Best Blanch Poems
Well I got some big hair
Sittin' on my big head
Got a big wife
Sleepin' in my big bed -
Got a big reason
For singin' this song -
It's great to be me,
'Cause I'm never wrong.
Gonna build a big wall
To keep them Mexicans out;
Gonna make 'em all pay
"Cause that's what I'm about
Gonna build it high,
Gonna build it long -
It's a good idea,
'Cause I'm never wrong.
You might think I'd care
When the facts don't match-
You might think I'd feel
There was some kinda catch -
But whatever you say,
Whatever you do;
If I say that it's so,
It just has to be true.
I'm never wrong,
I'm never wrong
I'm never wrong
I punish the weak
Because I worship the strong
And that's okay,
'Cause I'm never wrong.
So I got my own plane
To fly over my crowd;
They like me brash,
They like me loud.
They all wanna believe
I'm gonna make 'em great
Though really I think
They're all second-rate.
So I tell 'em the things
I know they wanna hear;
I been tellin' these tales
Since this time last year.
No need for the truth
Or humility -
Just so long as they hate
That gal Hilary.
You might think that I'd blanch
When they call me out,
Or even admit
To a moment of doubt -
But that just wouldn't be me,
Because it wouldn't seem strong;
It might suggest
That I could be wrong.
I'm never wrong
I'm never wrong
I'm never wrong
Gonna have to face Hilary
Before very long -
Then we'll all see
If I'm ever wrong.
Then we'll all see
If I'm ever wrong.
Once there was
a tiny tree,
who wished itself
a lofty, wide-spread
oak;
longing to have
on him song-birds light...
to share a tune
to strum some beams
on full-moon night –
but the cat was
about, with a silent
foot...and the birds
knew Whiskers
like they wrote Grimms'
book – so the tiny tree
never got a second look –
but an angel up high
shrank deceptively small
and with a purposeful
stall, settled on the dwarf's
most prominent, yet near
ground branch
introducing herself
as a lost parrot
named Blanch –
and they sang
and hugged all the long day
only stopping at times just
to briefly pray (gratefully pray)
– and the cat,
quite lonely, for also a stray
made a fiddle of its whiskers
drummed with its tail
tapping a rhythm beat
on an old discarded pail –
The stone's angle
offers no cover
as she lay
openly exposed.
Her pedipalp mane, disheveled
by the soft reverberation
of an accidental intruder.
Whose mouth will froth?
Whose stunned lungs will blanch?
Whose limbs will twitch
then stiffen?
Aculeus poised; quavering telson.
What is her decision?
Will you writhe in the throes
of her opaque venom?
Or will she?
Author's commentary:
Scorpions are intriguing creatures.
Urban legend has it that when they are threatened they will do one of two things:
sting their perceived aggressor, or sting themselves to death.
Thankfully, this is only a myth and my reverent faith in the scorpion remains intact.
But still, the idea led me to wonder why, when facing extreme hardship,
some people exhibit self-preserving behavior while others opt
to self-destruct.
It's fascinating to me that the latter could be considered a viable option.
Heck, even scorpions know better than that....
There once was a branding woman that worked on a ranch
She ran through woods looking behind every branch
Frantic to find a tolerant male to arrange wedding plans
Her methods guaranteed producing orangutang comedians
Also, her cranky, exuberant life made the ranchers blanch
Grandmother arranged a meeting to hear Francine's rants
Knowing Granddaughter's strange ways warranted determents
Temperance must transcend the errant flagrant desires
As firebrands marked her ignorance with intolerant stares
Piranha guilt sprang up for ransom, pondering the real tyrants
The assurance of wrangling from parents with adulterant ways
Francine, and Frank, alone on the veranda during their days
Siblings needing the furtherance of love and instruction
Suffered the hindrance of rancid marital destruction
Random attention translated strangely, creating two castaways
The children, under the guidance of the grandest of grandparents
In arranged tranquil surroundings, estranged from things of ambivalence
Grown from a cankerous start into the fragrant innocence of youth
But for the lack of francs, school in France could deal better, in truth
The appearance of courtship years made the need for etiquette transparent
The end of the tale transports us two years forward
With genteel manners granting old wisdom its reward
Frank now owns the ranch where the ranchers work
And Francine branded by a marriage proposal from a local Grange clerk
WELCOMING WINTER
In mid-winter we will be wed:
Oh, that the cool whiteness could be sped !
