"younglings" poems
From whips and chains
To whips and chains,
Earned by pigmentation.
Suffered through tribulation
Caused by the need for **********
Lead to the names of elders confusion
The game of deception
Lead to liberation.
A work for works sake,
Where all currency we make
Is born for the government to take.
A cycle of earnings and yearnings
Where earnings go to learnings,
And learnings go to younglings,
Younglings go to work,
And from work they live to buy things
And from these things come the taxings
Of all things to come.
With housing comes heating where water is needed.
These things to provide for the one to be marrying,
And a child she may be carrying which leads to more taxing,
And when this child grows and they don't need your waxing
So begins your pension and time for relaxing.
Living without fear of receiving the axing,
And your wrinkles now potent define all your moods
You may wish you had done what little other men could,
Stand tall where some other pioneer may have once stood,
But instead around the stump no room for a branch,
Locked in by the cycle
Left to pedal with no brakes.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 5:35 AM UTC
At preschool last morning, when first class began
Our teacher Miss Fortune, has entered the den
And promptly asked us, the pure younglings
To write on the devil that make us do things
So teacher sat down, and we tykes got engaged
And committedly filled page after page
As we took up an oath, us the urchin, the youth
To speak the whole truth, and nothing but truth
So first rose the young boy Timothy Veet
And confessed all the text that he etched on the sheet
How last week he attended the birthday of Sheila
And got high on some hemp, and two shots of tequila
As he sat, quickly stood his companion wee Tom
And he told how he broke to the principal’s home
Where he gingerly snatched, like a cat burglar
A computer, some cash, and antique silverware
But who took the whole cake, was shy Rosaline
As she stood up and gestured to Billy, her kin
And with timid resolve, and an ear-to-ear grin
Said: “He is the devil that makes me do things…”
Miss Fortune, chalk white, and clearly distressed
Was rushed on a gurney, to the ER no less
Our innocence wither, like a flower well hidden
So why keep insisting on calling us children
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 4:36 PM UTC
So what I drink all my calories
I'm sane and you're not, bruh
It's never enough even to wear
what you're wearing and talk
like you talk, do you even care?
Killing myself keeping things legit in your sphere
Black sheep combine forces to feel
wanted, keeping your company
I feel blocked when you're nodding.
Yes, I'm acting just like you want me,
bruh, I'm coming up short to your haughti
ness, blessed with a sense of self
stopping just short of your level and
what the hell, what I am doing here
fighting for otherness, concerned
with the purity of water of my brothers
and my sisters of the covenant
You talk about faith when it comes
to prey that you're stalking, keep
it strong, yolo, fleek, and a hashtag
To be honest I'm scared that my hometown
will be infested with those the internet
claimed and ingest, swallowed with
speed of light, people spit out as pesticide
turning the verdant green such a ****** brown
Yes you're so on top and classy, lacking
purposely the tenets that turn a body fancy
Cool *** beard bro, girl that's a freak ***
hairdo, up in the midst short sides a pool cue
locked in your hands up inside a ******* dive bar,
midnight drive holding a pipe 'hind your
headlights, Yes you're mixing with the best
making them arrogant, such a lens to view
the struggles they been through, Weird queer
younglings in their late twenties and homeless
at some point, only the noise of the sirens
and blue lit bathrooms, keeper of the needle
rights, and happiness,5-0 lights blasting on naito, picking
on the kids white/brown outside washing
the day away with the kiss of the pabst
taking a nap on the grass on the waterfront
blessed with lives with beards and queers
passing by as they want one.
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 3:21 AM UTC
Looking out, I hear the croaky calls
Of husky-throated birds and the
Frothy licking of sea tongues.
Purplish azure spreading widely,
Timelessly, when once my Father told me
The beauty was infinite and he smiled at the pair of
Big bright brown eyes
Glowing up at him in belief and awe,
Believing the secrets of the sea
All the wonderful things he told me.
Holding my hand, imprinting the sand
With our shallow foot prints: big and small
My chubby hand in his, the other
Collecting the glossy, opaque nails of sea dragons.
Sometimes we found sharp, dull-colored ones
And these were the faded scales of their leathery tough
Skin. Craggy black wings folded jaggedly-
Mountains, the ignorant people called them
Only we knew underneath those folded wings
Lay a sleeping, ancient dragon with its
Golden eyes watching out for its children,
The White Sea dragons that ran along the edges of the waves.
