"steers" poems
∴
A signifying monkey grunted
(keyboard-clever, morals stunted)
from his perch in a digital tree.
And next, did text (quite rapidly):
“Courtship rituals won’t suffice.
Face-to-face can’t break the ice.
Instagram me! Tweet me up . . .
friend me, like me, buttercup.
Sentences are so outmoded—
take too long to get decoded;
primate sexting hits me faster,
steers me towards your hot disaster.
Female monkeys: send an image.
(Ain’t got time for useless verbiage…)
if your snout just might unseat me
tweet me, greet me—don’t delete me.”
Then, unpeeling fresh banana,
searched his screen for Vox Humana. . .
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 10:07 PM UTC
You say you have
Glitter butterflies
Tinglies in there
Oh, you've evicted the butterflies princess
Those are storms coming
This is the eye of it
Wait till your captain steers the ship
Towards that looming dark cloud
You will beg me for butterflies little bug
You would beg for a swarm of bees
In exchange
for the beating you've earned
From me
then your captain
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 11:09 PM UTC
The Day...
...huff, huff, ...huff
breathe
Not one but many,
downed
twenty-two a numbered set
Push!
break, reset, align...
frost, huff,
Great God of Light reveals our Glory!
breathing...breathing
Field of pain, torn, exhausted,
sweat, rain, mist, colder
as grass-stained; the warrior's drobe.
Situate,
whistle! -stop!
Realign,
Randint, paired, matched to offset...
feign, move
'Eleven-by-Eleven,' storied beget
tension
Forty-Five!
Eighteen!
Okemah!
Rush...
*In the fields herds collide,
as Chaos, Eros, Geron, Adonai,
War portends a losing side?
The cheering throngs cast coronae...*
*Eleven steers to sacrifice,
go they do to God.
The ritual structure to suffice,
Violent nature absorbed by sod.*
BULL *
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 7:54 PM UTC
WHOOSH she goes
On the low seas, carried by the high winds.
Where
Ankles anchor, Knees tack, Back yaws, Wrists lock, and Thumb sagg.
Holding on to a harpoon in
my dingy, flopping against
Glinting, Honed, Double-Edged waves.
"**Light, **
It's the Eye of the Storm.**
Fatigue steers me into its heart
My anchor prodding me,
To continue or to
rest.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 12:50 AM UTC
BWOY This DISRESPECT Thing’s...
..... Really Interesting..... !!!
Many CLAIM Disrespect...
Because of TRUTH Said...
That Upsets Their Heads... !?!
Well In My Experience...
These Heads Are DELIRIOUS... !!!
Cos’ Their Form of Defence...
Is Mostly PURE NONSENSE... ?!?
From Women To Men...
They Act Like Children... !?!
When They’re Taken To Task...
For Behaving Like An ***
Whose Not Had Some Grass... !!!
Standing On Grounds...
Where Their Morals AREN'T Sound... !!!
QUICK To Run Their Mouths...
Like... Lipsticked Clowns...
Cos' Their Disrespect Circus...
Really Has NO PURPOSE... !?!?!?!
Cos Their Acts Are WORTHLESS...
Like A... BURNED Epidermis... !!!!
Cos' Their Skins Are TOO Thin...
For The Truth To WIN... !!!
So Their Disrespect Begins...
With... RIDICULOUS Links... !!!
So... Wrong And Strong...
Is What They PROLONG...................
When THEIR DISRESPECT...
Is Proved To LACK Strength... !!!
Because What They Try...
Is To Try To... DENY...
TheIr Fallacies And LIES... !?!
Cos’ They're NOT Wise Guys... !!!
Whose Type of DISRESPECT...
Leaves People... DEAD... !!!!!!
Especially When …
They Come INCORRECT... !!!
I’ve Now Been Disrespected …
By So Many Collectives...
That It Feels Like An Infection …
That WON’T STOP Spreading... !!!
As If I Am... The Target...
For IGNORANCE To Market... !?!
But It’s Now Become CLEAR...
That My Veneer And Thinking Steers...
Most Eyes And Ears To Clearly FEAR...
When I Start To Draw NEAR... !!!!!
Because of My Skin...
And Because of My Lips... ?!?
And Because My Words...
Are TOO PURE For The Herds...
of These SHEOPLE People... !!!
So I’m TOO BLACK For Some...
But NOT Black Enough For Others...
Who Share The Same Colour... ?!?
As If... Taking Care of My Mother...
Was … DISRESPECTING...
My Own … Blackness... ?!?
Some People Should THINK...
BEFORE They Link...
Their Words To Things...
