"towered" poems
He was the Gentle Giant,
His voice was like soft thunder.
His Hands, strong enough to lift up the fallen,
Yet gentle enough to hold the smallest child.
He was the Gentle Giant,
His children were yours and mine.
He towered over them with great height,
And cast a shadow of deep love.
He was the Gentle Giant,
His face chiseled from stone,
His outward appearance intimidating,
But his heart was molded from pure gold.
He was the Gentle Giant,
And sometimes giants fall,
But in his wake he left
Waves of love to last for generations.
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 9:28 AM UTC
steaming hot water scoured
my thoughts away in the shower
above the demons I towered
until their insults were too dour
and while I thought I possessed more power
I found myself wither and cower
next, Bright red bloomed a flower
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 9:19 PM UTC
His fingers wrapped tightly
Around the little hand
Of the sleeping child in his arms.
His eyes traced the silhouette
Of pursed lips to fattened cheeks
And he thought to himself,
"How does something so wonderful exist?"
He listened to the gentle rasp of breath
And watched the slight rise and fall of chest.
His eye soaked up the sight
Of the bundle of unconditional love he held.
And soon dreams of future adventures
And tales and fables and stories
And daily life monotony
Played like a movie before him,
Drawing a single tear of hope from his eye.
All too soon the child stirred and woke
And jumped up and shouted with glee.
And he returned from sentiment to reality
And made breakfast with a cup of tea
Wishing for more moments like these
Because he finally understood his father's word:
Time passes too quickly when it comes to love.
And when his hand paused over the kettle
And his eyes glazed over with this vague thought,
A small hand touched his arm with "Papa?"
Little eyes took in the strength of character
That towered as a model for a future life;
Little eyes that never strayed too long from
Watching and learning all the things Papa did;
Little eyes that now began to see
There's always another side to every thing,
For with great abruptness
Papa looked into those little eyes
And said, "Go wash up, your hands are *****
But the glint in his eyes said,
"I love you, always."
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 7:06 PM UTC
The clouds he welcomed,
and let them play
While the sun descended
to kiss his rugged make
The winds would rage
yet come to him
as a petted bovine
tamed at whim
Like a ***** giant
stood the mountain tall,
in brooding silence
as he towered above all
Then the rains came, and
brought a stranger home
She was none like them
yet she seemed their own
In her winding bends
the mountain heard
the frenzied beats
of a heart so stirred
As the brook looked up
and the mountain down
she found calm
and him, storms found
The clouds he asked
how he could move
and mustered his will
for a measure of stoop
She looked at him
with a drowning feel
clutching at her banks
and digging in her heels
The bend showed up
like an eternal curse
carrying the aching brook
like a solemn hearse
One last time
she looked back at thee
the one she killed
in setting free
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 11:29 PM UTC
When I was thirteen, I had a running coach.
He was short, lean, and muscular.
An Italian man
with a whistle hanging around his neck,
farmer's tan, and below his black widow's peak
sat silver aviators, propped upon his shiny beak.
I ran miles and miles a day, but,
no matter how much I'd run
he never followed. He always trusted me to
stride my roads and lift my knees high
during the kick at the end of the races
against myself.
"If you want to run
you gotta drop that baggage," he'd laugh
between sips from his water bottle
as he towered over little me,
panting and red. We both stood
tall under the blazing sun.
I couldn't comprehend exactly what he meant,
I mean, I told him,
"I have ultra-light, top-of-the-line shoes,
compression shorts and athletic toes,
a hairless chest for maximum speed,
sweat running rivers down my spine,
legs that never exhaust, and,
above all, Coach,
a spirit that can move mountains." His response,
silence and a smirk.
Who was he to teach me about running?
"You're weighing yourself down boy,
you gotta drop that baggage."
It was his motto for me
every time my time would increase,
because, you see, when running,
increase is bad. Except for hills.
I can still hear his voice in my head,
"Uphill, increase exertion."
He never ran with me, he just told me to go.
He showed me the route and I did as expected,
six days a week, sometimes three miles, sometimes ten,
day after day, again and again,
shoulders hunched and me out of breath,
"runners high," they called it.
I hated running, I hated my coach,
I didn't understand why
anyone would want run to anywhere.
Not now. Now, I love it.
It has become my hobby, a specialty
for when one grows up,
your body is built for it, and your mind
has been ready to run since junior high.
