"yearling" poems
Lovers entered a forbidden forest bower,
And as they stalked that range, with eyes glazed,
She offered up her hind. Now, with doe eyes,
Deep as his, deep in arousal's sleep, heels fell,
As he knocked and pulled her dark honey hair
And whispered, surrender, into wanting ears,
Softly he drove his hunting command, homing
To his huntress.
Her body braced, yet bade, with heat and vibrance.
Ruthlessly, he ****** his arrow deeper and then
Once more and then again. She bucked fiercely
And defiant, goading his prodding lance ever more
Ever longer, and parting the pink lines of her white
Rose, he was, and once again, Prince to the dark
Dominion of her quarters.
In the middle of this carnal match they paused.
And looking into the forest beyond they saw
A yearling fawn, a feral Goddess, grazing still,
Bathing in a vale, virginal, wholly unmoved
By their act of venery, lustfully playing, in the innocent
Leaves. It was as if they were among her kin, a gentle
Doe and a noble stag. From that moment on
The human hunters did not speak.
Falling, again, rolling eyes were deep in arousal's sleep.
Her back was a crescent moon pocked and wet with dew.
He could feel her heart beating in time with his piercing
Prong, her arching back glistened in the suns spittle
As it broke through the dark and vernal ceiling wood.
In the final shot her quivering buck lowered and broke
And a sound not heard, made a scene, a sweet murmuring
Shuddered and sank onto the floor of the forest leaves
With her tale, taken and told, her breathless breath,
Her nostrils cold and her heated and lanced openings
Dripping, draining; here was a New World’s beginning.
Sated, solemn and softly quaking, his woman sweetly laid,
And now, doomed with her doe eyes, two lovers, fated, made;
She glowed, divine, like the rolling brook that mellowed
Slow, in the vine-dark and golden forest stable,
In Artemis’s wood.
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 1:33 PM UTC
.
Lovers entered a forbidden forest bower,
And as they stalked that range, with eyes glazed,
She offered up her hind. Now, with doe eyes,
Deep as his, deep in arousal's sleep, heels fell,
As he knocked and pulled her dark honey hair
And whispered, surrender, into wanting ears,
Softly he drove his hunting command, homing
To his huntress.
Her body braced, yet bade, with heat and vibrance.
Ruthlessly, he ****** his arrow deeper and then
Once more and then again. She bucked fiercely
And defiant, goading his prodding lance ever more
Ever longer, and parting the pink lines of her white
Rose, he was, and once again, Prince to the dark
Dominion of her quarters.
In the middle of this carnal match they paused.
And looking into the forest beyond they saw
A yearling fawn, a feral Goddess, grazing still,
Bathing in a vale, virginal, wholly unmoved
By their act of venery, lustfully playing, in the innocent
Leaves. It was as if they were among her kin, a gentle
Doe and a noble stag. From that moment on
The human hunters did not speak.
Falling, again, rolling eyes were deep in arousal's sleep.
Her back was a crescent moon pocked and wet with dew.
He could feel her heart beating in time with his piercing
Prong, her arching back glistened in the suns spittle
As it broke through the dark and vernal ceiling wood.
In the final shot her quivering buck lowered and broke
And a sound not heard, made a scene, a sweet murmuring
Shuddered and sank onto the floor of the forest leaves
With her tale, taken and told, her breathless breath,
Her nostrils cold and her heated and lanced openings
Dripping, draining; here was a New World’s beginning.
Sated, solemn and softly quaking, his woman sweetly laid,
And now, doomed with her doe eyes, two lovers, fated, made;
She glowed, divine, like the rolling brook that mellowed
Slow, in the vine-dark and golden forest stable,
In Artemis’s wood.
.
