Best Covey Poems
I begin as a covet, dulcet demure
pure in play, unbound to a dogma or tablature, a luscious lure,
I find that nerve of passion's verve nestled 'neath narcissistic comfiture
a covey of tingles taunting the ambition you serve, swift and swill I swerve,
in you I introduce a tempo of truth trailing a kiss along your spine's curve
a persuasion of perversion purring patiently in almighty allure,
reaching your pinnacle pulse I assure,
Entwining myself around your libido with nibbling nurture
binding you to the alter of painstaking pleasure I relieve with analgesic swelter
hoodwinking your will with a delicate dominance I am the prima donna capture,
embellishing the envisage of eros, I burnish organs keen with aphrodisiac welter
you become a devout captive to me, the divine dominator,
I am the matador confronting your impulsive power
the target of your sexual tremor,
spear tipped with warm vigor
into you I pound a wonder,
vice and virtue surrender
to principle superior in passionate plunder, for you become the conquer's lover,
taking my spirit from specter to flesh victor,
I will make a woman the vessel of volcanic velvet,
revolutionize female thighs, simmering the sighs in eyes,
make the wrap of a man's arms a hearth of healing heat soul felt,
his tongue a torch pinging with paced pause within mouths magnetized,
A coup de tat taken to your Shangrila,
weaknesses my wayfaring, strengths the servants of my junta
my sweet magic of mayhem laid upon your lithesome lips, the coup de grace -
J.A.B.
Grandpa Troll is a merry old soul, and a merry old soul is he.
He came from Hubby’s basement, just to be with little old me.
He brought with him a Dragon egg, that was cute as cute can be.
He gave it to me, making me, as proud as proud can be. Tee Hee!
Now surely, you can see my plight, as my mind has since gone wacky.
He must have thought me a daft old broad, which was, an impossibility.
Tho I conclude, that he’s now right, Oh Whoa! Oh Whoa… Is me!
But I’ll be darned if I’ll go down that path alone, for that’s, just not me!
So now Grandpa Troll pulls Dragon from my trees, after failed landings.
And I play gambling games with an Elven King, so that… if I win…
He’ll replace my torn up, and once… lovely landscape, of forested trees.
He often gives me tips, on how to improve my life, with Dragon, for free!
Grandpa Troll has now taught the basement Trolls, to fix and repair daily.
I must say that our Carpenter Trolls are the best in this, and any, county.
Dragon is sought by everyone, who does want, a new or better building!
We are now training Mason Trolls, for a simple stone castle, to be built.
You see, stone does not burn, and Dragon wants to be the bat, in our belfry.
And we will add a whole silly wing, in which, to house our little menagerie.
The penguins are asking to add a water slide, from the turrets, to the lake.
The pigeons want to have their covey holes, to get in from winters bite.
Yay, verily! Beware! If you think we’re having illusions of grandeur!
The Basement Trolls also want a bigger workshop and a bigger home…
Tho I’ve begun to dream of… just a small… and simple little crown…
Well, tootles to my friends! It’s time to chase that crazy Dragon, down!
He’s again on the prowl! And it’s time I find those lost marbles… I lost!
So I can glue them solidly into my little crown! Please do,Wish me Luck!
PS. I’ve got my running shoes on and will kick Dragon in the butt…
Then I’ll lead him back home, for a delicious, Grandpa Troll made, lunch.
Written 4-4-2016
Old Jake lived a mile or so below the falls.
He wasn’t a hermit, or any other sect or sort.
He was just an old man; though always alone.
Well, except for the critters.
They were not remarkable, just - - -many
and they all adored old Jake.
He didn’t even have to feed them.
Only gave them what they needed most---love.
Oh, the whole crowd needed companionship!
Or, so it seemed.
That one small cabin?
A six hundred pound bear is a bit much!!
least in my humble opinion.
Then consider the raccoon !
The sucker fusses and complains
all day, all night twenty four-seven.
The covey of pigeons were good about cooing him to sleep
but ‘twearnt worth NO dad gum roosting on the porch rail !!!!!!
Geez!! The hose is not long enough
to drag around to the front steps;
much less scour that whole rail “on and under it”,
the whole width of the house--every day!
That fox!! Slick as a whistle and he will lie
in a skinny minute--
And we have yet to find any sign
of the gone gosling !
Who else would do such a thing?
I know every family has problems, but most can
be fixed with a little think through:
common sense and resolve.
Let’s all work on it----who knows?
One might find, that the powers which be, can take a hint from
the common man for a change.
‘stead of vice versa.
The distinguished guests arrive
And sign the book.
The prima donna,
Wearing tight slippers and a jade necklace,
Warms her voice with a few scales:
Do, Ra, Me
Do, Ra, Me
The diva sings as soulfully as a sparrow.
Her heart is bursting all over.
