"variously" poems
remember that time
laying in your bed
back when you we both thought we knew
and you stroked my stomach and kissed my hearts
variously placed of course
cleavage. stomach. hips. sleeve.
lustful sweet **** me now"
boundries not crossed but completely jumped
eh, **** it.
but for now... your hands?
here...
and there.
remember that time...
you smiled and i laughed
made the moment
...laughter.
"ahh **** ****
it was just a dream.
snap. back to the percieved
whats the point if i'm going to remember every smile,
moan and laugh
replayed...
over and over...
****
i'm fertile and *****
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 11:51 AM UTC
She is cottage cheese, not yet aged
her mad lover, I am ready to go great lengths
in any which way that suits to enhance
her taste, making her variously pleasing to the palate .
I'll be fruit and sugar or else salt and pepper,
all I want is to blend and bond completely with her,
if she is good with granola and cinnamon, why not?
have no doubt, I am that in a minute, an all weather partner.
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 8:39 AM UTC
A visit to the library,
And returning I opened the book
I’d waited for a long impatient month.
Knowing it to be brim full of inspirational words,
I had only to read a few paragraphs
When it came to me,
When there was this moment
Poets call epiphany.
Into another place, beyond the printed page, mysteriously I slipped. I think it’s where your creative spirit lives and thrives, a place your flowing thoughts reside. There, the energy of your spirit flashes in the dark, and there exists the archetypes of all your inward eye brings forth. There the marked surfaces carry the chemerical accident of objects placed and pressed, and there the passage of your sewing hand’s rich rightness of intuition guides. In tandem they touch me to the quick; they scare and scar me. And why? – I sense in them this vigor; a potency no less, strength so wholly absent from my declining store of sad objects and false fashionings.
And all that careful reasoning
I'd so variously composed,
badly articulated,
tiresomely presented
became then as nothing,
nothing against the truth
of what you make
and what I know you are.
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 2:23 AM UTC
For Susan on her birthday
At a distance they appear
so unexpectedly red,
a vivid vermillion strip
in a growing green field.
We walked up the farm track
to view a few stragglers
lost on their way to their
Red-Together meeting.
They were intensely red
with liquorice-black centres,
free from that dustiness
of poppies in swathes.
Alone,
and too red to be real,
their stalks too tall
ungainly, anorexic even.
En masse,
nodding variously,
a thousand-strong Red Army choir
chorusing their hearts out.
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 4:13 AM UTC
The rhythm should not come from the word.
The word is a key to unlock
the virtual library,
where our journeys begin.
The rhythm is elsewhere.
In the space between thought and imagination,
it is the crossing weft of ancient knowledge,
beaten tight against the fell.
What the ear registers, the brain acts upon,
the heart draws in to its own, or not.
What then becomes expressive,
is expressed variously,
in form.
And then, such delight in the connection of things!
*Now the sun sparkles
the still-morning garden.
Beyond, just fields away,
the curve of a silent hill.*
Just what are such moments?
Do they envelope time?
Can they be measured out in music?
As recollection calibrated
they are the essence of
seconds’ snapshot-made.
Sequence disappears.
It is just the blink of the mind’s camera.
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 3:00 AM UTC
BRUSH
Brush free the carpet
of mud and fluff.
Let’s brush off the hurtful comment too,
that snide remark, those graceless words.
We’re cleaning yet collecting,
straightening up, taking out the dirt.
Repositioning dust. Always temporary,
never the same, brush, brush,
to and fro, again – again - again.
SCOOP
The ice cream tub has one
to make the portion fair
for that ever-observant,
pernickety child.
When walking the dog,
we scoop the ****
carrying the plastic bag
to the waiting wanting bin.
Yet the all-important wooden
scoop is made from a block
of a 2 by 3, with chisel, gouge
and a steady hand.
This farmer’s friend, this open spoon,
lives in darkness and under the lid
of the deep grain bin,
to feed white chickens.
POKE
Getting it out,
placing it right –
but much is trial & error.
If it won’t go in,
give it a poke . . .
and it might.
Nowadays it’s a software app
to help you cheat at on-line games
and , God forbid, an important tool
in the tattooist’s bag – the hand poke,
liner and shader with standard
8 – 32 thumb screws and
completely autoclave able.
CUT
Hogwimpering drunk
or ****** out of mind.
Seventies slang for
individual incapacitation.
A cut can hurt,
display the inner
through incision
in the outer.
Reveals, opens up,
allows a division from
one to another.
This cut of meat on the slab?
For you, madam?
I can cut it up
nice and small
for the baby to chew.
