Long Burrowed Poems
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The cold wet wind blows to move the solid Oaks, to sway on a Winter's day. All things living are found hidden somewhere to escape the lonely cold. No children play where oft they do, instead the steam from the dryer vent floats across my many windows, making it seem even more cold, more...industrial. It's here in my silent windowed room there is a chilled but beautifully dreary perception which brings a feeling of contemplative thankfulness. It's here I feel protected like a creature burrowed down the Earth from a frightening world. I'm granted a blessing, to see the drizzle fall without knowing the sting of it's uncomfortably cold wetness. And my thoughts drift off to God.
Part One: I Love
The eagle as it flies far above restless
fields of golden wheat and stagnant marsh bottoms
where mice and rabbits inhabit ancient cress,
living small and unaware now in autumn's
warning chill of season's soon coming winter~
but the eagle knows coming snow will splinter
nature into those who have and who have not,
and only wisdom will see what spring has wrought.
Part Two: I Hate
The cold wind as it winnows its spiteful way
across tall mountain peaks into the valley
where colorful summer flowers once did play,
enticing bees to a pollen-filled galley ~
now flowers are dead and the bees have withdrawn
to hide from the cold in their houses of brawn
while beautiful flakes become old snow piled deep,
and nature has burrowed for long winter's sleep.
A Forest Dance
————————————————
for a dance around the tree
four youths link hands
circling
giggling into a cathartic
collapse
joyous over burrowed-under
bridges above the ground
of the nutrient-searching
long mossy roots
arms out
and then
they ran off
the tree left sensing
her ancient coarse bark
crusted coat creaking
as the winds hit
and knowing near
the solemn hanging
swaying
of uncountable needles
of pines aloft branching
on out of the forest
byway close to infinity
—————————————-++++———————————-
(Written for Jim)
(c) sally young Eslinger 12/18/21
Thanks be to God
Burrowed in a nest, built by their mother
A peaceful brood, snuggled up with each other
Show no concern about their next meal
They know she'll return, their bellies she'll fill
Living for the moment, for this moment is their life
Rain will replenish. Tasty worms, a rife
Surely tomorrow will bring dawn and then dusk
What is yet to come, with God they entrust
If tomorrow comes and the sun doesn't show
Then they will deal because then they will know
As for now they rest peacefully, no reason to rush
Breathe in the fresh air and mid morning hush
How intelligent these creatures, thought lesser than man
Instincts to survive without having a plan
would what that be junior? senior? sophomore?
since this brother in law rarely emails,
ye may scrunch countenance puzzled,
or on verge of emitting flatulence,
that if a ripper got let loose (by Jack),
would possibly find ja propelled,
thru Edgar Allan Poe's churchly
sepulchral tintinnabulation
(where for greater effect
yukon envision imagistic ravenous bats
in belfry resonating air,
or perhaps blasted back
to the House of the rising sun),
BUT...gnome hatter,
no win tent may starkly appear
explaining inexplicable reasonable rhyme,
why aye dash communique
minus virtual trumpeting blare
(sorry, but in the interest
of belated birthday cheer,
without computer generated imagery)
rendered hoop fully readable,
sans black and white Scottish matted pixels
constituting beloved appellation
unsure how to address ye perfectly clear
while sitting atop padded office chair,
pondering as already writ,
how to acknowledge thee, whither with dear...
meanwhile, this scribe experiences
comfortably numb derriere,
now scrambling, resorting, and toying
to fetch acceptable, catchy light hearted endear
mint, that seems tolerably acceptable
(of course) with flair
acutely perceptive, though NOT overboard with glare
ring obeisance, NOR USE ALL CAPS
TO SCREAM so ye kin hear
soap hull ease excuse this incurable
Harris scribe with thinning heir
yes...oye gevalt, infantile regression finds me
burrowed in Schwenksville, Pennsylvania lair
still emotionally inchoate, though grown a mere
speck within the flotsam and jetsam near
to boyhood Collegeville abode NOT saved by a prayer
re: home companion bachelor Norwegian farmer
replaced instead by vinyl city
all in the name of progress
which (once a pawn a time)
open farmland did dis app pear
so...a gam bulling gambit
to avoid moseying down Level Road...
may NOT seem *****
for insufferable sadness
with eyes bursting with many a tear...
(gulp) tis best to veer
away from topic uh viz er rated razed homestead,
and mainly wish ye another birth year!
adieu...from math tha hue
You were but a worm and then there was I, a beautiful pink rose growing wildly where there had once been no life
Long ago someone placed me here, someone planted the seed, for me to grow and become the sustenance that you would need
So that you could embed yourself into each and every part of me, places where I don’t even venture only craving for someone to seek
You needed such a soil that was for lack of better words well drained, one that had closed her blooms after enduring so much pain
And you, isn’t that exactly what you do? Crawl up inside of a flower and steal its vitality? It’s virtue?
You’re so slippery, just oozing with slime, you can’t stand your own carcass, your shell, so you choose to invade mine
See you thrive in the water there you can slink around, and what is a rose without rain drops falling from her petals to the ground?