That Are Clearly STUPID... !!!!
So Of Course Some Women...
Have Run Their Lips Like SINKING Ships... !!!
When It Comes To How...
I Break Them Down...
DISRESPECT of My TALENT... ?!?
When I Choose To CHALLENGE...
Their... DOUBLE Standards... !!!!!!!!
With Words That RAVAGE...
The LIES They... Manage... !!!
Has PROVEN To FEED...
DISRESPECT Speech...
From IGNORANT Peeps’...
Who Seem To BELIEVE...
That They Really Know Me... ?
DISRESPECT For THEM...
Are Thoughts That Lend...
Themselves To Express...
SO MUCH NONSENSE... !?!?!
That I Now Call Them...
..... IGNORAMUSES..... !!!
So Called... " Friends "...
And.... " Acquaintances "....
Should DO THIS LESS... !!!
Choose To EXPRESS...
A Lot of Talk That’s DEFECTIVE... !!!
Because Just Like ME...
NOBODY's ABOVE... Being...............
.......“ DISRESPECTED “..... !!!!!
Aug 23, 2020
Aug 23, 2020 at 12:03 AM UTC
Observing these old men sitting at the stockyard cafe,
Suspendered bellies hanging above huge buckles
And button-crotched Levi's tucked tight over leather boots,
Legs grown bowed and thin, but carrying them to the sale, still,
To hear the auctioneer, talking fast to work the buying crowd,
And get their fill of cattle, shoved indoors,
Sold beneath the steady cracking whips,
A spectacle to burn its way into my minds's forever eye:
The skidding steers, the rolling eyes, the frantic scramble to find cover,
While buyers gave their quiet signs:
A tilted cap, a winking eye, a thumb or index finger up or at a side,
To purchase cow or bull or horse, in living flesh...
Then out again, through the other door,
And turn our heads to wait for more, and read the scrolling numbers:
How many head, how much per pound, perhaps a buyer's name,
And then the swinging sound of other cattle coming in to start again.
So, here these old boys sit again,
Slurping coffee through their yellowed teeth,
Remembering days of indoor cigarettes and harried waitresses,
The smell of cow manure and jingling spurs,
Though now the smokeless ring seems tame, more civilized,
I see the glory days reflecting in the old men's eyes.....
I was just a boy back in those good old days,
My memory is a little hazed, but I can recall
When smoking was allowed and sawdust covered the filthy floor,
A Coca-Cola cost a dime, and the cattle sale with Dad was the big time;
Quaking as we treaded light on the catwalks above the pens,
Looked for our calves, or cows Dad culled to bring to sale,
Then going down and in to see them sell.
Fondly now, I can recall the restaurant at the ring
Where I hoped for a slice of lemon pie from behind chill-fogged glass,
Saw cowmen wearing spurs and neckerchiefs and chaps...
Dreamed of growing up to be a cowboy.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC
A Cowboys Christmas
We've been making this run
For twenty odd years
On up to Kansas
To bring back some steers
This time weather came up
The wind started to blow
And as it got colder
We were buried by snow
We needed a place
Where we could get cover
We had to find somewhere
One way or the other
Christmas was coming
And we'd not back it home
We were out here all frozen
But, we were not alone
The wind it kept blowing
The snow piled high
We lost three cows in the night
They were destined to die
They were weak when we got them
The walk was too tough
When the weather moved in
Well, that was enough
We hunkered down round the fire
Kept it tended real good
We'd gone and collected
A supply of wood
Christmas was coming
And we'd be away
It's the lot of the cowboy
To be away Christmas Day
The snow it got deeper
And more cattle were lost
We were stuck going nowhere
And dead steer were the cost
We were all round the fire
When the sky opened wide
The clouds disappeared
They all moved to the side
There in the heavens
Was a shining bright star
I'm sure it was one
All could see from afar
It lit up the country
With a sparkling glow
All we could see
Were the steers, and the snow
It was then that we realized
That Christmas was here
We had just gone past midnight
And the sky was now clear
We dropped to our knees
Said a prayer to the Lord
We still had our lives
And our feelings just soared
We'd beaten the storm
And would be on our way
We would still not be home
On this Christmas Day
We slept for a while
Then we ate, hit the trail
We all now had
A new Christmas tale
Christmas had come
With not presents or fuss
It was Christmas regardless
Inside all of us
A cowboy spends Christmas
Where ever he might
Whether out on the job
Or at home for the night
Christmas is Christmas
Without trinkets or beads
It's a feeling inside
It is faith, that one needs
So this cowboys Christmas
Was spent moving the herd
Kneeling down in a snowdrift
And sharing the word
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 1:26 PM UTC
We used to have a larger group
Ten thousand head at best
Once we had the largest herd
Of Longhorn in the west
But, times got tough, we sold a few
There was the drought back in '11
I didn't know it got so bad
But, now....we're down to seven
Yep, seven steers and cows and calfs
Out standing in our field
There's not a lot of meat out there
It's really a poor yield
The Longhorns down in Texas
Took our football tickets back
They said that our best looking cow
Was like a blanket on a rack
We've done our best to make amends
We'll be on top once more, I'm sure
But, we have to keep the calfs all fed
Or else ....we're down to four
There's lots of land for them to graze
They'll grow big, I am assured
But, now I find it difficult
To call seven head...a herd
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 11:25 PM UTC
I want a girl who drinks whiskey
Not a sophisticated white wine woman.