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 2:50 PM UTC
CRIMSON
Colors explode
As the sumac stands sentinel over the ebbing rays of the sun
Shepherding away Niibin to make room for Dagwaagin
Standing, alone, in a sea of green
Sumac heralds the changing season
And like an artistic wild fire
Is the first in what will become a palette of chromatic vibrancy
Sensing the subtle change
Mother deer, her two fawns and yearling
Meandering through the sumac grove
Make haste of the fading green buffet
Mother Bear and her cubs, now a year stronger and wiser
Gorge on honey and berries as they ready for their winter's sleep
Red-Winged Blackbirds, Robins and Sandhill Cranes congregate en masse
Hummingbird drinks the final drops of nectar
In anticipation of their journey south
In advance...of the returning white Biboon blanket
The clock of Mother Earth is precise
And the natural world follows her timely rhythms
As southerly and westerly winds shift to the north
Eagle soars high above...the yet unfrozen river
Vivid foliage slowly falls to the forest floor
Creating an intricate insulating tapestry for those below
In the meadow, swaying in the wind, stands a solitary Daisy
It's single yellow petal defying the departure of longer days
Harvest moon shimmers through bare branches
Dancing, tapping in rhythmic fashion, upon a quiet window
Stirring Misigami from her reverie
Outside her window, a lone black figure, a Lobo, like her
Acknowledges her presence, blurring the lines of consciousness
Signifying that dreams do come true
And that through the change of seasons
We grow
We become stronger
Wiser
And are given the true gift...of forever being...
...Hopeful
(c) 2013 Shawn White Eagle
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 6:31 PM UTC
In the face of persecution, one can drift away into dreamy fabrications of swishing and gorgeous hairstyles – jealous of the seagull as it dismounts the lofty perch of the streetlight and gracefully swoops away into the distance.
The moment of self-loathing and raging sabotage is nothing more than a serial false loyalty.
I validate your alphabet where there is simplicity within the intricate complexities, and where the yearling suckles the lactations of its mother.
Trauma has pre-natal connections where silent screams ripple throughout eternity. Therefore, calmly observe the stiff upper lip of deluded professionalism, and describe the realistic mirage before you. Participation in laughter is not always rooted in sincerity.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 10:40 PM UTC
the yearling roasted on the spit
its drippings crackled the fire
huddled in a smoky closed space
family with a neighbour, or two
bags packed, shoes on, ready to go
the meat carefully carved
its skeleton intact, unbroken
with endives rolled in flatbread
unleavened as we had no time
meal's remains destroyed in the fire
we're ready to leave at any moment
from where we're born and always lived
to a place known only from ancient tales
outside, shrieks and wails, of horror and utter terror
inside, goosebumped, hair standing, we waited, in silence
Mar 21, 2021
Mar 21, 2021 at 9:02 AM UTC
Drinking dandelion-and-burdock
til you drop
fighting over the does
punting your second burrow
over the first swallow
the first frost
Playing reynard-roulette
with the yearling foxes
out all night
winding up the hares
“big ears – can't dig”
Countless children
A sweetheart in every meadow
Old rabbits die hard
Feb 12, 2011
Feb 12, 2011 at 12:05 PM UTC
Lovers entered a forbidden forest bower,
And as they stalked that range, with eyes glazed,
She offered up her hind. Now, with doe eyes,
Deep as his, deep in arousal's sleep, heels fell,
As he knocked and pulled her dark honey hair
And whispered, surrender, into wanting ears,
Softly he drove his hunting command, homing
To his huntress.
Her body braced, yet bade, with heat and vibrance.
Ruthlessly, he ****** his arrow deeper and then
Once more and then again. She bucked fiercely
And defiant, goading his prodding lance ever more
Ever longer, and parting the pink lines of her white
Rose, he was, and once again, Prince to the dark
Dominion of her quarters.
In the middle of this carnal match they paused.
And looking into the forest beyond they saw
A yearling fawn, a feral Goddess, grazing still,
Bathing in a vale, virginal, wholly unmoved
By their act of venery, lustfully playing, in the innocent
Leaves. It was as if they were among her kin, a gentle
Doe and a noble stag. From that moment on
The human hunters did not speak.
Falling, again, rolling eyes were deep in arousal's sleep.
Her back was a crescent moon pocked and wet with dew.
He could feel her heart beating in time with his piercing
Prong, her arching back glistened in the suns spittle
As it broke through the dark and vernal ceiling wood.
In the final shot her quivering buck lowered and broke
And a sound not heard, made a scene, a sweet murmuring
Shuddered and sank onto the floor of the forest leaves
With her tale, taken and told, her breathless breath,
Her nostrils cold and her heated and lanced openings
Dripping, draining; here was a New World’s beginning.
