not sure how many words

[eagleyez]

Delta mud weighs bootheels
Otherwise nimble,
Old Faulkner dont want to discuss
No literature
But directs his crew of darkies
on fence mending and sheep shearing.

On the slivered porch
Sits a lantern
For the deep of night
Is the time for work,

A universe sky
A fiction of towns
A whiskey speech
Unfettered by the questions
So loathed.

At 3am, the cycle turns
Got timbers to shore
And barns to straighten,
The wild grass bends
From a north wind.

Double barrel 12 guage
Dogs and one ferel cat,
the company he keeps
he decides upon-
The newsman will scoot

Not talkin about plot or character
Its daylight soon
Gotta feed them darkies
Do some real work.
As the wind slaps the screendoor
Music to his sleeping,
The old place is in order.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Sunday, bloody Sunday.

Are the church bells ringing
calling the faithful,
the fearful and the forced
to worship false gods?
In the stunned silence
when they stop
do you wonder if
you should be one
of the bleating flock singing
Baa-men? Baa-men?
Three bags full
of meanigless drivel.
It seems to me
the third bell from the right
is sharp or cracked.
God'll expect a tuneful peel
next week.
Sexton, see to it please.

 

[Angeline]

Are the church bells ringing
calling the faithful,
the fearful and the forced
to worship false gods?
In the stunned silence
when they stop
do you wonder if
you should be one
of the bleating flock singing
Baa-men? Baa-men?
Three bags full
of meanigless drivel.
It seems to me
the third bell from the right
is sharp or cracked.
God'll expect a tuneful peel
next week.
Sexton, see to it please.

hello sweetie-
missed you.



edited to add-ee here. Ange missed you too

 

[TheRainMan]

Against the Famine and the Crown


There is no rejection as profound as that
which your own land can deliver—
when its only crop is black and curled
with wet rot, when it chases your sons

across the sea to Boston and New York—
and who could convince you, as you sit
on the fence of a decayed field
wringing your hands, staring at dirt you love

that yields refugees but not potatoes,
that this is not treachery,
a deliberate policy of extermination. They

can generate all the schemes they want—
public projects to stay revolt and pay
a meager wage—the London bookies
will give even money you’ll pocket it
before you die—You know this place,

and they want you to build byways
from nowhere to nowhere,
to fill in valleys and flatten hills,
to create a slow-motion wave of land
that has the same destination as the roads

they ask you to lay. You’ll sleep in ditches
first, or on the docks of Dublin, where
for every ship that comes in you’ll see six
sail out, filled to the top decks with grain.
And you’ll see your sons again and theirs

one day—and they too will spit on those
who saw blight as blessing, curse them
with umbrellas, and bad complexions
and rotting teeth. They too will
never, not for one minute, not for anyone,
ever pretend they do not hate them.

 

[eagleyez]

Arborist Dream

Quietly,I sit and hone the rakers
Rat tail file like a paintbrush in my marled hand,
The art of hand sharpening just comes from years of doing it.

5 hours sleep and a dead Loblolly to take down-
The crew drags in, Rooster with beer gut and cooler in hand,
The hippie going on about mushroom picking with Hairy, his old lady.
Wants him to quit drinking in the worst way. He's lean and strong, Jeckyl
To his Hyde this early its ok with him.

Bob checks the oil in the vehicles,
We talk underbreath about Sister wives and new strings
For the Richenbacher, the avocation that leads us here.

Mad Mikey roles in, yammering on his porta-phone,
Making promises never meant to keep,
"I'll have the crew there by noon."

I inspect my ropes, 12 strand arborplex lifelines for the singular climber,
Toss gear, bull rope, pulp wood saw, saddle, spurs, cable core,
Tools of the ascender, I feel tired, someone twists a joint, we pow wow and puff,
Get directions from Mad Mike and pile in trucks, Prentiss loader, Old green International bucket truck, small ford pickup with stuck drivers side window.

The million dollar house is in the Devil's Millhopper, BMW's and Benz parked in our way, I toss climbing gear on manicured lawn, pull saddle on and strap spurs
To calves and ankles, unfurl my newest rope and lash it to carabiner on my backside, stand at base of beetle infested 150 ft dead pine, sigh and begin to climb.

Strip lower limbs on the way up, hit tree top line, look east to the Gulf and see
The tell-tale black summer line moving our way, Lightening pops a couple of miles off.

"Boys, it dont look good, storm comin."
Rooster grabs a can of bud from his stash,
"Well chief, we can ride it out or call it a day."
Suddenly the boys have visions of the pub and the pool table.
I rope out two or three big dead limbs, lightening hits 3 blocks down
And I repel as fast as that bolt, feet hit the ground as the rain and wind
Rolls over us.

In the hammock lands of upland Florida,
Midsummer, no tellin how bad it may get.
"Get on the horn and tell Mikey we are headin to the shop."

Tornadic black wind drives us into trucks,
"I'll kick your ass in 8 ball Rooster" and we roll.
Toss my gear in the cab to keep it dry.
Promises unable to keep,
Tomorrow is another day.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

A Swell Plan

removed for further work.

