"yarns" poems
The ghost of you lingers on my mind
The echo of your words tangos across my heart
The feeling of excitement of falling in love in cyberspace
Sexting without remorse or grace
A friendship that hits below the waist
Intelligent conversations that strokes your passion and ignites your fire
I wonder if I'll have anything left to offer
Or would the sight of you take me higher up the ladder of my sinful desire
Your words drive my imagination wild
The touch on my skin, your fingers, lightly caressing my spine
This image in my head is so divine
Seriously hoping that one day, this feeling will be mine.
Pictures and thoughts exchanged on a whim
Something strange grows from within
Intellectually stimulating every part of me
Zeros and ones creates a digital reality
Here I am, imagining being in your arms
The sweetest words you whisper in my ear
My soul yarns for you to be here
Feelings your warm body against mines under the cover
I long for you, my WhatsApp lover
©La Vida Love
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 4:08 PM UTC
Let me tell you about something I saw the other day,
when I was out walking through a field of hay.
The night was quite pretty, the air crisp and clear,
when I suddenly encountered a cat who was drinking a beer!
I walked a little farther and encountered some mice,
sitting around a card table, all playing dice.
The mice looked quite serious, they all dressed like thugs,
I was dumbfounded, and simply stared down from above.
Then I saw something that completely blew my mind,
it was a variety of animals, dancing in a conga line.
For hours and hours and hours they danced,
more animals joined in, even deer came to prance.
This party was larger than any I’d seen,
a couple of badgers were even smoking something green.
“Innocent” deer were snorting lines off of snakes,
and a couple drunk farm dogs were fighting with rakes.
A cat and a mouse were sitting in a barn,
entirely too drunk, they took turn telling yarns.
From across the field, you could hear an owl retch,
while a gaggle of geese slurred “Benny and the Jets.”
Sheep laughed, “Bahaha!” while dancing on tables,
the horses were getting it on in the stables.
This party was crazier than any I’d attended,
a pig even ended up losing an appendage.
As the sun came up, things started winding down,
all the cows went home, and the "Keg King" took off his crown.
I took this as my cue, it was time to depart,
so a couple mice and I hitched a ride on a farmer’s cart.
"Sayonara!" I yelled, "It's been lots of fun!
Everybody get home safe, try not to hurt anyone!"
But enough about me, let's talk about you.
That was my weekend, what did you do?
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 11:55 PM UTC
Gemini in seasonable evening,
serenely swirling in Septemberous
ferris wheels
reeling in the vast domain
of lonesome leviathans
and witch-fires;
nowhere bound in the boundless fecundity
[ the feral joys of creation... ]
twins
meander in gravity's
well of souls,
swollen with unknowns and proteins;
golden rods in pointless foam
brewing the elixir vitae
in the Dippers cup. the Milky Way,
a wayward gush
from an ancient Mother Goddess,
plump and shameless, pumping teats
to nurse worlds
infused with divine rays of gamma and x...
why set dark apart
from firmament burning
spheres?
dragons
must clutch eggs in the void
as much
as fork tongue white dwarfs.
of course, the Source
unfolds
as Love does. it's purpose,
in thrall of fearless veracity,
spinning yarns for glad garments
to clothe the naked dread
of such fearful symmetries
as roam the wild delights
of the infinite
meringue.
the Pi
on the window sill,
tempting the circular frame of reference
to square with the sublime Will.
another Fibonacci in your
bedpost,
to better hobnob with
broomsticks.
everything annihilates hatred.
from within,
we sojourn to sovereign super-continents
of opulent peace.
profound realities surge serpentine
with Meaning.
we are outdone on the inside by small minds
and farcical
hearts.
so at night
look up.
Love's Tongue Is
Love's
Word.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 1:31 PM UTC
Au(Or)al Tune
When (O)ppo(u)rtun(e)ity knocks –
Ah, pour that tune into me
n(O)t
just write or speak
but
/zIg:zAg/
gut--
--teral mut--
--ter yarns
With
Mouth-churn--
--ing-beat-lick--
--ings.
