Best Cutlass Poems
The sun cries for us, its heat fades away
snowflakes sprinkle round its orbit, yet go unmelted
it feels like evening, but its yet noon
time never changes its pace but now runs from a rifle
daylight sadly pretends, just to soften night's mockery.
Blood has substituted the rains
death has defined our borders
humanity is rendered homeless
and politics, given the borrowed authority of a landlord.
Life is cheaper than wine
tribal dominance exhibited in a show glass
for love to become an expired product.
Unity is deprived of its oxygen
from a gang of beasts, spare headed by religion.
Genocide celebrated, killers protected
understanding and cooperation, required from the affected
silence and denial, demanded from the afflicted
marginalization defended and grievances rejected.
The edge of the cutlass strikes harder than racism
Indigenes in their own homes hit worse than xenophobia
hope is lost, drowned in the sea of Impunity
faith is locked up in a cage underneath evil's valley
decades of cries to the heavens
the tears flow down to meet more affliction.
The sun rises, but presents in dark red
setting hours later to the notice of no one
a people bounded on falsehood
a large home of smaller fenced habitations
as everyone needs protection from everyone
and where space becomes too small for the stars;
but when distinguished into different galaxies,
it beams brighter to be a better decoration.
An unbearable course too small for the river to flow
makes nature justify its split into tributaries.
Enemies can no longer be in one home,
so live and let's leave, or leave and let's live
is the only policy left for us all
and the survival anthem for this beautiful garden
no more suitable for community germination.
"A Silent Song"
Mirror Mirror on the Wall
Blessed or cursed
Morning shave
Coffee please
Write a verse
Remembers last night’s dream
Grabs a napkin, spills his spleen
Shoves it in his pocket
Walks to work
Sits at his desk
Carries on as usual
Chats on with the new study,
he’s on a roll, softly flirts
Quietly, silently, it always works
Groundhog Day that’s the worst,
Where’s the breaker to dive under it all
Every now and then a Tempest is called for
A heavenly thunderous squall
Just to shake it up
Move through the strung out long day pall
Cover his mirror with her fog and all
All the while
He’s talking it up, little work day dramas
Meetings minute cutlass pen thrust
Business as usual, balls to bust
Still underneath it all he’s thinking the stories frame by frame
She whispers out of nowhere ethereal in his brain,
“The best story is yet to arrive, it’s only the middle of the day…
maybe some gold glitter, a Llama and a Toucan that sashays?”
Empath on his knees by midnight
He’s writing melancholic love songs
The words are tight, verses short
Not long, he’s thinking Turtle Doves and short skirts
That won’t work…
scrawls it out, writing’s gone with the wind,
The best words for the story don’t take too long
He listens to some music, thinks of her and sings a new song.
Mirror Mirror on the Wall
Dreams flourish dripping words
black on white her familiar screen
pounding faster like raging horses hooves and heart beats
bleed vibrant colors mystic legions of wars and lovers
a foreign sovereignty her mind and wily covers her pageantry
Her eyes the windows of her world
Wings beating flying free
Cages broken, horses hooves hearts racing
She follows him on another shore a dream by sea
Praying prophecies
Empath on her knees
Two very different minds
Free to be
(Lovejoy-Burton/Feb 2018)
Music/ Paolo Conte, "Sparring Partner"
https://youtu.be/tzjdY5rmpCA
How did a decent lady like me end up here, anyway?
The only girl aboard a ship of unsavory men.
The last thing I remember was sipping a glass of wine in a tavern.
Then, when I awoke, I was at sea,
on a vessel, and surrounded by pirates.
Shanghai'd, I think they call it.
For what purpose, I do not even want to think about.
However, I found that out rather quickly.
Then, I learned something else.
A sharp cutlass and a loaded pistol are a girl's best friend.
I am hardly the damsel in distress, for I can take care of myself.
There is one thing on board this ship
that I do not mind thinking about.
The captain, or so he calls himself.
My gaze often finds him, though his never finds me.
Only when he is giving me orders.
I have been entrusted with the helm of this vessel.
While he stares off into the waters of the Caribbean Sea.
Perhaps, planning our next heading.
The seas are strangely calm at the end of this day.
The sun is half way sunken below the horizon,
making the usual aqua-blue waters glow a golden-orange.
I stare into the dark eyes of my pirate captain,
they reflect the sunset, and shine like the gold of a doubloon.
His eyes are a lost treasure that I hope will find me.
I would trade all of the hidden treasures in the seven seas,
just for one look of those eyes.
Rubies, rare pearls, sapphires,
even gold cannot entice me more.
I leave the ship's wheel to make my way
down the wooden steps to the empty deck.
And, I ask him if he has our next route mapped out.
The captain leans against the ship's rails,
looking down as if contemplating.
He slowly turns his head,
and looks up at me with those enchanting eyes.
