"tumbleweed" poems
From the ripple in a glass of water
to the sonic boom of this internal
Pompeii, the erosion
of her etymology is the only
sense of movement in her
dilated, cave-pupil eyes, those
two ghost towns spanning
and encircling all the way back,
stretched like an elastic blindfold
past the moment the first brick was laid,
perhaps her first vivid memory,
or anecdote, or first word uttered
in a Cuban slum.
There are mountains of tumbleweed
over the once thriving metropolis
that expanded towards America;
who threw herself into
the architecture of seven pillars,
borne from her land and
minerals. Gone are the
huts that housed her
knowledge of basic motor skills.
The women who once imagined
Mami and Mima as her birth
name now scrub off
the graffiti of her excrement;
they saw a swarm of pink moons
the day she told the same story
to every visitor that came
their way, each day then becoming
a missing surveillance tape, a sinkhole
dismantling the awareness
in her bones and stubborn will,
until she became
these dust-engulfed plains with
a daughter and granddaughter
archeological in their efforts
to chase down the remains
of a girl still breathing in
those eyes from time to time.
Every other ten-millionth blink of
the eye rides the silhouette of a post-infant girl
on the high tides of her quick visit,
looking in horror
as the nation of her life's nightmares,
heartaches, broken promises, romances,
spiritual breakthroughs, life-changing seconds
drowns with morbid unity en cien fuegos,
desperately attempting to assemble
the remnants of her psyche
past her cognitive bloodclots
with the awareness of one
who speaks no languages.
Gone is the moment
she first learned
to feed her several children
before the slip of sunset.
One of seven pillars remain intact,
the others long dismantled of their
stick and straw infrastructures.
One pillar remained,
housed her own colony
for nine months,
and now both descendants
travel the mind of their
greatest influence
with perplexed dedication,
caustic humor the decoy
for swarms of exhaustion
and asphyxiation
from the truthful atmosphere,
reveling in the seconds
of humanity lurking
in an abandoned etymology.
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 11:19 AM UTC
These nowhere towns,
Mountain tops snow-capped long through march,
All else,
Enshrouded in brown.
Though people live here,
And seems they aren't broken down.
The paint peels from the motel,
The mother tends to her daze,
The attendant ponders the insects of the sill,
Tumbleweed the only things, un-willing of being still.
Life is good here,
In these hazy,
Background,
Nowhere towns.
Mar 7, 2019
Mar 7, 2019 at 7:54 PM UTC
2am is when the wolves call for me and I die slowly.
2am is when I end up sacrificing myself to you, so I can finally be quiet.
2am is when I won't fall asleep because all I have is this window to keep me company.
2am I look and see a tumbleweed in the streets, wandering aimlessly.
"That's my heart now set it free."
2am a song comes on the radio. It isn't familiar, but it somehow describes everything I'm feeling, even right down to its melody.
2am I don't know who I am but all I know is I need a friend.
At 2am I will play this song until my head can't take it anymore. It's a mantra that won't stop repeating itself, and I love it.
2am I look into my sheets. I peer down and see your face. I reach to touch it but it fades away. Transparent you is very rude.
At 2am I will sing this tune I do not know. Therefore it will sound drunken, but I do not care because it reminds me of you.
2am where did you go? You used to be right next to me. Now all I have is oxygen filling the space where you would look at me and say, "I love you."
2am how did I end up this way? I open my hands and see my veins. I hate them. I hate them because you used to run your fingers across them.
2am I grab the weapon of death. I can see my reflection even in the darkness. As my heart throbs of pain, my life is over and I am free, at 2am.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 1:20 AM UTC
I was detached
so I could wander
hand in hand with the wind.
Who am I now?
I feel so frail
and my flowers are long gone.
“Look what I've become”
I say to no one
as the buzzards cry.
Their shadows circle me
like dark moons in a galaxy
starving for life —
am I not alive?
