"viney" poems - Hello Poetry

Hidden under the honeysuckle and hibiscus Lies a stone. And as I sit, drinking a gin and tonic Looking over the spent plates where crusty bread fried calamari, which is a fancy word for squid, and two Oysters Rockefeller sat until recently consumed by two parents both in that awkward state of freedom and longing when their child is at camp, out past the ducks on granite rocks puffing themselves up flapping their wings towards afternoon sun on Winnipesaukee my thoughts and eyes are drawn back to the wheel of stone leaning against the rotting wall of railroad ties covered in a remoulade of Honeysuckle Rose of Sharon and other viney things that are unidentifiable to me. It has been painted during its time but the paint is faded and chipped and the feeling is that the stone has outlived the painter. Yet I do wonder. What was its job 50, 100, 200 years ago? Was it in a mill? Did it lie flat, grinding? Did it roll, upright, crushing things? What else did they use round stones for? Is this what retirement for a working stone is? Cast to the side, forgotten hidden under the honeysuckle and hibiscus in an alley next to a waterside Wolfboro restaurant where parents sit Looking at Winnipesaukee over spent plates of bread, squid and Oysters Rockefeller thinking of a child at camp.

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Aug 17, 2012

Aug 17, 2012 at 9:11 AM UTC

skip-ploss-1

Stone

Hidden under the honeysuckle and hibiscus Lies a stone. And as I sit, drinking a gin and tonic Looking over the spent plates where crusty bread fried calamari, which is a fancy word for squid, and two Oysters Rockefeller sat until recently consumed by two parents both in that awkward state of freedom and longing when their child is at camp, out past the ducks on granite rocks puffing themselves up flapping their wings towards afternoon sun on Winnipesaukee my thoughts and eyes are drawn back to the wheel of stone leaning against the rotting wall of railroad ties covered in a remoulade of Honeysuckle Rose of Sharon and other viney things that are unidentifiable to me. It has been painted during its time but the paint is faded and chipped and the feeling is that the stone has outlived the painter. Yet I do wonder. What was its job 50, 100, 200 years ago? Was it in a mill? Did it lie flat, grinding? Did it roll, upright, crushing things? What else did they use round stones for? Is this what retirement for a working stone is? Cast to the side, forgotten hidden under the honeysuckle and hibiscus in an alley next to a waterside Wolfboro restaurant where parents sit Looking at Winnipesaukee over spent plates of bread, squid and Oysters Rockefeller thinking of a child at camp.

45

The silver Birch trees flaunt Their glitz as I Stroll through Deep pearl And sand Pebbles Gorgeous green Mansions swirl Around and Blackbirds pick Seeds from The posy bunches And sparkled Grass. I pass a Pink butterfly house With large Daisy Heads protruding from The diamond fencing. The next house, a rather Pretentious 'Cordillera', Sounds like a disease. A farm gate shields 4 by 4s and I'm Now passing the weird House with the crocodile And gorilla and Coloured Cow And dog statues. Coming to the End of the lane Of silver I pass 'Lane end' Cottage with its viney Stature and freshly Manicured front lawn. High cube hedges forming A pathway to the porch. In The final Mansion if Nosy passers Have a peek you Can see a Swimming pool, Fluffy Towels draped over The Silver pool chairs. Flitting to The end of the Dappled birches, Approaches A wide country green Covered in bunting Bathed in buttercups.

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May 24, 2014

May 24, 2014 at 11:54 AM UTC

Misser

My walk

The silver Birch trees flaunt Their glitz as I Stroll through Deep pearl And sand Pebbles Gorgeous green Mansions swirl Around and Blackbirds pick Seeds from The posy bunches And sparkled Grass. I pass a Pink butterfly house With large Daisy Heads protruding from The diamond fencing. The next house, a rather Pretentious 'Cordillera', Sounds like a disease. A farm gate shields 4 by 4s and I'm Now passing the weird House with the crocodile And gorilla and Coloured Cow And dog statues. Coming to the End of the lane Of silver I pass 'Lane end' Cottage with its viney Stature and freshly Manicured front lawn. High cube hedges forming A pathway to the porch. In The final Mansion if Nosy passers Have a peek you Can see a Swimming pool, Fluffy Towels draped over The Silver pool chairs. Flitting to The end of the Dappled birches, Approaches A wide country green Covered in bunting Bathed in buttercups.

