"strews" poems
Outside the miner's shack Joshua trees stand silent vigil,
expecting his imminent return, or perhaps his ghost.
Horn silver, weathered by rainwater from volcanic rock,
no longer strews fallow ground to lure the miner back.
In lieu, small succulents feed tortoise and jackrabbit,
replace the metal which only men could value.
Nevada gains a confluence of life in the exchange,
dry-lake flora and fauna bartered for chlorargyrite.
Barren mountains surround this desolation,
where nothing more than fungi lie in vapid dissipation
before the relentless punishment of the sun,
a lattice-work of valleys dissecting their *****
I ventured here to purge my body of poisons,
exhale the vapors and biles of city living,
to rid the alien presence in my mitochondria,
and let it go the way of Silver State.
Feb 19, 2012
Feb 19, 2012 at 11:58 PM UTC
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
A pour of liquid upon the sky
hollows around the city
flickering unknowing lights
as she stands on the corner
A fantasy strews in my mind
with walls painted to emblaze
floors swarming with haze
Red on her lips
A tense that lures my eyes
reaching the inside-out
tangled in a state of enmity
as I wade in serendipity
nobody asked me how I feel
the fact she was never even real
We tag around the maze
I baffle between truth and fake
boundless as we kissed
Breathtaking, filled with bliss
A perfection I'll never miss
But twas a treacherous crime
And thankfully I woke up in time
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 8:59 PM UTC
On winter nights beside the nursery fire
We read the fairy tale, while glowing coals
Builded its pictures. There before our eyes
We saw the vaulted hall of traceried stone
Uprear itself, the distant ceiling hung
With pendent stalactites like frozen vines;
And all along the walls at intervals,
Curled upwards into pillars, roses climbed,
And ramped and were confined, and clustered leaves
Divided where there peered a laughing face.
The foliage seemed to rustle in the wind,
A silent murmur, carved in still, gray stone.
High pointed windows pierced the southern wall
Whence proud escutcheons flung prismatic fires
To stain the tessellated marble floor
With pools of red, and quivering green, and blue;
And in the shade beyond the further door,
Its sober squares of black and white were hid
Beneath a restless, shuffling, wide-eyed mob
Of lackeys and retainers come to view
The Christening.
A sudden blare of trumpets, and the throng
About the entrance parted as the guests
Filed singly in with rare and precious gifts.
Our eager fancies noted all they brought,
The glorious, unattainable delights!
But always there was one unbidden guest
Who cursed the child and left it bitterness.
The fire falls asunder, all is changed,
I am no more a child, and what I see
Is not a fairy tale, but life, my life.
The gifts are there, the many pleasant things:
Health, wealth, long-settled friendships, with a name
Which honors all who bear it, and the power
Of making words obedient. This is much;
But overshadowing all is still the curse,
That never shall I be fulfilled by love!
Along the parching highroad of the world
No other soul shall bear mine company.
Always shall I be teased with semblances,
With cruel impostures, which I trust awhile
Then dash to pieces, as a careless boy
Flings a kaleidoscope, which shattering
Strews all the ground about with coloured shards.
So I behold my visions on the ground
No longer radiant, an ignoble heap
Of broken, dusty glass. And so, unlit,
Even by hope or faith, my dragging steps
Force me forever through the passing days.
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∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
Sometimes
(Just like these days)
When my heart
sang a placid song
the speaking brooks
meanders my soul
Wild hounds
hovered the meadows
And the sky was blue
ethereal as the billow
strews in shades anew
For Daybreak
is awake
On the fields
of glowing weeds
a subtle flower blooms
through the breeze
And to thee,
it kisses the gentle mist
Oh! what a Morning
Oh! what a day
When trees glistens
from beams
of never ending sun rays
made me so gay
so yes, it can be.
Sometimes
(Just like these days)
Like Diamonds & Gold
upon barren land
and rubies worn
by a maiden’s hand
Oh! what an Evening
Oh! what a way
When monarchs flew
from voluptuous crooks
dodging witches
and evil dukes
Callous, Treacherous
"A Foolish Irony"
might I say
but yes, it can be.
Sometimes
(Just like these days)
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 9:28 AM UTC
266
This—is the land—the Sunset washes—
These—are the Banks of the Yellow Sea—
Where it rose—or whither it rushes—
These—are the Western Mystery!
Night after Night
Her purple traffic
Strews the landing with Opal Bales—
Merchantmen—poise upon Horizons—
Dip—and vanish like Orioles!
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What do my memories taste like? There lies on my tongue—
An atomic bomb:
a purported speck, with no chicken pox skin situated upon such.
I spat it out; I wobbled on and on, stomping the microscopic intensity into the sludge.
