"spawning" poems
I remember that day on Mount Tamalpais.
We picnicked under the loving sky
On Bolinas ridge, atop Wicklow hill,
The maiden’s breast. We found those apple trees,
Who’d gone wild and fell into their world.
A blossom on the way.
I took your picture and you developed into
A sea-horse, or was it a mermaid? The ridge
Was foaming about you and birds were swimming
Like fish underneath. We found a tree, an umbrella
Left at the beach. The coral-grass became our bed
And wine turned into water.
A spiral dance in arms of anemone, it was
All embrace! That reef was spawning heaven.
At the treasure chest under the sea maiden,
Like children on highland pap, we played
At the beach that day in a castle above the clouds,
Beneath the wave.
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 1:42 PM UTC
The journey of a tear drop,
heralds a wall broken down.
Having held back the feelings,
that once started, cannot stop.
Heralds a wall broken down,
infidelity arrives, lost trust,
that once started, cannot stop.
Happiness, not love, but lust.
Infidelity arrives. Lost trust.
Confusion of what you feel.
Happiness, not love, but, lust.
You are on a spinning wheel.
Confusion of what you feel,
spawning hatred, when you loose all.
You are on a spinning wheel,
you are destined for this fall.
Spawning hatred when you lose all,
having held back the feelings.
You were destined for this fall,
the journey of a tear drop.
Aug 23, 2010
Aug 23, 2010 at 5:22 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Despite some misconceptions
And attacks
Endure for centuries
By us blacks
Let me lay down
Some unknown facts
How ‘bout we start with
Henrietta Lacks
For most of us
After our death
Other than memories
What else is left?
For our survivors
The bereft
Yet her cells live on
It’s a matter of theft
From Henrietta’s
Cancerous cells
A bold idea
Suddenly jells
Spawning cures for cancer
As her biographer tells
And in vitro fertilization
Other things as well
Science took complete advantage
Of her cells
Which they still manage
Though she died of cervical cancer
Her cells provided them
With the answer
To scientific mystery
Check out her cells history
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2017. All rights reserved.
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 12:25 PM UTC
Fishermen at Ballyshannon
Netted an infant last night
Along with the salmon.
An illegitimate spawning,
A small one thrown back
To the waters. But I'm sure
As she stood in the shallows
Ducking him tenderly
Till the frozen knobs of her wrists
Were dead as the gravel,
He was a minnow with hooks
Tearing her open.
She waded in under
The sign of the cross.
He was hauled in with the fish.
Now limbo will be
A cold glitter of souls
Through some far briny zone.
Even Christ's palms, unhealed,
Smart and cannot fish there.
5.6k
Jealous
No Trust
Yelling, Fighting, Blaming
Heartbroken- I'm a monster
Jealous
Bitter
No Happiness
Sulk, Withdrawn, Silent,
Pessimistic about the future
Bitter
I
Did This
Blaming, Screaming, Pushing
Realizing, it was me
I
Monster
My own
Creating, Forming, Spawning
Pity for the creature
Monster
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 11:56 AM UTC
Safe from stormy icy cold
from stars sheltered too below
a wish I am
to my captive be
all this thou provideth me
The ice breaker tows us in
sweet lies lavished
beneath our skin
mothered
fathered
dear!!!
Dear ravaged
bitter sweet
lovingly deceived
tucked into sheets
from teddy bear
to milky squeezed
thigh soothing
the life that's oozing
**** a doodle
screeching out in fright
of little egg
earnest yearning
heeding calling
of thee other will
spontaneity
river spawning
No time for times sake
Not a one
would be
mistaken
Only the shrunken
fear forsaking
Run hare run
way out
out
beyond sight
of the knowing
knowing though
scent lingers
in the nose
of the tortoise
and tortoises
whom are stalking
Run run
has gotten far
hid from heaven
spinning faulty
stars heathen
tales of yore
which simply
just keep moving
But delight
is
a wedding cake
in a heart
you can see
taste
taste the spin
of spinning me
Dance too
to the rhythms
and beatings
of sticks
****** quick
to the depths
of your last breath
of the last breathing
Our hearts
the rhythm
Ones soul
The beating
of skin
On our drums
Jun 10, 2012
Jun 10, 2012 at 11:05 AM UTC
I take a deep breath to staunch
That constant clang and clatter
Be still and follow the hunch
Before it’s too late to matter
I need a quiet place
A shift in space, a change in stealth
My next breath can create
Some room to gaze at something else
Soon I must take a break
I can’t settle down or think straight
Wrestling with those demons
I know not the time or the date
Looking back looks so abnormal
Deadly games of Red Rover
Spawning pages from my journals
Replaying over and over
I know not steps to take
On pathways for planting the seed
Peace, her elusive face
Turns away whenever I plead
Time to build that Safe House
Only I have the key to the door
Where peace and bliss abounds
I meet each holy moment and soar
Seek a new vision there
And learn to think more about others
Let go my tormented memories
Seeing All-my Sisters and Brothers
I find that peaceful space
Just to release what I don’t need
Harmony-Beauty-Love
Replaces all my soul has freed
Filling up my Heart Space
As soft as a sweet baby’s kiss
Some name the feeling Grace
I feel a sense of peace and bliss
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 4:28 PM UTC
the alcoholic’s eyes are the least searching,
there’s a fixed point in them,
they’re not darting as you might expect
with the loss of the virgin’s carousel of
frenzy: up & down up & down.
