"unrolling" poems
Late night. Footsteps.
Crane necks and girders.
Fog lifts. The wind cries.
Steel bones in moonlight
I'm out
so late now
and it's Sunday night and Summer's ending
soon.
I'm aging
with questions
fermenting in my mouth
ignored for years
Fenced off. Unfinished
project shelved and waiting
for next Spring.
Cool night eclipsing
years spent indexing,
answers mislaid and
blueprints unrolling
Components rusting,
crane necks and girders.
Steel bones in moonlight.
Tight lipped and staring.
Fall comes
construction
halts now and the walls stand half
complete
And outside
the chain link
shrugging off the cold and
still wondering when
Step through unfinished
building. Get home. Shelved
until next Spring.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
I've been pacing from room to room
Waiting for the world to stimulate
Something other than haunting gloom
Scroll unrolling a new series of emotions
Trends are mountaintops so better follow
The path is winding and this high peaked
Enjoy the view of this digital landscape
As the rest of the world crumbles at your
Feet
Feb 24, 2023
Feb 24, 2023 at 10:53 AM UTC
A desiccated brown leaf remembering greener days,
summersaults stem over end into the exposed cold dirt softened somewhat in demeanor by the grass and radiant shafts
The geese and ducks squawk and honk in the distance
Congratulating each other for the day's richness
and the way the sun feels on their proud beaks
glinting off the water in its way
a shimmering band
A princely golden carpet forever unrolling and yet complete
The sun's spindle weaves gems of light into a gossamer web
laid glittering across the water
A vision for Moses
who saw the true path through the sea
Fireworks Forever exploding sunlight
Gifted to the eye on clear liquid canvas
The wind ripples the waves
wrinkles pushed along
foaming in the sand
Little Kisses
on the grainy cheek
Star Flashes Communicating ancient patterns
Secrets of Existence Coming in Morse code, Fibonacci Sequencing,
Sacred Geometry in Twinkling Motion
Individual explosions blinking on a natural switchboard
Telling the architectural answer
Manifesting the blueprint
to only every reason why
The Last Leaf sings in the Breeze, swinging
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 12:03 PM UTC
Lars lifts opens the toilet seat. The hinge squawks and he mimics the sound with his mouth. A dumb smile folds out on his face like someone unrolling a beach towel. He sits without dropping his pants or underwear. The cops are just about to leave through the screen door. Maggie offers a departing sacrament of right out of the oven of crispy flakey Pillsbury biscuits. They wave their hands parallel to the ground refusing. Maggie pulled the biscuits out too early. The bottoms are tan and dimensional but the tops are sloppy. They look like they have a glaze but they don’t have a glaze. They are pasty but still hot to the touch. The pan is hot. Maggie is wearing maroon oven mitts. One of the cops gets his foot snagged on the throw rug. They walk with their heads down but don’t notice the curled edges of the throw rug. They notice a black pug named Roger instead and nearly avoid fumbling over him. The cops scatter outside quickly like ducklings crossing the street. Lars’ dumb smile lingers and he laughs with a shushing lisp. He reaches between his legs into the toilet bowl. His hand disturbs the water. His nose is bleeding. Maggie closes the doorwall after the cops leave. The cops left the screen open. Maggie reopens the doorwall, closes the screen, shakes her head, and then closes the doorwall again. The kitchen is humming with improper wires. The light is electric pastel blue. The linoleum is too ***** to sleep on. Maggie’s ******* can be seen through her shirt. Lars wipes his nose with his arm and shoulder. He is hunched digging into the toilet bowl. He pulls out a baggie with a twist tie on top. The baggie looks reused. Maggie enters under the frame of the door and her lips roll out like a beach towel. The ******* in the baggie is very very dry.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 7:56 PM UTC
In this tightly interwoven
tapestry of
silks and cottons
softness upon stems
an intricately-boned
journey
manifesto of life
I find myself in
patchwork landscapes
of ochre and
rust turning
turquoise
earthern shades
of cumin and cardamom
cloves and coriander
piquant red of paprika
alighting the senses
My fingers reach out
to sift the powder
to crush
fragrant fronds
of fresh basil and oregano
upon the blueprint of tips
allow their scent
to permeate my skin
and infuse tissue
of tongue and lips
and I seem to be
in this
bustling marketplace
my blood afire like
dried ghost pepper
searing and brightening
all flavors
fenugreek and asafoetida
to soothe the ache
of emptiness
chervil and chive
to get juices flowing
I want to slit open
vanilla pods
get at the beans
revel in their essence
wear it all over me
In this realm of spice
and paradise
I am flying,
a magic carpet of dreams
unrolling before me
like an unfurled flag
of new existence
The sounds of hagglers,
fading in raw visons
of shiny apple colors
olives piled high
textures of smooth cherry
budded broccoli
of walnut wrinkles
aroma of guava
Music takes over
I am in a cloud of
oud and lute
syncopated tabla
bells and rumbling
taut skin drum beats
Or is that long low whir
simply my heart purring
to the cadence of
freedom's call?
