"yurt" poems
Willets cull the seawall
snapper on the grill
rock ***** swoon
in shallow lagoons
long boats pass
under quiet
palm shade
Plovers dance and flutter
handrails frayed and torn
graffiti spots
at lovers rock
frigate-birds fall
from a high
noon sun
Thatched roof on a mud wall
fish flags settle score
anchors arch
in front line march
pillar cracks form
under rust brown scars
Elegant tern and grebe
watchmen fall in cue
children play
on crested waves
whimbrels and notchers
perch above Tentaciones
Striped pelícanos
the bandits of the sea!
merchants grow
in steady flow
siblings jostle
in a tide cooled sand
Heerman gull and boobie
durango smoke in yurt
boiler shrimp
and puffer blimp
castle buckets and scrapers
under a dusk light cheroot
Six pulls on a lead line
painted toes in sand
shearwater run
in a rainbow sun
the portly mexicano
flaunts his tacos
and wares
Rooster house for swordfish
bamboo shoots and sails
broken shells
and ocean swells
rise
on the
perfect
La Ropa bay
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 2:22 PM UTC
My fingertips will never let me forget the scent of stale cigarettes.
I was a fool in London. All the friends I made had better accents than me.
I dreamed of Bulgaria and Brazil.
I walked through mud. I waited for French tides.
I trudged in heavy water waders.
My hands built a house with stones older than the country on my passport.
The etching of cement on my boots still reminds me what we carried there.
We drove along tired volcanoes and craggy cliffs in the dark.
I never learned how to drive manual.
We flew further south. I dried out in the sun.
The glands of Spanish streets pulsated
citrus mist into the air, my lungs.
I never did remember the difference between limon and lime.
We stayed in a haunted castel but missed Halloween.
The upper peninsula, where Napoleon dreamed of a better dinner.
We moved to Shangri-La. Even in Eden, people still snore.
But there were cakes laced with flowers. And I was over the moon.
Then, a dreamscape. The closest to the Arctic I’ve ever been.
We ate deer for dinner. I baked Danish pies. I slept supine in a smoke-filled yurt. It was all peace. It was all over.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 3:49 PM UTC
The play is written to be staged in a pub or a large cave like yurt in Cardiff. Its action and dialogue provides characterisation, with sound and lighting being used to establish context. The setting a darkened pub corner that is modelled on The Bunch of Grapes in Pontypridd. There are only 6 characters, five speak in haiku-ed verse with the exception of the Drunk who acts as my 'Greek Chorus'.
- Hand-in-hand she enters to **** her thumb in a corner
- Chocolate ice cream soda demanded from Daddy
- Joking banter ceased slowly as the regulars all begin to quaff their brown pints
“Balll uut eass swept -
Chimrrrrr, Chiirriica,
war is never won”
- Church quiet, the village pub listened lips clamped tears swelling
“ ***** cut swapped with eyes -
Chimerica, Chimerica,
war is never won”
- The cornered hero of two Afghanistan tours is seen regressing into childhood**
The set darkens slowly then after 30 seconds a spotlit conversation in lines and stanzas begins.
Haiku and tanka that inspired the coming play include:
*********** -
thoughts sought, taught and wrought,
testosterones
Fighting aggressive games,
Afghanistan camouflage
Globalism and War -
cloned greedy conspiracy,
that third tower
Titled selfish-self-grandiose,
deliver warring terror
Springs cut Irises -
dripping vital red not purple,
far from my window*
.
Apr 28, 2010
Apr 28, 2010 at 11:11 AM UTC
“Jurt,” she
curtly spurts out
and stops
not knowing if
she’s going to
continue to
speak unknown tongues
or if
this emanation, this
interjection,
spoken on strange
impulse,
is Icelandic
or Bosnian
or Serbian,
and if
the middle one
how not the last,
when they both mean
the same thing, yurt.