RAKE
Lying there in the long summer grass,
it needs standing up, its teeth cleaned.
When autumn comes it redeems itself,
clearing the path, letting the lawn breath.
In the hand of sculptor, ceramicist, modeller
it fashions variously, cuts, pulls away, gouges,
scrapes, a multi-purpose stick with two ends:
of wrapped wire, of ribboned steel.
LOOK
To make sure it’s right:
correct and straight,
balanced, in proportion.
The magnifier helps,
the camera too,
getting the angle,
the position , the light
gauged . . . with a little looking.
You have to look,
see?
HIT
Whatever needs placing firmly,
needs fixing permanently,
can do with a hit (or two).
A nail with a hammer,
a door with a foot,
it could be a winner,
and right on target,
strike out the opposition,
disable the enemy.
A killer noun.
I prefer the verb.
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 5:11 AM UTC
V
morning
falling water
bench beside
red berries
green ferns
every which way
leaning waterward
crisp air still
morning
VI
mirror trees
sun hard
burning off the clouds
resting still
hanging upon hills
hiding mountains
above
in the blue
VII
the ring lies far out
in the light bright water
here sea exhausted stretches
into the tired land Rocks
variously coloured hold
patterning against the drift
and **** rank under the sun
(at Camusfearna)
VIII
hardly daring to describe this scene
of clouds resting as stilled waves
on a barely moving sea
the pen is afraid to mark
this wonder on the ****** page
IX
a lake of sea
taking its blueness
into the distant hills
to where watching
in the early morning
these hills became
a blue blur
cushioned by clouds
X
in the foreground
rocks reach out
prolonged under
water: a reef
small birds float
like toy boats
against the shore
lapping the pebbles
to and fro
the sea rules
shifts moves
in its blueness
against the sharp
clarity of land
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 5:59 AM UTC
An expanded meaning,
referring variously to literal bodies and to
the vegetative nervous system which controls vital functions.
She has been made a constellation
and is destined to outlast the contestants.
The germs develop first in seven segments,
some people may actually fall from their beds.
When I was casting
in these works the term took on
suggestion of how one might view the work,
gestures but also the placement and movement.
It might have been a drag queen –
Some well-formed whole constructed from
something in you that is no longer functioning.
When you dream about an accidental death
of any person,
that person’s death symbolizes Macrophobia.
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 1:39 PM UTC
There comes a point when one hot tub
Becomes too much and it's just so,
That anyone in must get out
And cool off before the overload.
Fools fastidiously test their fingers
To determine their further actions.
This is because they might be scared
Of heat, or of an overreaction.
Finger dipping won't be judged
Or looked upon more than at once.
And then the dipper may either shrug
And walk away, or take more chance.
But as it very often goes,
From all the dippers I have seen,
The fingers tell the nervous system
To go on and pursue safer dreams.
But should you dip your whole leg in,
Or your whole arm, or your whole self
This not only a greater risk
On your own body, but on everyone else!
Everyone else may judge variously
And hold the grudge and not forget
Because those who act in minority
Are expected to soon regret
Not walking the narrow line
And not living with expectations.
These expectations, they defy,
And then they may face isolation.
The body submergers, fearless divers
May contradict cultural beliefs.
But it is they who act with truth
That are granted, at night, better sleep.
Swimming pools, hot tubs,
Bath tubs, and ice baths.
Walk around and in my eyes,
Their water's not the right path!
Water makes me, water heals me,
Water let's me live more days.
Water taunts me, water dances
And then water washed away!
Should I dip my toes most places,
So often the story goes
Full of fear, I'm not complacent
With the temperature, so then I know
That it is time to walk away
And seek another body to enter.
At times, when bodies enter me,
I often feel their entrance then hurts!
It's either one way or the other,
A quick dip or a thorough swim.
And whether or not I like the swimmer,
Their endurance is a simple whim.
In the pool, they may frolic,
In the pool, they may be joyous.
That's until another water
Proves to be slightly more buoyant!
Slightly easier to navigate,
With more salt, the swimmers float!
Fresh water is such a drag,
So in the oceanic, swimmers go.
Day after day, swimming or hosting,
The water bodies keep swimming on
And ultimately, in this sense,
There's equality in this song!
Despite wanting to participate more,
Despite feeling like poison water,
I'm just a pool among the others
And my water's all I have to offer.
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 12:23 PM UTC
First impressions passed by
as if too busy to try to please anybody
so
variously,
You were a land dispute in a cold place,
a piece of bacon on a ceramic plate,
a curtain-rod edge that rolled under the bed,
a letter of apology posted slightly late,
the back of a sleek anonymous head
I don't know what I felt for you
so vague, distressing
coloured in shades of irrelevant
Which is the best thing, considering.
