Redundant rhythm of tick tock
Acrid annoyance on this dismal day
Time travels at a prompt pace
Its hastening hands will swiftly spin
Fast forward... clicking clock
Tacit tongue like Poe's pendulum
With gripping grasp, the Swinging stopped
The nest is naked
Crass and cruel
It is not for sparrows.
Any berries I eat
Taste like acrid ash
Spilling out of my beak.
Above, are haughty eagles
Claws full of meaty mice
Swooping high above trees.
My marbled eyes can only stare
Hungry, so hungry for belonging
And not even the branches hold me.
A fall, a tumble—
All it would take to dive
Deep into the Earth's clay.
Would it be as cold as this?
When the rain beads off my feathers?
When the wind frosts my lashes?
I am certain She would spit me out
A carcass of plastic bird bones
To be reborn as the same sparrow.
I put my arms around you, your heart melts into mine;
the borders of your anguish I can easily define.
There is no need for language explaining agony,
I perceive a griever’s heartache in black telepathy.
Your landscape is familiar, I know one similar
in the trackless barren places, in the lonely city spaces
where people neither know nor care.
I gleaned shriveled fruit from withered vines,
crushed, distilled, and drank the acrid wine.
I climbed the treeless summit, trekked the tundra of despair,
heard the mountain winds dark harmony
to a mourning mother’s keening prayer.
I know because my heart has heard
within its depths your soundless words.
Copyright, July 11, 2026
Steam vapors rising
asphalt emits acrid scent
sunshine clears the air.
Bazball fall.. still so livid
Nightmare is so so vivid
Like the day of the Triffid
In OZ were just so timid
On the ropes so so vapid
Dopes burnt hopes acrid
Defeat tropes so so rapid
Prime time to be candid
Cool fools just so flaccid
No bans ECB plans placid
Our also-rans.. so insipid
Pans Fans who are so avid
Fancy Dans woe so rancid
Badgers crow so so rabid
Gasoline on roses,
such an acrid odor.
Unfulfilled promises,
inhaling bitterness
releases hostages.
Gasoline on roses
is floral and severe.
It will not dissipate
made over into ash,
a truly ghastly trait.
Gasoline on roses
wipes a raging fire out.
Nothing to believe in
leaves behind agony,
immune to medicine.
Gasoline on roses
gentle petals remain.
Vulnerable’s a fight
that easily keeps you
lying awake at night.
There is nothing so acrid
— as the smell of time
(Dreamsleep: January, 2026)
Time wanders
inside hours
decades in torrents
feigning blinked sights
all are calmed
ill'd interests lathe
opining scent
seasoned fret
plume of acrid steam
defiance in seuts
castles ilk
foreboding small
allegiance as bound
tethered minds
in trawl.
Poverty's worth in wisdom
Before the minds of oblivion
Autumn
scents so acrid,
pungent, musky, woodsy...
and alive with aromatic
fragrance
And I loved him at that
March midnight, the one when spring was
late. They say she was caught up
in a reminiscent movie
—even love was black and white back then
What I wouldn’t give
for those days, side by side in
July's bliss, brewing
summer coffee. It had a hint of
tangerine. Isn't it miraculous? How
the bitter umber can carry
a note so refreshingly sweet—
Yes, dear, I know it's
utterly still bitter, but even he will agree:
After sips of numbing acrid
we were less sour than sweet
I remember the grief in Samuel
when Saul failed,
like the grief in Nile
when blood crept into it —
just like it creeps into the bones of
this earth.
The rage in grief is distant but distinct,
escorted by bits of frozen nuts
and wizened grains of desert sand,
white assembly of killing spectres in
a background of black eclipse with
lunar talons
and swords of claws
and jars of cold tears.
Oh, how Samuel grieved for Saul!
The mourning is immense . . .
Sempervirence fossilised
along abbeys forayed with hot silt
and Dane guns of lewd hunters
Pulsations and acrid fever,
with the disease of camels, are frequented by
a recrudescence of the mastodon,
In liaison with his extended kinsmen the dinosaurs.
We are livid with mourning,
for the soul of a toothless one
gone from us
this grey day of elegy
and season of potent grief.
Fetters exist, and persist, swinging in
our faces like treasures of hell
where we hear that bug-ridden mats
are spread for us;
there, chants of elegy
hoot,
and black furnaces boil
and smelt
the repast we are to devour.
BY THE STREETLAMP
Poem written for SENSE OF TASTE POETRY CONTEST, Nette Onclaud, Sponsor July 28, 2025
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
she hunkers by the streetlamp
wrapped in a tattered blanket
lost in the cracks of concrete
swallows tangy bitterness
bitter brew of circumstance
choking on acrid despair
savoring sweet solitude
She smoked
She smoked,
my mother did, a LOT!
I never liked it.
To me she looked like
of those “molls” in
detective magazines,
later on television,
cigarette dangling
from the corner
of her mouth
acrid smoke
curling up (she didn’t inhale)
choking the air
as she played cards
or worked
at her desk.
To be sure,
there were “issues”
between husband and wife.
Mid-Great Depression
Dad out of work
or out of town for work
alone with
kids to manage
clothe and feed
with what?
So she smoked.
Small family Jewish
grocer let bills run up.
Smoking a comfort?
Housedresses, nothing new,
shoes needed for kids.
Teeth bad, pull them.
Children need dental care.
Sharp tongue cutting
no whining
“Just get on with it”.
Hurt, not understanding
we sulked. She smoked
Smoking and smoking
taking in relatives
with lost jobs, lost homes,
sick or in need, managing somehow
depressed (never admit it)
feeling put down,
frustrated, underrated
and underappreciated
never accomplished anything
worthwhile with her
college degree.
But, in her own way,
a saint in a housedress
Smoking away the grief.
Written: March 22, 2025, for contest sponsored by Craig Cornish
***********************
In the heart of my kitchen spices exude their aromatic allure
a harmonic blend of flavors coddiwomples mute grief. . .
cimmerian saudade in emeritus pickles, a nostalgic taste
longing for a whiff of jasmine s p e c k s. . .
the acridity of blue cheese, the poignancy of bygone days. . .
lavender aromas snip from vessels of proclivity
hidden under an ominous cloud of r e m o r s e
on par with brimstone-soaked steam,
harmony strives to alleviate concealed pain
pleading palms to purge passed-over prose
as seclusion seeps still as a slow-spreading sickness…
Scathed by sadness solitude simmers silently,
In this mixture, marvelous magic manifests for mending
spicy ambrosial nuances partake in a gracious w a l t z
pain intermingling with delight
a buffet embellished with dishes of acrid herbs,
the core character intertwines with previous fails
textures and fragrances intertwine
to create a tapestry rich in pain and d e l i g h t,
harmonizing sadness and joy in life's tangled web.
no cowboys in stock on this side,
but acrid fishermen provide
marine lifelines, hamlets sustain.
Spineless seas they ride, shark's terrain.
pre-dawn cowboys of Waves arise
early wranglers trawl for the prize
through murky waters or in plain.
Spineless seas they ride, shark's terrain.
catches of chub, snapper, and sword
concoct dinners we may afford.
praise the fishers, saddled with strain.
Spineless seas they ride, shark's terrain.
rank as sins, veiled in ocean scum
nets shoulder-slung, descendants come
off the tides, firm ground to regain
Spineless seas they ride, shark's terrain.
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