54

What man would buy me a ticket, and into a cocoon where moss bites? I would sting like bees on buds, or ***** rushing to fertilize, create an angel no other gentlemen touches with white hair, eyes like sesame seeds: she seems more attractive than the woman he made love with, for certain. Looks unnatural to swim in a pool when a waterfall can pour ice onto his head: just as viney-things drape me. I am but a fair girl, have no color. He could not love me beneath green, there is no comparison, me and trees, but he does, and I feel April will return sooner and ruddier than anticipated. May will bark like a dog: on my knees, cradling children who hold vanities up to my forehead, I boast a bellyful of bugs, brick-hued and even with red stripes; I think they must wear sweaters to bed. How noble in our thirty-six months! We cuddle baby slugs, not counting sap, then burp their brothers, spout-mouths. He is, in fact, the man that would do the unthinkable grey-lipped love, authors gather inspiration from and snakes slip, spiders webbing shapes of: cocoon with our metamorphosis in mind.

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Oct 28, 2012

Oct 28, 2012 at 5:24 PM UTC

sarina

cocoon

What man would buy me a ticket, and into a cocoon where moss bites? I would sting like bees on buds, or ***** rushing to fertilize, create an angel no other gentlemen touches with white hair, eyes like sesame seeds: she seems more attractive than the woman he made love with, for certain. Looks unnatural to swim in a pool when a waterfall can pour ice onto his head: just as viney-things drape me. I am but a fair girl, have no color. He could not love me beneath green, there is no comparison, me and trees, but he does, and I feel April will return sooner and ruddier than anticipated. May will bark like a dog: on my knees, cradling children who hold vanities up to my forehead, I boast a bellyful of bugs, brick-hued and even with red stripes; I think they must wear sweaters to bed. How noble in our thirty-six months! We cuddle baby slugs, not counting sap, then burp their brothers, spout-mouths. He is, in fact, the man that would do the unthinkable grey-lipped love, authors gather inspiration from and snakes slip, spiders webbing shapes of: cocoon with our metamorphosis in mind.

29

I was given, at my first birthday party, a gift sublime, a lovely, lush garden I played among its fonts and flowers, traded baseball cards with Atlas and Athena, rolled in high grass with iridescent dragons Then one fine day through leaflets high, I spied a fat juicy fig, haloed by Summer sun The tree was poison, I knew, its sweet fruit most likely bad as well, but in my arrogance I climbed the trunk, got tangled in its branches I lost control, lost something never truly held, and fell, through viney snarls and vicious thorns Fell farther than I ever rose, to putrid death, moldered slime beneath the canopy of verdant paradise on gentle hillside above I crawled about in mud and earthen warrens Slowly, year by year, learned to walk again But arrogant I remained—had not my lesson learned, and so I doubled-down, made mockery of this chance for redemption All the sweet virgins did I **** and teach our children sin, in crystalline waters I did shat on mulched fields, amber and green, with cigarette butts and baggies blowing listless on Autumn winds When Winter finally came, as winters must, to **** off weakened souls, and make the garden ready for new attendants, I did not learn, I did not take the blame... It's Him, I cried, I have not power to do this! But then my youngest daughter sobbed She watched, sadly, out clouded, grimy windows and, looking up at my limpid, sullen eyes crawled into my arms one last, lonely time to face what I could not... Behold, the Silent Spring