It starts as a seedling, when you're barely able to walk,
and by the time your cardiovascular system
has been assaulted by packs of tobacco
and rolled marijuana, it blooms green.
That's when you realize:
Running is easy.
And coaching?
Don't even get me started on how easy that is.
Aug 17, 2012
Aug 17, 2012 at 1:12 PM UTC
In spring of youth it was my lot
To haunt of the wide world a spot
The which I could not love the less—
So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
And the tall pines that towered around.
But when the Night had thrown her pall
Upon the spot, as upon all,
And the mystic wind went by
Murmuring in melody—
Then—ah, then, I would awake
To the terror of the lone lake.
Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delight—
A feeling not the jewelled mine
Could teach or bribe me to define—
Nor Love—although the Love were thine.
Death was in that poisonous wave,
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his lone imagining—
Whose solitary soul could make
An Eden of that dim lake.
4.3k
You hit me like a wave. I drifted away, coming into the shore, and lied there with nothing but my naked eyes; the sun covered my cold, barren body. Radiating sunshine and weakness as the sea called over me, you traipsed and towered over my sight, blinding me with your ivory skin lit as the match fired the sky.
The waves in the sea squished me in like a soft linen blanket, wrapping me all over like the comfort of a mother. My hands were trembling as you stood there unmoving, and the melodies and blasphemous beats almost dug me out of my ears; I couldn’t even do anything. You were there like an angel lost in his epiphany. It was as if a goddess were in front of you; your eyes spoke as you became a slave to your own wrath, worshipping what was in front of you. You laid your eyes on me like I was some kind of song you could not decipher.
You stood there, solving the creeps and mysteries and finishing the last verse of a poem you will never read again. You hit me like a wave, and I drifted away, hoarding memories left astray. You were there, godlike and lost, and even the sun loathed your fire. You burn like a match, your skin a stain of crimson—of sunshine and weakness. You called me, but I did not answer.
It was cold, and I loathed it. Perhaps it was the month of October where the enigmas of night lay open, and achingly, my flesh was found in humiliation. I continued to bleed, on and on.
Jan 25, 2024
Jan 25, 2024 at 9:44 AM UTC
Slick grass glistened heavy
After summer showers fell before a sun
That trickled veiled toward transcendent trees
Towered on the outskirts of the demesne - It unsheathed
A pearlescent canvas for a dreamer who paints ideals;
A reader finding signs in smiles and glances
Strolling paths free of fear to free imagination;
Summoning hopes against a fresh red/orange
Backdrop, and ignoring perilous heights to cast
A thought to moments yet unlived -
This fool's masterpiece.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 8:07 AM UTC
I introduced the birds to the flock
the dove was awkward, the sparrow, excited
but the falcon towered
and the partridge left
and the starling was left to cry
with the eagle just standing by
and who, you ask, who, who am I?
I am the flamingo.
Do I belong?
Not I.
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 11:17 AM UTC
There was a Truth
in murk-settled water.
I'll sit at the surface
and remember past wrongs.
Stirred lake was below us,
the eels and a catfish,
but towered above
the sun shone down warm.
A dead masquerade,
you kicked for the surface.
Your body, it rippled
a silhouetted sky.
Dead hum underwater
our eyelids were liquid.
My jellyfish back
absorbed the tanned rays.
Ingest your diffraction,
a hunger astray.
A dry-land discov'ry:
it was my legs aflame.
The murk was in you.
The murk was in you.
Dear God, I was clean.
Dear God, I was clean.
A seat at the table
to pray for the lake.
But what does it matter?
Wash my hands to eat.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 11:46 AM UTC
Well after the conductor yelled,
“All aboard,” and well after all
of the tickets were punched;
a group of people,
who didn’t know one another
were all headed north.
Little hands turned through pages
while larger ones were cupping
at the window, trying to get
a better view of the night sky.
A farmers pasture flashed by,
but went unnoticed in the dark.
A few seats down slouched a frail
grey haired lady, with her hands
clasped around a small bouquet
of daises. And across the aisle,
towered a man who’s hands
could hold a dozen eggs.
Alone in the corner was a red
dressed woman; doing her best
to not spill her coffee. She watched
the children next to her fall
into an innocent sleep.
And ripples echoed in her fingers.
She thought about how strange it is
that everyone on a train
can be going the same direction
but have different destinations.