Sated, solemn and softly quaking, his woman sweetly laid,
And now, doomed with her doe eyes, two lovers, fated, made;
She glowed, divine, like the rolling brook that mellowed
Slow, in the vine-dark and golden forest stable,
In Artemis’s wood.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 12:46 PM UTC
*Like a pin on a spike
the dim light creaks dull bright
and fungus glums in the 'tween
as it might... and a yearling takes a day
to bring about the long, wrong night
as amber drools
from the lungs
of a stunted
kite,
the
wind is an idiot
pruning the sun
from a
suspect
sky.
how we talk in the interim
is nuts, but the lust
excels.
it grooms the pollution, and yes
it threatens the fresh blood
of our last regrets.
but... yes
fathom the windmills
of our mangoes
as a fruit -
Less.
some other joy that -
has a boy gone
more less
than
kept.
and
crease the wrinkle
in your starlight
to moon
if not to
breath*
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 2:51 AM UTC
"The wolf will live with the lamb,
the leopard will lie down with the goat,
the calf and the lion and the yearling a together;
and a little child will lead them."
~Isaiah 11:6 NIV
Black Heart,
Shining in the darkness.
Blackheart?
Black Heart.
Black Heart of Innocence.
The wolf stalks her prey,
Slowly walking,
Slowly slaking,
Careful,
Patient,
Silent,
Beautiful,
Closing in,
Almost,
Almost,
Pounce.
Down in comes.
Black Heart.
The mouse trembles,
Staying still,
Invisible.
Don’t see me,
Walk on by.
It’s slowing,
The mouse tenses.
It turns,
Run!
Black Heart.
Little child sits,
Crayon in hand,
Paper before him.
He pauses,
Thinking,
Picturing,
Imagining,
He smiles,
He begins.
Crayon on paper,
Bright colours,
Swirling,
Red,
Yellow,
Blue,
Black.
He draws the truth,
Truer than what he sees with his eyes.
The world within.
Black Heart.
Nimue stands,
Watching over them all.
She smiles,
They are hers,
Her people,
Her children.
Their innocence in hers,
Death and life,
Imagination.
Black Heart.
Black Heart,
Shining in the darkness.
Blackheart?
Black Heart.
Black Heart of Innocence.
May 28, 2011
May 28, 2011 at 10:59 PM UTC
.
Lovers entered a forbidden forest bower,
And as they stalked that range, with eyes glazed,
She offered up her hind. Now, with doe eyes,
Deep as his, deep in arousal's sleep, heels fell,
As he knocked and pulled her dark honey hair
And whispered, surrender, into wanting ears,
Softly he drove his hunting command, homing
To his huntress.
Her body braced, yet bade, with heat and vibrance.
Ruthlessly, he ****** his arrow deeper and then
Once more and then again. She bucked fiercely
And defiant, goading his prodding lance ever more
Ever longer, and parting the pink lines of her white
Rose, he was, and once again, Prince to the dark
Dominion of her quarters.
In the middle of this carnal match they paused.
And looking into the forest beyond they saw
A yearling fawn, a feral Goddess, grazing still,
Bathing in a vale, virginal, wholly unmoved
By their act of venery, lustfully playing, in the innocent
Leaves. It was as if they were among her kin, a gentle
Doe and a noble stag. From that moment on
The human hunters did not speak.
Falling, again, rolling eyes were deep in arousal's sleep.
Her back was a crescent moon pocked and wet with dew.
He could feel her heart beating in time with his piercing
Prong, her arching back glistened in the suns spittle
As it broke through the dark and vernal ceiling wood.
In the final shot her quivering buck lowered and broke
And a sound not heard, made a scene, a sweet murmuring
Shuddered and sank onto the floor of the forest leaves
With her tale, taken and told, her breathless breath,
Her nostrils cold and her heated and lanced openings
Dripping, draining; here was a New World’s beginning.
Sated, solemn and softly quaking, his woman sweetly laid,
And now, doomed with her doe eyes, two lovers, fated, made;
She glowed, divine, like the rolling brook that mellowed
Slow, in the vine-dark and golden forest stable,
In Artemis’s wood.
