"spillway" poems
May the willows grow through your dog cages.
May the mice die and rot where they lay.
Half-moons of black dirt once filled up my fingers.
Prayed more than once for owls to carry you away.
No longer my ritual to clear sludge from the spillway
as your orchards grow barren
weeds cover your everything,
And mushrooms lay seeds
in your brain.
Feb 20, 2021
Feb 20, 2021 at 2:49 AM UTC
It is angel impact bullwhip vivid
Stampede fingers landscape obedient
Jail bust escape laughing run
Spillway thought stream fuzzy essence
UGG boot toe tubs and water stings
Earthquake tyrant Celsius fools
Pin lake petrol ice filled deserts
Spiky flames in outer space
Sculpture freak show withering exhibit
Fathom emergency breathe and ****
Nut shell gorillas invisibly cracked
Cow fed nirvana BBC
Shades of zero audio cauldron
Same vein madness virus mansion
Culinary horror infection procedures
Geyser rich nutrient pea-pod turmoil
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 3:38 AM UTC
how Eye make love,
this popped into my head
tho questioning this quest,
what purpose served, unknown...
lacking the infatuation to poetry write,
the mind retreats to the basics,
eye write with no destination,
wondering at the wonderment
of this basic actionable accolade...
sometimes,
be the
operative word,
sometimes
cooperative,
is the operative...
sometimes,
is but a
it just depends
who
is the initiate
and who possesses the initiative...
every story has a different
author, ending...
sometimes slow,
sometimes muy rapido
in foreign tongues
in foreign places,
the only commonality be that
wonderment
eye wish this not to be explanation,
eye wish this to be an explication
of the texts of sensual visionaries,
imagining the helping to happening,
the passageway to and from
where the mind begins,
the body completes its origination
oft I close my Eyes,
listening to hers,
her eye voices directing me,
what will be the course of our
course,
miss no Michelin starred landscapes,
through hers, mine Eyes triumphant...
tour guide excellente
cannot explain
why the temp sometimes
solar flares,
why the temp sometimes
is a glacial expedition,
tongue led,
from toes to eyelids...
always buy tickets for a
round trip flight...
how
is a titillation, begging you to read & expose,
there is no how, only sometimes better,
sometimes different...
why
is a question needs no asking...
when
when the shape of her profiled neck,
reflects shadows of further inquiry,
when her décolletage collects me
as she and her designer intended...
when
she laughs uproariously at my piquant,
suave and debonair one liners,
requiring kissing tickling calming
when
tears spill when reading
a new takeaway poem mine,
needy for a tongue to collect that spillway...
just being friendly appreciative and thanking
where
is when
the how and
the why
intersect
the intemperate weather of
being alone
subtle suggests
auto recollections
now know
the how, when, where and the
why,
my Eyes compose this elegy
of memories of past and present...
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 9:18 AM UTC
Stop with the daydreams
Of wet ******* unicorns.
Stop with the dam spillway
Of "undeserved tears."
Stop looking in the rear view mirror
And start looking at your **** rear.
Stop the inverted visions,
Need help?
Walk the streets of Calcutta,
Better yet,
Pitch a tent with the homeless.
Stop the mindlog.
Stop the driveling outlog,
Just stop.
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 11:16 PM UTC
.
***Tasted the betrayal once by chance
The blistered memories still haunt,
But managed to change the way
Now no pain flows through spillway...
Do revisit but for a while,
Recall the good time, smile...
Come back with the lesson right,
Review...revise...and...just write!
Betrayal is hard to forget
But learning the lesson is just apt,
Some cracks beyond repair, it's true
But the light passes through!***
.
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 5:34 AM UTC
there is a door
obscura
in my mind
a black ocean
that smears alizarin mist
between love
and the dissolute
i hear
a storm of thick whispers
a breath calling
in free fall
my malleable lover
plays voodoo poppet
carousel of lady buddhas
diagramed unholy ***** *****
with scumbag eyeballs
contort for eager ruin
an ornamental cadaver
bejeweled
in a lake of tears
give me flesh
smell my rich ****
bouquet of **** the *****
transfixed eyes of flames
spread legs wide
thigh spillway buttered
loving the snag
and strangle
of a silk tourniquet
watch me shunt
and glassy stare
a glittering doll shimmies
blood bauble
and flapping tongue
torrent of curving jaws
clever teeth
to tear
and lips to be torn
a cockeyed brain
drowning in
illegible consciousness
for foot slaves
in a sweat and ****
magick show
body of irresistible horror
in descending spirals
to love
in the grotto
of furies
imbued with prayers
that fill the spaces
in her throat
martyr of transfiguration
she falls as
dust falls
i depend on her
tapestry of shuddering lust
in moist air
locked behind
a blood stained door
marked no exit
this savage pageant
Aug 24, 2020
Aug 24, 2020 at 12:27 PM UTC
The wheat yellowed, the wind chipped and chipped
until the wheat lay cheapened in broken mass;
I steered my tanned corpse through the scattered wheat.
