"stalagmite" poems
For half a revolution she spends her days
in caliginous caverns
where worms like silver thread
weave through moistened walls.
Water, endless dripping,
howling, whining, stalagmite fangs.
It began with a stranger,
shrouded with shadows.
Petrichor breath,
and beetle black eyes,
twisted root fingers,
and scattered seeds.
It was lonely at first,
death and loss and
weary wayfarers with tired souls.
An estranged husband,
a trio of rumbling growls,
and the lonesome echo of her own footsteps.
Waiting for a someday,
that will never come,
her titles, a mantra,
repeat in her head;
daughter, lover, mother and wife,
stealer of souls and giver of life.
So when the daffodils bud,
and the world awakens,
when she blinks through sunshine
and steps into the light,
she holds her head high.
She is Queen of the Underworld,
bolder than before,
she will evade their pity,
and transcend them all.
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 5:54 AM UTC
I don't think we're there yet, kids.
We haven't quite reached deep enough.
We haven't quite grazed the tallest stalagmite of the cave of their hearts,
and yet we act as though we've lived there all this time.
I merely listened, and the steam has worked my engine up,
and I created a monster that existed to be misunderstood.
An expression that has gone to ****
And I apologize.
I apologize for not apologizing in the first place.
I apologize for not trying to make people understand.
I apologize for writing up a tragedy.
I apologize for writing off your right.
I apologize this all has gone to **** and
I apologize for I don't know how to fix it.
I apologize for being so ignorant
of all the throes of your little tongues.
You matter, too, just not to me, perhaps.
I apologize.
I'll go try to listen a little less and care a little more.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 1:02 AM UTC
I have this creeping ache on the edges of my bones
like the way crystal forms,
slowly.
Like the way prehistoric bugs that live in caves die every day.
I think I forgot to close my eyes and woke up blind.
I live my days hoping to grow inwards until my bones
start the delicate tearing of my skin and
water fills my lungs.
I have longed for this to happen ever since i was 7 and
I heard drowning was the closest you can get to
euphoria.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 5:46 PM UTC
I should have looked both ways.
Instead I followed the way your ribs
concave when you breathe like an optical illusion,
your lips the remedy, hypnotizing me
until I dangled like a puppet
in your amazing little show.
I danced for you on table tops just to grab your attention,
hid my coat in the corner of the kitchen, and stole
another beer from the back of the fridge
like you stole my heart when you walked in.
I created myself, like a piece of art
with lines you could tangle yourself into,
caves where my passion hung like a stalagmite,
glittering in your oppression and hardening with your lust
just when the light hit me right. You followed
my brush strokes on the page until you got distracted,
and I should have looked both ways
before I crossed myself into you. I should have noticed
the girl behind me in the black leggings and belly
that was flatter than your ambition, or the one
with the dark hair and cherry lips,
but I shouldn’t judge. I’m a carbon copy
with a sensible heart and dreams that could fill
perfume bottles if only you would take them off the self.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 12:36 PM UTC
using stalagmite icycles as tooth picks in between the crevices of my head
my brain is getting frostbite as if i ate too much ice cream at once, but this
sporadic heartbeat is going into myocardial infarction, and all at once, every
second goes into slow motion, a familiar stillness before the blast of powerful
dynamite, bats living inside me are vexatious inside my head, like a parasite,
you weren't even noticed until you completely wracked my helpless body
with worms and ticks, leaving me with some sense of how a sick dog feels,
a walking contradiction and an anti-compressive depression that leaves me
with nothing. you're a sea that keeps on growing, a forest that keeps on burning
and a fire that is everlasting and almost behemoth, i'm helpless
- kra
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 7:35 PM UTC
You know,
Maybe,
It’s just me but I guess I just find it
Funny
That people say it’s girls who have loose lips
When the boys at this table have mouths
Like open caves
With stalagmite teeth
Bats come flying out
I guess,
Maybe,
It’s just my magic trick,
The way I become invisible
When the boys
Sit down for dinner
And they open up their backpacks
And their gym bags
And pull out butcher knives
That shine like brand new quarters
In the cafeteria fluorescents
I’m not sure,
But maybe
The churning of my stomach
Is a sign
That there’s sharks
In these waters
I feel my wet socks in my wet shoes as I jiggle my knee
And watch the boys
With their knives
Start chopping up girls on the plastic top table
They cut slices off of Julia
and Megan
And Kara
and lob them across the table
to their friends
Just Like the men at
Pike Place Fish Market
Fling whole salmon
Into each other’s gloved hands
I saw them do it
When I went to Seattle once.
