"stemmed" poems
When clocks strike twelve and trainings end
— lurk not, they say, in school at night.
Age-old stories tell of how there’re
things that throng in fluorescent light.
In toilets silence screeches loud,
for when school’s empty, they arise:
Ghosts of pregnant girls lie wailing,
with cleaner-uncle poltergeists.
For now I sit on chilling white,
resounding prayers in my mind;
my heart racing with dire wish
a friend of Casper’s I won’t find —
Then eeeeeeek!
Is that a door creaking?
Perhaps it stemmed from my own mind,
Hinges sing as they fly open!
Thou who entered, oh be my kind!
A thud thud thud as shoes traverse
across the glinting marble floor;
and louder,
louder as they get
much nearer to my sacred door!
THEN SILENCE
or so I wish!
But a loud knock takes my breath away.
The unlatched bolt lies there lazing
HOW’D I FORGET TO LOCK TODAY?
A hand thrusts in so hard and swift,
door’s open ‘fore I can react!
I’m facing now a girl my age,
She bawls at me with little tact —
Eyes bloodshot and tummy bloated,
“YOU DISGUSTING PIG! HOW DARE YE?!”
I dash out of the girls’ toilet
before she tries to castrate me.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 12:19 PM UTC
In the West I learned western hospitality
Free spirit, free drugs, more ***** more love
If you can remember your problem your doing it wrong
But if you forget your responsibilities you're not worth much
Party everyday pretend you don't understand the methods of your madness
Walk the streets half naked in half a foot of snow
Party, study, party, study
party, party, party
CHURCH
repent and once it strikes midnight start again.
In the North I learned Northern hospitality
It's called minding your business
It's called I have to get somewhere
If you have a question you also have a smart phone
It's not my job to tell you the norm.
You'll figure it out
I learned to walk fast, speak briskly and tell everyone to mind their own business
In the South I learned Southern hospitality
It's where people talk nice to your face and ***** behind your back
It's where the idea of ownership has stemmed way before the monogram
It's where if they only have two faces they are genuine and where they'll feed you fresh apple pie
filled with arsenic
Where you can trust your neighbor only as far as you can throw them
Where everyone's a little racist, a little homophobic, a little god-fearing
In the South I learned
Hospitality
--------------------------------------------------------
A/N
I was born and raised in Denver, Colorado.
Currently I reside in North Carolina.
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 4:54 PM UTC
Pour one under the table for those who walk outside. In memory of Spalding Gray, for what he meant to me...
Thanks, “Spuddy”, for sharing your inner life. Thanks for having the courage to bring so many troubles into the light. You laughed at your troubles and allowed us a way to laugh at our own. You put a voice to carrying an unbearable shyness or an excess of fear along with us as we go through life. You strived to care when caring was out of fashion and in short supply. Thanks for reminding us that life is the journey, and not only the destination. You wrote a book. You played a minor role in a feature film. Those were some of your destinations. When you shared your journey, you did it with humor, humility, and with love. Thanks for reminding me that storytelling is all around us. Thanks for reminding me that it need not be complex. You were merely observant during your journey, and you shared it through the lens of your own perception.
I learned this January that life became unbearable for you. If only we, your audience, could have comforted you or somehow stemmed the river; the flood that carried you to leave so early. I would like to believe that, once you died, you might be able to hear our collective voice. I imagine that you are able to see the people affected by your work, some inspired thus to create works of their own; tell their own awkward stories, sharing them as you shared yours. I am far back in the line, and I eventually arrive at your table. You flip a page in your spiral-bound notebook and take a sip of water before glancing up inquiringly. I only have one thing to say, really. “Thanks, Spalding. Thanks for sharing”.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 10:34 PM UTC
It is a passing love affair
The black thorny rose
Thin stemmed
Bleeding nightmare
Beauty bathed in darkness
Like a black cat
Sleek feline queen of Sheba
Narcissus and Nefertiti
Persephone
Eyes open no final reflection in death
Just peace from life’s pain
Not a mistress I would pursue for a kiss
But one that one day I might not resist
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 1:11 PM UTC
sail boats
and oceans
and really anything that floats and carries a person
far away
in a big body of water
I don’t think I have to say why
it’s obvious
I’m sure everyone has a thing for sail boats
and oceans
I like busses too
I seem to get really impatient on them, and I like that a lot
because I know I can’t do anything about it
it’s a game of
Will I Go Crazy Or Will I Have A Snooze?
