"yanks" poems
They look out from the terrace.
At the borders of sight
live rocky hills behind brown
and golden and olive crop
under a cloudless sky.
BANG!
An artificial cloud.
“Mira,” she points, “Venga!”
They fly down stairs,
diving like sparrows
into the street.
Boys sprint across pavements and climb;
men vault over fences in time
for news to reach ears.
"¡Ya vienen!"
Excitement and fear.
The rattling of cow bells
and galloping nears.
Men bait and dodge horns
and escape through doors
and up and over
red wooden bars.
Sticks beat on the concrete ground
and closer, louder, gallops sound.
Seconds away –
until the last,
he side steps into a house;
indoors,
apart,
he runs through the foyer
and up the stairs
around a corner
with long strides
too fast to follow.
She chooses left and
sings soprano
when doors won't budge
and
it
crashes
in.
She turns and the fear is paralysing.
"FERMIN!"
"FERMIN!"
"FERMIN!"
He hurdles the stairs
and explodes
but it rams her
to and fro,
thrashing her head
against the wall
where horns
sin and gore
cement and brick.
He clasps the tail
and heaves its hide from
side to side as
hooves smash
crates of wine -
they slip and slide
in fractured glass;
he finds a horn
and yanks the head!
He's yanked instead
near dead before the men
arrive down stairs
to punch and kick it;
strike and stick it
smack and hit it;
'til it
fits and quits
and flees the foyer,
fast and frantic,
flying flustered
by the frenzy,
finally finding
pattering
paves
it
peters
off
down
the
street.
"¿Que ha pasado?
¿Quien ha sido?
¡El Balbotin
y la Chicha!
¡Que una vaca
les ha pillado!"
"¿Estas bien?"
Dizzy she's there
with searching hands
and scolding.
"Podria haber sido peor"
Apr 25, 2018
Apr 25, 2018 at 7:09 PM UTC
'We were killing pigs when the
Yanks arrived.
A Tuesday morning, sunlight
and gutter-blood
Outside the slaughter house.
>From the main road
They would have heard the screaming,
Then heard it stop and had a view of us
In our gloves and aprons coming
down the hill.
Two lines of them, guns on their
shoulders, marching.
Armoured cars and tanks and open jeeps.
Sunburnt hands and arms.
Unarmed, in step,
Hosting for Normandy.
Not that we knew then
Where they were headed, standing
there like youngsters
As they tossed us gum and tubes of
coloured sweets'
5.3k
She grabs me by my hair
And pushes me face down onto the bed, running her hands
Up and down my thighs and ***
Grabbing and massaging.
Pull down your pants
She says, eerily calm
So I pull them down
She helps me, then slides her
Hands back up my thighs
And ***
Slap
I flinch, feeling my
Right cheek tingle
And then suddenly she does
It again.
It becomes a rhythm,
Then she grabs me by
My hair and yanks my head up,
My breathing heavy and
Almost pained
*You will say again before
Every time I spank you.
You will say thank you after
Every time I spank you.
Do you understand?*
She says, her voice low
And heavy in my ear.
Yes I breathe
Yes What? grabbing
My hair harder
Yes...again I moan
Slap
Thank you
Again
Slap
Thank you
Again
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 12:23 AM UTC
It's unfortunate that Parisians
Are very hard to bear,
In terms of flash obsequiousity,
They drive me to despair!
And patience is an attribute
I don't profess to have
To mercifully administer
When accents veer to Slav.
Baltics look like jellyfish,
The Germans are obscene
And loud and overbearing
But the Swiss are very clean.
Italians are a swarthy lot
Who gourmandize on food
And sacrifice their suavity
By being impudently crude.
The Spanish are no better,
In fact they are probably worse,
For obsessing in the blood sports
I actually rate them in reverse.
Starchiness is British
They're convoluted to the core,
The Old Boy system's lost it's sheen
Aspirants flock to it no more.