I feel water climbing up my legs.
I see a shark fin.
Did I blush red?
Maybe,
When the boy next to me catches
Katie’s legs
In his calloused hands
And laughs a laugh that sounds like
An out of tune violin
They’re all laughing now,
Like car horns and fire alarms
Laughing about
Katie’s legs
And Kara’s ***
And Megan’s hips
And Julia’s ****
It’s the ugliest orchestra I’ve ever heard
And perhaps,
Maybe,
I’m the only one who’s noticed,
But we’re not in the cafeteria anymore
We’re right there
In that room
In that bed
In that moment
With
JuliaMeganKaraKatie
And I don’t want to be there.
And I know,
For sure,
No maybes,
That If JuliaMeganKaraKatie knew
We were all here too
In her room
In her bed
In her
That she’d cry enough saltwater
To flood the whole earth
And wash it clean.
We leave the table
Bones on the floor
Shark boys clean their teeth with toothpicks
My clothes are soaked
All the way up to my neck.
-I never go in the ocean, I’ve seen the sharks when they frenzy.
Dec 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018 at 11:34 AM UTC
In this room alone, piled with wishbones
Each social high on golden throne
Feel the breeze with shaking knees
Empty space is all I see
Though triggered by the sadness
Each glory yell to madness
Tells tales of the past enough
To incite the desert dreams
While drones buzz by like angry bees
A hornet's nest is waiting
To capture each like saws to trees
A story worth creating
Through the fairy dance I'm singing
Each brazen glance is seeming
A little less like added stress
To describe this desert feeling
Though peacefulness may hide itself
In shadowed, dripping caverns
A stalagmite of good fortune
In the cheers of beers in taverns
Behind each whisper of enchantment
Comes a desire for life enhancement
But not before the felled tree lore
Is recounted by fire-lit lanterns
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 3:20 PM UTC
I spy with my little eye...
a bigger eye behind.
a nose between the two
some lips sketched in
below, very
red
a chin hangs from the jaw, like
a stubby
stalagmite
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 7:08 PM UTC
What’s cute about my little cutie
Is his beauty, not brains
Old father time will never harm me
While his charm still remains
Just cos you grow old, baby
You don’t have to be a cold baby…
How I love my catamite
Rising proudly like a stalagmite
He keeps me young and beautiful
The way I want to be loved
Never fails to work his fluff
My delicious, golden powder puff
Keeps me young and beautiful
The way I want to be loved
Though I’m old, there’s no need to be placid
And if ever I feel slightly flaccid
I indulge in benign flagellatus
With my puer delicatus…
He lends me all his charms
When I’m tightly bound within his arms
Keeps me young and beautiful
The way I want to be loved
Though he’s not going to win any prizes
For his essays on Nietzsche or Kant
You have only to glance at his thighses
To see why I keep coming back…
I adore my catamite
My delightful little sodomite
He keeps me young and beautiful
The way I want to be loved
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 9:50 AM UTC
I have this creeping ache on the edges of my bones
like the way crystal forms,
slowly.
Like the way prehistoric bugs that live in caves die every day.
I think I forgot to close my eyes and woke up blind.
I live my days hoping to grow inwards until my bones
start the delicate tearing of my skin and
water fills my lungs.
I have longed for this to happen ever since i was 7 and
I heard drowning was the closest you can get to
euphoria.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC
Silent are the rocks;
Silent the alleys and stone walls,
Cracked foundations and fountains.