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 7:25 PM UTC
ashen wasteland
healed by dew
pulses, trembles
birthed anew
Mother beating
midnight drum
lily, crocus
cherry, plum
yearling stumble
hatchling drop
grizzly bumble
salmon flop
coyote howl
jackal bay
gleamy-eyed
they stalk their prey
brutal jaws
on tawny throat
****** tears
in tawny coat
feign o possum
flee o hare
saffron, saltbush
tulip, tare
Mother sows,
human reaps,
forward still
the forest creeps
hack and slash
slash and burn
maple, mayfly
buckthorn, fern
chipmunk gather
raccoon store
silence on
the barren moor
groundhog slumber
grizzly snore
knocking on
the Old Man's door
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 8:16 PM UTC
Who said cemeteries are for the dead?
For those who celebrate such silence
A commotion’s something too.
Crow about the stones, smeared by sun
All gawking formal and sharply dressed, rung
A black congregation that drilled and sermoned
My ears down to coffin nails beneath
My feet, a voice that hung the wanting
Waves.
And over head I saw the braised yearling
Eagle bobbing past the undivided sun,
Who tottled about the sky in circles out
Of center, a wearing down of gear
Churning with the grave
Bruising birds, that spoke
And wheeled over dusty
Stones.
Sea spray, leaning trees, slant
Of cloud, spilt green grass of one
Sided mosses all pointing which was to be —
The way,
And leaving there, I saw the sign and it read:
‘Ocean View Cemetery,’
Opens at sunrise —
Closes at sunset.
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 12:54 PM UTC
i
this parody of life beyond
a roaring loom of time
like an embrace
momentous
through the battled equinox of chance
the stirrings and strivings
born of earth and sky
toil, whine, whimper, moan
wait and tremble, hope and pray
then
the clear shining after rain
we sail the lifetide
on leaky bottoms
never to sight dry land again
ii
behind
the shards and wrecks
of innocent vagaries
of wayward plunges
that flee the point
beside
unobserved but observing
a sentient mould of slime
raddled
at break-neck hurry
before
is wrinkled wisdom
mellow laughter
a hand-made unborn
of a callow womb
hereafter is ever
now is gone by
past is prelude
iii
snowwhite or pitchblack
lowly or lofty
free-born or fettered
yearling or aging
worms shall feast
upon thy flesh
to elements irreducible
and in thy nakedness
come face to face
with thy maker
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 11:24 PM UTC
Lovers entered a forbidden forest bower,
And as they stalked that range, with eyes glazed,
She offered up her hind. Now, with doe eyes,
Deep as his, deep in arousal's sleep, heels fell,
As he knocked and pulled her dark honey hair
And whispered, surrender, into wanting ears,
Softly he drove his hunting command, homing
To his huntress.
Her body braced, yet bade, with heat and vibrance.
Ruthlessly, he ****** his arrow deeper and then
Once more and then again. She bucked fiercely
And defiant, goading his prodding lance ever more
Ever longer, and parting the pink lines of her white
Rose, he was, and once again, Prince to the dark
Dominion of her quarters.
In the middle of this carnal match they paused.
And looking into the forest beyond they saw
A yearling fawn, a feral Goddess, grazing still,
Bathing in a vale, virginal, wholly unmoved
By their act of venery, lustfully playing, in the innocent
Leaves. It was as if they were among her kin, a gentle
Doe and a noble stag. From that moment on
The human hunters did not speak.
Falling, again, rolling eyes were deep in arousal's sleep.
Her back was a crescent moon pocked and wet with dew.
He could feel her heart beating in time with his piercing
Prong, her arching back glistened in the suns spittle
As it broke through the dark and vernal ceiling wood.
In the final shot her quivering buck lowered and broke
And a sound not heard, made a scene, a sweet murmuring
Shuddered and sank onto the floor of the forest leaves
With her tale, taken and told, her breathless breath,
Her nostrils cold and her heated and lanced openings
Dripping, draining; here was a New World’s beginning.
Sated, solemn and softly quaking, his woman sweetly laid,
And now, doomed with her doe eyes, two lovers, fated, made;
She glowed, divine, like the rolling brook that mellowed
Slow, in the vine-dark and golden forest stable,
In Artemis’s wood.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 1:26 PM UTC
Who said cemeteries are for the dead?
For those who celebrate such silence
A commotion’s something too.
Crow about the stones, smeared by sun
All gawking formal and sharply dressed, rung
A black congregation that drilled and sermoned
My ears down to coffin nails beneath
My feet, a voice that hung the wanting
Waves.