I only know
that in the whisk
of a second's split
I will savor the flight
and also the
fall
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 4:51 PM UTC
He’s come to ancient plains, again.
Wide and open, high and dry.
Unrolling before his misting eyes,
He feels the tug of ancient ties -
A primeval sorrow,
His gut rarely lies.
Breathing the landscape in ...
He imagines America,
Before settlers arrived;
A life under
Different skies.
Oh, how they tried
To disguise
Their insatiable eyes.
Twisted, and tainted,
By treatises and lies,
Used for desire,
And profit designs;
Parceling the land,
That sour reprise.
But beneath
The ringing cries,
Of culture broken,
And shattered lives,
A wisp of her soul resides;
In stories told,
And countryside.
Places where nature
Remains untried,
And no realtors
Have thought to subdivide.
Aug 31, 2011
Aug 31, 2011 at 1:48 AM UTC
"Y'got city hands, Mr. Hooper."
I felt his coarse hands grip mine, too;
I lived through Mr. Hooper vicariously
as I looked down at open palms
spread to the heavens,
illuminated in the flashy brilliance of the glare.
I saw wrinkled, calloused eyes peer into mine;
I stood on that rickety old dock
in my fitted and worn wool cap,
faded denim shirt matching pants
and dingy white tennis shoes.
"Y'got city hands, Mr. Hooper."
My ego crestfallen as well,
pride in my intelligence proven in the Academia
withering, as the gritty gap-toothed
leery-eyed barnacle of a sailor
peered inquisitively into my soul.
He saw the smooth hands--
ah, but the callouses engraved deep between joints
on my fingers; a musician!
His eyes grilled, "In bourgeois leisure,
smiling meekly dwelling within milquetoast afternoon hours,
or,
from downtown haunts sweating jazz in the midnight hour,
dancing screaming cursing moaning lovingly?"
My eyes cast down again.
But I know not of the city as my abode!
I know the ****** and the farmer
more than any contributor to painted landscapes, nay;
they are my acquaintances, neighbors, cousins, brothers, and sisters!
For I have lived on the water;
I have eyed the vessels
commandeered by the gritty, grubby,
greased captains of my soul,
as I float buoyed in their wake,
eager to catch a semblance of the waters
that trail before them.
I live treading their wake,
eyes open and pencil in hand.
And lo;
I found sanctuary in the vast fields of the rustic farmer!
For I ate breakfast of the freshly-slaughtered calf;
I drank its mother's milk,
eggs fresh from the poultry den--
I squawked along with the mother hens.
I took in the bucolic smell of the country
atop the rugged tractor,
eyeing squinting
grimacing like a smile in the sun
burning burning down upon stiff backs
and leather necks--
I, the leaves of grass scattered
in the wake of the farmer,
I, the bails of hay furled tightly
sitting patiently in the once golden meadow,
I watched the tractors and their commandeers
disappear in the bombinate horizon;
the sound of insects ushering in the night sky
like unrolling the starry-eyed carpet
before the hazy late afternoon moon.
I watched, I lived,
waiting coiled in their wakes
eyes wide open and paper clenched in hand.
I lifted my eyes to once again
hear his curt admonition:
"Y'got city hands, Mr. Rhine."
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 3:37 PM UTC
Before my eyes,
The sea stretches far;
An infinite scroll of chiffon
Rolling and unrolling
In shades of green and sapphire
In its sedate hours of brooding silence
A calm expanse with feeble waves
As if seized by an uncanny lassitude
Lying in majesty
Swirling in ecstasy
Within this mammoth silver submarine,
How many mysterious live forms thrive!
