"straggled" poems
Searching my heart for its true sorrow,
This is the thing I find to be:
That I am weary of words and people,
Sick of the city, wanting the sea;
Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness
Of the strong wind and shattered spray;
Wanting the loud sound and the soft sound
Of the big surf that breaks all day.
Always before about my dooryard,
Marking the reach of the winter sea,
Rooted in sand and dragging drift-wood,
Straggled the purple wild sweet-pea;
Always I climbed the wave at morning,
Shook the sand from my shoes at night,
That now am caught beneath great buildings,
Stricken with noise, confused with light.
If I could hear the green piles groaning
Under the windy wooden piers,
See once again the bobbing barrels,
And the black sticks that fence the weirs,
If I could see the weedy mussels
Crusting the wrecked and rotting hulls,
Hear once again the hungry crying
Overhead, of the wheeling gulls,
Feel once again the shanty straining
Under the turning of the tide,
Fear once again the rising freshet,
Dread the bell in the fog outside,—
I should be happy,—that was happy
All day long on the coast of Maine!
I have a need to hold and handle
Shells and anchors and ships again!
I should be happy, that am happy
Never at all since I came here.
I am too long away from water.
I have a need of water near.
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On this long storm the Rainbow rose—
On this late Morn—the Sun—
The clouds—like listless Elephants—
Horizons—straggled down—
The Birds rose smiling, in their nests—
The gales—indeed—were done—
Alas, how heedless were the eyes—
On whom the summer shone!
The quiet nonchalance of death—
No Daybreak—can bestir—
The slow—Archangel’s syllables
Must awaken her!
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It's September; cold in the copses,
Feverish in the kitchen.
The sink clinks and exorcises
The china like an Italian sonata.
My lips merge into ether
At the sky, a periwinkle parallax
With the pork lard carbon monoxide
Clouds, at drive with suicide.
My Buddha hisses at the window,
Ripping the tentacles off weedy carrots.
The knives are clever & precise
Hiding in their handled shoals
Like luminescent Jackanapes
Out for the thrill of the ****
The **** of the stake of steak,
A 'Cow'ardly act.
I wrap the red & dead
Into a Beef Wellington.
It is not pretty at all;
But neither am I.
I'll drink tea to keep my peace,
Swallow my spirituality like a pain killer.
The teabag sags its straggled string,
Scolding me.
The pillbox is dead on the edge
Of the ornamented kitchen sill
A lot like me; sullen and teasing.
I wanted to roast my head like a potato
If the pudding *** over boiled,
A cauldron of sugar and cream
Fattening me ugly and crazy.
The weather is miserable; I mustn't lie,
It's enough to make any young woman want to die.
Stirring my thoughts with the dishes,
Trashing potato peels like my wishes.
And the stacks and stacks of kill-me pills
Surround like troops in their barricade cupboards.
I have no allies,
Everyone is asleep;
I curl up like a fat snail and weep
Blackening the words of the miracle-working Priest.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
a stray row of marigolds
defied autumns call
straggled along a fence
leading to a gate
where a burlesque woman
spoke gently to a cow.
the brazen marigold patch
clung cleverly to the winds shadow
and stayed put
until sons in seeds matured
and laughing at the woman
fenced in by the cow
split its pods
and withered as winter clutched
the surrounding grass verge
and neatly stapled fence
posts at internals
as sturdy as the seasons
the seeds burrowed deep
and waited for spring to pull
the tender hearts from the earth
learned from its parents.
spring will have a bigger clutch
of marigolds this coming sunshine.
Author Notes
so is life. clinging desperately to the fateful fence, braving all distractions.
the young and restless will inherit the earth.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 10 days ago
- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11582732-marigolds-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.nLO2q91g.dpuf
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 6:50 PM UTC
Our Masgouf
The fish has wings, and she feels our pain as a sister. Yes, we are the fish’s brothers and any halo occurs in the clear night is a birthday of this brotherhood. Come here, and see the first cookbook; it had appeared with the seeds of this earth. It had slept in an ancient Sumerian tablet, which was shining as a morning sun. In the heart of (800) recipes in that Iraqi mud, you can see the smoke of our Masgouf and you may smell its exciting flavor. You may know that Masgouf had resided as a moon in our dreams, and we delightedly disappear in its perfume as the butterflies. Our Masgouf, as well as, the face of our river, is pure, but smoky, and I will be so happy if you can see its chants which dance as a fairy at its small bank. Because of this warmhearted brightness, you may like to sit under our smiley tent and musing our truthful Masgouf.