 

[tungtied2u]

I need to leave home early today,
sink into the burial mound
of work, waiting for me,
for which I'll be remembered for doing
so well, so thoroughly, so knowledgably
when all I was doing was trying
to keep from thinking of you

 

[wildsweetone]

Bumpy roads

They look outside
and see nothing but stars
guiding their eyes
down a path
strewn with little rocks,
the kind that stick
in your bare foot
and make you limp
for a week. They'll walk
it anyway, they have to -
it's in their destiny like
birth and love and death
and this winter
when snow covers everything
with that white layer of paste,
masks the sharp edges,
softens the blow, they'll walk
watching the stars
and wishing make-believe dreams
that all stones
are smooth, and all bumpy roads
have been cleared, just
for them.

 

[eagleyez]

rain on blue monday roads,
October's leaves fall in heaps
but just sit in color piles
as I sit in first light,

sitting, fasting, waiting-
keychains hang like decorations,
Ive read the news today
Ive sipped coffee since 4 am.

rain on blue Monday squirells
they shake it off
as do the crows and junkos,
migrating and mitigating apples and seeds,

underneath and on top
crab trees begin winter woman stance,
folded over like a frozen dancer
cracks in her base
ancient wood
just sitting, fasting and waiting.

 

[TheRainMan]

St. Christopher, Dangling


We all look for protection. That’s why we have
gunpowder and pills, catatonia—safety
comes in many forms. My best try

is an amulet that hangs loose, a tiny shield
on thin chain. I always wonder if it’s a man
or saint who attempts to shelter me
with such small silver. They say he knows

about pilgrims, and I know all about him
and the charming of highways, how
he carries people at crossings, even Christ.

He died at Lycia. I don’t know where that is,
or how it feels to be chest-deep in a baptism
of raging river with the baby of God
in your arms. If I let him
brush up against my heart
long enough, I’ve been told I’ll find out.

 

[Tzara]

St. Christopher, Dangling

We all look for protection. . . .

I think this one is exceptional, TRM.

 

[wildsweetone]

Slow Goodbyes

There is a time between waiting
and loss where the air
seems to empty of laughter,
run out of joy and delight
and simply weigh with the wet
of oncoming winter. Boughs
bend in fall winds, leaves
pushed away like a lover
shunting the arms of his ex.
And yet, there is nothing
that will stop the churning
of chimes, nothing
that will end the wait
until the wait itself is ended.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Losing it

Should I be unnerved
by well-wishers and
do-gooders, by talk
of respite in the long term?
I'm oddly detached
as if it's another body
they discuss not this one
that no longer seems mine,
this rebellious rabble
of nerves in denial
and muscles deflated
from forced neglect.
I live on memory deliberately
not looking forward
because I don't like the view.

 

[Tzara]

Should I be unnerved
by well-wishers and
do-gooders, by talk
of respite in the long term?
I'm oddly detached
as if it's another body
they discuss not this one
that no longer seems mine,
this rebellious rabble
of nerves in denial
and muscles deflated
from forced neglect.
I live on memory deliberately
not looking forward
because I don't like the view.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Thanks.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

separated whites from color

I'm a mess of indecision
with the chance to
make amends but
won't that gesture
open an ancient wound
healed by the passage
of months?
Oscillation rocks my roots
and rots my meaning.
Words won't fill the silence
or bridge our differences
so must we continue
to tumble
jumbled like underwear
in the dryer, your boxers
embracing my bra,
my nightdress kissing
your stuffed shirt?

 

[flyguy69]

I'm a mess of indecision
with the chance to
make amends but
won't that gesture
open an ancient wound
healed by the passage
of months?
Oscillation rocks my roots
and rots my meaning.
Words won't fill the silence
or bridge our differences
so must we continue
to tumble
jumbled like underwear
in the dryer, your boxers
embracing my bra,
my nightdress kissing
your stuffed shirt?

Lol!

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Meeting you on Sunday

I had to pump
my own gas and
of spilled some
on my new Prada pumps
meeting you
smelling like an oil-spill.

You try not to sniff
but I see your nostrils
twitching.

My hair is a mess
still damp from
the shower and
I wonder if you imagine me
washing it with
gasoline.

Brunch comes
disappears
and we never stop
talking.

As we part
you say
"So, what's with the
industrial perfume?"

 

[sugarmountain]

The Cut

Sitting here in this chair,
neck taped,
apron draped
fingers combing my hair

mirrored wall brings to mind
the days, the life
the one I left behind
the moments which we shared

the strands which fall
recall the memory of your fingers,
your hands caress still lingers
as you stroke and twist my curls

and spoke of a future
severed from the past
when at last we would cover
each other as lovers

without threat of being harassed
we would lie in the tall grass
woven together
to never again be unbound

enrapt on the ground
growing into each other
our breathing the only sound
our ardor in the air

but passions hush
is brushed away
the cut complete, I pay
with you still there

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Detour

they close the bridge
with a dozen flashing lights
as if to say
"look here! We're saving another
jumper"
anonymously
the figure hovers
on the brink of decision
to continue to resist
the comfortable call
of painless darkness
in the swirl below
or to just let go
and fall away from the faces
the voices urging
don't jump
jump
jump
jump
jump

he jumps leaving a legacy
of ever expanding ripples.

