"verdance" poems
Arduous late Winter
woes amplify in February
false hope
We’re all sick
of constrictive clothes
and cold climes conducive to staying in
Cabin fever running rampant
45° t-shirts & sunglasses
everyone driving with their windows down
Hoping Vernal rituals
performed early will
hasten Spring’s arrival
I’m done
fed up
ready to move on
Going crazy in the cold
writhing to get moving unimpeded
by frigidness and snow
I’m ready for Spring
for Summer
for Fall
I’m ready for the scent
of thawing soil in the air
biking in the Sun, verdance, and flowers in bloom
I’m ready for grass between my toes
Fireflies, crickets, peepers
and warm night stars
I’m sick of frost reddened runny raw noses
sick of numb fingers and toes
and having precious few daylight hours
I’m sick of combatting glacial winds with layers,
of treacherous icy apathy,
and dreary bleak boredom
I’m sick of not being able to sit on the ground
sick of long pants, long socks, long sleeves,
and silent stagnant long nights
So, despite the fact
that I’ll pine for January
every day over 90°
Despite the fact
that when mosquitoes swarm
I’ll wish a frost would **** the little ********
and despite the fact
I’ll get just as fed up
with temperate seasons
I still want Spring
and then Summer
and then Fall
But February brings false hope
and despite the lengthening cheery sun
months still stand
between us and t-shirt weather
mild nights, grassy hills,
and emancipation from an inclement icebox atmosphere
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 8:50 AM UTC
This empty ***** bottle,
has been cuddled and swaddled and squandered.
In my ***** it seeps to every dame between,
a dad and not knowing her own preponderance.
I **** I **** by the ****** of my hilt,
of the sword of unrighteous, self help,
and filling their wombs with guilt.
I've never helped anyone all of my life.
Though they would tell you different mistruths,
of their positional view, so skewed by proof,
undo, that I sent them through.
It's a fun house of lies and mirrors shaping figures,
of veneers, so botched that plastic surgeon quacks wouldn't own up to
the scars.
I ferment peoples living.
I turn drunk ****** into angels.
I mask charlatan as queens,
and poison my own gut with the fakes in my head.
Crops die.
Crust subdues verdance.
Chronos rhymes the days and night.
Course subjugation to penance.
But now I seethe my own head into my throat,
and end in ink wrote as prose.
Killing beauty. Art.
**** Art.
Today is.
Death.
Tomorrow's not life,
nor living,
breathing nor breath,
oxygen's just a molecule,
it causes no spark,
except in molecules charged,
with dividing and subdividing,
and rejoining and conjoining into something that can use it.
happy flights :)
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 11:01 PM UTC
Spring is a frail garment
In soft, sheer verdance
Dyed with chastely pigments
Laced with gentle fragrance
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 4:54 PM UTC
and i say the sun is callous
for nothing ever shall be
so
beautiful
as the delicate fronds splayed unerringly
before my hands. and i do place my vestige
in its thrall and as it is i am nothing compared
to the softness of its belly. so lay inlaid with
rouge splendor and indelible.
beneath and
under and my tongue
is the sprouted clavicles
an orchard of pleasure in verdance
blazingly dim in the moon puddles
writhing the muscles of implacable sensation. go to the tiny hall
and whisper
with Venus. she is grace and smooth and the sea muttering
with the loose wind. fashioned from naked blood.
Jun 30, 2010
Jun 30, 2010 at 11:30 AM UTC
there's a song singing
in the trees
a worry
growing in the shadow.
they can feel it,
the trees,
they know.
know not what's
to come, but what's
been become.
it's becoming
right now
as our eyes blink
in doubt, in ignorance.
they blink,
not faster,
but more often than not.
setting aside
increments of
lost time.
there's nowhere
to run, except
through time that's
already been happened.
what's done is done.
tears fall beneath
heads on pillows that
know not why they cry.
loneliness is suffocating,
don't you know?
you're not alone
while you're with only you.
truth cuts, but a
wound relieves
pressure.
roots of the trees
tunnel a base of
security for the trunk...
while we expect
verdance upon
concrete...
growth upon faltering grounds.
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 12:09 AM UTC
heaped i
with dirt shall
produce a babe
(greenly a thousand
****** against the sun
will stand against his heat
)a shimmer gently child
of softly hair mostly
a body innumerable
so thick with verdance
(and
i will
laugh
and say,
"was there ever any death?"
Sep 19, 2011
Sep 19, 2011 at 7:05 PM UTC
the quiet always
of death
who leans into us a
bit more
each day and
who's
ivory
stillness
creeps
death
who steals
crisp young
petals
from
inMay
trees
death
whose
leagues
upon miles
upon fathoms
of dreamless
shuteyes
strengthless
and wilts
mutest
uncolour
shall filch
meoryou
to soon from the other
's, unyouthing
also, arms
but death never
will conquer
the svelte
instant of your smile
or the unlank verdance
of their
snarling crimson
imping
with my lips
soundless
legions of
eternal
SUMMER
May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 8:29 PM UTC
To give us naught but bleak display,
To say, to say,
Love has never tethered moon
That way,
That heather never blooms but brays
To drop the stars in sage and grays.
And in this flash hewn verdance sent,
Aghast the sea in violet vent,
Abhors the virgin-singed regret,
This skirmish lost though never met.
And where upon a furrowed leaf,
The miner enters as a thief,
To take the blood but not belief,
Was not the time to span a grief?
But given naught but bleak display,
That tethered moon has gone astray,
And pulls not tide but skin away,
To slink beyond a son and pray.
Dec 8, 2019
Dec 8, 2019 at 4:59 PM UTC
Gold, oh gold of homeland soil touched once and nevermore
glisten in my memory for eternity unbeholden
and cast the visage of perception, shrouding your long distance
that my heart may rest in clouds of artifice and mirth
Scatter all the truths amidst the wind
to drift unnoticed to a distant desert, buried beneath the sand.
Paint with chlorophyll of sickly verdance; mask the image
greener from the other side and poisonous within
Some day 20 years from now
I shall look back and see the hills
and think of misty mornings;
196 up Old Belair Road,
Middlemarch by Windy Point,
Rehearsal Room 3 just down the hallway;
A chance to pluck the strings and cast illusions with my melody
Sentimental whims below the shade of the veranda
Said I’d write my debut novel 'fore I turned 18
Then the venom poured on down
and withered the roots beneath my feet
and sent a southerly wind to sweep me to a ‘home’ that I know not
In truth, the venom was always there
but I never deigned to see it.
I frolicked and danced upon the grass;
merrily ignorant of its prickles.
Now from balconies and windows in a foreign haven
I see the grass as only green and bask in sweet nostalgia.
I need not fear the prickles of the truth’s venom spires:
I am far away and safe
I’ll never touch it anyways
Jun 15, 2025
Jun 15, 2025 at 5:53 AM UTC