When we were together, dinner was fine
conversation stilted but passed the time
I suppose
I'd rather think of you than of nothing at all
Perhaps you are my valentine.
****
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC
pain shows up differently.
manifests variously in each of us
highlighting
our personality
when we express suffering.
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 5:30 AM UTC
~Vietnam/ Laos 1972
Known variously as:
Indian Country,
the ****
the Jungle
& the Zone.
****** stumps,
flying metal,
charred flesh,
screaming agony,
cellular fear,
burning choppers,
dying men,
dead eyes
staring,
betrayal.
“Don’t mean ******* nothing.”
Not a place
on a map,
but a state of mind
-
my mind.
Vietnam has fallen,
but the Zone
remains
a jungle
in my head
& some things
return me there.
There I learned
the necessary.
In the Zone,
only predator and prey,
**** or be killed,
win or die,
the quick and the dead.
In the Zone
only survival matters
-
no morality,
no right or wrong
no lies,
no truths,
no fair,
no unfair.
No rules at all.
"It's **only a ****
**** it."
In the Zone
everything is allowed…
meet the enemy,
destroy him,
maim him,
outsmart him,
walk away
with the blood of others
squishing in your boots
feeling gloriously alive.
Friend,
brother,
enemy,
child,
lover,
you do not
- ever -
want to meet me
in the Zone.
–mce
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 10:53 PM UTC
shout out
****** a brush right straight down
the elemental throat
take all the things that make white
and paint the suburbs the city streets
the acres of corn fields variously
neon naked ladies
the truck stop babes
the pimps in black
the red and green lights yellow
caution
what is this canvas
if not the stew brewed now unfrozen
a big silver spoon
slid into
a commotion
a shotgun blast in a robbery
a bank
making false accounts for profit
the last ounce of street cred
blood leaking on the pavements black
they have power
those archangels those who preach
make America great again
I wanna go to a rally for
four years
have a maniac
speak dichotomies
like a psychotic
schizophrenic
one day sane the next neurotic
I take the brush and whitewash all of us and maybe
the nazis and imbeciles might pass us by
Aug 24, 2017
Aug 24, 2017 at 3:42 AM UTC
Each tree bears a fruit according to its seed.
Which bears the comment about the apple's doesn't fall far.
If raise with tender,loving and care.
That child's world will be so much better.
To each his own means more than words.
Especially, when your life will be judged upon it.
A rotten apple spoil the bunch.
A molded orange kills your taste.
And we hadn't even spoken about those bananas.
Scriptures, speaks variously about the tree.
One that Eve were told not to eat.
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 6:23 PM UTC
Flowers are direct proof of love in nature.
They are symbol of a beauty.
They smell variously. It's a mystic.
Why they grow?
Plant doesn't need flower for
releasing new life.
Why so they grow?
Maybe to make our nature colorful.
To make it into Eden.
Direct proof of love.
Nature wants flowers be beauty.
Flowers for lovers.
Flowers for tenderness.
Flowers for softness.
Nov 25, 2020
Nov 25, 2020 at 11:02 AM UTC
virtually everything
grows
virtual spacing out
bright
rainbows
black light
rainbows in reality
hurting yourself hurting others
doing the opposite of what we know that bothers
the fathers
of our want
just don’t
virtually everyone
knows
literal meaning
of might
raindrops
black skies
rain drops off our pity
virtues making so much sense
vinted features made variously fenced
in a sense
of our need
we bleed
rainbow reality
a black cell
rainbows
rain blows virtuality
maybe this world is another planet’s hell
Oct 17, 2020
Oct 17, 2020 at 2:27 AM UTC
I live in dead houses.
Have never felt the breath and blood and bones of a structure,
And I think that to feel something like that,
You need siblings and babies,
A family.
The heart of a house…
I’ve heard it variously called
The kitchen, the living room,
The dining room, the bedroom, the hearth…
Whatever heart I’ve touched was always cold and stone,
Too long without contraction to be identified as a heart.
And I feel like a person who’s never owned a pet,
Never had a proper friend;
For I don’t understand the care and feeding of a house,
Or the give and take of a relationship with it.
And I think that just by moving in I shock it,
Shock it with my covered-over pit of neglect, so strong
It dies on impact,
And I make my home there in the carcass.
A parasite in the body it killed,
A scavenger taking shelter in the bones.
I live in snail shells in the garden.
I live in burnt, hollow trees.
I live in dead houses.
Jul 20, 2021
Jul 20, 2021 at 7:21 PM UTC