"sloe" poems
Its the perfect costume for a superhero goddess, and it makes her feel invincible; fishnet stockings, blazing red bra, heroine hotpants and the clincher; kitten heels.
Bunny can take on the world, now, appropriately dressed. She's got superpowers, alright, the doom-dogs seem to think so, and they're running scared.
Those rumours, that they trade and use and barter, of baby bunny's beautiful mouth, sloe doe eyes, and inexhaustible tongue. It's been said that she can bring an evil tyrant to his knees as she sinks down to her own, it's been said, she's good and bad, so very bad, so very, very good...
But, listen!
*** bunny's been given a new mission; There's a new and timely terror, and the doom-dogs are, of course, the evil source; find and ******* *** bunny, the formidable phallus of doom.
Only you, ***** tawny Queen of Dawn are up to the task. Don your whiskered mask, wriggle your nose once, twice, yummy bunny, and fly, fly! Find the phallus, save the world.
It's your destiny.
You were born to blow the horn for cosmic ****
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
Here late into September
I can sit with the windows
of the stone room swung open
to the plum branches still green
above the two fields bare now
fresh-plowed under the walnuts
and watch the screen of ash trees
and the river below them
and listen to the hawk's cry
over the misted valley
beyond the shoulder of woods
and to lambs in a pasture
on the slope and a chaffinch
somewhere down in the sloe hedge
and silence from the village
behind me and from the years
and can hear the light rain come
the note of each drop playing
into the stone by the sill
I come slowly to hearing
then all at once too quickly
for surprise I hear something
and think I remember it
and will know it afterward
in a few days I will be
a year older one more year
a year farther and nearer
and with no sound from there on
mute as the native country
that was never there again
now I hear walnuts falling
in the country I came to
5k
The swell of your feverish hands over mine.
Sweat soaking into my skin.
I’m clutching every part of you I can grasp,
Every part of you I can fit into my palm.
We’re sitting beneath the hollow tree,
Beneath the ocean of a sky,
Beneath the screaming black-billed cuckoos.
We don't say a word because we don't need to;
Just silent prayers burned between us,
Scarred into pale, malnourished bones.
I look at you as your sloe-eyed gaze
bores into the mountains of clouds swimming above us.
I want to kiss you,
But all I can do is lay my head on your shoulder,
Wishing I could build a home out of your collarbones.
I don't ever feel safe anymore.
Except when I’m forgetting everything, with you.
At dusk,
I tried to unlearn the way the gold in your skin,
Possessed your face in scintillant rays of spots.
I could count each one if I had the time,
But you’re already turning your spine stuffing back away from me,
And skipping back home
Without the bother or concern to look back.
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 8:58 PM UTC
Hey Harvey Wallbanger
I’d like you to tie me to the bedpost, baby
And press your fuzzy navel to my *slippery ******
Give me your white angel kiss and I’ll lie down like a brown cow
While between the sheets you play the Italian stallion.
Like a kamikaze pilot head for my pink squirrel
Then give me your ol’ Alabama slammer
And pack a *** punch* into that screwdriver of yours.
I want a *screaming ******
That’ll send me to blue heaven. Wu Wu!
So, don’t mention that ****** Mary*
With her devil’s kiss,
Or you’ll find I can give a snake bite that’s as deadly as a B-52.
Instead let’s ride into the tequila sunset in our golden Cadillac
For *** on the beach*
And on the sea breeze we'll hear an old love song sung by a ‘salty dog’ with a Gibson
And watch a tropical storm over Manhattan
We'll go to Peppermint Patti’s café
And order an Irish coffee and a large slice of cherry pie.
Happy, after dark let’s drive home for a *sloe comfortable ***** with satin pillows*
And fall into the sweet surrender of a summer dream.
Mar 6, 2010
Mar 6, 2010 at 7:58 AM UTC
Hooked and hung to the chair,
tethered by a strap-
colour akin to your hair-
you sat and stared
at another essay to be handed in
by three pm, next-week-Wednesday.
A-future-whatever is another
lustful thought, failed and
let down by little taught.
Again! Why a wife is so hard to find
in brambled streets or box hedged
squares, rectangular and receipt like?
Give up and give in,
walk drunk drinking sloe gin.
That way love is but blackthorn berries
the controversial, speechless adversaries.