See to the naked eye you can’t be seen, because you have cloaked yourself so well and burrowed your darkness inside of me
Please tell me how you know this rose that you invade is what you seek? You’re blinded and have no feel of touch, you can’t even think
But the one thing that you can do is breathe through your slimy skin, and smell the fragrance, the sweet pollen, that awakens you within
You are a healthy eater, oh my what an appetite, you could devour me at your leisure, in the matter of a night
You are nothing but a parasite, displeasing, just a waste, and you climb up inside of me begging for just a taste
This rose is standing here all alone and there is a reason for this, why others do not grow here and all is amiss
You are not the first to come around and sadly you will not be the last, I am but a beautiful rose that will never wilt you won’t stand a chance
I’m not willing to succumb to you, I won’t let you eat me up inside, others have tried before you and now their shells lie rotting by my side
You will not puncture the part of me, the part that I hold so close, I won’t let you into my den, the center of me that hides in the petaloid, the layers of my love within.
The gleaners undirt
these profane candy morphs
as they sift through the fields
in springs and falls.
Apiaceous, mud beige
burrowed beasties, them
bow legged, cowboy pulps;
others with flipped birds
sprung up from their hairy
carrot fists, bronxing to the sun.
You would think they
would be tough, those
mutter udders, those gangsta roots,
but they slice nicely into sticks,
lunch box size, far sweeter
than the common orange of their ilk,
far sweeter than their own
shrubby beards would veil.
Perhaps it’s the extra time
under muck that honeys them up,
dirt balls matriculating,
steeped in their element.
On weekends at the soup kitchen,
late May through long past Labor Day,
we pack the sweet gleaned under-chips
into sack lunches with smoked ham hero’s
and Frito's downtown behind the Kroger
where a sunny civil riot takes
place on Saturdays, and everyone
shows up out of their bag
to pick up the sticks, hungry stomachs,
all blood color-red in the gut
all ready to sit their hells
down…and eat.
He looks at the mirror and frowns at the image
‘Is it the glass or my face that lies shattered?’
Fault lines burrowed into borrowed time
Tim wonders about censorship and cracks
He sees a crossdresser between sadness and joy
A veil of burnt out darkness and shiny spectacles
Quorum of insanity and intense beauty alike
Bedlam carving out a picture of madness
Frowns and scars adorn past vision of duels
Of minds and a sword of common dissent
A freckle hidden under three-day stubble
Shadows of sleepless nights in despair
They say it is the persona or mask of retreat that
Enacts the drama of living enhanced by oozing
Wounds of battles long gone with no victor
But the lonely survivor who he has become
The looking glass reflects upon wrinkles and blotches
Attempting to scratch out disfigured pit falls of thoughts
Discoloured from jagged emotions at face value
Shades of discontent imprinted on countenance
As Tim tries to make sense of deceitful senses
Divulges the distorted prism that he has become
The mirror cracks into mute darkness and doubt
There is no escape and the trap door stays shut
When eternity of his ragged convulsion has passed
He decides that cutting through insurmountable walls
With a razor would only heap more meaningless blood
Whereas accepting containment can be a close shave
He pierces the conception of failure and reassembles
Broken shards into a mosaic of dis-ambiguous beauty
‘I am who I was and will reassign polarity to the centre’
He marvels in ink of realignment and scribes a way forth
01st December 2019
Beyond the wave-sacked pebbles
lie the pockmarked dunes,
sea-wind swept heaps,
burrowed by the claws of scaly thrashers.
Here they huddle, the working class,
flogging grim pleasures,
wolfing eggy sandwiches,
dipping tea-stained teeth into beakers
as a chill summer drizzles on.
I am a brine-spattered small fry,
a boyhood caught in a swirl
and flounder, bare feet
skimming the slimy kelp, stalking
an ankle tugging surf.
Mother, her demeanor
soggy and sagging at last,
pleads to be led back
to the creaking camper.
Father smokes a plug of leathery shag,
grunts upright, walks toward the sea,
looks to see God knows what,
then turns to drag me away,
from our holiday day.
I had never been in a house before but about a week ago I fell onto a straw hat, and rode her into the house. The straw hat was not edible, so I tried to get comfortable in a small sewing box, but I kept running into pointy things after I burrowed in, and they hurt. Ouch!
Next I climbed up a green wall and sat in a glow-bulb. This bulb went from cool, to warm, to hot, to unbearably hot in a short amount of time, so I climbed out of the glow fixture and made a slow methodical climb down onto a bed where sat a cloth doll. She looked nice and cozy, but on first bite I knew this was not something I could latch onto and enjoy.
I soon discovered a yipping thing. My cousin had told me about dogs. It looked promising, but I knew I would have to wait until the yipping thing was asleep. I salivated as I thought about how tasty a dog is reported to be. It seemed to take hours for the dog to go to sleep. Delightfully tasty my cousin had said, but have you ever tried to take a bite of curly thick fur? After six tries I gave up.
A large snoring giant was next to the yippy thing. I had heard about giants, but I had never burrowed into one. It took me almost all night to go from the feet to the head. Once at the giant’s scalp, I burrowed in, and it was delightful. A taste of paradise. Shangri-La!
Luckily, I was not discovered for three glorious days; best vacation I ever had. A feast for the gods, and I could eat whenever I wanted until a few minutes ago when the giant did a tick check, and found me. I was promptly put onto a soft white fluffy thing. I am right now taking a raft ride down a swirling river. A fabulous week! I would recommend this to everybody!