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Aug 19, 2014

Aug 19, 2014 at 11:16 AM UTC

Rivenheart

Original Sin

I was given, at my first birthday party, a gift sublime, a lovely, lush garden I played among its fonts and flowers, traded baseball cards with Atlas and Athena, rolled in high grass with iridescent dragons Then one fine day through leaflets high, I spied a fat juicy fig, haloed by Summer sun The tree was poison, I knew, its sweet fruit most likely bad as well, but in my arrogance I climbed the trunk, got tangled in its branches I lost control, lost something never truly held, and fell, through viney snarls and vicious thorns Fell farther than I ever rose, to putrid death, moldered slime beneath the canopy of verdant paradise on gentle hillside above I crawled about in mud and earthen warrens Slowly, year by year, learned to walk again But arrogant I remained—had not my lesson learned, and so I doubled-down, made mockery of this chance for redemption All the sweet virgins did I **** and teach our children sin, in crystalline waters I did shat on mulched fields, amber and green, with cigarette butts and baggies blowing listless on Autumn winds When Winter finally came, as winters must, to **** off weakened souls, and make the garden ready for new attendants, I did not learn, I did not take the blame... It's Him, I cried, I have not power to do this! But then my youngest daughter sobbed She watched, sadly, out clouded, grimy windows and, looking up at my limpid, sullen eyes crawled into my arms one last, lonely time to face what I could not... Behold, the Silent Spring

36

Over the heads of 3am stoplight dancers through the viney brick pub where Verily bleaches the bar-tops by beersign fluorescents, past the last streetlight to blink off where Hope is marching brisk-ly through the muddy dark, under the first confused crimson leaf to fall of autumn with not an eye to see, upon the sill where Early leans/ checks the time and sighs smoke behind the window, through the Oaken Chapel doors where young Clöse writes his first sermon and cries, out in the alfalfa field where the fireflies whish and Sol says goodbye to them again hoping one day they’d take him too. Beyond the yellow hill Where the homeless sleep alone, Illumination strikes the lens white And they are new.

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Sep 9, 2013

Sep 9, 2013 at 6:43 PM UTC

tyler-jackson-king

Word Photographie: Autumn Morning

Over the heads of 3am stoplight dancers through the viney brick pub where Verily bleaches the bar-tops by beersign fluorescents, past the last streetlight to blink off where Hope is marching brisk-ly through the muddy dark, under the first confused crimson leaf to fall of autumn with not an eye to see, upon the sill where Early leans/ checks the time and sighs smoke behind the window, through the Oaken Chapel doors where young Clöse writes his first sermon and cries, out in the alfalfa field where the fireflies whish and Sol says goodbye to them again hoping one day they’d take him too. Beyond the yellow hill Where the homeless sleep alone, Illumination strikes the lens white And they are new.

18

an uninterested archaeologist studied the bones of eight dead citizens who had a gradually tightened their grips around our dreams, tapering as furling curtains swathed the incoming light, swirling, forcing it into nonentity one would steer the ill-fated course of all. bury the hatchet that was used to hatch you put all of your eggs into one spermicidal basket only the heavy-handed preamble to my funeral could weigh against such lofty comparisons we commuted to separated isles, each with their own emulation of truth with cathartic perspectives, trees wait to abed in your predestined lynching placing viney nooses into mother nature's scrapbook, a cherished keepsake, your freckled dna, an infinitesimal page in her tattered cookbook only in an afterworld will you be allowed to read your book's foreword know that there is no snooty producer to create for you a cash-in sequel they all watch you from afar, hungry, salivating failing to make a distinction between your life and demise their story's nothing but an interminable sad ending a null conclusion with nothing to conclude it holds its breath, crosses its fingers hoping again to come through as I placed defeat to my temple and squeezed I veered into a claustrophobic brick encasement colored with lifelessness, detachment and learned infinity is combustible; an unfolding polygonal paper forever unwrapping I've walked with wrecked leagues casually entered fiery caverns and the chilling daytime before me, never is it compelling I resigned my mind, contemplated grave comprehensions redid everything, coughing opuses, deftness, drugged insight my tactics turned to taciturn. no one was conducting the open metaphor of your eyes, rendering internal captions. endless captive renditions my adoration: the thickly-caked rust in the kitchen faucet if you catch my spotty, deposited despot eyes in direct sunlight, you'll realize their dimness staring vacantly into oncoming traffic, looming passages