I've never seen flesh
that was still carrying a soul,
but the wind tells me stories
of slinking through their hair
when the world was young —
I can smell their skin on its breath,
its breath that’s carried me
to the edge of the earth a thousand times
to find only stars
that those ancient, mysterious people worshiped
before I was even a seed.
Am I qualified to pray
to those stars that have lead us
to a thousand sunrises?
Will they even hear me
with this voice that is only a rustle
across rocks and dirt,
this voice that is literally nothing but a ...
my soul who shapes the clouds
who possess my dry body, and countless others all at once
interrupts me
and whispers yes.
I smell the gods in its voice now.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 2:51 PM UTC
I woke up in a Spaghetti Western
Not sure how this happened to me
Standing on the dusty streets of Laredo
With six desperado's down the street
I gazed off to my left
As a tumbleweed went tumbling by
There was a dog howling in the distance
With an odd sheen to the western sky
Can't say I wasn't trigger happy
With my hand inching towards my gun
Still wondering how it is I appeared here
In this B-movie western
Women and children were running for cover
They knew what was soon to go down
Truth is you can expect nothing less
When you live in a Spaghetti Western town
Pecos Bill was the first to draw
As I shot him between the eyes
Want you to know I took no pleasure in
Watching the other five men die
As I rode off into the sunset
The credits behind me scrolled
How I woke up inside of this movie
Is a mystery I will never know
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 5:14 PM UTC
I was three , no bigger than a west Texas tumbleweed . . . just three .
My mother hung the wash out on the line
and wiped the sweat off her brow with her hand .
Half an hour later the clothes were frozen .
Blue Norther . . . you can see them coming
a hundred miles away .
Wichita Falls , Texas . . . on the Wichita river .
Moses sat on a mountaintop gazing at the promised land but it was out of his hands now .
Leaning on his staff , the one that ate the Pharoh's two serpents . . . sssssssilently a single tear falls to the ground .
No fence could hold me . . . I was over or under in seconds .
A terror at three , a potential runaway .
The police knew me by first name . . . just three .
The plains of North Texas , jackrabbits , coyotes , rattlesnakes and all . . . were home .
Forty years of desert wilderness ,
till the last man , woman , and child of Egyptian connection had died ,
. . . . . . was such a sacrifice made . . . . . .
Moses was the last to fall .
On a mountaintop of no consequences .
"Run Rabbit Run"
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 8:51 PM UTC
Saddle up
Gurl!
It's time
to hit the trail,
as quietly & gently
I spank the pony-
tail,
&
know,
it's how
I love you, baby..
You'll see me riding like the wind,
spurred on by our time & trials ~ that no-one got to win.
We were always mining Fools Gold & giggle indulging every sin!
Our
Poke(h)er
hands
stayed empty
&
the music's...
long since died.
Your sweet songs done,
gone & left me
(sobs)
tumbleweed rolls by
Once
we prospected forever
in this inky ol' ghost town
marking spots with X's before
a WANTED sign was found
and
One Moonshine
still
ain't big en'f 'f both of us
to get our quills thirst drowned
(hic-
cup)
"Look West,
and to the horizon,
see the stage at the edge of town?"
My last performance, PRIVATE, snigger to all the wide-eyed boys around
Ace-high, on a barebacked filly, play gallerying all my skills
I'll slap my thigh
&
Yee-haw !
riding for them there hills
~Saddled up in the softest leather
Chin up!Deep Breath!Chest out!
Corseted
& brimming,
encased in
perfume scented lace
~Bat my eyelids for the masses~
I'll find another place.
And
then you can
cut a swell down Main Street,
(remember the brothels to your right)
keep your low slung loaded though, for it's no place to start a fight
cos just outside that swing (ing) door,
the coffin maker winks at such a cheerful sight,
stood grimacing in his top hat,
grasping 13 nails
tight.
&
I'm sure
you'll measure up
darling
blowing rubied kisses
as
I bid
mine own
true-love's heart
goodnight.
