Long Outcropping Poems
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Wings flutter
off in the distance
as I shuffle through these stones,
tasting the energy trapped in each,
scouring my lands
for my lost crystal,
that which can mend
what I’ve torn asunder.
In frustration
I abandon my quest,
deciding to find
my feathery deity,
the wind carries her scent to me
and I head Northeast,
diving through brush
and dodging trees
like only a Lycan may.
She must have picked up on my intentions
for I sense her
heading towards me
so I veer more northward,
there’s a place I know.
As I draw near
you can hear water
cascading off rocks,
when I arrive the moon is up,
clouds curled beneath it
as if it were a white pearl
resting on gray cushions,
to the right
the beginnings of a river
being fed by the waterfall,
about 80’ tall
careening off the three
stone outcroppings
and filling the air in the clearing
with a fine mist,
the left is ringed
by long needled pines
which have supplied the ground
with a soft cushion.
My winged beauty
lands on the third outcropping
whipping her hair back
under the waterfall’s edge.
I sprint to the water’s shore
and leap to the first,
as my claws connect
bound to the second,
paws touching
then legs thrust me
to the third
where I bring myself erect,
better to ensnare my love
within my arms.
As I bring her close to me
she raises her left hand up
and caresses my muzzle and cheek
with her claws,
I bend downward
and gently
sink my teeth
into the side of her neck,
she springs off the precipice ,
me entwined,
and glides down to the pine needle bed.
As we land
she pushes herself up,
drags her right claw
down my chest
and leans in to drink.
I drag one nail along
each shoulder blade
and let her blood
drip down on me
while I lick my claws clean.
After hours
she crashes down
into my chest,
exhaustion settling in.
I cup my hand around the back of her head,
hair entwined
in my fingers
and as she uses her wings
to blanket us
we drift off
into a pleasant slumber
while the stars blink at us
and the night creatures
serenade us with their calls.
I
Cut clean through two tall black mountains,
A jagged metal river froths like rabies.
Raging between outcast boulders and spires
The blue-grey greatsword eternally grinding at stone.
The footpath worn through and ground in,
Etched into the cliffs over centuries,
Standing testament to humanity’s trials;
Written upon the precipice with bones.
II
My footsteps echoed over the muddy grey shale
This day, as the ashen sunrise cast
Each arduous step in a lazy silver haze,
The singing sea’s fog slipped along the slick slate
Impaling wary souls upon a bone-rattling gale.
The roar of the piercing wind lashed
At an unseen shoreline, driving stakes
Through shivering, shuffling, submittent wights.
III
The line crawling across the ancient path
Moved as if on a string: the last
Step falling into the prints made
By those ahead, left for those behind.
Beckoned onward by destiny, seduced by blind faith,
We journey under frayed sheepskins and threads.
My hand, pitted and dark, digs with nails like dull spades
Into a low outcropping, preceding the fall of the Blind;
IV
The gravel pathway melted underfoot, under ragged boots
And, clinging for life, for desperate survival in vain,
Left hand fighting fiercely a losing dance with gravity
While the right reached out to be saved.
Shadows encircling but none too close, they were rooted
In the breadth of their path. None seemed impelled
To reach for anything save the light pouring forth from their grail.
Hope fleeting, I release, and what was given been repaid.
V
Never to see the sun’s golden promise on seaside fog,
The restless river races to greet another truant soul
Who dropped from the odyssey like a fruit fly born next to
An empty bowl. The silver-wreathed cemetery trees ring;
The seeds that sprout a network bloom in springtime sunrises;
A sapling oak without strong roots blows over with a light breeze.
It’s not the bitter winds of Winter that saps soul from the weak -
It’s the slow frost of existence in the lucent promise of Spring.
La Loba rose with the sun barely glancing over the desert’s surface.
This old hag was as reliable and necessary
as the fall dearth marching toward the spring’s refrain.
She carried with her a sack in which to store her cache.
La Loba shuffled through the sand searching for the bones.
A small piece,
here or there,
or a fully formed skeleton might emerge
not yet scattered by the cold March wind.
Treasures in tow,
she dragged them along the pathless sands
returning to the rock outcropping that was her home.
