"thornton" poems
Iron bench, open sore
dragon rock, three in score
flesh on body, tortured soul
arms high, in hell's hole
Corner bulb, neon light
drake hotel, second flight
jolly pop, rizla plus
open flame, behind the bus
Broken fixtures, tully hat
channel swimmer, at the bat
blind alley, words of cuss
dealer waving, in a fuss
Grim reaper, boys in blue
super bee, armored shrew
****** sips, swollen glands
potpourri, on demand
Black death, huddler's arch
beat the cold, and summer parch
toothless grin, ****** glare
obituary, to be shared
Dead of night, decontrol
cheeva tar, black coal
east central, chinatown
mr. freeze, is coming down
Foot soldier, skidder row
chicken feed, and white blow
silver spoon, casted hand
demons surface, on demand
Frantic sounds, below the glass
poison waiting, to be passed
crack pipes, over coat
bodies flat, begin to float
Gospel sounds, from union square
friends gather, deep in prayer
guardian angels, now deployed
thornton park, without a void
Covenant house, in holy charm
welcomes all, with open arms
salvation spreads, on chapel row
kindness that, cannot be sold
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 5:36 PM UTC
Passover Moon's
****** hue
eclipses
the ordinary
in veils of
miraculousness
obscure
rouge
halos
illume
elliptical arcs
guiding
footsteps in
a righteous
exodus
across
troubling
waters
forsaking
hovels
with
painted
doorjambs
dripping
lambs blood
Mezuzahs
bleat
memories
holy
murmurs
bespeaking
lamentations
of ancient
hosannas
our
desperate
supplications
flesh out a
distressed
humanity
seeking
deliverance
from the
vengeance
is mine
Elohim
may it
be nigh
we wait
watching for
an always faithful
Good Deliverer
to honor the
covenant
to lift
despair
with a
liberating
yoke
lugging
leaden
burdens
Oh Holy
of
Holies
banished
in the wisp
of a bitter herb
our
distended
bellies
fill with
unleavened
grace
sweet
droplets
of manna
consumed
with extreme
gratitude
arriving
at journeys
end to
promised
lands
fully
satiated
and free
to rest in
sanctuaries
of radical
hospitality
luxuriating
in an infinite
abundance
for all
sojourners
Selah
Music Selection:
Big Mama Thornton
Go Down Moses
Oakland
4/15/14
jbm
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
A Summers Morn (Robert Thornton) 2012
On clear and bright sweet summer's morn
all hint of darkness past.
where glistening spray of dew drops form
resplendently on grass.
And scented rush of flower in bloom
awakened by sunlight,
steers heart and soul away from gloom
and fills them with delight.
Where wondrous song of birds in trees
like church bells ring out loud,
and sun-drenched pasture once in seed
boast stems so tall and proud.
And shimmering haze of golden rays
cascade twixt every branch,
who's sleepy leaves, on gentle breeze
partake in fleeting dance.
Grey squirrels dash from tree to tree
their bushy tails held high,
and honey bees in troops of three
set sail with dragon fly.
Where trickling sound of nearby stream
breaks silence from the still,
that weaves it's route to stem and shoot
from nature's grand refill.
And winding path that snakes through dale
with stone-wall as its vein,
such well-trod ground that tells its tale
in footprints that remain.
The ageless glory of a summer's day
in all its majesty,
A special miracle in every way
For all eternity.
End.
Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 11:03 AM UTC
You were a thorned rose; placed onto a rotting grave,
who made even death;
seem beautiful with grace.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
That climbing ratitude
In nightly interlude
And moral turpitude
Eats all the birdy-food
(I haven’t thought up an appropriate amphimacer [yes, I had to look that up] “ude” rhyme for the destruction of a bird feeder, but if I do it will go here)
Thus shows his gratitude
Oh! What an attitude!
I speak with acritude
Thus ends this platitude
For the true adventures of Billy Possum, see Thornton W. Burgess’ wonderful Mother West Wind stories.
