"sidles" poems
Through frost-thick weather
This witch sidles, fingers crooked, as if
Caught in a hazardous medium that might
Merely by its continuing
Attach her to heaven.
At eye's envious corner
Crow's-feet copy veining on a stained leaf;
Cold squint steals sky's color; while bruit
Of bells calls holy ones, her tongue
Backtalks at the raven
Claeving furred air
Over her skull's midden; no knife
Rivals her whetted look, divining what conceit
Waylays simple girls, church-going,
And what heart's oven
Craves most to cook batter
Rich in strayings with every amorous oaf,
Ready, for a trinket,
To squander owl-hours on bracken bedding,
Flesh unshriven.
Against ****** prayer
This sorceress sets mirrors enough
To distract beauty's thought;
Lovesick at first fond song,
Each vain girl's driven
To believe beyond heart's flare
No fire is, nor in any book proof
Sun hoists soul up after lids fall shut;
So she wills all to the black king.
The worst sloven
Vies with best queen over
Right to blaze as satan's wife;
Housed in earth, those million brides shriek out.
Some burn short, some long,
Staked in pride's coven.
4.2k
In braze, silent breeze of dreams incantations,
Shiva arms sway in the forest dark, mushroom,
Cloud, lord with fungi, mosses whose clinging
Shades of branches, braids deep, forking stories
Of old, brooding cauldron Druids, sidles Eastern
Spindrift words of Sanskrit spake, told in veined
Sacred hands unfound, celestial spines, moulded
Green, in the windy monkish statutes of the fallen
And single handed claps of the missionary leaves.
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
Film developer cacophonies, and journalistic hoarding
My friends wanted to record our last year –
Accurately – not succinctly
Abstractly – and yet, directly, bluntly
Vividly – in photography, quote notebooks, Dictaphone diatribes
That’s hilarious – scribble it down.
Can you repeat your brilliance?
If you could paraphrase that – well…what would you say?
Take another one. She wasn’t smiling.
I don’t want to smile.
My friend sidles up beside me – beaming grin
Sticking her fingers into my mouth
Pulling opposite and up
And her fingers tasted like
The musty pages of books without pictures.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
Crisp, the fallen leaves now pile,
the times are changing, Autumn-style,
breezes rake the tippy-tops of trees,
bare branches rattle like skeleton keys.
Subtle September has come once again,
tipping its hat to the Summer's end,
makes clear and crisp the evening air,
the harvest season now sidles near,
grass and weeds will wither dry,
scythes and sickles swing low and high,
gourds of pumpkins soon will burst in patches,
fat apples drop down cider-press hatches,
so soon those sugary coats of frost shall rise,
and sharp, chilly winds will sting teary eyes,
fruit pies will bake, brown nuts will roast,
glasses of wine shall arise in toasts,
to the approach of yet another Fall,
before the stark-white of Winter blankets all.
Sep 11, 2010
Sep 11, 2010 at 6:25 AM UTC
.
In braze, silent breeze of dreams incantations,
Shiva arms sway in the forest dark, mushroom,
Cloud, lord with fungi, mosses whose clinging
Shades of branches, braids deep, forking stories
Of old, brooding cauldron Druids, sidles Eastern
Spindrift words of Sanskrit spake, told in veined
Sacred hands unfound, celestial spines, moulded
Green, in the windy monkish statutes of the fallen
And single handed claps of the missionary leaves.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 6:47 PM UTC
imagine a calloused doubt.
cracked, chipped, clicking
like warped wooden floorboards.
soft from overuse
but still overrides willpower
in one palpitating breath.
grimy yet illusive
like your teeth after a day’s work,
collecting gunk that sidles up
to calcium companions,
crunching down on things
that become
so bland in the end.
doubt is offbeat,
monstrous footsteps hidden deep
off beaten paths,
its thudding is clammy and hurried,
aligned to the discordant jazz of
your alarmed body.
it tastes like
coppery heartbeats,
rising bile,
salt and mucus in the back of your throat.
it is a truly uncomfortable thing.
it stacks sweetly like buttercream pancakes
but crumbles you
with such a sour taste on your tongue.
