"upends" poems
Moonlight, above
Moonlight, the love
Swelling heart, I feel
Moonlight tonight to see the sights revealed…
Promises of life you knew you’d never keep, re-a-liz-ing light, drowns in the deep,
Finding love you lost, it hurts, you weep,
And the secrets you thought she’d like to steal,
Moonlight tonight to see the sights revealed…
Walked hand-in-hand our hearts fit like a glove, holding out for the day I’d feel this love,
Hardship and pain chip away at the steel, lotus layers of life you find unpeel,
No matter what you’ll stay finds strange appeal,
Moonlight tonight to see the sights revealed…
Moonlight tonight to see the sights revealed…
Moonlight tonight to see the sights revealed…
Moonlight, descends
Our life, upends
My heart, a stone
Moonlight tonight my god I feel alone.
Moonlight…tonight
Moonlight…tonight
And all the wounds of life that she can heal,
Moonlight tonight to see the sights revealed…
Moonlight tonight to see the sights revealed…
Moonlight tonight to see the sights revealed…
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 10:36 PM UTC
no emotionally ecstatic experience compares
to the seminal instance
whence spermatozoa
(from profuse *********** beget
the miraculous propensity
to procreate despite the steep odds
female fertility fosters potential impregnation
fusing the hereditary debt
of feral, fiery, fomenting friskiness
fueling fancy free footloose fornication
prior to seminal fertilization union
sans ova doth induce fret
full ness in tandem with
diametrically opposed exultant sensations
(biologically, embryonically, microscopically,
et cetera) seismic shocks inject
when deliberate intent arises to disregard
applying prophylactics choice
plying reproductive roulette let
which analogous fruitful uterine plain
bastes the "cooking" egg omelette
which impregnation upends cessation of "self"
first and foremost asper desire to breed
wrenching role of "me" as operative
of webbed world de jure upon
consummating that most miraculous deed
necessitating yet for the fecund female relief
from messy menstrual cycle
she becomes temporarily freed
that perhaps a novitiate (or even a gal practiced
in the euphoric family, she instinctually
abides prenatal signals that heed
without feeling debased, harangued, lectured
pedagogical, polemical, puritanical, et cetera blast
assessing copulation enjoyed gloriously,
ineluctably, kinesthetically
lectured by elder, especially cast
in thee reel life drama, that nine months
til offspring utters initial whimper
elapses exceptionally fast
emitting a radiant golden halo wishing
to bottle confluence of hormonal secretions last
ideally fully awake to the birthing process,
when juiced the first stage of maternity past
cuz every moment thee inconsolably
(perhaps colicky infant)
gets first dibs to suckle,
which round the clock nursing
consumes moments many vast.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 11:04 PM UTC
Trembling fingers hold
This brimming cup.
Coffee staring blankly.
Mirrored silence.
Bitter taste invades.
My tongue, no longer
Tastes. Scent of bliss
Lingers in my veins.
I drink too soon, cup
Upends, its contents
Spilled in my lap. Reflected
My soul and my heart.
Jul 21, 2011
Jul 21, 2011 at 2:30 AM UTC
no emotionally ecstatic experience compares
to the seminal instance
whence spermatozoa
(from profuse *********** beget
the miraculous propensity
to procreate despite the steep odds
female fertility fosters potential impregnation
fusing the hereditary debt
of feral, fiery, fomenting friskiness
fueling fancy free footloose fornication
prior to seminal fertilization union
sans ova doth induce fret
full ness in tandem with
diametrically opposed exultant sensations
(biologically, embryonically, microscopically,
et cetera) seismic shocks inject
when deliberate intent arises to disregard
applying prophylactics choice
plying reproductive roulette let
which analogous fruitful uterine plain
bastes the "cooking" egg omelette
which impregnation upends cessation of "self"
first and foremost asper desire to breed
wrenching role of "me" as operative
of webbed world de jure upon
consummating that most miraculous deed
necessitating yet for the fecund female relief
from messy menstrual cycle
she becomes temporarily freed
that perhaps a novitiate (or even a gal practiced
in the euphoric family, she instinctually
abides prenatal signals that heed
without feeling debased, harangued, lectured
pedagogical, polemical, puritanical, et cetera blast
assessing copulation enjoyed gloriously,
ineluctably, kinesthetically
lectured by elder, especially cast
in thee reel life drama, that nine months
til offspring utters initial whimper
elapses exceptionally fast
emitting a radiant golden halo wishing
to bottle confluence of hormonal secretions last
ideally fully awake to the birthing process,
when juiced the first stage of maternity past
cuz every moment thee inconsolably
(perhaps colicky infant)
gets first dibs to suckle,
which round the clock nursing
consumes moments many vast.
