"sidle" poems
listen -
hear no sound, feel
only wind on its way, ghostly
nothings, but hush to sharp wings
of ocean birds so fraying as they cut
the sky, shuttle to fairways, far aways,
in plaintive cries, i hear what they say,
sailing into the jeweled skylights, but i
am only weight of air, still on ground,
i mumble out, sidle the bone tides
that roll to land, grains of clarity,
i am mist and tear, a world
of hollow, i am that sound -
of ocean in a shell.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 2:09 AM UTC
I am a puddle for you to play in,
because you'll never spill my tears.
Your big eyes stare back at mine,
and I wish I could speak to you.
I'd promise you protection,
love and attention.
And by the way you lick and sidle up,
I know your intentions are the same.
See with puppies, there's no guessing,
there aren't games or deception.
You'll forgive me if I'm mad,
or lost and impatient.
As long as I pet you and keep you healthy,
you'll be my best friend.
No questions asked
nothing to defend.
And when I look in the mirror
and attempt to rip my collar off,
you'll be there sitting
with your head cocked to the side,
making me smile
when I want to cry puddles
for you to swim in.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 6:41 PM UTC
Like a patterned rug
Beaten to be rid of dust and
Flopped over a balcony railing, a leopard
Hangs her hefty hands beneath a bough.
Head lolling lazily, she awakens.
Fingers like silent meteorites dig
Craters in the loose, dry earth.
From the grasses emerge many warm black eyes, unseen
And vicious: floral pockmarks on
Her carpeted exterior: cruel camouflage.
Deftly lugging her **** back
Into the branches to feed on its flesh:
Patterned rug stained.
Ears ***** and whiskers twitch
As boughs creak and twigtips reach
For the ground: the impala’s weight
Has weakened her arboreal home.
She panics not.
She slinks softly back into
The grasses: better to sidle away unscathed
From immediate danger.
Pride and body intact, she will **** again
Elsewhere.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 4:50 PM UTC
There's an ineffable urge
to sidle up against
masculinity; to allow his
mercurial fervor to unleash
these lascivious outbursts
of lust that dwell inside the
depths of my soul, ravishing
him with hungered passion;
tasting each sinewy muscle
pulsing with flickers of
want, like a savored sweet
chocolate truffle, indulging
slowly in every part I can
entwine as he shudders
with each lick I inflict
lingering in his aftertaste....
Jun 29, 2012
Jun 29, 2012 at 2:01 AM UTC
I flounce across the midnight way
Not one to return anyone's gaze
As I cut through the winter haze
And stumble through the open gate
That leads into an open hall
Where people laugh
Screech
Squawk
Cackle
As pools of yellow hit the walls
I sidle into a cushioned bench
Nobody dares to turn their head
So I fixate on a drink coaster instead
Then order cider from the serving *****
The jungle animals make noises beside me
Screech!
Squawk!
Roar!
Hiss!
My chest tightens and nerves snap inside me
I sidle out of the cushioned bench
Nobody dares to turn their head
No words of farewell or good fortune were said
As I escape the malt-y, acidic stench
Down, hill, down dale, up street, as I pale
My addled head throws me to and fro
Through the winter haze I go
Till I'm home again
And realise
That once again I have failed.
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 3:35 AM UTC
He picked her up
again
and again
but she couldn't
learn to stand.
She broke his heart
ripped whole through
but it wasn't in her plan
to see him bleeding blue
and the boy would say to her
*Just glow.
All these bright lights?
they're too much for you
they truly don't suit
and all I need
is your warmth come nighttime
where only I can see you shimmer
your calming, calling glimmer
is only hidden in the daylight
light is not worth less
because the shine is dimmer
**what matters is location
if the dark is coloured pitch
you'll light bright the whole nation***
Alas
His words fell weak
on empty ears
because he was like sun,
and she had closed her eyes
to such powerful beams
she couldn't seem
to find the hand
that promised to be her one
and this girl
was shrouded in a half-truth
*Monsters sidle up
with faces drawn as heroes
with words whispered as saviors
with teeth
and angry claws
at the time
the sun
is setting
and if you glow*
too bright
they find you
Thus,
Only from a distance
could she listen
and when dragged in
by persistence
she lost so much resistance
in the instance
when he cried for her
And they were Two
But she could never say, "I love you."