Thanks to L.B. for a correction - Mr. B's possum is Billy, not Johnny. No wonder Billy sometimes hisses!
Mar 10, 2019
Mar 10, 2019 at 3:20 PM UTC
the Florida sun and i
baked your memory
into the bricks of Winter Park
i built a home for you
amidst the concrete and stucco
off Mills and Thornton Avenue
outside a crowded little tea-house
we'd read our poetry out front
to choruses of snapping fingers
well after dark
before driving aimlessly
through Orlando streets
with a melancholy soundtrack
keeping us fixed firmly apart
i'd lay my hand like a fallen palm frond
well within your reach
praying to a god i don't believe in
that you'd tease the ink staining my wrists
with your pinprick fingertips
i remember when we
sat beneath the pine trees
i tried to look into your eyes
but the windswept clouds
drifted listlessly
and for a moment
i was blinded
i could've sworn that there
were constellations
where your
irises ought to be
a nebulous Andromeda
hurtling eternally
so send me a sign
through earthquakes
and light-waves
that i don't belong here
pining
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 11:33 PM UTC
I first saw it a month before he died,
When we took my father on
A drive through his high school town.
Thornton
We listened to the Shirelles
On the way, driving through vineyards
And dusty dirt roads. In Thornton,
Grapevines wither because it is cold,
The December ice too fresh, too biting
For their youthful leaves, and they die,
Brokenhearted for the flight of youth and sun.
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 7:05 PM UTC
I love you boo
And you love me too.
But we can't make it through.
Let's stop playing eachother for fools
We need to make it through.
One way or the other we will have eachother.
Just not as lovers.
We have kids so we will see one another.
But in some crazy way
Your my Roy Thornton
In my modern day bonnie and clyde love storie.
Don't ever fear because your love will be here.
You will always be our number 1.
From now Till forever.
Your kids will always love yea.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 5:33 PM UTC
you recite the
lord's prayer
but i don't
hear a
messiah
whispering in
my skull
you read me
lines from *the
Dhammapada*
but i do not
care for the
Buddha's boorish
proverbs and
tired truisms
i can only
focus on the
inflection
in your voice
when you pause
in the space
between words
i can't see you smile
but i can hear you
catching your
breath as heat
spreads across
your cheeks and
you free slick fingers
from wet pink flesh
you're burning in
the poems you
read at a secluded
café on Thornton
silhouetted by light
like a beacon of hope
a lighthouse guiding
me back home
your words are
the rope i
knot about
my throat
kick the chair
beneath my feet
and leave me
d
a
n
g
l
i
n
g
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 7:50 PM UTC
THE OLD LIVING LARK
"I like being dead me!"
he says.
"Much better than that living lark!"
he says.
"What I like is the complete absence of time."
he says.
"Or the way time collapses in on itself."
he says.
"Or all time happens at the same time?"
he says.
"Look out the window. See..?"
he says.
"A Roman Legion being chased by a dinosaur!"
he says.
"...in a hover car!"
he says.
"Wonders will never cease!"
he says.
"And that dinosaur...can't even drive!"
he says.
"It all gets a bit Thornton Wilder-ish!"
he says.
"But I shouldn't be saying this to you!"
he says.
"Not while you're not dead yet!"
he says.
"Or say you escape by the skin of your teeth!"
he says.
"And don't die at all!"
he says.
"I'm dying..?"
I say.
"You could call it that."
he says.
"And what are you...a ghost?"
I say.
"Naw mate...didn't get my ghosting licence!"
he says.
"Failed it every time!"
he says.
"I'm here to help you cross!"
he says.
"Aww mate...don't you go and live on me!"
he says.
"I'll catch hell for this!"
he says.
"Sorry..!"
I say.
"Sorry! Sorry you says!"
he says.
And fades.
And life fades
back in again.
"Well..." I say to myself
"...it's back to the old living lark!"
Nov 10, 2019
Nov 10, 2019 at 5:55 AM UTC
A Song of Lehman
Me: Just listen to my reasoning.