No one sees; how pleasant…
My shoe’s underside slit it— a paper cut broiled to the infinitude degree—
Preposterous conundrum! Slam!
I fulminate! I screech, the needy baby I am!
My guttural heave strews in the wind:
deformed limbs on the newer generations, an abysmal thread.
Supposedly bland, but then: a guzzling bleed from you and I gushes on and on; but oh, was it needed!
Listen to my writhing! Soak in my curdling roaring!
I am the mafia mastermind, but I plead to guilt!
The vandalism cannot be grated, but I will
revamp, spot clean, and hunt for a vaccine.
I cannot cure a scored scar, but rest assured:
I will endeavor to solidify the clot.
Aug 29, 2020
Aug 29, 2020 at 4:31 PM UTC
Our footsteps echo through ancient halls,
where here is everywhere
and every time is now.
Caesar’s twin-edged conquests are our own
as is Brutus’s fickle knife
and Marc Anthony’s cunning speech.
Plague steals across our Europe
like a remorseless highwayman -
rosies all ringed and falling down.
We wait in Wien's Kärntnertor theater
for Schiller’s An die Freude
to shine anew in Beethoven’s score
and are ushered in at Menlo Park
where Edison's tungsten faintly glows.
Tomorrow will bring sun to the night.
There's Jonas Salk at his microscope.
One more test will crack the code
to banish polio's scourge.
But nature’s caprice strews logs on our roads.
We are dashed by a Tsunami’s rage.
Katrina’s torrents have swallowed our homes.
Prides of warriors wade rivers of blood
and Darfur bullets tear into our chests.
Nuclear Toys ‘R Us shelves are fully stocked.
We are the heirs of each triumph and treachery.
We grasp the keys to tomorrow.
What have we done? What must we do?
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 5:35 AM UTC
A lonely god
sits and waits
for dust
to rise like
smoke.
A weaver threads
his loom of life
with spun gold:
a glorious
display --
a sower strews
his seeds by hand;
mother earth lets them
take root.
The phoenix rises
from the ash,
all aflame
and feathers red.
And still the
lonely god does wait
for breath to take
and keep him
company.
Aug 30, 2011
Aug 30, 2011 at 1:41 PM UTC
Adam and Eve
Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams
And our desires. Although she strews the leaves
Of sure obliteration on our paths, ...
--from Wallace Stevens' "Sunday Morning"
In Eden fair did Adam and Eve
live in perfect harmony.
"No plant or animal devoureth we,
only ripe fruit as falls from the tree."
By bright-green lily-pads in sphagnum bogs
the herons waded gracefully,
bullfrogs croaked their deep, clear calls;
bluebells, delicate yellow buttercups
were rampant; larks sang in the mulberries.
"No pain or hunger knew we there,
only the sameness of Eden fair."
Even the bounty, the beauty, the civility,
the rich perfection, stretching out like the wall
of the great oval garden, day after day,
year after year to eternity,
grew tiresome.
"No shame in our nakedness knew we ...
nor lust, nor desire, nor carnality."
It's the exogamous, the unfamiliar,
which stirs in us the deepest passion,
the basso continuo of mortality
which gives to desire its piquancy
--of which they knew nothing in deathless Eden.
"We wanted to look outside the wall.
We didn't mean from God's grace to fall."
Their lack of control, their disrespect
invited tragedy....
But to deny what one feels,
to deny what one is
is to risk even greater calamity....
"God expelled us from the Garden.
Now we'll know death and all that's human."
Discord ... despair.... Are you better off?
Coaxing grain from the cracked, parched earth?
Maybe you paid too much for your freedom?...
Maybe you wish you were back in the Garden?...
"There be good inside the Garden;
there be good outside....
There is no perfect Eden."
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 7:28 PM UTC
This morning, I dream of a birch tree bench
upon which she strews jars of sea glass,
filled with blues and greens or something inbetween.
Sunlight shifting like prismarine snakeskin,
shed where sky meets eye, dyes the white wood underneath
in bisecting lines that ripple and breathe.
Thumbing at sea glass, I see her smile, circa redress,
in a pile of polaroids passed over the wood by
hands neither she nor I possess.
And then I see me, my head leaned into hers,
two gray trees grown too free. Hairs tangle and end
centimeters from the edge of the bed.
We look
together.
That’s when I cry.
Beneath two trees planted too close,
below silver halide wiping blue and green from her eyes,
in black ink that's yet to dry, she leaves a note
that I can’t read
because
this is a dream
and we were the lie.
May 30, 2018
May 30, 2018 at 9:56 AM UTC
Part I: The Elegy of the ******
O we all hail from the pits of ashes, coals, and tar
And crawled out from the crater, of that northern cold star
All ye heart’s wish is to stand in the pope’s grand pulpit
All souls unknowingly swindled, ye vainly submit!