The Yanks are looking slightly crass
Whilst fighting foreign wars,
Their pinky held up squeaky clean
To call "foul" to China's flaws.
China sits inscrutably
Holding all the cards
Waiting for the moment
To strike beneath the guards.
India and Pakistan
Are squabbling like kids
The uproar over Kashmir
Rates them lower than the Yids.
The Yids are walking tightropes
With Iran's nuclear ******
Whilst currying Yank approval,
Eventual bombing is a must.
The Dutch behave so anally
They're always proven right
When faced with rigid negatives
They blanch with haunches tight.
But not the Argentineans
They love to dance and flirt,
To chase the senorita
Cavorting in the scarlet skirt.
The South Pacific's wallowing
They're adrift from World affairs
Oz's self preoccupation
Mirrors Kiwi's vacant stares.
Africa's way past comment
Lost to heat and dust,
Warfare, **** and pillage
And the rest decayed by rust.
Eskimos are OK
Clean living on the ice
The population static,
Zer-O pollution's nice!
Marshalg
@theGate
Mangere Bridge
14 April 2009
May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010 at 12:08 AM UTC
Sometimes a jolt can stop you.
Like a phantom step that calls for you drive your heels to the ground,
Or a sentence in a book that yanks your gaze back to the beginning,
Heaving and lurching over.
Sometimes I stop,
To take in that I have stopped.
That it has been as few months that I could count on fingers,
The same that have scratched at my insides,
Heaving and lurching over.
Sometimes that same jolt can push you,
Like a static shock from a touch.
And that is why I do not claw, crave, beat or binge,
As I think of you most days, not out of love but as a warning.
For if the shock from your static unmoving self
Had not left me stung and stumbling,
Heaving and lurching,
I would not have ran forward.
*I have been cold inside and out.
I have been clawed and have grown talons in return.
And I was paler than my anaemic self,
Lacking in haemoglobin to burden with rasps of air,
Because my heart was weak and could not push blood to the surface.
But now that the colour has drained from my face,
I can blend into snow.
White, all but for red lipstick,
And apple in hand.
So I know when people have found me
They must have had to stop to look.*
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC
We started out with Armistead
from the shelter of the trees.
A jackrabbit raced past to the rear,
no dumb bunny was he
The heat rose up to meet us
As we started up the rise-
The prospect of the copse of trees
Before us was the prize.
The flower of Virginia here
displayed upon Parade
We must have looked magnificent
Just before the cannonade
They piled on Double Cannister
and tore holes in our line
We staggered from the weight of shot
that fearful hissing whine..
Then enfilading fire came
From the Yanks behind stone walls
Just then post fences six feet high
briefly caused our charge to stall
Brave **** Gannett was unhorsed
Upon this very spot
Kemper, wounded mortally,
Was retrieved from shell and shot
We made it past the final fence
And up the grassy knoll
Defiant in the cannons mouth
"Turn those guns!" I'm told.
But at that very Moment
General Armistead was downed
The attack lost its momentum
Our wave crested on high ground..
The blue bellies yelled Fredericksburg
As the Crimson tide retraced
Half in Anger, Half in relief
that the challenge had been faced.
The hill before the copse of trees
Pocked with our dead and dying
While the remnants of Picketts men
Towards Longstreets line were filing
Matthew Brady took my photograph
before I was led away
My face a study in defiance
A true man of the gray.
Dec 19, 2011
Dec 19, 2011 at 8:56 PM UTC
it is one desire
I have kept away
it is there behind Revenge
a jealous sister
she is there
her hair black as vanilla
eyes cold and numb
she taunts and pulls
to reveal
the flickering
foresight
of what is capable
what is expected
center stage
she quivers
“Revenge is a thought”
“Revenge is a coward”
“let me act”
“perform”
******
She pulls
******
She yanks
pulling at the very
thread of desire
her sound is dark
yet sweet
a howl
screaming for embrace
a performance
rhythmically polished
with saber and dagger
tip toe and pivot
she performs
the act
the act of
revenge
Apr 11, 2012
Apr 11, 2012 at 8:41 PM UTC
She is like a dandelion on the edge of a cliff
Next to the sea.