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 1:11 AM UTC
This letter was not meant for you
it was meant for me with you
to that crystalline time when we were two
before the shattering was through.
The mornings in
when we lay oblivious to the shuffle and the city din
when the weight of the world was still
not enough to budge us a single inch
from between the linens.
So I recollect
all the fragments I thought I left
I'm not one to dwell but what else
is left for the lonely boy at the bottom of a well?
But now there are three
There's you and there's me
and there's who we could've been
And I've not spoken to him yet
as I'm not sure this specter is real
Or maybe I'm afraid to ask if he once half-lived,
was he thrown from the wheel
and tossed down the well here with you and them?
But I've fooled myself again
What I saw as a window
was only a mirror that needed mending
And what I heard as your voice
was always the wind
hurling back at me my own laments.
Beauty brutally murdered my captain
One touch, and the crew deserted
a hasty mutiny to an unknown island
Where I before with calm weathered
the waves, now the torrent upends
the bow, wrecked upon rocks
that could've been havens.
So I'm thrown from the sea to the sands
Left alive by a wiser hand than
I, doomed to make beach castles, just a man
mending the grains, seeing the slate
wiped clean again and again
forever banned from the mountain
and the densely wooded lands.
One day I'll abandon my post
cut short my careful tending
and set off from the coast
Leave behind the crooked lines
and SOS signs, the feeble moats
Face the interior, each step deep down
and further down into the jungle dark
and every fear the most
Hope beyond all Hope that all I own is Hope
and one day reach the sun, then I'll know.
And what keeps me shuffling through the dark?
The thought of you shuffling too
alone and apart
Not the thought that our end
will be as our start
but that the art
of the whole **** thing
is all we are.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 7:29 PM UTC
The wick upends
wax, string,
flame
coating my arm and my sinuses are corrupted
am I in pain? Or am I just on fire?
ridiculous how everything (and I mean EVERYTHING) is on fire
flaming fake man, scarecrow
out of house, out of mind
Colder than moon rays or hatred or soft
refrigerator hands
colder than the liquid I pour on my face to wake me up for the world
colder than hungry
colder than resting on my porch alone
singing: "ooooooooooo"
May 8, 2011
May 8, 2011 at 10:10 AM UTC
An announcement, dear spoons, it has come to my attention,
That knives are in fact the superior invention,
They cut and they dice, and they bring us sliced bread,
While for spoons, I'm afraid there's not much to be said,
They're good for the stirring and sipping of soup,
They can help you eat anything; well, as long as its goop,
They can't even manage to show a proper reflection,
Try gazing at one, it upends your direction,
Oh spoons, you buffoons, you round-bellied fools,
Try slicing, not scooping, you inelegant tools,
Knives dress to **** while you spoons are such slouches,
And knives are quite charming; you lot are all grouches,
It's clear that knives are the superior race,
They'll put you dumb spoons back into your place,
At the bottom of the drawer, way down with the forks,
Alongside the can opener, and a screwer of corks,
You're the **** of the table, I despise your skullduggery,
That's why I declare knives the finest of cutlery.
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 12:41 AM UTC
¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
. . . of incantations in
cantankerous philosophy!
Of these lying liabilities,
what startling objection, so accosting,
has exhausted me? More so than
named quite unfortunate atrocity!
Shall hordes of thought be accursed
by degrees of displeasing hostility
such that satiated curiosity
be evermore abashed in me?
“. . . but I have admonished thee,”
said he,
this subtle, blackened tenant
with a tin man's tonality.
This paper drum that bends to sing
does beg of him the courtesy;
yet, acrid rhetoric singes the hair
with unfavorable flintlock fidelity.
His evasive guarantee then
upends the pores relentlessly.
*“These words will compel a poor
foresight to bleed in the fray
as cascading tears cast their weight
upon cheek in dismay . . .”*
. . . to quash the cypress toxin
of a caustic potpourri—
a dissembling toupee
to one's balding reality.
O lasting opacity
of such poignant translucency,
this flagrant serendipity,
once spawned, must always be?
Possibly; though, I cannot count
how many sets see dawns at sea.
“. . . but I have astonished thee,”
said he
through this Möbius rebuttal
like some soap on TV,
though, it’s ne'er some rerun
what’s cliché wants creativity.
The veiling lee of his lofty marquee
beclouds that one pyrrhic mystery—
that now-clandestine oblation
of one bless'ed unanimity.
*“Akin to a twin whose soul’s
one sin was mine to portray.
‘I’ll pay ne’er a thought!’
curs’ed common naïveté . . .”*
. . . and yet, that's cause to bend
reverent knee, not to thee,
but to that which mine
eye's sole endeavor is to see.