imagine an agony that loves you.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 7:09 PM UTC
There’s a door that leads into the hallway
Of the house that lives under the trees
Whose trunks are beleaguered with knobbles
Like a twisted collection of knees
The handle looks faintly organic
Any moment it might come alive
The paint is like vertical shadows
And the number is seventy-five
The foot of the stairs is before you
And the door sidles shut to your rear
The carpet is damp and disfigured
And the walls are uncomfortably near
The windows are coated with algae
So the light is all mottled and rank
The varnish and the paper are peeling
And curtains hang mouldy and lank
There’s a hole in the wall with an angle
And a view of the kitchen within
There’s a nest in the bowl on the table
There are rats living out of the bin
Disjointed lugubrious echoes
Of a whisper without any voice
The spoons haven't stirred in a decade
So the cups haven't had any choice
It’s then you should really be leaving
But you've taken your time and the bait
For a sound of a footstep behind you
And a voice saying simply "too late"
There’s a breath on the bone of your collar
It’s as cold as a final decree
There’s death to be found in that kitchen
And a death that came looking for me
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 7:23 AM UTC
In braze, silent breeze of dreams incantations,
Shiva arms sway in the forest dark, mushroom,
Cloud, lord with fungi, mosses whose clinging
Shades of branches, braids deep, forking stories
Of old, brooding cauldron Druids, sidles Eastern
Spindrift words of Sanskrit spake, told in veined
Sacred hands unfound, celestial spines, moulded
Green, in the windy monkish statutes of the fallen
And single handed claps of the missionary leaves.
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 12:25 PM UTC
***skin
tight suit • lush
but lean • soot lashed
\/\/ eyes of acid green
amber flesh
of porcelain
jet black hair
a raven's wing
turned up nose
pouting lips •
you pour a glass
you take a sip
purest poison
in her flask •••
all you have to
do is ask • she
sidles up • her
arts are black •
sparks fly as she
shreds your back
she's a mamma •
she's a pet • but
she's a snake, so
don't forget •••
she'll make you
shiver • make you
shake • then waits
for the bite to take
once the woman's
sunk a fang • you
won't remember
where you began
everything
becomes a
blur • then
your soul
is truly hers
as the flames
go higher
and higher
she slithers
round your
funeral pyre
you're so
protective
and so proud
but your sheets
become your
shroud •
they find
you lying
in your
bed
mamba
bites
and
you
are
D
E
A
D***
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 11:46 PM UTC
In braze, silent breeze of dreams incantations,
Shiva arms sway in the forest dark, mushroom,,
Cloud, lord with fungi, mosses whose clinging
Shades of branches, braids deep, forking stories
Of old, brooding cauldron Druids, sidles Eastern
Spindrift words of Sanskrit spake, told in veined
Sacred hands unfound, celestial spines, moulded
Green, in the windy monkish statutes of the fallen
And single handed claps of the missionary leaves.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 6:02 PM UTC
In braze, silent breeze of dreams incantations,
Shiva arms sway in the forest dark, mushroom,,
Cloud, lord with fungi, mosses whose clinging
Shades of branches, braids deep, forking stories
Of old, brooding cauldron Druids, sidles Eastern
Spindrift words of Sanskrit spake, told in veined
Sacred hands unfound, celestial spines, moulded
Green, in the windy monkish statutes of the fallen
And single handed claps of the missionary leaves.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC
every time I think of him; body percolates
to self-masturbate soaking fingers as they
linger in bedewed moisture as if, his fingers
unlocks intimacy
and...
no more thoughts as he sidles beside me
easing one finger at a time in curve of
femininity, teasing bud tenderly; coaxing
mouth to open
I throb...
trembling lips abrades skin as heat erupts
upon his mouth and his eyes entrance as
masculinity gently bemingles in escalating
heat; its fragrant beads, he licks
slowly...
lured into peaked hunger; unspoken words
intoxicate spilling inner sweetness, drizzling
upon invading fingers aroused in affinity
once...twice...orgasmically drenched
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 12:47 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
******* Bandit time is lost
A gone forever shroud,
Elusive as an errant fog
That’s slipped into a cloud.