How my heart waits for her cool embrace
And the feel of snow flakes on my face,
Running warm through her frosted trees,
Watching the river’s fastness slow to freeze,
And the warmth that follows a ski-run,
And the snowshoe races full of fun.
Waiting so long is a weary task,
Till I’m crumping her white damask
Into pearl-grey hollows ,
And shaping shallow billows.
Then our hands touch in warmth and we know
There’s only a few weeks to go :
A smile from each diamond encrusted branch
Shows my face all a-blanch.
As my love walks close by me in a hush
My heart overflows at her special blush.
On sunlit silver snow no cold-eyed tear.
Oh my heart yearns for wintry land soon this year !
She stared up, intently, watching the Peruvian skies pass composedly above. She was dazed and disorganised about the steps leading her hither. Her eyes descended upon her hands, hands that were dry and sallow from the days of climbing. She clutched her fists searchingly, hoping that her two index fingers were still graced by her grandmother's heirloom. She surveyed the uncouth distance with its eerie remoteness and summoned all the remaining strength left in her limp body and continued the long expedition. She passed imposing mountainous regions and extended arid areas of desert. She felt the tepid wind with its suppleness play with her legs and she heard it sing echoed incantations as it passed on into the twilight. She stopped but for a moment, and wandered how, at this point of time, life had forged itself in its current form, in its current melody. She continued her long, galling walk - every step felt consigned to oblivion; every effort allayed the previous one. She felt the echoes of her long-lost love permeate like some record saddled in skip. She fixed her eyes on her shadow. 'How did you manifest? ' she would ask, speculatively, occasionally trying to shirk and weave her opaque reflection. She couldn't avert her mind from a particularly fond memory in which, on a very placid English afternoon, she would sit by the nearby river with her childhood friend, Ruby. She always had a penchant for memories of Ruby when she found herself addled and aggrieved by some hardship. But Ruby was not here, she was absent like her maudlin love - forsaken and remiss. The mirage enticed her, coerced her and terrorized. Tears began to fall like fragmented moments of yesteryear. The mistral gales howled hauntingly and the sun continued to blanch and braise. A bird, cowled and suspect, perched itself on a nearby tree and watched the lady clamber through the brazen sands, and asked itself: 'but, why? '
Helios, open darkened shutters Night did seal;
Nyx's opaque, drawn shades one by one peel.
With prehensile fingers grip your enlightened quill,
Selene's pale orb with luminescent lines reel.
With gilded parasol twirl your flaming wheel,
Until enjoined sparks into tinted rays congeal.
In saffron waves, blanch horizon's, window seal.
On spindled beam, spin golden threads from creel,
Sheaves of golden flax span o'er ethereal hill.
Branching, with sonic beam pearly plains drill,
Until azure streams deep reservoir does fill.
With torch, burnt-orange meringue on puffy clouds spill,
then into earth's grainy purview with vigor steal.
With tempera, egg wash the Sky's blank stencil,
then with magnified lens illumine the scenic still.
Plunging downward, into denser troughs truncated waves swill.
Onto earth's jade footstool, solemnly kneel,
Drawing from vassal's, residual til.
Amber blades with brighter finish instill,
With waxy gloss the folio cover frill.
Resting beneath this heavy avalanche
My heart turned from summer to winter
Ice caused my lips to blanch
Couldn't get enough by the shudder.
My feet got cold as they were exposed
To season's numb disposition
But my love for her didn't repose
Though I was losing my recognition.
Time and again, without even refrain
The end was running closer to me
My wicked body benumbed, couldn't feel pain
Yet my heart was still yearning to thee.
The melody of our life is made blanch
Dazing our seats by denying us to blare
We are not orators or sorcerers
We are feathers train from the heart
Why is our tone buried in the ranch
When our melody is so sonorous to hear?
We are not trespassing words for lepers
Nor are we to weed the falconers parts
On the tone is our ditty of ovation
Dear melody, our diary of dialogue
A darling of our locomotion
An era of our useful youthful prologue
A play to watch from the heart in action
A yolk, that may hands for epilogue.
Indistinct things
In night’s malaise
Mar morning haze.
We slowly die
Across far sky
On scalloped wings.
September hones
Away the nights—
Blur city lights—
Bleach pale claw marks
Above brown parks
Fading to bones.
Summer now flees—
Blanch indigo
Of afterglow—
Patina wind—
Yesterday’s sin
Of twisting leaves.
in negative temperature
on whitened branch
refracting winter's dark
inversing frosted blanch
pitch to mirrored pool
of symmetry below
in opposite of dual -
serene in its afterglow
© Goode Guy 2013-08-05
for David Wilson's "The Reflected Tree"
for the Charles Taylor Arts Center
ekphrastic poetry event 2013-08-11
Come, Aanu, fly away with me,
And let us nestle in our own tree.
Through vales and fountains and hills
And savour the sweetest wintry chills.
Let us probe the lilies in the fields,
And the earth from which every myrtle yields;
And we will feed on the finest of worms
While the coy sun our colourful din warms.
Then we will challenge the moon to an am'rous fight,
And inquire whose is the brightest sight.
We will glide through the frosty wind,
And storms in which some peace to Find.
And we will glide through the misty clouds,
Seeing fond lovers kissing in their crowds,
Or singing lullaby by the glistening streams,
Plotting mischievous dreams.
And I would spin you nests of finest twigs,
Upon mahoganies, Eucalyptuses and figs;
Hovering through thickest fogs and dew
Bearing blanch roses in my beak for you.
We would leap from cliffs with no doubts or fear
And build an empire in the stormy air.
I should watch you like an owl at night,
Before we make our final flight.
Come, fly away with me my LOVE
And we will all vagaries REMOVE
Till we conquer most prominent HEIGHTS
Beyond mountains, hills and Heaven's LIGHTS!
-E R Chesterfield.
You walk into a cauldron, freeze to death,
You, as a corpse, fall quietly in earth,
Life grips your throat, as man grips darkness wet,
And swings you, to and fro, to blanch in dirt.
You are a pearl now, dry and parched like sand,
Rose-eyed, tar-mouthed, ruby-eared, dew-nosed,
You walk haggardly, shoes mud-cauled, socks bland,
Stop gazing at the tavern sweet, it's closed.
Your shirt torn wrangles you, like you did him,
Your jeans soaked clutches you, like you did pain;
Empty the glass, fill 'you' to the bare brim,
There is no place for water in your brain.
Water and blood are both yet lighter, love,
Wine's the wet darkness, men keep all-above.
-Pin Dew (01/05/2017)
Point of View or Truth?
What is your view of politics? I'm sad, but dream there's more,
though politics says rhythm's plague, rhyme's rotten to the core,
and hope seems lost that world's worth spit! Can Right say Left is wrong?
Though snowflakes have their differences, what's True sings Nature's song.
Weak fashions trend and folks mature, but Truth ignores demand!
Truth's face may blanch (cracked shells line beach), but history's the sand
whose grains on earth outnumber stars in Milky Way's facade,
and ocean waves (1) grind finer still (while politics claims God).
Yes, Truth exists beyond the pale of what we dream is true,
its harmonies acknowledge God in all we say and do.
Do fascist friendly risk Hell's Fire who label Truth fake news,
conspire to earn more pain on earth, in civil court venues?
Krakatoa Kritic #007
March 16, 2021
I have so many friends these days who want to believe that all Truth is simply one's point of view, especially political Truth, that what they want to think is as good as what anyone else thinks. So, to engage in debate is foolish! They also suggest that those who disagree with them are only attached to being right (and making them wrong)! That could be right, but what if their beliefs are flawed? How should one who hopes for Grace behave? Let me have the courage to confront a friend's perceived weakness with as much love as I can muster.
(1) "I do not know what I may appear to the world; but to myself I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the sea-shore and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of Truth lay all undiscovered before me."
Isaac Newton (1642-1727)
Jack and Jill went up the hill
Not on a whim but petty frill
Jack led Jill to a corroded still
Jill thought the vat was an abandoned grill
Jack promised Jill a fresh thrill
Jack cooked up a brew to blanch her chill
Jack took a sip but Jill had her fill
Jack pledging fealty on one knee did kneel
Jill fearing that Jack was ill
Threw him prone on a nearby anthill
When the stings reached his hardened quill
Jack jumped up and let out a squeal
Jill dazed from her purse pulled a Viagra pill
Through Jack's clamped lips it's contents did drill
Now horny and burning, Jack rode Jill bareback down the hill