"swampland" poems
The air is burly
trees harvest soldiers on the line
combines, threads, manure, life--
A whole world lost amidst the flats
Saplings are the next season's
Almonds, Apples, Dates,
Waiting for food shelves and stockrooms
packed in banana boxes and given a place
They will find the plates of capitol city dwellers
They will be engorged far away from their origins
The Sierra-- oh the great plutonic mass
They are grey from age, peppered with white whiskers of snow
They are asking to be known as the interior
Pilgrims who traveled over their spines, seeking these fertile swampland
Now airstrips and dirigibles
The edges of clouds on the valley, the deserts and the mountains like folds of a book
they crackle in the sun and the skin of the earth shrinks in its gaze
Migratory birds dance in the fields, the lowly clang of bell
Bleached american flags tell us this is the land
The land of things and endless breadth
This is only California, but the majesty of it
a gem valley encased by the rocks, in silicates
A roaming place for cows, wanderers, farmers, dreams
Where the only edge of things is the mountains, saying
-Climb me, surmount me, lay me under your deeds-
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 12:26 PM UTC
Men with picked voices chant the names
of cities in a huge gallery: promises
that pull through descending stairways
to a deep rumbling.
The rubbing feet
of those coming to be carried quicken a
grey pavement into soft light that rocks
to and fro, under the domed ceiling,
across and across from pale
earthcolored walls of bare limestone.
Covertly the hands of a great clock
go round and round! Were they to
move quickly and at once the whole
secret would be out and the shuffling
of all ants be done forever.
A leaning pyramid of sunlight, narrowing
out at a high window, moves by the clock:
disaccordant hands straining out from
a center: inevitable postures infinitely
repeated—
two—twofour—twoeight!
Porters in red hats run on narrow platforms.
This way ma’am!
—important not to take
the wrong train!
Lights from the concrete
ceiling hang crooked but—
Poised horizontal
on glittering parallels the dingy cylinders
packed with a warm glow—inviting entry—
pull against the hour. But brakes can
hold a fixed posture till—
The whistle!
Not twoeight. Not twofour. Two!
Gliding windows. Colored cooks sweating
in a small kitchen. Taillights—
In time: twofour!
In time: twoeight!
—rivers are tunneled: trestles
cross oozy swampland: wheels repeating
the same gesture remain relatively
stationary: rails forever parallel
return on themselves infinitely.
The dance is sure.
1.9k
Men with picked voices chant the names
of cities in a huge gallery: promises
that pull through descending stairways
to a deep rumbling.
The rubbing feet
of those coming to be carried quicken a
grey pavement into soft light that rocks
to and fro, under the domed ceiling,
across and across from pale
earthcolored walls of bare limestone.
Covertly the hands of a great clock
go round and round! Were they to
move quickly and at once the whole
secret would be out and the shuffling
of all ants be done forever.
A leaning pyramid of sunlight, narrowing
out at a high window, moves by the clock:
disaccordant hands straining out from
a center: inevitable postures infinitely
repeated—
two—twofour—twoeight!
Porters in red hats run on narrow platforms.
This way ma’am!
—important not to take
the wrong train!
Lights from the concrete
ceiling hang crooked but—
Poised horizontal
on glittering parallels the dingy cylinders
packed with a warm glow—inviting entry—
pull against the hour. But brakes can
hold a fixed posture till—
The whistle!
Not twoeight. Not twofour. Two!
Gliding windows. Colored cooks sweating
in a small kitchen. Taillights—
In time: twofour!
In time: twoeight!
—rivers are tunneled: trestles
cross oozy swampland: wheels repeating
the same gesture remain relatively
stationary: rails forever parallel
return on themselves infinitely.
The dance is sure.
1.6k
I returned to the place
where I use to escape
from the pedestrian affairs
of life in suburbia.
Many nights spent
collapsed on the pavement
swapping humdrum stories
of teenage angst.
It was the end of a road
just north of town
with nothing but swampland
in two directions.
Far enough away
from the sprawl of the city
to understand quiet
without getting lost.
An abundance of stars
made us feel insignificant
and the freedom of isolation
gave us confidence and strength.
It was balanced and beautiful
like we were, back then,
just the right amount
of elation and confusion.
So then it was silly, I guess
for me to expect
that a place like that
would still be the same.
It's a strip mall now,
sleek and amalgamated
and the unkempt sawgrass
replaced with pigmented mulch.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 12:48 AM UTC
Take me away on a lily pad boat
Push it away from the shore
Let the current catch us and carry us downstream
I can't take this anymore.
