"stanchions" poems
I know you.
Sometimes you say things, expecting that I won’t understand, and I think it’s strange because
I know you.
That’s what this is. I know you,
And I want you,
And I care about you
Anyway.
I want no one else.
You might not know me,
The stanchions you use to prop yourself up eating all that I have fed you,
In the darkness,
In the night,
But I know you.
And I want you anyway.
Jan 17, 2019
Jan 17, 2019 at 12:38 PM UTC
at the bottom of a stagnant lake
lived a dead forest
black trunks standing
knuckle deep in muck
branches simply armature
for a fluttering array
of gray scarves
blowing in the watery wind
molds and aquatic plant life
growing quieter in near darkness
the forest laid down years ago
gave up the sun and the breezes
the same arguments from the same birds
slid back toward the sandy edge
then gradually leaned over
one after another they followed
under the forgiving cover
of progressively longer nights
a very slow migration
the stars really weren’t watching
eventual full immersion
nothing left uncovered
but the land around the lake
the gray water always present
became all any tree could remember
oxygenating the murk for a while
the contradictions grew
in place of leaves
instead of hopeful young twigs
stanchions indicating nothing
huddled together under the surface
standing sunken in an air more dense
a different kind of time passing
light arriving but
only in soft whispers
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 11:34 AM UTC
foundation bearers were removed
foundation bearers were removed
a rebuild of solid stanchions needed
a rebuild of solid stanchions needed
solid stanchions were removed
a rebuild of foundation bearers needed
upon high wall sat a man
upon high wall sat a man
owing they who put him there
owning they who put him there
they who put him upon wall high
the owing man sat a there
they'd withdrawn their buttressing
they'd withdrawn their buttressing
he crashed to the ground
he crashed to the ground
their buttressing crashed on the ground
they'd withdrawn he
upon a high wall sat a man
they'd withdrawn their buttressing
owing they who put him there
foundation bearers were removed
he crashed on the ground
a rebuild of solid stanchions needed
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 9:06 PM UTC
10236 Charing Cross Road
Holmby Hills, CA. 90077
*To go where young rabbits frolic and dance
Would be a sweet treat if I had the chance
To swim in the water where famous cottontails get wet
Where champagne bubbles are spilled by the elite jet set
Maybe I might win a million dollar lotto
That could be my ticket to enter the grotto
Past muscle bound bouncers, inside velvet ropes and stanchions
To ogle, google and spill my own bubbles at The ******* Mansion
To escape normality and alter reality before I grow old
Playing with Playmates and Bunnies and this months Centerfold
10236 Charing Cross Road, Holmby Hills CA. 90077
Without a doubt this is the address of Heaven*
Thank you
Mr. Hefner
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 11:17 PM UTC
there is an aimless sense of
wandering, a trip on an empty
train, floor awash with foot prints
streaked under the seats and here
I am clinging to the handrails, but
like a dream the corners of my vision
are fuzzy and I fight to be unaware
and somewhere from the end of
the car, horses stamp their
hooves, all lined up
behind red stanchions
they aren't bulls but they
breathe like I am red, and
somehow this is all curiously
distant, sauf pour the speed of
the train, the only thing that is
unnerving is the ways in which
I move and blink and how i am
made up of seven billion billion
billion atoms but this number
seems so inconsequential and
small compared to how lost
I feel and how many times
a day I ask myself what
I am doing.
What am I doing?
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 5:10 PM UTC
I watched you as a drop of water run
Liquid in this bony place of stanchions
Cases, bags and hardened faces.
For a time you lasted here
Shaken by bad tempered stampings
Waitings
Delays and
Endings.
Until at last
You fell.
And rose again
As cloudy light
Enchantment for a sky we cannot see.
Nov 5, 2010
Nov 5, 2010 at 10:29 AM UTC
How low lies the line, the thin
Separation of Earth and Sky, far, far,
Beyond the bending ambles, the
Solitary gables, where descending pylons,
Unroll their cables, deep into the womb
Of distant cities.
Bellicose clouds in league with
The sea wind, wrest samphire fragments
From a sentinel peace, while folding
The hamlet in pitying glamours
Of harridan water on slate.
In Spartan gardens, Bu-gloss leans
Bruised petals hard, by rusted stanchions,
as bind-weed , knots the flaking perch
Of tumbled gantries, in a throttled
Slew of searching.
Melancholy anthems, quiver and hail
In the breeze-plucked tune of loose
Slung wire. Pleas of long gone mariners
Mutter and choir through salted gorse,..
..
Hurry inland to rattle at doors of
Norman churches, as if seeking
Some last sanctuary.
