Best Char Poems
You have raided my night again,
as the burst of a sudden storm,
sneaking into my loneliness,
at the most unexpected hour,
plunging me into swirls of pain
too deep for expression,
leaving me in utter disorientation.
I now drift aimless with muddled thoughts,
through the dingy avenues of the past,
never once able to sever the chord,
that binds me so tight to those memoirs,
exposing me to torrid heat
with my soul, burning down….
like a piece of smouldering coal.
Sleepless are my nights.
Dreamless are my days.
Like the sundown shadows growing bigger,
with every stride I take,
the farther I move, the closer you follow.
Can I convince you ever again,
I never meant any harm to you.
How wearily have I watched the flies,
lured by the dazzling light,
char into diminutive specks of black,
by the scorching tongues of flame.
Still, why did I let you burn,
in the flame of my accursed passion?
You were like a flower admired from afar,
afraid of even the gentle breeze coming near,
lest it might jolt the delicate frame,
and shake the petals down, sooner than due.
Yet vulnerable turned the moment,
when all of a sudden, it started to rain.
Like a child, eager to play in the puddles,
you ran out into the pouring rain.
All soaked through and through,
You came in…. awhile my gaze,
rested on the filmy fabric,
seductively clinging to your curves.
Then, that wild surge…. beat me down.
And Alas! Under a magnetic pull,
surrendered your fragile self with ease.
At that moment of self-abandonment
looted off all that you held chaste.
Never surmised, you were crying,
when I felt your cheeks, so wet.
Now I know, it was agony,
not ecstasy that I, then, beheld on your sentient face!
You refused to respond to my calls.
Unanswered went all my anxious queries.
Like a hibernating toad,
to some dark underground cave, you slid.
Abruptly, alerted on call,
by an alien sound, far from familiar
I hastened to the casualty ward,
and saw you lying limp,
with drops of blood, still dripping down
from your slashed wrist,
staring at me with an open mouth!
As I watched you lying still
with your eyes refusing to flutter,
I knew my world tottering below,
and my heart, set ablaze,
into a funeral pyre.
Inhaling, hushed, from hashed cigars
my mind implodes in Malimar
where Naiads bathe in caviar -
I dream of dwarves and three-eyed tsars.
The captive kiss of Princess Mars
(who talks in tongues at seminars)
burns red beyond Her blue boudoir -
I writhe within Her pale peignoir.
Her Maids gloss lips with cinnabar,
bedizen cheeks in dusts that mar,
serve teas beside the reservoir -
I sip them from a samovar.
Disguised in smoke and lamps of spar
Her Genies gender gold dinars,
evoking flames in ginger jars -
I plea before the Commissar.
At Princess’ neighbourhood bazaar,
white shadows slip through doors ajar
to drape my dreams in ash and char -
I long await the Avatar.
Her Merchants (preening, proud Hussars)
paint pretty scenes on VCR’s
while sailing ships to Zanzibar -
I strum the strings of warped sitars.
Her Prophets sometimes cruise in cars
else while at each and every bar
to speak of space and time bizarre -
I pass my pride for small pourboires.
Her Necromancers trace in tar
tall tales of wisdom flung afar,
transported by the Registrars -
I hitchhike on their handlebars.
Her seers conjure repertoires
where She and I are on a par
in infinite surreal memoirs -
I sometimes sense the void is ours.
My Princess never sees the scars
cut by Her whispered “au revoirs” -
I often wake to ask ‘who are
these Gods that sail the distant stars?’
From a mouthful of this morning’s eggs,
I pull bits of char from yesterday’s breakfast.
‘I had no chance to scrub the pan’, I plea with myself-
But I still smash it over my skull
like a cartoon.
Every morning I wake up
feeling last night’s feelings,
thinking last night’s thoughts,
about what’s happening 10 years ago,
and what happened tomorrow.
If you add up every
simultaneous
suffocating
moment
I fight through-
just to say:
‘i love you’
It would stretch for longer than I’ve known you,
which is longer than I’ve been alive.