We can dance with the frogs
And do the dragonfly waltz
Sing the kingfisher's song
And swim with the ducks
I want to forget all that's gone wrong.
I'll only weep in the shade,
In the company of the willows
Never again will I have to cry alone
And I'll float like a feather
In the cool summer breeze
And leave all the lives I have known.
I can sway with the reeds in a little rockpool
Let the seaweed tangle in my hair
Let the sand become my skin
And replace my eyes with shells
I'll let this water replace my air.
The mud at the bottom of this babbling brook is thick
And it's urging me further, tugging at my feet
I'm too tired for this, I can't fight it anymore...
Whoever said death could be sweet?
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 10:56 AM UTC
In dark and dreary Georgia swampland , in the midnight hour with the light of the Moon as your only friend .. Yellow and red eyes glow in the shadows , cottonmouths and gators slowly cross the waters ...
Bullfrogs sing in the Cattails , Horned Owls screech across the timberlands .. Bobcats scream , sound just like a woman late at night ,
they'll catch you off guard every time , make your beard turn white from fright ..Mosquitos are relentless , the humidity hell , blood ******* leeches , brown bats and rabid foxes .. Wild hogs work the bogs left and right , don't ever get caught by a razorback without a good plan or corner a 'Coon' by accident , kick a Snapper thinking it's just a rock , or pick up a Rattlesnake looking for a walkin' stick .. Rumors of black panthers and 'shine wild men ', Confederate soldier ghost and quicksand .. Always lay a trail from where you started are you'll spend all night in haunted , Georgia swamp country ...
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 10:35 PM UTC
It was one of those things past the human eye they keep in a jar before you.
In a tent close to your desires like a sideshow of your mind, on the outskirts until memory fails
of a little, drowsy town by the light of the moon. One of those pale things between the ugly and the beautiful, drifting in alcohol plasma drowning in confusion. Forever dreaming and circling fingers around your mind with its peeled dead eyes staring out at you and never seeing you. It went with the noiselessness of late night to sneak into your thoughts and only the crickets chirping its dead eyes fluttering,the frogs sobbing off in the moist swampland being eaten alive by the pain. One of those things inside you and me in a big jar on a shelf hidden from you that makes your stomach drop in anticipation as it does when you see a preserved arm beyond, taunting, in a laboratory vat underneath your skin. Charlie stared back at it in spite the pain it causes, for a long time. Amid the blur.
Molly
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 10:44 AM UTC
the sun shot with an arrow, bleeds out
blotting the sky with red
running up the blood-stained stairs
hairs raising, hell-raising
your feet racing
a stampede, a cacophony of undead
crazing, blazing
groans groping your tail
fire-breathing zombies
a glitch in the matrix
déjà vu
me behind you
in a floor of mutants
high up in the tower
they overun, overpower
i'm hit, bit
i die on the ground
and watch you crash into the glass
and freefall
explosions on your back
supernova attack
you, a reverse icarus,
the sun on your back
falling, a comet,
destination certain,
curtain of darkness
a dream within a dream
gigantic war machines on the horizon
indigo sky, devil angels cry
it's the end of the world
awakening, i see
ancient swampland ruin
trudging through the green river
i see kids skipping on stones
and they lead me to a fountain of bones
and a black horse in its reflection
i see you behind the doric column
i reach out and call your name
but you walk right through me
and so i weep in the fountain
and from the blackened waters
i find an arrow
which i place in my bow
to bleed out the sun
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 8:16 AM UTC
Wisdom of an Aged Ally
Carry my archaeological parchment around this historical site of future predictions, where the
tombs of Anubis are a scent of confusion amidst this welcomed display of harlotry.
Blues music may be ****** as she communicates her utmost intensities with sensual hatred.
However, I have driven through canyons of ****** and violent fantasy, where the abyss is shallow and neighbourly death is sold to huntsmen who are vagrants upon the rail-road tracks of collusion.
Just think about that for a second.
Who are the hunters among us in this echoing swampland of sophistication?