La Loba forms a spiral of these pieces of humanity,
circling to the vortex which is her.
In these bones lie the indestructible potencies
of the indomitable soul of womankind’s existence.
Calling back the disjointed and dying pieces of our world
she spins a spell to invigorate the bones of female intuition.
Each bone begins to flesh out,
Growing each a separate creature
The fleshing bones crackle,
as new growth appears upon it.
Blood throbs beneath the skin
Creating new growth to each new bud of reborn growth.
La Loba tosses the fleshed out half formed creatures
out across the earth among the women that she finds.
Each woman,
Writhing in the constraints,
of the straightjackets within which they live.
Each has the chance to choose to take on
the responsibilities that come with La Loba’s gift.
Our responsibility to show the world
that La Loba’s breath has touched our brow
and live a life inclusive of the Wild Child we now comprehend.
High up amidst a forest slope,
in bedding grounds where whitetails lope,
by ledges hidden from our eyes,
a quirky outcropping does lie.
Breaking a broadleaf canopy,
the scree-slope of an old quarry,
long ago Dibble cut blue-stone,
must be a century ago,
slab-sheets cut out with sweat and pain,
so much abandoned still remains…
But the hikers have had their fun,
make use of the work that was done,
First they built half-a-dozen walls,
some of them damn near six-feet tall,
like some medival castle large
once stood on this small mountain-scar.
Up above flat-stones circle ’round,
a spiral built into the ground,
like Celts got lost, ended up here,
or icy foes wished us to fear…
A little below sit four thrones,
tall, and built of stack-up stones,
from the top of the old quarry,
you perch, and many miles see:
Black vultures soar, looking to eat,
sniffing the winds for rotting meant,
a hawk flies by on thermal rise,
with sharp eyes rodents he espies.
To the east, the sheer gash of Platte Clove,
spattering of vacation homes,
a cliffside road, somewhat scary,
no guard-rails and turns quite hairy.
Some small meadows that once were farmed,
they still retain their rustic charm,
rounding form of the Catskill Peaks,
where vacationers long have seeked
a place to play and remain sane,
so what’s a better place to reign
then stone thrones under brilliant sun,
high up in our Catskill Kingdom.
as you walk in to this world
your power is absolute
your imagination the only cage
power is an unknown
as it seems but a dream
you take your lover by the hand
in the fields of tall grass and prairie flowers
you fell the wind twist between your fingers
you watch the flowers bloom in the suns rays
they hit our face as the moon rises
the sky fills with stars
like a glass hitting the ground
your lover takes your hand
as the sky falls in to you
there is but one light before you
it start to twist and grow
the sky runs from you
as you take up the chase
you come to a stop as a lake appears at your feet
on a outcropping above the lake
your lover sings with a voice of ice
there voice following the shiver running up you spine
you stand beside you lover
the smile falls from your face
as your lover fades away
the moon smile with your lovers face
the moons loving rays mirror in the lake
the rays hit your face as the sun rises
a book in your hand a fire burning in the hearth
the night is complimented by the snow falling
the snow flakes hit your face
your clock blows in the wind
as you lover touches your neck
you look in to their eyes
and take your lovers hands
your lover takes you lips
as you walk in to this world
your power is absolute
your imagination the only cage
power is an unknown
as it seems but a dream
Form:
Late one balmy June afternoon,
I perched on an outcropping of obsidian rock,
watching wide-eyed up the mountain
spewing molten lava into the sky. I was fourteen.
The base was fringed with a blanket of the green canopy,
which abruptly ended halfway up,
where the the bare rock face stood out like a scar.
The towering volcano bore its wound proudly,
roaring its challenge, molten spittle flying from its mouth. I was fourteen.
What must it be like to have the power to create and destroy?
Closing my eyes, my feet left the outcropping of lava rock.
I joined the flow of lava,
reaching out and devouring the nearest organic material,
traveling farther, over the outcropping it had taken years to build,
hissing as I cooled, leaving my mark on the majestic landscape. I was fourteen.
My hands trembled as I raised my small blue camera,
trying to capture a snapshot of the incredible force of nature before my eyes.