Then, if apes be to humans and humans be to gods;
Unto stones we spit out our apostasies and sobs
We strip our skins to this detestable madness,
From darkness once lurked, we go back with ill fondness
So we adorn ourselves with profane golden idols
On our hands, feet, and neck; to cover our vile souls
And ye stab thine own neighbor, to fulfill thine own ploys
Thou hath betrayed thyself, for that thirty silver coins
As a putrefied heart turn to a hardened stone,
So it breaks into dust, as gusts of shame strews it alone
Woe to me! How do I redeem my lost poor soul?
If the wroth Maker hath already taken my toll
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 4:55 AM UTC
what could she say for me to lose you ... ?
i'm in a war against keep
fighting an army of loose truth
& if you win, who loses ?
& if you lose, do I approve blue ?
it isn't sane for me to choose clues
over an ocean of proved truth
what do I lose if I lose you ?
all of my come-trues
have become you
& if you lose me, do you lose ?
I'm not this someone to hold onto
we can expand views if you choose to
open a window or your mouth
either will do
not to confuse strews with don't do's
I am through with all this proving
I'm a wanter wanting all of you
ensuing all this sousing
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 5:02 PM UTC
When morose cloud mourns
why it showers heavy rains
it sheds tears of melancholy
to me why it hurts and pains
when the uncle sun is furious
why it excretes red fireballs
its heat scorches all creators
every one prays for rainfalls
when stars glimmer in darkness
why their smile is so ecstatic
avid children behold them fervently
since naughty smile is so fantastic
when aunt moon shines at night
why it strews hue of its moonlight
cosmos is enthusiastic to shower
and enjoys an amazing delight
when the flowers bloom in valley
why they tempt with its fragrance
all creatures dance enthusiastically
and adore its eternal perseverance
when bumble-bee kisses a flower
it falls in love and gathers honey
then jocular bumble-bee flies away
but their love story is so funny
when nature has blessed us all
with so beautiful and catchy gifts
why it happens that human life
takes so many turns and twists
(By Kishan Negi)
Dec 25, 2016
Dec 25, 2016 at 3:35 AM UTC
A house of cards since torn apart
And spirits broke before restarting.
A crow, whose ****** circles fast
Smells decay now from afar.
The marrow picked, and bleed, once tasted,
Fills the guts of those who've stuffed.
And fumbled in a greasy til
And still want more.
Insatiable. Craven.
Now rats who race to break the bones
Do hurry and scurry to survey these heaps,
All corners kept
quietly
questioning Questioning,
Festering, Venturing
these treacherous tendencies.
What once caused irk
now drives berserk
in shadows lurk acquiescent clerks.
Whose duteous work,
Cloyed wolves 'mongst herds,
venerate without exertion.
Can't *** the plants to break enchantment.
Now rubble strews the once green pastures,
Serpentine, exiled from gardens,
This concrete tomb, once womb of Gaea.
How barren plains once bloomed; need rain.
Her balding dusty broken frame
Now chokes with hate for beast with brain
Who slash deep wounds in soft terrain
Contempt, with only glutenous gain.
They reign.
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 10:17 PM UTC
"Where did you go ? " he asked
"In your album", she replied. " you're the collector , aren't you?
" you collect everything:
Sunsets, clouds, melting snow
Falling stars, shadows,
fireflies in jars
butterflies in nets
feelings,
hurts, regrets
loves
lovers ........
You throw a hook and cut a slice out of them, for keepsake
and render them useless,
like clipped nails....
and then you preserve them
mummified and exalted like they were never when alive
each sentiment, pickled in the brine of your words
each encounter , framed and hung in the museum of "could haves"
But I,
I am the soil.
I can never collect!
I only renew.
I drizzle rain of tears and draw minerals out of my darkest depths
I soak in everything that the cosmos strews at me
I shed the leaves of expectations at each fall
and let my pain rot to fertilize my womb
I nurture and protect hope,
so that it grows, blossoms, gives fruit.
I many not have anything to show
for what I've been through,
like you....
but the birds come back to sing
in me. "
Arshia
21.4.16
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 9:30 PM UTC
Siesta, angelic music
strews holy words in my ears
draws them on the front and the back
in relief in the auricles. Am I dozing
or has someone awakened
the flowers? I lie so comfortably
in the sun, safe in the green
field, my face blushes blue
from the royal chalice between my legs
the flowers just laugh and sing
The work is done, yes I doze
of holiness
Apr 23, 2021
Apr 23, 2021 at 5:12 AM UTC
Roses sing their colours
loud with joy.
as she walks around the garden,
St Therese strews her promise,
"to send roses from heaven"
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 9:39 AM UTC