I came to the well.
Instead of dropping a coin,
I tore a stitch and threw it into the blackness.
Instead of making a wish,
I cleared my flattering secrets from my throat and yelled.
The yell echoed downward,
bouncing off grandmother stones,
until it richocheted upward
only to have the wind carry it away like a swarm of lies.
I watched my secrets yellow like an ancient photograph,
I felt nostalgia chip and chip away,
clearing the spillway for fresh pain.
I spread my arms, a self-crucifixion,
a savior of no use.
When cruel regret and cruel change
finished with me,
I stared at the bluebird flying overhead,
just beyond him a cloudless sky.
Joy is for the living,
myself I'm kidding,
I close my eyes,
and
I'm carried away.
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 5:33 PM UTC
Locked-legs.
Smooth to the touch, intertwined,
In the most innocent of ways.
Strong against frail
Breaking pale against pale
Meows of week-old kittens that paint a smile upon our faces
Serotonin overload, charisma can’t hide
Charisma won’t try.
Seeds leap over backwards for a word in edgewise
Attempting to control this spillway, it cannot be safe
For a cat like me
In a city of your pace.
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 11:47 PM UTC
Pained Change
Blades of grass
Dunes of sand
Hope seems crass
Lost western land
Venture was always
The great pleasure
Mountain, desert spillway
Heartfelt must giveaway
Thrills and stills
Break up time
You’re the chime
Every mood known
Body soul rings
Outward it sings
Treasures now blown
Flat turgid bands
Constricted lifeless stands
Prairie poverty endless
Vistas are beguiling
Nothing enlarges loss
Sea’s beauty emboss
Will ever haunt
Expectation endless searching
The soul taunt
It feeds silently
Body nourished plentifully
Mindless without resources
The spirit dutifully
A lost observer
Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 1:40 AM UTC
*'Brownleaf Chestnut giants rattle like Spanish dancers , maracas crackle in the changing wind , do perform auburn 'Lover of Autumn' before the plenteous , frosted daughter of Winter , before Sun sprinkled dale , fig , lilac
Atop the red-rock spillway , as the piping martins , the whippoorwill
question , the wild goose direction
Voice of the swallow , of tenderness and regal griffin
Coppering , flint sparked showers upon the grindstone , mesmerizing
twilight orbs , polished gems , starlight Guatemalan priestess* ....
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 2:15 PM UTC
With merit badge in metallic flame
and while never failing to find a root from which to let blood flow
navigational will serves our only compass.
The woven path through wood
a rocky spillway Rapid
All to quickly dodge the occasional motorist
and fall and bathe in water warm from long summer sun
To bask in stars and feel the hum of night
Living as such revokes fear
for even in the absence of light, sight is made up for
Euphorias rationed prove a friend of adventure
and infinite exploration is chased with each taste.
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 8:28 PM UTC
I've seen limonade spilt down the sewer
and down the drain. (life limonade)
These limons have long past rotten.
Stale, and forgotten; limonade spillway.
I wouldn't be satisfied with the quality of that limonade.
(not at all)
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 11:22 PM UTC
Your indigo crystal aura spins through the meteorites and rock matter
Creamsicle wheat, gold aura'd
The golden freed, guild and greed appealed. As if
from up the causeway of some starving and scary ghosts. If Shel Silverstein had ghosts their ghosts would be still too decent.
In the tired eyes of friends and their declarations- I have no cyn to give nor cywm to live. Tired am I of breezing through narrow rills in Hidden Creek the obvious spillway ditch of our not even near immortal wealth that weighs on the souls of the outlying suns.
Realize that active sight, only breathes from active mind.
And until today I never realized that I don't mind child. My child
My sweet sweet child of the radiant and crimsony misty blue and white skies through divine amber and aurulent lights, that twinkle acrosss such
Incredible sea-green and robin's egg blue colored ocean sized eyes.
