Best Crouch Poems
Traveling through the doorway in my heart
I emerge
Gently closing it
I place my palms on the worn hinges of time
I lay my ear near its surface
As I let my lips hover close
Grazing the wood with a gentle kiss
I turn and walk down a few steps
The mist ~ the moisture ~ the fragrance
Of a million greens
Grass so tall and lush
Beckoning me
The ancient pines and redwoods
Towering above me on both sides
Whispering their secrets
I make my way
Stopping to press my nose
Against their soft bark...inhaling
Tickling my face
Bringing me back...back in time
I breathe in love
I breathe out gratitude
Opening my eyes, I see you in the distance
As shadow puppets dance and frolic
Upon rugged steep rock walls
The inner cave glows
The smell of mesquite
Rising sparks of pain and happiness
Leap from the flames
Your quiet silhouette calls to me
“Come little one...come”
I crouch down timidly at first
It is dark and I feel alone
In my nakedness
I slither along smooth stones
My belly brushing their surface
I make my way close to you
The fire alive with its dancing shadows
Sitting in silence
I gently embrace your blanketed form
You are me as an old woman
You are my lover
You are my friend
You are all of humanity
I kiss your weathered cheek
Tasting salty tears
Embracing you allows me to let go
To fully surrender to the moment
Hoo-hoo-hooooo
Crackle
Owls above
The sky illuminated through
The exposed top of the cave
Surrounded by whisps of fables and folklore
We rotate and spin
Slowly rising upward
Higher and higher
As ashes in the night
Reaching the lip of the cave
We are greeted by moonlight
Cold crisp air
A burst of light
As I spread feathered wings
Gliding towards treetops
My heart opens
My eyes open
I am here
To laugh ~ to cry
To give ~ to receive
To rejoice
To break bread with others
To love
Another day
Pirate women permeate my spaces.
They are fierce and fabulous.
You dare not lie to them.
They will cut you to shreds, with their swords.
Cut you to ribbons.
I do not crouch in fear.
I created them.
They are ruthless, savage,
out for blood.
Thirsty for it.
I walk their planks proudly.
Eager for the drowning
that awaits.
Before me, faces wear an angry stare,
and chills now travel up and down my spine.
Transfixed, immobile, my eyes soon declare
the people there had surely crossed death's line.
Those faces, I have seen back in my past;
an EMT, I watched them pronounced dead.
My tension grows, tormented and harassed,
by visions that appear outside my head.
They point their fingers, and I know not why.
I feel accused and crouch down to the floor,
fast shut my eyes, as if they would comply
to go away; then open- there are more.
Hallucinations- now they come with ease-
my mind- possessed by Parkinson's disease.
I love to fart, it stands me tall,
the raucous rumbling, belly bell,
all look around with eyes aghast,
to witness such a mighty blast.
when before the beak for slander foul,
I gave him one that made him scowl,
“does Sir require a time alone?”
I farted down his crony’s phone.
and if I’m lauded, like Le Potomane,
I light one to produce a tongue of blue
incandescent flame; thus lit, the room
and shadows prance, about the room
the dragons dance
and when in battle we cower from gun,
and want to encourage my comrades on,
I crouch below hell’s muddy trench, and
thus release the devil’s stench
then running forward death all around, I
fart the bugle’s curdling sound, and to
the enemy’s quick dumbfound, so
soon we seize triumphant ground
you see for me it is no shame, to unleash
the belly’s dogs of war, and oft when
travelling by first class, I give them a blast
from boiling ass
when love speaks strong and passion cries,
beneath the sheets there are no lies, so ahhs!!
or Oohs!! I never start, but let rip a lover’s
orgasmic fart
look: tis not the wallet, watch or jewel, that
creates the jinx, and mocks the fool, a prettier
penny lies beneath;
tis the fart; and jealous mule, the thief.
Late night summons madmen,
madams, bold streetwalkers,
picking pennies from the gutters
as the merchants close their shutters
and the homeless crouch in doorways
in their rags, against the cold.
Black or white, no compromise,
no colours clothe the empty streets,
as Bobbies tread their lonely beats,
the watchmen rub their crusted eyes
and settle into vigilance,
no accident, just circumstance.
Midnight passes.