Half-grown seedling ([her]bal:e(X)ssen(10)ces)
into sm(O)ke
adolescent (O)re worn from being p(o)(o)r—
it was nE(X)CESSary for:
battles
birds
beats
b(O)(O)ks
bottles
bucks
b(O)nes
boys
being(bad)
sm(O)ke-rings w(ear)y with surr(end)er
stripped
v(O)wel
for
v(O)wel
thr(OU)gh the yawn: (O)nly
“(O)h.”
(O)h
… foll(O)ws
the
You’re w(or)th-knowing-ONLY-(O)nce
type of l(i)ke.
VERSE/VERSUS: the
You’re-w(or)th-knowing-AT:LEAST-(O)nce
type of l(i)ke
VERSE/VERSUS:
for (u)s
it’s the worst type of verse
when it’s
them:VERSUS:us
(verses)
likewise -- (O)r worse --
it should really be about//
a bad in (u)s: Y(O)U:ME
(O)h after a
kn(O)ck
(O)h after a
t(u)ne:://
(end)-verse
for worse – it’s an
(end)-versus-us
type of verse.
(O)ppo(u)rtun(e)ity
pouring
ringing e(X)cesses
like
ear-worms to
hear words to
heat hearts.
Ah::rest that mouth-verse onto me.
(restful//fluster)
Ah::rest that mouth
(silent//listen)
soulless gall(O)w r(u)ng
lipless v(O)wel sl(u)ng
like
ARTS::between::STARS
then
VOICES RANT ON::into::CONVERSATION
then
PAYMENT RECEIVED::yet::EVERY CENT PAID ME
worst-verse:
Y(O)u//like hanging
your dipTH(O)NGS
on (O)pportun(e)ity’s d(O)(O)r
like
sm(O)ke-rings
like
being(bad)
like
Y(O)U:ME
like
(O)h. n(O).
(end)-verse:
worst-verse:
L(I)ttle.Kn(O)wn.V(O)wel::
n(O)(O)se big for (u)s
ALL.
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC
Heartstone is a reflection in music on a ‘lost’ poem. The poem described in its two short verses a summer’s day, a landscape, a fossil found and placed in the palm of a child’s hand. The poem inspired a seven-movement work for wind, brass and percussion with solo piano. Here is its poetic programme note.
Chert
The piano draws an arc of rhythm
rising then falling.
Above
two choirs of wind and brass
exclaim, fanfare, mark out
shorter, determined
gestures of sound.
The procession, almost a march,
becomes a dance.
Alone
Two choirs of wind and brass
become four couples
whose music weaves
from complexity a simplicity:
Chromatic to Pentatonic
twelve becoming five.
Prase
Four stopped horns,
five extended tonalities.
Together they wander
a maze of Pentatonic paths;
alone, and in pairs, as a quartet
they discover within
a measured harmonic rhythm.
Tension: resolution
. . . and surrounding
their every move
the piano
insists an obligato,
a continuum of phrases,
absorbing into itself
the warp and weft of horn tone.
Sard
Oscillating
in perpetual motion
the full ensemble
occupies a frame
of time and space.
Flutes, reeds,
double-reeds
brass, piano,
percussion
mirror-fold on mirror-fold
layer upon layer
overlapping.
Yarns of threaded sound.
Tuff
Without a break
the mirrored oscillations
patter pentatonics
on tuned percussion
of marimba and vibraphone
whilst
a batterie of drums
lays down
shards of beaten rhythm
against this onward
folding of tonality change.
In the background
a choir of winds
flutes and single reeds
waymark this recursive journey
gathering together
cadential moments and the
necessary pause for breath.
Marl
Relentlessly, the motion is sustained,
piano-driven,
a syncopated continuo,
rhythm-sectioned
amidst layers of percussion.
Adding edge,
a choir of brass and double reeds
amplify the piano’s jagged rhythms
providing impetus for
phrases to become longer and longer,
ratching up the tension,
ever-denying closure
until the batterie
delivers
a conclusive flourish.
Paramoudra
Pulse-figures of winds.
Motific cells of brass.
Both
negotiate a stream of
fractal-shaped tonality
expanding: contracting.
A blossom of fanfares
folding into
pulsating layers
of tuned percussion,
flutes and reeds.
A dance-like episode
absorbs a chorale.
Four horns in close harmony
against the continuing dance.
