"weened" poems
---
feral kittens chase about
up trees they run and play
leaving off their hunting
at the dawning of the day
born benieth a neighbor's house
as wild as a bird
just as free, you can see
but they are never heard
just weened they are still playful
as kittens always are
but they have just begun to roam
they will not go far
oops! the pair have seen me
as i sit and pray
crouched down low...
off they GO!
the babes have run away!
:) soulsurvivor
(C) 9/16/2015
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 9:31 AM UTC
The ten commandments say nothing,
in the translations I’ve read,
against coveting my neighbor’s good
fortune,
timing,
intentions,
sense of style,
or the countless other intangibles
gifted by Nature
and our DNA's mischievous inventions.
I’m a strict constructionist,
when it suits me, and especially so
with documents carved in stone
by invisible hands
having no recorded fondness for the market.
I’d trade places with any nameless witch
caught cavorting in her coven’s canopied oases,
their cauldron-ringing capers
and care-free cackles cheered
by owl hoots and cricket song;
Or the smallish, self-sacrificing spider
who rather than a cigarette gets a close-up
view of his mate’s spinnerets dispensing
the silk sheets to wrap him
as a happy meal deferred.
I also envy their creepy hatchlings
who weeks later will climb to the tip-tops
of firry fingers, cast a single wistful thread
and wait for the wish-fulfilling wind
to carry them lifetimes away.
That’s how I could stiff this chill
that taps me on the shoulder, and chase
after a far-off warmth I’ve weened
since my weaning was done.
I count these covets no sins.
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 6:37 AM UTC
“but you are too old for apprehension.” her
voice had sounded so, and of this one’s voice,
‘you are never too old for wariness of
an unknown.’ responded astute, drunk
on logic. returned was breathless thought
to the void, filling emptiness with irony.
(oxymoron) and weened the way thru,
concision turned derision with repetitious
definitions that found no actual meaning.
all thought without justification and no
thought with classification. words,
actions, wailing:
empty, empty, empty
then existed less and less from want
of purpose. less and less from interest of
the known; this once forged fear of life. and
with impressive derangement, grabbing at the
only sober keychain. they, with twitching vesper eyes,
their hands jit’ for a false-meeting fix. to nix
the nihilism. and:
‘People can go **** themselves.’
words of this one’s voice. of her’s, “thank
god you’re alive.” from those days, when rains
ranted down, and the trains tripped us out.
those days of our wood’s reclaimed trailer. and
each syllable was never thought to be anything
until aged eyes ached for review those epochs
of breath. but:
‘People can go **** themselves.’
voiced in response to a romanticized thought. and
all epochs lingered upon are no more than a
journal of the winds that blew while we were present.
some diary of listless lust left undated. of the woods, of
a reiterate span in once anonymized transience. and falling
back, thumbing pages for proof of experiences passed into
skewered memory. left are three lines, ill-verbed, to represent
an entirety of past lives. of time once present in yellow-lit
motel room, of apocalyphic musings, and veering prophets
of doom. they, turned sincere apocalyphites. their prayers
writ boldfaced, platitudinous, in concern of endless words
restating – in constant rephrasing:
‘People can go **** themselves.’
but they just kept goin’ on without concern for the dawn.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 5:26 AM UTC
let us join hands
you and i
and ***** down this falling away
road new paved with over-baked schemes
and the shattered
windshield glass from a dream car
we left for dead many miles back
every tire including the spare had blown
and they still hiss their casual tunes
while popped-out
flesh-tone hoses
dangle and sprinkle
a rainbow gloss on black-rimmed puddles
it’s a cause for deepening joy
these shallows won’t
dry up in either of our weened lifetimes
moisten your lips dear
and make that pineapple-sweet whistle
i love to taste
when i dare to plant my tongue there
the food’s long gone
and pots are now for banging
we’ve lost our way
and maps are made for shredding
into playfully themed streamers
we’ll tie in our hair
as we dance off the waning
silky heat of a too-late summer
the sun’s dial is flipping
and bound by those zeros
we’ve gotta go but it’s best
we’re brought low together
Sep 11, 2010
Sep 11, 2010 at 4:23 AM UTC
a curious pallor
in the tallow beneath my skin
strained of nutrients
drained of nerve signals
a cold dough of bruise yellow
expanding in blottings
spending
into a skimmed milk white
weened hollow in my desperate fasting
put myself into a 'gallow gasp'
heartbeat ? Quite undetectable
feigning death to evade a debt
but 'Shh !...'