I like being stuck between being stuck and being unstuck
one day I want to sit on a bus for 24 hours and see what happens
(I will be doing a lot of that in the month of October)
I’ll bring books, my iPod and movies to watch on my laptop
but I’ll probably just stare out the window hours on end
tall buildings will turn into blurry trees and blurry trees
will turn into pixilated neon canola crops
and there’ll be cows and ponies and one long road
to Montreal
then Toronto
then who the **** knows where because I am already dreading
going home after the trip
even though I haven’t left for the trip yet
it’s months to come
I have a thing for finding a new home
everywhere I go
but I never find one
I like the process of looking for a really long time
then giving up from discouragement and sad feelings of
abandonment stemmed from my childhood daddy issues
I’m pretty sure everyone has daddy-abandonment issues
I have a thing for assuming every one has the same problems
that I do
but it turns out that there are loads of girls that like to eat
lots
and don’t feel ashamed of the extra scoop of
double fudge ice cream
and there are teenagers that get along with their fathers
and look up to them
they go out for lunches and joke about dates and fix cars
and tell their little girls they’ll always be their little girls
and go on awkward shopping sprees and barbecue
but everyone has a thing for sail boats and water
we all want to escape
our eating disorder and drinking problem
a skinny body or a bulky body
bad grades and perfectionism
the people pleasing pushovers
fathers and mothers and old european traditions
family dinners that go perfectly and are so boring because of it
the fragility of feeling unique
the arrogance of feeling unique
the lack of faith in ourselves
being alone
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 2:47 PM UTC
Into the bubbling blue bath of my bliss
my body breaks free of all bounds;
enchanted melodies cavort across my tongue,
unchained continents of merriment.
Shooting stars; cool satisfaction coats me completely.
I have lost all curiosity for torture technique,
while this melody bounces across the cosmos.
My imperfect lovely: Perfectly fractured,
all my shattered pieces fit your holes,
and even now, I glue pieces of you into the slots they fit.
A singular petal glistening with dew,
Deep crimsom; long stemmed tulip.
Black eyes, its stamen. Shedded insight,
I lowered my body before you, as offering.
How will you devour this dream of desire?
It is a feast to be consumed, in small bites,
and copious servings of seconds.
Do not allow this flower to fade,
it may save you from yourself.
Blessings bestowed before bedtime
often fade away by dawn,
give thanks for the present,
draw strength from the past,
take heart, what is meant to be
will always last...
in the end.
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 12:20 PM UTC
I looked into the center
into the circles of gradient color
the pollen, sun gold anthers
sepals green, holding close the petals
smooth stemmed, impossible heavy heads
beautifully in rings around trees
the honey sweet blossoming spring
busy with new born bees
that fly in fragrant dream
discovering lilies bright as sun
watching bees with flowers become one.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 12:04 PM UTC
What dawn-pulse at the heart of heaven, or last
Incarnate flower of culminating day,—
What marshalled marvels on the skirts of May,
Or song full-quired, sweet June’s encomiast;
What glory of change by nature’s hand amass’d
Can vie with all those moods of varying grace
Which o’er one loveliest woman’s form and face
Within this hour, within this room, have pass’d?
Love’s very vesture and elect disguise
Was each fine movement,—wonder new-begot
Of lily or swan or swan-stemmed galiot;
Joy to his sight who now the sadlier sighs,
Parted again; and sorrow yet for eyes
Unborn that read these words and saw her not.
3.3k
I dwell in a lonely house I know
That vanished many a summer ago,
And left no trace but the cellar walls,
And a cellar in which the daylight falls,
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.