The wind-encouraged rapture brings her to her knees as she’s taken
From the rocks into the deadly blue sea.
(She is stronger than she thinks,
I know, that’s why she left me.)
Before the endpoint, the gusting breeze
Meets its end,
So the dandelion plummets into the sandy beach instead.
(No matter what brings her down, she shall always stand up.
It’s the way she is; the dandelion is tough.)
So comfortable now, her stem is stuck
In this thick warm surface,
The tide seems to be interested in this dandelion’s purpose.
(I tried to **** her into me with my love.
She didn’t give me a chance because
I wasn’t enough.)
The tide erupts upon the scene within the lively flower’s green,
And yanks it from the sand to bring her colors to the sea.
(He stole her from me,
she accepted his hand
There was no chance for me)
To the ocean, the flower seemed different from the others;
The dandelion seemed to be tougher.
She has always been strong, my little dandelion,
Even from day one,
(But like I said, I wasn’t good enough)
Nothing could destroy her pride, nothing could be done.
(She told me nothing of her
feelings and left my concerns in the dark)
She brought her roots down within the oceans depths,
And ****** the sea dry until there was nothing left.
And then came the rain.
(She left the door open on the way out,
I was so shattered,
I couldn’t even cry.)
Jun 26, 2010
Jun 26, 2010 at 8:23 PM UTC
HE lived on the wings of storm.
The ashes are in Chihuahua.
Out of Ludlow and coal towns in Colorado
Sprang a vengeance of Slav miners, Italians, Scots, Cornishmen, Yanks.
Killings ran under the spoken commands of this boy
With eighty men and rifles on a hogback mountain.
They killed swearing to remember
The shot and charred wives and children
In the burnt camp of Ludlow,
And Louis Tikas, the laughing Greek,
Plugged with a bullet, clubbed with a gun ****
As a home war
It held the nation a week
And one or two million men stood together
And swore by the retribution of steel.
It was all accidental.
He lived flecking lint off coat lapels
Of men he talked with.
He kissed the miners' babies
And wrote a Denver paper
Of picket silhouettes on a mountain line.
He had no mother but Mother Jones
Crying from a jail window of Trinidad:
"All I want is room enough to stand
And shake my fist at the enemies of the human race."
Named by a grand jury as a murderer
He went to Chihuahua, forgot his old Scotch name,
Smoked cheroots with Pancho Villa
And wrote letters of Villa as a rock of the people.
How can I tell how Don Magregor went?
Three riders emptied lead into him.
He lay on the main street of an inland town.
A boy sat near all day throwing stones
To keep pigs away.
The Villa men buried him in a pit
With twenty Carranzistas.
There is drama in that point...
...the boy and the pigs.
Griffith would make a movie of it to fetch sobs.
Victor Herbert would have the drums whirr
In a weave with a high fiddle-string's single clamor.
"And the muchacho sat there all day throwing stones
To keep the pigs away," wrote Gibbons to the Tribune.
Somewhere in Chihuahua or Colorado
Is a leather bag of poems and short stories.
2.8k
I find the black
A pit of false safety
She yanks me out with her nasally voice
"You look pale"
I always look pale, why do you care now
"Go"
I take as long as possible to reach the destination I dread
Eyes stare at me calculating
I prefer to be invisible
"You have a headache"
"Not really" I just feel so light I could float away
"You look like you're in pain, want to lie down"
"Sure" less time in class, I hate children, peers, tormentors, judgers
I turn to my temporary escape
"Did you have breakfast"
**** I hesitate, barely, they notice
"Here, eat these"
A packet of crackers "Thanks"
Nibble one to humor them as I go
In the trash as soon as I leave
Spitting out what I didn't swallow
I lie down still so they forget I'm here
Clutching my head and my stomach
Finding the black
And wishing to be anyone else
Wanting to once and for all get rid of myself
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 8:59 PM UTC
It's just an old beat up truck.