Speeding on rapidly, diving under
Out swimming the run of short brown legs
Decisively deaf to a child’s sunny yells.
When the sky was littered with stars
Before I began dreaming I could hear
The rush of wind as the dragons unfolded
Their restless wings, the gentle splashing
As their children twisted in and out of the water
And what Daddy said, Sweet Dreams,
Arrived shortly thereafter.
Yet today I search vainly for their younglings
Gone in sunlight, in the midst of red foreigners
Coming out of hiding after dragon-hot sunsets and
Only behind closed eyes.
The spikes on their powerful wings
Have melded into dark shadows of trees
The jar of multi-colored sea glass remains
By my bed, reminding me of how when Daddy’s eyes
Could no longer burn bright with belief
In such magic, he placed the spark in new eyes
That were identical to his:
In both shape and color.
Sep 21, 2010
Sep 21, 2010 at 11:17 PM UTC
He gazes at the moon as its rays illuminate the glistening leaves
the caliginous night hiding the creatures of the forest
life clandestinely creeping in the shadows
eternally alone but never lonely
As he treads along the paths and leaves, wildlife trails behind him
birds circle him, and insects creep along his limbs
foliage parts for him, and vines reach for his love
The lucid forest speaks to him
guides him, treasures him
he who nurtures its essence
like a small sapling sprouting out of the soil
gently singing the sacred aria of the weald
calmly providing energy for these younglings
stretching ever higher, searching for the sun
they rise, rise up faster with his spirit,
ever growing into the sky the high branches spread
the cloudburst continues, quenching the lifeforce of thirst
new life emerges, unforeseen possibilities
the druid of the forest
the shaman of the earth
the balm of life
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 10:41 PM UTC
No younglings here now . . .
Only birds that come and go,
. . . Swing under old tree.
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
The yards are empty.
only dirt and other detritus
clutter the mid-morning landscape.
There are no children
outside laughing and playing
running red rover over
the black tops on Saturday morning.
There are no parents smiling,
leaning on the old siding,
while the funny false teeth
wearing grandfather
tells stories to the younglings
about the old days.
Silence is the norm.
The fish fries, family reunions,
fairs, carnivals, and circuses
no longer make this circuit.
The gas station, and grocer’s
are boarded up
leaving only a lonely trail of
house after house
sprouting weeds and vacancy signs.
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 12:21 PM UTC
almost like a ruler, these help make
this one big thing, a –––––
these rulers have no marks from men
but only ones from He
little younglings coalesce in these
rulers which forms a ––––––
as the day leaves; season changes
the colors part from thee
and when all gone another thing
coats the beautiful –––––
stuff like sugar and almost as
plentiful as the sea
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 10:40 PM UTC
I am an aristocrat.
The kind that molds and seams sentences,
one word upon another as if they were ancient incantations
taught to the younglings of Native American tribes. Generations upon generations.
I’m well spoken.
Can’t you tell? The way I’ve found that happy medium between the whimper and the whine?
I won’t be a bother. No, no, if you want me to kneel for you, I’m the frayed ends of your welcome rug. Sing you a song?
I am your mobile radio.
Tap my dials, I’ll make you squeal
with delight in the evening light.
Tip, turn
She was an American girl.
You yell, you scream.
I’m a sweet talker.
I’ll make you slit your eyes with pretend apprehension and the slightest, least perceptible grin I’ve ever witnessed performed by a member of humankind.
Oh, you know I’m never lonely.
Never have I spent minutes in the corner
scrounging for the few innocent nickels I’ve left to
maneuver claws and
obtain my purity.
No, my pockets are full.
Full of falling stars.
And not even just my front ones. I’ve got so many that it’s starting to affect my strut so people notice and congratulate me on my confident and masculine demeanor.
I was told to save them for a rainy day.
But I’m rain repellant.
That billowing storm wouldn’t dare approach me.
There is a drought,
and it’s deliberate.
Here, have a few of my stars.
I’m a real winner, and I’m living it large.
Touch me, I’m golden.
I am a fighter.
I am a winner.
So long, reflection, I’m off to woo the world.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 1:58 AM UTC
Out in the streets
The machine guns rattle
And the mortats explode
Like som sick conductos
Idea of a drumline.
Rattattat Boom Rattattat
The young rebels play
With their fireworks
While I drink my wine
In the safety of
The corner cafe.