O’er ruined fences the grape-vines shield
The woods come back to the mowing field;
The orchard tree has grown one copse
Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed.
I dwell with a strangely aching heart
In that vanished abode there far apart
On that disused and forgotten road
That has no dust-bath now for the toad.
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;
The whippoorwill is coming to shout
And hush and cluck and flutter about:
I hear him begin far enough away
Full many a time to say his say
Before he arrives to say it out.
It is under the small, dim, summer star.
I know not who these mute folk are
Who share the unlit place with me—
Those stones out under the low-limbed tree
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.
They are tireless folk, but slow and sad,
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,—
With none among them that ever sings,
And yet, in view of how many things,
As sweet companions as might be had.
3.3k
They were like cut flowers,
arranged but deranged in some
basic way, which is to say, their
smiles were frozen, never chosen.
They did not cheer; they mirrored
one another. They did not lead;
they followed. Their laughter was
hollow. Their problems stemmed
from being cut from their emotional
roots: They'd root for the home
team, but it seemed they'd never
grow, never know the joy of letting
go, only the cant, the chanting
of school yells, a fool's hell
for not feeling. At best, their
beauty was pressed and dried;
Too bad they died, devoid of
themselves. We must put them
on our shelves to gather dust.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Jun 13, 2019
Jun 13, 2019 at 6:01 PM UTC
Let's go grab the money
Hidden in the Christmas Tree
Shoppe mason jar with the
Frosted stencil designs,
Ornate and resembling flora.
Let's take that money,
The three separate wadded
***** of once crisp
Green pieces of paper
That somehow reach the
Arbitrary total of one
Thousand, three hundred and
Twenty dollars and
Fifty lonely cents.
Let's take that 1,320.50
And go see the desolate
Stretch of sprawling
Humanity deferred between
These hiked peaks and the
Dangerous mountains
Separating the west
From the rest.
Let's go there!
Let's go there!
We'll make it across,
Be sure of that,
Be sure of nothing
But that!
Let's use the remaining
Seven fifty
To buy some
Seven Eleven sustenance
To have while
We walk backwards
Down backroads edged
With the encroachment
Of the wild back into
Negative space some
Long-ago engineer
Carved and paved.
Let's tell the driver of
This beat-up
Time-worn down
Overcast grey
Buick LeSabre
That we can pay her
Ten dollars to replace
The juice necessary to get
Us back to our sick aunt's
House in Poughkeepsie.
At the gas station
We'll tell her to stop
Real quick
And hope she leaves the
Auto to go
Pay the schlup at
The teller's booth
And jack the beater
And hope we won't
Have to bolt
Again if she doesn't.
Let's call my cousin
And find out who will give
Us four hundred dollars for
The stolen used parts store
And take that four hundred
And buy:
Two (2) greyhound tickets to get us
Back to our ****** apartment
In Stamford: 64.50 American
Three (3) damp-bunned flimsy
Beef patties glued between
Pieces of government-issue
Yellow American cheese
With all the fixins we please: 3.24 American
One (1) zip of dried out
Seeded and stemmed breaks
From the boredom of
Our own conscious
Processes: 120 American if lucky
At least eight (8) servings
Of amphetamine based
Pressed little buttons
Of confused energy: 200 American
One (1) bouquet of
Red yellow and oranges
Mixed on the petals of
Your mother's favorite
Species: whatever's left American.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 12:40 AM UTC
On a journey of delightful imagination,
The facets of which had no explanation.
A loving nature that was beyond measure,
Became for me this sweet tender treasure.
My beloved gave me love like the Pacific,
My heart is filled with her waves so terrific.
Her vast desires has me overwhelmed,
From where this great passion stemmed?
© Perveiz Ali
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 10:50 PM UTC
comely, maybe
but not beautiful
my features are as round as vowels
and I carry the moon in my hips
I am an unpolished beauty
smooth pebbles resting at the bottom
of a cold clear stream
with an empty purse
imagination
my only currency
in this world
I am a shrinking violet
occasionally a rose
february-white
caught in your button-loop
long-stemmed red roses
stalk runways
hollywood bombshells
are bubbly as champagne
and full of flesh and light
but *** sans love
is still an empty bathtub
whatever happened to pin-up girls
long cigarette holders
and muted photographs?
