"utes" poems
It's that time again.
When rangey youth
in wounded utes
are sent to pick up tin.
Eyes peeled for
shiny mangled bikes
and steely bits
of thing.
I want to see
the crucible
they put it in.
Behold the pearly
metallurgic
mess unfold.
A gleaming steaming
mass of brassy storm
So cooked
and cooled
and coaxed
and clicked
and jewelled
into mercurial form
Then moulded
bright and fine
once more.
This is the
Copper loop
of life we mine.
Eternal
Circulated
Alchemy
Divine.
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 2:30 AM UTC
8:02 am
November 12
There are snowflakes falling outside my window
I couldn’t be happier
Welcome winter!
I’m so glad you’re here
I’ll give you a hug,
But just give me
Five mo
re min
utes….
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 8:10 AM UTC
be gin and it seems there is so much time left / pro ceed ing and speed ing much fast er a gain / craw ling and march ing the mo ments count down / the tick ing grows loud er the se cond hand 's shou ting and fas ter yet slo wly i'm fro zen a sleep / i'm thin king in slo mo time's spee ding and surg ing a round de com pos ing and what do i mean ? what can i show for the min utes i'm was ting ? i need to be mov ing like there 's no time left / can i get some where make some thing be fore the end ? move me to trust you build some thing be cause I can 't / ev er y se cond i'm dying i need your breath /
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 5:16 PM UTC
T'is a far far better thing I do,
to write tributes to new poesy chicks,
when seldom sufficient is heard
an encouraging word
than repeat yellowed ancien
tale~tell stale revelations
of an ole man's
forgotten glories and
never ending
tribulations
research uncovers a single
tributary,
a common origin, an irony river,
for their source,
tributes and tribulations,
one and the same
herein, this aging
tribune
defends the new poets
even as his own defenses
erode ever faster,
daily the surf takes him,
granule by granule
thus, t'is more urgent that he
construe and
contribute,
formally and officially,
attribute
the old guard's passing mantle, cloak,
making no
tribologies
frictions tween young and old,
fictions tween old and old
reconfigured as pretend new
this the natural way,
this luminescent fractious friction,
gives birth to
an Einstein~energized
triboluminescence
heat and light
the by-products of the
tribe
of poets
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
The folk they sit around the bar
And listen to my jokes so far.
I entertain the clientele
and pour another beer to sell.
The bills, they fill up my tip jar
as they go blah, blah, blah, blah, blah
I pull some sympathetic faces
And appropriately nod in places.
I listen to their tales of life
Some have three kids; some have a wife
Some have both, which makes it clear
why they spend all their time in here.
They tell me of their life of woe
or how their family’s make it so.
They speak of losing teams and cash
and utes they want to flip and crash.
I tell them that I understand
And place another beer in hand
The better that I feign concern
The more in untaxed tips I earn.
Apr 10, 2010
Apr 10, 2010 at 3:32 PM UTC
Time
As i write this poem
hours
min utes
se co nd s
are wasted
What could you be doing
what could you be saying
What could you be feeling
Is your last breath being taken?
R
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 11:06 AM UTC
Bring all the kids on home from school
And gather the pets in tight,
Send out and warn the village fool
For it’s Crow Fly-Over Night.
Stable the horse, bring in the geese,
Shut up the chicken run,
We can’t rely on the local police
So load me a scatter gun.
Shut the windows in both the Utes,
Drive the car in the shed,
Lay out my anti-vermin boots
And a helmet to cover my head.
Lock the shutters and pull the blinds,
We don’t want to show a light,
Set the locks on the window-winds
For it’s Crow Fly-Over Night.
Then watch for the man in the hood and cape
As he drifts in, under the Moon,
If I sight him well, then he won’t escape,
Not like in the month of June.
He brings his carrion in to feed
In a flutter of feathered blight,
If he’s not dead yet, then he will be soon
For it’s Crow Fly-Over Night.
And the widow Raines in her mourning dress
Has been seen to stray, she roams,
She scatters seed in the wilderness
But the Crows will pick her bones.
At dusk they come in an evil cloud
But with not a single caw,
Then settle over the land, and loud
Announce the word is ‘war’.
So hide the children beneath their beds
And bar each door in place,
Block up the chimney flu with lead
And call your sister, Grace,
If she doesn’t come before the Crows
She’ll find the door locked tight,
And then she’ll know what the Devil knows,
It’s Crow Fly-Over Night!
David Lewis Paget
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 1:35 AM UTC
the' min'utes' be\tween
every-minute-with-you
are e. _ ver __ lo ____. ng
you ^ra^di^ate
some. kind. of.
°magic°
when /holding/your/hand
isn't
just,.....;
it'severysinglething
my<undivided>joy
#touching
= breathing through
my whole 》body
<not just my shoulders>
&afterthesemoments;
time_ is _ br>o _ >ken
ea'ch ' tick ' of ' the 'clock'
is. not. the. same.
[&me;]
for | ever | chang_ ed
how the minutes@thereafter
}without{
you
linger
some. kind. of.
torture;
too __<__ long
¿when will we touch
again¿
Jul 21, 2016
Jul 21, 2016 at 1:42 AM UTC
up _ too _ late:
isorarelyknow
what's
good. for. me.
[it's so easy]
to lose min| hours| utes
}wrapped{ in thoughts
of what-could-be
& des Per aTe
to k>now
¿ who you are
thinking
>of< ?
Feb 22, 2018
Feb 22, 2018 at 2:02 AM UTC
_ e _ asier _
saidthandone
>>trYing to
s
L
o wwww
down/this/love
when ' '' '' min' '' '"utes
trip-me-up
& words
aren't
eno{ugh}
#justsuckitup;
it's-not-as-if
there
is. A. choice.
Jun 11, 2017
Jun 11, 2017 at 8:11 PM UTC