***HiHO Silver,
away..........!***
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 5:33 PM UTC
Rocks below
Sky above; hello
I say upon a breeze
Hoping it'll get to you; and you won't sneeze
At it; and if you do
Will it have tickled you
Like a feather?
How's the weather?
I hope that this
Upon your time does not diss,
This note like tumbleweed
On gusts of thoughts I took heed,
Always on my mind
You are, impossible I find
Not to think
About whilst I take a drink
From the murky pool
Beneath me, a fool
Maybe; I may just be
If signs are not obvious to me,
Stubborn until infinity
Even if I cherish anonymity,
But there's only one of you
In all the universe and like Bloo,
A friend like you even if made up
Still exists in my heart forevermore; buttercup...
© okpoet
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 2:18 AM UTC
(rough translation)
debt
debt
debtor
tonight it howls
in tumbleweed tongues
beaten about and windblown
over a barren, over-there road
a dust-tongue stretches
licking skeletons
all the way to feet of the silver hills
that lie in the moon of the Little Karoo
debt
debt
debt in vein
Mother is a stranger
just standing there and sipping tea
in another woman’s blue kitchen
debt
debt
debt in her
all staring at the cracks
reflecting on the windowpane
the fragile earth’s
dismembered
but
the rain will come
my child
the rain will come
prophesy the rust-red clouds
all bellowing in the wind
Mother will stand
unequivocal
as untamed buffalo grass --
rooted and valid
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 12:59 AM UTC
Tumbleweed,
tumbleweed,
drying in the sun,
which hidden pasture
did you blow in from?
Bands tan and brown,
Crystals sticky white,
I envision your owner
dropping you in the night
under glow of police light.
Under watchful camera eye,
along the rocky terrain,
I see you tumbling down,
torrents of soft green rain,
fruit of the desert plain.
Tumbleweed,
tumbleweed,
snatched from the ground,
hiding in plain sight
waiting to be found.
A parting gift for the road
stretching endlessly ahead
battling sorrow and confusion,
worn down like tire treads,
a reprieve from a life that
sometimes feels like death.
Oct 12, 2010
Oct 12, 2010 at 5:17 AM UTC
A tumbleweed, floating through the vacant desert.
A comic scene for those in silence.
A disastrous nightmare to those behind a big dream.
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 12:37 PM UTC
In the distance, I see a Hound bus cruising down the country road
The stretched out Greyhound dog in front of the bus with look and behold
Now watch as numerous stories unfold
I hear a Greyhound Driver narrating his tail of his stories surrounding the hound bus
I will narrate a couple for you
Our story starts in Topeka, Kansas enroute to Kansas City, Kansas
The bus left on time during its usual run schedule
However, the weather started getting rough
Driving in the wind and rain made it really tough
A Tornado could be seen in the distance destroying everything in its path along the farmlands
Yet that Greyhound bus steadily kept moving
But the fierce violent winds were blowing
Suddenly, the Greyhound bus got a lift
Up in the funnel of the Tornado the Greyhound bus went far from any drift
However, a miracle took place, and the bus was slowly let down gently to the ground
The Greyhound bus remained in tacked and nothing but praises in God’s thanks was the sound
This is my account of another story
I was travelling from New York City to San Francisco, California
It was a vacation being a 4 days journey and New York City back
We had just crossed the Nevada state line being a rest stop
A Young Woman went into labor on the bus
The Driver was counting the contractions, but we all knew what was going to happen
This was supposed too be an 30 minute rest stop, but turned into a 2 hour rest stop
Luckily, the bus was near a major hospital nearby, and an ambulance was summoned
The EMS carried the Pregnant Woman on a stretcher off the bus and her Boyfriend (Husband) followed
Later, the bus pushed on, and I arrived at my final destination ahead of schedule into San Francisco
Another story tail
This time I was travelling to Los Angeles from New York City
We stopped in a Ghost town
There were tumbleweed flying everywhere and shutters were hitting all the houses along with wind blowing
Yet, there were no citizens in the town
Meanwhile, it was 6:00 AM in Arizona
Suddenly, all the passengers wondered who was coming aboard
But everyone was thinking thriller oh my Lord
A Male Passenger boarded, but spoke Spanish
He was drunk and wanted to sit with anyone, but passengers refused
So he had to go to the back of the bus where the restroom was
He talked from the time he boarded until we arrived in Los Angeles
So Greyhound is more than a ride, it became an adventure
Stories upon stories
Go Greyhound with its own storyline
The venture being the bus, but no need to fuss
Greyhound is the American Frontier and that involves us
What is your Greyhound traveling story?