And then she thought about
how tired the conductor had looked.
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 12:12 AM UTC
Am I a coward?
Or am I strong?
The pain that has towered
Dealt with for so long
Yet, I'm still here
Is it because fear?
I've wanted to die
I can't help but wonder why
Why haven't I?
Do I persevere?
Life, do I hold dear?
Or am I afraid?
Of being laid
Down in a tomb?
Is it worse than my room?
So am I a coward?
Am I so weak?
Or am I strong
In the face of a life soured?
I can't help but think
About my song
The song of my life
Could it sing strength?
Somehow my knife
Shining at length
Doesn't seem to believe
I'll be remembered that way
So I would conceive
Strength isn't what people would say
When describing me
So cowardly then
Is what I must be
For not bringing my end
And I still don't know
If I'll ever go
Will I ever confide
In my suicide?
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 6:54 PM UTC
She spoke softly
His words were harsh
She trembled under his words
He towered over her like the skyscrapers
The ones that climb high up above in the big cities
Blocking those below from sunlight
Leaving an ever present shadow
Down below
She
Was in that shadow
It never left her
a. d.
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 2:08 PM UTC
There's a Revolution coming,
The boots are on the streets;
It's calling from the graves,
We're stirring from our sleep.
There's a hunger in the eyes;
The troops are on their feet.
The revolutions's coming
And the enemy won't retreat.
There's a revolution coming,
It's coming as we speak;
The revolution's coming,
It should be here next week.
The mob appeal
Is running lights,
Towered minions
Fight the fight
To rein in their percent,
From navel gazing heights.
Desks in towers,
Those grasping power,
Will tumble in defeat.
The gravity of their greed
Will drag them through the streets.
The bell at four
Will sound no more;
The chorus chants
For a holy war; and
Salvation for the weak.
There's a revolution
On the way,
We'll re-write all the laws,
We'll line up the Romanovs,
And shake down all the Shahs.
There's a revolution coming
And it's coming
With just cause.
Nov 14, 2016
Nov 14, 2016 at 10:33 AM UTC
This is a place on the way after the distances
can no longer be kept straight here in this dark corner
of the barn a mound of wheels has convened along
raveling courses to stop in a single moment
and lie down as still as the chariots of the Pharaohs
some in pairs that rolled as one over the same roads
to the end and never touched each other until they
arrived here some that broke by themselves and were left
until they could be repaired some that went only
to occasions before my time and some that have spun
across other countries through uncounted summers
now they go all the way back together the tall
cobweb-hung models of galaxies in their rings
of rust leaning against the stone hail from Rene's
manure cart the year he wanted to store them here
because there was nobody left who could make them like that
in case he should need them and there are the carriage wheels
that Merot said would be worth a lot some day
and the rim of the spare from bald Bleret's green Samson
that rose like Borobudur out of the high grass
behind the old house by the river where he stuffed
mattresses in the morning sunlight and the hens
scavenged around his shoes in the days when the black
top-hat sedan still towered outside Sandeau's cow barn
with velvet upholstery and sconces for flowers and room
for two calves instead of the back seat when their time came
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The blast woke that great and terrible monster,
Godzilla, from his slumber
at the bottom
of those darkest depths,
titanic nuclear thing unfurling
at the heart of the abyss.
Reptillian eyes glimmered in the murk.
Stretching out his arms and legs,
beating his tail against the ocean floor,
Godzilla began to swim towards the city.
Godzilla stopped sleeping. The whole world
seemed rife with opportunity,
profits to be had.
And, in the darkness of night,
Godzilla stomped his way towards the city.
Godzilla got a new motorbike.
The engine’s roar soothed him,
for a time.
And, in the darkness of night,
Godzilla stomped his way towards the city.
Godzilla found another woman to use,
his reptilian desire overcoming
whatever remained of his humanity.
And, in the darkness of night,
Godzilla towered over the border of the city.
And, in the darkness of night,
Godzilla’s throat began to glow.
Sizzling blue fire crackled in his mouth,
and then the city was dust and shadows,
a Hiroshima ghost.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 8:31 AM UTC
The world is not as it seems
I've seen my life end a thousand times
In someone else’s prognostic dream
I have no name just a rank
As my years from home towered
My faith in humanity sank
When I commit suicide can it be said I died in battle?
