Best Cache Poems
Therein lies your beauty
testify to me no longer
of dandelions and daffodils
of butterflies and bumblebees
do not chant as crows
beyond sight scatter
then gather
in frigid naked trees
diseased with
discord
disaffection
malfeasance.
The recompense for
transgressions
lays waste to beauty’s cache
of finery
of magnificence
of splendor
do not disgorge sorrows
breathlessly
from your heaving chest
that conclave of muted
dreams vague and dreary
do not yearn
for lovely things
that
evade you
elude you
avoid you.
Talk then of
gnarled paths
overgrown with weeds
and thick brush
and rotting moss
sing soft melancholies
into indifferent airs
scatter
your tributes breathlessly
entreat this soul
to yearn ache desire
for hues of sustenance
those colors
those images
those portraits
of secret truth
lying in wait
for the impact
of despair
dismay
distress.
Therein lies your beauty
your truth
and your essence
yet do not brave
the chasm for
it is conquered
it is besieged
it is occupied
by forlorn sages
aching to know
what chance their hopes had
from casting dreams
and illusions
and secrets
undetected
into blackened pools
of wonder.
Even dread Beelzebub
hot with rage
blindly jealous
with furious hatred
ravenous for vengeance
who rose from putrid ashes
who rose from rancid death
who rose from deadly hell
fiercely intent on doom
is but feeble
and infirm
for scarcely could he
barely could he
set ablaze
reign terror
wreak havoc
on one tenth of
the thousand worlds
within this volatile
and eremitic imagination.
(click the pic for Angst & Anger)
A sunset, pixilated, colored RGB,
a virtual bit world envelops me.
Watch .gif waves break upon a gravel beach,
in endless patterned loop Mew glide and screech.
Each click leads to another, yet unplanned,
connected all by fiber optic band.
As users pass with only offered tweet,
hash tag emoticons, each is so sweet.
Sound in MP3 and addictive chat,
all input loads in digital format.
Adrift in the world, internet my link,
a dance of keyboard in a hi-tech prink.
No further need of bio world to be,
just digital internal cache of me.
Robert Gene Stoner Jr
1/9/16
Filch sweet treasure
Filch my cache
Cache in gut now
cache your hide
Hide dear brother
hide your skull
skull so empty
skull obtuse
obtuse to pain
Obtuse maneuver
Maneuver wisely
maneuver quickly
Quickly dodge
Quickly duck
Duck my swing
Duck your head
Head for door
head for hell
Hell won’t have you
hell rejects
Rejects your kind
rejects too wicked
wicked and vile
wicked transgressor
Transgressor supreme
transgressor remiss
remiss to insight
insight that guides
insight that condemns
condemns injustice
condemns betrayal
betrayal of bonds
betrayal of love
love for kin
love for stability
Stability gone
stability a dream
Dream of your ruin
Dream of escape
escape from this storm
storm that seeks vengeance
storm on your form
Form your words wisely
Form them with shame
Shame I must maim you
shame you're so lame
Lame
you
----------------------
10/17/19
For If I were your Brother Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Bobby May
Coincidentally, I chose the blitz format to accomplish my mission here, for the definition of blitz has everything to do with a vigorous attack, or to destroy or demolish. Unplanned but adds to the fun, for me at least ;)
Hidden by glasses dark and thick, what color, the eyes that glimmer?
I often wondered at the intellect hidden deep in those orbs.
Wondered at the mystery that laid back head tilt simmers,
what wife, what child, what family, what allegiances absorbed.
His cheeks are full, his brow is high, the classics he's informed,
but where is his better half, his Juliet, his ritual, his core?
He's cashed away the faceted bits within a dragon's hoard.
Will he ever remove his mask, only Ghanesha knows
yet, I know this, he's one fine chap, his kindness's underscored.
The Poet's name is Kash/Cache/cashed all sound the same in Englsh
hope this play on words is ok.
cool waters gurgling
across seven soft sandstones
coy crawdads cache
written January 17, 2022
written for "Nature Haiku with Alliteration" Poetry Contest
sponsored by Tania Kitchin
syllables checked by PS
Questions of doom averted.
new sound waves crash under morning meditation.
Searching for the words of God in subway mix tapes and under coffee shop tables.
Allowing my mind to wander to distant lands of ancient Empty graves.
Sparrows sing each new day a song of praise to God.
Dogs bark in the distance as I hear Jon talking with Mindy
Thirsting for living water I seek Yeshua Christ known as God made Flesh.
Clocks tick and water drips as my coffee gets cold.
Sleep escaped me last night and now a new day is here.
Lily is ever talking much today.
She can hear things Brian cannot like Jon and Mindy arguing in the distance through the open door.
September is soon beginning a time of in between times where summer is not fully over yet fall has not truly started.
two thousand and twenty six years since Yeshua was born
troubling sounds outside I do not like to hear.
September eleventh is the highest watch day of the year for a possible rapture.
If the Rapture happens this year Turn to Jesus before it is too late.
A squirrel rested upon an overhanging branch
surrounded by his cache of acorns
from earlier in the season~
small brown certainties
gathered one by one
through afternoons of industry,
through gusting leaves and
shortening days.
Tonight, however,
he touched none of them.
The stream moved softly below.
The moon lingered among the branches,
its silver moonlight settling
upon his whiskers,
upon the bark,
upon the waiting acorns.
He seemed less a gatherer
than a contemplative,
an old keeper of fortunes
reviewing his accounts.
All summer he had hurried.
All autumn he had stored.
Now the work was finished.
For one luminous, moonlit hour
abundance became stillness.
I wondered if he was ruminating
about the acorns,
not as food,
but as possibilities?
After all,
each carried a hidden oak.
Each concealed its own future forest.
Perhaps he was considering
which acorns would nourish winter, and
which might be forgotten
beneath leaves and snow,
only to awaken later
as saplings reaching skyward.
The moonlight touched them all equally.
The saved.
The spent.
The future trees.
The squirrel remained perfectly still.
No nibbling.
No burying.
No haste.
Only watching.
Suddenly, the scene felt oddly human.
How rarely we sit
among the things we have gathered,
the hopes, the memories,
the loves, the small achievements,
and simply admire them without reaching for more.
Below,
the stream continued
its silver passage
through darkness.
Above,
the moon d r i f t e d westward.
Between them sat the squirrel,
keeping company
with a handful of acorns
and a forest
not yet revealed.