What curious shaped corals, what all sea urchins!
What wealth of fish, what gigantic mammals!
Between the blue sky above
And the blue sea below
I see seagulls fly,
The long beaked pelicans prey,
Grampuses heaving their huge form
Above the calm surface
And the milky spray
Tossing shiny pearls
Upon the stretching naked strands
I can see a distant sail
And the hull of a ship
Gliding over undulating waves
Leaving a frothy trail of foam behind
With water churning and spiraling around
Where sharks and seals and dolphins swim
Piles of silver clouds move above
And the golden sands stretch below
With periwinkles, ***** and shells
Scattered by the receding waves
Splashing tides, dancing weeds
Rising crescendo, falling rhythm
Oh! What a splendid scene
In the rosy gleam of this evening!
What delectable mélange
Of tinkling sensory delights!
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 6:14 AM UTC
My soul is screaming for any form of attention
For someone to acknowledge it and see how broken it is
I spent the night in my high school with my entire grade
We took off our uniforms and put on pajamas
Unrolling sleeping bags on the floors of our school
My biggest fear, that no one would notice how broken I was
That I would continue down this invisible path to nowhere
Then I opened my eyes and saw their souls instead
Some full of compassion and joy
Others equally as broken as mine
We all hurt a little together, and I guess that was the point
Or maybe I was meant to see that I am not alone
But come Monday when we all return to class
And roll up the sleeping bags, changing back into our uniforms,
We will also put back the guise of "I'm Okay"
And I don't remember where I put mine...
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 9:32 PM UTC
Beautiful cloud! with folds so soft and fair,
Swimming in the pure quiet air!
Thy fleeces bathed in sunlight, while below
Thy shadow o'er the vale moves slow;
Where, midst their labour, pause the reaper train
As cool it comes along the grain.
Beautiful cloud! I would I were with thee
In thy calm way o'er land and sea:
To rest on thy unrolling skirts, and look
On Earth as on an open book;
On streams that tie her realms with silver bands,
And the long ways that seam her lands;
And hear her humming cities, and the sound
Of the great ocean breaking round.
Ay--I would sail upon thy air-borne car
To blooming regions distant far,
To where the sun of Andalusia shines
On his own olive-groves and vines,
Or the soft lights of Italy's bright sky
In smiles upon her ruins lie.
But I would woo the winds to let us rest
O'er Greece long fettered and oppressed,
Whose sons at length have heard the call that comes
From the old battle-fields and tombs,
And risen, and drawn the sword, and on the foe
Have dealt the swift and desperate blow,
And the Othman power is cloven, and the stroke
Has touched its chains, and they are broke.
Ay, we would linger till the sunset there
Should come, to purple all the air,
And thou reflect upon the sacred ground
The ruddy radiance streaming round.
Bright meteor! for the summer noontide made!
Thy peerless beauty yet shall fade.
The sun, that fills with light each glistening fold,
Shall set, and leave thee dark and cold:
The blast shall rend thy skirts, or thou may'st frown
In the dark heaven when storms come down,
And weep in rain, till man's inquiring eye
Miss thee, forever from the sky.
996
Acumen lens, you shudder, and panting ensues
Inglorious vault of confided delusions
That opens again as wounds, gleaming death beams
On wrists and hearts a bruise, chemically indoctrinated
By the sway of the way that she moves
Heathen goddess, mourned through nights
Just passing by, all the avenues, of this dauntless brain
Beat my drums with your fiery fists, frail and bone bare
Yet, they never once have missed
Until your heels cascade down my tongues unrolling train
I will not breathe again
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 1:26 AM UTC
I’d sing to you soft songs
If you walked along with me
By the sea, harmonizing;
Eulogizing each wave before
Ignoring the temptation
For libations and viands.
The sands would demand
Hand and hand we stroll
And roll with the moment,
The foment feet way
At the end of this day.
I’d revel in this with you
New waves making lights
That night tries to hide
While inside we create
The greatest love and joys
Toys for the fates, caress
And dress us as royalty.
Loyalty and gratitude transform
As we form into a pair.
The wind ruffles our hair.
I’d breathe in the sea air
Sharing the breezes with you
Doing nothing but strolling
Unrolling a memory for two
Who both understand this
Is what it is; a beginning
Winning a celestial prize
For eyes that celebrate
This date as only ours;
These hours our dedication,
A presentation to us both
And loth to walk away
We so want to stay.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 5:15 AM UTC
Words spill quietly down my ribs.
