"spencer" poems
Summer morning -
pink jets of clouds
splash out
from the golden well of the east
falling just short
of an ebbing moon.
Streams of swallows
flutter and glide
over the garden -
they are all flying
in the same direction
as if erupting
from the sun’s waking pulse.
Just for a moment
one of the birds hangs
perfectly still -
like the top-most drop of water
from a fountain before it turns
to face the glittering pool.
Beneath them all
the hummingbird
makes her rounds
and a dove scratches the earth
below the feeder
keeping an wary eye
on the scribbling intruder.
So many summer mornings -
too many summer mornings
I have wasted
worrying about the world
and my place in it –
absent from my own body
and breath
the cage of my ribs
rising, falling, and pausing
without me. Meanwhile,
another swallow
stills her wings.
Buoyed by an unseen breeze
she is both feathered sail
and cresting wave as she slices
over my shoulder bearing west.
Tom Spencer © 2015
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 12:16 PM UTC
up early to water
the garden
the cicadas are
already drilling holes
into the
leaden stillness
everywhere
leaves are drooping
I spray the shrubs
to wash off the dust
birds fly in to sit
on the dripping branches
begging for a shower
a cardinal flutters
its wings and sings
and I oblige
jewel-like droplets splash
through the slanting light
everywhere
the world is ablaze
heat waves wild fires
everywhere anger
everywhere distraction
suspicion
leaders are faint-hearted
the wicked fan the flames
still my garden needs water
still the cardinal
flutters its wet wings
and sings
here here water here
here here water here
Tom Spencer © 2018
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 1:41 PM UTC
You were so hot I spun twice to see, call me a fan
Your regal youth made my blood boil, call you peter pan
*You were like a boomerang I wanted to throw away but you kept* coming back to me,
*And maybe I've always been scared of hurdles and you were my biggest one, 'cause I just can't* get over you, you see
I thought you were like a paradox:
Cool as ice and hot as molten rock
You were like a magician with words, drove me so crazy I was pulling out my hare,
You steal my heart like a pirate captain when I sea you standing there,
But you didn’t have any morals, I deserve to call you whoreible
Yet you still think you're cute. you know? leaving my house the way you came would be adooreble
I discovered your texts to her on my birthday, the cake was ruined with my tiers
You caught my Eye with your animal magnetism, but you’ve been a cheetah for years
What? you think this is a game? No, you don't have a clue!
You had a monopoly on my life and now your name is taboo
You said you needed some time and space to yourself you were the only one in the galaxy I Wanted,
I guess life never turns out how you planet and since you left I've been feeling haunted,
Why did I believe you were a great catch? Just because you **master *****
You made me think we could smash; every second felt like a brawl
Loving you was no gouda, though I swiss you now that you’re gone, it isn’t easy,
I said goodbye, It’s not you it’s brie, sorry that was cheesy.
You gave my life flavor but you were just a masked spyce that made my life sour like limes
I know I need to chili but you have really bad taste and we’re out of thyme
I need a holiday *from your lies, my patience is running short
I’m better off with you gone, and leaving you is my last* resort
I guess we didn't have that spark no need to be astunished,
all I know now is: IT IS TIME YOU WERE PUNISHED.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 9:52 PM UTC
In the evenings
the deer would emerge
from the edge of the woods
stepping over the tumbledown stones
of walls left untended-
they'd leave tracks through the snow
in a wandering line that led to the last apple tree
in the field by Orchard Street.
I remember that now,
staring at this antler I've found
in the clearing between the cactus
and sun bleached stones.
The lines of the antler
flow into the fractures of my palm-
two thousand miles from snow,
and two thousand miles from
the blue evening glow
of a shivering world
glazed over by twilight…
And the deer-
magnificent, pawing the snow
searching for apples that had fallen below-
emboldened by the frozen sweetness of autumn.
They were graceful even in flight-
when cars with chains
jingling and crunching the ice
rounded the corner
down Orchard Street.
Today I've tracked over two thousand miles
in my own wandering line-
the lines of the antler
flow through the tangles and hollows of time.
Sometimes I stand in a clearing,
sometimes hidden by trees,
sometimes I scratch below the surface,
and I run- but, less gracefully...