The Dolma’s Master
The small girls in our gardens knew nothing about the flowers or their breathtaking colors, but they are so efficient in making of magic Dolma. In the morning they meet a green dove, and listen to her chants. They are soft and pure exactly as our Dolma’s smiles. She teaches our girls the art of Dolma and the secret of grape’s leaves with a smooth voice and gentle hands. This Dolma’s master is so soft and deep, and she can color the girls’ hearts with the wedding dresses. My mother was a good Dolma’s student, so she had learned its chants expertly and wore her wedding dress early.
The Kebab Glory
The Iraqis can’t live without war or Kebab and can’t smell the morning breeze without their deep voices. I am an Iraqi man, and my soul was kneaded with Kebab’s Sumac. My dreams had immersed in the Kebab’s perfume and straggled in the desert of sad Sumac. Kebab, which we inherited from our Babylonian, can’t be transfigured without a soft lap, and any saying disagrees this is a hard illusion, but essentially you need the Iraqi sad smile to find the Kebab’s sublime glory.
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 10:23 AM UTC
She stood as she always did,
at the sink in the tiny kitchen.
Wearing that apron,
with all the little red Tea Pots,
scattered around on a field
of white cotton.
Tied with a big bow in the back.
Gloved in yellow rubber,
to protect her hands and nails.
I stood a moment in the doorway
and we smiled at one another,
the way Mother's and half grown
children do.
Reflectively she reached up and
brushed back a brownish-blond
lock of hair that had straggled
down too close to her right eye.
A frequent and oft repeated
movement that always made
me smile.
I passed by her and briefly,
touched her shoulder,
As I went.
She patted my hand,
in a simple gesture of
returned implied affection,
Like we always did.
There was the sweet scent
Of Lilac hovering around her.
"Hi Son". She said barely
above a whisper.
My Mother died that next year.
She was only 54.
That was 46 years ago this month.
And yet, I still see her standing there.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC
OUR MASGOUF
The fishes have high wings, but they can feel our deep pain like sisters. Yes, we are the fishes’ brothers and any halo you may see in the dark night is a birthday of this brotherhood. Come here and see the seeds of this earth in an ancient Sumerian tablet, which its recipes were shining as the sun. In that Iraqi mud, you can see the smoke of our Masgouf and you may smell its exciting flavor. It is residing in our dreams like the moon, and we delightedly disappear in its perfume with the butterflies. The face of our Masgouf is pure, and I will be so happy if you can see its chants dancing as fairies at their small riverbanks.
THE MAGIC DOLMA
The small girls in our gardens knew nothing about the flowers or their breathtaking colors, but they are so efficient in making of magic Dolma. In the morning they meet a green dove, and listen to her chants. They are soft and pure exactly as our Dolma’s smiles. She teaches our girls the art of Dolma and the secret of grape’s leaves with a smooth voice and gentle hands. This Dolma’s master is so soft and deep, and she can color the girls’ hearts with the wedding dresses.
THE KEBAB GLORY
The Iraqis can’t live without war or Kebab, and can’t smell the morning breeze without their deep voices. Our souls were kneaded with the sad Kebab’s Sumac and the tears of war. Our dreams had immersed in the Kebab’s perfume and straggled in the desert of sad Sumac. Yes, you need the Iraqi sad smiles to find the Kebab’s sublime glory.
Dec 25, 2018
Dec 25, 2018 at 6:21 AM UTC
Young One tries to hide her frowning face
I see the scars, the open sores,
Her hair hangs such away in place,
The world sees what she ignores.
Reality.
It has been a while since she had a fix,
Hood up, Eyes darting right and left,
Just looking like she'd been in a conflict,
Width birth achieved, looking possessed.
Anti-society.
The other Older bends around to light her smoke,
head shielding the wind, straggled hair showing,
She steps off the curb into traffic, without a hope,
But the cars don't stop, loud honking and horn blowing.
Climactic.
Leaping back to the curb and looking up at the light,
in disbelief, swears a blue streak that it was her turn,
Defiant waves her smoke in her fist, it was "her right"
Paths about to cross, Past and Future, would they discern?