the alcoholic’s eyes are fixed on a point
that makes the world less transfixed in its parabolic fluctuations,
that steady eye we’re all expected to have
when a hallucinogenic curtain is thrown over our eyes,
when the young moralise the old
and the old can’t teach the young -
hence the alcoholic’s eye steady darting into commotion
he least expected - otherwise known as the world.
‘but the lions are caged!’ the alcoholic bemoans,
'now i’ll have to put up with economic tourists panicky over eating their own
in the race of who gets richer first spawning a thousand gypsies
correcting political correctness to a hijab **** ****** at for conversation!'
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 10:39 AM UTC
Oh enchanting stars
Speak to me of your stories
Tell me of the Bear's scars
And how he earned his glories
A family torn apart
By the love of the eldest sister and a bear
The father killing the bear causing them to depart
Enkindling her to turn herself into a bear and causing despair
Youngest, magic one, save your siblings
From your once beloved sister
Shoot your arrows in the sky and end the killings
Turn each one of them into stars spawning a blister
As any can see with an eye
The story is forever imprinted in the sky
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 3:09 PM UTC
*kiss the kids good bye,
send them out on
their own find-a-way paths,
merry or otherwise,
dispatched, once and forever,
stamped, franked, posted,
Gebbie delivered,^
the poems born, borne*
are gone
*never look back,
once writ and gifted,
they are an only child,
not truly orphaned*
but without parentage
*miss'ed every now and then,
see them as a drive-by victims,
hit and run casualties of passing poets,
who notifiy that they saw
"so and so"
and just wanted to
let me know,*
they're ok
*but never look back,
they have been disowned,
each,
a natural birth poem,
must learn
the hard way,
to stand on its own,
tested by the cruelest proctor,*
hoary time
*this is the way,
the only way,
birth mother and no more,
and this why,
some know me as,
the poet of the way...
*this is my way -
my poems are my
dispatched issue,
sent out themselves alone,
to experience
cell division,
mitosis and meiosis
spawning new poetic tissue,
find their own way of sharing*
their ancestral DNA
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 10:57 PM UTC
Dans le fond des forêts votre image me suit.
RACINE
There is a panther stalks me down:
One day I'll have my death of him;
His greed has set the woods aflame,
He prowls more lordly than the sun.
Most soft, most suavely glides that step,
Advancing always at my back;
From gaunt hemlock, rooks croak havoc:
The hunt is on, and sprung the trap.
Flayed by thorns I trek the rocks,
Haggard through the hot white noon.
Along red network of his veins
What fires run, what craving wakes?
Insatiate, he ransacks the land
Condemned by our ancestral fault,
Crying: blood, let blood be spilt;
Meat must glut his mouth's raw wound.
Keen the rending teeth and sweet
The singeing fury of his fur;
His kisses parch, each paw's a briar,
Doom consummates that appetite.
In the wake of this fierce cat,
Kindled like torches for his joy,
Charred and ravened women lie,
Become his starving body's bait.
Now hills hatch menace, spawning shade;
Midnight cloaks the sultry grove;
The black marauder, hauled by love
On fluent haunches, keeps my speed.
Behind snarled thickets of my eyes
Lurks the lithe one; in dreams' ambush
Bright those claws that mar the flesh
And hungry, hungry, those taut thighs.
His ardor snares me, lights the trees,
And I run flaring in my skin;
What lull, what cool can lap me in
When burns and brands that yellow gaze?
I hurl my heart to halt his pace,
To quench his thirst I squander blook;
He eats, and still his need seeks food,
Compels a total sacrifice.
His voice waylays me, spells a trance,
The gutted forest falls to ash;
Appalled by secret want, I rush
From such assault of radiance.
Entering the tower of my fears,
I shut my doors on that dark guilt,
I bolt the door, each door I bolt.
Blood quickens, gonging in my ears:
The panther's tread is on the stairs,
Coming up and up the stairs.
3k
*The perfect slanting of sun
tundra cotton leaning northward
salmon spawning homeward
golden grass - waved in winds
The cast of red autumn's spell*
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 11:59 PM UTC
You might think you need a tailor
But here's the only one you've got:
A poor choice of cloth
Married to a poorer thread
Spawning knock-offs
Over budget shops.
