"stamping" poems
You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
Daddy, I have had to **** you.
You died before I had time ----
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal
And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off the beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.
In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My ****** friend
Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.
It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene
An engine, an engine,
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.
The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gypsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.
I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You ----
Not God but a ********
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.
You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who
Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look
And a love of the rack and the *****
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.
If I've killed one man, I've killed two ----
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagersnever liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you ******* I'm through.
29.7k
*consciously, willfully, I wish it
quietly the Sunday, the sun day, drifts toward,
in its natural game, set, overmatched,
the foregone conclusion, nightfall diminishment
the water songfully swishes,
as the tide departs for places unknown, this then, now
the only natural authorized aural apparition,
the power boats renounce their normal noisy conditioning,
honoring their silenced, under-sail brethren,
as well as admitting their noises disfigure
the fast approaching majesty of the end of
our summer seasoning of humanity
consciously, willfully, I wish it
once again, lush is the quietude,^
now given up, surrendered and surceased to wonder,
how come I to write of these moments so oft,
thenever-ending quest to re-inscribe it on my sensibilities,
in vainglorious hopes that this stamping will last, be the last,
see me through the turgid frigidity of my Lucifer life,
come the fall, the winter, the early dark,
the daylight's brevity, the hurricane season of the mind,
that...need I say more?
consciously, willfully, I wish it
the particular white cloud formation of the moment at hand,
shall stay in place, be the capstone of my summer living vision,
become permanent part and parcel
of the sclera, the white of my eyes, and when
I will write, soon enough,
my vision white weeping clouded,
you will weep knowingly, sympathetically
consciously, willfully,
I wish for that as well*
8/27/17
6:35pm
Aug 29, 2017
Aug 29, 2017 at 10:38 AM UTC
You licked your lips
I lip synced to you
you licked your stamp
I felt I might be cornered
you stamped your gift
I'm stuck on you
we got stuck in
strokes
smoothing down
you stamped your mark on me
delivered
lips to lips
striking
we stuck to it
no
we aren't stuck with it
but on each other
tampering
peeling off
licking our lips
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 8:05 AM UTC
At the beginning the oldest man sat on the corner
of the garden wall by the road under a vast
walnut tree known to have been there always
he came back in the afternoon to the cave of shade
in his broad black hat black jacket the striped gray
wool trousers once worn only to church in winter
with a cane on either side resting against the stones
he said when your legs have gone all you can do
is to sit this way and be useless I believe God
he said that is what I am doing I am thinking
and things come to me now when nobody else knows them
he was visited by the dazzling of accidents the boy
who caught his hand in the trip hammer and it came out
like cigarette paper the man with both crushed legs
dangling and the woman murdered and his father the blacksmith
forging the iron fence to put around the place
out on the bare slope where she had fallen I could never
be the smith my father was as he always told me
I was good enough you know but I never had
the taste needed for scythe blades sickles kitchen knives
we preferred to use carriage springs to make them from
in the forge outside the barn there and his were sought after
oh when he had sold all he took to the fair the others
could begin I still have the die for stamping the name
of the village in the blade at the end so you could be sure
10.1k
what is a poet
but a stymied wind
stamping the same soil
seen through polished lens
firing the bugle sound
to reach across some
distant mountain pass
not echo the same
ignite fire
stand strong
find north
refresh
for old paths yield
grey packages
more stale
subterfuge
but honed
solidity is found
in structures
built sound
a new song of old notes
rearranged to yield
perspective
deep
Apr 28, 2018
Apr 28, 2018 at 4:48 PM UTC
Go hang yourself, you old M.D.!
You shall not sneer at me.
Pick up your hat and stethoscope,
Go wash your mouth with laundry soap;
I contemplate a joy exquisite
I'm not paying you for your visit.
I did not call you to be told
My malady is a common cold.
By pounding brow and swollen lip;
By fever's hot and scaly grip;
By those two red redundant eyes
That weep like woeful April skies;
By racking snuffle, snort, and sniff;
By handkerchief after handkerchief;
This cold you wave away as naught
Is the damnedest cold man ever caught!
Give ear, you scientific fossil!
Here is the genuine Cold Colossal;
The Cold of which researchers dream,
The Perfect Cold, the Cold Supreme.
This honored system humbly holds
The Super-cold to end all colds;
The Cold Crusading for Democracy;
The Führer of the Streptococcracy.
