I am not one for web poetry. If you are looking the so called "web poetry" than you are on the wrong site. I am not much for gimmicks. If you enjoy my work, then that's fine. I am not about to go into a rant about the state of poetry today. You can all breathe in comfort.
Anyway, given the sheer number of poems I have written in the past few years (not to mention the horrible amount of crap as well), I will be hosting my poems in small bits. They will be split into simple divisions, probably either based on content or on "type". Regardless, until I have published/contracted the poetry to a specific source, I will host as much poetry as I can. Please, I am not one who considers legal ramifications. On the other hand, do not steal my poetry.
New features:
Those interested in the haikus I have been working on for the past few years, I am thinking of posting them here shortly. I'm going to be updating ( hopefully) with poetry as I write it. For the meantime, please bear with me while the site is under construction.
For now, I'm hosting Necropolis right here! So, click here if you want to read it!
Agricultural Poetry
Biblical Poetry
Biographical Poetry
Dedicated Poetry
Agricultural Poetry
"Green Trees", "The
Weathered Piety", "Untitled (Tractor
Rolling)"
Green Trees
J. S. Squires
June 22, 2005
Am I to feel bad for young Christmas trees?
They too struggle in the grass, small green arms
Stretching only as high as the green grass reeds,
Small prickles breathing lightly cool carbon.
Why they struggle on for a few decades more
Only ‘t have their lives cut short on snow’s eve—
As this hollow soul is a little more wore
By perpetration, put simplistically,
Of my families’ egos and hypoacidity—
Is beyond the simple views of my tired eyes.
It’s summer though, and the mowers weave
About those small green Christmas trees, dead lives
Of ornamental life they’ve yet to lead
Just another green blur amongst green weeds.
The Weathered Piety
J.S. Squires
March 01, 2006
So many young onions grow in pairs or in threes
Where thinning them means killing one or two.
Slight off-white on green pile of debris
Smashed ‘neath the unconscious sole of a boot
That would not feel the weight regardless.
Does the moisture yearn also to be free
For it holds to the dirt with roots first breath,
But do young roots never aired even breathe?
Some foul odor whispers in the new wind,
And there’s flashes wisping over the crop
That stands stronger, higher, now they’ve been thinned;
Yet, lonely they never knew fortuned fraught
With the quiet, violent sibling demise
That granted them longer and brighter lives
Was it wafting on the slick Eurotas,
Proud child, that you soul found spirit’s solace?
What slim piece grew askew that, passionless,
You slept beneath the exposed starry sky?
Did warm touches outlast cold caresses
Or did Hades bind your wings tight—
So infantile, could they beat back his breast
Back from the press of forced adulthood’s pride—
To kill and save renown for greater chest,
One strong enough to bare shield or to die;
Yet, what then did you do on those cold stones
But lay down your arms for society?
Then again, no one asked your weathered bones
What was milk to your drying piety?
Untitled (Tractor
Rolling)
J.S. Squires
Summer 2005
Pitter-patting rain on rolling tractor top,
Does the grass caress the falling shell?
When does the blood on window stop,
And rain on windshield begin anew?
Let the dreams of the inner cab stay
When the brain matter is red and grey,
And the neurons are as comet’s lull
On the brightest of cloudy nights,
Entropic insect’s full-winged flight:
Hold still, sound of distant tolling bell;
Hold still you grasping arms from hell,
Let gravity pull gently its morbid might.
So that the horses may rest a moment
Before the body can ceases its torment.
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Biblical Poetry
"Quiet Grace Broken: The Flood",
"The Fires of 1839 and
the Death of Van Parr", "Eternal
Flame Extinguished"
Quiet Grace
Broken: The Flood
J.S. Squires
February 7, 2006
Oh you sullen choir
Why sing your happy songs?
Heaven cannot hold
The infernal dead out
And nimbi sink blood-red
As Angels meet the rout!
Strike lightening, strike lightening,
And break, break and drown
The lungs of the abandoned!
For all hell’s broken loose,
Heaven is hell last brim;
Earth boils in the bout
The clouds siphon Neptune’s
Ill Will against the never man,
As he cleaves his bathing soul.
There, rainbows but grimace
Shattering some God’s promise!
Turmoil? Toiling clouds?
Do these filters fallen virtues?
What messiah now strives to
Save distraught man’s soul?
Fore natural body now quakes
As infernal bowels wake and break!
And these lungs drained of breath
In Hell’s final conquest in death.
The Fires of 1839 and
the Death of Van Parr
J.S. Squires
November 9, 2005
They told the Dutchmen that the cross was fixed
And set in three points happily speaking
To the jealous Janus’ head, a war of
Past conflicts summarized neat in a star:
“Van Parr, condemned to death by fire you are,
Sentenced to be burn till your flesh is black
And to hell’s inferno you’re welcomed back!”
