"troves" poems
Fierce and bloodthirsty I am
and I'm always on the run
I'm an infamous but legendary man
and I'm always on the ***
No mercy do I have for those
Who attempt to bar my way
through the seven seas to my treasure troves
In life and blood they pay
Captain Redbeard
I will **** to make my name
Captain Redbeard
I will **** to stake my claim
Captain Redbeard
I'm a man of cursed fame
Captain Redbeard
and I will die alone in flames
Once a commander of the Navy
I went renegade when they betrayed me
and now there is no hope of escape
for the traitors who pray each day for safety
One for the admiral
One for the king
Two for the governor
and more for the Queen
When the Crimson Captain
Horror of the Seas
Finds you, your fate is bleak
Captain Redbeard
I will **** to make my name
Captain Redbeard
I will **** to stake my claim
Captain Redbeard
I'm a man of cursed fame
Captain Redbeard
and I will die alone in flames
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 9:04 PM UTC
This was my sand yesterday,
Hot and gritty,
Yet comforting, embracing
Under my towel.
Troves of precious shards of shell
Mapped into mind
With the jellyfish abandoned
By the tide
Just out of reach of cool waters
And a pool carved
With ramparts and towers,
An ambitious child's construction
Proudly pronounced eternal.
But we took pictures
To remember,
Anyway.
Now, after breakfast,
Into blue too perfect
This morning's sun rose
To a sky spilled
Cloudless and clear
Over new land
Reformed by night swells
Gulls and terns blown on,
Friends' footprints cleared,
The castle lost
By waves or wind's gusts.
It seems alien now.
My toes dig ever deeper
To discover if warmth
Is still here, hiding below
The surface of what I can see.
Morning's winds fling
Biting bits chipped
From far-off mountains
Cheek and legs sting
In force of anger born
Far offshore,
While the children nestle
My jacket for shelter
It can't give them today.
The tourists left - the sand is ours
To reshape, imprint with feet again.
And plan for tomorrow -
Umbrella, blanket, pails,
Embrace sea's eternal rhythm.
We'll stay.
Sep 19, 2009
Sep 19, 2009 at 3:36 PM UTC
these faces on the wall that have no eyes,
the young children with blood escaping from their hands
as they pick up a mound of the Earth and throw at genuflected roses.
these battered men in parks searching for light
and my woman is no longer with me.
it’s all vaudeville: this obnoxious working of continuance,
these redundant flutings, these unprecedented fluctuations.
opening the yellow gates to death
as the automobile churns the last of its exhausted snarl.
we are children peering through glass cases
as death laughs at his hopeless clientele,
sad, desolate progenies in working-classes,
in parks, in factories, somewhere along Mendiola,
or just treading the waist-high hellish froths of Dapitan,
there’s always death in the nooks of the quiet
and from where birds stir in sidereal circles, death
with his hands resting on the cage, chases us back to our homes.
death the changing of the gatekeeper.
death the telling machine.
death the dentist.
death my next door neighbor.
death, this boorish broken-winged Maya twitching in front
of my dog’s shadow shot out of the Sun’s shameful recoil.
death, my loud and loutish muse,
death the truant,
death, the copious fog somewhere in Kennon Rd.
death, in my hands through darkness and light,
death through troves of enigma,
death through undisputed clearings,
death the long line of red beads in EDSA,
death the gates of Plaridel,
it’s the moon following you, trailing your measure,
i hold my woman’s used shirt, pick up her photographs
and there’s no tender movement left but the still-seeking lion
prowling the jungles of my heart, seared by lovelorn undoing.
through the bottom of the sky and the unchanging roof-beam,
the weathervane ceases to a sojourn and the wind is trapped
in a place where we cannot utter any word between the gnashing
of our teeth – through the wasted years, through the sleeping in and out
of homes filled with beatings, to cathedrals swollen with tribulations,
and to the vineyards wrung out of wine, my lover, walking through fire,
sound silence.