(i'm just in a pale hibernation)
Jul 24, 2022
Jul 24, 2022 at 9:30 PM UTC
we stood tall;
free and unabridged
a testament to our youths
but when they called us down
we stayed standing
our height shrunk
wrinkles worn on torn porcelain
a graying of old stone
we grew fatter off decadent fruit
while caged animal fed on imprisoned others
and the minority was culled to a head
in internment camps
in privatized prisons
in the courts
and the legislator's building
in the very creation of the nation
stillborn at conception
an aborted fetus carried to term
delivered, to be chucked to the wayside
weened off the milk of a tormenting yearn
to make, to build, to think, and learn
but we stifle that now
in favor of rockets to fly
leaning toward oil to burn
will there be a scream when we die
or will this silence hold firm?
Dec 31, 2020
Dec 31, 2020 at 12:33 PM UTC
rehashing, redacting words in breath-
less thought. back into, place of
belonging; back for, a time of concep-
tion. then, and always, exhaling tone
of muscles vibrating. spoken, reverbed
of this hollowed body. eye-to-eye, view-
ing a soul outside this vessel; speak
to the eyes to be heard ofa soul. and
of last breath -- words spoke, never
meant heard of interred. of last breath,
to be out sole compansion of lamplight;
to sprade paper scraps where images of
life were found writ from mumbled
hand. words, those left withered th-
oughts scrapped when weened of
connectiong. eyelids flutter, lack comm-
itment of the soul wandering through
broken roof and heaveward on and
beyond an impossible sky gliterring.
out into some million mile expanse --
some insurmountable spanse not even
Katahdin might hope sought. simple
lamp light, casting shadows, in never
furnished room. they stroboscope with
the fluttering -- an attempt to disavow
final alone breath. a first kiss of sweetheart
named death, but not that from mouth of stereo-
typed sickle-carrier. death with lips full and unpainted;
lips not of harlot whose eyes were long ago shut away.
were long ago gone, beyond this spansed memory. death,
sweetheart of childhood, wavering in the dim light; death,
patient waiting found only from one love lost to the million
mile spanse. sweetheart, with face to ease and supplement of
spirit; out wandering awaiting spirit-loose companion in abidement
of union outside the restraint of physicality. her -- death -- finding
manifestation in shadows thrown through empty space.
cast of oil-soaked lamp's wick turned low; vespers of shadows
ever morphing. ever cooing. waiting to accompany part
and leave pense upon ever-veiled soul of him whom
sought an emanation's first and final kiss of unpainted lips.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 12:01 PM UTC
a creeping
wither did
vine rocky's
tail and
was falling
leaves in
Autumn only
blue by
trail weened
her dorky
tea in
throat that
her ***
broiled canapé
and wrest
on her
hot plate
Apr 18, 2018
Apr 18, 2018 at 6:02 AM UTC
here it comes, it is finally here.
a day where everything seems to be quite clear.
but oft from the side a dust cloud appears,
eyes open being widened with fear.
understand not what can be seen.
so oft that consumes all that is weened.
close out those eyes and heart in to see,
there still is beautiful way deep down deep.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 5:21 AM UTC
The year. 1562. The place. Fort. Caroline. , We. Have found in the Americas. a dry herb
With cane and earthen cup , they smoke it through the cane thereof .
September. 2016 .
Dear. Doctor. ,
I. Think I'm. a. chimney. ,
my lungs stacked high with bricks,
With N H S. guide lines full of ***** tricks. .
Weened from inside my mothers womb ,
the sweet smell of nicotine my mothers. Perfume .
How it smelt from inside my Pram mother and I went a. Shopping .
Then from the back of our car ,
as we drove far ,
that. Smell with Windows. ajar. ,
from the back of our car .
How I. Looked up to. Father. ,
When we went to the shops ,
*** in hand ,
One day I'll be a man ,
With *** in hand like he .
Hanging outside Londis ,
talking to strangers. ,
A. Packet. For a. Tenner for me ?
Dear. Doctor.