A duet of differences
flows into a cascade of chords
in closed and open forms.
The piano supports
brass-flourishing figures
before a final stillness.
Heartstone
In gentle reflection
the solitary piano –
a figure in a landscape
of collapsed harmonic forms -
presents in slow procession
the essence of previous music.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 12:41 PM UTC
It’s dusk
Lustful grapevines curl around my ankles
And I’m thankful it’s wine season, the pickers should be around shortly to save me
And bathe me in last year’s crop to scare the grape vines into submission
It’s a decision they have to make
Do they care about a perfect stranger enough to waste
Roads of trucks of crates of bottles of red velvet
Or white sunshine
Or do they allow this ensnarement and turn a blind eye whilst I sink
While thinking; pondering the fertility of the soil under my feet
I’ll wait for the pickers, just to see how they view me
And in the meantime the vines are spinning yarns around me
Crawling up my skin, holding me tight while telling me bed time stories
Once upon a time there was a vineyard struck by a drought
Caused by unrelenting calm, and clear blue skies with no clouds
And they resisted, rationed their water between them,
And it seemed then that everything was fine
The crop was harvested and won best wine, but failed to mention how many vines
Died in the making of their own blood
Morbid and dry, a pinot noir fashioned out of pain and scars
And tears in flesh, not human flesh, but the flesh of the landscape
I didn't smile
But it did make me sleepy
I couldn't fight their grasp
Addicted to their emotions
I let them take me down into their fertile ocean
And when the pickers came to discern the source of the screaming
A new grape vine had sprouted and was teething
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 2:19 PM UTC
I made those paper boats to sail
Folded by hands eagerly
Then floated them in streams of rain
Now, they come to float in memories
A splash of toes in puddles of mud
As heaven's water washed the eyes
A song on lips of clouds and rain
As I raised my arms to hug the skies
So free and wild those days of yore
Such innocence in breath of dawn
Laughter lingered through the night
Oh, how quickly have those days all gone
And stories that grandmother told
Weaves and yarns that life unmasked
Now come back to me in dreams that drift
Like paper boats of the past
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 10:20 AM UTC
Sadness loomed
over me
spread loving yarns
around me
hiding my flesh
below warp and woof
Needles from on high
***** my stingy pocket
feeling all Shanghai
Hang um up
Consequential bannners
for Count Ceramic Time
Feb 16, 2010
Feb 16, 2010 at 7:20 PM UTC
Swan songs gently glide over pools of stardust
Their necks rubbing lightly on each other’s feathered melodies
I excitedly compare such yarns to the velvet passions that elate us
Such a kitten smile, I sink into your light, enveloping in you spiritually
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 2:38 PM UTC
*Once Upon a Time
There was a little Wooden Spool of Yarn
Covered in Layers of Coats
Of Soft Protective Yarn
Protecting its insides
Everyone kept telling
The special Ball of Yarn
How pretty its layers were
How its yarn was prettier than
Any other color on the shelf
And if it fell from the shelf
Its pretty coats would protect it
Except one day it fell from the shelf
Hitting other shelves along the way
And the rest of ***** of Yarn spectating
Stared in disbelief
Because the coats of the Pretty Ball of Yarn
Weren't protecting the
It like they had anticipated
In fact
It had begun unravelling
Becoming Undone
It unwound and unwound
Across the concrete Floor
Yarn stretched like
Lines of a ruined and strewn apart coat
Until all that was left of it
Was a little wooden heart
At the center
The other Yarns of Wool
Stared in disbelief
How could this Yarn of Wool
Survive without his coats of Yarn
"He's broken"
They said
But slowly
Over days
His wooden heart began to grow
So strong that he didn't need a coat
He looked up and said
"This whole time I was wrapped in Cotton Wool
Layers of protection and defense
I couldn't touch the rest of the world
And now the excess is gone
All that is left is my heart
And it might be broken
Because I Broke from the Fall
But now I realize I didn't need
The capes and coats and excess
The wool wasn't me
What is me, is what remains
And now I can touch the rest of the universe
Because
"The heart that breaks open is the heart that can contain the universe" (Melton)
The world broke me open
And it hurt
But I don't want to go back
To being sealed shut from the universe
Even if it hurts at first
Its worth breaking to rebuild
So now I my heart is big enough
To contain the universe"*
~JLH
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 12:45 PM UTC
Not every man is gentle in his life
but you remained a gentleman
Through all your pain and strife
My childhood years
when you stood strong and tall
Sparkling eyes with love
entwined the ivy on the wall
within your garden, hedged around
a paradise of fruitful ground
and I in childhood flushed
transfixed I stand
awed at the gardeners magic hand
Here for you
there was no wretched bottled smell
An alcohol free paradise
An alcohol free hell
How you loved to hear the wild birds
sweetly sing
And see your world re-live again
in Spring
"How calm" you said to hear the rippling stream
A beauty unaware to me
You thought me how to dream
In all your yarns
attention held me mute
but if my heart allowed
I wouldn't dare dispute
With flitting years
your speech you tried to goad
But you my aged friend
could still my thoughts behold
Your every limb that moved
so gracefully before
by life's uneven cobbles
were battered , warped and sore
You fought a loosing battle
with your bottle eager hand
and I watched your spirit slip away
like a fist of dried out sand
The tears rolled down my face
as I kissed my cherished friend
I thanked your god for your friendship
and your dignity to the end.