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 1:48 PM UTC
How tectonics shift
As continents drift apart,
Oceans open up.
Now you, undeterred
Ascend the promontory,
Cross the esplanade.
Poised with honours,
You sidle the cliff edge path
Predator to prey.
Await your moment.
Swoop, gliding on the uplift,
Behind you a trail.
My mirth, invested in you
This day escapes me.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 12:20 PM UTC
Two souls beside, tied to a rock
inside arid wasteland
both wanting for
something or other and as the sky
drawing dark tells signs
wanting no more than to ignore
the coming storm, sidle
around in eager circles
Red, washing anger
down in rain
a divine cycle
dividing faith
from absolution's
true face
What do you look like, life?
To transcribe is my intent
but it's hard to begin to find when I'm
your invention, indentured
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 5:05 AM UTC
If I hedge thus a drooling wager and cash in
on my thrice-foiled cravings for her overdue bites
(plus a guilt-free laugh at his expense), I can
use minced steps to sidle around too-lively
trunks, and avoid the need to heed thugs
barking mad from within their crevice-laid traps.
How those bug-eyed brutes'll clamor and claw at me
to discard this protective wrap, clued in by my rep
of never bending willfully to anybody
but her. "Come on, shed! Get, uh, new set of scales,
for you we will — promise!" is how she'd stammer,
roughly translating their not-so-twee chatter,
if she were there. Rather, in that lavishly apt way
she has, she'll be away picking suitable pelts
to adorn her newly uncovered, quite public shame
while fending off an advancing clod, who won't go
easily, but who does go on ad nauseam with
a penchant for naming every ******* thing
that haps vitally across his cocky path. Beyond
a simple relish of mischief, I'm doing this (mostly)
for her benefit. How could a persimmon
be forbidden, as if he had permission to make
such bargains? He's dismissed it as an ungainly fruit,
and mocked its likelihood to "lava thy lips"
with an orange pulp, but in that chance smattering lies
the matter to inflame my soul. I'll feed her
the pudding-fresh flesh, and strip it down
to its delectably small seeds. In their splitting
I'll glean the silvery utensils to spill
a man's wholly worthless future. Let's tuck in.
May 18, 2010
May 18, 2010 at 4:31 PM UTC
Our mystic alabaster satellite
rules the midnight sky
casting shadowy silhouettes
of all our trees and houses.
Rational tri-millennial me
chooses not to bay about it
or worship its fabled godly essence
(long since neutered by geology).
Casting aside the chains of time
I sidle up to Cenozoic me
munching on a leg of venison
staring at that improbable hanging ball
suspended in the southern heavens.
Wonder and vexation cloud his hairy face -
hunting vainly for a clue.
I whisper in a secret tongue
that only he and I can comprehend,
"You may not get it yet, grandpa
but soon enough you will."
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 11:16 AM UTC
Deceit lies there, among the roses,
blooming in the weeds;
slugs sidle up the leaves
where the dormouse breeds;
and nothing gently lives here
where the sparrow haunts-
within the shadows that voles fear-
the breeze that whispering taunts.
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 2:38 PM UTC
Hello gorgeous, haven't I seen you someplace before?
Open with a line like that, you be lucky not to be shown the door.
I look ten to fifteen years younger, maybe I'm blessed
Sometimes, I put myself to the test
Once I had a boyfriend eighteen years younger than me
We lasted a year and a half. He thought I was thirty.
And sometimes, I see him, a guy who I like
I sidle up slanted, you know, slithery **** it's what they like
You have a drink, it's a whole different world
Your fear goes out the window, thrown away, out that door
You been here long?
You like to dance?
Doesn't matter who says it, so long as you're in a trance.
Yeah, I like that. You're really fine.
We are both really having a good time.
You get a little closer
You can smell his alcohol breath
And in that moment, it might as well be ****
Cuz it's a kind of intoxication
In itself, just the chemistry, this temporary cohabitation
If he's young, he might be ready to go
Let's go back to my place
I know no one will know
Sometimes I did that
I never was afraid
But now, I just slither, and drink, and bathe
in the silliness of it all, these instant connections
The shape of his hand, that shy guy smile
The square jaw, with the stubble on the side
Oh yes, men, oh my
The young ones get aggressive, let you feel what they've got
You're not supposed to do that in public, do they care? Not.