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 7:43 AM UTC
when we met, it was tipsy tuesday and donnie had swollen fingers
and nate sank into his plaid frock and dropped his shadow
on the patio like a heavy slug, and the flies
cavorted in the vortex of our subtext
as the night skies spat stars
at our foreheads.
you were beautiful; too beautiful then.
i was smitten, i was tossed on stormy seas, unsick.
i was healed. the world spun filth and dull glamour
but your face hurled fireworks
and my mind leaned into my heart
and i knew i loved you.
whoever you turned out
to be.
i babbled and groped, as the inertia
of falling, filled my sails
and I was purposefully adrift -
in your brown-black eyes;
as a dog fetched a frisbee
for an illiterate.
and i think i bit my lip a bit.
I saw you for the first time.
for the last time
in my life
and was never
the same.
my heart, now more precise.
you had fierce speech
underneath your sweet speak
and long hair.
i had you in my soul's yurt
on a plain of windswept pavilions
with free horses and costly
remoteness.
i was ' there ' less
and more somewhere else
alone with the perfect you
reading my lips
as they tremored
delight of it.
i babbled speechless.
i remember you tossing your locks
at my cage. and i was set free.
please add me to your wishlist
and complete me.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
1. Go a whole day talking in a western accent
2. write a 5 hour song
3. learn the rapping in "Empire State of Mind" and "Run this Town"
4. Go on a 3 month road trip on a Harley Davidson with only me, my guitar, what I'm wearing, the Harley, and the road
5. learn how to speak Hungarian, Greek, Latin, Hawaiian, Italian, Finnish, and Spanish, maybe some others
6. write a book
7. learn about Native American mythology and rituals
8. Learn how to survive on my own by making my clothing, food, supplies, tools, fire, and shelter
9. Build a yurt up in the mountains to live with wolves
10. Do a hang 10 on a surf board
11. ride a horse with wild horses
12. Paint a scenic picture
13. Protest for anything the government is against
14. Go to Europe and study art
15. Go on a train trip in Europe
16. Go to the Middle East and talk to woman about their rights
17. Go to Israel and West Bank and spray paint on both sides of the wall
18. go paragliding
19. Get or get close to winning a Nobel Peace prize
20. Help out at an orphanage
21. Learn sign language
22. go to help kids with cancer
23. Learn to play roque
24. live one year outside without spending 1 night inside
25. make a cook book
26. teach a African kid to read in English
27. Become a better poet
28. grant 28 people's biggest dreams
(This will be ongoing)
Apr 21, 2010
Apr 21, 2010 at 3:37 PM UTC
In my head,
For a year,
I dreamt your name
Would flash on my phone.
A token of remembrance
And familiar resemblance.
But never did I know
That at a festival,
This year,
I'd get that token
That broke the silence.
Through deafening bass
And a crowded place,
Our conversation felt timeless.
Gold dust,
And rainbow stripes
Were what you wore,
Still how I remember.
Whole bodies moving,
My eyes approving
Like that first night in November.
Over the noise,
We had to shout
And get up so close
I could smell your cheek.
Half-heard sentences,
Apologetic messages,
We'd been too weak
To say before,
That night,
In Spring,
Where we cut off abruptly.
But all the pain went,
Along with those countless nights spent
Trying to pick up the debris.
My friend,
Your partner,
He'd gone
A day early.
So we spent the night together,
Ignoring the cold weather
Till tiredness made eyes blurry.
My friends
And I
Walked you back
To your yurt.
Made new favourite memories,
And an excess of remedy
To stay the hurt.
I thought a year was too late.
But instead a half blank slate
Is all I ever wanted. Now I can give
My gratitude,
And thankfulness.
That I always had,
Deep inside.
To bridges rebuilt,
And no more guilt.
I no longer need to hide
From you,
From me,
From the scars.