There are walls I've left untended
and some I've crafted too well-
it is through forgotten tumbledown walls
that memories come-
I thank grace
it was into this clearing they fell.
Tom Spencer © 2017
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 6:55 PM UTC
When poets die
It's sad and true,
It matters not
What their bodies do,
The spirit flies
To Poet's Corner,
In Westminster Abbey.
You'll not see
Busts or inscriptions
For all the poets
Whose spirits linger
Alongside Chaucer, Browning, Spencer,
And a myriad of authors.
Dead Poet you have earned your share;
Dead Poet I will know you're there,
Composing in the Laureate's lair.
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 12:33 PM UTC
Cellophane wings beating
against the heavy summer air,
back and forth, all day long,
the blue dragonflies
chase one another across the pond-
their tails turned up
like neon scimitars
poised for a ******
that never seems to come.
Occasionally, a truce is called,
and they settle into place
on opposite sides of the reeds,
momentarily oblivious to their war.
Twice their size,
the red dragonfly idles in the sun.
From time to time it leaves its perch
to challenge the silhouette
hanging from the iris blade,
its spent skin,
as if it were a bad memory
rising from the green depths of the pond.
Below the surface,
the fish school together- a current of gold
slipping between the lily pads,
each aware of its place in the stream.
My reflection circles them all.
Drawn to the water
that both mirrors and obscures
I lose my place for a moment-
hovering between obligations and idleness
on cellophane wings.
Tom Spencer © 2015
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 7:39 AM UTC
On a thin ribbon of light
unfurled from unseen heaven
direct to her parted robe
and disquieted ear
comes an angel’s voice,
the dove’s winged companion,
with words foretold in the book
now slipping to the floor.
What hunger fires
our flickering imaginations,
that require Grace come
wrapped in velvet purses-
with proof of the child’s
purity dripping from tables
and prophet encrusted walls?
I think they had it all wrong-
Fra Angelico, Veronese, van Ecyk,
and even Martini with his
gilded apprehension.
I prefer a scene without
unblemished lilies-
no fine linens, puffing cherubs,
or embroidered pillows on display.
I picture her instead
at her daily labor- pulling
on a ***** rope at the village well.
With calloused hands, she
draws her trembling reflection
skyward, when, announced
by the slightest breeze,
a stranger appears.
Before their eyes meet,
a bird’s flight distracts her-
water splashes from the bucket
washing the dust from her feet
and soaking the tattered hem
of her robe. His silent glance
holds her only for a moment.
In the distance, a voice
calls out, “Daughter!”
She turns, sets off,
bowing to her burden.
A cloud’s shadow
melts in the heat of the road.
Tom Spencer © 2018
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 8:30 AM UTC
a fish surfaces
in the creek
scattering
the moon's reflection
silver echoes
embrace the shore
and then
disappear
I fall silent
laughter settles
friends ask
what I saw
Tom Spencer © 2018
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 9:00 AM UTC
pulling back the covers
dimming the lights
an owl calls
from the holly tree
just outside
of my window
the garden below
has grown beyond my control
weeds sprout vines tangle
in the summer squirrels gnaw
on the green holly berries
littering the courtyard
with half-eaten haws
in the spring mockingbirds
gorge on the bright red fruit
their florid songs
celebrating
light sky life sun leaf air
closing my eyes
I think back through the decades
to when I planted the tree
it was a time of hope
a time when we dared dream
of a world without
mortal enemies
when you could imagine
shaded islands of calm
hidden coves immune to rancor
now look at us
heads down lost hurtling
stumbling
under a trance
we have turned on one other
distracted by those
who grab wealth and power
under the cover of night
confused by the constant
trumpeting and alarms
blind to what we share
we retreat
into the darkness
of our fears
Tom Spencer © 2018
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 7:50 AM UTC
Mud is good,
Its dead good mud,
It's in me blood,
But where not understood,
Us people of mud,
In the shadow of a gas tank and born on a Mersey bank, I lived on cobbled streets dark and dank,
I played on a ship that sank, and for anything else I wouldn’t thank....... you
On king street docks, girls in cheap frocks, curly locks, time tocks, the boat rocks,
The tanyard smell made life hell for all that dwell, under the bridge,
In Garston L19, it’s the scene, its clean, it’s where I’ve been, it’s not obscene or green, if you know what I mean.
