Best Cloven Poems
REVISED OCTOBER 16, 2019
New Jersey’s cloven-hoofed devil
makes his way to the jetty
beneath the blanket of twinkling stars, anguish unabated
his appetency growing stronger each day
her song rose like mist upon salty tide
creating an irresistible allure
perhaps a mermaid so fair
can be the auspicious boon he badly needs
he calls to her, certain she will listen again
as she has done so many nights before
his soul’s torment she has learned to alleviate
patiently, she clings to one boulder, waiting
for she alone can absolve him of past misdeeds
she motions for him to draw near
“Kiss me now,” she begs,
“Before anything more can go awry.”
he moves toward her, still in atrocious devil form
holding fast to the rocks as a storm approaches
perhaps this time their magical kiss
will forever end his loneliness
October 14, 2019
For John Hamilton’s “Crazy A’s” Poetry Contest
The New Jersey Historical Society provided information about the New Jersey Devil and the mermaid he is said to connect with each night by the shore.
A pregnant lass with eyes of glass had never learned to cope;
once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp’ry slope.
She fled the curse of worlds perverse by shooting shots of dope,
and stalked discreet’ Asylum Street her daily horoscope.
The stray was struck by passing truck which was her only hope.
Well, Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire:
“The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire
(born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire)
for no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require;
though faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar,
infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire.
Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her -
whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood are spattered on the spire;
though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer.”
Though broken there, she’s fled the snare with dying thoughts serene.
And now she’s dead, the rumours spread: her age? a sweet 16,
with child, unwed, her soul stained red, her body so unclean.
A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes,
in limey pits, as well befits, behind forbidding screens;
and all the while a dirge is styled on tattered tambourines
which echo through the human zoo in valleys of the Queens.
Without rejoice, in hissing voice, near soil that’s seldom trod
“In pious role, God bless my soul”, was mouthed with mitred nod,
(the twisted grin seemed dark and thin behind the robed façade).
“She’ll burn in hell with sulphur smell”, spat Priest and man of god.
Well, angels sweet with cloven feet, they sing in girl’s attire,
but Banjo Boy, he’s playing coy while chanting in the choir:
“The clueless search within the church to find what they desire,
but near the nave or gravelled grave, there is no Rectifier.”
And when he’s through, without ado, he stacks some stones nearby her.
Continued from Part 1
“Upon your knees in golden naves, while peeking through the slots,
You horded thirty silver pieces, downed a whiskey shot,
Then crossed yourself and wrapped yourself in furs of ocelots,
And danced on cleated cloven hoofs in purple polka-dots,
Then drank His blood from chalice cups with pious afterthoughts.
“You’ve treated men like mongrels chained, like little flies to swat,
By doing what you wanted to, instead of what you aught;
You’ve wiped your nose with dollar bills and paid your serfs with snot,
But when you’ve paused to preen your pride, you’ve scrubbed a scarlet blot.
“In ashes of our victories: the diamonds that you sought,
The crock of gold, the Golden fleece of bogus Argonauts -
In mirrors of your lifelessness, the evils you begot.
“The haunted winds strew leaves of time across a shallow plot
Where now, beneath the frozen stones blanched bodies bathe in rot,
Disintegrate, return to dust to feed Forget-Me-Nots
Amidst the bane and pits of pain where broken bones lie caught.
“In fields above the catacombs and tombs of Camelot
The black and withered tree of Death arises from the spot
Where oft beneath a bleeding moon you hid your gold in pots
Embedding doubts neath barren bogs where roots of wormwood squat.
“While waiting at the river Styx, in twisted time untaught,
From branches of the gallows tree, in recollections wrought,
Your soul, a beggar’s blanket, hangs in crazy quilted knots,
With dangling pearls and diamond studs mid dripping crimson clots
And gaping wounds with bulging eyes like fouling apricots,
For wrapped in chains around your throat, the Reaper’s grim garrote.”
Yes, that’s the fate of all your kind, disclosed by Wise Men taught.