Nothing more.
It's nothing
but it means so much.
There's too many memories.
I watch in silence
as she tries to switch gears
with a frustrated attitude.
She yanks the gear shift back
trying to shift into second.
I set my hand on her arm
Hey,
She looks up and stops.
Clutch in and ease into second.
She takes a deep breath and starts back in first.
She shifts into second easily now.
I smile
and stay in silence.
She cruises down through the field
and I set my hand on her arm again.
She looks up as the truck slows.
I tell her it'll all be okay
and that she's doing great.
Which is true.
I tell her I love her.
Because this is just another memory to add with this
old beat truck.
The same one I've been told that I should trade in.
But it means so much more than getting a new truck.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 10:31 AM UTC
A pretty new dress
My pretty blue dress
I laugh, she smiles
I tease, she plays
“Let’s wrestle” she says
And jumps onto me
I scream, I struggle
Relentless, she seems
Wrists pinned above my head
My waste suppressed to the ground
I wriggle out, I push her off
She throws me down
No, no please no
As I climb away
I strive for distance
I battle for safety
My best friend reaches for a pencil
As she collapses over me, and jabs it inside
Her hand grabs for my dress, my pretty blue dress
And yanks it, burning my skin with its new thread
Crying out, I hit her
She laughs, she smiles
I scream for help, calling to her father
With no response
Breaking free, I lunge for the door
Only to trip, falling to the floor
Straddled, she laughs
She’s winning this match
My buttons tear, uncovering my *******
My camera in her hand
“Let’s show your boyfriend”
She toys
Suffocating under her obesity
I haven’t the air to scream
Tears leak from my eyes
Lips quiver in shame
Bored, she bounces, she thrusts
Nearly cracking my hips
My ribs crunch, my guts ache
And I gasp for air
My best friend grabs a marker
She writes on my face
As she bounces
She writes on my face
Asthma consumes me
As I struggle for consciousness
My mind fuzzes, and vision darkens
I think to myself, “This is how I end”
I never wore my blue dress again
I never told of what she did
I never spoke to her again
I never
I never
I never
My best friend.
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 2:30 PM UTC
He has a greedy look in his eye
as he licks his lips.
He climbs on top of her
holding onto both her wrists.
He ***** on her *******
then slides his hands to her hips.
He wants a taste of her now,
he can't resist.
So he grabs her throat
to choke her,
then yanks her
******* off with a rip.
He spreads her legs wide open
and she gladly obeys.
He slowly licks her up and down
as she moans his name.
Then he buries his tongue
deep inside of her
until she explodes all over his face.
Oct 31, 2020
Oct 31, 2020 at 10:25 PM UTC
Letters come & go.
Messages from home: love lost.
Jefferson Davis
& “Honest” Abe Lincoln’s war…
…nothing more than flexing strength.
The sun rises up
above the barren Culp’s Hill
as Ewell kept them
back, & Jackson’s wishes were
lost on Cemetery Hill.
Gettysburg was filled
with mudpits, puddlepits, shitpits
& every kind of
pit. Not any kind that they
wished to see as guns moved up.
The barrage of shells
from the artillery was
never ending, not
unlike this cursed war, all
while brothers & sons were lost.
The second day came
with no signs of stopping, he
packed his gear, grabbed his
rifle, & marched out to the
sound of Charon’s ferrying.
The medic rushes
out onto the battlefield
hesitating not.
His crude instruments flailing
about in his pack, he works.
Medicine, horror,
they were synonyms to him
as he braced the man;
scraping against flesh, he screamed.
This Civil War--hell on Earth.
Sawing off a leg
was much harder than once thought,
the medic then knew.
In the thick of battle, screams
drowned out screams, & drowned out screams.
Bullets whizzed by him
as he cleaned up his patient.
Or was it victim?