The two come face to face, not recognizing, looking stern.
Anti-climactic.
Apr 20, 2013
Apr 20, 2013 at 7:51 PM UTC
Warning!
"Do not enter,
It's dark inside"
Blood-curdling sites on a puzzling path;
Raging rivers;
a thunderstorm rumbled
and broke the silence of the hazy afternoon
My body shivered as the wind flicked at my bared arms.
As I wander through this straggled path,
humiliation continues to interfere
Frightened; brooding eyes
crippling feeling—
I think there's no turning back.
A fragile cage covered with pale greyish green lichens caught my eyes,
an unshackled monster hiding behind those camouflaged woods
those blood red eyes glare in an interminable way—
dread creeping in.
THERE'S NO WAY OUT!
But I need to escape this delusional place
Should I jump off the cliff?
stuck in this maze
thoughts in my mind suffocating me,
can't breathe!
Can't escape;
lost in the dark, and slipped!
Hanging on a rugged cliff;
mouth shut tight when I scream, "HELP ME!"
Can't hold it long
the mistakes I made,
Is this the pain that i'm dealing with?
Is my life still worth it?
Bleed until I was broken
Deep inside it's tellin' me to end it all,
Maybe I should
So I must die
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 3:39 PM UTC
..over ....there.. ..... .. . ...
in the fogged....corner ... ......of my mind.... ..sits.........
a ragged girl... ..making.. knitted scarfs. ....out of archaic thoughts... of fear and darkness.. ..she knits .. on rusted steel pins....
with sinews of .... scar and ...mis-threaded ... ......thoughts of disdain...the scarfs..... great.............spiderwebb-ed ...........things designed ....not .....for warmth....but to catch ......and.. choke...and.. confound......the ....mind unwary. ...she...... the girl ragged and........unkempt .....plucks
...... .. .fluff..
and ........lintcrap ........and ....feared.. ...sacred.... fuzz. ....then felts and twists it..... ......into ....straggle-taggle, tangled...... twines.......
she is .......the keeper.......... ...of the ..drives..... i.. took.... with my father.... of the nights..... stood upon ledges. .. gleaning courage to stay...or ...to leave same... courage .....different
outcome....
of the ......blackouts.... and ............grey days of the words... ........
.....spoken........................
. ......................unspoken..... that stripped ....my youth... of meaning and life....
and joy... these are the ragged ...straggled......scarfs of memory....
i will not wear.... .
........ .....this is why........ ..... she.........the ragged unkempt .... relic..... of my youth .....resides..... unloved.....
in the ...back... alley..... ............corners of my mind... so that..... ninety five ...percentofthetime.........
i can forget .......
.....she is there...
....itisthefivepercent.....
like .....tonight ....when she raises her eyes...
.... and stares me down..... that it is the time...... for the tide ....of regret to run.......... .....for a short while.....
before.. the ebb...of memory.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 7:02 PM UTC
first empty page; they lessen
and so on. a drawing
closes distance, and
to have missed that middle-branch
after searching
all the others, when
thought-seeking meticulousness
flawed us --
distracted by color.
be me some ******* keystone
disturbance. all this
domination, self-wrough, and
seasoned by delicate hands.
(a bit of straggled breathing)
a pale vessel to be burned; not
so prevalent,
without some sided-suffering
since denouncement of day-timer.
cycle too fast,
when the sun grows;
burn-out right quick.
approach in calm and
slothishness, chew nails
to nub, and move with a bit of
caution. a drawing closes distance.
there was offered a cup
of coffee to a hallucination;
some test of disembodiment langors.
then realizing, these dreams, --
awaiting some metaphor here --
are not all dream, and
you can sleep or
you can ******* die
as a drawing closes distance.
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 6:16 PM UTC
My father's obsession became increasingly apparent
with every visit I made to him.
The clocks, their hands,
their beautiful, twisted fingers
dancing to the co-ordinated sound of
ticking - he couldn't take his eyes from them.
Over the years I began to see
his irises shifting like clockwork,
miniature minute hands
beating at the doors,
ticking
ticking
ticking.
They are knitting,
knitting a fabric so tight it's a shroud,
pulling it over his head and waiting
for him to sink into the waters of embalmment.