And the Dutchmen raised his chin still higher:
“Would you burn me if I turned but a liar?
Would you have me exchange one death for ‘nother
And sing separate sins for separate pyre,
Or see this true heart pure in your hell’s fire?”
To this the minister but gave him pause,
“Blinded are your eyes; blinded is your soul,
So, to the burning luster with you ghoul,
And there will All God’s Love meet your folly
To usher you into the fiery
Ash flames so worn by tongue’s agony
Burning towards glory for eternity!”
What sins did Van Parr, the Dutchmen, commit?
He wore the guise of the wrong black bible,
The wrong end of the wrong stick stacked too high
Left the Dutchmen on wrong end of fire side.
And when those raising flames—too hot; too noble—
Grasped at the dark robes of his Dutchmen coat,
Even the great dream opened wide his mouth:
“Janus, whore of Babylon, How goes ‘t world?
So bright, so very bright, and warm today;
Forgive them for they know not of what whore
They find themselves in bed to fornicate!
So, though I be burned, let it all be known
That they were first to light the match on me,
And I, pure and burned, will to heaven go
To see what forked head ends in misery;
Let pure stay pure, and evil stay evil!”
And the fire, pure, made all sands level.
Eternal Flame
Extinguished
J.S. Squires
February 14, 2006
Shivering the cold wind roars
About the simple, vivid world
When some bow has broke
On bowels of Shiloh’s brook
And They speak of this Will
Or that Will that holds still
The rotations of the realm
As it tumbles ever down.
Spirals and Spirals of sand
Endless times of fallen man
All presently spiral down
Into darkness light unfound.
Dismal Drivel are these times
When man is limited in mind,
And sees subjective realms
All sooths’ objective helms.
Silently, oh silently, siren calls
To the simple and the moot lulls
That mute queens’ quite sob
As the King dies on the cross.
In riot men and swords all mesh
Death crown with blood on breast
“Hail King, Hail to King of Fire”;
Absent queens laid in their pyre.
“Kneel” the bended worms seep
Loosed footing slick and steep,
Wiggle within their mouthed-gaze
Feeding, Feeding, feeding haze.
Some small child stoops and dies
Happy the wary marching ides’
Impending has fallen onto them
That eat the serpent’s rigid end.
Loki laments in his icy hell
And Satan sobs in gray inferno;
All immortals find their demise
Tho’ myth swore they could not die.
Great red fires eat the sky
Scoring where nimbi lie,
And the ants crawl into nest
To die armored Breast to Breast.
…singing, the choir sleeps
Next to the world’s fiery sweep
Into the abyssal darken plane
Of life-ending eternal flame.
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Top Of Biblical Poems
Biographical
Poetry
"Cold Notes and Old Songs", "Last
Night’s Dream", "Rails Yesterday",
"Free Piano", "Steve’s
Snow Picture"
Cold Notes and Old
Songs
J.S. Squires
Nov. 30, 2005
Ed. Feb. 27, 2006
No matter the beat I can’t take the song
For it reminds me of such better nights
Amongst friend I used to call my home
And the friends I had called the Blight.
Those that were once home and friends
Together and made my life so much better,
And now, to be sad, I lost them to the cold…
For the wind blows and I hear the songs
That remind me of being home and typing:
“It’s just cold leaves in old wind and song,”
But I remember typing the Ghost story
And everyone sitting around and listening
To the bitch tell me I wrote her a character
Where there was none to begin with!
So, then these words written by songwriters
Told me that the frigid cold sings, “my friends,”
And notes to girls and the winds over Ohio ,
But I know the words and I know the song
And it’s about friends I had in State College
That told me I was a writer/poet first in life,
Before I knew rhyme and what were lyrics…
So, my God, how lonely life is with only the cold
And the songs that remind but don’t grant—
Merciless gods of some past life’s memory—
These vision, the lesions on my past being!
Now, oh now, I type in the solitude of song
And bare laughs with one last hold on Blight .
When were we 6 so different, my lost friends?
When were we more than anything but alive?
And now, gone, we’re nothing but notes undrawn,
Old, dry songs, and the unseen, cold winds.
What will broke, what fate decreed
That I struggle where I was meant to seize?
That I should fear to be alone,
When I have so much more than I did before?
Though, embracing that ill wind,
I think I know what I lost in that old place
That the Blight called home in State College.
Last Night’s Dream
J.S. Squires
January 16, 2006
Dreaming, ever dreaming
She sent worlds my way…
I had seen her soft fires
On some past fall day,
Burning brightly passing
With whirled leaves
Over cement pathway.
“You don’t need to lie,
I know you love me”
Lipsticked lips part—
Dreaming I heard them say.
Dreaming, ever dreaming
The leaves breathe naked
“I had dreamed,” dreamy I
Said to them, “that tonight
You would know me true”
And I parted my mouth
In utterance of the truth.