Bacilli swarm within my portals
Such as were ne'er conceived by mortals,
But bred by scientists wise and hoary
In some Olympic laboratory;
Bacteria as large as mice,
With feet of fire and heads of ice
Who never interrupt for slumber
Their stamping elephantine rumba.
A common cold, gadzooks, forsooth!
Ah, yes. And Lincoln was jostled by Booth;
Don Juan was a budding gallant,
And Shakespeare's plays show signs of talent;
The Arctic winter is fairly coolish,
And your diagnosis is fairly foolish.
Oh what a derision history holds
For the man who belittled the Cold of Colds!
10.9k
Monet was painting up my vision
while the droves were driven out.
We stepped out to the derision
of a tenor waterspout.
The town outside is dancing
in the ruddy neon hues
and I’m ****** whilst Amsterdam-ing
by the slam-dunk cognac blues.
And a cap was shaking coppers
in an out cove by the way,
where instruments and owners
had begun to play.
The bar stools are all swaying
whilst the festival ensues,
and I’m ****** whilst Amsterdam-ing
by the slam-dunk cognac blues.
With the rhythm of the rimjhim
and the stamping our feet
we sing our drunken-whim hymn
whilst we stagger down the street.
And we had sunken five; still sinking
Im strung out, slammed, and stinking
Four sheets to the wind and freaking
about what I had to lose.
so that’s when I got to thinking
had an inkling to the linking
between my errant drinking
and the slam-dunk cognac blues…
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 6:37 PM UTC
On its back,
The cockroach,
In a jacket of red wings,
Slender legs,
And bulging abdomen,
Like the tummy of African statesman,
Its legs wallowing in despair,
In the air,
Stamping the spread eagled,
Hind and forelimbs,
Of the poor anthropod,
Kicking and waving,
A cry for the succor,
To be freed from ebola,
Or breaking the *** tether,
Or un-doing strong bonds of poverty,
Three districts under leprosy,
In the domain of the bull’s eye,
Where lesbians and gays swallow raw fate,
Its salient manifestation,
Then the cockroach kicks silently,
Anticipating for salvage,
But when the domain owner comes,
He steps with full weight,
His foot dressed in military boots,
From the previous legacy of Che Gue Vara,
On the belly of the kakerlag at Berlin Wall,
Bursting its stomach but hopscotch,
Spilling the white stuff out,
Of poverty and mental dilemma,
Amid hopelessness in future and history,
As terrorism mires tomorrow,
When China reigns today,
At mercy of contemporary panjandrums,
Moving from white to black
And from black to face book,
Killing those who fall in commercial love,
As if money is the ***** for nuptial night,
But only to go forth ignobled,
Without making momentous affinity,
In the realm of ill fated cockroach back-dom,
Sending Mafousian Egypt to Swedish table,
Without scorn and regard for true African blood,
Where will I apologize?
If the ****** bug
Enters my head and heart,
To blind my logical eyes,
Only to open wide
The senses that see and feel
Religion and race; O! Al Qaeda!
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 6:17 AM UTC
While hearing a jingle
from somebody's Marmy
I bake on a warm parchment sheet
Cut out to be single
but one in an army
of gingerbread men I will meet.
Don't know if I care
that this life is so scary
or just that I fear saying so
and not that I know
but I hear that it's hairy
out there so I'm just laying low
For better, for worse, I can promise far better for me
if we all had no clue
a blessing or curse
I'm gingerbread, Ma'am
and a hell of a good soldier too.
We're golden brown guys
with a raisins for eyes
at first glance, not by chance, like the others
but The Gingerbread Men of Company Ten
have a mission: to stand with our brothers.
I'll fight to the end,
for I am what I am
and that's reason enough to defend
just give me my gun
don my uniform, hon
my baker, my maker, my friend.
You've had all your fun
when the mixing was done
with rolling and stamping my fate.
I live now to serve
and not to be served
a desert on a decorative plate.
I was mixed up before
but I've figured the score
from the moment I came from the oven
that you had a plan
for this gingerbread man,
not my fight but my plight you'd be lovin'.
So just give me a hand
kindly help me to stand
and salute all the men who have gone
into battle for this
a man's right to exist
and be more than a treat to chew on.
and in fact, if you will
I'd much rather still
to be the manning the front lines, I'm itchin'
to run 'cross your floor and head straight for the door
to release all my men from your kitchen!