Oct 31, 2010
Oct 31, 2010 at 4:56 PM UTC
If a tale need be tattled,
the snawky Snawk would arise.
With its snickley tongue of arsenic blue,
and loathsome gamboge eyes.
To the King of the stickley Snicklers,
the Snawk would spill his talk.
But scuttlebutt was all t'was,
for he was but a snawky Snawk.
Might you ask
who am I be?
I am a jawky Jawk
who talks incessantly
of the snawky Snawk,
with his snickley tongue,
and his breath of kyarn,
and Beelzebub dung.
You see I knows of him all too well
and well he knows of me.
Invidious brothers, one of the other,
same Mother both have we.
Now the snawky Snawk spins yarns
so dark and thick and odious.
One might find his fatuous canards
to be though flatulent, commodious.
But If ye be a gawky Gawk
of the snawky Snawk beware,
For his loathsome camboge eyes
can squinny a ribald stare.
To your knees his gaze will bring you,
you'll tell all the tales you know.
Then he'll tattle them to the Snickler King
and off to the headsman you will go.
That is, unless, you know the ballad
the Snawk is most offended by.
'bout the frowzy blowzy stable boy
with only just one eye.
He lost his eye in a snickering match
twixt The Snickley King and he.
But got the best of the old nabob,
for he could cachinnate you see.
He did cachinnate and aggravate,
till the old King did concede.
The stable boy was the better of the two,
his tongue cut like a snickersnee.
For the frowzy blowzy stable boy
was not able to tell a lie,
nor could he mince his words with honey,
of the truth he could not hide.
And if one day you find yourself
in the land of the quidnunc kith.
Shun the snickley Snicklers,
and their sniggering King forthwith.
But if ye meet up with the stable boy
though untidy he may be.
Dare not tattle of a soul,
he'll let fly his snickersnee.
And remember well, the ballad he sings,
of the King he did do down.
Drink in its waspy strain and keep it nigh,
lest the snawky Snawk cometh 'round.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 8:33 PM UTC
Of a night on a battered red leather sofa
It's moved with us three times
It sits in a room with a broken bay window
And we sit on it too
And we sit on it too
Drinking yellow anise from mismatched glasses
With ice, not warm water
Singing stories, spinning yarns with broken bottles
Of girls with leopard-print hands
And the straw man in the moon
The straw man in the moon.
The cord hangs on the wall:
A symbol, but not symbolic
As chords rise, break off and fall
All a sham, but not shambolic
A sham, but not shambolic.
Swapping tales and anecdotes of cars parked between cake stalls
And days with names that don't suit them
People dying for causes they don't understand
And war is an island; a land hyperbolic
A Green land, a war land; unplanned hyperbolic.
Linguistics are twisted and brass tales are dropped
A cork is unwrapped from the web where it popped
But the darkness is rising, the hours are ticking
The side is hitched up so we all know we're doomed.
We hear children singing in the guitar strings,
Their screeches rising as they fall,
Our speeches diving as they fall.