And over head I saw the braised yearling
Eagle bobbing past the undivided sun,
Who tottled about the sky in circles out
Of center, a wearing down of gear
Churning with the grave
Bruising birds, that spoke
And wheeled over dusty
Stones.
Sea spray, leaning trees, slant
Of cloud, spilt green grass of one
Sided mosses all pointing which was to be —
The way,
And leaving there, I saw the sign and it read:
‘Ocean View Cemetery,’
Opens at sunrise —
Closes at sunset.
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 1:14 PM UTC
Who said cemeteries are for the dead?
For those who celebrate such silence
A commotion’s something too.
Crow about the stones, smeared by sun
All gawking formal and sharply dressed, rung
A black congregation that drilled and sermoned
My ears down to coffin nails beneath
My feet, a voice that hung the wanting
Waves.
And over head I saw the braised yearling
Eagle bobbing past the undivided sun,
Who tottled about the sky in circles out
Of center, a wearing down of gear
Churning with the grave
Bruising birds, that spoke
And wheeled over dusty
Stones.
Sea spray, leaning trees, slant
Of cloud, spilt green grass of one
Sided mosses all pointing which was to be —
The way,
And leaving there, I saw the sign and it read:
‘Ocean View Cemetery,’
Opens at sunrise —
Closes at sunset.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 1:17 PM UTC
Lovers entered a forbidden forest bower,
And as they stalked that range, with eyes glazed,
She offered up her hind. Now, with doe eyes,
Deep as his, deep in arousal's sleep, heels fell,
As he knocked and pulled her dark honey hair
And whispered, surrender, into wanting ears,
Softly he drove his hunting command, homing
To his huntress.
Her body braced, yet bade, with heat and vibrance.
Ruthlessly, he ****** his arrow deeper and then
Once more and then again. She bucked fiercely
And defiant, goading his prodding lance ever more
Ever longer, and parting the pink lines of her white
Rose, he was, and once again, Prince to the dark
Dominion of her quarters.
In the middle of this carnal match they paused.
And looking into the forest beyond they saw
A yearling fawn, a feral Goddess, grazing still,
Bathing in a vale, virginal, wholly unmoved
By their act of venery, lustfully playing, in the innocent
Leaves. It was as if they were among her kin, a gentle
Doe and a noble stag. From that moment on
The human hunters did not speak.
Falling, again, rolling eyes were deep in arousal's sleep.
Her back was a crescent moon pocked and wet with dew.
He could feel her heart beating in time with his piercing
Prong, her arching back glistened in the suns spittle
As it broke through the dark and vernal ceiling wood.
In the final shot her quivering buck lowered and broke
And a sound not heard, made a scene, a sweet murmuring
Shuddered and sank onto the floor of the forest leaves
With her tale, taken and told, her breathless breath,
Her nostrils cold and her heated and lanced openings
Dripping, draining; here was a New World’s beginning.
Sated, solemn and softly quaking, his woman sweetly laid,
And now, doomed with her doe eyes, two lovers, fated, made;
She glowed, divine, like the rolling brook that mellowed
Slow, in the vine-dark and golden forest stable,
In Artemis’s wood.
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 2:53 AM UTC
Lovers entered a forbidden forest bower,
And as they stalked that range, with eyes glazed,
She offered up her hind. Now, with doe eyes,
Deep as his, deep in arousal's sleep, heels fell,
As he knocked and pulled her dark honey hair
And whispered, surrender, into wanting ears,
Softly he drove his hunting command, homing
To his huntress.
Her body braced, yet bade, with heat and vibrance.
Ruthlessly, he ****** his arrow deeper and then
Once more and then again. She bucked fiercely
And defiant, goading his prodding lance ever more
Ever longer, and parting the pink lines of her white
Rose, he was, and once again, Prince to the dark
Dominion of her quarters.
In the middle of this carnal match they paused.
And looking into the forest beyond they saw
A yearling fawn, a feral Goddess, grazing still,
Bathing in a vale, virginal, wholly unmoved
By their act of venery, lustfully playing, in the innocent
Leaves. It was as if they were among her kin, a gentle
Doe and a noble stag. From that moment on
The human hunters did not speak.
Falling, again, rolling eyes were deep in arousal's sleep.
Her back was a crescent moon pocked and wet with dew.
He could feel her heart beating in time with his piercing
Prong, her arching back glistened in the suns spittle
As it broke through the dark and vernal ceiling wood.