Elusive as a crystal shard
Mixed secretly with sand,
You know the shard’s apparent
When It lacerates your hand.
Time lacerates your senses
Like sand between the toes,
It’s there and then it vanishes
Like vapored mist it flows.
Insidiously sneaky
In the way it sidles up
And gallops past like mercury,
Frustration's heady cup.
Were there ways to vanquish time
To pause it in limbo,
I would celebrate with agelessness
And a glass of fine merlot.
I would savour every nuance
And roll it on my tongue
For the taste of piquant victory
Is a toast to battle won.
Marshalg
@ the Gate
Mangere Bridge
19th January 2009
Feb 20, 2010
Feb 20, 2010 at 1:34 AM UTC
At times, the greyness sidles in
snuggles up to me and
I begin
to see in shades of black and white.
It all adds up to being right, but feels as if
I don't belong.
At times, times ten it sidles in again
stronger and more disconcerting
hurting me,
I see that greyness and in all fairness
it sees me as
a willing victim.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 11:48 AM UTC
There's something brutally honest about
A dog in heat ******* your leg.
I'd like to explore this theme with you,
But I can't right now.
I just got home from my
Nightly walk inside the gates
Of my over-55 lunatic asylum,
And I gotta get this down on paper,
VERBATIM.
I'm wearing sandals tonight, unlike
This morning's power walk in Skechers.
I'm strolling around the turn
At the corner of Don January & Lee Trevino,
And look clearly into a curtain-less,
Shade-free living room. BAM!
Poleaxed, gobsmacked, am I.
She's sitting in a Barcalounger,
Spotlighted by a pole lamp.
Naked, her legs spread &
********* herself.
Stunned dead in my tracks, am I.
By this time she's standing in her
Open doorway, calling to me:
"Hello Dere!"
She is a silver-haired sireen,
A granny Marty Allen.
"Take me," she demands.
Sometimes I'm a little slow on the uptake,
But there was no mistaking that invitation.
"Wait right here," I say.
"I want to go home, shower &
Brush my teeth."
"No , you idiot," she answers.
*"Take me now."
"I want to be ravished by a brute,
***** by a savage,
A mountain man from Boulder."*
I assume she means Boulder, Colorado.
Now, I can't promise that this is a
Daily occurrence at Del Webb Alegria,
"For Active Adults"
But it happened to me.
Walking home I see a crowd.
Some neighbors admiring the
Asian couple's landscaping prowess.
For weeks they've been pulling off a
Green grass to drought-tolerant
Xeriscape switcheroo.
"Bravo!" I yell. "Nicely done!"
Finally, I am home.
Exhausted, I flop down in
My over-stuffed leather armchair.
Pen in hand. Notebook open.
From across the room,
My dog sidles over
A glazed look in his eyes.
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 12:11 AM UTC
You shower, shave, and dress up nice
A night out on the town
The boys and you are heading out
Some beer you all will down
HAIR DONE, ON TO MAKE-UP NEXT
DO I LOOK GOOD IN THIS?
I DON'T WANT TO LOOK TOO EASY
IN CASE SOMEONE WANTS A KISS
The bar stools all sit vacant
As the boys arrive at nine
The band is getting started
The beer is cold, that's fine
WE GOT A TABLE IN THE CORNER
WE CAN WATCH THE GUYS AND SEE
IF THERE'S ANYBODY HERE TONIGHT
THAT REALLY INTERESTS ME
You catch the eye of a young girl
Sitting with her group of friends
You bet the boys a beer or two
On how the night will end
YOU SMILE AT THE BROWN EYED MAN
HE LEAVES THE BAR TO COME ACROSS
FROM WHERE YOU SIT HE LOOKS OK
TONIGHT WON'T BE A LOSS
Sitting with four girls is strange
Trying to separate the herd
Three get up to dance although
You can't hear a single word
HE TAKES THE TIME TO TALK TO ME
I LIKE THE WAY HE THINKS
HE EVEN ASKED THE OTHER GIRLS
AND THEN HE ORDERED DRINKS
The game goes on between these two
As the night comes to an end
He sidles up to his buddies and
He talks of his new friend
PLANS ARE MADE TO MEET AGAIN
HE'S TOO SHY TO MAKE A PASS
HE'S NOT THE KIND TO KISS ME OFF
THIS ONE HAS GOT SOME CLASS
Weeks go by, with many dates
Both with friends and you alone
At some point the relationship
Takes on a different tone
I'VE BEEN HURT ON SOME OCCASIONS
BUT, WITH HIM, I FEEL A CHANGE
I THINK I MAY JUST LOVE HIM
WHEN HE'S NEAR I FEEL REAL STRANGE
She listens to my stories and
Laughs when jokes are bad
She makes me feel so special
It's a feeling I've not had
WHEN DID THE HEART TAKE OVER?
