"walruses" poems
love
dove
bird
hurt pain rain
washing laundry dryer shrunk
too hot summer beach tanned skins
bikini girls lifeguards bodybuilders
Schwarzenegger
robocop criminals politicians votes
lobbyists corporations special interests
stock exchange oil price pipelines
pollution profits leaded water oily shores
banking wall street 99percent
wealth CEOs distribution education defloration
exploitation union struggle macjobs
Walmart amazon tax evasion offshore banking
islands caimans reptiles alligators walruses
snapping turtles manatees albatrosses
birds
dove
love
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 1:10 PM UTC
Cruisin' across the Sahara in my 1952 Cadillac,
I was singing along to a song, thinking about Jack Kerouac.
Coming over the next rise, I never expected to see,
Such a conflagration of Walruses looking back at me.
Passing a lone daisy under the sun set on broil,
They were making their way across the big sandy soil.
Thoughts evolving and revolving inside of my brain,
Led me to believe I might be under a bit of a strain.
Searching for my bottle of purified mineral water,
I quenched my thirst and prayed for no less than an hour.
That these visions of sea mammals would quickly pass.
And leave me to sing songs in my old Cadillac.
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 11:09 AM UTC
A pirate sailed south, but too far.
The good ship's prow found
harbors filled with icebergs,
frolicking penguins and walruses:
it began to snow inside his mortal soul.
He dreamed of perfect white beaches,
warm sand, sunlight, palm trees
and (perhaps) a lovely French poet in a slight bikini
lolling like Erato on holiday.
He could taste the sun and coconut on her skin.
It was only a vision, but one worthy of a quest.
He preferred living dreams to dead conclusions.
Many people told him he dreamed too much,
to accept this landfall and be content.
But cold and darkness are not a pirate's lot
and contentment does not appear
in the official pirate's vocabulary.
Even an aging pirate holds true to course,
pinned like a medal to his longing and desire.
More sail, he cried, and turned the helm
toward the islands of his heart,
toward a landfall of warmth and color,
toward hot and willing flesh,
toward parrots and monkeys and blue skies.
Leaving the nay-sayers in the cold,
he headed the only direction a pirate can, further.
- mce
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 11:02 AM UTC
A pirate sailed south, but too far.
The good ship's prow found
harbors filled with icebergs,
frolicking penguins and walruses:
it began to snow inside his mortal soul.
He dreamed of perfect white beaches,
warm sand, sunlight, palm trees
and (perhaps) a lovely French poet in a slight bikini
lolling like Erato on holiday.
He could taste the sun and coconut on her skin.
It was only a vision, but one worthy of a quest.
He preferred living dreams to dead conclusions.
Many people told him he dreamed too much,
to accept this landfall and be content.
But cold and darkness are not a pirate's lot
and contentment does not appear
in the official pirate's vocabulary.
Even an aging pirate holds true to course,
pinned like a medal to his longing and desire.
More sail, he cried, and turned the helm
toward the islands of his heart,
toward a landfall of warmth and color,
toward hot and willing flesh,
toward parrots and monkeys and blue skies.
Leaving the nay-sayers in the cold,
he headed the only direction a pirate can, further.
- mce
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 8:05 PM UTC
*concerning anti-kantian lexicon completion to understand the notion of a priori (it's a niche interest... c. bukowski explains it better in the book tales of ordinary madness in the chapter titled **** and kant and a happy home... well, not really, if he knew german i’d say that he was truly defining a priori, learning a language rather than unconsciously acquiring one from the first word mama or whatever toddlers say first when they mastered the bladder and **** muscles, which are oddly designed to be consciously / forcefully trained because they're crafted as slacked... weird), let’s say that’s about as much relevant to me as is this scenario:*
an actress about to perform the monologue script
of not i, prior to performance and at the stage
of memorisation asks samuel (beckett): ‘what does this mean?
this one line? it’s bothersome for my conscience,
my sense of meaning and direction, what does it mean?’
then ol’ samuel tells her: ‘back up, bets and back up,
it’s the most self-conscious eventuality of all vague attempts
to stand outside of oneself within the scaffold of using
language - this dismemberment beginning with extracting
thought for the senses to see hear and feel, writing...
