Best Boned Poems
A collaboration with Ink Empress, a piece we wrote for “Woman’s Day” for all the strong women warriors out there. Your strength is felt.
“Untamable Clemency”
Her heart is a
chained haven,
for zestless intruders
and fiendish foes,
so tread delicately,
she is not a
mindless marionette
in your glistening
gallery of greed—
glazed in rhinestone
rhapsodies,
she is more
than cold-boned ideologies,
placed by timeless seasons,
she soars above
restrained reveries,
as an untamable heat
of clemency.
Ink Empress
Fading Star Silence
I’ve watched him whither. He came to me a decade ago, stooped in pain. The fine-boned features of his face and the clarity of his Irish skin still holding on to a genetic predisposition to beauty. He was a small man, but in height only, the oceans filled his heart. For a decade, I held him upright. With the help of God, his shoulders, upon which Atlas stood, released their burden, pulled back from their curl about his core. Touch was a healing balm from the helter-skelter of his life. As my fingertips and palms, the heel of my hand explored his dis-ease; he thawed, not like a snowflake but a glacier. Decades of stuffed down regret, and remorse cajoled to release with no expected outcome but rest.
the clutter
of his life surrounds –
snow falls
Parts once strong: pride that flew, legs that skied, eyes that could take the measure of a man; now, rest every afternoon. There is no need now to mark the time. Still, he wears a watch, a Christmas gift from his love. The office lays footsteps from his backdoor. He feels they still need him.
his sailboat
sits wrapped in canvass –
winter wind’s blow
Liquid Imagination August 2014
A PROSPECTIVE.
A POSTAL EMPLOYEE IS LICKED.
A GROCERS IS FRESH.
A FIRE FIGHTER IS PUT OUT.
A TEACHER IS LEARNED.
A WINE IS BOTTLED UP.
A MAILER IS SENT OUT.
A FISHERMAN IS FISHY.
A MASON IS BRICKED.
A CAR IS TIRED.
A DOG IS BONED.
A CAT IS MOUSEY.
A BOY IS PLAY.
A GIRL IS FANCY STUFF.
A MAN IS STRONG.
A WOMAN IS LOVE.
Form:
The day that followed . . .
Blossomed blue, bright . . . beautiful
Clouds towering into the heavens
Wheeling white, wonderful . . . wordless
The clouds danced in the expanse
Rolling on a sea of silence
Sailing soft, supple . . . serene
Saw nothing
Cared nothing
Floated away
Alone . . . . . blind . . . . . marvelous
mute!
The trees . . .
The trees reveled in their own wild
E m o t I o n s
Old Man Walnut – a true heart-wood
Big boned brooded black
Dark, dangerous, defiant
Lady oak took red at the edges
A deep striking flame-red
Her heart a luscious lively living green
A gentlewoman of a long experience
Patient, Peaceful, persistent and powerful
Elms burst yellow – effulgent
Cried for attention
Demanded attention
Wind whistled wantonly through her leaves
Tall, tenacious, testy, temerarious
Some of the maples slurred
A bright primary red
Like harlots laughing, listening, languishing
Showed interest but cared for nothing
The Sweetgums stood aloof
Star-shaped leaves
Like bruises oozing deep purple
At first draft
S N
T A
O K
O E
D D
Abused . . . abandoned . . .
alone
Crape Myrtles cluster together
Gossiping busy-bodies
Bursting orange with outrageous desire
Watching, wanting, waiting, wanton
Modest were the Aspens
Slender and graceful
Giggling trees
But where they were
They were so many
They could afford to be
Modest, monomorphic, musical, memorable
The Pines and firs
Raising forth green among the colors
Unchanging
Unwilling to change
Criticizing by their contrast
every other change
The Woods
The woods
The chaotic woods
The heartless forest
And the trees . . .
. . . . .The boughs, leafs, limbs, roots
That whole glorious community
Simply went about its
Natural business
Another day in creation.
Live and Love Generously
FROZEN SOUVENIRS (( Collaboration * Nette OnClaud ))
by~ NETTE ONLAUD
frozen with pain she woke to find daybreak
slumped on her crumpled bed again, laid back, cast
aside from god knows what, an unbecoming haven.
at least, this time, this bed was hers and hers alone,
dimly broiled by smells of yesterday gone
stale, drooping limbs to vaguely unbecoming souvenirs.
no longer wrestling fires but lighting them,
hope drained from flesh that craved for expired lotion
crush-boned dreams mocked her unbecoming senses.
she backed off tears that asked how this all happened,
plunging into her heart’s junkyard searching for answers
from wounds buried in near burial of an unbecoming night…
by~ POET D.