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 11:04 AM UTC
Night filled glittering skies
Cloud bright trimmed in lines
Sloe-eyed music pops and fades
Drones straight edged across the lies
Drugged up players in a lit up world
Smooth cries fill the ears of hardhearted rituals
Flashbulb strobes beat the pace
Fist raised groups of hazed out praise
Rushed up feints in the days of the lost
Last light shines as sloe-eyed music pops and fades
cc2011
Jun 25, 2011
Jun 25, 2011 at 8:53 PM UTC
Sloe black Guinness seeps,
Raven eye conjured in glass—
. . . Frothy and gorgeous!
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 7:26 PM UTC
Fat blats fill the humid, night air
Chromed up machines ride tonight
Leather clad bodies with slick lines
Long legged, lean ladies rev their smiles
Black lined lips glossed smooth with red
Blood red fingertips scratch their pleasure
Nails run races up the backs
Smirked smiles know where they long to flit
Lip curling snarls as shivers run out
Sloe eyed partners strut by the line
Flicking their tails like bashful does
Paired up pretties ride out in squeals
Tires spin flashing through the lamp light
Paired up pretties hang tight tonight
cc1210
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 4:04 PM UTC
On a slow train
out of the Savannahs sudden exile,
the sunlight swallows me,
a calligraphy of days, hours, minuets, now
inscribed on my limbs,
syntax gives over to a dry, dry sound,
and parched, the aftertaste of sloe gin
inhabits my ribs, the lay of bones,
a labyrinth of absence,
and this velvet ache
at my wrists, a pure burning,
burning the memory red,
words swell and crumble with a kiss,
what absence, Soul of Winter,
what absence is this, spreading
over roadmaps, soliloquies, nights
stretch into mornings, always mornings,
as my fingertips pull daylight from an orange
in dream alphabets that soon dwindle
to vowels, the word, harbour, bends
the old alder beyond what it can bear,
so many ways, you say, to live like a prisoner,
at home, the rooms
are all windswept, reckless
chairs overturned , abandoned
in this, the evenings parable,
love is no more
than a syllable in a bottle
of shattered blue glass,
a poem written on the underside of a childs teacup,
their jump ropes curl like adders
at our feet, the thread
from where I dangle
in doorways and twilight,
as I bide time, perilous
over train tracks, your fingers
trace tally marks along my vertebrae,
the hollows darkening in a pathos
of blue rheumatism,
and in the carnivorous tremor
of my body breaking
like the spine of a book,
the paper gone pink at the edges,
like azaleas and bruises,
erosion, after all is the altar of the body,
and there are scars beneath my temple,
and this ache, still, in my wrists,
unbearable when it rains,
ghosts inhabit my lungs,
wrung from the silence of shut windows,
eternal clotheslines and linen
span for miles across the Savannah,
and the early frost is at last,
calling me home....
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 5:11 PM UTC
Your stained life came to fruition,
that frustrated lament
like the wind whistling down a chimney,
you still held your parched desires
to be awaken brick by brick
your opaque eyes mused
a lost rusted recoil
from where your head used to turn,
down gullies and cul de sacs
until you ran out of retreats,
a pied-à-terre of disrepute
like a dreg sipping sloe gin
your nostrils flaring in the void
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 3:58 PM UTC
In its velvet skin
Hidden below
Sits the Fairy
Of the sloe.
A sprinkling of dust
Surrounds a bitter taste
The blackthorn, as it’s known
The fairies make haste
The rush of the traffic
In the Autumn haze
A steady sour drip
On sunny cool days.
As the sugar sweetens
The dark romantic skin
To enrich the tables at Christmas
With rich sloe gin.
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 8:21 AM UTC
Hedges snowy white
East wind blows up trouser leg
Blackthorn winter's here
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 1:17 PM UTC
Of all the fairy poems I have written, this has to be my favourite and I am dedicating it to Marian. This is just for you Marian. I hope you enjoy it.
The Fairy of the Sloe
In its velvet skin
Hidden below
Sits the Fairy
Of the sloe.
A sprinkling of dust
Surrounds a bitter taste
The blackthorn, as it’s known
The fairies make haste
The rush of the traffic
In the Autumn haze
A steady sour drip
On sunny cool days.