And speaking of speeches, he says, a performance is mine
But in France, man... in France the markets are open
And the fields of Provence roll down to the menhirs of Carnac
And Brocéliande lies to us all,
And Brocéliande lies to us all.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 10:50 AM UTC
My dear Father...
The **** do I say? Such a way with words, as those cracked records claim.
You thought so too though, you always did say, but how are there words for a heart torn away? A soul ripped in half and this gut wrenching pain?
How you were a hero - I've heard so many say,
You taught, you motivated,
You wiped tears away. You existed to spread love - yet felt unworthy to claim.
The demons you fought
your silence so dark,
They'd never let you see,
Just how loved you are...
True.
Deep.
Unique love.
Each one of us precious, In the Michaelest ways.
You suffered so deeply,
And what scares me the most,
That though we all suffer, you were my stone.
Our heads have such darkness, a uniqueness WE shared. Though all heads have shadows,
Ours was a PAIR
You've helped me through so much,
I couldn't describe. Your wisdom, a sculptur, has guided my life. My biggest regret, you'd never accept, that you were a catalyst, that helped me to live.
You taught me so much,
you've held me in strife,
Sitting right with me, endless yarns about life.
Or virtually advising, from far distance lands.
But the space never mattered.
Your love had no span.
I wish you could've seen, and accepted inside,
You were so special, cherished, and kind - My Godlike of a guide, and when the world caved in, I sought YOU for advice. No one will ever understand me like you. What peace I can find comes from the Truth - that our yarns WILL continue, sometime I know soon.
Your wisdom and beauty, your insights to life, you've gifted me so much, I'll cherish inside. Our bond can't be altered, I know that, not ever, for good or for bad, I am you - forever.
May 28, 2022
May 28, 2022 at 10:22 PM UTC
A weaver loves weaving silky blankets.
A spider's home a web is stitched by threads
With many rooms; in them are tiny heads.
Their bodies preserved eaten like crumpets.
The weaver weaves it's net from yarns of steel,
So testify the insects, the flies and bees;
It laid like a trap spun from trees to trees;
Whosoever passes suffers you feel.
There lives in darkest dreary room so dour
With hairy legs alert on each it's thread
Awaits; sometimes a windy storm would roar,
When webs like battered sails are torned to shred.
But back it comes to weave within the hour
A place to ply for preys flying ahead.
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 8:01 PM UTC
Once upon a time
There was a girl who dared to dream
In the cold, air conditioned room of reality she sat
For hours on end
Suddenly, her rescuer appeared
Golden yarns of sunshine leaked through the windows,
Wrapping themselves around her,
Pulling her away
In the blink of an eye
She was no longer in the place of gloom
But in a magnificent garden
Where flowers of every kind, like her,
Dared to bloom
She tarried there
For hours, days, weeks
Sitting amongst the blossoms
Admiring them and befriending
The other children who would arrive from their own prisons
Each backstory unique,
Some grotesque, some disheartening
But that mattered not
For the children would wrap their fingers
Around each other's cold hands
And begin again
In this new, dreamlike place
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 10:00 AM UTC
My vessels
My veins
My vessels
My fiend
My pen I never strayed
My lungs I do disdained
My legs not rightly placed
My hands, beyond tangled
This is just some words about
The ethereal wandering spine:
Made of hard candled wood
To be laid cold on the lane
The ghost of it, I dare say, wandered around
Spoken of shame and of the nomads
And in silence, it sew the raging sea
Into yarns of distraught constellation
All in this ill world, not above
The spine was of rage and of distress
Wished forever to stop standing still
And forever more, laid to rest
As broken bones, as thousand glasses
To be unnoticed and blend as well
Fifteen years of shame
Haven’t eaten
Fifteen years of shame
Haven’t beaten
But bathe in dirt
To blend means to fade away
And to fade means to accept
Annihilation and memories that may
Dangle from the tip of your bones
Why would you
Or the spine
Take it for granted,
wish it to be true?
Truth be told;
a spine helps you to stand still
Aside from your legs and your partial heart
Imagine;
if it wander aimlessly
Where would you belong,
and where would you stand?
