Best Belying Poems
You chance upon her
in the far reaches of the backyard
a place you never go
and there she trembles a tiny tiger in a blurred world
secreted in shadows below blackthorn shrubs
faint mews draw you closer
the power of her vulnerability
fills your veins with a pulse rising
brimming you with a nectar needed
like a dry stream bed restored by remedy rains
how helpless she is with eyes just opened
her eyes like skylights —translucent
and filled with new wild blue innocence
neglected yet beautiful
you see the phenomenon of her will to live —
her outsized feistiness
belying such a petite package of need
with teeny needle claws and protests the wisp of a hiss
...and you recall when you felt small and voiceless
born a feral
her mother likely lost to speed-wheels of a car
or snap-jaws of coyotes whose throats float howls
above black tree lines with autumn mist and moon
it will never be known for sure
and you wonder if she wonders
if the sweet-milk-purrs with soft belly fur
will ever return to snuggle her
she’s been cold and alone for far too long
so you gather her in the hug of your hands
curl your chest around her littleness
a shield formed against her loneness
—a long-ago-child abandoned a silent
child lost amid foster care noise is heard—
and you decide not to let Nature take its course
instead you sit with her swaddle her love her
nourish her with eye dropper milk—
embers linger in brick-warm-hearth
as you heal the orphan within
I watched you this morning.
When the cool of the air settled on the morning buds
leaving only the hint of moist stolen kisses
as golden rays slowly caressed the dew from the petals,
I watched you.
Your Cobalt beauty beseeching my gaze
transcending mere mortal allure,
playful and mischievous
the Goblin dancing in your eyes,
as your burning gaze pierced the darkness within me,
I watched you this morning.
Then turning away, as if I weren’t there,
you teased me with your tantalizing flirtatiousness,
pretending that we shared but a passing moment,
a furtive glance, an instance’s breath of longing,
your laughter sighing through the soft petals of your ardent lips.
I watched,
your slow feline body, lithe and graceful,
belying the fragility of your nature.
Your deliberate movements agilely swaying,
then you glanced back at me
with impassioned pout,
as your love lies bleeding in your mournful sorrow.
Through billowing trusses of Amaranth blooms
in the breath of breeze
that gently whispers through the curlicue locks
of your glistening auburn hair,
you comb your long slender fingers,
passing slowly down your neck,
straightening each beautiful tangle.
I watched you
and my desire to hold you overwhelmed me
but you ignored me,
making me want you, yet, more deeply.
I watched you
speaking to everyone but me.
How I wished to be each one of them
and bring this sad loneliness to an end.
I watched you
until at last with a single final look, intentional and lingering,
you brushed slowly past me, smiling sweetly,
as you gazed beneath silken lashes,
like those of Aphrodite, long and mesmerizing,
deep into my longing eyes
through the bottomless pellucid pool of cerulean
from which you enchanted me.
“Smile,” you whispered,
and my lips turned for the shortest of instance,
my grin mirroring the beauty of you.
Tenderly you touched my arm
then walked away,
and I watched.
11/20/2017
Penumbra reflections of darkness weigh cynical in my soul.
When crepuscular dreams creep through the twilight
I hear their sonorous songs sing their deceptive toll
like dysphonic bells, their desultory tones cry the devil's delight,
belying the calm of the halcyon night.
Jealousy eats at me, masticating my miserable flesh,
each time I see your opulent smile it takes yet another bite,
chewing slowly savoring and seeking my heart to enmesh
as visceral emotions move slow through molasses midnight,
exuberant in their need to leave me contrite.
01/31/16
she enters the room gracefully
belying the heartache inside
her tale of loss floats through the air
like a windblown kite
a mother, child, and death
reduced to silhouettes
her vision rips a hole
where there should be love
from this pulpit
with its congregation of one
Historically accurate, narrative poem
27 November 1868, on the banks of the Washita River
Dawn’s peaceful first light streaks the eastern skies,
belying the horror of a marauding force of horses and men,
silently stealing over new fallen snow preparing
to deliver a fateful blow to the Cheyenne camp below.
The silence is broken when bugles sound the charge
over frozen ground, against a sleeping village that
having complied with every previous unjust demand
thought themselves safe from Custer’s command, deployed
in three columns according to plan, to charge from the west
and the village front, while Maj. Elliot’s column blocked
escape to the east. With the Washita river to their back,
there was no place for chief Black Kettle and his peaceful
band to escape the attack. Braves, women and children, it
made no difference, no preference was shown or quarter
given, most were slaughtered while their lodges burned,
though soon against other creatures the killing would be turned.
Black Kettle reached the river but lost his life while attempting
to cross over with his wife. The lucky few that did survive the
bloody strife and fled across the river to the ridge beyond,
below which their pony herd grazed, soon were filled with
dread and fully amazed when at Custer’s command the entire
herd was shot dead. But by now from other encampments
further east, many Cheyenne Arapaho, and Kiowa braves,
drawn to the sound of guns in the early dawn, were massing
on the hill beyond, milling and buzzing like angry bees, singing
and chanting prayer songs for their dead, filling the soldiers with
a fearful dread. So Custer broke off the engagement and began
to withdraw, but the stage had been set for another day-
June 25, 1876-
when at the Little Big Horne the debt owed for this atrocious
act, Custer and the 7th in full would pay. Meanwhile, as a
prelude it might seem, Maj. Elliot and his column, trapped without
a chance, were wiped out to a man by the Indian’s western advance.
A day no true artist would dare to paint,
Breathtaking colors by God’s hand alone,
Spoiled only by a dark and lonely figure
Dropping tears on a freshly mowed grass lawn.
A nostalgic woman of former times
When a friend might come and sit a spell,
This, though, is year Two Thousand Eight or Nine,
Belying that “No man is an Island.”
These Islands move like shells loose floating,
Privately on streets, behind closed colored doors,
Concealing problems they try to erase,
With their solitary searches for grace.
While wisdom’s left over figures of life,
Sit amongst God’s colors and doze alone.
I am Sphinx Stone, Sun stationed statue
silent sculptured synoptic, not marble or
granite nor black tourmaline or crystal
timelines cutting cross my magnetic
magenta miracle to dissipate in dry
desert winds, my gaze unmoved
as quizzing quantum queens swirl
around a Blue Planet ascending
Sphinx Stone gathering goddess’ goodness
whilst slippery Sophi-el sprinkle sparkle
Nile evaporations down Sumerian
phantom phœnix photons
here I stare broken-nosed across vast
expansions exiting or entering dual
portal claws hot rooted into Violet Flames
of Mother Earth belying my etheric origins
Did Leo descend from helium heavens
painstakingly perfect from His tumultuous
gut with goblets of gold, goblins gyrating ?
ask you may North African secrets slither
no soiled sounds to simmer in sandy
storms or scarlet sunsets spreading
spells, silence my singular speech to
skulls of pharaohs or peasant alike
I am Sphinx Stone, my silhouette
signposted in simple or significant sigils
Saturn’s starlit sighs bypass not my
knowing aloof yet vacant stare which
agelessly gather stories of aeons
imprinting dreams of God into manifest
luminosity becoming your words on lion
bones or this ephemeral page
Sphinx Stone I see sabian riddled profiles
making prolific progress patterns filled
with steely grit, come now release
agitated ages of bygone bitters to
prick or paddle dimensions where
appled anemones sing my stare into song to
swallow swiftly sweetly slivers of sanctities
I remain Sphinx Stone stable
unsullied forevermore
GTF
Wizened skin like burnished leather
Thin, grey and long, disheveled hair
Clear, sharp blue eyes that seem to stare
Through sun scorched face, alert, aware
A ‘lived-In’ face that’s so expressive
Tales he tells read like a missive
His arms and hands he flails about
To all he jests, he seems to shout
Belying age with youthful vigour
He starts his day with seeming rigour
But, easy going, he always jokes
With folk at whom, light fun, he pokes
He’s up each morning before the dawn
Striding, planning, never forlorn
Before sunrise you’ll hear with luck
His famous catch-phrase, “Get Tae F***!”
He’s worked on rigs for oh, so long
With everyone he gets along
On the “fine old lady” Stena Clyde
No deference – ALL he does deride
From owner, manager and high paid “suits”
To lowly boys who clean the boots
The tone the same, The grin, the look,
The cheeky laugh, the “Get Tae F***!”
Sub zero frost or tropical heat
His ardour you will find hard to beat
Old habits die hard they say
Not his – he does them anyway!
Does a place exist he’s never been?
That has a port that’s never seen
This tall slim figure filled with pluck
Or heard his raucous, “Get Tae F***!”
They say he’s always been a sailor
From Antarctic wastes upon an ancient whaler
15 years old in the South Atlantic
A hardy life, forget romantic!
Steam driven ships before motor’s advent
He sailed near and far. Came and went.
A story true with each port of call
His audience he holds in thrall
But all through this, both feet aground
Though invitations still abound
To high profile golf tournaments
The best hospitality at these events
He mixes with the best of them
The rich and famous golfing men
Yet on the course when he mis-hits his ball
Not “fore” but G.T.F. to all
And so it seems his time has come
To rest upon his laurels some
He’ll sure be missed – God Speed, Good Luck
It’s been a pleasure Jimmy, “Get Tae F***!”
No dismissive snort from any here
From us, a greeting, a hearty cheer
Received with grace, a smile - a look.
You grin then tell us, “Get Tae F***!”
Above the clouds, beyond the tree she stays.
Remaining thus, the moon is chaste for now,
Allowing not her well-worn face to show
The many scars belying better days.
I glide along, my wheelchair making way
For no man here, the streets bereft of flow,
Garages closed to keep their cars in stow.
I roam the night, while they may share the day.
Secluded thus I flee from ghosts untold
Who question where my life has gone astray
While broken paths and other wrecks unfold.
I’m lost and cannot seem to find my way
Toward peace of mind, a way out of the cold;
The growing mist thus edging joy away.
...for the Rev Eric Shirvell-Price
A blizzard of papers blanketed his desk.