Its community security sincerity and every other word that ends with erity,
But it’s fallen apart,
Don’t lose heart.
I go into town when I’m down, it clears me frown,
I don’t go in me jarmies or me dressin gown,
There’s men with round bellies, toddlers in wellies,
Posh ladies gather in their marks and spencer swagger,
There’s scouse brow teens, sunbed queens,
Hunks and punks, lonely drunks,
Suits in boots forgetting their roots and hens in *****
Big issue sellers, statue fellas holding golf umbrellas,
Coz of all the rain,
But it’s all good, coz we come from mud,
Let’s cheer, why?
Coz I’m here,
I’m me, me names T, and me hubbys P me best friends she..... lagh,
I like coffee and toffee and Roger Mcgoughy,
I like statistics logistics eye shadow and lipsticks,
I like bags and wags and cigarette **** but not beer,
I’m fine on wine if I take me time,
I don’t do a line, unless I’m hanging me washing on it,
I work in a bar, not far, I don’t drive a car, and I don’t say Lar or kid or lad or lid or mar,
I’m proud and loud, don’t live on a cloud, and I don’t follow the crowd,
I’m a mum to some, I’ve got a big round *** but I’m me you see,
I’m not square, I dye me hair, I swear but you can take me anywhere,
Coz I care,
I’m good,
I’m mud; it’s in me blood,
Understood
By Christina Ford
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 7:23 PM UTC
Crumpled on a ***** door mat,
left by the cats -
the owl is just a loose bag
of feathers now - empty talons curled,
and one fierce eye turned
over its shoulder.
"What soft flesh enticed you to the ground?"
Lifting the mat, I remember
waking at night to the trilling call – a silvery vein
wrapped in the dark energy of hunger.
“All things die and too soon...” I say aloud,
my own eye sinking into that inky well. The
vacant perch leaning over my shoulder.
"What is to become of my flesh, my soul?"
"It's the waking that counts," I think, "and the meeting."
For a moment I wake again - grateful for the living.
Tom Spencer © 2017
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 7:44 AM UTC
I had not been born yet.
Still, I can see you at your labor -
alone, scouring the meadows
for the stones -
lifting their gray shoulders
from the moist earth -
pulling them from the
green grasp of briars,
goldenrod, and
Queen Anne’s Lace.
The smell of the earth
must have filled you with
your own childhood memories -
of plowing fields
and cold mornings
trudging across barn yards
mud thick on your boots -
promising yourself
that someday you would leave
and never return.
I can hear the pick axe -
the sharp strikes
against the stones,
and the dull thud
when the earth
swallowed the blade -
and the deep exhalations
when the stones tumbled into
the old wheelbarrow – new then -
that now leans rusting
against my garden shed.
Some of the stones were so large -
far too large for one man –
how did you move them?
I look at the old photographs
and you seem so young –
so much younger
than I am today - and so thin –
staring off-frame beyond the camera.
What were you looking for
in those fields?
I can see you sorting the stones,
stacking them -
building and unbuilding
and rebuilding the walls
and terraces
until the walls were true
and the terraces level
and planted with dogwood,
birches, soft grass for bare feet,
and bordered with roses.
Did you know
that you were building my castle?
That the highest terrace
would be my tower and keep?
I remember calling out to my
knights, my legionnaires,
and tribesmen –
rallying them in defense
of the citadel – ready for
the coming siege.
I also remember looking out
across that verdant kingdom
for the last time -
no longer a king or a boy –
and miles away, across the river
to the west, I imagined
the new home that awaited us.
I couldn’t know
how far away it would be
or what it meant to leave.
This morning,
as I looked out across
the garden that I have built,
I felt the weightlessness of time
and its gravity
settling me into place.
For a brief moment I had
the sensation that I was standing
on the shoulders of
gathered stones.
(for my father, Guy Spencer.)
Tom Spencer © 2015
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 12:13 PM UTC
The trail rose up
through the sand
and sage covered hills
following the sinews of a land
scoured by fire and flood.