In the final shot her quivering buck lowered and broke
And a sound not heard, made a scene, a sweet murmuring
Shuddered and sank onto the floor of the forest leaves
With her tale, taken and told, her breathless breath,
Her nostrils cold and her heated and lanced openings
Dripping, draining; here was a New World’s beginning.
Sated, solemn and softly quaking, his woman sweetly laid,
And now, doomed with her doe eyes, two lovers, fated, made;
She glowed, divine, like the rolling brook that mellowed
Slow, in the vine-dark and golden forest stable,
In Artemis’s wood.
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 1:20 PM UTC
All yearling spring birds far from distant home,
Xanthic in Gothic gospels soot and yolk,
Where's one's soft spoken voice to calm me on the phone?
Formidable pulses,
The danger of convulsion's spread on like buttered oil!!!
Enormity soil's the defendant delirium...
Such agnostic aquariums stinkingly similar upstate!
Broken lives to sunset drive,
Specimen speckles,
Forcible tassels hover one's decree!!
Litigious locust's buzz creepingly,
Indecently exposing all's funk!!!
Concauctions of fake adoption's,
Concievers break locks off trunks!!!
Omit me out of this obdurate oasis,
Wherein one feel's spacious,
Free to cometh and goeth!!!
Freedom doth thou know?
Operatic Mrs and Mr's,
Minuets for thy ridiculed wishes!!
Ponderer of newness,
Cleaner's as thy tub spills over,
Thy heels click together just to get thy kicks!!!
Hit the streets thou feathered bird of no beak,
Thou tally marker of no means!!!
Foreman to thy own people's idea's,
Nourish me with a new novice,
Nurture me with heartbrake hotel,
Buildeth me a standing ovation of a one love palace!!!
Brave heart fairytale,
Doth thou stand to move about?
Listener of radio tunes,
Art thou close??
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 8:50 AM UTC
Who said cemeteries are for the dead?
For those who celebrate such silence
A commotion’s something too.
Crow about the stones, smeared by sun
All gawking formal and sharply dressed, rung
A black congregation that drilled and sermoned
My ears down to coffin nails beneath
My feet, a voice that hung the wanting
Waves.
And over head I saw the braised yearling
Eagle bobbing past the undivided sun,
Who tottled about the sky in circles out
Of center, a wearing down of gear
Churning with the grave
Bruising birds, that spoke
And wheeled over dusty
Stones.
Sea spray, leaning trees, slant
Of cloud, spilt green grass of one
Sided mosses all pointing which was to be —
The way,
And leaving there, I saw the sign and it read:
‘Ocean View Cemetery,’
Opens at sunrise —
Closes at sunset.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 12:50 PM UTC
Lovers entered a forbidden forest bower,
And as they stalked that range, with eyes glazed,
She offered up her hind. Now, with doe eyes,
Deep as his, deep in arousal's sleep, heels fell,
As he knocked and pulled her dark honey hair
And whispered, surrender, into wanting ears,
Softly he drove his hunting command, homing
To his huntress.
Her body braced, yet bade, with heat and vibrance.
Ruthlessly, he ****** his arrow deeper and then
Once more and then again. She bucked fiercely
And defiant, goading his prodding lance ever more
Ever longer, and parting the pink lines of her white
Rose, he was, and once again, Prince to the dark
Dominion of her quarters.
In the middle of this carnal match they paused.
And looking into the forest beyond they saw
A yearling fawn, a feral Goddess, grazing still,
Bathing in a vale, virginal, wholly unmoved
By their act of venery, lustfully playing, in the innocent
Leaves. It was as if they were among her kin, a gentle
Doe and a noble stag. From that moment on
The human hunters did not speak.
Falling, again, rolling eyes were deep in arousal's sleep.
Her back was a crescent moon pocked and wet with dew.
He could feel her heart beating in time with his piercing
Prong, her arching back glistened in the suns spittle
As it broke through the dark and vernal ceiling wood.
In the final shot her quivering buck lowered and broke
And a sound not heard, made a scene, a sweet murmuring
Shuddered and sank onto the floor of the forest leaves
With her tale, taken and told, her breathless breath,
Her nostrils cold and her heated and lanced openings
Dripping, draining; here was a New World’s beginning.