I am distorted
in the fish-eye view
of the modern lens
in my fantasies
I am no longer sand and loam
I glow like a tall slim candle
though I am often numb and dumb
and my girls are as absent
as long lost unicorns
I am the bohemian princess
I travel through foreign lands
clothed in exotic costume
a jewelled headdress, and
indian pyjamas coloured sapphire,
turquoise and cayenne-red
my feet are near bare
and my hippie hair
is a mass of blonde curls
I take a sojourn in
southern california
warm desert air
soft against my skin
I surf in the salty sea
held buoyant by the waves
a sunset stains the sky tangerine
the palm trees
black against the orange light
click teasingly in the breeze
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 9:27 AM UTC
If you’re gonna
Die in the apocalypse
Drop out of school
Dump yourself into that little
Ditch you made that was stemmed from
Decades of anxiety and
Depression
You might as well look good doing it.
If your mascara runs in the eternal
Race to your dripping baby chin
It might as well be mixed with the glitziest
Eyeshadow you can afford
(Mine is hand-me-down from my mom,
Who has been called a drag queen too many times
For her to count but somehow
That makes me, her little genderless clown,
Feel connected in some cosmic way
To her ****** again).
Save your pennies so you can
Splurge at the thrift store on
Sweaters that go down to your knees to hide
Vaginas and **** bits
That maybe you wanna be coy about today,
So all the people spitting in your eye can at least
Trip on your pronouns and your triumphant
**** YOU
Can scrape the heavens.
You’re allowed to buy that tie, I mean
Easing the pain in your wrists and your heart and your stomach
Is done best in floral print,
In pop culture t-shirts,
In femme/butch/femme/hard/soft
**** culture, *** tantrums,
If you’re gonna get called by the wrong ******* name all day
At least look your best when you resist the urge
To send fists sailing into their face.
And it’s not just us but anyone,
If you’re ******* angry that someone keeps commenting on the size of your
Thighs the lush of your
Lips and some ******** keeps
Trailing you on his bike
Shake your studded gloved fist at him and tell him
THIS IS NOT FOR YOU, LORD OF THE *****
LORD OF THE NORM, I PICKED THESE
FIVE DOLLAR SHOES FROM THE RACK OF GOOD WILL,
SHONE THEM UP LIKE I SHINE MYSELF
FOR MYSELF
WITH MYSELF
I AM MYSELF.
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 4:14 AM UTC
it will never make sense
that the mechanics
of the human body
allows for a person
to bite their own
tongue or cheek
mindlessly
yet with such force;
eye-watering
and debilitating
a momentary paralysis
of fist-clenched frustration
and wordless fury
the blood that flows
cannot be stemmed
must be left untended
and simply spat out
or swallowed
as that metallic taste
taints every mouthful
Oct 24, 2023
Oct 24, 2023 at 11:10 AM UTC
Summertime on Broadway
in Spanish Harlem.
Wide sidewalks glinting
with mica, as I walked alone
up this hill in our neighborhood
for the very first time.
Flag Day, my parent's anniversary,
and a wish to give them flowers
I would buy all on my own.
Inside the hushed florist shop
the flowers and plants
seemed ready to interview
any potential new owners
who wished to take them home.
A dignified, kind woman,
spokesperson for their domain,
looked down at this earnest
little shrimp of a girl in a
striped T-shirt and shorts,
who wanted so much
to be taken seriously.
Respectfully, she opened heavy
glass doors where the roses slept
in orderly, long-stemmed rows.
Heady, chilled. Their fragrance
enveloped me, and still does.
I chose one red rose, and one yellow,
and the woman solemnly wrapped
them like a baby in swaddling clothes,
adding baby's breath and fern leaves.
Cradling my paper bundle, I walked on home.