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
The temporal beauty which fades and falls,
vigor of body that to vale gives way—
dissolutions of bloom—have much to say,
as life’s costly sermon achingly calls:
“Put not your heart’s hope in gifts eyes now see
nor set store by charms easily broken.
Vibrant buds o’er which praises are spoken,
erstwhile by Fall, forgotten shall be.
But in Christ waits sure glory eternal
and by loss here that beauty there’s gaining
its resplendent weight, e’en now attaining
through Jesus intimate gem troves internal.”
God’s wisdom turns decay and frailty’s gruel
into a Homeward driving kind of fuel.
May 24, 2022
May 24, 2022 at 5:39 PM UTC
i dream of a coven of witches quaaluding through the night to kidnap me and fly me away as an object of their seasonal *** magick ritual, to conjure a 5th dimensional being, who will possess me when the ***** & planets are aligned just right.
the cult of drunk chicks laughs on butterscotch and blood, born in the early 90s, they are mtv-obsessed, twitter/tumblr toned, disney-raised and disney-praised and trained in the ways of camping and conjuring and makeup and volleyball, or soccer, or both. they have killer legs.
& i fall asleep for 1000 years to penumbra.
the demon has my body, and he worships their legs. and they worship his wars. and his money. and his twinkly brass knuckle conference calls. they worship his ability to peel the spines from culture and countries and cook-off the clinging meat-bits left on the bone in a broth or stew or gruel of hopeful has-beens and dreamers of love.
awaken.
to the apocalypse so long and wrought and beautiful as the novels and films and serials proposed.
the bomb was loved, and the love mushroomed, and the mushrooms were plucked and ****** upon by gleeful young savages for nutritional values.
and those values grow.
and the growth is seen as succulent fruit hanging from trees in gardens in groves and the groves are in troves where they blanket and blush.
the world is made right again,
by seedlings and the green.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 3:06 AM UTC
Can you see it like I can,
a boasting child,
a boating child,
an accident
she drowned.
Down,
the bubbles escape,
race like red toy cars
as blood blossoms out ears,
and pressure builds,
and fingers reach upwards
pop
where small fingers are glassed with soapy water
and white and blue frosting.
scribbled over red lettering, "Happy Birthday Meredith."
And cards were presented with pasts and futures,
torn open like a shark attack
and ripping skin,
flapping back like dog ears, as he sticks his head out the window
and howls at the neighbors
for their loud music ways.
Silent crashing waves,
that boom death metal
and ride tidal curls
that bounce off her head.
As she writhes,
a red ribbon in her hair.
Hair of spun gold
like the sun
smothered by the moon.
Darkness eclipses.
And the last of the air is pushed
through her lungs
for light has drifted away,
torn like a suckling pig from its ****
and she is lost.
As her body floats away, pulled down.
Unclasped, she roams free.
groans, "Meeeee. Find mee...eeeee."
And eels slither from her jaw,
agape and brackish blue,
like pirate ship wine
sunken *** and treasure troves,
and streamline red.
Adding to a salty complexity
of tarnished speckled metal
like speckled eggs.
And brown eyes
bore out by hermit *****
that broke their shells after a gluttonous feast.
Unbuttoning her dress
a flower paisley sort of thing,
a useless scrap of sodden material,
for nothing matters,
as she thinks nothing can hold on to her
now and before.
She is aware,
but not really there, because you would miss her
like you did when she stood in the hall,
your eyes passed over,
and so stayed her silent screams.
So she left our world,
or rather hovered and watched
as much as she could without eyes.