Gently she is weaving in and out of her own bed near the sea ledge,
faith will be drawn in the sand near the watery shores
broken down heartsick sea walls of loneliness will triumph
yet another frozen sad mood, a shadow that feels like it will last forever,
only to rest upon her own will of over flown solitude lids
her eyes are still like fireflies throughout the ebony in the dark night sky
The lengthy halls carry echoes in which silence the memorized souvenirs
dusk announcing the end of another frozen day;
there she sits in an incubator waiting to hear her name in the wind
A deeper, more intense treasure she found in her own reflections
with an open mind she is in mourn in hopes that these feelings don't last long —
a few hours or maybe a day or two she will bliss it all away
A Collaboration with *NETTE ONCLAUD
~MY COLLABORATION CONTEST~
"The Syballine"
Behind closed eyelids
the curtains of the mind
open to silent applause
Sun screens are slick and applied
shining bright Ultra Violet
a violent Light
all over a body
of work, unseen
words written
tattooed black
on smooth satin alabaster
beneath piercing opalescent lasers
frosty green
burning the tithed pages
of a rosy crucifixion
cast aside, palms raised
and speaking in secret tongues
whispering necromantic Psalms
fed open-handed to wailing seabirds
carrying songs of majesty
slow winged, powerful and heavy
towards a pregnant
waxing beguiling witches'
Black Sabbath moon
this doesn’t stop the burn
bare legs stretch open
a story being born
and somewhere
magnetised
nude feet
walk towards
the naked
Syballine
standing still
within the shallow
fire opal ocean
arms lifting
conjuring new powers
not humble,
in fierce supplication
raised upwards
now to pearly clouds
there beneath the
Too Soon,
a dawning golden orb,
stands Blue Sky
holding the Sun
her back
is turned
see the spine
fine boned
joints like a ladder
your fingers
like lightening
trace their course
silky seduction
they play her
tight strung
held in your arms
caressed like a cello
bow steaming
her keys turned
ignition
forgotten kisses
carried on the
slender shoulders
of life -
now see
the Sun rising
lips ripe
heart bleeding
black wings unfolding
fallen, no longer disguising
she turns
Journeying from the Deep
Expelled from the shallows
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
"And no one sings me lullabies
And no one makes me close my eyes
So I throw the windows wide
And call to you across the sky"
"And no one showed us to the land
And no one knows the where's or why's
But something stirs and something tries
And starts to climb towards the light"
"Overhead the albatross
Hangs motionless upon the air
And deep beneath the rolling waves
In labyrinths of coral caves
An echo of a distant time
Comes willowing across the sand
And everything is green and submarine..."
"The Wormwood Portfolio"
Reams of stories
riddled with worms
wood for burning
all the children
cover their eyes
tears smoked
into the lungs
gender fluid
propheticising
bitter water
electric brains
chipped like
fine-boned China
downloading
overloads
dumps are
damp
the fuse
sizzles and
stops
green as absinthe
gauche ghosts
gone all grey skinned
scales of merit
charred unweighted
vacant and vacating
like dandelions
scattering over
the barren wombs
of the childless landscape
dreaming of biblical babies
suckling the wanton breasts
of Desdemona’s structural points,
a sharp essay, feeding insouciance
mistaken identities and confusion
side-blinded by the light
of the tempestuous kill shot
burnt and scarred
beeseeching open handed
faces turning like time dials
towards two suns
gold gone all black holed
dead verdant plants
hot feet blistering
make no more demands
skipping, games of patter-cake
powdered ochre yellow
here's the church and here's the steeple
open your hands where are the people
like viruses, germinating
no more prayers to enchant
daughters of eve
sons of man
when the Word finally speaks
there is hearing damage
Reams of stories
riddled with worms
wood for burning
all the children
cover their eyes
;
the ides of march
recant.
(LadyLabyrinth / 2021)
"A tear in the brain
allows the voices in
they wanna push you off the path
with their low-frequency wires..."
recant. v.
Wormwood.
Ides of March.
She was big-boned. Her spirit
a fine-spun sprouting of prairie brome
threaded through moss and engine block.
Her home was a pine and beatboard camp
for wayward cats.