Leila in her bursting bodice
lingers, guesses who I am
and flaunts her body, all the same
to her, a customer who'll pay
for twenty minutes' satisfaction.
Dressed in taffeta and lace
she'll never even see my face,
night's sweet anonymity,
the very definition of her name.
Later, as the moonbeams shift,
and cloudlines disappear and drift,
come images in stark relief
of twisted metals magnified
that catch the eye, suspend belief.
Abandoned building, hollow-eyed
and squinting in a death mask grip,
skeletal, once filled with pride,
now empty, and for ever tongue-tied,
cadavered, and condemned to drip.
Still later, the street-lamps spot
the cats a'creeping worldly-wise,
and rats along the quayside waiting,
ready for the avalanche
of waste into the yawning dumpsters.
I have seen the children sneaking out
before the dawn comes crawling,
dirty little ragamuffins forced
into leftover clothes,
weepy-eyed and snotty-nosed,
playing with a rotting carcass
or a broken bicycle.
Pre-dawn, and the street-lamp sputters,
merchants come to raise their shutters,
regard the fading moon, and mutter,
'yet another day.'
Begone, O Bride of Midnight!
favour us with not another glance,
put your spells away,
you'll not lead us in our daily dance.
Behold a wrinkled substitute,
a crone who likes to think that she's a queen;
with as much grace as she can muster,
she flusters, fidgets, lonely in her room,
feathered and be-furbelowed
and plays with her decolletage,
she's mutton dressed as lamb.
The smell of stale tobacco
and a whiff of old perfume,
no longer with her entourage
she dances out of rhythm to the tango,
rusty and unconstituted,
wraith-like, a phantom in her tomb.
At twenty past I'm home at last,
the brass plate spells my name;
come inside!
familiar and gratifying,
slippers by my bed still lying,
dressing gown and cap are crying,
here abide!
The sheets are turned and ready.
I leave the night and take a final bow,
grateful for the here and now.
I was a runner
fleeing from homespun horrors that
wrapped around my delicacy like a tourniquet
Only a child attempting to bestir
the warrior dormant within;
having no idea the enthrallment
she reveled in,
I learned to accost my demons
Nigh, even at the wide-eyed age of eight,
scarred
shattered
broken
I found, in a hand-crafted cardboard crate,
my only chance at freedom
Every Saturday I'd sneak away
to my makeshift universe
that gave life to dreams unspoken --
I would crouch and crawl
through thorn-encrusted branches
enclosed in a thicket,
sunbeams cutting into the tangles
alighting my face, piercing my eyes
The oceans breath
cascaded over the brush,
and everything, suppressed,
would fall into a hush
until I breached the winding path
Amongst the jungle of weeds/rose garlanded structures,
high above the jagged rocks
and wide open mouth of the watery abyss,
my hideaway centered --
flimsy cardboard walls,
brightly painted bold brazen symbols protecting all who entered,
tightly sealed with an invisible lock
opening only when voices of forgotten children fluttered through the air
I'd stand silent beneath the incandescent sky,
for just a moment,
breathing deep the silken salty breeze
and thrust my arms out to the sides
like the seagulls hovering over the loud, fathomless cavern of the sea,
Losing myself in the mist
You scowl in anger as I turn to go,
Your gemstone eyes so full of jealous heat;
You do not understand, and cannot know
The thoughts that turn my head and guide my feet.
The image which you have is incomplete,
And so by definition soon will fall.
Your views are suffocating -- obsolete --
I will not be your pretty paper doll.
I will not bend my head or stoop down low
To make myself a mindless slab of meat,
Or let my soul be shaken to and fro
To lose itself and crouch beneath your seat.
Would you deny my voice to hear the bleat
Of brainless chatter, just to watch me crawl
To bed and spread my legs beneath your sheet?
I will not be your pretty paper doll.
An ever-changing wind will come and blow
Through Winter, Spring, and Summer, in the street;
And restless waters will forever flow,
Their colors cool, their textures smooth and sweet;
Yet you would change the pulsing, throbbing beat
Of Life and Love, to answer ev'ry call.
Mistakes made in the past, you would repeat --
I will not be your pretty paper doll.
Your mental boxes, always stacked and neat,
Have packed my essence up against a wall.
Take care, my love -- this gypsy heart is fleet;
I will not be your pretty paper doll.