Tonight,
I thought about you
My dear old enemy
And of how long its been
Since we were ther at the
Starting line of this war
That still limps toward the finish.
And already we have left
Our mark upon each other.
You have your scars,
And I have mine.
We've both grown old
From waging our battles.
Yet we still fight on,
And that's what's amazing.
Neither of us has given up
And I respect you for it.
My rival, to you I say.
You are my brother.
You understand the pain
Of the wounds I've felt.
You understand the goal
I strive so hard to reach.
We are brothers by
The blood we spilt
From one another.
I sit in this cafe
Sipping wine with pastries
Lettling the younglings play
Their most dangerous games,
And I raise my cup
To you my brother enemy.
Though one of us must fall,
I hope we'll get along
In our many lives to come.
I pray for you brother
Who follows the same goddess.
The waiter arrives
With the check in hand.
I look it over
And tell her it's wrong.
"Can't you see
I was eating
With my frined?
This should read two
Not just one."
She looks me over
And bids me farewell.
"Be careful now,
There's blood out there."
I assure her that
I know well of this.
Sep 20, 2010
Sep 20, 2010 at 12:51 PM UTC
Younglings spent all night,
Snuggled in leaves over trees,
Moony mourning doves.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 3:35 PM UTC
So, love began as it had— always been,
Stars exploding beyond the rays of gold,
Younglings new, born of bode and wonder,
The dearest waves, lept on forgotten time,
Among the furrowed hope of fields we grew,
Days sprung from long vines, handy grapes
Croft with sparkle in the bloomy meadows,
Hands knotted with clear, open eyes and all
The afternoons of spring rejoining, pebbles,
Divining from the told tale of forks in the hills
And reaching to loamy shores of lost ponds
For now, to be on at last warmly and grassy,
Dials of sun and summer cleansing showers
Under the peaceful wake, the never sleeping
Pines, yes and then we were highly held aloft
In the loom and yarns of green steps, storied
By forest upon shires, sandy uncovered eyes,
Happily, lost in the woods of lamb white days.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 7:23 PM UTC
*Breaths travel so near
Lovers yearn for each in spring
Whispers into air*
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 5:45 PM UTC
.
So, love began as it had— always been,
Stars exploding beyond the rays of gold,
Younglings new, born of bode and wonder,
The dearest waves, lept on forgotten time,
Among the furrowed hope of fields we grew,
Days sprung from long vines, handy grapes
Croft with sparkle in the bloomy meadows,
Hands knotted with clear, open eyes and all
The afternoons of spring rejoining, pebbles,
Divining from the told tale of forks in the hills
And reaching to loamy shores of lost ponds
For now, to be on at last warmly and grassy,
Dials of sun and summer cleansing showers
Under the peaceful wake, the never sleeping
Pines, yes and then we were highly held aloft
In the loom and yarns of green steps, storied
By forest upon shires, sandy uncovered eyes,
Happily, lost in the woods of lamb white days.
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 10:06 PM UTC
.
So, love began as it had— always been,
Stars exploding beyond the rays of gold,
Younglings new, born of bode and wonder,
The dearest waves, lept on forgotten time,
Among the furrowed hope of fields we grew,
Days sprung from long vines, handy grapes
Croft with sparkle in the bloomy meadows,
Hands knotted with clear, open eyes and all
The afternoons of spring rejoining, pebbles,
Divining from the told tale of forks in the hills
And reaching to loamy shores of lost ponds
For now, to be on at last warmly and grassy,
Dials of sun and summer cleansing showers
Under the peaceful wake, the never sleeping
Pines, yes and then we were highly held aloft
In the loom and yarns of green steps, storied
By forest upon shires, sandy uncovered eyes,
Happily, lost in the woods of lamb white days.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 2:11 PM UTC
JULIAN IS WRITING A POEM
"The thud, thud of a horse's hoof
does not alarm fish."
MIND UNDER WATER - 1883
Richard Jefferies
Fishes flee him.
They can feel his thoughts
touch them.
Here, Creux Harbour
on the Island of Sark.
Mummy fish tries not to laugh
as her little darlings dart...
It's only a poet!"
she tells her younglings
"thinking thoughts
they won't hurt you.
Julian's vibrations
pass through them.
"It's what poets do
before they turn the world into words"
The little fish listen
with open mouths.
"As far as I can tell...it's a Julian
one of the cleverest kind one can find
a man composed of equal parts
wit and charm
an all shall be well and
all shall be well type of guy."