I. Think. I'm. a. Steam train ,
Cough. Phlegm ,
Cough. Phlegm. ,
Cough. Phlegm ,
Cough. Phlegm .
...........
Now I. Have my N H S. Bed. With family all around ,
My C O J D. breathing ap at my side .
My. Coughing a. Coffin now ,
I'm. Early for my funeral
Friends and family. all. around .
". he liked his Cigarettes. "
". Long time dead
Could have been knocked down by a bus " they said .
Coughing. , coughing , coffin .
,
Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 7:38 AM UTC
I visited my old man when he was just a coupla’days from death.
He looked serene as I walked down the ward…
dozing with a satisfied, benign smile - like he was still glad to be alive.
He opened one eye when he ‘felt’ me arrive
“Now then”... He said… “this Morphine… It’s ****** brilliant stuff.
I tell you what - if I’d known how good this’d make me feel
I’d ‘ave been a right ****** I can’t get enough!
What he’d actually also said… had been…
“If my mother’s milk'd made me feel this good
I’d never have been weened!”
I know… Not the most pleasant turn of phrase.
But come on - just an old guy - at the end of his days
“So pa..Eighty Five? What do you reckon?… A good run?”
"Well, apart from the great depression and 2nd World War…It’s been quite fun".
but I’d have been a lot happier if your mam hadn’t gone before.
What’s the point without her to balance me out…
She’d ride shotgun, map read on trips out,
and we had laughs galore
We were a double act, Morecambe & Wise, Little & Large -
Margaret & Bud! That was us!
So now I’m right fed up of being on me own…it’s no good -
I don’t like flying solo - alone.
Being on my tod in the day, well that ain’t so bad.
But come the evening the loneliness - it’s driving me ****** mad.”
“And now there’s all this ***** He points at where the tubes go.
Like this…What’s it really all about? there’s just - well I don’t know…
You should be able to choose when it’s time to end - time to go.
Not hang around rudderless without your best friend.
I’ll be off in a couple of days then you can get on with things
not hanging around - worrying about me… and he was right.
Just tweak that dial on the drip stand and… I’ll shove off,
circle around and choose a new place to land…
Don’t worry - There is such a thing as reincarnation you know...
So, see you when I find me feet…hopefully - in the afterglow!"
Jun 21, 2020
Jun 21, 2020 at 5:25 AM UTC
You can't change the world if you think just like the others, simple and plain
But just the same
You can't reach a single soul if you can't formulate to their ears
Whatever it is you have to say
All languages revolve around passions and beliefs
Stances you might die for
Which deserve their fair share of the blame
I came out prepared for the worst
Carried eight months
Then gave me away
Rather than give way to disdain, I came to love the place where I lay
Shadows I graced
Poor as a prayer, jewels in my lifespan I handle with care
Abandoned on one hand, palms turned over as if to claim
Here lies a path to something bigger, better, willing to share
Maybe the world deserves change
Gentle with you're coercions, hard after the knowledge you crave
Weened on written word that's why mine draws circles round yours, forget the idioms you heard
Theories you brave
I first learned the talk from the curb
Learned the walk in the heat of commotion, caught the bug from the verse
I was going to be somebody
One day, I'm gonna turn the world
But inevitable
It will spin with or without my input
Whether it is or isn't spurred
Love comes gradually, in all actuality it may be the furnace for the third eye that burns
You can't change the world if you think just like the others, simple and plain
But just the same
You can't reach a single soul if you can't formulate to their ears
Whatever it is you have to say
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 2:52 PM UTC
Another drowning year, another nameless day.
Formats of cards, wishing stars and fake teddy bears.
Short sayings, with a signed name.
Gifts not wrapped, with envelopes of money.
On this day, early in the morning.
A small baby cried, for a mother who was too high to breastfeed.
Stuck in the hospital until weened off of the drug, the sickening beast that hunts.
No party, just small groups that fan out and soon disappear.
Happy birthday, too me.
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 12:29 PM UTC
I once sat by the fire
Now in front of the screen
I once looked at the stars
I felt the power of their dreams
Now looking through my windows
Tapping on the screen
I wonder how far we've come
Can we be weened
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 8:33 PM UTC