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 1:32 AM UTC
The girl with the empty eyes
Is really just shattered inside
She’ll sew together her broken heart
But it no matter how hard she tries it will just fall apart
She’ll glue the pieces of her soul
But she can never make it whole
Bullied and accused
For defying your ****** up and broken views
She’s dying
And she’s crying
And she’s lying
Cause she tells us she’s fine
But she’s not
Cause she’s dying
The boy with the sad smile
Feels like he’s in exile
His dad left long ago
And his mom is never home
He cries himself to sleep at night
Because he’s tired of this endless fight
You tell him to drown his demons
And to arm himself with weapons
But his limbs are so **** tired
And he’s all to uninspired
To continue in this life
These two
And too many more
Have to fight
A broken fight
Have to live
A broken life
And your best advice
Is to sew on a smile
Because psychology says that that’s worth their while
They're stronger than you
Whether you like it or not
And unless you can understand
The constant fear
And reprimand
Of their life
You won't stop
And soon you’ll find
Their blood
Is on your hands too
And you’ll realise
This demand
Of societies homeland
Turns peoples life to a swampland
Of bland perfection
And to those
Who can't check the boxes of these messed up questions
Remember that your life
Is not for their inspection
It’s to teach others lessons
It’s to make an impression
It’s to find your purpose
And know that no matter what you are worth it
This life is worth it
And If you forget all of this yet
At least remember this noise
My voice
Telling you
To stay alive
To open your eyes
To recognize that when the day is done
You are the one that has won
I know You’re put in a ring
And you’re demons are who you’re fighting
But you have to know
That even though
The bets are placed
And the odds are low
You can still put on a show
You are stronger
Than you believe
And I know you can fight
Or at least fight alongside me
Because you are not alone
We are not alone
We are together
Stronger than our foes
And we can win
In this broken world
We can win this broken fight.
Mar 22, 2018
Mar 22, 2018 at 9:42 AM UTC
My mind is a swamp.
Sometimes there is daylight. The Sun illuminates the murky green water. The color glows like a neon ember. An almost steam lifts off the bog, as if the water is ablaze. You may see all of nature then and admire each blade of sawgrass.
And then there are nights. Moonlight bathing insects who scream far in the distance but seemingly all around you. Some tiny being you can’t see plunges into the water with a plop.
The eyes of a crocodile peaks above the waterline. Is it looking at you? Fear, you can’t tell. The pungent smells are animalistic. You don’t belong here.
Or do you? Only another native of the swampland could stay here.
You wade into the dark waters. Unsure how deep it goes. What creatures slither beneath.
To see if you’ll float among the cattails. Lily pads cover your face and moss decorates your body. You’ll float here forever.
Or sink, to lie at the bottom in permanence. A mummified vessel where algae and minnows call home.
Oct 6, 2024
Oct 6, 2024 at 1:25 AM UTC
I listen to the coiled out words
Of the viper-tongued miscreants
Placating the willing to walk along
In Involuntary servitude as in a trance
Zombies of the evil spells that liars spin
Where sparks of dissent are overwhelmed
deep deep down
in those murky depths of the swampland
By those willing ...robed in anonymity ...
... tasked with the responsibility.
..of burning down ....the entire world
if we all ....don't accede
To their will....
....obeying all things they do demand.
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 1:25 PM UTC
With beaten sails we take to a south wind,
Letting lifted air carry our hearts
Towards something closer to love.
Rose petals fall from ivy-covered walls
Her smile shines like Sirius
I can’t help but smile back
The gravitationality of it all
We can get ****** and drive thru a Krispy Crème
Glazed doughnuts in our eyes and maybe laugh for the first time in ever
I cannot tell how long that’s been
The days get shorter and the leaves fall like soldiers
Sky hums cobalt in a winter coat,
There will come a time where I will call and you won’t answer
Was einst war, ist nun tot
I keep pulling from the green days and you stare
starry eyed at
Cubic Zirconia on Sunset Boulevard
As we bid bon voyage
Drifting Kuiper belt objects
Parsecs away.
The pulp turns to mush in spring and pigs feast on the ****
I have to get away or get swallowed by swords
You tell me it’s the only way
I smell burnt treads
Your sweat lingers on the nose differently
And your face turns in anger
I’m too tired to try and talk anything out of it.
A toad flops through the backyard mud
And I think of a time when this was swampland
And getting to work meant
Bringing a machete
To dice your way through old paper trails.
It’s okay.
The road is meant for old shoes
And high heels have no tact on gravel.
I will break the rubber under my footfalls
searching for it.
Jan 4, 2018
Jan 4, 2018 at 3:41 PM UTC
Sometimes being drain we have to crawl till we can walk.
Sometimes we have to go through the swampland here.
To get to the dry land that we are searching for here.
Sometimes we have to go through prisons here on earth.
To reach the promise land that we been searching for.
Because only through the hard things here on the earth.
We will only understand God in our live here on the earth.
Though all of his protection, blessings, and his Goodness.
For only through the bad times here can we see Gods Goodness.
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 1:37 PM UTC