I don't need more than one fork and I
don't know what to do with more.
I want a girl who drinks whiskey
who will watch the stars from atop a desert bluff,
naked, beside me, as cars scurry like ants far below us.
I want a girl who drinks whiskey
not a woman that sips reds and explains
my nihilistic future intents.
Life is to beautiful to plan on a ****** future.
I want a girl that drinks whiskey
and tells me like it is while laughing at
all the incongruities in that truth.
A girl that recites poetry and literature from
a truck bed surrounded by enraptured steers.
I want a girl that drinks whiskey
who pours her shots neat and drains her glass
Who lets each and every glass be
laden with experiences and laced with frivolity,
knowing that the cup itself
is nothing but a vessel for life.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 8:16 PM UTC
Todays mixed emotions for today is:
Slow,
Cold,
New,
And old,
Difficult,
And hard,
Chess play and pulled cards.
The day soaks in when I make it home
The dark hole I bury my sins,
Leaves me in the fog,
Lost
And gone.
Headache, tears.
Stress, it steers.
No words, its weird,
My breathe I feel.
My demons I **** and no love I reveal.
Hours almost spent in the fog I fade.
I wake up reincarnated with a prayer I say,
“God forgive me for my sins, and remove my
Name from the grave.”
A few more minutes,
And it’s titled
Shower Days.
-Marci H.
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 6:18 PM UTC
I have ability to switch style
even under pressure
Focused concentration, I am
with tenacious unpredictability
And yet fail to admit mistakes
even resist as always
Laced with external distractibility, I am
What a world......Give me strength.
I have ' killer instincts' to move mountains
even driven to pinnacle with passion
Making things happen as always, I am
even I am, less anxious in decisiveness
And yet do things my own way
rushing the poor fellow to frail
Impatience won't disappear with quietness and shyness
What a world.....Give me strength.
I step forth in dignity for low anxiety
even with meticulousness
Decisiveness for reality, I am
with sterner stuff in slippery control
And yet unable to manage time
with a hog on spotlight
Drenched in my own outbursts, I am
What a world......Give me strength.
Proud of my strength of friendliness
even with positive openness
The power to carry on with persuasiveness
even I am, yes I am in assertiveness
My strength that never dies
in the face of motivation
And yet my ears are too weak to comprehend
with sound of **********
What a world......Give me strength.
Let me be weak to be strong
and strong I am in weakness
With passion for sweetness in bitterness
And this is real in steel
The contrast and the conflict
That steers in my way of long ago
And this reality in mirage
Gives me the courage to rise above pain
What a world.....Give me strength.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 9:00 PM UTC
I waited today for a freight train to pass.
Cattle cars with steers butting their horns against the
bars, went by.
And a half a dozen hoboes stood on bumpers between
cars.
Well, the cattle are respectable, I thought.
Every steer has its transportation paid for by the farmer
sending it to market,
While the hoboes are law-breakers in riding a railroad
train without a ticket.
It reminded me of ten days I spent in the Allegheny
County jail in Pittsburgh.
I got ten days even though I was a veteran of the
Spanish-American war.
Cooped in the same cell with me was an old man, a
bricklayer and a booze-fighter.
But it just happened he, too, was a veteran soldier, and
he had fought to preserve the Union and free the
*******
We were three in all, the other being a Lithuanian who
got drunk on pay day at the steel works and got to
fighting a policeman;
All the clothes he had was a shirt, pants and shoes--
somebody got his hat and coat and what money he
had left over when he got drunk.
2.4k
Shartles the rodeo clown
his tidy whities speckled, with brown
no fear to display, clowning away
staring the steers out, and down
He's the epitome of perfect poise
over the tumult, and all of the noise
in barrel to hop, his *** cracks, and pops
the bull's olfactory senses, destroyed
Saving the cowboys his rule
using each and yes, every tool
as he's feeling the need
his wife at home pleads
"not in your underwear, stool!"