Dip between every vertebrae,
Spread across awakening skin.
Morning, beautiful, mine.
You speak with wandering syllables,
Sliding vowels and unrolling tongue.
I respond like the ocean greeting the shore.
Smooth, deliberate, desperate.
Time slows, thighs spread
Mouths know, hips beg,
Bodies suspend.
Climbing, carrying, caught.
Palms reach, fingers extend.
With ragged words, once sleek and smooth,
You ask me who i am.
Yours, yours, yours.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 9:53 PM UTC
Remember, everyone you meet is a little stupid
a little insane, pinched with a little of mundane
Remember, all happy days come one after other
and unhappy ones are unrolling wilderness
Look further, looks lingering on prairies of sad
winds sliding down to kiss your moist cheek
reddened with mad, and everyone you meet
is a little flustered, once been in love
In voice a little meek, in knees a little weak
a little of sky in their eyes,because nothing's above.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 5:27 AM UTC
Penelope must have felt this way.
Weaving in the morning,
unweaving at night.
This threadwork of colors
forming, unforming
rolling, unrolling
running stitches, leaving holes,
loose, loose tiny holes.
I begin our story,
stop midway. Wasting
ink. Wasting
paper. Killing
trees. Hanging
my right hand in the air. Creaking
the door is. Only
it is the wind.
Holding out until your homecoming.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 9:14 PM UTC
From all the scripted things I've said to you
To all the brand new and the nerves
I rise and set around you ever since
Wishing everything was mine and yours
It's a slow unrolling gaining force each time
And avalanching into every day's dreams
I wasn't ready to admit it, but now
I couldn't have designed you better
I can't help but concentrate on
How perfect you are
Because you remind me of everything good
And the tone of your voice can level me out
I think about you coming like a flash of lightning
I think about you changing my mind
I would have never given in except over you
You overrule me with any effortless laughter
At the first sign he will be that kind of starry eyed forever
I will sign away my everything, and venture into that wild.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC
We travelled sunny Manhattan, my family and I
On the top of a double decker, to see what scrapes the sky
The bus saw it all, Times Square, Empire State,
Broadway, Wall Street, Central Park, it was great!
When we drove by the office buildings, I saw a large set of stairs
It was beautifully vast with a refreshing air
Dozens of suited workers were scattered about
Some sat there to rest, some went up, some went down…
There was one man who sat there and really drew my eye
When I looked the time slowed and I wasn’t sure why
He was generically handsome in a way that was vague
And was contently unrolling his brown paper bag
In a dress-shirt and tie, his blazer set aside
He sat, eating a sandwich with a surreal air of pride
Unlike your average stressed out business man
He was at ease with himself, sandwich in hand
As the moment had passed our bus travelled on
And just like that, the young man was gone
We finished the tour and returned to our hotel
We relaxed in our room and gabbed and shared tell
Of our thoughts of the tour we had taken that day
“One thing I noticed,” I heard my mom say
(I could already tell what she was about to relay)
“was this man in a suit who made quite a display,
eating lunch on some stairs, I kept looking his way”
I could hardly believe it, that she saw him too
I expressed in excitement, that I totally knew
Precisely the man she was talking about
“I saw him too!” I heard my dad and bro shout
We all laughed in surprise that of all the people we saw
To that very same man, we all had been drawn
What was it about him that made him stand out so much?
He was only a man just enjoying his lunch
He just seemed so content and at peace with himself
His aura made it clear of his internal wealth
What was it that set such a grand vibe in motion?
Perhaps he had just been handed out a promotion
It could be that his un-ignorable gleam
Was the personification of the Manhattan dream
Or maybe he was just basking in the warm sunny day
Whatever it was, we all felt his array
I wonder if that moment when we looked from the bus
Was as important to him as it had been to us
I can’t help but feel like it must have been
Cause whatever he was feeling drew all eyes to him
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 6:18 PM UTC
I was blue ice above the moon
Great bolts of wind I was one time
Diamonds, Tempests, Whole crowns of trees
Torn tumbling through chutes of roaring skies
There were ribbons of heaven unrolling
Day after vexing day
Evening after claw-toed evening
It was fate who brought me here
Fate who flung me down and left me
Singing
Who will have me now?