As the sugar sweetens
The dark romantic skin
To enrich the tables at Christmas
With rich sloe gin.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 11:08 AM UTC
Lazer-red dot
seeping sideways
into dazzling lip
of
stretching smile
Growing
at every glance
to utmost beauty
I've seen you now
rolling-heavy-trundle
out of that half-barn
to stand behind the tree stumps
in your glory
in the corner of the field
There you are
orange-quiet
and warm
round-and-large
Lifting on your heavenly thread
over cuckoo-breast and brook
majestic sloe-berry hop
and
now
you're at the top
of furrowed field
bathing woodpecker into
pink-knock-bliss
Lighting wooden tables
in antique rooms
with dusty shafts
of
soul
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 3:05 AM UTC
there
is
so
much,
magic
in
the
motes
of
light,
limed
dust,
that
dance
in
windblown
ecstasy,
before
my
sloe
lidded
eyes,
as
i doze
in
the
sunkissed
study,
of
my
much
blessed
house,
so
that
is
why
i
smile,
while
dozing,
utterly
and
blissfully,
content
in
my
very
own
fairytale.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 2:25 AM UTC
I
They have a dusty coating
You can rub away with a finger’s pad
Leaving a small inky-skinned
Plum, wild, of dark blue hue
Found in hedgerows where
The blackthorn grows:
The sloe.
Pick in September
October even,
Its colour seemingly so at odds
With Autumn’s trends
Of brown and orange, red and gold
This prunus spinosa (or so it goes):
The sloe.
II
How this photo’s colours
spell autumn this dull
rain-threatening day we walked
almost empty fields so I could
crunch the stubbled wheat
and you might pocket sloes
to halt you said
that earnest kiss
or passion-promising
hug against the gate.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 2:35 PM UTC
The son of a carpenter climbed a cross
And Saturnalia was lost forever…
Slaves, adorned in masters clothing
once drank out of the golden goblet and goosed the mistress
vied with paupers for King of Fools
banged pots and pans, slept with sloe-eyed boys til morning
poked, prodded, pampered, kissed, and loved again
The solemn lords of the city peered from their heavenly contemplations
and felt, like a worm in the mysticism of direct communication with god
a bit of remorse, a hint of resentment against the marble steps,
a yearning for the dance, for the abandonment of the senses
for a pageant worthy of those ***** old gods
MITHRAS, BACHUS, DIANA, DISCORDIA.
Before Christmas pushed jostled and shoved the holiday
out of the way,
we opened our homes to all the poor
they become the masters for the day.
while we ran behind with dishcloths and wild cries of
DON”T BREAK THAT
and infused with a small perverse pleasure
took our masks down for a night -
I will play sly servant lass
while my staid husband is forced into corners
with women who struggle to keep their teeth in
And their children fed.
If there were no Jesus,
the tree would still go up for the Norse
the presents still go out for the British
the children still adored for Saturn
the feast still cooked for the old Germanic tribes –
humility, guilt and being saved, saved, saved
saved from the drunkards in the streets,
saved from the firecrackers, the happy children, the Yule log,
saved the togetherness, the topsy-turvy of this most celebrated
happy out-of-control neighborly Solstice ancient block party-
That came from Christ.
Thanks Jesus, you old scrooge.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 11:08 AM UTC
sloe-eyed night-children wander aimlessly, searching for something else
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 5:38 PM UTC
.
*Sloe black Guinness seeps,
Raven eye conjured in glass—
. . . Frothy and gorgeous!*
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 7:58 PM UTC
.
In whisper— shadow sings a song.
My call is joined within the hollows,
Only tiny dimpled crests of the sea,
My voice, for rains, round familiar As patch into tune of old shattering
Light. I search for love, sloe in slips
Thru ********* eyes, outcast beyond
And ghostly move into monumental
Futilities of unbearing, leery in flesh
Undeciphered. Make me one lattice
To bind the wind and mark shallows
Mine as I trudge into black, blue sun.
This song— I sing is for lost keeping,
Hear my hush as it breaks for darks—
And I shall love in box, buried, forgot,
Kept at one sight so grave, remaining
As smudge onto stone burnt in a dial
Etched by firing rays of timeless star,
Hear my song— whispers of shadow.
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 3:02 PM UTC