There was no ‘today’ in my broken egg.
No difference between coming or going,
to an automaton in purgatory
who saw life through the pinhole eyes
of a cardboard mask won at a birthday party
I never asked for.
The sky looked like the ceiling of a small, dark closet.
and flowers looked like plastic bargain bin decor
coated in lead paint, the kind left on roadside graves.
I used to count those as a child,
on the way to destinations
I still dread my arrival to.
If I were brave enough to show you my awe and my terror
of loving the one who revealed
the world as something real, all this time-
I would sink face down in dirty bathwater
choking on wet, laughing sobs
until my fingerprints wrinkled away
and tear at my clammy skin
until my soft nails bent backward
and paint red bruises all over my trembling body
that would spell out a primitive language
neither of us had the chance to learn.
This is my best guess:
‘i am just a bad thing that happened
a book of false memories and blind feelings.
You are a very fast reader,
You’ll soon reach the end of me.’
I remember drawing a map in crayon
of every ditch I saw myself lying in
strange, unnatural positions.
Like I'd been struck by a car,
and someone shoved my body away
so I wouldn’t mess up the next one.
The hands of June will soon scoop up this earth.
Her palms will gently cup sunlight and rain.
The wind, her fertile breath, will warm the eves,
yet here I’ll wake to feel her blush in vain.
Without my love, each star-filled night turns black.
At dawn, the sunlight breaks to blind my path.
My ashen heart will char as summer flames,
and flowing blood will parch in aftermath.
I ‘ve often heard of death by broken heart.
It seems that winter’s chill could hasten this,
but this oppressive heat has fueled my pain.
A frozen heart turned numb might feel like bliss.
The summer sun has slouched, the moon has gone,
but somehow through my grief, I carry on.
Written 5/29/20 for JCB Burl’s
A World Without You Contest
On paths of frozen ice and snow
With bitter cold air all around
I just seek to know, where to go
To make it work with what I found
To walk quiet, without a sound
Of cracking ice and things I know
Snow piled in burdens by the pound
Waiting for harmonious flow
1/21/20
Entry for Oh-no A Twisted Char-Lay Poetry Contest. Sponsor: Charles Messina
Flames of desire mesmerize
Instantly provocative to tantalize
Recklessly smoldering embers stirred
Enticing arousal... seduction occurs
Stoking the fire again and again
No strings attached is only plan
Both have reasons to turn away
Smoke exhausts all reasons one day
Forbidden sex arouses all senses
Ghost voyeurs char pretenses
Once guilt and shame are activated
Hardcore explosions... incinerated
No strings attached cannot persevere
Fire leaves ashes of all we hold dear
Written 5-3-2016
In oceans deep, the white whale sings
He seeks a mate to ease his pain
His song, it plays on our heart strings
As Moby Dick searches in vain
Such loneliness no whale can feign
For he’s the last of “great white” kings
Angry, no love can he attain
Casting hapless ships ‘neath waves’ rings
January 21, 2020
For Charlie Messina’s “Oh-No A Twisted Char-Lay Poetry Contest”
Ah Frontiera, here we are at your last, you've thrown a rod, your life lies black
on oily ground - all this snow and you're a mobile no longer; so I must walk.
It's cold, and now I think of it, that cold that exists in enormous reservoirs
at the poles of our world, seemingly to pass back and forth between,
as if through a secret conduit as the seasons are unfurled.
I will relax, I tell myself, "become one with the cold" as if it can't hurt me,
because sometimes you have to tell yourself things in order to survive.
My soliloquy proceeds as I gather thin paper birch branches and fashion them
into snowshoes with rawhide strings from my pack, a woefully empty pack
considering where I must go - the Brooks Range, even in October, is no joke -
and I can make it to a trapper's cabin, south south-west near Lake Chandalar.
Like the Inupiat Eskimos, I will sing my song, make up my tale, and live on.