From these Ides whereon I've drifted supine, lost, scattered and random
In the weeping tide's of Alice's watery eyes.
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 8:35 AM UTC
I can see hollow places in the hedgerow.
There are voids from stalk to stalk, but they shield each other from the outside world. An aegis of natural kinship forcing me out.
Safe, inaccessible, inviting, shadowed loam hints of escape.
Keeping to the public path is compulsory.
And there are parched things here maintaining their drought despite the deluge as the fountain grass keeps watch o'er the spillway below their wall. The rainwater doesn't wash out all the antiquated, little, abandoned pennies discarded there with facades slowly being worn away.
A dozen blunt faceless men stare up at the bridge with no mouths with which to share the careless, one cent wishes which flung them here to be forgotten.
I know it's wrong.
But for a second it smells like wild onions--like home. Life's intoxicating perfume floods, impairs good sense. Amidst Cassian's Choice, October Skies above, below staining a gray skyline with hidden life--
I had choices to; decisions too late to undo.
I uprooted myself from that silken touch and holy embrace. I remember the first time I felt lace. Now a cassock hangs void hinting of a bypassed path. Now I lay fallow like a spillway waiting to be stained with another year of shadowed hopes.
There are hollow places in me the rain can't touch. An aegis of broken kinship keeping the world out.
Oct 15, 2017
Oct 15, 2017 at 5:13 PM UTC
~
his heart’s response,
its waterfall;
cascade tumbling,
cleanses all
embattled,
dusty trenches,
these heart-wrenched,
rusty, dried-out ends;
a faucet opened,
floodgates broken,
spillway leading
to relief;
channel of
redemption,
overcomes his
apprehension,
and dares to bare
his heart’s
intention;
betrays the truth
that lies beneath,
yes, his bottled tears
need this release,
and his longing,
thirsty soul
it finally quenches.
~
*post script.
if a man weeps in the darkness does anyone hear? does his culture drive that man to hide his inner fears? is he emasculated by his tears? do they infer his weakness, or do they simply reveal his humanity, his identity that is neither culture nor age defined, his propensity to feel all that it is to be human... if they would but let him? perhaps i am just one of the fortunate ones; who employs a blend of caring, understanding friends and the rest-who-don’t-be-damned! what is the price to be paid for those who are not as lucky as i?*
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 1:22 PM UTC
He’d been away for any number of years,
Days cascading over the spillway of time
Into pools of weeks, oxbows of months,
And though the town was much as he remembered it
(Though a little more tattered and careworn:
Another broken windowpane here,
A wall in grave need of paint there,
One or two more storefronts gone to plywood)
The cemetery was all but labyrinth to him,
A corn maze of granite and narrow drives,
The plots having metastasized, the stones having spread
Like so much crownvetch overpowering the simple grass,
But he’d been able, after any number of false-starts,
Uncounted instances of double-backs and do-overs
To locate his father’s marker
(The man gone some forty years now,
Taken by…well, who knows what
His mother, stunned by the prospect
Of having to step into the dual role
As nurturer and breadwinner,
Too stunned to even think of requesting an autopsy.)
He’d come, ostensibly, to make his peace
(Whatever that hackneyed phrase entailed)
But he’d ended up, if not as mute as the stone he faced,
No more than a cow-country Caliban,
Haltingly sputtering bits and bobs of half-phrases
Concerning the implacability of accidents, the vagaries of chance
The coffin-lid limits on mere men and women.
He’d given up the ghost, finally,
And as the daylight slipped away on the bumpy old horizon
He’d simply brushed some dried bird guano from the gravestone,
Then picked the dead bits from the flowers
Doing their level best to hold on
In the urn he’d wrestled from his mother’s ancient station wagon
Two, perhaps three, days ago
Before settling back into the car to try to divine the way
Back to the main road
(He’d found it in surprisingly short order,
And perhaps a quarter-mile or so down the road,
He’d come upon a small rabbit,
Frozen mid-lane by his headlights,
Finding himself in a world not of his making
Not knowing whether to flip or fly;
He’d missed it by mere chance, nothing more,
And he wondered if the poor thing
Would be so lucky with the cars behind him.)
Feb 10, 2021
Feb 10, 2021 at 12:39 PM UTC
The lake is full now.
Lapping the spillway. Under
Water, last year's beach.
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 6:15 AM UTC