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 7:19 PM UTC
How's the strawberry shake?
Response - It doesn't taste good.
The other stall offers better.
Seller staring.
Tumbleweed.
That girl!
Her voice is terrible.
Girl overheard. Their eyes met.
Tumbleweed.
Will you marry me?
Tumbleweed.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 10:35 PM UTC
She grew soft flowers,
back when her hands were small,
with narrow stems and crisp scalloped petals.
She grew them without dirt
or water, holding them so
carefully
it was as if she was feeding them
air. She found in them
beauty, she found
in them hope, as much as
all the quiet things she most wanted to be. But
no one told her and she learned
quickly
what no one would say. As the years went
by the stems grew meek
and the once bright
petals began to steadily fade.
She knew no better, no other, way.
It came like a blow to her gut when she
was finally forced to say
her flowers were paper.
Not meant to last. Not meant to stay.
Not meant to be anything but a
momentary breeze. They did not tell her
beauty is destined to pass. They
wouldn't say not everyone is wise
enough to take
the hope they're given and
run.
She decided then
what she would not be. Not flowers
of tissue with pipe cleaner leaves but something
far distant from these false
house plants. She would seize hope
and with it she'd run, until
she grew branches and roots meant to be torn loose.
Be they paper or petals, she could
no longer grow flowers, but at least,
what she discovered in her now
tumbleweed garden is that at least you can
see a tumbleweed take
to the breeze before its last
breath of shame and regret. After all
sometimes hope for a future beyond, is all you get.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 2:41 AM UTC
You broke the umbilical cord attached to this earth . With the south by southwest winds you rode a baleful streak . Like Poncho your life was left untold . Like a desert prayer that's just a whisper in the cold evening air .
Where they laid your body to rest , no one said . Now it's too late .
The virga falls never to quench the thirsty sands . The sorrow is planted as corn in rows of fertile futility . And dust is harvested , dust and tumbleweeds .
Reasons are the excuses we need to answer all the questions why . There is no reason in the south by southwest wind . And the tumbleweeds bend to the sympathy of an incessant desire .
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 10:41 PM UTC
In the form of transparent, bundled tumbleweed
it allows us to breathe, the continuation
of carbon dioxide creation, the movement
of clouds and mists and birds, certain natural disasters,
being able to skim bays at a full sail
or the next step a plane takes after taxiing.
It includes us in the endless repudiation of itself
that it can't seem to – no matter how it may try –
reverse or cure, bringing earlier
peoples to know it as a supernatural force
(there was simply no other reasonable choice available).
And for some reason
it keeps engaging in pyromania as it aids and abets
whatever impulsive firework-lighting-thrill-seekers
or placid cigarette-butt-litterers did or did not
purposefully do.