David: Oh God.
Me: Continuing our daily conversation; listen, our poem is prayed from common mouths but does that make our rightness any more meaningful even if it comes from Kristen's Good Place?
David: I feel you. Microphone checking our heart: 1,2,1,2; what night is this? Nothing beats nothing.
Me: X-mouth, foh sure. Men at work? More tongues from your lips? I'm X-mouth, foh sure; far from a path of pathology!
Come on! Step in with me, or maybe I should step off to pass.
Call, listen, move; it's stay the same game, hear it? It's the same holler, it's the same collar. Feel our words?
Big mamma hands us a Thornton, makes us moan and cry, makes us mourners mourning against them others in the fields still fighting.
If I die David, would you save my single Odin eye, and leave her under the crow's wing to claim the hated dead around me?
David: Shuck our fat mouth and throw away that proud husk;
She stalks our steps now with fellen eyes, like a lion hidden, waiting to tear a byte us.
I say meet her half way, at least wake up and throw her a bone; maybe give her our life with a sword.
In my hands, my flesh, my men, my women of the world, we part our lives, part our flesh and fill them with treasures. We hide there. We happy children coming from and inheriting privilege places.
Me: Facetime me David. I would be so happy if we were right in our picture too!
Jul 26, 2019
Jul 26, 2019 at 11:21 AM UTC
Well, okay, it’s out there in the back yard
Where on display you’ll see: old boonie hats
Uncool, but good when working in the heat
And cotton khakis from the discount store
Just washed, and drying in the summer sun
Admired by every Merry Little Breeze 1
Skivvies and socks sewn in Cambodia
And work shirts stitched together in Viet-Nam
Nothing by Versace or Calvin Klein
Just old clothes drying on the old clothes line
1 Thornton W. Burgess’ Mother West Wind stories
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 1:44 PM UTC
She was a red head
wearing a red dress
smoking a cigarette
sipping her coffee.
You were
sitting beside her
black suit
blue shirt
black tie
holding a cigarette
between fingers.
I think he suspects
she said.
Suspects what?
You said.
That I'm seeing
someone else.
You took a drag
on the smoke
does he suspect who?
You said.
Not yet
but he will fish
and get to find out.
She inhaled smoke
and looked at the guy
behind the counter
serving another man
along the bar.
Let him fish
I don't give a ****
you said.
Maybe we should
go off together
she said.
Go where?
You said.
Anywhere
as long as it's
away from him
she said
turning
to look at you.
I ain't going
no where
you said
if you want
to leave the ****
come to my place
he won't find you there
and if he does
he'll have me
to see him off.
She looked away
and inhaled smoke again.
He has a temper
and a gun
she said
exhaling smoke
as she spoke.
Up to you Honey
take it or leave it
I don't run no place
you said.
The jukebox
started up
some Elvis guy singing.
She sat silent
moodily gazing
at her mug of coffee.
I'll see how he goes
she said
can't leave just yet
see you tomorrow
afternoon?
Sure
you said
you bet.
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 3:01 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
Dispatches for the Colonial Office
Springtime’s Laughing Rhymes
A Merry Little Breeze, an allergen sneeze
Happy little children among the bees
The always fresh challenge to rhyme with moon
Perhaps noon? Spoon? Croon? Loon? Swoon? Bare feet?
Bare feet?
Bare feet! How neat! A grassy-tickly treat!
And Mama calls out, “Now where are your shoes?”
“Oh, we left them in church on the back-row pews!”
“Just wait ‘til I tell your father that news!”
(Giggling)
“And where are your socks?”
“Inside with the clocks!”
“That makes no sense!”
“Gimme three pence!”
A Merry Little Breeze, an allergen sneeze
And beneath the trees a little world at ease
[Merry Little Breezes – cf. Thornton W. Burgess’ Mother West Wind stories]
May 1, 2025
May 1, 2025 at 10:16 AM UTC