No voices speak now, except through the wind
Twisting and turning, on its way through the gorges.
The weather has beaten out every surface,
Stamped it's stalagmite of time upon the faces.
The last rags of clothing hung out to dry
Are a sifting, unrecognizable ash of piled up molecules,
Indiscernible from the storm-strewn cadavers
Of wood, straw and leaves,
Leaves which can laugh at the ferocity of sudden gales
And chatter annoying, behind lifting fingers of twig,
Themselves tumbled shamelessly, into ancient doorways
That once were closed against all intruders.
The cipher of their blood has marked, defined this place,
Pressed it down, with the missing weight of forgotten culture,
Though their language is still indistinguishable from others,
But that their slivered bones have stopped up the pilfering,
The plundering of tombs by wild running waters,
Trickling down to the lowest graveled catacombs
Of a once vibrant village;
It is all running spaces of tomb now,
And the few visitors that happen to wander in
Find themselves holding their breath,
Wary of their modern dissonance
Disturbing the invisible residents of past days.
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 4:42 PM UTC
The excavation of a dark cave
Revealed two jutting stones,
One hanging, one upward-bound,
That had merged together
In a pillar. Laughing, I turned to my friends
Who gazed lovingly at single gems -
Whose edges they could shear and dull,
Whose mass they yearned to strip away,
Lest the simple stone annul
The useless glimmer they coveted.
I turned from them and leaned against
The stalagmite and stalactite embracing,
And knew not to move or listen back
But rather stare in the direction I was facing.
In the joy and rush of claiming
The opulence they sought (to blind their friends)
They forgot me, and I let them go.
I have provisions enough to live until
They come to fetch me back,
And while I wait I'd like to be alone
With no company but these loving stones.
Jun 4, 2011
Jun 4, 2011 at 10:42 PM UTC
Its in me the capability to look at humanity and see me therefore thus I humbly be who I am I be me quite contrite though I may be wrong I'm always right..enough insight to write at night..into the morning light being bias towards no ones plight..among the just and upright...Love is all I behold in my sight...though you may hate me that's quite alright..hate isn't required so I'll always help your cause,help your fight..were only different like stalagmite and stalactite.......Love and Peace I worship our commune is a tri-unity called harmony.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 6:23 AM UTC
Brides of whitest, delicate lace,
Gowns immaculate, as snow their face
Softest pink, a blush to embrace,
Rose, as rising sun to race
Sheets of white, 'candescent as moonlight,
Waves of coral, leaves and floral,
Rows of candle, as calcic stalagmite,
Mauves 'n violet as wild wood sorrel.
So yon maidens of sweetest spring
Herald the Queen Summer's oncoming
Her nectarous drupe and fruit offspring
The bountiful boon she will bring.
Behold the language of your Beloved
Speaks in tongues of secrets vivid
Of kindness, giving, eternally sipid
Of warmth and fire, of ardour vivid
So when next you spy the verdant maidens
Bedecked finery, blossoms laden,
Whispering, bowing, to one cadence,
Know you see the One true Haven.
Apr 2, 2021
Apr 2, 2021 at 6:27 AM UTC
years of downstream rivers
carried by north arctic waters
which snaked through
the snowcapped peaks
of a lone, lone mountain
the temple of the universe
drinking in the marvelous view
yet, sometimes sediment grows
and lay upon a layer of filth
which accumulates and seethe
into the gapping fissures which
I have patched, suppose
and stalagmite stifle
into a frozen expanse
of glistening rock pillars
diverting the direction of the waters
beckoning for a quake in the ether
yet all that is inevitable,
a grandiose cry,
the lone peak began to
grow restless,
so thus divert the temperament
of the waters,
yearning for the scrape
of another fresh spell,
another wonderful,
out-of-the-world view
Jul 21, 2016
Jul 21, 2016 at 9:56 PM UTC
Listening to the ***** din of Sin
City streets
inside the concrete weight of dark rooms
the window ajar
to let the outside air in
while chain smoking to the Metro sirens'
soundtrack
of harpies' in heels
clucking and squealing
(laughter as sharp as their stilettos)
this & midnight overshadowing
black rubber tires burning on black boulevards
vehicular collisions'
sounds stalagmite, metallic
crunch
against the hum of sleeping traffic
signals
hollow city like a wide amphitheater
with the occasional Harley motorcycle's
thunder
waking car alarms
a choir of infants' high pitch wailing...