Even the most severe carving
here was nothing
compared to the city below-
its concrete grid
glaring over my shoulder-
sprawled out,
******* on its dingy
comforter of smog-
******* up
the dust of the desert
around it.
The trail led me up.
Up past twisted
juniper bones,
past pale green yuccas
curling
fine white filagree
from their dagger blades,
past sandstone boulders
swirled like confections,
past ancient cooking pits
nested with ash,
and ghost-like hands
outlined on stone-
to a white cliff face
up-thrust
beneath the cloudless sky.
From a lone stump
a pinyon jay squawked
drawing my eyes down.
A sentinel
to its comrades-
who rose up
from the draw to my left
and sailed in twos and threes
sinking down into
the draw on my right.
Right before me,
around me, behind me,
first two- then six,
then tens of metallic blue
wings beating heavily against
the unfamiliar desert air.
They had come down.
Down from the scrubby
forests of pine.
Down from snow
covered slopes.
Hungry,
they searched the green
fingers of the washes-
the winter forcing them
down across the trail
that was drawing me up.
They passed close by,
wing beats feathered my ears,
first up, then down-
the sentinel
keeping an eye .
Listening, suddenly hearing
my breath beat
against the wind-
I stood motionless, perched
beyond starting
and destination-
blue wings lifting
the hunger within.
Tom Spencer © 2017
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
standing behind
a wall of reflections
gazing into a canyon
of steel and glass
movement
from the opposite wall
a curtain sways
and a silhouette turns
from the glinting
and the figure
standing
in the polished glare
Tom Spencer © 2018
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 10:29 AM UTC
white clouds swell up
anvil bloom
a lowering gloom
scuds by
stacatto drops
on the windshield
punctuate
powerline sway
radio crackle
sparks
sheets of tenor sax
and blunt
gusts of cool
I lower the window
and steer
into the storm
Tom Spencer © 2018
Jul 8, 2018
Jul 8, 2018 at 8:33 PM UTC
moon faced
door mat cat
velvet tent ears
and stripes
faintly glowing
in the kitchen light
eyes track
my routine
paws tucked-under
quiet, waiting
Tom Spencer © 2018
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 6:21 AM UTC
I was never a simple person
but I craved simplicity like I craved my grandmother's strawberry jam
I loved school, whistling and everything taller than me
They reminded me of my father
I hated screen doors, cracks in pavement and goodbyes
When I was four he left me all those tainted things
but I loved him
Four years later
my mother asked me what I wanted for Christmas
I told her I needed a baby brother
I used to spend every night while he slept
at his feet
When I was eleven, my mother moved us to a new city
There were a million games of cops and robbers
and my first boyfriend, Spencer
He had blond hair and eyes so blue they put my brother's to shame
He told me he loved me under an oak tree
kissed my cheek and got so red in the face
I thought he was going to burst
My mother was in University
and had the softest piano hands
Her eyes were glossy from all her tears
I collected them in my jewellery box heart
There were rust on my edges
and hers
I was a rusty by product of drunk unintentions
A mathematic, scientific accident
Not a young mother with high hopes and goodluck
On Sunday afternoons I played hopscotch
on my babysitters driveway, I was nine
On Sunday evenings he brought me to his secret lair
He'd secretly touch me in all my secret places
I hated him
I think he hated me too
When I was six, I wanted to be a teacher
Ten years later, a man with a medical degree
told me I couldn't have babies
I couldn't look at another child, so I figured teaching wasn't my best option
Plus, I've never been a fan of teaching children not to make a mess
I spent my whole life making sure it wasn't messy
When I was fourteen, I wanted to run away
I wanted to go to Europe
with my best friend Oskari
he cut his arm and told me he couldn't really bleed
he didn't feel anything
I wanted to bless him
I wanted to read him Jane Austen in an open field
Under a single sycamore tree
We never made it
When I was seventeen, I ran away
I moved in with my father's mother
He has her eyes, just like me
That same year I met a boy
Who rode a stolen steed to my grandma's couch
Made love to me all night
took on me on walks and sent my heart off to the races
He made my life a little simpler
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 11:31 PM UTC
Ebola has my name on it, the Doctor
Who came back with Ebola
In New York, yes you heard me right
His name is Mr. Spencer, I’m a
Spencer, he rode the subway in the dark
And he went bowling a week after
He came back, and he only went
To the hospital very sick
This is dementia of the public system
And the main stream media
Is being blacked out by the Czar
Appointed by Obama, he’s a lawyer by trade
Are you surprised that Ebola
Can hitch a ride with a Doctor without borders?
