"sluiced" poems
Swept in on the sixth of the first
Icy winds sluiced on dripping fleecy snow showers
I saw a raging storm coming with vile foreboding nursed
Staple in peace in love in goodwill laid a fitting banquet for all hours
Rewards for toil and strive in minds attuned and goodness versed
I knelt supplicant before my Lord
Laid my just heart bare and without fear or dread
laid a ringing vow as in warmth or bellowing thundering cold
I rest in the forethought I am girded to sail sun's flames un thread
For no blooded being can justly state I harmed or injured in my fold
I will walk this vale of tears
Meet with demons and the ****** of the outer worlds
Face the volcanoes in hell and shame blazing red lava ingots
I will not cower before deadly serpents or baulk at icy frozen walls
If I fall I will stand again an again till God's time uneaten by maggots
I implored my Faithful Lord
Take me down grind and cast me asunder and bereft
If this be ordained that an innocent soul pays an unjust price
The darkest storm has raged wild and furious a depraved joy theft
My God upholds me and holds that truths and honesty never a vice
[email protected].
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 5:34 PM UTC
Back when it took all day to come up
from the curving broad ponds on the plains
where the green-winged jacanas ran on the lily pads
easing past tracks at the mouths of gorges
crossing villages silted in hollows
in the foothills
each with its lime-washed church by the baked square
of red earth and its
talkers eating fruit under trees
turning a corner and catching
sight at last of inky forests far above
steep as faces
with the clouds stroking them and the glimmering
airy valleys opening out of them
waterfalls still roared from the folds
of the mountain
white and thundering and spray drifted
around us swirling into the broad leaves
and the waiting boughs
once I took a tin cup and climbed
the sluiced rocks and mossy branches beside
one of the high falls
looking up step by step into
the green sky from which rain was falling
when I looked back from a ledge there were only
dripping leaves below me
and flowers
beside me the hissing
cataract plunged into the trees
holding on I moved closer
left foot on a rock in the water
right foot on a rock in deeper water
at the edge of the fall
then from under the weight of my right foot
came a voice like a small bell singing
over and over one clear treble
syllable
I could feel it move
I could feel it ring in my foot in my skin
everywhere
in my ears in my hair
I could feel it in my tongue and in the hand
holding the cup
as long as I stood there it went on
without changing
when I moved the cup
still it went on
when I filled the cup
in the falling column
still it went on
when I drank it rang in my eyes
through the thunder curtain
when I filled the cup again
when I raised my foot
still it went on
and all the way down
from wet rock to wet rock
green branch to green branch
it came with me
until I stood
looking up and we drank
the light water
and when we went on we could
still hear the sound
as far as the next turn on the way over
4.2k
I was six when I first saw kittens drown.
Dan Taggart pitched them, 'the scraggy wee shits',
Into a bucket; a frail metal sound,
Soft paws scraping like mad. But their tiny din
Was soon ****** They were slung on the snout
Of the pump and the water pumped in.
'Sure, isn't it better for them now?' Dan said.
Like wet gloves they bobbed and shone till he sluiced
Them out on the dunghill, glossy and dead.
Suddenly frightened, for days I sadly hung
Round the yard, watching the three sogged remains
Turn mealy and crisp as old summer dung
Until I forgot them. But the fear came back
When Dan trapped big rats, snared rabbits, shot crows
Or, with a sickening tug, pulled old hens' necks.
Still, living displaces false sentiments
And now, when shrill pups are prodded to drown
I just shrug, 'Bloody pups'. It makes sense:
'Prevention of cruelty' talk cuts ice in town
Where they consider death unnatural
But on well-run farms pests have to be kept down.
3.6k
This early morning time (you do not know
- however much I share its joys)
has been a space, a time aside for me:
to be beside your bed, your sleeping head, hard
into the pillow’s soft rest, deep
among dreams of swarming fish,
the basking shark, the limpet shell,
gannets (always gannets), and the otter.
Seeing its running prints, its tell-tale spraint,
the sleek brownness, sea-sluiced washing on rocks
meters away, you told me the wonder at it all,
your voice sparkling as the sun-glinting sea sparkles.
And I am free for once to share your time aside.
Sore and poor, the relentlessness of making
stops. I am chair-bound.
The radio, my books, your dear letters lie beside
the drugs and flowers on this small table where I write.
There is time to think beyond the next bar and the next.
There is time to contemplate the thrill and joy of you
though far away, yet brim-full of such sights that feed my soul.
Oh, the innocent joy of exclamation,
each rush of every description made.
The music of your observation,
so harmonious, so pure-toned,
As though the land, the sea, the sky,
wrapping around itself (and tied at your feet),
sings.
To share this time aside
is the sweetest kiss,
the tenderest touch,
the most loving, loving look.
Know that please.
Know what happiness
you’ve brought to me
and bring.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 2:13 AM UTC
I.
Prideless, they tore railroad men’s brown *******
lurking the thirsty Kenyan banks.