These days it all seemed the same:
North, South, free, slave, dead, living.
What once was blue ‘n gray
was now brown & black & red.
Explosions tore up
the land around him as he
cleared his vision & finished.
Out of the brush, fear
overtook the medic as
a man in blue clashed
with a man in gray; blood ‘n sweat
drenched both as life was on balance.
The medic was stunned
& failed to bring himself to
act at first. He shook
himself awake, & grabbed his
knife, & leapt into the fray.
His knife plunged precise
into the blue man’s heart. No
soldier, but knew his
stuff. The gray man thanked him, &
the South fought another day.
All for naught, for on
that third day, Lee ran with his
tail betwixt his legs
all the way to Virginia.
Two years later, all for naught.
July fourth, eighteen
sixty-three, no cheers, no love,
no wins for us folk.
Only them **** Yanks get their love
from home: letters come & go.
Sherman’s March left him
quaking in his boots; gone was
his love. Gone was his
home. Gone were his letters. All
of it gone. Gone with the wind.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 2:10 PM UTC
Adolf ****** was really quite a chap
He made those Froggies eat a lot of crap;
And he made all those Norwegians
Look like a load of paraplegians.
He marched into Poland with his troops
Into their pants those Poles did poops.
He made short work of the poor old Greeks:
And in their pants they did big keeks.
Killing the Jews was oh so bad and cruel:
Burning them up for harsh winter fuel.
But invading Russia was a bad place to go
And the Nazis froze in the cold and snow.
The Yanks were frightened to join in the war:
They were **** scared of what they saw;
(they only got involved when the Japanese
brought the Pearl Harbour fleet to its knees).
Only the Brits stood resolute and brave
For Churchill was an inspiring knave;
He fought Adolf on the shores and beaches
And the Germans crapped their leder-britches.
So what is the lesson of these facts from history?
Not ****** much - what a ******* mystery.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 1:42 PM UTC
Wow, the weather sure is cold,
Days are short, the wind is bold.
The season isn't a favorite for sure,
Most in the cold, aren't begging for more.
This testament to the winter, is short and is sweet,
Its brutal cold, upon you does beat.
Begs for spring, and longer days,
And new found fun in different ways.
But back to winter, now let's explore,
Its wondrous beauty, many do adore,
The frosty nights, a blanket of snow,
Untouched and ****** a skiing we can go!
Take the kids to the local park,
Sleigh ride with them, a youthful spark,
May be rekindled, inside your soul,
This surely is fun, never is it droll.
Build a snowman, with coal and pipe,
He may come alive, frosty isn't just hype.
The alive that he comes, is not in the snow,
But in the hearts of the ones that help make him grow.
Spending time with the family, this bonding is good,
Feeling alive and well, with your family you should,
The wondrous winter, has the holiest of days,
A time to be kind, and have gentler ways.
The birth of the savior, the greatest of men,
His spirit reborn, and we all know when,
This holiday comes, its time be kind,
Good deeds and good thoughts, cover your mind.
The new year comes in winter, a time to start new,
Cast aside bad habits, and with them your through.
Good cheer and good times, and drinking some wine,
Kissing and hugging, and playing Auld Lang Syne.
Presidents day is a time to give thanks,
Lincoln and the north, and the fighting yanks,
Put an end to slavery, blacks free as whites,
Another century passed to gain civil rights.
Praise to Washington, the first to lead,
Our country from Britain, his troops had freed,
The people of the Colonies, America was born,
Plains full of plenty, many acres of corn.
Valentines day, the time for romance,
Put yourself out there, ask a girl to a dance!
The celebration turns history around,
Originally on this day, many bodies were found,
Dead in a garage, in the Chicago town,
The pictures are gruesome, bloodstains on the ground.
These are the times in winters' cold,
That have special meaning, and memories they hold.
Look kindly on winter, its end will bring,
A time of rebirth, known as the spring.