But that was, oh, so long ago, by now you have forgot…
End
O harlot of colored scarlet hath divided the spoils
The wealthy, well oiled, prophesy uncertainty
Thee measures of barley spoil not the oil or wine
heavenly leaven is unmeasured, care to take a wager
A bird in hand of human man, faith is in the bush
O little bird, swish the bush, faith is not a human wish
I will laugh at your calamities O harlot
I will turn a deaf ear to thy wails of anguish
As a queen thou has ruled unjustly
Ground the face of the poor of earnest contrite
Thy kings shall cast ashes upon their heads
And call for the mountains, “Come fall on us!”
I will loose the yoke of bondage, Love, sayeth Almighty
For it is just in my sight, I have waited for precious fruit
You have remained aloof of un-cloven hoof, relieved not poverty
Of the absolute you have not partaken, or cheweth the cud
Nor forsaken thine own way, Love commands pay...
...of the illusionary substance death of your own logical way
A predator among us.
A villian in our midst.
An entity of evil,
Clouding up our wits.
Preying on the innocent.
Devouring the strong.
A sycophant immortal.
Unbound by right and wrong.
White wool adorning
The curves of their form.
Cloven hooves dragging
on the ground with the worms.
No hoofprints behind them.
just the four toed paws
dotted at the tips
by their long and angry claws.
Nature is a cruel being.
Creating monsters in her storms.
No one understands
And everyone is torn.
The prey will always villify
those who are higher than they
on the food chains bottom
the sheep will always stay.
The wolves are meant to feed
without remourse consume
The psyches of the weak
to bring them to their doom.
The sheep will bleat and bellow
in fear of those wolves
And try to justify their blindness
by stamping hard their hooves.
Hiding in the herd,
the prey upon their back
the predators facade
turns their wool to black.
Such is natures way.
No one is at fault.
The circle of life.
The predators of thought.
For who can blame the hungry beast
for eating to survive
When you people create such feasts
And tantalize our eyes.
We can not feel guilty
for gaining our sustenance.
consider this my fealty
for i shall not repent.
Great Spirit whispers on breathing breeze; 'It is time',
puce plume in saffron noon signals hunt's aborning,
ThunderBeasts' harrowing hooves erupt Great Plains grime,
soon will ail, widow's wail like a wild dove's mourning...
Ancient wisdom, ebony eyes, high cheekbones wide,
buffalo, he knows, mystical foes who fight back,
astride, he rides his Spanish horse with native pride,
his soul cleared, spiritual prayers 'fore the attack.
Timeworn trails, bison beaten by shaggy stampedes,
hunting grounds feared and revered, tribesmen o'er the brae,
power potent, cloven cloud, hastened heart proceeds,
ambush laid, panicked herd, embrace the bloody fray.
Casualty's chance, horseback dance, drum lethal hoof beats,
thunderous trample of ample prairie crocus,
Sioux and beasts' sacred throes, their crimson flows 'neath feet,
death has a way of bringing life into focus.
Susan Ashley
October, 24,2017
~ Third Place ~
Contest: Tribute To Native Culture
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
Creature of myths and legends
most deny that you ever exist
yet time after time you reappear
history the world wide names you
Depicts you with spiral single horn
gleaming white starry coat
its said only in a virgin you trust
when you will lay your head
In her lap as she tames
your ferocity and wildness
only then can you be caught
yet should we capture you?
Is it not best to leave you free?
some things are best left alone
never to be proved as fact
I know I believe you to be real
Yet a wondrous creature living hidden
that forever free and wild should be
allowed to roam in our minds and hearts
bringing hope and joy to future generations
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
for PD's contest written 06/11/2013
The unicorn is a legendary animal from European folklore that resembles a white horse with a large, pointed, spiralling horn projecting from its forehead, and cloven hooves. First mentioned by the ancient Greeks, it became the most important imaginary animal of the Middle Ages and Renaissance when it was commonly described as an extremely wild woodland creature, a symbol of purity and grace, which could only be captured by a virgin. In the encyclopedias its horn was said to have the power to render poisoned water potable and to heal sickness.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
(As Galileo left the session of the Inquisition
at which he had been forced to deny his own
discovery that the earth orbited the sun, and
had to "admit" that the earth was static, he
murmured, "eppur si muove" ("but it moves").