I fear I am trivial
The last of mine kind
But I am not endangered because nobody cares
I see the world for how it is
Patterns, patterns within patterns repeated
A once unstoppable force now crippled and defeated
I do not morn or pity the dead
I envy them they're better off in my head
I'm the survivor but to what end?
When I commit suicide can it be said I died in battle?
My goldfish died, number three hundred and five
He was all I had in the world, he was my world
But I'll buy another bringing him back alive
I don't miss my family
I wasn't taught how
It isn't my fault I am cold and shallow
I've killed and saved
I've reassured those who'll never be cured
But when I'm dead I'll be called well behaved
But I'm the light of the world just more depraved
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 7:15 AM UTC
The part of my heart was still missing
I looked up at the dancing leaves at the blue sky
As if I might find reassurance there
My heart seemed to struggle in my chest
Fighting my ribs
The rows of trees towered over me
And my mind was fogged with grief
I pushed my lips together not letting anything out
But the anger sprayed out of me
As if a thunderstorm had just begun
The terror took over my body as the lightning struck
But it cut off just as quick as it hd begun
His stare stopped and he carried on walking
Not noticing that his hazel eyes had scarred my heart once again
why, why, why
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 1:30 PM UTC
Bruce the Spruce was a Christmas tree;
he lived on Christmas Farm.
Each night he dreamed that he could bring
cheer into someones home.
He stretched his branches every day
and squeezed his needles tight,
so he could be a perfect tree
for holding Christmas lights.
Every year at Christmas time
Bruce did as he was taught.
He showed all of his Christmas charm,
hoping he would be bought.
The people came from miles around
to buy their Christmas Trees.
They pulled and tugged at branches
and gave the twigs a squeeze.
They looked for trees just the right size,
with needles that would stay,
trees that gave a Christmas smell
to brighten Christmas day.
Bruce was a perfect Christmas tree;
the children seemed to love him.
But Bruce was small and other trees
still towered high above him.
The years went by and Bruce the Spruce
eventually grew tall.
His branches spread and held their form;
they didn't droop at all.
But there were many Christmas Trees
that grew on Christmas Farm
and no one ever seemed to pick out Bruce,
with all his charm.
Bruce grew so sad as years went by;
it seemed he'd grown too tall.
It seemed that he would never be
a Christmas tree at all.
When the new families came each year
to buy trees for their home,
they never looked at Bruce the Spruce;
he stood there all alone.
Bruce never forgot Christmas;
it brightened all his dreams.
Yet, in the light of each new day,
he lost his Christmas schemes.
One day a truck came to the farm;
men came with saws and rope.
They came to cut the tallest tree;
Bruce finally lost all hope.
"My time has come; Ive grown too old,"
his arms trembled in fear.
"I'm only good for firewood now;
I've seen my final year."
They cut him down and tied him to
the flatbed truck they brought.
They drove away, while Bruce the Spruce
lie weeping on the truck.
Bruce closed his eyes and fell asleep;
he dreamed of silent nights,
of children's smiling faces,
of gifts and colored lights.
When Bruce awoke He couldn't hold
back all of his delight.
Bruce couldn't believe what he saw;
his branches all had lights.
His arms were filled with tinsel.
Children were gathered round.
Everyone was cheering
and laughing on the ground.
Bruce looked around in ecstasy;
he couldn't help but stare.
Bruce had become the Christmas tree
that now adorned Times Square.
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 11:18 PM UTC
It was a weird hour when the sun towered
To be slick with moonshine
Cozied shirtless in a rope hammock
Belly-down like my six drunk buddies
Living loose and talking sweet
To bottles now empty of *****
So what is there to do?
Nothing, and that’s a cold fact for high noon
In summer, season of mumbly toasting
But when the humble glug-glug-glugging
Is done with, I’ll tell you, you
Have not licked liquor, not done your part
It’s us who got the moonshine start
Today, you turned your back on white whiskey, yes
We did the work and if it should hurt
I apologize we didn’t want to offend
If it’s the alcohol or if it’s the heat I can’t tell
But who knows why blood boils?
I can see that good-natured drinking
Is the drunk man’s toil
But we’re workers at heart, aren’t we?