Red moonlight sluiced from brambles and linen skins
pressing upon tawny flesh, igniting fire of feline eye.
Imperious, they patrolled the union jack encampment
lingering in shadows of long-labour’s dreamless sleep
until the smoldering campfire morning
when one hundred hammers lean in one hundred corners.
II.
Maneaters in glass houses can’t throw stony glances—
the power to haunt having run off with the ghost.
Now, they reign over the acrylic savannah
sneering—not out of regal disdain, but mild discomfort
from dust mites nitpicking at tautly taxidermed pelt.
Rebel eyes that halted an empire now cast
dull marble stares at fossils in the floor
and derailed trains of un-terrified school-children
near a hissing robot-box called Mold-A-Rama
spewing magma into plastic tyrannosaurs.
May 10, 2010
May 10, 2010 at 8:06 AM UTC
Dead crocs and rabbits
being worn and stepped on
as rugs and carpets
and furry trench coats
Panned, sluiced, and
now shiny gold toilets
All thanks, to your
10-year old laborer
Fancy Ferrari cars
Lavishing clothes
and mind-blowing ***
What else could you wish for
with that stone heart of yours?
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 10:08 AM UTC
It was excruciation.
Shrunken chest
depleted lungs
perturbed mind
and a covetous heart.
He had stripped me.
In a way I became flammable.
Anything that
hurt
burned
set fire to my insides
and consumed me.
Flames fractured and ignited bone
sluiced through my veins
splintered my ribs
and I became the martyr
to every
ravenous
fire.
And to think about you
is oppressive.
How I hurt you
how I burned you
and how I fell in love with you
after
you had left.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 7:23 PM UTC
Into his hundred senses of delicacy and humour, I noticed a lexicon; an enormous candy factory, filled with sweet expressions and sensitivity, luring the outrageous cabin of mine, expanding the prettiness of the English grammar, idioms, and phrasal verbs into my illiterate tiny bunch of rebellious books. I sensed a great copious number of complex poems, rich of enchanting verses, fascinating stanzas that patted on my typos gently, guiding them into a better asylum. I wandered all around his incisive vocabulary, and for a while I lost my melancholy when he sluiced my dark excursion down. I loved him with all my misery. Yes, I did.
Aug 6, 2023
Aug 6, 2023 at 1:08 PM UTC
Leaning on that granite wall
that sacred place
where the town folk once were blessed
and rested.
Techno beats entwined with thoughts............
and I'm lost again.
Lost to the music
lost to myself
and to a reality that never really was,
never likely to be.
A place to dance
a place to see.
Those colours when I closed my eyes......
what was contained in those fracturing patterns and shapes
as they sluiced and mingled together.
In every mind present
but different in those minds eyes.
Eyes that never sleep
the ones that brings us sweet release.
Observing and revealing all in turns
the mix the Dj's spinning
it burns,man it burns.
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 7:20 PM UTC
It takes all I have
to control
each action sluiced
and sliced
into little round cubes
burnt by internal fire
soft ash dust
sparse windy air
pocketing my desire
for you in pieces
just waiting
for the right moment
to leap into unknown waters
feet first
so frozen and
the river could be cold
to the touch
but your skin is warm
and gentle
heat rising
searing my arm
tingling my senses
scrambling my brain
to mottled bunches.
I have too much
self control
(and it's eating me alive.)
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 12:55 PM UTC
My friend called Bruce
had a beard
long and loose
If you looked closely,
finding
food there hiding
It didn't bother him,
he was kind and giving,
until a mouse was found there
living
What can I do about this tenant
I have acquired?
this beard I have grown
must be fired
But first find a new house
for my guest
mouse
So I looked closely
into the beard
to find, a small family
had been reared!
With some scissors
Bruce gave a grin,
As I removed the beard
from his chin............... and so the beard got sheared
Outside within a hedge
was an old birds
nest
The beard slotted in
and the family
within
I had a small doubt,
but then
five heads
popped out!
Returning to Bruce,
what was left of his beard
got sluiced
As sharp as a lazar
I used my cut-throat razor
So ends the story of
how I came to
spruce up Bruce.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 1:09 PM UTC
Sluiced in the veins through a pinprick,
thick blood spills back with the remnants of disastrous destiny.
Telekinetics pour out through gaps in the brain with a voice that booms,
"You'll never get away from this."
But here's the part where it slips into the space where no one can contain this wholesome emptiness.
Here as one and all together in the void where we'll swim forever.
Splashed at the flesh with a wrath that can't be contained.
Wholesome emptiness sluiced in the veins.
A ripped up fate whose tattered remains blow in the wind
in a secret coded pattern that can't be interpreted without telekinesis.
But here's the part where it's all torn apart,
in irregular rhythms like the beating of your heart that stops and starts,
and starts, and stops, and stops, and stops.
Here as none and all of no one,
a thick void to drown in forever.