She would discourse from her tangled porch
where poems grew in small pots
muddled with Ramen noodle and Maui Wowie.
Her life often vacationed to a studio apartment
on the east bank of her right eye.
She wrote on the back of her mouth
with cigarette smoke.
Her poems were the rain-filled footprints,
of Jack Kerouac.
She had pronouns before and after her name.
She wore a local fame, made legendary
by the gaps in her thoughts,
thoughts she shrewdly refused to fill in.
The wild belongs to the wild
The world belongs to the world
I stay safe and stay away
Because nature was designed that way
You can’t escape the reason why
All carnivores are so spry
An unleashed paw in your flesh
Is not worth a stroll on a lion's turf
A roar of a lion is not a buzzing house fly
It’s an unwelcome politeness, take flight
If feasting on buffalos is how they dine
Then your blood can only be dessert red wine
Don’t let your flesh invite the canines
Don’t get de-boned just for facebook likes
Lions never takes a stroll in our streets
Why should I trespass on theirs, with camera flicks?
My love for lions is a relationship from a distance
We don’t trust each other but I keep the romance
Tule Fog
The mist hangs in the canyons,
like a whisper, like a prayer.
Like an ancient dark suggestion,
of something not quite there.
It’s a misty cauldron,
or the steam of dragon’s lair.
A secret incantation,
removing the despair.
It’s the “just add this”in H2O,
and the “freeze” in frozen snow.
It’s the “way too much” in drowning,
and the “not enough” in glow.
It can float on waves of warmth,
rising halfway from the clay.
It will promise up renewal,
in a shroud of liquid spray.
It’s as old as Earth itself,
and responsible for life.
It cuts the dry boned land
in half, with its liquid knife.
It’s always been around here,
but it’s too moody to appear.
Vanished like forgotten love,
but remembered when it’s near.
By Edlynn Nau
© November 28, 2018
She cooks fish and rice,
her unfolded hips
pushing all into place.
Oils, and aromas,
train buds to lap at shadows.
The marl of her hands
turns bowls of smoke
into lemon and butter.
I won’t get to eat the spiced Mackerel,
but I imagine my scaly head laid
in a tabby cat’s saucer.
I dream of small-boned piquant desires,
the lick of her fingers,
the coral curl of her tongue
as If she were a cat and I a fish in a dish.
She wears dark clothes, a peasant garb,
black skirts below her knees,
a lace shawl when she goes to church.
She is Greek, a Turk
an Albanian. She is an Etruscan vineyard
for orphans. A mother to a lover.
Her gourd is full and spilling.
In her hair black horses leap,
a few stout gray mares
amidst the mane.
Tides turn and swirl
through turtle-shell combs.
She’s not a disciple of pretty.
She is earthenware to hold my hungers.
These words are just terracotta shards.
What she is, is an alcove for halvah.
Apart from Holy Days,
she works at a grocery store.
Where she bakes grape-filled suns,
and moon-glazed pastries
for those in need of the olive yield
of her light.
INTO THE LIGHT: SAFE HAVEN, 1944
“And you that shall cross from shore to shore…are more
to me and more in my meditations, than you might suppose.”
Walt Whitman, “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry”
Thank God for you, Henry Gibbins, ship of dreams
laden with bedraggled brethren
dark and fair, tall and short, all frail-boned
and gaunt, each and every one a survivor reborn
in the wake of conscience.
Blessed, their leader, Ruth Gruber; praised, her leader,
Franklin D. Roosevelt; and you, Captain Korn
— commanding officer extraordinaire —
your kind face and outstretched arms,
the ship’s crew — their smiling faces, helpful hands;
the stalwart bulk and hallowed halls, sky-crowned decks
surrounded by sea-speckled rail —
far cry from barbed wire.
Joy, the glistening white toilets;
divine, clean fresh air that fills sunken chests, lungs
ashen from the fires of Auschwitz-Birkenau, Bergen-Belsen,
Buchenwald, Dachau, Treblinka…
And you, buoyant sea, revered for strong currents and
changing tides; and you, gulls that glide the breeze,
assuaging wounded spirit.
“Are you America?”
And you, huge dining hall bejeweled with vegetables,
cornucopia of meats, kaleidoscope of sweets
that swell shrunken bellies, smooth withered souls;
the soft pillows and ample blankets nestled in tier after tier
of bunks, the nightmares you help smother,
sweet dreams you set in motion;
talent shows, chess tournaments, movies, musicales.