The desert night's sirocco hiss
outside my 2nd floor apt. window
in a dark room
where my silence is a deep listener
and my mind a curious wanderer,
where the walls
not only keep out
but carry every conversation.
in such a cryptic void
a spark is gleaned,
a firefly wisp of an epiphany :
we are not separate
you and I
city and fly
burrow and groundhog
dam and ******
we are unread books in dark rooms
waiting for the absolute truth
we find
in one another
to be known
to be seen
as we recite the past horrors
of loud pains
from a city that strips us numb
our pages open like Window panes
ajar...
no matter how ugly the chapters
we will have known
joy being
held within your hands
the story with you
is also mine /
we are
north & southern
swamp & willow
breath
sultry kiss
Arriving,
humidity on skin
Sweat the nights awake
Until we're dusk
And it drains the sinew
of screaming city
Steaming shadows
shattering length wise
On bright carpets made of morning
Green grass and still
our day yet written
new
Our flight is departing now...
once a firefly in a dark room
a simple story
a night sky full of stories.
each light
our eyes touch
fireflies
in dark rooms...
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 8:11 PM UTC
Fever drives burning rubber and sweating coolant. I never thought this would be me; Living like a willow weeping stalagmite that drips in a cave, gutted of its most precious treasures. Volcanic emissions eat their way up my esophagus, acid refluxing, reflecting the queasiness vigorously sloshing in my abdomen. A motel's vacancy sign glows behind the round masses that sit within the bony sockets of my skull. Void of thought and reason, the cavernous hole that appears to swallow, swallowing my words, swallowing my tongue, swallowing my teeth one by one; Chiclets, sliding down into molten rock. Crumbling pieces of hope plunge, deteriorating, integrating with the earth, six feet down, bodies buried in boxes, confining cells of solitary. Laid out like a game of memory, time passes, and no one remembers who lays where.
Sep 11, 2017
Sep 11, 2017 at 9:05 PM UTC
I hear Linville whisper
as I scout the valley
the winds holler echos
throughout the caverns
of styles long forgotten,
this cave's patterns baffle.
I ride a white stallion
around stalagmite castles
in remembrance of the decor
that time had once fashioned.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 3:08 PM UTC
Untold stories, her thoughts are prose
Buried in the caverns of her mind
In the darkness there is growth
Yet only in the light its beauty shows.
Nov 3, 2018
Nov 3, 2018 at 12:43 PM UTC
Those scars rooted me. Stigmata stalagmite
I sat at a drive-in and watched the stars
Through a straw while the Coke in my lap went
Waterier and waterier. For days on end or
Nights no end I crawled on all fours or in
My case no fours to worship you: Amoeba Behemoth.
—Then you explained your DNA calls for
Meaner genes than mine and since you are merely
So to speak its external expression etcet
Ergo among your lovers I’ll never be ...
Ah that movie was so faraway the stars melting
Made my thighs icy. I see: it’s not you
Who is not requiting me, it’s something in you
Over which you have no say says no to me.
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 12:16 PM UTC
Stalagmite eyes.
The dust filled palm trees.
In Fire as written.
The execution.
Their face.
Always well hidden.
Behind blooded mirrors.
And windows.
They have lost their head in the fire.
Alive.
Alive.
Alive.
A life well used.
Cemented in pine.
Lay on rug sinking in.
Never close.
Never intimate.
But always alive.
Garrett Johnson.
Jul 9, 2019
Jul 9, 2019 at 3:13 PM UTC