She watched you,
and felt nothing over your cries
because she feels nothing
Now.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 12:25 AM UTC
Let's taste the ocean water together
just you and I
we will dive into the deep blue sea
holding hands til our heads are just floating on top
riding with the waves
and let's dive in even further after that
until we're kissing the ocean bottom
gulping in copious amounts of sea salt and shrimp brine
lets just dive in
dive in
dive in
and sink with the mollusks and octopi
give up on living this sham we call a life
cloistered in our clam shells we don't have a room with a view
always protecting our pearls from those that are out to poach us for our inner treasures
remember all the gold memories we've collected in our troves
like we were hoarding them away for some rainy day
well it doesnt get any rainier than drowning in these murky depths
we're like treasure chests sinking to the bottom fast
lost from some forgotten shipwreck
we're collecting on the ocean floor waiting to be discovered
over centuries we'll rust and be covered in barnacles before we're found
Crumbling in the hands of those that try to rescue us
lets just give up
give up
give up
but we can't give up
Not yet anyway
Not while we're treading these waves
with sharks lapping hungrily at our feet
With rows of ravenous razor sharp teeth
savoring the slow taste of our defeat
as we inch closer
And closer
With our heads fighting to stay above water
til we can no longer tread with these useless arms and legs
we take that last gasp of treasured breath into our lungs
and feel the water pressure collapse around our tired bodies
feeling the ache of our worn out limbs
we sink and we sink
We sink
We sink to the bottom of where we started
filling our deflated hearts with all the failed dreams and squandered hopes of all the shipwrecked treasures that came before us
And all those that join us sooner or later on these murky endless bottoms
We've been here before
And we're all destined to be here again
And again
And again
So let's just keep treading these waves for as long as we can
Maybe we'll luck out and find an island in all this oceanic bliss
We'll crawl on shore
Grasping for dry sand and a warm place to hole up in
Before we find ourselves back out
Lost in the sea
Treading water
With sharks licking hungrily at our feet
With rows of ravenous razor sharp teeth
Savoring the slow taste of our defeat
Sep 29, 2012
Sep 29, 2012 at 1:33 AM UTC
You can't remember where
Your buried treasures lie;
It's been years
Since you turned the earth,
Measured the wealth,
Stored it for days of leisure.
You lost the life mapped
With the X.
Why?
Did you mark the spot with G,
Or did you sell the plunder?
Remember, you're no younger.
All your troves,
Blue ribbons and bows,
The buttons, the pins,
Your souveniers and sins
Have left you bankrupt.
I'm not a parrot keeper,
Can't curl my lip like Elvis;
Or sail into bays
To recover lost treasures.
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 9:05 AM UTC
Grazing off the Screen
the little things that you sometimes wrote
I came to collect and keep close
So slow, does my lung breath
as a palpitating tremor
shaking
and stirred within
the mind that thinks
"when will it come?"
In expectation
desperation
dire attention
is required
to keep
My tears from crying
this dialectic
meta-dates.
I dictate:
"will I detect"
in rhetoric
"if I shall have expected it to arrive"
In sugar cubes
complete, and on time
as diamond brick streets
to tumble down as ice to melt
down my cheeks into my mouth
they leak
or welled up in pools
or on diving boards
with clay platforms
spongy stone floors
Blowing back and forth the reeds
to feel the river pour
as a wheat mill to turn in torque
to establish the width and paddled
chore to show off as a nimbly plotted
game of over lapping arrows and empty treasure troves;
of the destitute dialogue dominoes.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 11:17 AM UTC
A cartoonish grim woman
in aft cabin was a harlequin let umbrage
squash her there a known charter while she'd smoke in bed
her aroma did permeate her rise to eat breakfast
a morning prepared for sore again
only technical her rouse indeed tripped her smoke alarm
and went unheeded to another deck till open bar decided her fate
while her interest there was crickety
where love is deep in the sea
their golden groves were bubbles and waves
while they brim with valuables onboard did spill
and they'd evoke near me without their calling
when aquanauts will buck up gear then they really sever
their troves below that really soften thine eyes
where the air is moist and ye suit there so well
I can tell you I am picky today and defray your kind.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 4:47 AM UTC
cherished