Mozart approves and claps;
He is a phantom of the opera.
Finally, the crowd disperses
Like dry tea leaves blown by a solstice wind.
The evening was a success.
All who attended are as satisfied
As a covey of quails in a corn field.
Someone comments about the weather--
Says it is mundane.
More down to earth,
The janitor wipes fingerprints
From the arms of chairs
And weeps.
A covey of quail
Under a snarl of brush
Out of the weather
My shoes are glad to be here
Because they are show offs.
With their crazy psychedelic colors
And their loud look-at-me designs.
My sweatshirt parades in the room
More reluctantly.
Large white letters speak for themselves.
Learn. Lead Succeed. Stephen Covey stuff.
My fluffy pink socks scrunch low to the bottom
of my shoes, wanting to be back home, safe in a dark drawer.
They are as skittish as any piece of clothing I have ever had
Including my shy pink rosebud nightgown.
I roll my eyes as I hear my clothing think for themselves.
Why did you bring those homebodies? Blue jeans queries.
If there is one item of clothing I do not answer to it is Blue Jeans.
He always has a sarcastic edge to his accusing tones.
The rule of a legend is, that it is possibly true but there is not ever enough proof, yet I heard from a friend, that dozens of children have died and
many others, at the Thousand Steps to the Mississippi in Clinton, Iowa.
A place, where Stone Face was worshiped, for he watched over the area and the tribes. Over time, legends change and rearrange but they are usually strange, so why should this one be any different. Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote of a prophecy, about a great stone face, and that a man was to be born in his image.
I’m reminding everyone, that there are the steps, and there is a silhouette,
of a man dressed in stone. This story comes from a friend of a friend.
A young boy, who was not afraid at all, of the stories, begins his descent,
on the Thousand Step stairway. Step after step, to the river below,
walking alone, as the storm clouds cover the sun and the woods,
become dark.The boy’s imagination has begun to run away,
and then behind him, he hears click, click but he is a smart boy and
reminds himself. It is just a stick falling, from a tree,
so he continues downward.There are now, many steps behind him and
many more, before him. He comes to a stone bridge,
where he looks over the edge. When swoosh! A covey of black crows fly up,
almost hitting in the face, causing him to slip but as the imagination goes,
there is always something, lying beneath. Upon catching his balance,
realizing they had not come, for his soul the boy moves on.
Suddenly he hears a strange moan and tries to blame this, on the wind coming,
across the mighty river but to be sure, he runs a little bit.
When lightning strikes and from the light, he sees a silhouette of a man.
Stopping in his steps, He notices, that he cannot move or speak but
only groan. The boy has becomes stone and the path is, like some
Medusan pathway. We all have seen faces in stone and in other things,
therefore the moral of this story is you should always be wary,
of where you step!
These are all ruminations that arose from a recent backpacking trip in the Ventana Wilderness
Needing to bring spiritual realities
into the press of raw humanity,
amongst the most humble
the dreamer seems visionary.
Addiction is a mirror;
if I look into it for long
I will see myself
attempting suicide.
With my conscious mind in tow
I descend into my heart
through imagination,
there learning your memory
is the sunshine
each new day bears.
A covey of fat
mountain quail and me,
we surprised each other
on the trail this morning
at just past six,
the significance of this not eluding me
having already had my manna.
In a field of false lupin
spilling the earth
an unearthly blue
surrounded by young madrone
of vibrant green and neon brown
sprung from the ashes
of disastrous fire
i chanced an encounter
with One who has all power
in taking a chance
on His love
They are
perhaps not stars
but distant openings
windows to beyond
to back where i started from,
ever His intention
i find my way home
It would make more sense
were my gray matter
yellow, or white
with a goldenrod center,
given the scrambled
and fried responses
it comes out with
Little glimpses
leaving hunger for more,
poetry draws me into
an other's life:
just because I wasn't there
doesn't mean
I can't recall it.
A non-entity with ambitions
inured to my own strangeness,
being published gave an air of respectability,
the way squirrels are saved
from looking like rodents
by their bushy tails.
In process he found
a self-worth being, then
a self worth becoming, and
a self worth revealing.
A covey of quails
Decided to cross the road,
The brush was their goal.
While walking down a lovely street
A tourist looking for place to eat
I spotted a variety of pretty flowers
Of which I stared at for hours
Looking through the crape myrtles
I spotted a very large mock turtle
Beside the impatiens I could see
A butterfly land on the side of a tree
Looking up into the deep blue sky
A colony of seagulls were flying by
One landing on a Victorian gable
Another landing on a balcony table
And when I reached the Lobster House
I spotted a covey of ruffed grouse.