It's all so fun, so just in the "now"
Someday I'll venture out again.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 9:08 PM UTC
Girl, around 27.
No, woman, rather.
Her youth walked through and hung there, dry, as mine did in exchange
so we pick and choose a role and sidle along the bar where
I am with a perk in the feet, lifted by the ***** of,
but a lot easier than you can imagine as
she lays her words out like warm hands and with a blue bird of compassion,
asks me how I am.
I gripe and she listens in a knowing way then reverse
in very clean queues and open mouths
She says, “They say today is going to be the busiest day of the year”, with a fire lit
behind an eye where she does not smile of her face, but through a grit in the teeth
I laugh inwardly, towards myself in a search for appropriation and then spit heavily onto table, “well, it looks like we both have something to look forward to, then”.
Then angelic laughter where my cheeks couldn’t follow and I am ****** in.
There was a moment then, which I wish could be brought to plate and silver.
a sort of cunning lock between a soul and my own where I hope only to god,
that I’ve thrown a key down river.
She walks out after our matching eyes and mirrored moves
So I watch her,
not her ***
not her chest,
not her brown, burning hair,
but the still skin of her neck in an open sense where I want to take it in
as if she had the happiness and I am jealous
like a tearing gabble of a baby.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 2:57 PM UTC
No rout, they did not let out a cry,
With veins of flame in swelling eye,
No word, could semble nor shutter,
The bumpy flesh tore into the light,
In nimbles of silence, nimby smoke
Smouldered by sidle of spent fires,
The house of future days was open,
Their ***** it hearts eternally closed.
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 7:28 PM UTC
No rout, they did not let out a cry,
With veins of flame in swelling eye,
No word, could semble nor shutter,
The bumpy flesh tore into the light,
In nimbles of silence, nimby smoke
Smouldered by sidle of spent fires,
The house of future days was open,
Their ***** it hearts eternally closed.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
In times when the heart is lodged
somewhere between the brain and the throat
I try to force it back
down to its chambers, before I choke,
or before it strangles my head's precious, antagonized gland.
There's only one way to avoid
certain tragedy, and that's to look, feel, taste.
It's either make mental tracks-
run and jump- or drown.
It's at these moments when I start
playing tricks on my mind.
Doing this is easier than you may think.
Just stop all thought,
for the mind's constant churning
chafes the heart.
Now, allow your hungry eyes to sidle
to and fro- let them wander-
dare to wonder about what hasn't,
but don't idle even for a minute
on what has, or what couldn't.
As long as you can avoid relapse,
you might even venture into what could,
as long as it's new and fresh.
As long as it isn't some woeful inquiry
growing stale since last night.
Then once you find yourself daydreaming,
or better yet, DOING,
you are halfway there.
You've made it uphill
and only need to coast down-
down the lovely unkempt slope
of impulse without crashing.
Do something new,
preferrably silly- stay
away from dangerous-
go somewhere new,
talk to a stranger,
eat something expensive,
drink a little, burp loudly.
Go wild, steer away from crazy,
but cruise through hilarity.
Bombard yourself with creative juices,
**** your phone,
bury your watch,
put on your shoes and let yourself laugh.
Once you've had some laughs,
cue up some Planet Earth
-Kung Fu's good too-
roll a joint.
Smoke it.
Grab a pizza,
fall asleep with the television on
then wake up with a smile on your face.
Trust me, it won't come off in the shower,
and trust me your heart's ok.
You're gonna be just fine.
Jul 26, 2012
Jul 26, 2012 at 12:14 PM UTC
the men in their shiny arsed suits
gather close to the door
inhale the incense, the mothball aroma of their neighbour’s Sunday best
endure the droning of the priest,
who denounces the idleness of men
the sinfulness of women
they feel ferocious thirsts building
their minds have wandered
to the pub where the publican is pulling pints of porter
letting them stand, almost full, on the bar
foaming, settling, forming voluptuous heads
waiting for the appreciative lips, mouths, tongues of the restless church bound men.
one breaks ranks, sidles out the door
the others look sheepishly at each other and sidle, dribble
across the road to slake their thirsts
knowing that they have, barely, done their duty for the week
they can, with an almost clear conscience
drown their sins in the landlord’s best beer.