But still the spine wanders around
To reign upright on its own
Then decorate beauty of its own
Oh, and perhaps, again
Blend in as well as to fade away
Away
Away
Away
From you
From:
Fifteen years of shame
Haven’t eaten
Fifteen years of shame
Haven’t beaten
But bathe in dirt—
And could not stay
Look at your spine
Which you can’t see,
why are you so sure
That it is there?
Look at the spines
On your surrounding:
Lampposts
Broomsticks
Electric poles
Candles
Pillars
Look at the spines
That stand on their own
Just a single stick
And nothing more.
Believed to be incapable
Wished to be broken shards
Ended up standing still
For eternity, for darkness beyond
And what are you
Without them?
Just a lump of flesh
A fabricated skin
An empty will
And nothing more
Living in
Fifteen years of shame
Haven’t eaten,
haven’t beaten
But bathe in dirt.
And what are we,
without them?
Just dark vessels
And distraught veins.
My vessels
My veins
My vessels
My fiend.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 10:31 AM UTC
In texts so normal we find
Unraveled yarns they left behind
To swallow a dry pill that bruises a dream
It tends to be the easiest of things
I’ve left my yarn in tranquil holes
Dug so deep and filled with snow
Underneath lie the bodies of old
I tell myself
Who could have known?
Mended with gauze and fixed with scraps
The vessel caves in and the flies come back
The whither and tremble of a soft human hand
Which quivers so lightly through weakened grasps
I ask this old woman now barely stable
Did your yarn precede the marvel
Of a young child, bold and able?
Did it graze him and make him wiser?
Powdered bone you hid under covers
How the leaves and meadows of your memories
Reach for both ankles, pushing you gently
Towards a beckoning boney finger that urges you closer
Will such saccharine visions bury six feet under?
So it goes
The yarns unravel now, as they always have
From birth to the backwards prance of descent
She holds me, whispering me her loves, her life
And my tears unfurl with hers as I ache, hearing such words
Who could have known?
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 8:58 PM UTC
I cannot speak for desire's fiery touch, nor can I speak against it for who listens to a hypocrite's tale and feels anything other than tired annoyance.
I will not offer any advice aside from the weary words of the twice, thrice, ofttimes fallen, yet who cares to hear the yarns of those that tried and failed.
All I can do is spout sad knowledge disguised as nonsense with the practiced ease in which Dylan spouts poetry and hope that you glean some semblance of the message therein and take not this crooked path of mine.
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 3:12 AM UTC
"Her other name must be Peace"'
Doubted it was writ large too, on that face,
Yarns of tranquility waved her dress
In it's tight drapes her shape does express
More than expected within that gentle grace.
For a moment he held the reigns, took stock,
Deeply inhaled the scent of musk, she exudes
Sensed a turbulence, an effect opposite, yet sweet
"Need to initiate a change, a bend in the flow, quick
Amble to her and shake hands"his other murmured
"Otherwise you wouldn't forgive yourself,for the lapse
Letting slip a rare glowing moment, from your hand"
Alter ego's prompt, was carried out with such ardor,
She briskly met him halfway and gracefully asked:
"We sure met before once, didn't we some time?"
"Certainly, but in some other life time, it was"he says
She smiles as if his was a seductive move, she liked it.
But these waves that reach him has an intense warmth
"Will you give me a hug?" emboldened he ventures further
She did more than what he could expect, tight was the embrace.
Yes, that's right, appearances are deceptive,pleasant surprise!
One needs to expect the unexpected,make serendipity work.
It was too fast, he couldn't see what really was happening,
She perhaps leads him to a timeless space , he imagined
That volcano camouflaged as a green island of tranquility!
Aug 4, 2017
Aug 4, 2017 at 5:17 PM UTC
(For any family gathering during the holiday season)
My father had two brothers and four sisters, which meant there were numerous cousins. At least once a year, sometimes more, we would gather at our grandparents house in Joshua, Texas.
Come Sunday morning, the ritual of preparing the Sunday dinner would begin. Now, back then, in the 40's and 50's, it was "old school." The women went to the kitchen(led by grandmom), and the men would go outside, brace themselves against the fenders and hoods of their vehicles, conveniently parked beneath a large Texas Pecan Tree; lightup their cigars, cigarettes, or pipes, and start telling lies and yarns(much the same thing), each trying to outdo the other. The children running around the open yard, or going a hundred yards to the railroad tracks to place coins, mostly pennies, dimes, nickles(maybe a quarter,if you got an allowance), on the track rails, then wait for the afternoon/evening train. A lot of coins got flattened on those tracks.