One afternoon in the chamber of death
A young man loses his life
Death took him with a smile
No longer feel pain
He truly forgives them all
Whose eyes were so blind
And covey him to his tomb
He knew he finally free
In hands of justice
By death of an innocent
Decayed truth unveiled
~ Kimo, Tanka, Senryu Forms
Miss Jessica Finch, the avian sleuth
Was scratching out novels and sipping vermouth.
She lived a charmed life when she was quite young;
Her first book, “The Voyeur: Peeking Duck Hung”.
“Peacocked and Loaded,” no rivals, unequalled.
“All Bluster, No Muster, “ a fan-favored sequel.
“Migratory Murmurations of a Wandering Heart”
And “Starling, My Darling,” her cross-over art.
“Covey of darkness: the Unpheasant Truth”
Shines light in glass houses, unkempt and uncouth.
The one she’s best known for, that everyone one knows
That suspenseful thriller, “A Murder of Crows.”
But the one she loves best, that still gives her pause,
The brilliant court drama, “Probable Caws.”
————-
for the A Flock of Birds Poetry Contest
sponsored by Julia Ward
written on 09/24/22
High School Graduation Night, after all those years
Suit and tie, cap and gown, the long last sheep skin
After that night, we all seemed to have scattered like a covey of quail
That night we were off to the river for a lot of beers
State Foot Ball Championship that year was a big win
The teachers wanted to get rid of some of us, they would not let us fail
Some married early with kids, then grand kids came along
Most got a divorce and then some did not care
A few went to the military, others to college
And some just went wrong
Some went to the School Of Hard Knocks for their knowledge
I hope to all life turned out fair
One was a banker, one a welder, some could not decide
Jackie is in Germany, Mark is in a little town outside of Brimingham
Bruce just got out of Rehab, Joe is out there some where
Steve, God rest his soul committed suicide
Billie went to the Navy, a lot got wounded in Veitnam
Never did hear what happened to Blair
They have a class reunion every ten years or so
It can be a time to be happy or real sad
Everyone has to wear a name tag and that is a good thing
Like a blind date, so you just don't flat know
But what the Hell, remember all the good times we had
Then and now, what made the school bell ring
I tottered to the bedroom window
then, painfully, clumsily
drew back the curtains ‘pon my today.
At first glance
morning blinded me with wilful extravagance
reminiscent of a woman at a certain age,
bling-ful, blinding!
Until - unwrapping my senses
I awoke to facts, figures and self-made fake!
Time dripped into view, stuttering
cruel reality, t’was
four thirty-four of too early the clock,
too cruel a symphony,
conducted by maestro insomnia?
Stripped of silver veils
a near final chorus of pink-tipped stars
slipped ‘tween two soft breasted hills
they, distant enough, moist with dew..
an I smiled, drawing my blue towelling robe
around my insurgent wakefulness
denying dreams.
Old oak clock chimed irreverent
as mile away waves thundered gainst a covey of
ancient cliffs, their Jurassic throats
echoing the satiated depths of time past
where soft played the reel
luring me quiet the salt
coating my cheeks ‘tween sanity and sleep.
Trembling my empty mind to work, slowly, slowly
my eyes opened wider than wide
sleep-walking the stupidity of my role
tiI now unaware.
Nary a word penned, nor a need to.
A few blinks away time calls reality:
‘Hello, Monday, welcome to my world!
The Storm
Early in the morning mist
When the iridescent sun-rays aglow,
Pencil pierced through the dark cloud,
Touching the earth in places;
A gold like revelation,
Suddenly! the rays got blindfolded,
The far country looked gloomy,
And clump of baobab hushed to the date palms,
The covey of pigeons and parrots whispered,
To the bevy of Sparrows and Woodpeckers to pause,
With eyes thin and narrowed,
To ascertain the magnitude of the storm;
That loomed afar in the horizon,
It came like the charge,
Of thousand horse men, sand, dust,
And a resounding gust,
The trees bowed, danced and spun,
Leaves flailing madly like,
The kaftans of Muezzins caught in the wind,
In the present penumbra,
That enveloped the surrounding field,
That gave way gradually,
To pellucid air;
Far off came the soulful sound of the rain,
Pattering the roofs and pelting the window-panes,
Like a million showering crystals;
As it washed down,
A year’s dust, languor and expectation,
The ground’s dusty aroma,
Gyrate like a mysterious perfume,
And the dribbling water,
Carry along slowly through,
The sodden ground.
Now the peasants may say
For the dead dry,
And the castrated branches:
Thank goodness!
Thank heavens!
For the water of life
For new grasses that shoot,
And the Flora that bloom,
As the wind whistled deviance through the woods
And blast through the swept neighborhoods,
Hearts beat quickened,
Glances among the quietness;
As whet ears,
Listened to the crashes,
And in that soporific,
Spell-like foreboding,
Between sleep and wakefulness,
The owl,
Perch deep inside a hole
In the trunk of giant Baobab,
Waits for the storm to blow over.