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 4:42 AM UTC
in scorched ground
severed roots remain
untethered tumbleweed
rides the thermal
on a heady rush to heaven
only to drop shattered
on the desolate highway
a once lush landscape
in full splendid flower
abundance freely given
but for one desire
do not let me die
for lack of water
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 5:52 PM UTC
my eyes opened to find
the thin lizard dawn gleaming
after the gutter drank its' fill
of the moon last night
the tambourine
buried in my lungs still
vibrating like these walls
papered with cheap roses
last night i found comfort the
only way i know how
in situations like this
beside a girl wearing
a pretty ribbon
twisted around her waist
pomegranate lipstick
wet clay & tragic glitter
smeared across her eyelids
we spent the night
roped together by
half-removed clothing
& my fingers third
knuckle deep
counting the pulse
of the heart
of the universe
while the wild fox
barked on the hill outside
& the mockingbirds
played riffs in the lilac bushes
her ******* ran tight
around her shins &
she sputtered the dark
lyricism of bees
twisting her tongue
backwards around
itself in my ear
our bare bellies
slapped together as
my tongue found her
tooth enamel &
the trees formed
a tight center loop to
harness the sky
for us & i
held my breath
waiting for her
to breathe first
i can feel her chest
& plump **** now
quietly throbbing
against the tight young
flesh of my back but when
i roll over & see her
eyes darting
green like a thin
ocean laser avoiding
my dynamic gaze &
her pouty mouth emitting
a pink yawn i can tell
she's unhappy & ashamed
of me
i tried to run
my fingers through
the butterscotch tumbleweed
of her hair but she just
popped her gum
& sent me
high stepping through
the soft warm mud
& chest high cattails
of her driveway
callow under the clouds
stuck like gnats to
the fly paper sky
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 3:58 PM UTC
Lily pad clarinet
Prune flute Carrot orange pull
Appaloosa pattern fur coat cross a
Hot pink cello zip
Peridot cymbals
Neon tumbleweed drums
All cause I wanna know
What tacky sounds like.
Jan 15th, 2015
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 7:18 PM UTC
“To us, white girls are exotic,”
says my Arab American boyfriend.
At that moment, my brain ceases
to make sense of those words
in that order.
Exotic? White? Girl?
Me? Me. He means... me.
So this is what I say
to my Arab American boyfriend
who has
more culture in his pinky
than all of white America combined.
From what I can tell,
to be white in America is
boring static,
AM radio on a Sunday morning
with a broken dial
on a back road in the boonies.
It is the culture born by everything borrowed but wrongfully claimed
as its own invention.
To be white, in America, tastes like
cream of wheat
with no hope of brown sugar.
It is a tumbleweed-kind-of-rootless
and just as desert dry.
It is colorless, odorless, tasteless—
and will choke you slowly
if you don’t build up a tolerance.
But
if you’re lucky enough
to be white in America,
for about a hundred bucks
and a swab of the cheek,
the Internet can tell you
where you came from.
Even if that makes you feel cultured,
tomorrow you will wake up
and still be
white in America.
To be white in America, I thought,
was as far from exotic
as the self-loathing, middle aged guy
behind the counter
at your local DMV.
But white girls, he says, are exotic.
Perhaps it’s because pumpkin spice
oozes from my pasty pores,
or that “there ain’t no laws
when you’re drinkin’ the Claws.”
Maybe he couldn’t resist the fact
that the Starbucks barista
knows my order
better than my name,
or that my hair blowdries pin straight—
no matter the time of year.
I wonder if it’s the combo of
black leggings, messy buns,
and work out tanks—
or the fact that I think I’m saving the whole god **** sea turtle population
with my stainless steel straw.
Exotic?
Maybe it’s my compulsive nature
to buy in bulk, to pet every dog I see,
and to cry over Queer Eye episodes.
It couldn’t possibly be
the steady diet of rom coms,
my collection of Birkenstocks,
or the apple cinnamon candle
burning on my windowsill
that reminds me of “fall y’all,”
but then again, who knows?
To me, my whiteness is a privilege
that will forever be misinterpreted
as entitlement by every person
who checks that “white” box
on the form
without checking themselves too.
“To us, white girls are exotic,” he says.
White girl is just happy
he likes her in spite of it.
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 10:10 PM UTC
Knuckles knee-deep in bright orange dust
Her words half-crunched
In a hurricane of hurried lunch
I mix in wit to her serious plot
Her mouth flies open, filled with half-chewed corn starch
And she still looks like a matriarch
We turned the radio on
But was gradually turned down
The ridged **** twisted all the way around
So she'd mention a song and I'd ask her
"How's that goes again?"