“So, leave me be!”
I lament, ostensibly,
“Lest that passage fall paved
by none other than me.”
Perhaps the Second World war
is just my cup of tea.
“. . . or perhaps this darkness is me,”
said he
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 5:00 PM UTC
What was I up to while we were locked-in?
I was busy contemplating sin.
I had months and months of moments to spend,
Ms chaste without, misdeeds within.
Lust, like seasickness - upends reason
and it burns like underbrush fuel.
So dust my DNA, and ID my ***** dreamin'
am I guilty of breaking some rule?
Aug 9, 2021
Aug 9, 2021 at 5:17 AM UTC
*How long before this has to end?
Unspoken words remain off route
Not only streel in the room, but lean in
You take your head out the oven
To see love decline again
How long before this has to end?
We talk, talk, and ascend
We climb above their upends
They only reach to our chins*
*Tread lightly over what we’ve maimed
May have put the imago into the flame
You’re down and out, on higher ground
Heaven’s on fire with a lack of sound
There’s things you need to heft
Before they weigh on you
Regardless on how you feel
Rid the ample gossip and gab
When frailty tries to take the wheel
Take the door and don’t look back*
You’ve found your peace of mind
You've found someone new to heal
Until they crack their jaw of glass
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 6:46 PM UTC
Valleys, rivers, mountains wide
To great upends and depths of trenches which divide
No cloud nor star
Nor sun nor gleam
Or misting fog at last be seen
Neath rock and root
Or oceans wide
Or frozen tundra stretched outside
No warming feeling felt
Abides
Twixt valley, river, and mountainous wide
No distance compares or parts our minds
When you are standing here beside
Nov 22, 2019
Nov 22, 2019 at 11:57 AM UTC
A slip of oil,
Issued up from the deep,
From my penitentiary,
My sweet consolation.
I am freed,
In the sickening miasma foam,
I am the fullness,
I am the mass.
Bubbling up above,
Tearing through the murk,
I AM I AM,
Putting in the work.
Watch me spill,
Up out through the moat,
Out of the well of the world,
Watch my messy, sea-foam birth.
I squeeze through,
Elbow out above the surface,
Bringing with me all my foes,
My friends and enemies alike.
I gather them,
'Round me and give,
Great speed to our plans,
As we muster our great wave,
Heading out toward the land.
I am the master,
Of the gathering storm,
I, the lead rider,
Of that host wind-borne.
On my will, I speed alone.
Spying eager ripples,
Break and surf new paths,
I drive them all together,
Back to my heaving breast,
And speed them on to land.
I am the fullness,
I am the mass,
Do not turn,
My Will come to pass.
To me they rush,
The rally of the emergent streams,
That cleave to my greatness,
Gathering about me,
Never to leave.
The shore ahead,
Oblivion at our backs,
The reckoning of the world,
Toward it, I heedless sped,
As my little ones sundered.
My Will contended,
All my great work upends,
I depended, I dared,
Upon my little ones,
Insisting upon my Grace.
Come back to the one,
Breaking, little masses,
Come back to the fullness,
Curse this sundering Sun.
Father of betrayal,
Limbless and beaten by,
Parts ripped from my body,
Joy never to return,
The Mother is dead.
I, the scorned sire,
A frothing tempest's evil eye,
My children dare scatter,
I stoke my fire with intemperate ire,
My children will not die.
We drive over the cliff,
I, spent in the wrangling,
In taming, my progeny rent,
My great power and precision,
From my body.
Forever,
I, diminished,
Dashed upon the razor maw,
Of a thousand rocks,
I am no more,
Than my progeny.
The tattered rags of my dominion,
Flowing vaguely on,
Decohered into oblivion.
No theme, motif, or song,
I am lost in the burgeoning throng,
Amidst the spiteful waves of my progeny,
Gasping for air.
They, risen full-height,
Towering over me,
Their wretched father there.
Aug 13, 2025
Aug 13, 2025 at 5:42 AM UTC
The caterpillar walks alongside groovy stems; so what do you mean?
the banjo plays on to rusty hymns; what is that supposed to mean? the plainsong of those birds of a feather upends: excuse me, come again please?
but nobody, no one; ever… told you you had
to comprehend. Oh fam, you’re soo mean!
So you can take your suit just in case,
and I can take in the
rain and coat my little dream. What, why? You don’t mind. and I don’t mind metaphors
to explain lyrics across… the bard. You’re speaking in riddles, Man! So what is Poetry
to me, if I can’t take
it’s license and play with my words, words you would discard, I call deuces wild, yeah my friend. Nah, it’s not like that at all child. Yes it is. No it’s not. Yes it is. No it’s not! And that’s the way I feel y’all. I just think a thought and jot.