I visited his grave, but the grave was gone!
What? I know spirits travel but this just seems wrong.
There's a big hole where the grave used to be.
I think someone is playing a big prank on me.
On second thought, this is just what he would do
to have a big laugh, all his spirit friends, too.
I rushed home to see if it was in the back yard,
under the pear tree he would loudly disregard.
It's not there, but between the roses, it might squeeze.
Or under the mulberry that he knows makes me sneeze.
Or inside the house, oh please not beside the couch!
or under a table, so I'll have to crouch!
I open the closet expecting to jump,
not there either, but I spy a big lump
sitting in his "couch potato" chair;
yep, that's where he'd put it, if anywhere.
Not there either, now I'm becoming confused.
Raced back to the grave and it's still not being used.
I checked the marker on the grave next to his.
Why he moved it, I can't fathom, but there it is!
(This poem needs some explaining, I understand.
The grave is where it was, nothing done underhand.
A new one will go in next to the one she misplaced.
This woman got confused. Could be she's a tad spaced.)
Heavily laden boats, rectangular sails billowing
Under seas of low cloud, braving the fierce Yangtze;
Held between snowcapped mountains, earth and sky
Indistinguishable from steaming mist and rolling fog;
A long drawn straggle of Grey Geese plummeting down
From breathless, rarefied air to stumble awkwardly onto
Plum coloured mudbanks; an unrestrained, excitable
Cacophony of frenzied honking! Then wild monkeys
Provoked into howling each side of the river.
There, at the juncture with Longjin Brook, stilted homes,
Half-hidden by bamboo groves, crouch at the waters
Edge; maidens will come to wash clothes
Whirling wooden batons, twittering like golden swallows;
Fragrant wildflowers enhance their sweetness.
At drab, pale, first-morning light, fishermen cast
Nets over the cooling, placid blue waters;
The fish that swim here are said to be the finest
In the province.
We will exchange Black Carp and Blunt-Snout Bream,
Wrapped in moist bamboo leaf, for glutinous rice
With the clans that tend the terraces inside the fertile
River valley...
Does not the Emperor insist upon good commerce?
If you are dissatisfied as a peasant
You can take the ancient "old tea horse road"
And burden your back with heavy bales stacked high
On a rail;
The road will take you all the way from Zigui
To Tibet...or even further perhaps,
And sombre ravens will soar overhead and taunt your
Every footstep.
But I will remain where I am, in the
Village On The Water
Nestled deep within the Three Gorges;
My life, the endless horizon stretched beyond,
Held in balance as if it were Shaseng
The Shadow Play Stone;
And each new morning awakening to slow,
Chiming bells.
Her ears point forward to a sound she hears.
A sound beyond a pitch to my ears.
Her legs now crouch to attend the fears
Of the twitching nose that scours the airs.
She runs like a bullet shot from a gun.
I'm following behind on the run.
She corners and traps her small bale,
While I stoop and lift it by the tail.
Don't worry. I set it free.
Nightscapes
...inspired by 'Rhapsody On A Windy Night'
by T.S. Eliot
Late night summons
madmen, madams, bold streetwalkers,
picking pennies from the gutters
as the merchants close their shutters
and the homeless crouch in doorways
in their rags, against the cold.
Black or white, no compromise,
no colours bathe the empty streets,
as Bobbies tread their lonely beats,
the watchmen rub their crusted eyes
and settle into vigilance,
no accident, no happenstance.
Midnight passes.
Leila in her bursting bodice
lingers, guesses who I am
and flaunts her body, all the same
to her, a customer who'll pay
for twenty minutes' satisfaction.
Dressed in taffeta and lace,
she'll never even see my face,
night's sweet anonymity,
the very definition of her name.
Later, as the moonbeams shift,
and cloudlines disappear and drift,
come images in stark relief
of twisted metal, broken things
that catch the eye, suspend belief.
Abandoned buildings, hollow-eyed
and winking in a death mask grip,
skeletal, once filled with pride,
now empty, and for ever tongue-tied,
cadavered, and condemned to drip.
Still later, the street-lamp spots
the cats a'creeping, worldly-wise,
and rats along the quayside waiting,
ready for the avalanche
of waste into the yawning dumpsters.