A tumbling rock, slapped the mountain side.
The resounding crash vibrated through my feet.
A shiver, that had nothing to do with the sinking sun, wracked my frame.
If I had ever needed proof of God, I was witnessing Him at that moment.
There I stood, weeping with awe, fourteen.
The Petal-Sprinkled Path
The petal-sprinkled path
We walked together
The lip-sharing math
In the cherry weather
We walked together
Time flew with lightning speed
In the cherry weather
Witnessed by the moss and weed
Time flew in lightning speed
We knitted the tales of lips
Witnessed by the moss and weed
Through an ocean moved the ships
We knitted the tales of lips
Amidst of ancient woodland hidden there
Through an ocean moved the ships
In a quiescence of lulls spell, time wears
Amidst of ancient woodland hidden there,
Outcropping of pleasure, around, and through
In a quiescence of lulls spell, time wears
Audience veil, ardent scents, and blush dew
Outcropping of pleasure around and through
Bring forth a curtain of rare verdant trees
Audience veil, ardent scent, and blush dew
Peering out heavens trickle summer seas
Bring forth a curtain of rare verdant trees
The lip-sharing math
Peering out heavens trickle summer seas
The petal-sprinkled path
7/7/2017
COLLABORATION with Probir Gupta
Poetry Contest: COLLABORATION CONTEST
Sponsored by: JAN ALLISON
COLLABORATION CONTEST
The Petal-Sprinkled Path
The petal-sprinkled path
We walked together
The lip-sharing math
In the cherry weather
We walked together
Time flew with lightning speed
In the cherry weather
Witnessed by the moss and weed
Time flew in lightning speed
We knitted the tales of lips
Witnessed by the moss and weed
Through an ocean moved the ships
We knitted the tales of lips
Amidst of ancient woodland hidden there
Through an ocean moved the ships
In a quiescence of lulls spell, time wears
Amidst of ancient woodland hidden there,
Outcropping of pleasure, around, and through
In a quiescence of lulls spell, time wears
Audience veil, ardent scents, and blush dew
Outcropping of pleasure around and through
Bring forth a curtain of rare verdant trees
Audience veil, ardent scent, and blush dew
Peering out heavens trickle summer seas
Bring forth a curtain of rare verdant trees
The lip-sharing math
Peering out heavens trickle summer seas
The petal-sprinkled path
7/7/2017
Poetry Contest: COLLABORATION CONTEST
Sponsored by: JAN ALLISON
I look into the valley
A shroud of mist hides its beauty
Pale and gray it hangs below me
The sun has yet to reach down from its heights
I know there is life there
There is the smell of a million flowers
Floating on cool breezes
Cooled by a shallow blue/green pond
Rising from the distant floor
The sounds of chirping birds
Chicks crying for food from their mothers
Hawks scream while they look for food
Flying high above the valley’s sides
They echo from stony walls covered with ancient vines
The only sounds on a tranquil spring day
The mist breaks for just second
Leaving a trail of swirls and eddies
As a spotted fawn runs across the dewy grass
The sun rises dissolving the morning’s veil
The animals hide
The birds nest to raise their young
The beauty of the valley is still there
But the magic that was hidden by the fog
The illusion of that peaceful world
The melodic song of the valley’s life
Burns away in the sun’s bright glare
Maybe tomorrow morning before the sun rises
I will again stand on this rocky outcropping
I will see the veiled world
And the magic will be there again
I'm scrapin' the marrow
I'm scrapin' the marrow from the
splintered bones of my last hero
Sustenance
Flecks of sustenance as I cower
Cower under this shelf
This outcropping of old white guy
Trepidatiously I peer out at a
Skynet world
Shadow governments
Shady leaders
Populations being winnowed
Pared back by progress
There was a time (and I remember this time) when it was said "Man will never walk on the Moon"
And now when it is said "Worldwide famine is impossible"
I ain't so sure
Weavin'
Weavin' the sinew of my last hero
Weavin' a cord
A sling cord
Need a pouch
Here's one
Need stones
Here's two
A guy once told me "You have to give a bit of yourself to the effort"
I understand that now as I sip from the skull top cup
of
my last hero