Best Circuit Poems
The nest of wires
so loosely tethered
at the base of control
suffers from rigidity
while hard-linked
to each portal of
infinity
until cracks snake
the foundation
like menacing grins,
all mirthlessly mouthing
infallible truth
behind certain
fallibility:
every age rises
before diminishing
to bury discovery
as treasure precious
within the driving
will of all forms
sentient.
my feelers feel a moldy cheese wheel
to the dented and bitten side, slapping
pushing, thumbing down, break a chunk
and bring close to my eyes to take
a look. there are my brothers, they
look hither and see my eight thousand
eyes gazing upon squirming fatness
in the festering fuzzy fungus sauce.
not fit to eat or to discard, i hold
my brothers' home and look to the wall,
then to the floor, and to the ceiling
so mottled and cream. just a little less
viscous than their own abode, and
smelling similar. they have no eyes
or ears, but an instinct to wiggle and
squirm. so alike are we, my brothers in
the curdled gouda.
i devoured the wheel whole, for i hungered,
and was sated
After a long week it is Friday,
and that means it’s time to go
to a corral twenty minutes off,
the weekly circuit rodeo.
Get there early ’cause they always have
a barbeque before it starts,
also basic line-dancing lessons
for ladies and their sweet-hearts.
Drifting through the nearby western store
while things are getting ready,
buy a new belt with an eagle print,
it’s both rustic and steady.
In the ring they’re warming up horses,
preparing them to ride slack,
a teenage girls talks on her cell-phone
while perched on a gelding’s back.
It starts off with some nice pageantry,
a dozen riders with flags,
anthem plays to the stars and the stripes,
makes a free man’s soul feel glad.
I sit way up high in the bleachers,
bronc-busters the first to ride,
unbroken horses don’t like the weight,
they buck, they spin ’round, they dive.
The riders always will get thrown off,
it’s just a question of when,
next the ropers go line up to ride,
chasing steers loosed from the pen.
Lassos flicker in stadium lights,
and slowly they scribe a path,
then swoop down low and seize on a hoof,
how the heck do they do that?
Now the steer wrestlers leap from their mounts,
never fails to bring a cheer,
wonder if they put on resumes
‘Am adept at wrestling steers’?
Things slow down, the trick-roper comes out,
spins a line as if born to it,
then pops balloons from a woman’s head
with a swish of his bull-whip!
Then pony-tails fly behind women,
barrel-racers ride compelled,
moving so fast you’d think they were chased
by the damned devil himself.
Finally men, more crazy then sane,
sit themselves on a huge bull,
two thousand pounds of angry muscle,
testosterone flowing full.
One by one the riders are thrown off,
then the clowns distract the beasts,
buying the rider just enough time,
to scramble back to his feet.
But one young man will not break his hold,
he passes eight second by luck,
just enough to win the night’s small prize,
a hard way to earn a buck.
The crowd is drifting back to their cars
as the sunlight settles low,
cowboys and girls I’ll see again at
the weekly circuit rodeo.
The current whizzes around the wire.
If there's no resistor, there will be fire.
rain drops replenish
comatose cascade hastens
potent ocean serves
© Harry J Horsman 2018
The Circuit Preacher came to town,
and the word of God he preached,
At the end of his sermon,
our souls he did beseech.
We all stood shuffling around,
like calves stuck in the mire,
We’d only come to see the foreman’s sisters,
who were singing in the choir.
What happened next surprised us,
it was the derndest thing we ever saw,
There was Frank, on his knees,
his hands clasped beneath his jaw.
Now Frank, he was a sinner,
of a magnitude most high,
It was not beneath his dignity,
to cheat or steal or lie.
But there he was, on his knees,
praying with all his might,
Begging for forgiveness,
for he had seen the light.
I’d like to say Frank truly changed,
becoming perfect through and through,
But there’s no use in saying so,
I’d just be lying to you.
But he was a bit more tolerant,
and every once in awhile,
He treated the hands respectful,
sometimes, he would even smile.
Sure, he had his slip-ups,
but most of his time was well spent,
And when he was bad, he was sorry,
the very definition of the word repent.
On the day he passed from this world,
he went grinning without a sound.
And no one here has ever forgotten,
the day the Circuit Preacher came to town.
I'm sitting here with short circuit
thoughts.
In a lousy dilemma, I don't know
what to do.
I had a thousand watts dreams for
this love affair.
But it all came crashing down due
to the fact that it was a microwave
type of love.
We didn't let it take time to bake or
simmer in a crockpot.
Now it's over, faster than it began.
Alexis Y.
08/9/2021
As rushes meet the newborn sky
and dew damp moments briefly lie
upon a sleeping kingdom drawn
from quiet visions yet unquelled
and shaken dry by breaths of dawn.
Serenity too quick dispelled
where silence just before had dwelled.
A tightly lidded dreamer clings
as noontide beats the drum of day
and substance clips Utopian wings.
In heat of warring battle-rays
all fragile crowns meet their dismay.
The lips of Queens fall fever scorched
and swords of Kings are rendered still-
at point of Midday's gilded torch.
Quixotic prophecies unfilled
plague Knight's of Fancy weary willed
as Legions of Reality
dare douse the light of Golden crest
and claim a sunset victory.
Bright daggers sheathed in Western breast
as unsuspecting Lucents rest.
Their eyes cast low while dimming blades
part conquered realms alight below
revealing hope in star brigades.
As twilight covers day and shows
the power lost to Daylight's glow
an ambushed army grapples blind
and sequined sands grate eyes half closed
as Sandman steals the conscious mind.
The Dreamtide Warriors all exposed
the stress of Day at last disposed.
A freedom breathes where Midnight stirs
and tangles thoughts behind my eyes
where Darkness reins o'er what occurs.
Again shall come the newborn sky
where dew damp moments briefly lie
upon my sleeping kingdom drawn
from quiet visions yet unquelled
but Dreamtide Hours are strength come dawn.
There is a moon stuck inside the stoplight
A still unblinking gaze controlling blood tides
Circulatory system like New York City in the seventies
The thrashing of my tire fire heart led
To the tribute of an overzealous blood tithe
With the buzzing of the latch relay circuit
Night and day, the cosmic light switch clicks
Itself into place, there is no dusk or dawn
We are burdened to tread in the interchange
We are a gathering of werewolves, in need
Of a blood moon, craving catharsis and hope
There is no time to pencil in a reverie
A daily scene, like a living nightmare
Turning us into cybernetic lycanthropes
In my feelings I’m fillings
In my splitting placement settings
Intentional pig intestines
I LAMB COVING MY LINKAGE
My beef is forced anger
So goose my way through life passages go figure
I goat what I eat what I ate aspirate danger
My by product waste excrement, temperament
Cleanse out covered wrinkle tribe
Neither lamb fry nor black pot
In my feelings I’m fillings
In my splitting placement settings
Intentional pig intestines
Spiritual and Physical
~
Left over thrown away chitterling
Skins of mine intestines
Mutton never tasted spiritual under taking
I’ve been bomb basin
A jointed of veal provide
How we feel been denied
Speaks of feces yum turn inside out
In my feelings I’m fillings
In my splitting placement settings
Intentional pig intestines
Physical and Spiritual
11/12/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2023©
Burning flame, lost tears, don’t expect any compassion for your soul here.
Burning flame, dark skies, don’t expect a sympathetic soul to hear your cries.
Life burning, sorrowful screams.
Let them die alone on hospital beds as they don’t matter, blame it on their weak genes.
Silent nights, they can’t breathe!
Your life does not matter to this government whose only appetite and concern is selfish greed.