It's hard to live in Lilliput, I find.
I have to cross my fingers, play their game.
Their billing, filling, drilling daily grind
sits ill with me. They all trot out the same
tired cliches. Passing a painting, never fail
to comment on the squareness of the frame.
Unprofitable, weary, flat and stale.
You can't earn prizes here. These fools prize earning.
No sweets to eat. It's one long dreary tale
of condemnation, disapproval, spurning.
The Sunday supplements determine taste,
all tearing down, forbidding, banning, burning.
They're sealed in heavy metal, concrete-cased
austerity. They put the "die" in "diet".
What will survive of them is nuclear waste.
Denounce, detract, dismiss it and deny it.
Don't look for clover - look for cloven hooves.
Excoriate it, flay it, vilify it.
They'd love to let life lurch along in grooves,
the gauche, perverse, unruly human mind
trapped tidily in aspic. But it moves.
The happy lark sings dulcet Resurrection!
His silver strands, like notes, weave pearly cloth,
Abide no warring, strife or misdirection;
The Little Folk come softly to the wroth,
And make them glad and wakeful in new Sun.
Elves almost show themselves, then whirl away!
They cannot stop their mischief, for the fun,
They do not flee from shadows, for ‘tis day.
O! Silver cloth, white song bright, interwoven,
Clothe now each weary soul in Glory, pray!
O! Fiery tongues, anointing us with cloven
White flames, teach us prophetic words to say…
Here, breath of babies, sprung from Springtime’s grace
Surrounds roses, in clouds… chiffon and lace…
3/19/2019
I entered my dream amidst a lavender grassy plain
I realised looking up that the skies are not the same
Orange to yellow patterns as if in cotton wool collage
Blood red horizons in compass as I view my dreams mirage
A noise captures my ears as I turn to view from where
Upon an orangey maned zebra, what I see leaves me stare
She, with Tiger stripes and naked, breasted so heavenly
To the cotton clouds she looks, with a raven so beautifully
My mind now hears cloven hooves, as if beating on the ground
Now many approach from distance, floating, now I'm in surround
The skies begin to darken, blood red horizons seen before
So surreal amidst this lavender, through an alternate back door
Whilst the raven gently hovers she turns her eyes to me
In complexed look of amaze, I think what does she see
Written 7/27/2011 4:26:00 PM
will I awaken
tears?
struggling, uncomfortably
adjusting to fears:
change - stagnation breeding boredom
acceptance - realization that it's over
Self - knowledge that I must face
truth - she's found another lover....
discheveled droopy drawers
howling down on all fours,
drinking
under table,
walking
though unable, I
vanish
in the wind.
Symbols of the ways
that I have wrongly sinned,
Against my inner portrait
Image with no mirror,
A painted picture of the soul:
UNDESIRABLY SUPERIOR
to the one you primp
and pose for,
for vanity's sake:
take yr daily dose
of annihilistic rape!
Yr outer - woven
cloven hoofs
are worn and swollen
Better take yr beauty sleep
before Time has it stolen...
So wash yr guilty
wants with lie,
and scrub yr yellowish heel,
rinse yr drydrunk unconscious
and tip-toe at the wheel,
weave in
out the traffic
and push the pedals hard,
to erase the dividing lines from memory
without a spoken word...
Banquet At The Dark Knight's Castle
Your damned lies,
cast for fickle fame
Muffled cries
'tis but a game...
Hold your false crown,
bow at cloven feet
In glee you drown
innocence's defeat...
Your beastly black,
a cloak you wear
Fairness you lack
harm without care...
Pound your sad drums,
dance as dark knight
Eat molded crumbs
expand your blight...
Your damned lies,
cast for fickle fame
Muffled cries
'tis but a game...