Visit poemsbypaul.com
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC
I'm not sure what it is
But there is this thing
This overwhelming thing
That draws me to you
After all these years of knowing you
I still can't figure it out
It pulls me too you
Like rope around my heart
Dragging me closer and closer
I've tried to resist it
But have always failed
It yanks me closer than before
There is nothing I can do
I've given up on fighting it
And have accepted the fact
That there is just something about you
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 1:01 AM UTC
Please, read this with the thickest southern accent you've ever heard. It's my language. It's my home...
Hee Haws on the TV
Chicken's fryin' in cast iron skillets
Taters and maters scent mama's clothes
no AC
Papaws in the bacca field
Granny's sippin' on sweet tea
The law stopped comin' here they say,
Back in '23
The fruit's ripe for pickin
daddy did that last week
He said the Apple brandy
Tasted perfect,
bitter sweet
The moonshine makers meet
When the crickets sing at night
they pass around mason jars
'neath the moon
and southern stars
The wine stays burried till fall
muskadine,
other than strawberry
the very best kind
The yanks
buy it up
Its funny to watch 'em
they can't handle their stuff
The Demory Mart stays busy
oh Lord it's so much fun!
When the moonshiners play pool,
till the rising of the sun
Momma don't like it,
Lord she gets so mad!
But she puts my church shoes on me
and I know she still loves dad
But now the still's turned green
as copper always does
There are no moonshiners left
Time has passed, just 'cause
Papaw's gone
the fields have grown up
there are no moonshiners left
it's all store bought, mason jars
have turned to cups
Demory Mart is Yankee owned
the church has indoor plumbing
But late at night, I hear the banjo's
and the stills, copper humming....
Jul 26, 2017
Jul 26, 2017 at 10:39 PM UTC
More than one person remembers that day
as hot and tasting of catastrophe
in the flavor of airbag dust and gasoline.
We were talking as you drank your root beer.
Windows down. My shoes off…
4:02.
Your eyes widen
as metal screeches and the revving of engines
winds down, a man wearing sunglasses
yanks on my door, but it protrudes
into the cab. Another man takes you out —
shouts to me to move. I can’t
find my shoes and my wallet is soaked.
Bystanders flock like they would at a circus
where a lion’s attacked his tamer.
Tears flow more freely than blood.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry. God, my fault spills
from my bruised lips until finally,
I collapse to the pavement like the fender
of the opposing Mercedes.
I tried but failed to explain
that swerving the car to save you
meant near-death for me. Only after
regret and responsibility that crushed
my lungs faded, the way mascara dries,
did I acknowledge,
I am here.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC
Stop making this harder than it really is
Trying to let go but you are chained to me
Reality yanks at this noose but I won't give up
Only I can make this right and only you can
Never rightly make it in your state of mind
Get off of my back or I'll force myself to
Empty my heart of emotion and my eyes of tears
Rip apart my thoughts, but you can't have them, andyou can't have me.
Feb 26, 2010
Feb 26, 2010 at 7:34 PM UTC
Outside the backyard windowpane
owl's clover beckons a butterfly
to feed in the wildflower meadow
silver tree bark and naked branches
stand lining edges on two sides
songbirds sing symphonies in flight.
Opaque shadows mark the horizon
in a blink, blurs eat blue from the sky
and as clouds circle back sunshine dies
winged creatures grounded, insects too
with no moonlight -no critters can fly,
cicada shrill to a coyote pack's howl
little hairs rise in a goosebump dance.
Heartbeats pound- pulse rate climbs high,
a scream -glass breaks -then silence
purple is devoured inside a chilled fog
as lights 'round the world pass me by,
weep with the willow- sob to the breeze
darkness yanks and dew kisses flesh,
curls, clothes, and soaked skin drip dry.
Body shakes- lips quiver- teeth rattle
my grey view bleeds into ebony,
no Seraphin cradles me in a goodbye,
tunnel lantern holds no oil for the light
too dark to lift me or for us to fly.