Nov 23, 2011
Nov 23, 2011 at 5:07 AM UTC
Hear it, feel it! Above the live oak
and Spanish moss, above their
gnarled, grasping canopies, the
night wind flies savage and free.
Without constraint or direction
it inhales, blows, flings about at will,
tearing wantonly at primeval fears.
And higher yet, to the east there's a
cooper moon rising sinisterly, lighting
the way for wary night hunters.
Is it the howling of their hounds, or
the howling of that feral wind, or
something more I hear?
Yes, something more, I fear.
Such an eerie night on the bayou,
where fireflies pulse phosphor green,
dangling, dancing like marionettes
above jutting cypress knees. Along
the farthest bank, tip-toeing in mire,
a pale night-heron walks as a ghost,
dropping its head to strike, to give
final croak to some hapless frog.
Were crows awake on such a night
they'd caw and clamor and sidle up
to each other to see which could
provide the most reassurance
against such a dreadful night.
Latch every door, shutter every
window, light every candle!
The night wind is on the prowl!
---
Sep 15, 2011
Sep 15, 2011 at 9:00 PM UTC
All
my old scars have faded away, requiring a prolonged glance
to distinguish the results of my past anguishes.
My weapon of choice unavailable, I sidle into the kitchen
and looked for a suitable substitute.
I
sit on the floor, tracing over the places I
know
they hide with the tip of a knife held gently in my hands.
My mind sputters along slowly, trying to engage my heart.
But once I’ve reached the point of seeking
pain
directed outward, my emotions have dissipated,
and my personality flat-lines.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 9:36 PM UTC
The Daily Prayer The Daily Prayer
AUG 2010 OCT 2017
Be forever young 'n humble; seven yearlings of plenty famine;
Feel ancient and royal; youthful graybeard commoner now,
Ride tall in the saddle; old hoary, crooked headed ancien
Do something nifty; content to just, just walk crookedly
Take someone's hand if they permit, for hands gnarled,
Unexpectedly: roughened and time toughened,
Drive home in the slow lane; only the city bus, now bows, kneels,
Do the de minims; how has the minimalist become
Do the de maximis; the max, the best old-dog-in-show?
Leave a book on a park bench; forgetfulness, unintended bonuses,
Use pen n paper, write a letter; the fingers shaky press cell button,
Take a chance, make people laugh; your appearance quite the joke,
Barrel into contention; a barrel casket, half your wardrobe
Show mercy to the confused, no arrogance, have mercy upon poets,
Show anger to the abusers. for they fear voices calling out, account!
Bless a child with both hands; now take their blessings returned
Grasp your soul; throw it down, others sidle, it's our time, now,
Then raise a child to the sky. to raise you up father of fathers
Straight up, straighten your time bents, curves,
Build a continuum, honor thy work ever continuing
You and they, *we, and you, we are all your steps,
on a ladder of each poem, to guide us heavenward*
***each poem a prayer, each prayer a poem, passing back, coming forth in the crests upon the beach and bay you so loved, the moon and sun both shine simultaneously while it rains straight,
all come, each to recite,
even the One with whom you vociferous argued, unrepentantly,
all here, together placing that weighty last period at the end of
your daily prayer.***
Oct 15, 2017
Oct 15, 2017 at 8:43 AM UTC
Standing, waiting, my face blank, uncaring and staring
at the garish colors of their cheap and ill-fitting clothes.
Cramming in, fingers all greasy, raucously laughing,
jabbering ******** braying useless information, loudly.
Swarming, idly in hot little dark holes of rooms, making
a suffocating stench from ragged mouth-breathing.
Obnoxious.
******* disgusting, everyone.
Don't ******* touch me.
This is overwhelming.
"There's too many people in here."
You sidle up to me, saying what we're both thinking, and then we leave.
Both of us glaring at the ********* shuffling slowly, in the way,
unable to meet our height or eyes, they remain glued
to the tiny screens in their sweaty and hot little hands,
as their annoying children are screaming and running.
You.
You, with your shit-brown eyes.