Robert J. Lindley, 3-01-2020
Rhyme, ( As The Waning Moon Sheds Its Golden Skin )
The moon dripped like wax through
the canopy of the pines, light and
shadow were scattered across the
ground like playing cards.
The air was still, the scent of danger
there but difficult to locate, yet the
nostrils still twitched in mistrust.
In knowing that this is their time,
time to forage, snout and graze this
fertile floor, it is also realized that
this is the hour of the hunter, he
who walks with feet shod in death.
In the absence of scent sound is the
ally the startled bird a friend and the
passing cloud a closet in which to
hide.
Cloven feet tread the fern, in this
tranquillity all is fostering, caring,
the procedure of life has no pace
but always achieves its aim, natural
progression achieved by time and
adaptation, little gained by the ever
presence of man, more so the rigid
adaptability to the elements given.
Yes I walk the forest at night, not
with rifle or bow, but with my dogs,
dreams and respect.
Now, Railroad Bob has lost his job, he’s got no place for working,
His wife, she cries with desperate eyes, their baby’s head’s a’ jerking.
The union man don’t give a damn, Big Brother lies a’ lurking,
the boss’ in cabs are picking scabs, they count their money, smirking.
A pregnant lass with eyes of glass has never learned to cope.
Once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp’ry slope -
she casts the Curse, the Holy Verse, and shoots a shot of dope,
and stalks discreet Asylum Street her daily horoscope -
the stray was struck by random truck which was her only hope.
Well, Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire:
“The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire.
Born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire
where no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require;
where faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar,
Infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire.
Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her -
whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood are spattered on the spire;
though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer.”
Though broken there, she’s fled the snare with dying thoughts serene.
And now she’s dead, the rumours spread: her age? a sweet 16,
with child, unwed, her soul dyed red, her body so unclean.
A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes,
in limey pits, as well befits, behind forbidding screens;
and all the while a dirge is styled on tattered tambourines
which echo through the human zoo in valleys of the Queens.
Without rejoice, in hissing voice, near soil that’s seldom trod
“In pious role, God bless my soul”, was mouthed with mitred nod,
neath scarlet trim with black, and grim, behind a robed facade -
“She’ll burn in hell and sulphur smell”, spat Priest and man of god.
Well, angels sweet with cloven feet, they sing in girl’s attire,
but Banjo Boy, he’s playing coy while chanting in the choir:
“The clueless search within the church to find what they desire,
but near the nave or gravelled grave, there is no Rectifier.”
And when he’s through, without ado, he stacks some stones nearby her.
Continued
New Jersey was still a king’s colony
in the 1700s when Mrs. Leeds
awaited the birth of child thirteen.
In pain during labor she cried a curse!
The Quaker is claimed to have given birth
to a son of Satan’s demonic worth.
The New Jersey Devil’s legend was born.
Deep in Pine Barrens where no paths are worn,
Mrs. Leeds denied her child with scorn.
Deformed with cloven hoofs and bat-like wings,
much fear the demon to this day brings.
Satanic evening cries through pine trees sing.
In 1870 where woods meet sea,
a fisherman cast his line at Long Beach,
claimed that this devil emerged from the trees.
To croon a demon’s tune to a mermaid,
this sea beauty’s innocence he sought to jade,
but she swam off as his wicked song played.
Councilman Weeden in 1909
awoke to hear flapping wings in the night.
Cloven hoof prints in snow were left behind.
Multiple sightings near Trenton that year,
with more across the bay in Delaware.
And Pennsylvanians, too, were gripped by fear.
Tracks found at May’s Landing, 1960.
Ten thousand dollars were offered to he
who captured the devil of south Jersey.
This bounty unclaimed still leads fearless men
to hunt in Pine Barrens, the devil’s den.
They enter never to emerge again.
Children with wide eyes sit by campfires.
Huddled close together, they conspire
to capture the winged midnight flyer.
*Submitted for Deb's Monster contest
Written with consultation from the New Jersey Historical Society