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 12:35 PM UTC
for Mr.Cole's "Magic" assignment
The Magician
Moments of wonder
performed with theatrical pazaz
A prolonged instance of dumbstruck amazement
---
A slight of hand
or a glittery distracting explosion
creating a captivated audience screaming for *More!
More!
More!
Fool us again
Test our I.Qs
See if we're sane*
---
But to perform...
---
I need more money the magician boldly insists
Our hands ****** into our pockets, to our wrists
---
But wait...
Silence...
Then a collective gasp
There on the table under lock and clasp
---
All of our wallets
Plain to see
And the future money of each baby
---
Did we clap?
Oh, how we heartily clapped
And cheered and laughed like we were handicapped
---
Then the show stopped
But we still clapped, stamping our feet
As the Magician strode off stage back to 10 Downing Street
TA DAAA!
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 11:07 AM UTC
I run a dotted line around this block,
traces of me are everywhere though they
are hidden under the footsteps of 100 feet
stamping my poor identity in to the ground.
C'mon, You know me.
You've seen my face many a times
I'm the one with the earbuds in
smokin' the cigarette
strolling through the park,
And the one with the white collar
sittin' at the bus stop
waitin' to start another Tuesday.
I'm the one with the fist in the air
and a joint between my lips
at the rock show.
You know me.
Maybe you haven't seen me
because you just look right through me
every time you walk past me.
I am just another face in your daily grind,
Not even a familiar smile or a friendly display
Just eyes, a mouth and a nose
placed in contemporary fashion
to give enough background color
for your masterpiece painting.
How thoughtful,
You're really using just one piece of me.
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 1:20 AM UTC
Words, words, worms! My mind is swarmed
With them. Ants file in through the sticky
Canals, chattering, stamping their little black feet.
They use me. I am their harboring medium,
A visitor in my own head.
Black, empty mouths flutter and dance and signal
Amongst themselves, crowding my skull,
A murmuration of phrases and guttural sounds.
I mustn't tell fully what they say.
They draw forth black and bubbling swamps,
Wicked crows, the yawping millions, pecking,
Pecking, gouging with yammering beaks
At every smooth, young innocent.
There is death in this tumult of words.
Let it not take me.
Mar 27, 2018
Mar 27, 2018 at 10:14 PM UTC
*Weathervanes with harmonically
tuned brains, took up the call to Step Lively.
Each one ecking, drop by drop,
To feed you silliness, to lighten your soul.
Wakey, wakey
Eat well
It's your Daddy, I mean attorney
You're really been being very bad.*
If you insist, I will.
Learn obedience
or patience or something
in between,
a kernal of obedience?
I'll never promise that,
in order to give it to freely.
I was afraid to let you in.
They were menacing,
stamping us into tiny little molds.
Insistent that we are,
what they think we are.
*Did they convince you
that I'd gone off and left you?*
No, changing that would require
quantum amounts of convincing.
Was not mistaken that it was you,
just attacked by encroaching apiculture
*That is how it felt,
How it feels, but subtler now.*
First course correction will be
the sliver of a melody,
Spreading like a depth charge.
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 9:03 AM UTC
Harsh, desert scenery
Haven, from lush misery
Forced by Impi, so greedily
This, our new sanctuary
Glitter, in desert sand
The cause, of moonlike land
No more men, with bow in hand
No more happy feet, stamping sand
Scenery, violated by man and machine
A hole, were last buck was seen
Spiritual pickings, now so lean
White man’s god, o so mean
Before white man’s god, we now bow
We ask the spirits, “How can you allow”
Is this, the final raw?
Are we, disappearing now?
After a visit to Jwaneng, a diamond mining settlement of De Beers in Botswana, I was impelled to write this poem to revolt against the injustices being committed against the Bushmen in Botswana. The Bushman are forcibly being removed from there desert land to make place for diamond mining activities.
Dec 12, 2009
Dec 12, 2009 at 7:18 PM UTC
You have your hammer down, foot stamping Passion Poets,
the ones who feel something and like a waterfall
similes fall out of their pen and land
they are LOUD and they are dynamic,
their metaphors are laser beams out of eyes,
they are the Crowd Raisers.
And you have your hearts open, eyes closed Emotion Poets,
the ones who love something like a fountain,
spilling over adjectives their words are
red, they are heated
yellow, they are revelling in that shade of
blue that poets hate to love,
they are the Heart String Pullers.
And then you have...
me.