I have seen the children sneaking out
before the dawn comes crawling,
dirty little ragamuffins forced
into leftover clothes,
weepy-eyed and snotty-nosed,
playing with a rotting carcass
or a broken bicycle.
Like a knife it slices thin.
Slowly like a full blade.
The pain felt through out the body.
And ever bearing abundance
That will never go away.
Inside you'll scream.
You'll cry.
Hoping and praying this pain
Will forever go away!
But in your heart you'll know
No such remedy exists.
Crouch down.
Hold yourself.
Rock back and fourth.
It won't save your soul.
Won't protect you from what you
fear.
Even then it's the fear
Of fear itself that kills you.
The fact of not knowing what to
Be afraid of and what not.
It clouds your mind
And their for clouds your thoughts.
To overcome this
Is to court strength into
What is visually unknown.
To put aside all that cause
You to break down and cast
Off all emotions.
To be free... As you will
Is to be heartless.
To not feel anything at all.
So that when these nightmares
Come back you'll be awaken
Not of fear but of full rest.
Only thinking you've done your best
To cloud the monster that lies
Beneath your mind.
Just itching for every way to get
inside.
Leaving you but a pile of ash,
That was too scared to protect
Your own ass.
Gypsies
Across a misty channel
Sensor fingers
Stretch
Through foggy, silent waves
Where two souls embrace
In expeditions of speechless discovery
Two minds stand naked,
Face to face,
With wordless words
Each knowing the inner rhyme
Of another soul –
Intimate outside skin and limbs.
Across the barriers of minutes, hours, months
Two silent gypsies wander,
Through heartbeats
They stand, then gaze,
Connected to each other -
Escapees of the spoken word;
Outside the limits of ticking clocks
Two hearts touch
And see the signature of yet another
Self
At the address of the not yet arrived,
Undelivered.
Across the minutes and the moonlight
Pushing past the stealthy march of mysteries
Two fugitives flee holding hands
Leaving footprints
Escaping lines and spaces
Of a calendar;
Two almost strangers stand
At the mystic gates of the unknown -
Today’s unwanted guests
Intruders in tomorrow’s dwelling -
Thieves of time -
Fate’s despoilers.
Across the walls of midnight’s
Crumbling castles
Two wanderers peer into fleeting glimpses
Briefly understanding
The images and ghosts
Taking shape in the mist undefined;
Two stowaways crouch in secret coves,
Hidden from eyes born into mortality
In the warehouse of the borning
To see and not quite
Understand
Young future’s dance.
Across all barriers of time and space
Two gypsies touch outside galaxies to identify
Vague daylight outlines- dim midnight contours -
Embracing imprints,
Acknowledgment of events to come -
Words still unspoken;
Two souls run past the morning
Then return in recognition
For they now stand
Outside of themselves -
Vagabonds of facts
Nomads escaping demands for proof in black and white.
Great minds get the memo.
Six legs, two arms and often a tail
It greets its own kind with an expectant wail
They may well converse and they may form a pack
But what do they keep in that very small sack
There’s others that come bearing more heads and limbs
And some that appear when the light of day dims
Its plans for a peaceful encounter can fail
Often the culprit has foreshortened tail
Quite unlike what might occur on the X-files
It doesn't spit fire but does hurl projectiles
It then splits in two, it knows where each one lands
And rushes them back to its other halve’s hands
It’s salvo continues ’til someone cries ‘ouch!’
One half then watches the other half crouch
It scans its surroundings to feed the small sack
Wherever it’s from it’s then time to go back
But first it must visit the red hi-vis bin
The small sack, now loaded, deposited in
Its travels may take it up hill or down dale
Six legs, two arms and often a tail
*
If you don’t get this, your minds full of fog
Or your brain just went south on a train
It’s only the tale of one man and his dog
So why don’t you read it again?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the sky bleeds yolk over Saint-Rémy,
a fever-bright wash, thick as summer’s breath.
mountains crouch in indigo, their edges
softened by dusk’s bruising fingers.
grasses shiver—coarse strokes of emerald,
ochre, jade—a restless sea halted mid-sway.
a farmhouse kneels, its red roof smoldering
against the slope’s drowsy violet.
twisted trees claw at the light,
their crooked fingers sketching shadows
across the meadow’s thistly skin.
the fence stands tightly drawn.