 

[champagne1982]

Morning haze huddles in the hollows
windswept drifts, smooth breasts cleansed
with wash of tides receding with moonset.

Thawing land rebounds, inhaling
as the glacier raises up on his elbows
to kiss his lover's face

Entwined and held close in tender arms
he sighs; reluctant to relinquish
his comfort against her lush heat.

His passing to another night forgotten
with the song of children and spring's
burst of flowers from beneath the quilts.

The land delights with sun's caress all through
the golden summer. Her fruits ripe and juicy
await the autumn's smoke and dusk.

A welcome rests with the passage
of seasons. Her bed strewn with harvest
blooms to please her dark lover

who rises just as Gaia's children go to sleep.
The long night is his to hold her close in slumber
trembling with dreams and fecund promises she rests.

Mists define the hollows as his lover wakes in a warm
release of birth waters to fill the lakes
and land with new life and promise with the sun.

 

[eagleyez]

Morning haze huddles in the hollows
windswept drifts, smooth breasts cleansed
with wash of tides receding with moonset.

Thawing land rebounds, inhaling
as the glacier raises up on his elbows
to kiss his lover's face

Entwined and held close in tender arms
he sighs; reluctant to relinquish
his comfort against her lush heat.

His passing to another night forgotten
with the song of children and spring's
burst of flowers from beneath the quilts.

The land delights with sun's caress all through
the golden summer. Her fruits ripe and juicy
await the autumn's smoke and dusk.

A welcome rests with the passage
of seasons. Her bed strewn with harvest
blooms to please her dark lover

who rises just as Gaia's children go to sleep.
The long night is his to hold her close in slumber
trembling with dreams and fecund promises she rests.

Mists define the hollows as his lover wakes in a warm
release of birth waters to fill the lakes
and land with new life and promise with the sun.

*Tips Hat*

lovely.

 

[DeepAsleep]

for sean conlon

this poem is about a faggot.

you can always see it in the way
they hold themselves
even empty hands carry signs
if you're looking
with the right kind of eyes.
he carries his sexuality between his elbows
and shoulders
cocking his arms back like self-consciousness
would look on a straight boy, with his hands
folded across his stomach, he is just uncertain enough
to be mistaken as feminine.
his long hair curls just so in front of his ears &
he's just tragic enough to get into my head
just pretty enough (Jim Caroll on a wet new york night)
& he falls apart with such grace
wants "You are pretty" to rhyme with
"I love you," so bad that I think
"I could never let the pieces of me rocket
for the bottom
never make such accidental, hip-shot beauty
look so easy or sound like my throat
had been coated with fine sand."

He bums a cigarette from me on the way
to his ride complaining that it's a menthol
but smoking it anyway
and I want to tell him
stop him with my fingertips on his knuckles
as he reaches for my lighter, say
"I am not a gay boy telling you how
pretty you are, but i am a boy
and you are beautiful.
Keep my three dollars, I
don't want your book, I'll remember the
poetry of your shoulders forever, none of you
was afraid up there, not
like I am now."

We didn't speak, not much beyond I said you
were wonderful, talking as gently as i know how
with my focus locked on your nose
because your eyes scared me, too.

And I am not a gay boy, telling you
you're pretty, but I am a boy &

I tried to tell you,
"I've been called a fag more times
than I can count, mostly for not being afraid
to say anything to anyone & I wear my self across my back
not in the crooks of my arms, or at least I
think I do, maybe that's enough -
to grin a little @ pointless names that people
call out with tongues like rags in their mouths
dripping worse than mundane poison, worse than acid
spraying their ideas about what's what & where it's at
like any of us would let the cold paint of bitter bullshit
mark up the signs we carry
(though they make us feel dirty
and that is worse sometimes than killing us)"
But if harsh tongues can't color you differently
then my stupid mouth won't change anything, either &
I'd just be one more boy,
so I was too scared to say,

"I am not a gay boy,
but I love you like no fag ever did
because I'll never use three words to get
inside your pants, I'll just say it
because it's real & I am not afraid."

But I was
and I am
& I'm sorry.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

A case of reincarnation?

Sometimes I can feel her presence.
Decades ago she walked
the same streets,
attended the same school
hating it as much as I.
We share so much,
indecision on our art and sex,
a self-inflicted turmoil.
We even look alike,
same straight, thick hair;
blue eyes and pigeon toes.
Was I here before?

 

[eagleyez]

I am embodied in his body,
Same big hands on gravedigger shovel,
Same habits of jangle and morning reading.

I bow my head
I say my peace,
I dress in the closet light
I cream my coffee tan.

I am embodied in his body,
Same sad eyes looking up for birds,
Same magnet to the deepest river.

I raise up and embrace reluctantly
Same dry land under walking boots
Same quarter moon over you over me.