Julian is thinking
of nothing
but horses.
Horses.
The fish don't
even get a look in.
He sees the great Shires
being swum in the harbour.
Such a magnificence
of being
decanted from land
to sea
the great hooves
treading water
free to be themselves
enjoying their day at the sea's side.
Julian is alive
with this image
the sheer
awe of it all.
The fishes think
nothing of it.
They are used to horses
galloping among them.
It's the vibrations
of the poet's thoughts
that tickles them.
"But our Mam..?""
a small fry ventures
"...there are no horses
here....and now?"
"Ahhh that doesn't bother poets
ya see...they see
both what is there and not there
or what may be!"
She quotes the great 16th century fish
"Nothing is so but thinking make it so!"
Later, at the Candie Gardens
on another island altogether
Julian sits, sips...
a double espresso.
And again.
A double espresso..
We see the words flow
onto the page
charged with the grandeur
of the great Shires
as the little fishes look on
amused at the poet's
coffee coloured thoughts.
May 9, 2018
May 9, 2018 at 2:18 AM UTC
*Younglings in a field
All the world is abundance
True nature of love*
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 10:00 PM UTC
So, love began as it had— always been,
Stars exploding beyond the rays of gold,
Younglings new, born of bode and wonder,
The dearest waves, lept on forgotten time,
Among the furrowed hope of fields we grew,
Days sprung from long vines, handy grapes
Croft with sparkle in the bloomy meadows,
Hands knotted with clear, open eyes and all
The afternoons of spring rejoining, pebbles,
Divining from the told tale of forks in the hills
And reaching to loamy shores of lost ponds
For now, to be on at last warmly and grassy,
Dials of sun and summer cleansing showers
Under the peaceful wake, the never sleeping
Pines, yes and then we were highly held aloft
In the loom and yarns of green steps, storied
By forest upon shires, sandy uncovered eyes,
Happily, lost in the woods of lamb white days.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 2:31 PM UTC
So, love began as it had— always been,
Stars exploding beyond the rays of gold,
Younglings new, born of bode and wonder,
The dearest waves, lept on forgotten time,
Among the furrowed hope of fields we grew,
Days sprung from long vines, handy grapes
Croft with sparkle in the bloomy meadows,
Hands knotted with clear, open eyes and all
The afternoons of spring rejoining, pebbles,
Divining from the told tale of forks in the hills
And reaching to loamy shores of lost ponds
For now, to be on at last warmly and grassy,
Dials of sun and summer cleansing showers
Under the peaceful wake, the never sleeping
Pines, yes and then we were highly held aloft
In the loom and yarns of green steps, storied
By forest upon shires, sandy uncovered eyes,
Happily, lost in the woods of lamb white days.
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 1:49 PM UTC
Tethered to mobile . . .
Younglings cling to deep nothings,
. . . Stationary dead.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 8:43 PM UTC
Younglings got ******* up,
Love, antiquated notions,
. . . Mobile devices.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 11:06 PM UTC
.
Younglings mass about
An elder, gray as voices,
Unbidden, true as losses,
Before winning, hopeless
As an birdling before flight,
Great as truth before might,
So many stories taken down
And the papers all lie, sullied
On the ground, when will love
Overtake, when will righteous
I remake? Songs loved be sung,
Hung out to dry in burning dust
Of never a daisy under sunshine?
For truth, justice and the pursuits
Of happiness is such a fragile thing,
Youngling make sures under skies of
Purity, sweetest, strong, frail, nothings.
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 1:05 AM UTC
.
So, love began as it had— always been,
Stars exploding beyond the rays of gold,
Younglings new, born of bode and wonder,
The dearest waves, lept on forgotten time,
Among the furrowed hope of fields we grew,
Days sprung from long vines, handy grapes
Croft with sparkle in the bloomy meadows,
Hands knotted with clear, open eyes and all
The afternoons of spring rejoining, pebbles,
Divining from the told tale of forks in the hills
And reaching to loamy shores of lost ponds
For now, to be on at last warmly and grassy,
Dials of sun and summer cleansing showers
Under the peaceful wake, the never sleeping
Pines, yes and then we were highly held aloft
In the loom and yarns of green steps, storied
By forest upon shires, sandy uncovered eyes,
Happily, lost in the woods of lamb white days.
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 6:12 PM UTC
Younglings, you must dance,
. . . Bask in the river of days,
Water streams with light.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC