All the bold and strong
wilt when left alone,
any African Violet puts them to shame
for such hardy blooms thrive in the shade.
The mighty, the celebrated, need the sun
the very same sun that shines on us all,
they crave the bright light only for themselves,
that is why -
when they find themselves un-illumined,
they may turn into a little Hitler
or some other needy grim reaper.
Even poets go mad
when the world acclaims them too much,
see how they scribble in the gloom
of a lightless moon,
see how they ponder upon their genius
growing darker and weaker
day by day,
word by every anemic word.
Cinnabar remittance ailerons squall federal cobblestones. Lank alpine squint modest. Nectarine grimace, cloys toothsome.
Coiffure chain rod composure anemic, primogeniture Swedish cotton murk optics
Rodeo riding maiden broadcaster network metaverse falconry. Boreal voyages legalese.
Simper treacle blanched anecdotally. Goofy balm, beardless tease, healthy as a horse, real bee knees.
More vacuous verse to the void:
abysmal, of meaning devoid.
A reflexive spasm
sends more to the chasm
where anemic arts are destroyed.
Escaping, strange thoughts from my head
go written but largely unread.
Another deposit
to add to the closet
of words that are better unsaid.
So, in the crevasse this now lurks
with woefully wonderless works:
discursive digressions
regarding obsessions
with muses and quixotic quirks.
ALLOW me to hold your hand and send the stars
into nocturnal eyes
A night's breeze seems to whisper how I love you.
Give me reason so I have none
like frogs springing forth
from a spring-mouth-kiss
A finger pressing upon a flesh-button
against an artificial heart
makes synthetic skin purple with pain
A black cat named Chai speaks
saying, "this broken leg was my wet nurse
and scarabs have flown across millennium of sand
When there are no corners but only curves
When the only sun is a medical light bulb
the man inside white coat destroys a future
and the world has left green, my breasts once
were queens now have no function other than to amuse
So, sweet dreams. I have sweet dreams of what could
have been imagining a mask of silence while laboring.
Come sweet baby, within these dreams I'll have you.
My weak anemic body, mindless octopus
would swallow an excited cock to see you born.
I will release this last egg regardless of my irregular
l bleeding so don't deny me sweet cherub.
:: 05.28.2024 ::
Softly the notes of a piano
begin to play
as evening dusk falls gently
like a quiet bird
in the night sky
Mutant suns of long ago
still haunting
the heavens
with its anemic haunting light;
Dark waters, a whisper away from life
gently gliding into the canal
The piano turns to black and white
in my mind,
Mozart dreams
Beethoven sighs
Chopin angels
Vivaldi cries
as the evening dances away,
I see a frozen tree in the middle
of an empty stage:
His hair is wild, his brow is furrowed
deep thought, ...
he is about to glide into another
nocturnal sonata
and so am I...
At the crossroads
The bald old man
With his gray stricken beards
Caressed his antiquated flute
Perching on his cracked dehydrated lips
With his spindly fingers
As he nonchalantly reeled out his tunes
He started with the beautiful tune
Of the defiant bed bug mercilessly bearing down on the torso
As in a depraved Mamba choke hold
On it's gasping victim
Next was the leaching lice
Digging, sinking and sucking deeper
Into it's anemic victim
Then he played ringing in the ears
From renegade mosquitos
Next was a nation, it's people and politics of bitterness
Then he played a reclusive and resigned generation
Deserves the leaders they are saddled with
Next was the tune of the city called Sodom
Then he played the tune of "oh king pharaoh let my people go"
Finally, he graduated to the grand tune of: "he who fails to plan, plans to fail."
Alone and hungry
left leg aches like a broken peg
in the mugginess of its left slipper.
Not a good day for fixing anything
but the sealed and over salted,
the quickly warmed and spooned
that can be mixed into a taste-less medley
with other sundry comestibles.
The pantry,
(a recessed place with shelf-space),
is a dimly lit store for long kept canned products,
a once carelessly gathered and undated harvest,,
a compulsive cartload
that should never have been bought
opened, and cooked
in any company but strictly my own.
In that larder molders a canned fodder;
here anemic asparagus stalks wrapped in tin
are jammed together with diced jalapenos,
or glossily illustrated kidney beans.
Tomato and noodle soups are haphazardly piled
atop of various loosely defined
stewed meat offerings, including canned Spam
naturally.
After the so-called cooking
(more a revealing of a much mushed-up
mixture of misnamed contents),
I sit down with the steaming plate
allowing the metallic aroma to entice
peckish yet suspicious taste buds.
Fed now with the quickly chewed-over
I’m both glad and grateful
that this ten minute feast
can be wolfed down in so much less time.
So much to say
But, the glimpse of light
Took my seat
Left me in awe
Of his big gentle smile
Passing on anemic, passing in strength
Stagnancy retired
The eagle fly freely and back hunting again
Long live Dominion
It is almost too much,
this vivid red seeping
into how you expect
the morning should be.
The image you hold
in your mind is blemished now
by what you see
in the growing stain on the right
of the road's slow turn.
Yet now is the time
to repaint the scene,
a bold brush to wipe
a thick track of crimson across
the dominance of green,
scarlet splashed to lift
an anemic sky
and there, bled
into a composition taking on
an altogether different scene,
the brief reign of red.
There was an old lady
Who flew like a swallow.
She weight sixty pounds
‘Cuz her bones were hollow.
She flew through the air
Wherever she went.
She slept in a tree
And didn’t pay rent.
One unlucky morning,
She fell from the sky.
Her arms were all heavy
And she couldn’t fly.
Seems she was anemic
And feeling quite sick.
She ironed her shirt
And that did the trick.
Went south for the winter,
Flew into a cliff;
It seems she’d used starch,
And her arms were too stiff.
So now she takes Delta,
When she takes the skies:
San Juan Capistrano
To see butterflies.
One bright sunny morning
The monarchs came in.
The old lady decided
To take flight again.
A bit out of practice,
She thought that she’d try;
She opened her mouth
And swallowed a fly.
There weren’t any spider,
But swallows instead.
She choked on a swallow
And ended up dead.
So now you’re stuck singing
A song that’s absurd
And trying to remember
If there was a bird.
I can’t seem to end this;
I’ll try to comply.
At least you know now
Why she swallowed that fly.
"power without love is
reckless
and abusive,
and love without power is
sentimental
and anemic.
Power at its best is
love implementing the demands
of justice,
and justice at its best is
power
correcting everything that stands
against love."
Win/Lose power
without win/win love is
lose/lose reckless
and abusive,
And win/win love
without win/win power is
sentimental
and anemic.
Power
at our best is
love cooperatively implementing
win/win healing justice,
And EarthJustice
at our healthiest
and best is
power
win/win correcting everything
that stands win/lose against
multiculturing beauty,
transformative love,
vulnerably peaceful
and healthy communion.
I am longing for the spring and panting like a thirsty deer
too many days have past since I last felt the sun
beneath anemic skies my body shivers in the clear
I have not become immune to the cold that winter spun
so angling for heat I turn my collar to the wind and shun
the whipped willow tree with her gentle arching ways
her generous weeping branches frozen in mid air
a healthy thrill of scissor skates, a Christmas winter maze
perhaps I used to once but now, I got no Bartlett pears
and my sciatic pain has grown beyond compare
Craving for a slice of heat or a warm wet pool of water
I hanker like a hungry squirrel looking for a nut
hibernate of night nocturnally tucked away diurnal as the otter
perhaps I'm just an old woman falling in a rut
wearing double swim suits while being pegged a hoarder
I'm longing for the blossoms of yesterday's sweet garden
for the roses my father grew inside the lattice square
back in the days when I used to wear Elizabeth Arden
my braids were long and brown instead of barely there
wish it were spring instead of winter, wish I could eat a pear.
Feb 12, 2022
The cold sun’s anemic arc,
skirts the day with crystal frill.
Prancing just above the pines,
sun dogs wag their tails.
14 Jan 2022
Sunday did not pan out,
an iron faith faltered.
It was a wane wobble.
it was cellular rust,
it was not enough iron.
Iron pills rattle in me like BB pellets,
my stools are obsidian artifacts.
More red wine, less whine.
The day got no better,
anemic confusions swirled.
I sucked upon nuts and bolts,
listened to Metallica,
had to iron-out yet more
non-ferrous unpleasantness.
When I die
I give the Pulitzer Board
Permission
To exhume my lyrics
And some overweight ME
Will put my verses on a slab
Going thru my stanzas for tone
looking for assonance and
Consonance in my bones
As my family waits around to see
If i really was a great poet
And they will probe my lines
for cadence
Meter and Trochee
Taking notes
As they dissect
My poetry
They will say I was anemic
On my tercets
And many of my quatrains were forced
As they search for the source
One of the examiners
will write on his tablet
That I never wrote
A Sestina or villanelle
They will note, He was good.
But his books didn't really sell.
The NAACP will close that he didn’t
Represent the Black community
Like King or Rosa Parks
Leaving my legacy a question mark
And no one will be specifically sure
If I advanced the Black Race
Leaving the matter a Cold Case
My kids will ask
But what does all this mean?
Was he really a great poet?
Was he as good as Frost or Hughes
The examiner will stare confused
The autopsy will be intrusive
And they will say:
REPORT INCONCLUSIVE!!
Related Poems