There are no borders for a pandemic
It increases exponentially
And peaks sometime in 2017
I’m sorry to be the first to break
The News, but Ebola is running wild
Somewhere in New York, somewhere near you
There could be a city that has it already
And do you think the media would let you know?
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 10:45 PM UTC
black bee
head first in a
hibiscus flower
waxy pollen beads
dabbled down
its gleaming back
foraging done
it shimmies out
to spy the next
allurement
darting and hovering
as it chooses its mark
close enough
to feel its pulsing whir
breeze the hair
on my arm
I hover too
allured
and unfurled
before turning to dart
through this
shimmering world
Tom Spencer © 2018
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 7:03 AM UTC
The local mall now has a Spenser’s Gifts;
I remember that place fondly as Al and I
make our way.
It’s where I sneaked a peek at Samantha Fox’s ****
for the first time,
saw my first **** ring,
wondering why anyone would want one.
I bought my first Metallica shirt at a Spencer’s;
spending twenty of my dad’s dollars.
Spencer’s and Record Wear House
were sanctuaries;
my escape from what my classmates
took for normal.
I took my son into that store
so that he could see the X-Men hats
and Deadpool shirts, the banana and pickle
pens caught his eye,
but I had to point out one more.
“What’s that one?” I asked.
Alex made a face, but in the end
he did what any 14 year old boy should,
he chuckled.
I took him in that store so that we both
could escape.
Earlier he walked the mall
a good fifteen feet ahead of us.
We stopped for ice cream.
He chose a soda and wouldn’t sit with us.
It took a second, but
I figured him out.
He was trying his teenaged self out;
testing his wings.
As we walked, he’d wave at classmates
and be either sturdily ignored or given a cursory nod.
It was obvious that he wanted so much more.
It pained us, my wife and I.
So, I took him into Spencer’s gifts
in an effort to remove some of his innocence and awkwardness.
It may not have been the wisest move,
but at least, for a moment,
both of us felt peace.
-JB CLaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2014
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
The donkey and the ox
what a racket they must have made!
Munching on the straw
from the crib in the manger.
Such thick headed beasts!
How did our Savior survive
with all of His toes -
His swaddling free of slobber?
Imagine, if you will
their warm grassy breath forming
little clouds that were filled
with His radiance.
And pity poor Joseph
asleep, off to the side, and Mary
completely exhausted.
For, while resting, they missed
what soft brown eyes sensed -
that before shepherd or angel
or wise man arrived, a feast
had been set for the taking.
(For Sherry Smith)
Tom Spencer © 2018
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 8:01 AM UTC
clouds race by
like kites with broken strings
trees sway
naked branches rattle
cold wind
stings my ears
you ask why I love
the winter
sycamore leaves tumble
and swirl through the garden
brittle sails
crackling air
Tom Spencer © 2018
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 10:25 PM UTC
distant hills
drifting
in a sea of grass
waves
slip from stone
grasping nothing
winter evening -
crows glide in and gather
on the roof tops
diesel grit
blackens the fog -
a passing train
sipping dew -
a moth flutters down
the dripping eave
Molokai:
waking up -
a bird calls
- a gecko responds
no wind, no waves -
an empty boat is swamped
by the sunset
(after Dogen)
Tom Spencer © 2018
Jan 24, 2018
Jan 24, 2018 at 7:38 AM UTC
on an island
of shade in the mid-day sun
- a stranded cow
Tom Spencer © 2017
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 12:32 PM UTC
a serpentine plume
of saharan dust
unveiled by radar
an ocean spanning
exhalation
of opaque
talcum haze
seeping into and onto
cracks metal glass
amid caustic
simmering
and listless
longing
for cicada drill
and aircondtioned din
to mute
Tom Spencer © 2018
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 10:13 PM UTC