Garlock, lord of this valley, seven feet of branch-breaking, tree-scarring,
log-rolling, stump-pulling black bear might, looks up, for the wind was behind me
and his nose is ever aware; my prayer - "You've eaten well, for your
winter sleep comes soon, you are not hungry enough for me" - I repeat it with
calm confidence; Praise God - noble king Garlock, this time, gives me a pass.
Two hundred miles, "Can I make it in three weeks, can I stay alive for four,"
I wonder as I walk, as I fish - pike, char; hard-fought with my hook, still the grayling
cooks on my fire - with a few remaining blueberries I find for spice; over mountain pass,
near the gorge's bottom, a rocky ledge, a rare stumbled caribou with broken legs,
my knife finishes it, oh how warm and rich the liver.
Over the blue cold of a nameless glacier - half the planet's glaciers are in Alaska,
that blue in summer melting is half of all water flowing into all the seas; I exist
with the cold, I'm only a part-day's travel from the trapper's cabin now.
Click-thunk! I hear it before my leg is alive with pain; I've stepped on a trap.
The evening's grim descent doubles and redoubles - I laugh or cry.
Will I bleed, will I freeze, or will my life just vanish into shock,
tucked into the ever-colder onset of night.
Trapper, when will you next check your traps?
December 21, 2016
For Shadow Hamilton's contest - 'Epic'
No Toilet Paper
My mind is boggled.
What is with the Coronavirus mania?
Why is everyone going freaking nuts over this?
From what this writer understands,
It is much like the regular flu,
Which is killing thousands as we speak, and
Hospitalizing even more. And this has been going on,
As long as I have been alive since 1952.
But this particular microbe is novel, and
Since little is known about it apparently,
People are afraid they will “get it.”
So off to Costco they all go, and
Buy as much toilet paper they are all permitted to buy,
Take it home, store or hide it with the other family treasures,
And then realize, inexplicably, that now
They are all magically immune to “getting it.”
Is that what these crazed souls are thinking?
I can think of a fate worse than “getting it.”
Worse than sports games being cancelled;
Worse than concerts and plays going on indefinite hiatus;
Worse than school classes and Sunday services finding the exit door, for now;
Worse than millions of vacations being cancelled, and
Entire industries being brought to their knees;
Worse than the world economy taking a complete nosedive
Into depression and financial paralysis;
Worse than millions of human beings dying
Horrible, agonizing deaths due to this little microbe.
No, I can think of something even worse.
Imagine going to Steak Corral - All You Can Eat,
One night soon, and you wanted your money’s worth.
So you load up your plate with:
Whiskey-laced, barbecued baked beans and garlic bread;
Two breadcrumb-laced quarter pound char-burgers,
Each smothered in a half dozen beer-breaded onion rings,
With ranch dressing dripping over them like lava.
Then you go get some more beans on french fries with
Big raw garlic chunks nestled in them, and then,
You wash it all down with three beers.
Imagine the next morning.
Imagine the horror, the horror,
Of voiding all that Steak Corral stuff, and then
Having the absolute worst possible thing
Happen to you in today’s crisis times.
No toilet paper.
From death exudes the acrid breath of Hell
in burning pyres of rosined timbers' blaze.
Return to me where passion's fires dwell
enchanted by the light of your sweet gaze.
I can't endure through life's infernal pain,
without your love, no, nothing can remain,
so burn my soul to soot in hearths of char
and cast each lonely ash to pits of tar.
I know in truth I'm not the one you need.
Emotions smolder deep in fiery night
to have you here just feels so real and right
but if you leave my heart will surely bleed.
You beast, now burn my bones in flames of coal,
your flames of fire will never touch my soul.
04/24/16
Ex Drover, me
As the cleaner sweeps the street,
And the saddle leather squeaks,
cos he's riding ol Darkie,
an his mind is with the herd.
He remembers the cold nights,
Leaps from his swag at daylight,
To stand by the fire ,
For some breakfast egg n bacon.
Yes bloody sah!