To hear her voice slip in and out
When really I knew it all by heart
Even when there was no reason to,
We smiled
Giggled off each other's cues
She looked from me once
Her eyes widening like a telescope
Mouth gaping, absent of laughter, as she braced a hand against my chest
The liquid-like sucker punch
Of the metal colliding quick
Like jelly under a rolling pin, I stuck
Grasping onto prayers with my fingers loose as God
She didn't scream, just held my shirt
As my tumbleweed Taurus vaulted yet another foot
Into the same solid ground, the same stars of shards
Mingled with bright orange dust sifting through the air.
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 9:43 PM UTC
Humming a soft tune
came down the wind
With airy fingers,
it tousled my hair
Rubbing its cold cheeks
on mine, tickling me,
it reeled round
tugging at my skirt
like a naughty kid
and amorously lifting it up
like a lover
Like soft tendrils
it coiled all around me
inviting me for a waltz
Between hushed breaths
and murmured tones
it talked to me endless
whispering sweet nothings
in my attentive ear
I felt love pouring down on me
I wished to cage it
to enjoy its sweet company
But like an apparition,
it disappeared into thin air!
I couldn’t follow its trail
but as it passed, I saw
a tumbleweed tremble
far above the ground!
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 6:11 AM UTC
Creased felines crossing lines,
Pressing claws into dust.
Western hemisphere,
Reviving the pilgrimage.
Bubbles and logs
Satiate their under garments.
Enhancing hair follicles
Resembling shards and spurs.
At a woodsy bar,
A tabby liberated the fangs
He rented last holiday.
The bartender shook with perplexity.
Reacting simultaneously-
A minor character, Little Leon.
The dusty town called him
Leon, for he was alone.
Little Leon got taller
In a basement full
Of water. The dusty town
Was an adjustment.
The tabby and Little Leon
Faced off for recognition.
Leon wretchedly charged
The floor boards with sopping ends.
Crayon versus colored pencil;
They chose their weapons
Anxiously. It was
Bring your son to work day.
The bent bartender
Spared his child’s eyes.
“I’m not your little boy,”
The child shrilled at him.
“I don’t want trains,
Or fake guns meant for play.
I miss my mom,
And dresses on Sunday.”
Cats on a pilgrimage,
Rarely stop from
Slurping a drink. Pity refilled
Cups, as tails twitched in trial.
The tabby and Leon
Came to a halt, seeing as
Punishment was engraved atop
The bartender’s grungy mitts.
The clowder gathered,
As the Tabby scolded the man
Behind the bar. “Remember where
you leave your beverage.”
And that was that.
Leon’s internal complexity,
Being left with only himself,
Dissipated. There are others
Who feel more alone.
Tabby picked up his crayon.
His spurs clanked
And spun, as his guided
His feline friends out the front.
Tumbleweed skidded
Outside the bar.
The bartender finally saw
That his son was not a son.
Mar 18, 2012
Mar 18, 2012 at 5:10 PM UTC
I went hunting with my dad once
Around August or September
I was younger but old enough to remember
Windhowls of the deep forests
Sounded like owls everywhere
Straying from our camper - I didn't dare
It didn't take long
It was almost too soon
Anticlimactic & too simple to be true
Just planted ontop of the weeds
Just a few feet into the brush
Lay a pile of stuff
Disshevled and unkempt
Motionless and covered in burrs
Save for the sleight of a gust to weave thru its fur
The bones weren't white or polished
The cartoons had misled
It sat there in pieces & browning, instead
Skeletal, like random things tossed together
A velcro roadkill tumbleweed
Dried out and unable to bleed.
My dad told me it was a coyote
I thought,
There's no way that was a coyote - a coyote?
It's just a pile of stuff
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 1:16 PM UTC