Epitaphs, mad men entitled to nothing.
He formed the millions into gears,
expectation of a smooth, working machine
which he could grasp in his fingers
and hold up to the ***** sky,
moving, scurrying,
ticking. A better place, or so it seemed
to him, where men didn't speak in tongues
and life answered
to something beyond chance.
It was different when he first came here
but then so was he,
it was a version that made more sense.
A version where black birds with missing
feathers patrolled the skies,
where he ran his hands through his hair
to leave straggled clumps between his fingers -
balding velvet. He forgot
so much more than he had remembered,
even me. Eyes still glazed white
looking right at me, he was cold-limbed
and vacant and filled me with a filthy,
cruel hollowness that takes
and takes, relentlessly, for no gear,
or system, or rhyme, will pull
the books from the shelves. I won't find
a ransacked home with shattered furniture
and broken glass littering the floor,
only a clean, aching, vague room
that is blue and sterile and so empty
it leaves trails of goosebumps
along my arms and burns its way
into my dreams in the depths of the night.
I won't find you crying over empty photographs,
only a shell,
staring, dead, at the whitewashed walls.
Oct 24, 2017
Oct 24, 2017 at 6:38 PM UTC
I was.
All M
x
i
d e
up.
Forgetting the difference.
Between fear and family.
But bye the grace of circles,
I have been re new ed.
Like a new shoot of straw
that straggled behind the beast
And preserved itself among the season.
I glimmer in the grey,
I was born within the dew.
I listen to y oar boats of silence
Braking up the day.
Bye the grace of circles.
I am pan o ramic.
Now I have a compass
which points in true direction
A place where I am lead.
Bye a breath.
A new home re m e mbered
Piece by Peace
I am man u factured
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 5:46 PM UTC
I swim in a sea of troubles & worries,
My every move is calculated.
With my breathe straggled, I fling my arms and thrash my legs about hoping to fly out of the deep dark sea of my anxiety.
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 3:44 AM UTC
The ocean is your love,
Not what you think at all,
And you’re an animal,
To choose to fly or fall.
A dove, so born, you be,
Safe in a nest well built,
No lean, nor slant, nor tilt,
The branches, leaves, all stiff,
Precarious on - a cliff.
As far as you can see,
The ocean stretches out,
You might be one to doubt,
To jump into the wind,
And trust your fate destined.
Yet the farther now
You’re from ocean low
Deeper into love
Destined fall will prove.
Some learn to fly and glide,
Above the waters fierce,
Above the waves so soft,
Above the rising tide.
Yet should a storm loom near,
Its rain so sharp to pierce,
Even your wings aloft,
Would succumb to the fall you fear.
And as you fall, you think,
Why did I ever fear
To fall this dreaded fall
The wind does snear and leer,
But it does not hurt at all.
Indeed it feels, you think,
As though you have begun,
With heaven wings now new
A journey much more fast and fun.
And as the blue wide sea,
Comes flying fast at you,
You think that it must be,
All you’ve wished for too.
Sometimes the fall is different,
And starts with just a tumble down,
As though it weren’t first sight,
The accident of – a clown.
But in the end you splash,
And lunge, and plunge, and crash,
Into the water deep,
To hide the tears you weep,
Of joy and sorrow too,
For love has come to you.
You sink and watch the sea,
A fish of gold is there,
And asks you quietly,
To swim, oh, would you care?
And should you say “I do”
A bird no more you be,
To swim without air you,
In love, a fish must be!
From there you may not fall,
But that is what love is,
If there you cannot swim,
Things are not right at all.
The sorry sorry bird,
The tells the gold fish “Nay”,
Must struggle straggled up,
And climb up from a bay.
Onto land and back to life,
Of bird and gill-less soul,
You could not take the strife,
Of swimming in that blue sea bowl.
But hope is not yet lost,
You might fall down into
The sea once more again,
To feel the thrill of being two,
And losing wings is little cost.
You might afear the sea,
And climb up far above,
But high as you may be,
If once you miss a step and fall
You will fall deeper into love,
Then hadn’t you climbed at all.
But love is not the fall,
No – no – not at all,
The ocean is your love,
Are you a fish, or dove?
Jan 13, 2019
Jan 13, 2019 at 12:44 AM UTC