“Are you America?”
“Yes, you are America — my America!
Land of the free, home of the brave!
You should be scared and aware
Your spine should tingle with fear
While I'm stepping through the door
A feeling of evils in my core
I know what I'm about to find
I'm running scenes through my mind
And not gonna walk away
I've been waiting for this day
Pushing the door open wide
With a puffed out chest of pride
At the sight I soon discover
My husband under the covers
With someone that I don't know
On his face he does not show
Any regret or remorse
Not caring that he just lost
Everything he's ever owned
I have proof that he has "boned"
A lot of other women
Soon this bastard will be swimmin'
In a pool of debt and sorrows
Taking him to court tomorrow
With the pictures from the spy
I hired---no alibi
Will pull him from this disaster
He is no longer the master
Of his life or anything
I am now pulling the strings
"The Repeat of Fate"
Deep buried in a dead forest
I hadn’t heard of before,
Wycoller lies in ruins, barren
no trees nor foliage remain,
no tenant can be found,
but here I am
like a ghost glued
fast as a succubus to its walls
rain like poetry falls hard
the wind stinging the loveless hymn’s
continuous tin-hitting torrent to breathe
and it fills its chanting monkish boned gutters
with pages of leaves, rivulets cascade
burning like copper-coloured tears
like rusty blood the signature stains
down and over and through
its windows’ broken panes
pink-eyed writing stories, still life,
falling like laced crimson snowflakes
melting to sleet the messy sludge
sliding down its unchaste whitewashed sides
to be scraped away the scarlet lye
and underneath the nails that pierce
the sharp words tightly furled
like Rochester waits
torn on his wuthering
cliffs of heath;
which one am I?
which word?
which name?
the repeat of fate?
Unsaved by the Wildfell grace,
a small but loud device
runs with its unthinking heartless mouth.
On Pendle
a daughter seals her
mother’s fate;
too soon
it is opened,
the closed Malkin gate
Candide Diderot. ‘25
“Jennet Device, Daughter of Elizabeth Device, late wife of John Device, of the Forrest of Pendle aforesaid widow, confesseth and saith, that her said mother is a witch, and that this shee knoweth to be true; for, that shee had seens her spirit sundrie times come unto her said mother in her owne house, called Malking-Tower, in the likenesse of a browne dogge, which shee called Ball; and at one time amongst others, the said Ball did aske this examinates mother what she would have him to doe; and this examinates mother answered, that she would have the said Ball to helpe her to kill John Robinson of Barley, alias Swyer: by helpe of which said Ball, the said swyer was killed by witch-craft accordingly; and that this examinates mother continued a witch for these three or foure yeares last past.”
lye/lie.
WRAPPING IT IN PURPLE
-For Prince
Black onyx handsome,
Small is beautiful,
Soft campy creature,
Definite in feature,
All chiseled, boned,
Talents honed,
And used for a king's ransom.
A royal purple mist,
Rained down on fans.
A thousand in the cast,
(He's never going to last).
Sing, Hip hop, do yer dance,
It's really yer last chance;
And maybe you'll be missed.
Let's do! Let's go crazy!
Count sheep, fall asleep,
Red flag, Swag dance, Sweet feet!
Tap it, Rap it, on a side street.
Keepers, weepers, of the dark,
One chance to make yer mark.
Sigh or sing, no time to be lazy!
Speed of light, day or night,
You know time can't be defined.
Check it off, count loves,
Hope you hear the cry of doves.
Yer wanting all yer extra time,
Kiss it in yer billboard climb;
A nanosecond dove in flight.
Burning up your axe,
Ending up an icon,
Pay your ticket, seeum,
In Hollywood's museum.
Paisley is the handle,
Stiff, dripping like a candle,
Just a manikin in wax.
No birthday's, no gray, or wrinkle.
In purple paper, wrap a lost chord!
You float above a cherry moon,
Wing it, sing it, it's your last tune.
Spirit vaporized, name that's canonized,
And all your data to be analyzed.
Precious purple, a periwinkle sprinkle.
Always cry for love, never cry for pain;
Elevé, do rise, caught up, surprised!
Don't stare sleeping there,
Death upon the stair.
No liquor, no last flicker,
No barcode, no heart quicker,
An April snow has left you sleeping in the rain.
By Edlynn Nau
© April 23, 2016