Oh, who will have me now?
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 5:32 AM UTC
An open mind, & a heart that unwinds,
like a movie film.
Unrolling, & revealing my love life.
20 years of age, & no longer looking forward,
towards a next page.
Lost hope in finding love, at a young age.
As I write the scenes,
in which will be seen on screen.
I am filled with rage, & disbelief.
I have given my all to past lovers,
& was given nothing in return,
but heartache, & pain.
I've always known my worth,
& knew, that is not what I deserve.
Realized when it was wrong,
when actors did not belong.
Had to move on, erase the scene,
start over, rewrite, change the scenery,
& continue my story.
Alone, living life, reconnecting with myself.
Until one day, he arrived.
Someone different in appearance, & intelligence.
Shared the same personality, thoughts, sense of humor.
We were each others comfort zone,
talked to one another about anything, & everything.
Perfect in my eyes, if you asked me.
At least, that's what I thought.
Until I was reliving the same old chapters,
once again.
They say,
"Even nothing is something",
or "Better to have loved, & lost, than to have never loved at all".
In deed, I agree.
Yet, if your heart is no longer beating,
in hopes of one day finding "the one",
& finally feeling love.
Do these sayings still apply, or even matter?
Yet, the movie continues, as my life shall go on,
with, or without someone by side.
Maybe, alone, lost, with no love to share, nor feel.
Yet, living.
But maybe one day,
when my hair turns gray,
I am no longer afraid,
& my soul is slowly slipping away.
Love will find its way,
& it'll be too late.
Because when I finally feel again,
I will not have the strength to stay,
to hopefully hear them sincerely say..
"I Love You", & finally feel the truth.
To hear, & see it from you..
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 2:53 PM UTC
On a sermon note, when I guess I should have been listening, I scribbled a poem years ago that I now find in a long neglected book I used to smuggle in every Sunday. A stoic book and in the folds I find the never published long forgotten write of an imagined future day that fate holds from above just out of grasp. That sparkling jewel of hope. A day with darting eyes and deep swallows, heaving hidden breaths, electric thoughts. Two of the corners are shriveled now , one side requiring unrolling the see the last words of each line. Interjected words here and there to change the nuance just a bit. Truth is in there, pleasure too. Between the space of whispered glances and a final goodbye. Wonder what it all means now. I can't quite wrap my head around it much like the sermon of that day. So I will leave it with Pope, right in the middle of the Windsor Forest, "to consult the dead and live past ages o'er."
Jul 16, 2017
Jul 16, 2017 at 6:09 AM UTC
...and god opened up her legs
and said, "come, o come to me"
and yes, the believers flocked
like so many birds clinging
to a rock, faith a casualty
of a wave, of dumb luck
they said yes, yesyesyes
please and what the ****
and god opened up her knees
and she let in all of the birds
and the flutter of so many
wings, yes they did they
pleased her and o my
and boy o boy and o ****
don't this feel nice and
god finally came
and the birds and the bees
and so many people just
like you and maybe me
they waited for more
because there's always
more and they waited
for god to breathe one
one last gasp, the unrolling
the tight fist unfolding,
the final gasp and
all things natural
and all things
unnatural, well,
they continued to wait,
with little else do
to hear the final word
and
god let loose pretty much
each and every bird and
the way and the will
and the ungrasping
of all things let loose
on the world primed
for the final **** storm
yes!
and the world was covered
the world was smothered
in so much ****
yes!
and that was the way
and the will and so much
swill, goodnight and forever
**** you (and you and you
and you) and that was pretty
much it, the world covered
in so much **** get used
to it
Mar 1, 2019
Mar 1, 2019 at 6:05 PM UTC
glowing, a dream
of surreal heartbeats
incandescent omniscient eyes
knowing it seems
what I am about to think
hope is more fearing of
daylight as I long more
with each night, every dream
hear the ghostly footsteps
nearer when I wake,
then in any nightmare.
There the similarities of alive
with death outpace
the differences, dreams knit
more peace , hope than
awakening thought, they twine from the same ball
unrolling vice versa
the fog gets a brighter green a glow
days get so long and gray
and dreams tomorrow
I may stay in.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 10:30 PM UTC
Tiking toking ideas tracing each smooth areas unrolls wetness as it warming up warding thoughts.
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 12:07 PM UTC