in your hedgerow, don't be alarmed now,
It's just a spring clean for the May queen.
Yes, there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run
There's still time to change the road you're on.
And it makes me wonder.
“Your head is humming and it won't go, in case you don't know,
The piper's calling you to join him,
Dear, can you hear the wind blow, and did you know
Your stairway lies on the whispering wind?”
exactly
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 9:52 AM UTC
have you met my friend gadget
she really is a pill
when it comes ****
she gives a hella thrill
loves it hard in the mouth
gets it from demon boy
he loves it when she ***** and licks
she is his toy and joy
she has her own electric chair
loves a glass of wine
turns it on and fries her self
does it all the time
shuck me like an oyster daddy
she would beg and plead
i really need it now
please make me cry and bleed
she collects multi colored vibrators
and keeps them under glass
she saves the biggest one
for her little ***
has tubes and lubes
and a gothic torture chamber
cuffs,muffs and toxic drinks
but nothing seems to faze her
Dec 18, 2016
Dec 18, 2016 at 5:47 PM UTC
Pick up your head, my friend.
Lift up your weary eyes to see
The end of your journey is near.
Unburden your heart, my friend.
Shuck off each worry at your feet,
For they are not granted entry here.
Walk steps that are lighter, my friend.
For weighed down you'll no longer be
In this place that will be your haven.
Sing melodies unsung before, my friend,
As your healed soul rises from the ashes
Of a trouble life left behind for good.
Be well, my friend.
Do not fear the things you saw
For here there are no haunting memories.
Live free, my friend.
For here there is naught but peace
And rest for your now healed soul.
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 10:06 AM UTC