Silent and stoic, with a hard-edged jaw. Are you ******** me?
Like not making eye contact with me is going to shame me,
stripping me of something that you never even bestowed?
You think I'm obscene?
Mister, look at you.
I am tired, but, I am okay. I am fine.
I don't care what you otherwise say.
Alive and sober, awake and dying.
I am improving, actively evolving.
I am not devalued or retrograding.
**** you.**
Don't not look at me, as though I were a freak.
Don't sneer and scoff, and judge me, as meat.
**** you.**
You think you know me better than me?
You think you could even convince me differently?
am I right, or am I right?
Go ahead, lock your jaw, frown and furrow your brow, you magnanimous hypocrite.
We're both autonomous, and rich, in Ameri-fucking-ca, with freedom out the *******
You're free to judge me.
I'm free to say **** you.
We both bleed red blood.
We both will do as we will,
loving, ******** fighting,
drinking, ******* coping,
hiding, hurting, smelling,
crying, begging, hating,
breathing, needing, eating,
sleeping, living, and dying
under the great majesty of
A *******
INDIFFERENT
UNIVERSE
where we both need to
stop thinking differently.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 10:01 PM UTC
You'll be wearing an old grey pea-coat,
Buttoned tighter than my grip on the wheel
On my way over,
My hands trembling
Like something small, trapped, scared-
As I was speeding off toward freedom, security.
Your scarf will keep your neck and chin
Protected from the damp cold night the color of slate.
And there'll be Johnny Cash playing:
And in the dim of yesterday
I can clearly see
That flesh and blood cried out to someone
As it does in me
And I'll take my place against the rail.
You'll sidle over to where I stand
But you won't stand too close.
You'll smell like moss and musk and sandalwood
And slowly you'll slide closer
A deliberate, serpentine motion.
Now.
Our hips touch.
You go red and my hands tingle
As your fingers glide into their place between mine,
Warp and weft.
I'd risk it all right now.
Nov 18, 2010
Nov 18, 2010 at 11:43 AM UTC
Wake up to the pounding in your head,
Whiskey and regrets make for a mean hangover.
Three Advil's, a smoothie and 45 minutes throwing weights won't fix the evil inside,
But it will allow for yet one more day,
Of this sad blemish you call life.
Suited up, don't you look nice?
You hide your weakening smile behind your Starbucks tall half sweet nonfat double shot wake the **** up latte.
Strut your stuff,
Male model martini,
Sell another lie,
Buy yourself time,
Swipe another credit card.
Don't look that homeless vagabond in the eye,
Lest you see the need there,
And feel your own, answer in kind.
Rather make a crass remark,
Throw the keys for your overpriced sports utility vehicle to the valet,
And ***** about the mayor cleaning up the streets.
You pay your taxes,
You give to charity,
You've done your part to end world poverty,
These little lines go through your soul as fast as the ******* you've snorted,
But with less effect.
Your empty voice barks all the louder to be heard,
It joins the chorus of the lost as you sidle up to the bar.
You know the keeper, you tip him so that he greets you by name,
All so you can impress the charade around you,
Master of ceremonies for a freak show that not one of you,
The cast,
Can truly see.
Now you wake beside a beautiful stranger.
Rip off her skin and peer within
The ugly you see is the demon you share,
Drown it's harpy song with more devil water,
Pierce your skin and let it ride the needle ***** high beside you,
Into your own special hell.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 8:04 PM UTC
The soft blow of the trumpet or
the strum of guitar strings cajole the uninterested
to see the hand-lettered sign,
the cigar box, the jam jar
as the loyal dog curls in the doorway.
The deaf, the blind, the besotted, the luckless,
all night thieves of blankets,
sellers of wilted roses on a double white line.
Ghosts on street corners who sidle through the rain
in search of some, in search of any
until a last breath among the silhouettes
of the night fires that lick at the black winter sky.
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 2:15 PM UTC
The report came out today
No fires, it said
Too much risk of a much larger blaze
Not a candle is lit
Even the little ones sidle away
To avoid the heat they eschew the light
Then the smoke appears
The observant would have noticed long before
Everything waits for the flame.
May 24, 2012
May 24, 2012 at 9:52 PM UTC