I'm an imperfect, writer's block, In Between Poet.
my similes are more like a puddle than a waterfall,
all the same parts but nowhere near the power,
I am LOUD in all the wrong places
my metaphors are dead battery laser pointers, I am
not a Crowd Raiser.
My fountain spills over adverbs quickly dying
out my words are sort of... gray, they are
not Heart String Pullers.
But
We are all Poets
we are like similes
we are comparing our words to something bigger,
we are metaphors we find a way to put love into words,
put hate into words,
jealousy into words.
we are adverbs quickly coming to life in all its splendor
we are
All the Same.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC
We little light footed ants
are free from giant egos
as we throw them off and live
within our tiny bodies
And we find that we have
so much room,
so much room.
As we keep gravitating in
a love towards each other.
We work within an almost
sacrificial love for one another
This love so strong that
permeates our bodies it willingly
carries many times its weight freely.
As we find a freedom in a devotion
as we build a great life together.
Sometimes we let go of understanding
the world and humbly live close to
what feels a boundless earth.
As we realize with a beautiful
simplicity that much of the world
is above.
And we understand however big you
build your ego God and the big picture
have an understanding so much greater.
We see however elaborate your system
however beautiful your tower it is the
lubricating love which enables the whole
thing work.
We live with perfect honor with each other
as we build our empire on stone which
will never crumble.
Many giant egos show us disregard as they
think nothing of stamping on us.
But being humble beings we simply slip
between the many cracks of this world and
remain completely unharmed.
We know it is the being without ego
that finds himself so surrounded with
so much space and finds so very easy
to find his place.
Empty of ego we are drawn together
with so much love for one another
we just cannot get enough of each other.
As we build great structures almost invisible
to us which can only really be seen by giant
beings like Gods we feel our importance.
And as we work for this higher picture we
we cannot see we all merge together within
an unquestionable trust that always serves
the greater.
Living on a tiny point we feel the worlds
stresses collapsing infinity to a point.
Bursting balloons all pressures released
our souls sits back on energetic sofas.
Sitting on this micro dot we dance and rest
upon this junction spot.
So as we fumble and tumble around within
our daily routine choosing not to be tall
but to be born small.
Within a endless love threaded through million
of busy connecting little legs we work closely
together.
And in a deep cooperation we feel a
fusion as together we feel complete
in one giant heartbeat.
There is so much to be admired in the
beautiful busy working ant.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 5:08 PM UTC
Slap of leather magnified
Where Caesar’s legion marched
Setting sun of golden light
Though’ Roman tongues are parched.
Pewter helmets bronzely glow
Sweat cascades from dusty brow
Whilst o’er hill the Vandals mass
Salivating hot blood now.
Short swords cleat with marching rythm
Stabbing lances high and cold,
Metronome in stamping sandals
Onward now to victory’s fold.
Scarlet standards fly on high
The statement of intent is clear
Caesar’s men have promised now
To desiccate from ear to ear.
Grey ghost high above bears witness
Cadence of advancement grows,
Column strides in face of chaos
Lowered lance’s sharp steel shows.
Engagement in a stony basin
Flesh and blood, as one, combine,
Cut and slash in perfect order
Stab a *** and make him mine.
Darkness hides her chilling secret
Brooding silence stills the air,
Dawn’s first rays reveal the spectre
Carnage killed with none to spare.
Grey ghost’s hang in gaunt remembrance
Vespers ring in solemn tone,
Gone forever Caesar’s promise
Dead in vanquished blood and bone.
Marshalg
Inspired by Anselm’s “Broken Promise to Caesar.”
21 March 2013
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 1:29 AM UTC
When I first passed the gates
into the metallic garden
stamping out seeds
for the junkyard
with its infinite cardiac output
I gazed upon the eyes of the creatures
that inhabited this oily soil
of steel and chemicals
all I saw was a cry for help
to escape
to be away
just one day
they cry, just one day
I got caught in the claws
and it scratched
and scratched
the wounds heal but the scars stay
I have become a trapped animal
with eyes of dismay
There's little chance of escape
I can dream
I can pray
one day, I echo
one day
Now I am just taxidermy
for this godforsaken industry
and they call this
quality.
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 10:22 AM UTC
Little feet
on mounds of earth
Lots of stamping
childrens' mirth
Jumping mole hills
wellies high
How fast these precious times go by
Little voice from mum (disguised)
wonderment shines in widening eyes
believing the poor jangled mole had said
"Stop Stamping On My Head!"