Sated, solemn and softly quaking, his woman sweetly laid,
And now, doomed with her doe eyes, two lovers, fated, made;
She glowed, divine, like the rolling brook that mellowed
Slow, in the vine-dark and golden forest stable,
In Artemis’s wood.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 5:36 PM UTC
You are the poem that lives on
in all the bright white spaces of me;
the sparkle of snowstorms
in the first flakes drifting
the bleat of a yearling;
the first steps it takes
flowers in moonlight
clouds in the rain
a path to the forest
a mountain bell's clang
calling me home
petal scents on the breeze
white sails on oceans
and softer than these;
faint words on old paper
a gleam in an eye
a jet's silver message
scrawled on the sky;
for you are that radiance
gives me back to me.
Sep 19, 2010
Sep 19, 2010 at 7:14 AM UTC
Who said cemeteries are for the dead?
For those who celebrate such silence
A commotion’s something too.
Crow about the stones, smeared by sun
All gawking formal and sharply dressed, rung
A black congregation that drilled and sermoned
My ears down to coffin nails beneath
My feet, a voice that hung the wanting
Waves.
And over head I saw the braised yearling
Eagle bobbing past the undivided sun,
Who tottled about the sky in circles out
Of center, a wearing down of gear
Churning with the grave
Bruising birds, that spoke
And wheeled over dusty
Stones.
Sea spray, leaning trees, slant
Of cloud, spilt green grass of one
Sided mosses all pointing which was to be —
The way,
And leaving there, I saw the sign and it read:
‘Ocean View Cemetery,’
Opens at sunrise —
Closes at sunset.
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 11:26 AM UTC
Downy in a bed of cotton clouds—
Faraway under seas of coral and wave,
The maritimes of fair and lonely currents
Cast us away and dropped our weary souls
On a lost strand of some great ocean landing,
Circe appeared, was knowing, to greet us as we
Woke, led us to a citadel island above of the sky,
We dranked of thirst, her fey sweet potions in haste,
Made our way in flight to kiss misadventures escape
And mired in woods fell once again, innocent before
The dawning break of a greenly seeded eternal day,
Blue eyes born, became, in the spotted branches,
Freckled arms and barks of ever reaching hair
Praised in silence and timely mystic wanes
Quivered in peace like a yearling doe
As never leaves were blanketing
And the moon sang with toe,
Our eyes sank lowly, softly,
Only to spark upon tides
Of the glittering pools
With starry eyes
Glowing new
In lovelight
Of dear
Sun.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 2:34 PM UTC
This poem is dedicated to Steve Yocum,
author, poet, and soldier
farmer, father, grandfather,
man exemplar,
whom I honor
and honors me,
with the noblest title in all humankind,
friend.
But above all,
I honor him most,
as a tireless, truthful, harpooner
of the examined and the unexamined life
~~~
*"Be the harpooners of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody, comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders into
crinkly eye-lined smilers."*
~~~
these mine words writ many years past,
dusted off phrasings,
on dusty shelf long lain,
mined from notes,
decades steadily collected by steadily diminishing ears and eyes,
gathered most from self-taught lectures
and self-deceiving dances,
garbed and wearily grabbed
by the addict-strong
observational need,
persistent and perpetual,
to pay off fresh debits,
renewables owed
to the lovely,
to the loopy,
inhabitants who excite and inspire
my so far, rebirthing, youthful,
yearling heart
who provide the special crazy that
justifies existence
just men,
connected by a bond of sonship,
kinship crowning kingship,
blood types as different as an
A is to B
both shall weep in one blood,
I, as I do now,
while midst the nascent commencement of this sonnet,
He, at its commencement,
for a good friendship has no
beginning or end,
but is a circular track,
a loop,
familial by repeated runnings,
yet never, coursed in the exact
same manner or speed
this thought,
this knowledge,
bring a smile to this crinkly eyed composer,
that the metaphysical
will always surpass the binding physics of mortal physical,
that two man,
who have
never met,
race side by side,
not in competition,
but in the mutuality of composition,
each a candle holder,
both writers,
observing the dark illusions,
re-making each into a carrier,
a shedder of light,
each a debt giver and a
debt holder to each other,
hosts to all the loopy,
comfort caressers,
to each other
and to all
who too,
are light-bathed by being in possession
of the title
friend
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 3:39 PM UTC