And while the men waited.......a manisfestation began to occur........................
Aromas that would make a king cry.....
"Salivating"
Becoming impatient
Fried chicken
Baked chicken
Becoming more impatient
Laughter....
Coming from the kitchen
Roast Beef
Mashed potatoes
Lord, don't let'em forget the gravy!
Lightly braised stringbeans w/buttersauce
Fresh baked Acorn Squash
Okra
All prepared with, the 'secret ingredient'.......
" Love! "
copyright: January 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 4:52 PM UTC
~~~
A gentle breeze was drifting soft
cooling sands
beside the sea
The shoreline cast with countless lore
a bounty
shared for free
An essence
smiled upon the wind
with pleasant times gone by
and spoke of treasured times he shared
as visions
blurred his eye
~
A tingle on his lonesome lips
a tear
mixed with a sigh
The cadence of a crashing wave
co-mingle
with a cry
The pangs of love grew stronger still
with every passing thought
They'd be together
soon
he promised
on a ship
that sails aloft
~
He slowly walked the tides of time
a cane gripped in his hand
The footprints ...
if you looked behind
showed more sets
in the sand
A loyal friend
stayed at his side
and ran
to fetch a stick
To fetch a smile from ones he loved
he'd do most any trick
~
At dawn's first light he met a boy
with fishing pole and bait
They reminisced
and spun some yarns
he talked about his fate
His heart was fading ...
borrowed time
he spoke of home with sacred grace
The boy had been there
many times
a gorgeous cliff above this place
~
His legs were failing
heart too frail
the boy packed up his gear
Arm in arm
they slowly climbed
a path to yesteryear
His little dog was first atop
a stick still clutched to play
The rising sun on golden dew
sent mist to greet the day
~
Near the edge
'neath shaded tree
they stopped to catch their breath
His finger traced its' trunk in trance
the boy and dog played fetch
The crash of surf
and seabird's song
were echoed through the years
The freshest air from heaven's sigh
inhaled ...
he shed his fears
~
A rolling mist rose up from sea
and hovered on the brink
A loving voice called out to him
... the boy knew not what to think ...
When fingers touched he stepped aboard
a ship of floating cloud
He turned and raised his hand
and smiled
"Please love our little dog"
~
The ship rose up on gentle breeze
they waved
it passed so frail
They'll be together always now
on a ship with heaven's sail
~
I was that boy so long ago
it seems like reverie
But if so ...
then where'd I get the dog
and whose initials are in this tree?
~~~
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 7:51 AM UTC
Allow me to project my insides
Beside your ear.
Certainly you can
Determine how the
Emptiness within my body
Forgoes the exuberance
Gathered on the surface.
Haphazardly phrased fragments
I speak
Just to be heard, even faintly.
Knowing my words
Level worlds,
Monopolize hearts,
Negate negativity,
Omitted from the explicit.
Perfectly formed fractures
Qualm me as they
Reverberate through my body
Slithering their way
Through Timothy's
Universe.
Viciously assaulting
Where they fit best.
Xenobiotic and almost parasitic
Yarns about a
Zealous life not yet lived
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 6:43 PM UTC
*embers drew to a shaded face, fragmented lips wept;
storms, feral and unabated, loitering in the combe of fires.
the ethereal visions of honey amber lights, faint and narrow;
ebony of my pupils dead, alike of shriveled meadow.
violence thrusted into yellow mouths of daffodils,
like tapestries like yarns of blue saccharine sorrows.
brimming with viscid liquids of blackeries and vains,
like silver mackerels, sleeping out of the abyss, on a train;
like subtle, maladroit shorthands and dewy black inks,
who lilts the fawnish plateaus and quaint alleys.
the depths of my shallow sleeps, glowing under
the burnt foliage, mellifluous sonatas gently play;
strawberries occur under bare walls of throat,
vanish on the morrow, like a dalliance—
so frantic and hollow.*
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 10:13 AM UTC