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 6:14 PM UTC
We were in a Mongolian yurt
She wore a Mongolian skirt
It was very cold
We didn't feel bold
So we just had a little flirt
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 7:21 AM UTC
I want to run away from it all
to escape the rat race's incessant call
to be left to be myself
alone but happy on the shelf
I want to run away from it all
I want to start again somewhere new
Doing only all the things I want to do
No more obligated chores
Washing windows, scrubbing floors
I want to start again somewhere new
I want to buy some land and build a yurt
Live off grid so Mother Earth I don't hurt
Water heated by the sun
Organic gardening for fun
I want to buy some land and build a yurt
I want to sit a write by candlelight
Not a CF bulb or fluorescent tube in sight
No noise or light pollution
would be my perfect solution
I want to sit and write by candle light
I want to be awoken by the sun
not just on special days but every one
readjust my body clock
to natures silent tick and tock
I want to be awoken by the sun
I want to run away, you wanna come?
One is great but really two is twice the fun.
Loving life the way it's meant
Two poets in a tent
I want to run away you wanna come?
Jul 5, 2010
Jul 5, 2010 at 5:48 PM UTC
Fire burning, logs marching
A path daunting, ranting taunts
Chanting seamed Arabic hymns
Chargrilled silky toned offerings
The exquisite yurt tent warm
Enclosed in ethnic kaleidoscope
Bedouin tribal pneuma radiates
Tensed and cordially punted
Feral wild ones sociably awake
Reticent,drained in frail noises
Fainting in lapses, trailed to fail
Tidal noises permeates above all
Waved and enveloped in beats
A drummed goblet, strummed oud
Announcement of the lived life force
The tidal rhythmic music timed
All clapping and mesmerised
Drawn in dangerous curves
A continuum of introversion sorted
The ever censored extroversion summed
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 2:54 PM UTC
If I had a dollar for every poem I ever wrote,
I wouldn’t even have a grand.
How on Earth would I pay the monthly rent,
buy our food,
survive
darling?
I guess a goat & a yurt
doesn’t sound so bad after all.
We could start a garden,
grow some tomatoes & drink
fresh unpasteurized raw milk,
We could even make soap.
Fixin’ a hole in the ceiling would
just take a needle and thread.
What a simple life we’d lead,
we could actually talk to each other.
And in the winter,
we could spoon,
snuggle underneath
a real buffalo rug.
It would be groovy.
You could tug on my ear lobe
with your pretty teeth
& whisper how much
you loved me.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
Dear middle class friend
You have to know that I love you and know we come from difference
I am thank full for your existence and teaching me how to blend in
Find myself inside the lines of a different class
you take the time to teach me how I should act
You come from power I come from poverty
But I can mask, just change my cloths and vocabulary
Im educated and observant
Subservient to what you say
Speaking of your problems
How you hate the rain
How you over booked yourself
Should you go to the yurt or to the football game?
Not trying to undermine
To lessen your distress
Or infer you have a mistress
That money isn’t happiness
Just remember when you talk to me
You are forgetting who I am
Because of how I dress
Disguise myself to well I guess
Remember
I just found a place to live
Food is hard to find
My parents split
My siblings flail
Cancers killing someone else…
And you forget
That money isn’t mine
And I am short on time
My problems are different
I just can’t relate
I have never seen a yurt
Or seen a football game
Or been on stage
I don’t know what to say
Dear middle class companion
Thanks for offering to stand in
When I want to complain
But don’t feel bad
And take my hand
I try to feed me again.
I don’t need fixing, or sad eyes
Just try to sympathize
I know you don’t understand
We come from difference
I hope for acceptance
Maybe understaning
But I don’t know how to say
Ill never care as much as you
About such silly things.