So you may as well invest,
For it matters not a jot
What you think you choose to wear,
It never really lasts.
A tear here, a cut there;
With cheap cloth,
It does not take much
To turn your life ragged.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 4:47 PM UTC
I wish you were here on this park bench
Together listening to stuttering bird beaks clench
Hand in hand our feelings spawning
Together we’ll sit as the night is dawning
A smile that steals a million hearts
Stole mine from the very start
That one kiss causes me to wonder
thinking back to the night our hearts made thunder
Was it real or just a flinch
Please someone give me a pinch
Your beauty takes my breath away
Please come back and stay a day
Pull me to you and press your lips
Against my back are your finger tips
You search for luck in four leaf clovers
I now do the same as hopeless banter
Abrupt it was but now I must wait
I anxiously plan out your visiting date
Where to go and what to say
Forget me not while you’re away
May 11, 2011
May 11, 2011 at 4:40 AM UTC
The Real Poets Here
are small craft
sailing between the narrows of crack'd lines,
employ the spyglass and luck to you,
for them to find
their voyages do not widen the chasm of waste,
yawning greater now by propped up boasts of
ugly shipowners who sin by commission,
national ***** crowing of the greatest length of their prow,
thinking that is a measure of prowess,
their tubs,
all but empty wordy new container ships,
that are forever lost at sea,
even before leaving port
they,
the real poets,
are the quiet lost lot,
a troop of forgettable ordinary Marines,
the sailors in the engine room toiling,
exploring cartographers ***** from the ****** crafting struggle,
looking to discover unmapped,
invisible poles,
East and West
opening up new passages,
within us,
with new passages
when called to arms,
the real poets
spill fresh ***** fluids from within the heart and mind borne,
upon the blank spaces,
they stain us with the grasping gasps of their sight insided
fertile are the pastures
where they lay low modest lay thinking,
amidst the splendor in the grass
of them
I
proudly will ever boast,
hold them close and ever nameless,
but deep inscribed inside of me
*Ah,
the real poets keep me
whole within the
ever smaller white purity of this narrow space
that has lost the struggle
to contains the
unceasing ever spawning black letter'd oceans and navies of
repetitive sad, sadly repetitive,
puerile singsong cant
that never sings,
can't never please,
but trends to the masses madly
dewdrops of tears,
are my own trees felled,
an acknowledgement that
when I read their unintended homages to humankind,
that when realized,
they speak with great respect,
all quietly scream this whisper...
all this,
that I have written,
and will yet to write,
this is all,
to give
greater glory to all human ability
whose
sole purposed to fill us,
wrench us from our lackadaisical comfort,
or urgently comfort us when none else can,
these are my friends,
the real poets here*
god keep you well
my trite words insufficient
so I gift you
some words worthy from
Wordsworth
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 3:29 AM UTC
*A weaver of words in deep quiet reflects
In his mind’s prism, many a thought deflects
Within him the rainbow colours of passion rage
He scripts songs of beauty and rhyme on page after page
He has no magic, neither erudite nor clever
But hungry souls, his poems avidly devour
Stirring their hearts as wind on whispering leaves
And each line, some alluring fancy weaves
As from pen to paper his fancies flow
In a lingua that has an unusual glow
Though a great epic may not be born
His songs move even hearts of flint n’ stone
He sings the paeans of love and life
Of men in cross roads of toil and strife
He awakens dead worlds long forgotten
Taking us to magic lands never trodden
His songs have echoes of a heavenly rhapsody
Drowning the Earth in flooding melody
Fuelling hearts with thoughts one cannot name
Spawning tempestuous passions one cannot tame*
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 5:49 AM UTC
a polar vortex
swirls eastward
on Siberian Tiger paws
bounding over
Appalachian Highlands
gobbling geography
gelling Great Lakes
spawning Erie blizzards
sculpting Wabash ice floes
clogging commerce all
along the Ohio River Valley
this voracious
juggernaut’s wide maw
bears icicle teeth
laughing as it swallows
Pittsburgh, Little Philly,
and a Big Apple, before
gorging itself on
generous portions
ladled into
simmering crocks
of steaming
Boston Baked Beans
growling
blue arctic
air blasts roar
bursts pipes
savages the heat
of blasting furnaces,
bubbling boilers, hot
belly stoves frantically
drinking oil, flaming gas
burning wood and
burping soot
the blistering
jet stream claws
screech a slashing
stratospheric hum
as Frigidaire blasts
swallows breath
brittles limbs
chafes cheeks
gnaws earlobes
crystallizes tears
nibbles nostrils
cubes snot
numbs toes
bites digits
diving sub zero
gradient subdues
batteries to
deaden states
delays buses
derails trains
cuts power
constricts veins
preys on
vagabonds
and animals
get the homeless
off the street!
bring the animals in
check on your
elderly neighbors
don’t get caught outside
and shut the **** door!
do you own stock
in the Public Service?
beware the polar vortex
and next months heating bill
Sonny Boy Williamson
& Otis Spann
Nine Below Zero
Oakland
1/6/14
jbm
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 2:43 PM UTC
Countless times have people asked,
Why are we here?