this morphing of the substance we consider thought without ethos, ethics,
choices, looking at the zeitgeist... but honestly?
i haven’t got the foggiest idea... i wrote it because i wrote it,
the desired intentions are reserved for those desiring to read it
and leave it.’
like the famous p.s. of human history written by moses on sinai,
the melting of ice enveloping britain and elsewhere up north,
formerly known as the ice age causing flooding elsewhere...
and that metaphor of: lions gazelles... two-by-two, two-by-two
being a metaphor for monogamy... whereas the harems of other
animals like walruses was obviously avoided
and gave us islamic polygamy (added to the fact
that people refer to themselves via the zodiac...
taurus... scorpio... capricorn... or the chinese calendar...
dragons tigers pigs rats and monkeys etc.);
otherwise known as hermeneutics - extraction of meaning
from very concise texts... very very concise texts
which, if taken literally... leave you as quickly as they came,
and make you specialise in geology or biology instead.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
The word was out around the street
Tonight, behind Giannis bar
There would be really something special
From the bluesman and his guitar
For locals not for punters
Just for those upon the street
You'd better bring a lawn chair
If you wanted a good seat
The word spread fast and no one
Would miss this once they heard
New works from the bluesman
You had to take in every word
The bluesman was a legend
In this flawed, dark part of town
He only played back in the alley
That was where his show went down
At precisely eleven seventeen
The bluesman took his place
Upon his beat up orange crate
In his same familiar space
It was just like a cathedral
Underneath the golden moon
Quiet and forboding
As he started his first tune
The alley was the bluesmans church
As he sang to the street people
But this church had no walls or pews
No bells, it had no steeple
The bluesman sang of love and loss
Of dragons, ships and gin
He sang of Shubert, Bach and Liszt
He sang of constant sin
He looked but he saw no one
He was zoning, all alone
He sang songs of faith and hunger
Time to give the dog a bone
He played and drank his med-cin
For sometimes he got dry
The bluesman had the crowd entrapped
Beneath the shining moonlit sky
He talked of how his smoking
Through the years gave him his sound
It only took me fifty years
I'm surprised I'm still around
He sang of love and window panes
Of jealousy and trust
Of walruses and potholes
Of people turned to dust
As people sat in wonder
Of this prophet in disguise
You could see a certain twinkle
Deep in the bluesmans eyes
Gianni, stood off to the side
Timekeeper of the show
He signalled to the bluesman
One more and we must go
He had to close the restaurant
Turn the lights off in the back
So the bluesman took another sip
And grabbed a song from his minds pack
He finished up with something
Singing songs for all who came
He made them feel it was their heartsong
Although he never said a name
He sang of waitresses and barkeeps
Pawn brokers and of guests
of family and train tracks
of watchers and of quests
He finished up and packed away
His crate and his guitar
And he collected appreciation
In a two quart mason jar
The crowd left thirty dollars
almost ninety cents a seat
A fortune to the bluesman
And the folks here on the street
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 11:49 PM UTC
12/05/10
Santa s workshop is as busy as can be
All the elves working frantically.
Christmas day is almost here, and the toys
Must be ready for the Christmas cheer.
The elves have but one thing in mind
And that’s to get the toys made in time.
All year long they are making these toys
And they play like all girls and boys.
For every 500 toys they make
They could swim in the indoor lake.
They have picnics and outdoor games
And no two are ever the same.
Have you ever played hide and seek in the snow?
Where you’re dressed all in white and they don’t know.
Or ridden on a caribou
and so many Other things that you can do.
Or playing with polar bears, walruses and seals.
Imagine how that would feel.
Or putting on the tails and tie
And wobbling with the penguins side by side.
There are so many games that the elves do play
And that’s one of the reasons that they stay.
Everyone is family, and that’s the way
It was meant to be.
They only know of love and joy
And they apply it to every toy.
So when you think of Santa and the north pole
This is the thought that you must hold.
louis rams
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
You yell beneath the floorboards.
Pounding fists, cracked promises lie in
Casual bricks dropping like tears that
Never mattered.