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 2:04 AM UTC
Sitting in my Yurt:
A trophy room
Warming myself by
A violet flame
Tom Waits streaming, essentially screaming
'All Stripped Down'
6 dwarves on the wall ~ my masks:
Base, sacral, solar plexus, heart, third eye
One place left
It feels right
Inevitably coming off
My crown, no longer masking
Free flowing energies
Tantric, not romantic
In search of the Moon
Octavio whispers about the Sun
Removing the 7th dwarf
Reveals a giant
It's Snow White and it's
Ivory & Obsidian
1 blink yes
2 blinks no
Rebuilding psyche
On a binary platform
Climbing over the rainbow
You change all the lead sleeping in my head to gold
Through a black and white prism
Entrained within the prison
A white horse
Resounding out of the North
Through an impossible nightmare
Built on kamikaze dreams
Boundaries dissolve into a never ending
Never beginning: yin yang
Another yellow brick in
The wall
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 7:07 PM UTC
how many more glasses of milk did you down to clean out the stars in your eyes that never looked directly at the moon who knew your soul corner to corner, at 11:52pm your palms were trying to hold on to something that didn't want to stay, i heard the door open but only silver light came in and nothing but old vibes went out, you never lock your heart like that, the cottage windows remind me of the days we had pink & blue skies with an accent of 32 clouds for breakfast, this yurt smells like the most acidic lemons and ck2 perfume, on the 2 hour and 19 minute drive here you got lost thrice and found your way by through corner-store cookies, a plaid shirt and pens with running ink
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 10:56 PM UTC
rectilinear, oracle, eschew
today's words
apparently eschew and a sneeze are
interchangeable, phonetically speaking.
have you been holding out on me?
i'm all for said sensual urges and
wild manic destroying of the yurt, but please-
rest of us just gotta be sensible.
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 1:10 AM UTC
Absent Motility Against Staid Inertia
impossible to describe listlessness
bedeviling this body electric aye attest
motivation to counter glumness
seizes motility temporarily
to stave off staid purposeless at best,
yet aware poetic obfuscation chest
barely delineates fierce hopelessness
assailing me,
when'r awake and/or at everest
feeding melancholy feedback loop
sparring against faintest
momentum - writhing psyche,
asper an unwelcome guest
emotional friction
bringing motionlessness,
where lunging futility
summoning ability
to muster joie de vivre
defeated willpower
no matter mental health
propped up
with pharmacological medications
prescribed by Doctor George Adams be hest,
yet tis NOT suicide, but general malaise
as if poison (or stung by a scorpion) jest
permeates thy being
sparking existential angst
hoop fully communicating figurative soffits
facilitating emotional bulwark lest
ye **** sitter
this lix spittled chap messed
up in the head, but also that empty nest
syndrome - aa bird den, and nefarious pest
disallowing merrily rowing my boat
subjected to turbulence that doth wrinkle
space/time continuum quest
punctuating any attempt
to take fig yurt heave Newtonian rest
without being assailed
of drab quotidian predictability
re: envious papa
towards daughters adventurous lives
he rejoices (albeit vicariously)
respective lives where offspring lasso lassitude,
viz both their electric kool aid acid test
how fate didst in vest
waning wily woebegone zest!
Jun 8, 2018
Jun 8, 2018 at 12:52 PM UTC
i have dreams in my waking gate
and seldom say the other thing they be.
The Mare in the Night
rearing up from the dun earth
and sallow plot. the unkempt spot.
but -
i have my desert and my understanding.
and they are the same *****
suckling the pup tent
of my yurt
on my plateau...
tacked to a tundra
where giants walk
with tree trunks in there eyes
hurling bitter Fall at smug Summers...
and trampling the yippie!
of succulent
Spring.
but again... the worst can go more wrong
if the right thing to do
is to die
trying.