His pipe rack stood like a chess piece,
mutely waiting to be shifted.
Sepia toned photographs lined the mantlepiece,
like soldiers standing at attention,
and there was a smell of stale tobacco.
Volumes and manuscripts burst
from a bookshelf, while origami figures
lined another. A coffee mug bore stains
of sherry aperitifs, and port to accompany
his after dinner cigar. Crosswords
and limericks were everywhere,
vestiges of his light and lively mind.
There were newspaper articles,
and empty fast food containers, evidence
of lonely, late night dietary indiscretions.
His vestments hung limply from a coat hook
like wraiths, belying his portly frame.
the frame which now lay in a mahogany box,
a whisper of his former self,
a shadow of the man that he once was.
Acrid thoughts flow from this observer’s savaged mind,
permutations monitored by the auditor
infestation serviced by worldly parasites,
chromatic skin quivers in the shimmering haze
nicotine stained dentine reflex the noon sunlight,
while recorded historic slaughter highlighted.
Redundant talons clasp at a life just stolen
the fallen, amongst the trodden eglantine lay,
proving yet again man the perfect eraser;
yet a deathly silence impales the aftermath
infected only by cries of fidelity,
ghostly images belying their earthly tack,
genetic torment dipped into another’s hate,
alas no chance to make amends for ancient ways!
© Harry J Horsman 2013
...for the Rev Eric Shirvell-Price
A blizzard of papers blanketed his desk.
His pipe rack stood like a chess piece,
mutely waiting to be shifted.
Sepia toned photographs lined the mantlepiece,
like soldiers standing at attention,
and there was a smell of stale tobacco.
Volumes and manuscripts burst
from a bookshelf, while origami figures
lined another. A coffee mug bore stains
of sherry aperitifs, and port to accompany
his after dinner cigar. Crosswords
and limericks were everywhere,
vestiges of his light and lively mind.
There were newspaper articles,
and empty fast food containers, evidence
of lonely, late night dietary indiscretions.
His vestments hung limply from a coat hook
like wraiths, belying his portly frame,
the frame which now lay in a mahogany box,
a whisper of his former self,
a shadow of the man that he once was.
It was said of old, 'Truth lies open to all', but today
perception is all; no one is perfect but perception
can cure all blemishes, avoiding the fate of being hero
to zero that brittle celebrity promises in life, in posterity.
What a vicar would be shocked to hear, to see, as though
these shock jocks of life and death are maiden aunts who
have never lived: after their demise what a media shock,
what a surprise that these puritans had a love life being
charitable on the sly, belying their dark clothed strictures.
Prim and proper Betjeman's Fifties pose metamorphosed
into a lamentation that he wished that he had more sex
unlike Greeneland's adventurist aunt who had no need to
fabled in the Sixties: our time for ever and always for everyone.
Making our moral dilemmas not confusing morality
with law, hating injustice but being unjust by being
self-righteous becoming our own judge-pentinents
before the fear of ourselves more than this wicked wide world
of wonders defying cynicism by imbedding in us scepticism;
not just of the hypocrtical red- tops that only rarely have a
kernel of truth besmirched by lawyers some of whom not
not having their chopped heads off are a sure defence
of the powerless and true. Even when perception is as
broadminded as the times while being full of righteous
outrage if time fast forwards the past obeying a new
morality old, dressed in new garb.
Who riots? Who occupies? Who wins? Who loses?
We see darkly as we shadow the mote in our
own eye until we can see we are all in this together whether
we are together or not; when hidden charity characterises
us in not in righteous mode in nor complacent commode,
so that one day, for all living on this oblique spheroid,
we can all truly say that, 'Truth lies open to all', on the good Earth.
Around the world the bombs are flying.
Political aims. Political lying.
Treaties are friendships, or so they’re implying;
As long as all parties are meekly complying.
Self-interested means, are always belying
The truth of the war; the truth underlying.
And we’ll call them soldiers, those men who are dying.
Not daddy, not brother, nor son, cause we’re trying
To ignore the sounds of hushed motherly crying.
So, “grateful nation”, why aren’t we decrying,
The barter of life, for the prizes they’re eyeing;
Those men in their suits who never stop lying;
Deceiving and scheming and constantly spying?
Now I lift my pen, and with ink that’s yet drying,
In glossy black verse, unjust wars I’m defying
Political aims. Political lying.
While around the world the bombs are still flying.
Preston Graham
04/16/15
Entry for I, Icon
A sudden, deeply inhaled breath cools
the tender linings of the throat,
belying the violence to come.
A brief moment
s t r e t c h e s into a thousand
as adrenaline EXPLODES through veins
and the [[tightly-corked]] breath expands within
until, with a quivering, violent eruption,
it escapes.
Tumbling up the raw shaft
through which it had been stolen
with the force and fury of a hurricane,
it rushes wildly back towards freedom.
It grows, echoing, reaching for its release;
Finally rattling and pummeling past
the last, weak resistance of
vocal chords it splits the air with a
shrill, primal, guttural cry
And then…
Silence.
9.7.18
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