Something deep inside of me had made that choice.
It felt as though the flowers knew what I wanted
to say to my cherished mother and father:
*That this life they were creating for us,
was abundantly full, and balanced.*
Time flew by, and one day I learned
from a holy and compassionate sage
that my heart had chosen an ancient
symbol for fullness of life:
Two flowers, one red,
one yellow, whispering
the secret of life
to the heart of a child
who wanted, more than anything,
to actually hear it,
who wanted to know,
above all else,
what was really real.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 8:25 PM UTC
I am your
most obeduent servant.
three lovers in one.
I can lick the dew right off
your sweet long-stemmed rose,
taste your delicious dandelions
& make love to your pretty petunia,
enjoy a serious night of it.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 2:03 PM UTC
I'm a pepper ******
from the mild
to nuclear,
I'll eat them all.
BBQ chicken wings,
roast pork,
baked stork
& tacos,
just pile up the
jalapeños,
ghost pepper,
maye a habanero or two.
All my kin
know how delicious
thay are going down
& how fiery
they are coming out.
But no matter,
I don't care about
the bewares
& shout for more
of those hot
mouth-watering
stemmed
explosive gems.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 9:37 AM UTC
Every Picture Tells a Story
concerned mother scolding her child
the roaring of the crowd gone wild
the melting sun setting into the sea
an old drunk in the bushes taking a ***
a weeping soldier sitting on his helmet
standing in line waiting for a permit
pitching a tent in a national park
searching for your dog in the dark
migrant workers tending a garden
prisoner of the state pleading for a pardon
solar flares lighting up the sky
licking your lips for that apple pie
city workers digging up the street
marathon runner with blisters on her feet
working the formula in an algebra class
sipping wine from a long stemmed glass
walking the streets looking for a job
toothless old man eating corn on the cob
loosing your home to a banker of greed
growing your future from a single seed
climbing a mountain all the way to the top
keeping the faith until you're about to drop
going out in a blaze of glory
you can find a picture in every story
Morpheus aka Gomer LePoet...
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 9:06 AM UTC
The first time I spoke to you,
I knew you were someone I was capable of loving.
As I studied you, my infatuation only grew.
I dreamed about your thin pale fingers that stroked piano keys,
your melodious laugh, and the Greek God structure of your jaw,
of your pretentiousness that stemmed from secret insecurities;
and in these reveries, I fell in love with it all.
Despite my desires, however, I knew
that someone like me could never
be loved by someone like you.
So for years, I redirected my thoughts and repressed this feeling,
until we found ourselves on an unfamiliar apartment bed together,
laying silently while studying the ceiling.
And in the dark you confessed to me your tales of innocence,
and you were flattered by my distrust
of your honest inexperience with lust.
I should have known wisdom would come with the rising sun,
yet I was still convinced that it was my love you wanted to win;
all of the while, I was the naive one.
The one who allowed those pale piano playing phalanges to trace my skin,
and weave themselves through my hair and of course then,
I was the one who eagerly leaned into your lustful lips
and did not stop tasting your tongue
even when I felt the emptiness behind it.
And in the morning you were happy that it happened for your sake
but you didn't think of the fact that my heart and mind,
which troubled themselves with the thought of you for three years, were at stake.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 12:39 AM UTC
*plastic
tables and chairs
pinks
blues
yellows*
leftovers lie on the table
paper plates stained with chocolate syrup
beside the foam
fossil of a milkshake
brown
fingertips and corners of lips
dinosaurs and tiaras
table napkins wipe away
giggles and smiles
*wooden table
little words etched in
hearts, crosses and names
jagged lines through the middle
random doodles
curse words*
stained with grease, an empty pizza box
soda bottles all over the sticky floor
a single can
of beer, empty
touching a hundred lips
curious little sips
awkward conversations,
air thick with secrets and lies
confidence and cockiness
*clean white table cloths
long-stemmed flowers
crystal wine glasses
silverware*
no one quite fits into these
knees always banging
and cutlery always clanging
no one quite fits into these
Sep 14, 2011
Sep 14, 2011 at 10:03 PM UTC
(Dedicated to my mother, Juna Marie Nagley- happy mother's day momma!!!)