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 6:47 PM UTC
We throw them around
sling them at each other like two children throwing mud
We build temples and tombs worthy of Gods
using them as stanchions
We bleed hues of blues and blacks
finger painting in the puddles
Now when we need them most
they are gone
veins run dry
architecture rots and crumbles
and we are left
with each other
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 10:34 AM UTC
No one lives in this house anymore,
Long vacant, it fell into decay;
Once occupied by two loving hearts,
Now distant, each gone its own way
Shall I tell you of the blissful nights
And days rich with joyous harmony??
If a tear or two runs down your cheek,
Feel no shame, weep along with me
I scarce can speak of things I have seen
Without tears welling in my eyes,
But was this not easy to predict,
Walking through the ruins of Paradise?
Try to imagine love's warming light
Spilling forth from each window pane;
Never mind the snow upon the sill,
Nor the gales that foretold pounding rain
This house had withstood many a storm,
This fortress with its stanchions of love;
Who knew that Fate would come blast the ledge,
Tumbling it from its base with one shove!
Come, let's walk the garden one last time,
Does the silence not cause you to grieve?
The birds have left, not a flower blooms . . .
Perhaps it's best that we, too, should leave
I blow the coals, but they will not blaze,
Cold ashes upon a dead hearth lay
(How futile is the battle we wage
Against Fate, for it will have its way)
No one lives in this house anymore,
The window panes are cracked and broken;
The orchard is overrun with rot,
Love's final words have been spoken
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 12:08 PM UTC
mist stretches along the tops of trees, bosoming coldly over the brush
like the bodies of lost souls
like the words that hang from the page
withering, wilting ghosts
that threaten to slither from their place
wobbling wraiths I'd traced;
my heart's yearn to spit its hopeless thought -
reduced to something like child scribbles,
like nonsense I'd etched with my non-dominant hand
with blithering, faltering pen
I swing like the moon between two phases
sure, unsure
how long will I sit here?
a few lunations scramble past my head
words on words on words
blend together in sequences of lines
that I no longer recognize
as anything close to cognizant
I read the lines again
dismantle, disassemble them
eyeful work;
like science sates its spirit
by prodding at the seams of the earth
no fear that it may unfix
the stars that string like stanchions in the sky
heaven's performance toppling
my words collapse before me
nothing more than a brief hiccup
before their quiet, noon oblivion
miscalculated blots that do nothing but spoil the purity of the page
I crinkle it, toss it behind me
grab a new sliver of square
uncrinkled, uninked
I stare into the ceaseless white
brinking, unblinking alabaster
immaculate - the center of nonexistence
so foreigning; a burgeoning sense of casuality within me
I remind myself that it is a piece of paper
but do I dare soil it?
ebony tweens from the pen as I press
callous deflowering;
assaulting the page with senseless drivel I will realise
five to ten seconds after I write it that I hate
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 9:33 AM UTC
a rash of failings and testy upheavals
oncoming gush of particular evils
take a time now to think it through
your fate you will lose to an indelicate rue
lost stature folded over in napkin style
hidden from the essence of a fateful smile
berated and scorned like a sore loser
stanchions holding back another abuser
leaping into action in avoiding this fate
but fell a bit short, behind a black ball and figure eight
I'll look upon posterity in a fast moving flight
to a new brighter place in ablaze with light
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 10:35 AM UTC
Rotted hollow stumps grow greeting
Minds like yours and mine to meeting
Might and menace - the men retreating
From utter, bar none, monsters beating
Of hearts so strong and weak, along
To stringent thrums they croon our song
They part and in this place belong
Some rightful seat to wax and wrong
In love and scorn, in thoughts alone
Of deeds repaid and sins atoned
Upon the glim we fling the stone
And call aloft to steer us home
But not the blood home whence our birth
Nor still the foster touch of earth
- The flames unfit, the skies in dearth -
Instead on stanchions of our worth
Beneath twin pools of muck and ire
Beneath two more: The beast; The fire;
Ceaseless straits of optic mire
Rivers down and up the spire
From our aft the wire emerges
The string'ed puppet craft from urges
Our safety ropes - A net converges
Upon we fall in chants and dirges
Through gaps astride we tears fall
Side by ****** side from all
Our tide of eyes will cue the call
The masses' fist to uninstall
Yanked aside like rotting weeds
Our amalgam minds took-root recedes
The might has died, the menace bleeds
Our wants - They are this monster's needs
Feb 15, 2021
Feb 15, 2021 at 8:02 PM UTC
Once upon a time,
you know that old chestnut,
the routine story start,
there was a male being,
with the thickest blackest greasy hair,
a joy of eccentricity,
for a long time,
more than a smile for a while,
she kept him locked up under her hat,
the straw one that she wore,
he was beautiful and tender,
then he left.
Upon his leaving a thousand nuclear winters were born,
delivered with them winters chill,
As pair of stanchions,
together they once stood,
protecting their respective broods,
in their ways of contrition,
in the end were no happy ever afters,
but a stroke of crazy laughter,
Amen my friend!
(C) Livvi
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 2:36 AM UTC