and to return -
is to speak a lost word
where we
found
it
on the
lips of a
mute
with a microphone.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 9:23 AM UTC
There used to be 7 sisters
They love to dance and sing
There were close, even as kids
They would play and swing
Their names were many
But let's start with the first
Phaedra, the sister of strength
She was never easy to coerce
Then there was the second
Luna, sister of dance
Every night by the fire
The others saw her prance
This girl was just as great
Estella, sister of song
When she sung
Everyone sang along
Now with the 4th
Ilta, sister of art
People would see her work
And feel it deep in their heart
The 5th is the next
Ayla, sister of story
Full of joy and pain
Always end in glory
6 was always around
Diana, sister of care
If someone was sick
She'd be there
But the last one is hard
For both you and me
Eira, girl of nothing
Yeah, the others are surprised too
She tried to move
But would fall
She tried to sing
But it always hit a wall
Eira tried to be like the others
But she felt small and shy
So while the others were asleep
She hid in the sky
The 6 sisters woke up
And looked and tried
But after years of searching
They began to cry
But little do they know
Eira was great
She was watching the others
Changing the star's fate
Eira isn't mad
But sad and hurt
Maybe one day
She'll leave her yurt
And dance with her sisters
Like she was born to do
Because they love each other
All the way, through and through
Aug 10, 2025
Aug 10, 2025 at 8:50 AM UTC
I'm a kind of tired that sleep can't fix
in a game gone amiss where no one wins
in a race stuck in place that don't begin
where every action is seen as sin
I am kind of lost where no compass
can find a home or points to bliss
facing the wind as I ****
the stains on my soles will iterate this
Im the kind of mad that lacks their tricks
a sad gone bad that cant be nixed
perplexed and had caught in the mix
as it all comes down like a ton of bricks
An introvert to escape the hurt
whos grew quite sick of chasing skirts
nomad on the landscape scraping dirt
disguising a grave as a yurt
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 11:00 PM UTC
I went adrift
Into the wood
Wouldn't you know
I couldn't or should
But I am a fool
And that's what I did
And nonsense
Is all the woods
Would me give
The ground is but rock
And wet is my sock
And rangers are strangers
And city folk mock
So fire we made
While the baren trees swayed
In the pitch black of night
In a yurt hovel cave
The drinks were a pouring
As camping is boring
And What is there other
than waiting for morning.
Why the did I go
What the hell did I think
Knowing that outdoor activities stink
The sleep is not sleep
And the food is all meat
And strange ranger Rick says you must be discreet.
So **** all the bears
And the fly's and the ticks
If I had more than one
They could **** extra *****
So head what I say
And stay far away
From state sponsored
State parks
the rocks and sticks
Stay home and inside
just turn on Netflix
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 7:57 PM UTC
With you in my life I feel I am within the confines of a yurt made of love
The storm of life may surround
The Trees outside may tremble
The earth under our feet may shake
And the sky may darken with dread
...
I know I am safe
Together all is abated
I.am.safe
For you are my bringer of gentler tides
My golden ray of sunshine as nights grow long and days darken
We dance in shallow water where dolphins sing tunes of eternal music
Where melodies are made of synchronicities
Time and space hold no meaning as
intertwining double helix’s attached in the center of discovery
we wander in the moonlight
breathing presence into each and every moment
Your confidence the key to unlocking the chamber in which my doubts are held
For how can something so amazing happen so quickly?
Future planning creating damaging projections
Taking us away from the bliss that is
-This-
Simply
Us
...
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 9:02 AM UTC
i will build a yurt it will satisfy my soul
i will make a short film
i will learn polite society's manner
these things will satisfy my soul
i will become genuine and plant a bright garden
and satisfy my soul
i will employ better personal hygiene
become sexually activated
and roam the streets aggravated
will i satisfy my soul there ?
raise a flag, have a care ?
i could eat a meal slowly you know as an experience
using mouthfeel skills and detecting it's notes
don’t pay the bill start a riot and register to vote
i will - i won't ; do the things
and rattle my pelt til i am soul sated
Dec 4, 2024
Dec 4, 2024 at 10:33 AM UTC
We came in at one end of the valley,
tired from our journey
to find respite.
So we sat for awhile,
visited the men seated in the yurt,
shared hot spiced-tea & flatbread,
not a single word was spoken,
we traded smiles & warm gestures,
then left at the other end of the valley,
as quickly as we had dropped by.
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 3:19 PM UTC