He's a part of the annals and fame
everyone knows his clown name
Shartles ever will be
rodeo history
with just his bowels
too blame
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 9:30 PM UTC
I say it the ocean
that it runs
deep. But water
it is not,
quickly swept up
by the wind.
Nor is it driftwood
that rides the tides
undecided. I Say it is
the rudder that steers
the ship. Not the sail
that the wind does blow,
but the ropes
which carefully guide us
to which direction
we choose to go.
It is the rope
that binds us not
against our wills,
but that of which we
hold on to
in the darkness
of our minds
where light does not
our eyes show
nor in winds
that tell us No.
For M.D.R.
(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal / 06/10/14)
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 2:24 PM UTC
Serenade of time / unravelling
That which we don’t possess /
Steers a passage
Through adolescent grief /
I travel his unshaven smile
Contours of desire lead me here /
I stay in his delicious deceit /
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 4:11 PM UTC
As I was sitting at my desk studying for finals,
I heard in the distance the sound of a Clown's Horn?
"honk-honk" the sound grew louder and closer "honk-honk"
Fairly certain the Circus had not come to my Apt. complex,
Bested by my curiosity as it continually increased
My need to discover the horn's origin became the priority over my studies.
My focus shifted from the page in front of me holding all the answers,
To the outside world were the answers where yet to be discovered...
Breaking free of my "Study Shackles"
A new goal to precedence over all obstacles,
Mind now on a single track,
The spirit of pioneer steers my intentions,
Set forth from my dwelling, into that vast universe of possibility's
That simpletons refer to as the parking lot.
Honk-Honk the sound hit my ears like a search beacon would register on radar,
How far past my car or 100 cars who cares
What was this I continued to ponder in the recesses of mind that was playing like it was recess
Placing a collect call to myself I called my other senses to man their positions.
Sight-CHECK! but nothing was seen,
Touch-CHECK! but my feet and the ground was the only contact being made.
Smell-CHECK! But nothing, wait hold for confirmation....
Could it be... ELOTE!?!
Corn on the cob... on the stick!!
Mexican style elote!!
I had not enjoyed, "G-lote or Getto Elote" since San Jose
Since the last time I spent time with cousin Chip
Then just as I turned the corner the beacon sounded once more
"Honk-Honk" ELOTE....! and it was only $1.50 Perfect!
Proceeded to purchase two, one for me and one for you,
My cousin my brother...
Devouring mine with you in mind,
Took a single breath took stock of what was left,
Thought, "If I wait for Chip to come eat his it will get cold before he arrives, and who wants to eat cold elote?
Not my Cousin Chip, He's a Gracia
We are just better then that.
So I did what I believe you would have done for me if you where to find yourself in the same predicament,
I ate it nice and slow.
Thinking about how grateful I am to call you my family, my cousin, my friend, my brother,
I made sure that I enjoyed every bite,
In that for a moment no matter how brief it actually was we where together again,
In my minds eye laughing, joking, enjoying elote together....
I love you and I miss you cousin,
You are always in my prayers and in my heart.
If only Australia were not so far away...
Dec 31, 2011
Dec 31, 2011 at 4:26 AM UTC
They make their way through the crowd.
Beneath the sky amber in the last sun
the retrieved spark steers their feet
to explore the gorgeously festive town
smelling of discovery at every turn
of people and shops and sellers
and food tempting to be tasted
women too lovely not to be noticed
houses illuminated like light is free
flying as in a dream long in the coming
but arrived too glorious for any regret.
The younger when a few paces ahead
stops so the other could catch up
always remembering the six years
matter much in the count of speed.
The sky above grows older and paler
but their blistered feet feel no pain
from the four hours of rewinding years
glistening as night dew in their eyes.
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 10:18 AM UTC
)
~
(
~
It comes anytime,
like a blowing breeze,
tenderly caressing,
but.....invading;
it creeps in, and
softens the toughened,
this breeze of fragility
makes ****** tissues
indispensable.
some days,
a *playful little girl
steers a paper boat
on a big basin of water,*
plays with dogs...watching
spiders weaving webs, perching
birds and butterflies, pretending
they are dwarf friends...while
munching a red, crisp apple, like
snow white.....playful, sleepy,
and.....forgiving.
on an undaunted mood,
wonder woman determinedly
crosses her gauntlet-wrapped
forearms...to protect loved ones
and in so doing, makes possible
the impossible,
come hell or high water
some days, a blend of all three
occurs, but, the child and the brave,
try to rule over the fragile...me,
every day.....is an adventure...
Sally
©Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
August 26, 2020
Sep 7, 2020
Sep 7, 2020 at 9:49 PM UTC
From above the green hill,
I watched the still blue sea
Shimmering like a bed of jewels
Just before the sun set.
The sun, the purple wheel that steers the world
Descends inch by inch
The moment it touches the sea,
I expect a sizzle on the water.
Oh! just a futile piece of imagination,
An illusion the pendulum of my mind played
A mischievous trick, conjured
Tired of seeing endless repetitions
The water didn't dramatically part
The sun with ease slipped in
Like a seed in to the awaiting earth
Too eager to regenerate.
A tranquil sunset yet again,
The whole world,with bated breath
Was awaiting it, a collective sigh of relief,
Didn't I hear? for now God didn't play dice,
Though never it could be totally ruled out,
Now,every worry goes to sleep in the dark,
And tomorrow would come
With a new set of promises and pains.
The pendulum thus swings--
Invisible, between day and night,
Possibility of darkness and light
The hopes that keep us going, and despair.
Oct 3, 2011
Oct 3, 2011 at 6:09 AM UTC
A red-hot needle
hangs out of him, he steers by it
as if it were a rudder, he
would get in the house any way he could
and then he would bounce from window
to ceiling, buzzing and looking for you.
Do not sleep for he is there wrapped in the curtain.
Do not sleep for he is there under the shelf.
Do not sleep for he wants to sew up your skin,
he want to leap into your body like a hammer
with a nail, do not sleep he wants to get into
your nose and make a transplant, he wants do not
sleep he wants to bury your fur and make
a nest of knives, he wants to slide under your
fingernail and push in a splinter, do not sleep
he wants to climb out of the toilet when you sit on it
and make a home in the embarrassed hair do not sleep
he wants you to walk into him as into a dark fire.
1.8k
Workers migrate for the coast
At the first hint of holiday,
Winging their way past lorries and vans,
And coaches coated with spray ochre tans,
Flying along motorways in single file,
The music of freedom for mile upon mile.
Father steers straight with his eye on the road,
Insisting on mix tapes he made as a teen
While necking sweet girls in his imaginative dreams.
Kids shriek games on the warm backseat,
While air hostess mums offer peanuts
And cushions, and packets of sweets.
They arrive with a fuss, and a sigh of relief
While father shakes his weary feet
And the mum takes the girls for an ice cream treat.
They unload their bags of shorts and vest tops,
And the hotel looks grand, at least from the side,
But a moment of doubt creeps in, I confide.
It can’t be this nice, thought the father too late,
I bought it for tuppence, or at least so I thought,
As he read the terms of the room service bill;
The cost of cool water was like climbing a hill,
Just when you thought it couldn’t get much higher…
But I digress; it gets considerably more dire.
The room was a state and mum had a fit
Cleaning up tissues and strange looking stains,
And the girls were fighting and being such pains.
Father took a beer from the fridge,
Ignoring the cost for the sake of some peace,
And stepped on the deck to get some release.
Five seconds later he was running indoors
As the clouds broke their cover in heavy downpours.
Expecting a break, they were fooled once again.
The weekend was spent in the room like last year,
While rain and thunder spoiled all their cheer.
There’s only so many board games to play,
And the food gave the girls a sore and sour tummy
And turned the grand weekend into a desperate plea.
Please let it end, I want to return
To the office of slaves who make my life fun.
Workers return from the coast
On the third day of rest,
Splashing their way past lorries and vans,
And coaches coated with burning red tans,
Dragging along motorways in single file,
The sound of the rain for mile upon mile.
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 4:30 PM UTC
He took a schizophrenic detour
by taking candy
from a bleeding stranger.
The beast in the machine
steers the planets, pinwheel galaxies
whirl on their own collision course through space --
as city sewers
whisper your name
the black thawing streets
will ****** narcotics
into the blind man's hand,
as another addict screams ****
for tastes of yesterdays'
dreamscape. . .
Feb 21, 2010
Feb 21, 2010 at 7:51 PM UTC
The morning starts before the sun
with the rise of the mighty tongue
and the amazing way he steers
in the misty silky skin and she cheers
cheers while moaning and her eyes closed.
"Good Morning my Love" she says
with her breathless gasps in the air.
Dec 23, 2017
Dec 23, 2017 at 1:35 AM UTC
.
warm breeze island street
stern squeezed man steers red scooter
sidecar girl texting
.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 2:26 AM UTC