And still
the universe refuses to answer,
never acknowledging the simplistic question
being shouted from tiny voices.
People pray to know
what their purpose is or if there is a purpose.
Demanding an answer to the misfortune that happens.
But the universe stares coldly at the world,
never uttering a single sound.
And why should it?
Why should such a grandiose power
answer people who will die in the blink of an eye
to never change or influence the course of life
and yet people continue to shout
asking and demanding for an answer or a sign.
Nothing changes and the world continues to spin.
The universe continues creating without reason.
Spawning life from the palm of its hand.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 1:50 AM UTC
Nag, nagging,
Finger wagging,
Shoulders sagging,
Victim slagging.
Oh beration,
Flagellation,
Irritating
Castigation.
Cutting hemlock,
On her chopping block,
Innuendoes
Spawning ad hoc.
Super-intending,
Condescending,
Never ending,
Insult fending.
Pointless rounds
Of empty double-talk,
Wife, your name is
Self-styled wise hawk.
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 6:33 AM UTC
PYTHAGORAS planned it. Why did the people stare?
His numbers, though they moved or seemed to move
In marble or in bronze, lacked character.
But boys and girls, pale from the imagined love
Of solitary beds, knew what they were,
That passion could bring character enough,
And pressed at midnight in some public place
Live lips upon a plummet-measured face.
No! Greater than Pythagoras, for the men
That with a mallet or a chisel" modelled these
Calculations that look but casual flesh, put down
All Asiatic vague immensities,
And not the banks of oars that swam upon
The many-headed foam at Salamis.
Europe put off that foam when Phidias
Gave women dreams and dreams their looking-glass.
One image crossed the many-headed, sat
Under the tropic shade, grew round and slow,
No Hamlet thin from eating flies, a fat
Dreamer of the Middle Ages. Empty eyeballs knew
That knowledge increases unreality, that
Mirror on mirror mirrored is all the show.
When gong and conch declare the hour to bless
Grimalkin crawls to Buddha's emptiness.
When Pearse summoned Cuchulain to his side.
What stalked through the post Office? What intellect,
What calculation, number, measurement, replied?
We Irish, born into that ancient sect
But thrown upon this filthy modern tide
And by its formless spawning fury wrecked,
Climb to our proper dark, that we may trace
The lineaments of a plummet-measured face.
April 9,
2.3k
Dry brown cattails fall over one another in autumn
each year crossing on the forest floor,
waiting for spring rain.
Trees line the neighborhood street but true beauty
lives in the swamp down below.
We ran through branches, slicker boots in the mud
crunching through the tall grass and fallen leaves
exploring where the deer sleep. Graceful bucks
peruse the land. I try to catch a glimpse at dusk
when the silent fog begins to rise.
Forgotten streams dart through the reeds where
shallow water is perfect for spawning Northern.
Fallen tree trunks, ominous giants are the
only way to cross the creek
with dangerous swirling currents my daddy
always warned me about.
Poplar bridge is covered with graffiti and scars
the place I got my first french kiss
while the sun sank down into the swamp’s horizon
and the sky filled with precious stars.
The childhood place you yearn for
after the years go by
When every dark thought drives the car down the road,
ending up on that bridge just to watch the creek flow.
Stillness in the middle of a city
isolated from the corruption outside
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 3:35 PM UTC
the one you listen to least, hurting your self reliance
may well be the one you would profit from most
laying your faults and weaknesses before you
so that you can work with grace to heal and move on
from all that negativity spawning within you
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 9:28 AM UTC
Happy with the way things have turned
Though a hard fought race was given and earned.
Sacrifices was extended and considered to deepest horizons,
spawning towards, what we thought infinity captions.
Transpired over and over, as tomorrow is faced,
with grith and angst over as we were below, hoping,
for an ultimate turnaround with a minimal chance.
hoping for tidal shift towards satisfaction, hoping
to seek and and find ourselves waiting.
to catch every opportunity as we persist and fight,
stand up and understand, this constant quest called Life.
Mar 11, 2011
Mar 11, 2011 at 7:18 PM UTC
Willingness...
in all its variability,
X factor
as convenience for
better
and worse.
Illusion,
delusion
more about self honesty
our willingness towards in same way.
Organics not the issue.
Imperialist fractals spawning still.
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 9:05 AM UTC