Long Creosote Poems
Long Creosote Poems. Below are the most popular long Creosote by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Creosote poems by poem length and keyword.
Gentle Earth, I beg of you -
Whisper to us the first sign of spring.
Annul this wintry despair
And a season of life anew, bring.
From the depths of Baja
Carry the warmth in upon a draft.
Poke the sunshine through grumbly clouds
And send it down as a gilded shaft.
Clothe the desert with the raiment
Of fleeting sheets of white rain.
Implore the wildflowers that they
Bestow upon us a fantastic display.
Help the button-face of the brittlebush
Peep over the dead, crumpled brush.
Bring forth the canyon penstemon.
Make the Mexican lime cactus flush.
With one quick stroke of rain
Paint the delicate creosote yellow.
Order the Engelmann’s cactus to raise
Their trumpets of fuchsia and blow.
Tempt forth the birds to sing - listen!
I beg, usher March in.
Sight arrives first~
a spill of Mexican poppies
like molten gold across the
the Franklin Mountain foothills,
each petal swaying
in the desert’s slow exhale
Hearing follows~
the soft hiss of wind
threading through brittle grasses,
the faint click of stones shifting
under my boots,
and somewhere far off,
a quail calls
reminding me
solitude is never truly silent.
Touch wakes next~
sun-warmed air brushing my arms,
poppy petals grazing my fingertips
like small, shy flames,
and the gritty pulse of the trail
pressing its story
into the soles of my feet.
Smell rises gently~
the clean, sharp breath of creosote,
the earthy sweetness of sun-struck soil,
and the faint perfume of wildflowers
lifting from the fields
as if the desert itself
had decided to wear something soft.
And taste~
unexpected,
but there all the same:
the mineral tang of dust
on my tongue,
the bright edge of heat
settling in my throat,
the flavor of a landscape
that asks nothing
yet gives everything.
By the time I turn back,
the poppies glow brighter,
the mountains stand closer,
and every sense feels
a little more awake~
as if the desert
has quietly rewritten
the way my body senses
to the world.
April and the clocks forward spring,
our cricket practice gets in full swing.
Nets to untangle from their poles,
players to call and enrol.
Gang mowers to grease and oil,
the team kit-bag to disembroil.
Green stained pads to whiten bright,
fixture lists to expedite.
Mend the sight screen's rickety panels,
coax another season from my flannels.
Wash and iron the umpire's coats,
the score-box to creosote.
Tea urns to scour,crockery to rinse and clean..
a team captain's tasks routine,and unseen.
Cricketers good,indifferent,unsung,
across this land in a timeless sport played for fun.
When you're lost in the clouds in the shroud of winter and there's a sharp rap tappin' at your creosote clad door,
And you know full well your proudest punchline no doubt will flounder in the wake of your rough scuff ballroom floor,
Whilst the soft scent of Jasmine barks at the sight of your once so prevalent, eloquent rapport,
You know I'll be waiting darlin', resting steady, salivating for your quick six shot pistol draw
When your masks of the butterfly fall without grace like rain from those cherub cheeks,
You clasp at the buttercups that sit chained tight to your leather wrapped Chelsea boot feet,
And a look of distained dismay blankets your distant wedding bell Champagne stained streets,
I'll sit here waiting darlin', steady resting, and gently claw you back from those jagged jaws of defeat
When the flowers you collected on that moonlit meadow morning, wilt and wither and fold back into the night,
When the colourless crisp frosted foliage underfoot, bends and melts at the dance of first light,
And as you sleep and sweat and dream upon your pure silk fantasy guilded white,
You know I'm waiting darlin, resting steady, to feel your skin warm soft close and tight
When your list of endless acquaintances gobble up the last of the Lion's share,
When you really weren't ready for that cold steel playground truth or dare,
And the schools, parents and prophets who never really did get your precise style, beauty and flair,
Eternally here waiting darlin', steady resting, cup half full, relaxing, basking sweet in the knowledge that your energy is there
the angel on the mantel
comes from an old wagon road
that cuts from desert brush
into the burnished hills
where creosote breaks up and scatters
at the base of the Chiricahuas
where Fort Bowie Calvary slaughtered
Apache braves
where an old cancerous man treks
miles of primitive trail
into the heart of a sacred mountain
for pure white marble, cut into blocks
and stacked
one hundred years ago
to wait for a truck that never came
it's an arduous journey
for a piece of rock
especially
for a man
half-blinded as a little boy
by that first nuclear blast
in that sneak attack on New Mexico
arduous
for a man riddled with cancer
who could be spending his days
easier
"what behooves you to do it?"
"it's something to do while I'm here," he says
"we all need something to do while we're here
even if you're sitting on your couch, watching t.v.
eating potato chips
it's something to do
this is what I enjoy, so this is what I do"
he finds his chunk of marble
it tells him what it's supposed to be
he sculpts the figure
as he sees it
roughly
and really not rough at all
for he feels
more than he sees
and you feel
what he sees
angel on the mantel
do you feel me
april starts clocks forward spring
practice in full swing
nets untangled from their poles
players to contact & enroll
gang mowers greased&oiled
kit-bag dis-embroiled
grass-stained pads whitened bright
fixture list to expedite
fix sight-screen broken panels
coax another season from my flannels
spring-clean changing rooms dried with mud
re-lace boots& re-stud
wash& iron umpires coats
then score-box to creosote
tea-urns to scour crockey to clean
a captain's tasks routine unseen
dreams of 50's in the sun
games won by just one run
cricketers' good indifferent & unsung
this national game played just for fun