filled with troves of treasure--or trash
blankets covered with ancient dog hair
still stout enough to stave off
winter’s bitter bone,
crushed cans for cash
the sullied stuffed animal that belonged
to him, your only babe, stolen from you
by a 1999 Ford F-150, black
and driven by the devil himself
or his proxy, though it mattered not,
not when you could not close your eyes
without seeing him, still whole, still…
not when you heard the door slam
eons ago, or a Tuesday yet in crisp view
your husband leaving, the singular smack
of hardwood against the frame
his stone solid goodbye to you, and the pious pang he felt
each time he saw your son’s brown eyes
in yours, eyes now on the cart, the road
that has become your aching ascetic ascent
where the sound of the eternal wheels
lulls you to walking sleep,
where you can travel back
in tortured time
to nothing
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC
Fortune, fortune…fortunate son of prophecy
Preaches his sermon to the masses of relentless ones
A boy child with blond dusty hair, big bulging blue eyes with fair complexion stands by
Listening to the sermonizer as he delivers his powerful words of peaceful kindness
A kingly man speaks ******* as the statements shift forward in a timely matter
Plains of destructive aftermaths, horizons of thronged hysteria
Captivates the surroundings, laying in the background like plagues in biblical portions
“Raise my son, this is the day we shall rise and go onward... the time is now to rebuild”
States the preacher’s blessed father as he be troves his scriptures with tightened grip
Child becomes man that very day, setting forth his striving ambitions
Letting go of his childhood memories with a fight to change what once went wrong
Standing in the darkest hour of his destiny, he becomes tame with greater conviction
It will be no easy task knows the boy; he will set forth with courageous tidings
Bravery will stand the test of time, witnessing the spiritual uplifting momentums
Kingly man stands in the way of his convictions, for he is a self loather
Built to the hilt in muscle and stubbornness filling his belt buckle
His abilities hold him from ever knowing life’s greatest mysteries
Diabolically he counts the steps of world ********** standing taller than any man before him
But it is he who will be overran by Prophetic Son of the Holy Spirit
The land as far as any man can see lay in grey ****** rubble
Ambiance of ash strewn clouds fogged the earth’s surface
Causing transportive means to get choked out, shutting down the crossroads of societies
However to the man child, who stood the chance of defeat. Saw nothing of this sort
He looked out onto the existing landscape and saw roadways paved of solid gold
Trees blooming with fully bloomed cherry blossoms, and fields of floral arrangements
The king did not like anything of the sort, so he tried and tried to foil the rehabilitation
Of the groves of smiling girls and playful boys while the elders cheerfully applaud
However the kingly man became overrun by the source of his own allegations
Turned the cheek and gave way to the man who once was a child, the day stays brighter
on the other side of reality looked around to adore what you have set before your very own eyeful delight
Apr 21, 2010
Apr 21, 2010 at 11:13 AM UTC
Like God amassing gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh,
vain potentates, possessed by pride that riches will confer,
depleted pillaged villages in pagan days of old…
With *********** privileges, their fortunes were foretold.
In feudal times, chaste clerics, cloaked, wrapped rings around the mind
with hymns of magic, mystic myths and figurines enshrined,
while blessing bayonet-like blades that mutilate and maim…
With *********** privileges, believers bore no blame.
In search of caramel colonies, some sailors set their sails
to conquer puppet provinces, for sovereignty prevails,
purloining wicked treasure troves which others claimed their own…
With *********** privileges, such sins sustained the throne.
Well, nowadays the quest proceeds, this time for ebon oil,
so peoples once again are caught within the serpent’s coil
and, pierced by fangs of greed and lust, death yields benign escape…
With *********** privileges, you’re free to rip and ****
We wave the flags and beat the drums and often kneel to pray
to glorify our victories, bold, that happen far away;
but none salute the severed souls impaled upon a pike…
With *********** privileges, the riffraff look alike.
One day the moguls won’t agree on how to slice the pie;
they’ll spit and spat and, tit-for-tat, atomic barbs will fly -
but when the button’s finally pressed, they too will grace the heap…
With *********** privileges, the hole that’s hewn is deep.
Apr 20, 2021
Apr 20, 2021 at 5:13 PM UTC
I did it...