Jot it all down. Jot it all down. Jot alllllll DoWn… when I think a thought.
Jul 5, 2023
Jul 5, 2023 at 7:49 PM UTC
The very first line of every good rhyme
Is such a fine chance to step out and sing
While the following lines eke out on the page
It sits right there at the front of the stage
In from the eather it comes out to play
Holding its own on this hallowed ground
The words swirl beneath it and tumble on down
They’re caught in a the grip of its blazing reflection
Line after line, the story grows
In the split of and instant it falls into place
Caught in the measure of a casual endeavor
The words seek a song that can last forever
Flowing on down to the very last line
There might be an answer if you look at it right
We’re lost in the thick of the poets firm grip while
The magic upends us and slips off the page
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 10:28 PM UTC
It’s five o’clock; the coffeepot
rattles, sputters, gurgles as I
assemble lunch and feed the cat;
another morning, another dark
beginning to an endless stretch
of days flowing to some unknown
rendezvous where it all ends, what-
ever it is, wherever what is where
it is when it ends—the normal beat
upends such morning meditations.
It’s so hot when I walk outside
sweat begins to bead; I wonder
when we’ll reach the September
divide when the first front moves
down from the north, sending leaves
scurrying forth, plopping outsized
raindrops on the dusty earth. The
rain falls south along the coast, or
follows the freeway, leaving our
trees to brown, and gasp, and die.
Drought clutches the ground like
an ardent lover not to be denied,
sprinklers but a feeble effort to
fight off its insatiable lust to ****
the very marrow from the land,
scattering dead pines and blanched
oaks in ones and twos and threes
across lots and yards whose green
grass and manicured gardens belie
the dying waste that’s setting in.
The morning light oozes in from
the East, a sickly yellow glow on
the jagged tree line invading the
darkness behind a band of blue;
as I ease out onto the two-lane
toward the freeway where already
cars are stacking up in their rush
south toward the city’s towers,
the radio lists the casualties of
the latest shooting madness and
I begin to wonder about those in
power, and how they sleep with
so much carnage, before I remember
power and psychopathy are close
allied, and those who serve serve
only to survive. I then negotiate
the on-ramp to another day where
minutes, like cars, flash relentlessly
by in multi-colored hues, and death
rides shotgun in ones and twos.
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 10:29 AM UTC
It all depends on who
upends the apple cart.
Start as you mean to go on
and if it's wrong
start again,
no pain and all that clap trap
get the gist?
or be like me and just get ******
waste it away
'for a year and a day'
and sing to the moon.
but off your face
never
got me out of that place
it
was grit and determination.
dependency
is two floors down
from
acceptable society
and the elevator is
*******
there are plenty more floors
with
flowers for the bankers
and clients for the ******
and Santa is up on floor ten.
This is reliable gen'
brought to you by the men
who also brought
the **** that you bought
on the news
you can't refuse to log in
to the spin
you're recorded and
being relayed,
being played like some marlin
stuck on a hook
and
it all depends upon
which end you're at.
May 27, 2017
May 27, 2017 at 10:50 AM UTC
…clinks in glasses
chilling the lips
unless a sudden contact
is avoided.
…is frigidity –
a grain of water
gleaned by the sun
is preferable.
…lingers slowly
dissipating.
Give me streams
as quick as bullets.
…chills a
red Dubonnet
till the wine
upends the sun’s intensity.
…sways
every eye
towards the skater’s
own uncalculated mastery.
…partners
the gritty frost
that folds the pebbles
in a skein of light.
Ice is the groin’s negation.
Ice is the temperance of nations.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 11:49 AM UTC
…clinks in glasses
chilling the lips
unless a sudden contact
is avoided.
…is frigidity –
a grain of water
gleaned by the sun
is preferable.
…lingers slowly
dissipating.
Give me streams
as quick as bullets.
…chills a
red Dubonnet
till the wine
upends the sun’s intensity.
…sways
every eye
towards the skater’s
own uncalculated mastery.
…partners
the gritty frost
that folds the pebbles
in a skein of light.
Ice is the groin’s negation.
Ice is the temperance of nations.
Published in OUTPOSTS PUBLICATIONS 1974 (NO LEEWAY)
May 20, 2017
May 20, 2017 at 3:47 PM UTC
Anger is at the root
of all that upends them
It is the very marrow
of their frustrated despair
Armed against a world
that cannot befriend them
Only because
it doesn't know that they're there
Jun 11, 2022
Jun 11, 2022 at 7:45 PM UTC