O' Màthair, Màthair, from whence I birthed.
Best friend, mine Angel, mine guide; Disguised
As a lady at birth; it's from thine womb from
Whence I arrived, this is a thanking thee, to
A flawless seraph, mine Màthair, mine Màthair-
To thee; whom do I compareth?
Anglamotharia, thou hath always met mine need's,
When mine knee was scraped, and when I got sick;
Thou wouldst alway's protecteth me. Eyne blue as
The sea's, hair blonde as the street's thou hath
stemmed from, Anglamotharia-Jehovah's chosen
One, mine host of host's, guardian from the ghost's
Who always tried to hurt thy own son.
Anglamotharia, from whence I am from-
Latha màthair math; angelic one.
(Second part is a mothers day dedication to my mother in law Evangeline sardua- Earl Jane sardua my Queens mother....)
Adlaw Malipayon inahan, dearest mother-in-law, the Apple to Jane's vision, hardworking, gentle-calm. I thankest thee for showing Jane the right way's; the way's of God, the way's of love, O' heaven knoweth thy name.
Adlaw Malipayon inahan, woman who knoweth none time, for thine family is thy priority; thou cookest and cleanest, thy labor hath heavied over time, mayest the Lord bless thee and keep thee, and the Lord make His face shine upon thee. And be gracious to thee. The Lord lift up His countenance upon thee,
And give thee peace. Mayest thine abode be a blessing from Mount malindang-west unto East. Mayest Yeshua guideth thy feet to where dangerous travels cometh and goeth. Mayest the word of God always from thy mouth appear and floweth. Mayest this mother's day, be a remembrance to thee, Evangeline; thy love hath not been forgotten, this is mine gift and thanking to thee.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©mothers day dedication to two special mother's ( Evangeline Sardua, janes mother, and dedication to my mother juna Marie Nagley, ) happy mother's day to both of you and may God shine his face upon you!!! With love Brandon!!
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 1:51 PM UTC
I desire only to comfort you, you must believe..
Truly comfort.
Like the first fire of winter,
when you come in from the frigid night,
And collapse in the cloud soft chair
As the warmth of the hearth, restores your humanity.
Until, in every cell in your body, you feel renewed.
I know how to close the wounds of your spirit,
These scars you see, upon my soul
Were once gaping gashes, that oozed agony,
But they have healed,
Let me do the same for you.
I will take my time, releasing the pent up tension,
That has wrapped your tense muscles,
In gnarly braids, of stress, with my restorative touch.
I have several bandages, the bleeding can be stemmed,
And arrested for good.
I will kiss every bruise, and cut,
Until nothing hurts anymore.
I shall lift you to your feet if you fall,
And soothe, mend, and repair you as a whole.
Anyone could see you have been hurt before.
But has anyone ever came forward,
And acknowledged your pain?
These cuts, and scars you bear
That you believe
have made you the strong woman you are today,
Are holding you back,
From the pleasures you deserve.
As the pendulum swings
Your mood rises and falls,
And it pains me to witness your suffering
My beloved one.
You who bring such joy
Should not suffer so much.
Your past is marked and marred.
Let me be your future,
One filled with the full measure of pleasure you deserve.
I can not guarantee that harm will not befall you again,
But when it does,
I will be there to caress it away...
Because I am your healer.
Sep 1, 2012
Sep 1, 2012 at 10:38 AM UTC
Sleepwalking through life.
Sleepwalking through strife.
Daydreaming about happier times,
Then you came into my life.
I've never known this joy
Stemmed from the love of a boy,
Who holds me close and makes me smile--
My heart he won't destroy.
Stay in my life. Keep me awake.
My heart is yours; it's yours to take.
My reviver-- that's what you are.
My awakener-- brighter than any star.
Sleepwalking is no more because of who you are.
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 4:20 PM UTC