I jumped
out of the box.
The box that had
nurtured
coddled
held me safely inside
for so long.
...or so I thought.
Is it safe to be
bored?
habitual?
stationary?
Boxes seem to hold
so many things
inside
like treasure troves.
But it's wrong
it's not true.
The box
in which I was held
held only me.
The bounty lies
outside.
Freedom
is necessary
and diversity
is beautiful.
The mind
only grows
outside.
Sep 3, 2011
Sep 3, 2011 at 5:00 PM UTC
C'est oui, paste away, we make do, duty calls
Le Bourgeois gentilhomme
(French pronunciation: [lə buʁʒwa ʒɑ̃tijɔm],
From the troves of our public domain,
what did you wish you had known,
when you had that chance
at Jeopardy, one chance,
if a wish were truly wished,
we occur to some as riverwise twisted
fibers from longer ago than local time science
allows, you suppose allowing belief with reason,
cause of pain is pain relief, loser role attained,
proof of past trauma drama as collect sets. Points.
Scoring. Exact.
Past out act/ Bam/slap play slips into Chris Hart,
o we all recall him, he did that slapping body music,
and did not comb his hair for a year or so,
-not him, the kid from Orm, the dean's kid.
so in your reader mind, you have a few clues, times
and seasons seen from distant bubbles still,
- Reagan's daughter attended Orm. Datafact.
time slips, mental lubricant for safe letting.
All forms go out be come standard, it is the object.
Like that, or this, to ways to sense make and so
many more point from which one may choose to see.
McLuhan bolted, as I learned the ropes and gears
years ago, a kind of ******** in and out,
with pressing walls, closing in and teeny, tiny holes,
shine so bright as day explodes camera obscura,
on the inner wall on the backside of our eyes,
mindtimespace stirred into a foam,
the old saying, put a head on it, meant something
to sailors in the beer commercials.
I got advice from Ziggy's therapist {that's amindscrew}
in the funny papers, we all saw the truth freeing
knowledge that everyone knows,
nobody is as happy as people in beer commercials.
Mar 26, 2023
Mar 26, 2023 at 5:48 PM UTC
The poetry of promise
Written solely for some
Inside these thoughts
Harmonies are sacred
They speak of history and future
Treasure troves of skylight caught
Kept for darkened days
Away precious flower
Your death spreads pollen of life
Breathing beauty into dirt
From inside the shell
Tortoise emerges
Finally ready to share in the world
Slowly moving out
It’s hurtful glance of resentment
At all it’s missed shows nothing but failure
Green with envy, like so many others
Not accepting the indecision
That led to this place
So often overshadowed
By ones own father
We look down to disappointment
Some have something to say
Though this does not make them brave
We couldn’t express to our owners
Who we are
So into the sewers we go
Under skin, hidden
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 6:20 AM UTC
Poetic,
Thy beak can speak words of sensual charm,
But canst thou speak of what's to cometh?
Poetic,
Thy words do flow and run,
As a waterfall, tumbling hummus!!
Poetic,
Thou canst shape lives by thy wittled crippled fingers,
Yet canst thou show thy action? Like thy hero's and singers?
Poetic,
Thou canst bringeth life to thy surroundings,or death to thy foes,
Yet wilt thou giveth all thou haveth from thy back? Or steal poor men's troves!!!
Poetic,
Thineself can waketh one to splendor,or putteth them to sleep,
But cans't thou heareth them? Rub their bones when their weak?
Poetic
Poetress
Poets
Tis I do believe!!
With thy words,
Thine self could make seeds to eternal beautitude,
Or everlasting damnation!!!!
I'm a stoic,
For mine words art mine action's!!!
Art thy own?
Poetic.....
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 3:51 PM UTC
When we were young,
A universe was erected in our home.
The walls of our home were infinite and magical,
They were impenetrable and everlasting.
When we jumped, we thought maybe
We could fly.
When we were young, we could
Get lost in our house.
It was a whole world,
The outdoors were only an extension.