You cry beneath the floorboards
Of little red schoolhouses, tired tire marks that show
They’re not coming back and
You’re not going home.
You riot beneath the floorboards!
You shout and scream and rant but they
Cannot hear you anymore.
The stores are closing like a trap door.
You die beneath the floorboards
A death that was not peaceful but panicked
Like an elevator that has stopped moving
Briefly and indefinitely, you are gone.
Now we crawl beneath the floorboards
Searching for pieces of you like receipts
Stashed away in a pocket of an old coat.
You remind us of whispers and walruses and things.
And someday when we find ourselves, fierce
And fleeting, underneath the floorboards,
You will remind us of our fading voices forever
Silenced, but never ignored.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 2:54 PM UTC
red
red
red,
they say.
why don't you get what we're trying to say?
why don't you try to do what we tell you?
why won't you talk to us?
why won't you listen
to reason?
honey
baby
darling
red?
because
the people that taught you to talk
are relative
to stone
walruses
because
i will not walk off a cliff
and willingly
smash against the harbor
because
you misplaced
your ears
and sewed them
onto
your brain
because
i wouldn't give you
a dog i didn't like
and you wouldn't take it,
anyway
because
what you define as reason
simply
isn't
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 1:32 AM UTC
Your words are just words,
empty airborne promises
Mind not matching where your heart is at,
sleeping here like walruses
Not far from a hide-a-bed, I
write down things that should be said
Transposing from inside my head,
pen and paper falls like lead
Wishing we could be
something we're not instead
Things inside were kinda dead
from open wounds already bled
My mind, it goes from black to red
(and) I'll leave here again someday,
... But not today
The lier and the thief come undone
their shackles are my own
All the scars that could be known
from all the fighting that's been done
Sweat,
like sanity,
slipping down the side of his face
(Washed in grace)
I've reached my peak and I've gone past
feeling like I'm falling fast
Fleeting times of good and bad
nothing ever lasts
Spent miles alone and sad
broken bones, you signed my cast
Forgotten hate and had a blast
took the wheel and we still crashed
Wrote about my long lost Dad
went back to the bar for another glass
Realized that I'm still mad
made penance and had daily bread
Now I'm starting to get fat
Regretting the Life
I still
Never had
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 1:24 PM UTC
let’s just say we can make art as much as plumbing,
or at least that thing you do when
everything in your life goes down the toilet
and you’re left with a broken toilet...
so you call the plumber and get it fixed...
so in reality that's how you become an artist - you get the broken
bits fixed, and just blow up a balloon of the past,
do a magic trick, inhale the air back into your mouth
from the balloon... and then do a song from la traviata...
one scale above the soprano... in vocalised helium...
i.e. on the scales outside of soprano through to bass
is the kingdom of birds and a fleet of walruses,
above soprano... the halcyon... below the bass... laptev.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 12:52 PM UTC
The walrus lacks
a rudimentary understanding
of the relationship
between seasonal temperatures
and the amount of sea ice
generated annually
in the northern hemisphere,
and cannot formulate
even a basic hypothesis
that might draw a link between
the lack of sea ice and
a massive surge in coastal overcrowding
among those of his own kind.
Nor could we expect the walrus
to comprehend that
this overcrowding has become so severe that
many walruses are continually driven
to seek out higher and higher ground,
and may suddenly find themselves
precariously perched atop the tall, frozen, rocky cliffs
of the Russian arctic coast,
hundreds of meters above the sea,
as their pinniped flippers
lose traction, and the rocks and gravel
beneath them give way
under their considerable bulk.
It would be a bridge too far
for us to expect
that the walrus might understand
the anatomy of even his own eye
such that he would know
that the curvature of its lens
is well-suited for underwater vision,
but is, in fact, maladapted
for making spatial judgements
while on land.
And yet,
we are aware of all of these things,
of this horrifying confluence of circumstances
for which we’re at least partly to blame,
and from which the walrus
now finds himself unable to escape.
And we watch it all unfold silently,
so passively:
those hulking ruins
as they tumble down
the cliff faces,
one by one,
wild-eyed,
terrified,
bewildered and breaking
in their final moments.
Apr 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019 at 3:14 AM UTC