An the coffe black as char,
Sucked from his quartpot , jar.
And the toast is a burning ,
Like a bad cigar.
Is burning ,
And the sun comes up, aha.
So we’ll move them poley bullocks,
On the grassy stock route millet,
And the bore drain will water ,
Them poley bullocks shortly,
Till we get to Mungathar.
Don Johnson 8-aug-11
Axe the old Don, a trump peter n piper
of incredulous hellish crud - be gone
ha air brushed pompous ****
Sunkist in Macy's window
then like a jackal hound, he doth run
after public outcry yelps
for his hide leaving
proletarian discord re: pyrrhic victory won.
Donald Duck Trump ™$ - a pompous ass
makes war with his big brass
knuckles and bucket of crass
maligns vis a vis character assassination
while kissing thing kith
darting forked tongue sharp as bro kin glass
inciting banal deathly hallowed
expletives toward lass
sees – especially Fox Television
news anchor woman Megyn Kelly
(quite so many ill mannered indiscretions ago)
inducing said personality
to bear the brunt of brutish mass
of vitriolic n vile insults sacrilegiously
maliciously, noxiously, opprobiously
incriminating, hellaciously,
desecrating opportunistically as hiss oh piss
so…NO amp pull VOTE of confidence from me
(thus far ohm host halfway to 2020 election
toward such a volt char quite rude, snooty
arrogant simian with sass.
I van (terribly hard pressed)
to describe while sitting on me rump
how he oh bomb in lee rages
gnashing false teeth
Wilma backside doth slump
still blasting Democratic nomination
(pa hill a reed) as sham –
from special interest bro and sis turn pump
he, the epitome of
crass bloviation, a malignant lump
whose rants,
sans presidential outcome a shame
bullying with his millions beds this,
that and another woman to bareback jump
disseminating gene pool
birthing more Quakers
and additionally doth hump
the mass media as some foolhardy charade
and caricature of a frazzled grump
this arboreal clothed ape erected Taj Mahal
phallic symbol, where players dump
and gamble away hard earn cash
for his kitty, as if that cachet
to grind and bump
lambasting with maniacal
like "Stormy Dan" yells
leering oafish ill pout
while hair rum
(of red follicular) bulls ad hocks
atop his bulbous aerosol sprayed locks
resemble a flock
of bronzed sea gulls mocks
heady measly shaped Muppet Ox
dis eased cranial hologram shocks
of a cretaceous, facetious tocks
(sic) exogenous, insidious, and obstreperous vox.
Blinded by the first morning beam
Intense infatuation of adolescent love
Triggered emotions. His beguiling charm
Tightened its hold. But a flaw in the scenario
Entangled the script, and the seducer, less his veneer
Retreated into oblivion, leaving a broken heart in disarray.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
In twilight hours I find my peace.
Day’s obligations have been met.
It’s time to find my soul’s release
while over hills sun starts to set.
Life’s trials will go on, and yet
with meditation, worries cease.
The balm of calm I wish to get
while seeing heaven turn cerise.
Jan. 23, 2020 for charles messina's Oh-No A Twisted Char-Lay Poetry Contest
Cuyahoga
Slow moving tepid pools
Fish leap to catch their meals
Birds dive to catch the fish
Rapids filled with children flow down river
White water where people play
Rocks the size of small buildings line your shore
Caves and caverns echo your heartbeat
They look down into a valley millions of years old
The floor of an ocean that covered the world
Ancient natives worshipped your power
Praying to you for what you could provide
Their homes can still be seen in the cliffs
Below homes made of wood, brick and glass
Drawings of the deer who drank on your shore
Char of fires that cooked the food you provided still marks the ceilings
Those ancient peoples are long gone
People still ply your water
Some for relaxation
Some for sport
Others, pairs of people float your currents to find love
It is not your beauty
It is not your history that you will be known by
You will be eternally known by what man has done to you
His poisons gave you your name
You will be known only as the river whose waters caught fire
Until someone, anyone remembers what you have to offer