A voice that screams in scattered patterns:
"You'll never get away from this."
Nov 13, 2016
Nov 13, 2016 at 5:02 AM UTC
the old pine table,
was scrubbed daily
with a mixture of bleach and salt,
and then sluiced
with clean ice cold well water.
it had a felted softness to it,
a wonderful tactile memory
i am still unable to explain.
sat out upon the balcony,
overlooking the beaches
and whale island.
caught both the days sun
and a short substantial breeze.
it was an oval behemoth of a thing, would easily sit twelve adults,
at a christmas feast.
but now just one or two,
excepting when we arrived,
on vacation, then a half dozen neat.
and on most mornings,
big broadsheet papers.
spread out, anchored down,
by oranges and bannanas,
sea shells and driftwood,
teapots and coffee cups,
whatever was to hand,
scattered haphazardly about.
the rule was if you took a bit of fruit, or whatever,
you had to supply a new anchor.
so as the morning wore on,
fruit became books and toy trucks, teddy bears and cricket *****
all presided over by granda,
as he worked his way
around the news,
spread before him,
like the hands of a clock.
changing seats, irregularly,
with a sigh and a plop.
muttering to himself,
or calling out to gran,
news of suggested import,
or the "specials"of the day.
that old pine table held,
the world spread out,
for intelligent disection.
i still can feel, it's surface,
like rolling, polished pearls.
.....no still not explaining it,
at all well.
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 6:20 PM UTC
We drowned here today...
Sluiced along curious Holloways papered in shell.
We knew few colours by name,
Yet saw how they merged, circled, embraced,
to sweet-talk the senses to parley.
Last night the first Redwings sipped the late air
with the high-muffled chatter of Fieldfares passing.
Morning came garnished in far borrowed glories.
The place where we wonder to drown.
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 3:26 PM UTC
The water won’t really
Wash him away, but you
Try and now dry between
Toes. Thoughts of him
And what he did and said
Pollute your body and inside
Your head. An hour in the bath
Has not erased him at all, not
Undone him, not unfelt his
Fingers from your flesh.
The flesh tingles where
The brush scrubbed,
The pores hold onto his
Feel and touch, too imbedded,
All too much. You want him
Gone, want all of him to be
Sluiced away down the sink,
The down the drain, away
From you, with all his
Hurtfulness and all that pain.
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 12:36 PM UTC
the old pine table,
was scrubbed daily with
a mixture of bleach and
salt,
and then sluiced with clean
ice cold well water.
it had a felted softness
to it,
a wonderful tactile
memory i am still unable
to explain.
sat out on the balcony,
overlooking the beaches
and whale island.
it was an oval behemoth of
a thing,
would easily sit
twelve adults
at a christmas feast.
but now just one or two.
excepting
when we arrive to vacation,
then a half dozen neat.
and on most mornings,
big broadsheet papers.
spread out, anchored down
by oranges and bannanas,
sea shells and driftwood,
teapots and coffee cups,
whatever was to hand,
scattered haphazardly about.
the rule was
if you took a bit
of fruit, or whatever,
you had to supply a new anchor.
so as the morning wore on,
fruit became books and toy trucks, teddy bears and cricket *****
all presided over by granda,
as he worked his way
around the news,
spread before him,
like the hands of a clock.
changing seats,
iregularly,
with a sigh and a plop.
muttering to himself,
or calling out to gran,
news of suggested import
or the specials of the day.
that old pine table held,
the world spread out,
for intelligent dissection.
i still can feel,
it's surface,
like rolling,
polished pearls.
.....no
...still not explaining it
at all well.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 6:32 AM UTC
I hear it's going to snow tonight,
& untamed words run through my skin,
but I don't think I'll write -
snow may smear to tussled white,
but we're such fools for indoor sins
that if it's going to snow tonight
we'll stay in, turn low the light
until the walls are dim and thin...
I don't think I'll write
or hew you little metered sleights
of hand, more smoke than djinn -
No, if it's going to snow tonight,
sun sluiced away in spite,
sky low and gray and blank as tin,
then I don't think I'll write:
these crawling words are feeling trite
& the bedsheets gather in a grin.
It's going to snow tonight,
but I don't think I'll write.
Feb 18, 2024
Feb 18, 2024 at 4:46 PM UTC
"Did I forget dying?"
asked who
hung with livery
of silver youth spun
by rouge turning
of night into day ". Perhaps
"
or because suddenly
remembered summer
was sluiced in body
of hot water around
slim ankles–the opening
of every small vein–
rushing to mix with
motes of dying laughter
the very petite and
fragile model of thy self " one day when
the incorrigible
rough noose of
Spring has tightened
about every gold
trimmed loose laden
goosenecked whiskey
minute of kiss *******
between wide thighs
tear tumbling and
blubber wonderful
life shall with death
's vacant fingers make
a flower of thy body
renewed at the lips
of thy grave every
morning pearled
in dew
"
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 9:50 PM UTC