When we were young,
Dinnertime was solemn and thoughtless
Snacks came and went.
Floorboards held unknown delicacies and treasure troves.
When we were young,
We believed in the magic of mankind
And the infinity of a home.
When we were young,
We never expected to be anything else.
Jul 11, 2011
Jul 11, 2011 at 2:56 PM UTC
Rubies sail the scarlet leaves
Emeralds hem the greener sleeves
Diamonds laughing quietly strung
as treasure troves
of and
DEW SUN
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 6:51 AM UTC
I look the last this land I leave behind —
Timeless as water, bountiful as sorrow,
Abode today, a memory tomorrow;
Her contours etched untarnished in my mind —
How sweet our first encounter; how unkind
That time which man is wont to beg and borrow
Brought forth this bitter twilight ere a morrow
When all our self-same sunsets will have shined —
Henceforth sunrise shall tarry ere it greets me;
The midday sun shall cast a sterner gaze
As paths unknown reveal their hidden troves;
Home is the sacrifice for those who journey
Without return; We venture through the groves
Of doubt and fear to set our lives ablaze.
Jan 20, 2021
Jan 20, 2021 at 7:59 AM UTC
Devious as a spider you’re always curious of the outsider.
In your own little world you’re not quite unfurled.
Inside your myriad of minds, it’s you I adore always wanting more.
What is underneath these skins you wear, what happens if I brush back your hair?
Should I take a chance, should I make an advance?
Secreted away in me is something you'll never see.
It is the little things that give me wings, sweet touching and desperate clutching.
But I'll lock it away, it’s there to stay.
You'll have to pay a heavy price if you want the key, if you want me to be free.
So for now I'll stay a silhouette, hopefully of something you won't forget.
It’s a string of vignettes; I don't want to be one of your regrets.
Mar 13, 2010
Mar 13, 2010 at 6:31 AM UTC
staying stationary with my window on this world
as travelers with their treasure troves
carry on casual conversations
with passing strangers perched on stools
in meeting places of fabricated intimacy
where one's life story is the only unattended baggage
left behind
with the self they are trying to shed
and the self they want you to believe them to be
every story becomes glossed with a sheen
of overstated oppulence
as the everyday becomes epic
and the mundane larger than life
as lies, like departure times slip easily
behind tired eyes and rumpled clothing
what is the distinction
between worldly
and world weary
Oct 13, 2010
Oct 13, 2010 at 8:09 PM UTC
In the darkest night,
I take flight.
In the brightest day,
I dance & sway.
Outside these walls,
everything is false.
Outside the coves,
stumbling on troves.
Nothing more,
this is a bore.
And yet,
everything is met.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 5:16 AM UTC
Take your ship out to sea
and bring laurels blessed with holly
on this journey to unearth treasure troves
hidden in the gossamer waves
Let your flag sail high in wind
and crane your neck high
among floods that rage
in endless sickness and fledgling health
Chests of gems and gilded bands
await at the edge
miles numbering thousands
unfettered to all but time
Rally your spirits and hang them by the sails
so passing shipmen may see
the bones upon this watery hull
and chant for boundless Someday
Storms await and creep like snakes
through flumes of silver clouds
the tears they wring rocks the fleet
and dyes dry skin vermilion
Famine prays to fish for food
while brine coats the shattered deck
parched crewmen beg to die in sandy oases
surrounded by undrinkable water
Promises and tears the only drinks
now pain tattooed to flesh
gold glows neither in caves
nor does it shimmer in light
However many years pass as eternities
brighter dreams mark crystal soils
and platinum trees plump with diamond fruit
float atop the promised land
Though the ship has weathered shattered frame
and dried blood lines your chest
the anchor dives through watery shore
and cries through salt land **
Sands crunch loud underfoot
like God's soft muse skies hum
no treasure lies here but an ashen tree
and the whispering wind begins to cry
my fortunate babe, you've arrived
Jul 11, 2017
Jul 11, 2017 at 9:30 PM UTC