Assorted Poems and Whatnot

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
I wrote these poems for a girl! They are just a bunch of words

Submitted: January 07, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: January 07, 2012



The following are several different poems. They are written in English.


I believe it’s cheating to hit return upon a line of poetry, cheating to impart a feeling of cheap thrill with the empty space after a stanza and exclamation points and commas, that only serve to create a wonder within a reader when the real worth should lie in the words.


Kir-Ug, the bane of seventeen dynasties

In the Uruklan Kingdom

His mighty scepter adorned with human teeth as blades

Into his eyes one may never look, but to hazard a glimpse upon the battlefield

Before he extinguishes your life as he has many others would show you

Not anger

Not joy

Not morbid pleasure

Not effort

Not righteousness

Not sadness




Searching for the Tree of Life, we parked our cars

Along the interstate highway to Ohio

Years, decades if you count my forefathers, maybe centuries

Of searching and calculation has led us here today

Trees must have seeds, must propone their lives or else

Why have life?

And so charting winds and mass animal migrations over the last five centuries

To find the hallowed seeds of that fabled New World Tree of Life

We scour the lackluster walnut tree orchard on the interstate road’s banks


Diamonds are a girl’s best friend, you can see right through a diamond

Pleasing to the eye, weighted in the hand, glittering on the finger, always present

No wonder it’s so darling in expense, when one is fundamentally

Buying their best friend

A man’s best friend is questionable, dog’s loyalty can falter so

Perhaps the only resolute companion could be a simple stone

Diamonds are impervious to scratches by lesser ores and

Though their image isn’t masculine it supplies a watcher’s eye with

Value, ingrained in human assumption

But diamonds come and go, and so does life so

I would rather be your best friend alone


Right Turn Only

Says the sign outside my door

I’ve disobeyed it often, and now I know the score

When going left I typically befall a certain fate

Tricksters’ ploys, I assume, to make me accommodate

When going right, the day is light and good beyond compare

How could one directional change affect all after there?

I could go right preceding left and still my day is lost

I could go left preceding right and not be victim to accost



Gas is falling

Down on Berlin

To-day but really

It’s been falling since

The dawn of man and it

Will still be falling at man’s



Rolling together, shirtless

Tumbling headlong fore-ways and over-heels

Sweat glistening, moving to the other’s body and back

Thrusting movements, gyrating to get an advantage

Pleasure in success

Staring into the eyes when one can

Not concerned with what is surrounding,


And finally, spent, collapsing in a crumpled heap of two persons

Wrestling is fun.


What’d you think I meant?


Garbage-man Harold

Picks up the black, mysterious bags in the crowded city of San Francisco

He remembers the story that brought him here;

A diamond, his grandpa had said, bigger than an Adam’s apple

Tumbled like a falling star amidst the wrappers and peels

Into a young garbage-man’s hands

His lust for wealth and immortalization led his career into

The dumps. And never did Harold open that bag which held

The gem


Reaching for the highest apple

One is prone to topple

The worthiness is tangible

The apple of the eye literal

So lest you fall and scrape a knee

Let the apple come to thee

Fallen, bruised a bit but sweet

Succulent and terrestrial meat-eater’s last reconciliation with Gaia


The sardonic grimacing face chiseled from mountain rock, his frock coat not sculpted closely around his neck to weather the bitter cold of Rushmore, compatriots standing too close for comfort and breathing down upon his starched wig which by the way has been crooked for 81 years, the flocking adulators of foreign race and creed surrounding, the only ones showing interest in the lives of four men who had a few victories and many more days as a child, babbling and incoherent but for their hedonistic pleasure


A frightful dungeon looms like the working shuttles of textile factories

Except the only product of this loom – is terror

In one must go, no sense in waiting in miasmal swamp heat for a slower, less glorious death

Save the handshakes, dungeon chamber, proceed straightway to goodbyes

Smitten enemies lay aside dying in the tombs in which they’ve lived

Health meter strangely present yet lacking sanguinary comfort

A broken urn reveals to me the heart which discomfits the remaining wards

Of the sacred hollow steps of the sacred hollow sepulcher

Where sacred men were sent motionless yet stirred to move again



Is as sediments compound


Is as brains turn into books


Is as blankets tucked under one’s legs


Is as an unrequited savior


Is as a stove left on during the vacation


Is as storage sheds of pure light


Is as much alone as collected


I do not understand

The waiting in the wings

Between each powerful beat

Or hesitation in the voice

Before one starts to sing

I do not understand

The comfort of the fog

Placation from the lack of sight

In the midst of the unknown

Though natural the smog

And I do not understand

How the heart could move

Each time the home must shift

Always a beat behind it

Easier to remove

But I will soon



Garrett had the biggest log

He liked to show it around

When he, fatigued, began to slog

Another came to impound

“No!” He expounded to get him away,

But he would not away, to Garrett’s dismay

And instead took the log in Garrett’s delay

And Garrett was left with nothing to say

But his muscles were large; he’d carried that log

From Monaco to Chile, from Chile to Prague

He could take some other log from another slog and

He’d carry that log to the end of his days

© Copyright 2017 Crosby Allison. All rights reserved.

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