When did the "Me" become a "We"?
When was the "M" inverted?
I think a couple we will be
This tale goes on each evening
In restaurants and in cars
The night has no expectations
And in the end you're counting stars
At some point you will notice
As your friends move to the back
That true love comes without notice
As being single fades to black.....
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 11:59 PM UTC
Sir Anthony sidles into
the little space left in
my memory as the rather
gaunt and sallow History Man
who so horrified us
when so shallow but
costumed and padded
with gross belly and
straining belt commands
this stage as Falstaff
misleader of Hal, liar
personified, but Life-
lover as dimpled as
Dionysus - eat, drink,
make merry one and all
for tomorrow we die.
(c) C J Heyworth
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 6:39 AM UTC
Slick with sweat your silhouette framed in cigarette smoke
I feel intense jealousy like a bayonet run through me
Just moments ago we were a duet,
until a crescendo made us still
Watching you take a drag, hair ruffled and stubble on your cheeks
Makes my heart skip, this image, this place and time are mine.
You turn and look at the crumpled sheets,
note our clothes in a heap
You stand and stare at me
Emotionless.
Passion has waned.
Reality is returned.
“Do you love me?” I ask
A hiss of, what impatience, annoyance? Sidles my way
Statue still you stand and glare
“I thought this was just an affair” a glib retort
“It is” my reply is spry on my dry lips
You move cat like to the bed and as you lower your head
Positioning for a kiss
I hear the question from him
“Do you love me?”
And with a practiced grin I lie.
Dec 26, 2017
Dec 26, 2017 at 11:11 PM UTC
I was told
To tell the truth
But only if
It doesn't hurt people
A little girl
Sidles up to her Mamma
*Mama, why shan't I not lie,
When it makes you so cry?*
A Mamma is questioned
By a young un' with a little more sense
Than grown ups could ever wish to achieve
A beautiful woman replies,
To her small child with a smile and sheds a tear
Because her baby girl
Speaks with no fear
Of her already questioning conscience
*Oh, baby.
I love you.
But please,
Carry on being you,
Because you have an entire lifetime,
To make* boys *cry.
Do you understand, baby girl?*
*Yes, Mama.
Speak the truth-
Make boys cry a salty tear,
And feel no remorse.*
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 5:27 PM UTC
moistly smile sidles
keenly, coldly glumly fist
quailing, jabbering
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 10:51 AM UTC
Life’s ostensibly dead weight pulls downward, maddeningly consistent in its campaign to fell him.
Its moribund song is maniacally hummed by he who seems to mourn with his limbs as he walks,
Soul skulking petulantly as suicide-bees formicate wildly beneath his scalp;
He dreams of his post-mortem feast.
Gazing intently at his doodle-strewn bedside wall,
Cringing as he reads those scribbled aphorisms he had erased the day before,
He wonders if the bees were ever really there in the first place.
He writes, *‘Ire-inducing idleness. Vapid, vacuous days;
He is man’s antithesis, ****** from sentiment.
His is the syphilitic brain of one filled with disdain
For all those who threaten his thinly-veiled comfort,
The thespian of truth, he’d play the faux jumper.’*
The elevator comes to a halt.
Exiting, he sees someone has left the door open for him.
Climbing cautiously to the roof, he is met with an angry gust upon stepping outside.
The solemn timbre of T. Yorke resounds as he drunkenly stumbles across the pebble-laden surface,
And as he sidles along the ledge he realizes that nothing is infinite.
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 12:10 AM UTC