0

Jul 13, 2015

Jul 13, 2015 at 12:14 AM UTC

tyuifh

untitled #2

an uninterested archaeologist studied the bones of eight dead citizens who had a gradually tightened their grips around our dreams, tapering as furling curtains swathed the incoming light, swirling, forcing it into nonentity one would steer the ill-fated course of all. bury the hatchet that was used to hatch you put all of your eggs into one spermicidal basket only the heavy-handed preamble to my funeral could weigh against such lofty comparisons we commuted to separated isles, each with their own emulation of truth with cathartic perspectives, trees wait to abed in your predestined lynching placing viney nooses into mother nature's scrapbook, a cherished keepsake, your freckled dna, an infinitesimal page in her tattered cookbook only in an afterworld will you be allowed to read your book's foreword know that there is no snooty producer to create for you a cash-in sequel they all watch you from afar, hungry, salivating failing to make a distinction between your life and demise their story's nothing but an interminable sad ending a null conclusion with nothing to conclude it holds its breath, crosses its fingers hoping again to come through as I placed defeat to my temple and squeezed I veered into a claustrophobic brick encasement colored with lifelessness, detachment and learned infinity is combustible; an unfolding polygonal paper forever unwrapping I've walked with wrecked leagues casually entered fiery caverns and the chilling daytime before me, never is it compelling I resigned my mind, contemplated grave comprehensions redid everything, coughing opuses, deftness, drugged insight my tactics turned to taciturn. no one was conducting the open metaphor of your eyes, rendering internal captions. endless captive renditions my adoration: the thickly-caked rust in the kitchen faucet if you catch my spotty, deposited despot eyes in direct sunlight, you'll realize their dimness staring vacantly into oncoming traffic, looming passages

43

I Squat, under a Viney-Maple, bursting with orange… the Fall Chanterelle. II Pine needles mound; perfect little rolling hills cover the forest floor, Chanterelles are coming! III Her eyes shine bright, the excitement of the hunt. Chanterelles! IV Five buttons in the bottom of the bucket… V Quick movement out of the corner of my eye; squirrels like Chanterelles too. VI Buzzing becomes the only reality as another bees nest has been disturbed… There are many perils involved with Chanterelles. VII Closed eyes bring forth images of fields, orange and extended, as there are more Chanterelles in this patch than anyone has ever seen. A cold sweat follows. VIII A blackbird sits high on a Fir limb, lookin’ like a muthafucker in the club, below him, a Chanterelle. IX The scrambled eggs smell divine when one cooks them with a fresh Fall Chanterelle. X I throw a steak knife with a barbeque brush duct taped to the handle into an old bucket I drilled holes in the bottom of and toss it into the back of my 1984 Nissan 4x4. Today I find Chanterelles. XI The smell of musk fills the air. A giant pile of bear **** next to a Chanterelle. XII Three sets of tracks lead into the undergrowth, cut butts jut up from the floor, someone already found these Chanterelles. XIII Stopping by a dear friends, I leave with them my treasure… three pounds of fresh Fall Chanterelles.

0

Apr 24, 2015

Apr 24, 2015 at 1:22 PM UTC

s-lyman-temple

Thirteen Faces of the Fall Chanterelle

I Squat, under a Viney-Maple, bursting with orange… the Fall Chanterelle. II Pine needles mound; perfect little rolling hills cover the forest floor, Chanterelles are coming! III Her eyes shine bright, the excitement of the hunt. Chanterelles! IV Five buttons in the bottom of the bucket… V Quick movement out of the corner of my eye; squirrels like Chanterelles too. VI Buzzing becomes the only reality as another bees nest has been disturbed… There are many perils involved with Chanterelles. VII Closed eyes bring forth images of fields, orange and extended, as there are more Chanterelles in this patch than anyone has ever seen. A cold sweat follows. VIII A blackbird sits high on a Fir limb, lookin’ like a muthafucker in the club, below him, a Chanterelle. IX The scrambled eggs smell divine when one cooks them with a fresh Fall Chanterelle. X I throw a steak knife with a barbeque brush duct taped to the handle into an old bucket I drilled holes in the bottom of and toss it into the back of my 1984 Nissan 4x4. Today I find Chanterelles. XI The smell of musk fills the air. A giant pile of bear **** next to a Chanterelle. XII Three sets of tracks lead into the undergrowth, cut butts jut up from the floor, someone already found these Chanterelles. XIII Stopping by a dear friends, I leave with them my treasure… three pounds of fresh Fall Chanterelles.

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