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 8:52 AM UTC
The kisses were empty
And touches blase'
I felt the disconnect
Long before I felt
You between my thighs
The tide was premature
And the flood pointless
Passion flourished fire
Love so demure
Thoughts became hushed
Under layers of lust
Clouded need
And as the fire fueled
Explosion didn't last
A lack luster come down
There was no way out
I was surrounded
Scarred where
Your fingers singed my skin
Scents of misplaced emotions
Smoldered between the sheets
Invading any space untouched
By our feinding bodies
Breath became stolen as
Faces became backs
Once again clothes covered
The naked truth
My eyes closed
Echoing the click of the lock
Stamping out the faint embers
Of what used to be
I felt the disconnect
Long before I felt
You between my thighs.
Mar 6, 2010
Mar 6, 2010 at 3:43 PM UTC
I can hear them. There is not one, but might be hundreds of them lurking behind these rickety wood walls.
He is watching. The party has always been watching. I can control my thoughts. Cogito ergo sum. This is my world, no one can touch me. These are my thoughts, my heart beats for what is good for me. My hands scrawling, my brain is just scribbling.
Yet, I’ve known from the start that I am a dead man.
I didn’t commit adultery, I followed them. I am alive, I can feel my heart racing. My blood all over my body... reminds me why I’m here. To survive and live, yet I am still a dead man.
I am no mute, but I can’t speak. While writing this I can picture my hands and feet with shackles, wounds of torture. I’ve been always a dead man.
The prole doesn’t know. They need to know. They should stop listening or watching the telescreen. They should strive to dig the Oldspeak.
Oh, right. Who dares to doublethink against a totalitarian regime anyway?
The guns are always on their hands. The war is always going. It’s always here. The past... is always here. We don’t see it, but it’s here! There’s nowhere to run or hide, the world tried.
I will be the next unperson, vaporising in the history of Oceania. They won’t remember. They’ll try not to remember. We are a nobody. Winston was right. I can feel the boot stamping on my face. This is the future.
My voice... is a thought crime, will never be accepted in this society.
I am a dead man.
I am ready... the Thought Police has been always watching me. The INGSOC. Big Brother. I will never love him!
But I am ready to be trap in the place where there is no darkness. I am ready... for the Ministry of Love.
I won’t ever, ever love Big Brother!
I do not care, for I am already a dead man!
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 10:38 PM UTC
No Garden awaits here, I am Stone
You are Water, so We are lost
Gardener: tend my arid places
Hope for me when I have nothing
Be my Rock to future flowers
Maybe there are none left me
Masada palaced and unplaced
Our longest dreams of lions
Now is now, a furled fist
Behind my back and seen
Not at all and never again
So it never happened, we all
Agree
~*~
Read Me all the Poemes You Fynde
My Rising shall Be just to Hande
I Arise to Illustrate Your Care
Earn thus Existential Tendril
Iambic grace, Rarest remonstrance
Pentameters helplessly Entwine
Willow so Willing to Your taste
I will take your hand
Lead you far and a-
fielding
A great song eats strange hours
Horses know, wielding such power
A-stamping and snorting
Horses born crazy, now bending tame
Never underestimate planetary power
To lay you to ground
Sleeping, a runaway,
One changling thing who clings
Inside sweat-soaked dream burrows
No evasion, no escape
In such wild grown tall goddess
Places, clinging to a broken bit
A knuckle’s worth of bitter
Traded for a kiss
All is well
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 1:30 AM UTC
I stand in your eyes
Looking out for the whole world to see
With the fabric of death staring at me
Its just you and me
On the edge of heaven
Mending distances as we begin
Ghastly gray hours littered my ears
Intensly intrusive and ******
The shadows spill stringently
Stamping the sky with feelings of insufficiency
The bitter breeze dreamers, protesting for peace
Beyond all countries and downward dreams
We heave our head, heart, and soul
The handfuls of gestures surrender the way
A taut twine traveled behind
With waves coiling and bending my mind
Dying eyelashes recaptured my memories as they danced upon my face
A once swollen spirit is a ripped fragment away
Consenting with out my say
Death burst your core
The life of limbs, once excitable and strong
A strong windswept set my ambivalence at bay
As I lay trembling, Soft secrets are told
Relief from bottomless sufferings
Loved ones long lost reunited with me
My tounge has say much to say as words sail
As the wisps of heaven begin to show me the way
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 1:32 AM UTC