Gleaming night lark streaming
Chorus over its domain;
Sweetest of the night birds
Heard till rise of day.
She whispered, “I saw you
Giving your heart by day.
I held it tightest at night,
When the day decayed.
Yet, dreaming was made to end,
Gray Nimbi fled white knight
And seeped earnest dreams
In their fleetest flight.
Rails Yesterday
J.S. Squires
January 29, 2005
Trolley lines run North;
Yet, South lines run South,
And I walk both ways
At night and in day…
Each path leads abuse
By hand into the night,
Where I see humans
In Pain and a Pain,
Constantly they circle:
Agony in Hand
With grey Villainy.
They swing together,
Happy lovers’ angst
Unspoken betwixt.
I see the corrupt
Barely its grown up
To spawn more sick seed:
“Fucking sit down Now
Or I’ll fuckin’ hit you!”
Three little girls hand
Quaking and swearing
Fork tongues all licking
The small girl they lead
Down their corrupt path…
And my heart beat crept
Slow in its bone wreath
When the young fleet feet
Of a small girl rushed
To secure her seat,
Oh little wreath rushed
To catch breath and speak,
“Wait a lil’, she’s here!”
Her mother, near rear
Of car too long yet,
Called her long pursuit
Of her distant youth.
A foot in the door
When door was ajar…
“No,” and no more door.
Lithe face leapt away
With soft tears for eyes
And gaping jaw silent
For the doors were closed
To cease her soft tears
And the creature’s fears;
How man lets his wants
Leads his life is vile:
Your life’s short circuit
Spans impatient miles
Comprised: selfish wants
And your aging years.
Too drive back those days,
Perhaps switch your seats.
(I’ve seen you drive back
What drives also fore’
And has nose for ass.)
Inside, I rose up,
Outside I stayed quite…
Injustice too young…
…but what world I lead
To sit ever quite still
Where I’m impotent
To all that matters?
Too modern is youth
And we’re all to old
T’ see the changing world
Falling off the edge
Where once we all sailed
To consul th’ wise dead.
I sail on bone ships
With a mast of red
And look for any land
In the young eyes dead;
Ice Hells, frozen waste,
Sloth weans on Avarice…
I grow weary of chess
With the nimble death
That cheats my gray lungs
With every sad breath.
Free Piano
J.S. Squires
June 04, 2005
An old man sat playing the piano
Outside the window pane, with cane ‘cross lap,
Singing an Italian song o’ bagnio
And the bigamy of a wife’s sweet tap.
An old man sat playing the piano
With larynx promenading the street;
High voice cried full of pain, tears, and sorrow
So the world eased pace and dampened its feet.
An old man sat playing the piano
With heart beating to beat until bruised
Where it might lie quietly with Pluto
After love has let hell’s red dogs all loose.
And old man sat playing the piano
For an audience of the world to see,
But the old man played the chores solo
And I cried to hear the notes through the trees.
Steve’s Snow Picture
J.S. Squires
October 24, 2005
Why does the snow seem to fall
When it’s the most romantic,
That the sun just hides away
Enough to make your day,
To make you smile bright
To make things so down
Seem, finally, oh so right.
And everyone hates the cold,
When it’s frigid at its worst;
We’re freezing inside all night
And the moods says down-right
Dead on miserable for everyone,
But then there’s long hair in snow,
And we’ve no where yet to go.
She’s small fingers so cold
To tighten in the pocket sweater—
Or sweatshirt if you ask me—
And things just seem much better!
But she’s bright eyes for another,
And it’s so much more weather
When the suns down in the cold.
It’s a cold evening tonight,
It’s a frigid temperate night,
But I’m alone on this stone wall,
The bus is just nowhere at all,
And she sits all quite, tight lipped,
And I’m waiting, still waiting yet.
Maybe to see some bright teeth,
Maybe to hope it changes outright,
Maybe that chatter of bare bones
Will put her heart back in throes
And warm her softening heart,
Warm those red lips for me tonight.
The snow prominent on the red hue,
It’s a photograph to be romantic
To hold flesh, to hold still onto
The memory of her all warm there,
Clothed and smiling—I’m there,
Wet ass on the wall smiling too.
Sure it’s us, it’s all just all right,
With the both of us together for life
Memorized in a torn smile, immortal
Forever winter with snow coming down,
That she makes me laugh and happy
When a home’s not in this town,
Not in this house, but forever the all.
So, thousand words too many aflash’
With the bulb of our digital cement,
Together bound on the mortar
With her fingers in my coat,
And my smile for her bright eyes,
Lil’ read hues whispering “come on”
And love me like there’s no tomorrow!
Let it snow, let me find myself froze
Forever on the wall with her tonight,
The moisture of my eyes tonight,
Doesn’t matter when it’s all spoken,
Misspoken, and out on the stone wall
Or my college love’s timid, snowy life,
And her poet torn apart for one more night.