And not many are better than us
Except for maybe the rice
Slumped over its stalks, fat on moonshine
Cure-all for the sick mind
Friend to all comers on a humid day
The clear sticky juice that burns all the way down
Dec 26, 2010
Dec 26, 2010 at 9:31 PM UTC
i tried some magic mushrooms in a field one day
after i had ate them my mind began to stray
i saw a big banana hanging from a tree
it was very tall and towered over me
then i saw cat he had funny eyes
jumping at the window catching funny flies
then i started laughing without as reason why
thought i had grown wings and that i could fly
the hallucinations vanished my visions went away
i was back to normal and i stayed that way
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 12:11 PM UTC
Eric kept mostly to himself. Other children didn't like to play with him, but he didn't care. Instead he used to go into the woods and collect frogs.
He never had to look for them. They came to him. He used to pretend he was their king. He imagined he looked like them. But not really like them... He was bigger and a lot more dangerous.
Eric did quite well in school even though he seemed strange to others. Occasionally someone tried to bully him but it wasn't any fun. He just stood there without any reaction.
Afterwards, he used to stand in the schoolyard and stare at those who had tried to bully him. Although they didn't admit it, this made the bullies afraid. Eric's look was so strange. Empty, cold and...dead.
Eric knew he was different, but didn't have any words for what he was. He figured he must have been adopted, because his parents wasn't like him.
In the night time he was under the water. He swam swiftly and skillfully. His destination was a sunken city. A city with buildings very unlike those on earth.
Dark and chaotic, with a geometry that would have been impossible to depict on paper. These dreams would have made most people wake up screaming, but not Eric. Instead, he was sad the dream was over.
One night the dream didn't end. Suddenly Eric was outside the place he lived, but everything was different. The sky was completely black and alien stars shone there.
In front of him was the beach and the ocean. Cliffs towered at the sides and all was shadows and silver grey. The ocean was calling him. He looked at his feet, and noticed the webbing between his toes.
Into the sea, into the darkness he threw himself. Finally he was coming home.
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 12:26 AM UTC
Upon the heat of the day
When Sol high above our heads towered,
Raindrops fell cool on panting flowers.
You took my hand and led me where
You picked damp flowers
And then placed them in my hair.
With drops that fell and touched my lips
Mouth was drawn to mouth in tender kiss.
The drops each sizzled in heated bliss
To satiated this withering flower.
With this bedewing came a glistening spill,
In the heating of the day
As Sol above us towered,
And renewed this panting flower.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 8:26 PM UTC
There rests a hole within our soul,
And some will scream "we've lost control!"
The void will consume the glutton whole,
For every vice, there's a greater foe.
The more we sieged against the wall,
The more it towered and left us small.
Yet behold all the walls we've broke,
And leaving dusty ruins in our wake.
On our knees and skyward we implore,
"Return us to past glory and lore!"
The answer seekers find no reply,
Conservative natures are bound to die.
May we gladly heed our own decree,
And free our spirits to the sky to flee.
Under the hammer, our chains demise,
From the rubble, angelic hymns arise.
Ode of lilac melodies was begun,
Dancing among the moon, stars, and sun.
Seek out wherever your joys may be,
We are masters of our fate said he.
Aug 28, 2010
Aug 28, 2010 at 5:07 AM UTC
When I was born,
Mother named me “Novina,”
and I was to be both
the prayer and the answer.
I was to be both god and servant.
When the pebbles started flying,
no one told me to hide,
to cover myself or to wrap
my own arms around my chest,
with my head tucked in so that I resembled
a balled up sacred vessel.
I stood, in the backyard,
with the simple man from next door
who still lived with his mother,
who was still the prayer, but could
never be an answer.
He towered over me,
smiling Mona-Lisa-stupid
in the face of civil war.
When the Jackel-monkey rode in,
on his lowrider chariot, he laughed
and made the simple man dance,
and dance,
and then sleep.
Eyes open,
crying Mother Mary tears as
he fell redwood-heavy before me.
and I whispered “Madre de hijos,”
but that's not a prayer, jackel-monkey said.
And you know prayers? I spit back,
my baby teeth and his flying pebbles
meeting in the middle,
before the pebble flew past the tooth,
to me,
into me,
and into the cinder block behind me.
He rode away on a dark horse,
and I yelled after him, my diamond eyes-turned-dangling pendulums in 2 quarter time,
“judge me and die. Judge me and die. I am Novina whom Mother loves.”
Sep 27, 2010
Sep 27, 2010 at 6:27 PM UTC