Jan 3, 2019
Jan 3, 2019 at 2:18 AM UTC
We bebopped
along the Straße,
full of the finest hops,
higher than kites,
enamored with
everything Deutsch.
Everywhere we went,
the deejays
spun the Beatles & Stones,
as if we were Brits,
when we were actually
Yanks & nein GI's,
Ich bin students!
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 12:25 PM UTC
(Happy 150th, Canada!)
Canada Day - Just One?
With love from an ‘umble Yank
But every day is Canada Day!
The afternoon plane lands in Halifax
When the hatch is popped, cool air rushes in
Even the fog is happy in Canada
The Muskogee never made landfall here
And so we pilgrimage for her, complete
Her voyage from ’42 to Canada
Wolfville, Grand Pre’, Le Grande Derangement
The Deportation Cross and beer cans
Well, God forgive the Redcoats anyway
Newfoundland
Is a bold
Anapest
The church spires in a line, the light is green
The bold young captain shoots the narrows wild
Can you find your way to your painted house?
To walk again the cobbles of Ferryland
And smell the very blue of the Atlantic
The sea-blown wind is cold in Canada
Blue Puttees and a mourning Caribou
Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord
Good children sing “We love thee, Newfoundland”
Quebec – royal city of New France
May Le Bon Dieu bless the Plains of Abraham,
And may God bless
The signs an English driver cannot read
The Coca-Cola streets of Niagara Falls
Yanks laugh at made-in-China Mountie mugs
And buy them, happy to be in Canada
A cup of Toujours Frais from – well, that place
But to us in your southern provinces
Below Niagara, Tim too is Canada
Though Canada goes on, these scribbles must not -
Your grateful guest wishes only to say
That every happy day is Canada Day!
Jul 1, 2017
Jul 1, 2017 at 11:39 AM UTC
I learned the myth of the mound was blowing away
from the TV's urgent plea.
Humidity transformed into a sickly, green hue.
I need to see what is coming, but the cedars block the view.
The rapidly increasing darkness and howl means the monster broke free.
Sirens rise to take a stand, join the fray.
Mom's at the store, dad's day at the Capitol just began.
Alone. . . across the street to join the neighbors downstairs.
Inflow yanks at my feet, begging me to slip, and my eyes have to know.
Looking backward, I keep moving forward...it follows...I might be too slow!
Bathed in different light -- the dying sun, exploding blue arcs, headlights in the air.
The door latches, then leaves, along with everything else of where I just ran.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 10:01 AM UTC
Move against the darkness that bites your tail, little wolf. Fight back.
Don't you see the clearing at the edge of the bluff? The light that rains there?
Drops of glow, little stars come from the reflection of oceans.
Dance there, sing your song of howls and tribal verses.
Nothing is following you anymore. They have no want to,
You have changed into an ugly monster, dripping black and green poison.
No me wants to love a filthy girl, a demented form of a creature once sought after.
Just because the darkness yanks on your beaded hair does not mean it is evil.
You don't understand the liquid gold it speaks, you can not hear the warnings.
The white light that illuminates the field of carnivorous wild flowers
Transformed you to your true form.
And the meteor showers washed away the rest of you.
A bitter chill that encompasses the world you once knew, and isolation sets in.
The sound of your strangled cries are the only thing left, but even then,
The echoes are unbearable. Silence is your only friend.
No physical inspiration, no sound, and soon, you forget their name.
The one who kept you from destroying yourself in the first place.
Death himself asks you three questions.
"What is your name?"
I don't know.
"Do you want to die?"
Maybe.
"Why?"
I don't know.
The questions are written in your own blood, but the hooded figure is
Nowhere in the red reflection you stare into. No light. No light.
Yet you wake up in your own cave as if nothing has happened.
Nothing except the matted fur and the festering wound in your side,
Pain searing you to your bones, burning every thought to ash.
*Don't worry, little wolf. It will be over soon.
Just don't let the sunlight get you again.*
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 11:41 AM UTC