Then, he gives me that mischievous half-smile....
Thick white clouds
Retracing posture
Atop the layers of earth;
Foggy shrouds of white
Overclouded landscape
Clogging the sunlight
In blurry unclearness.
In brown faded bushes
Lies inhalations of dryness,
Catchy like the gasoline
In simple lit strikes
On matchboxes;
Spreading fierce fires
To four cornered angles
On grassy fields.
From silty bits of soil
Hovers clouds of dust,
Distributed casually
By several printed steps
Of slippers and rotating air.
The echoes of the wind
Screams with concurrent whirl,
Stirring up particles
In fiery harsh voices.
Innermost in the terrain
Glares cracking every way,
As the dryness sucks away
Final surviving drops of moist,
From pores of skin surfaces
And wooden doors.
Thence, in customary shrinking
Of shriveling leaves and bushes
Prowls the reptiles, fleeing away
In untiring searches
For cooler comforting abodes,
Resting forevermore
To the swift slashing cutlass
Of the cautious hunter.
Dreams On The High Seas
I dare reach my dreams on the high seas
Calm sea sweet is the night air
High tide with the heightening of the full moon
Wearing its payne’s gray watercolor skies
Laced with glimmering constellation stars
On this vast universe that lie before me like a land of dreams
~
I dare reach my dreams on the high seas
With sails that ensnares sea sweet night air
As I stand on the bow with cold shivers running up my spine staring at the horizon
Waves crashing against the slowly drifting ship
I hear the sounds and catch a glimpse of a spout of water
From a knobby head of the humpback whale
Breaching the surface to breathe and sing its songs
~
I dare reach my dreams on the high seas
To command my own ship, the Black Pearl and ride the Seven Seas
From sun rising at dawn until the twilight of the seductive night
As the sea beckons me on to a life journey
With cannons blasts splintering ships apart and my cutlass swinging
While I hunt for my fortune of sparkling gold and rainbow diamonds in the sand
~
I dare reach my dreams on the high seas
9/20/2015
Sweeping time under the carpet
Is a time consuming chore,
Like spring cleaning
My consciousness
Upon a shingle shore,
Or picking up the seconds
Strewn along the cutlass beach,
Where the moments linger sadly
Like a daydream out of reach.
Spending hours of contemplation
Where the forest meets the field,
Where the larks rise
From the meadow
Just before the day is sealed,
Can be such an exaltation
In the sheltered heights of time,
As elusive words come slowly
And create another rhyme.
Casting petals to the river
Throwing coins into the crowd,
Just two softly borne illusions
That the seasons have allowed,
In the nest of all creation
Where the eggs of time are hatched,
Moments flutter with emotion
Just before they are dispatched.
Then they twine with every minute
And the minutes turn to hours,
As the course of life is flowing
Through those changeless hanging bowers,
Then the hours cast their garment
At the ending of each day,
Like a wordless golden manuscript
With nothing more to say…
CAR COURT
Enter, the older heavyweight steel giant,
The bailiff, a 1954 Hudson, reads unhesitant :
On the docket for this morning : guilty by implication - a Trabant,
In close custody with a Cutlass Supreme for supervision.
Next on the docket: a Pinto for likely gas-tank explosion.
Third on the docket: an English-made car (any marque) - body corrosion.
Lawyer for the prosecution, a pretentious character, a gas guzzler SUV
4x4 off-road with winch - for Saturday use on driveway only -
Hangs out with Vettes; and uses NO2 in fuel. Who?Drugs? Not me!
Downbeat guy as the defence counsel , a solid no nonsense Hummer,
A real enviro-bummer,
Klutzy ugly and personality like a mack truck in summer.
Trabant coughed its way to the stand.
Clerk of court Volkswagen, order in hand,
Read the indictment quietly, efficiently, bland.
Prosecution began with noisy opening musical-horn tunelets
The jury, all serious-minded stolid Volvos and Toyota Starlets
Were not impressed. Hummer clumsily interrupted with an objection, “Let’s
Stop, on the grounds of precedent,” but at this point Pinto reversed,
Crushed its trunk and its gas-tank exploded, and worst ,
Hit the the English car : and into flames they both burst.
Cutlass argued with the SUV, which was winched away pending sentence.
Case against the English car dismissed from lack of evidence.
Trabant was deported back to Germany: no import licence
Overseeing all these proceedings : the ever-reliable, I-won’t-budge,
The I-have-a-spotless-reputation, I-hold-no-grudge,
The mechanical virgin, the silent Rolls Royce as judge.
...........................................................................................................
A Pirate Drinking Song
Yo-Ho-Ho and a bottle of rum
Pirates sing to the pipe and drum
North wind blows with a Gale's horn
Snapping the canvas with a deafening mourn
Battles are fought, plunder is sought
To ports abound, it is Rum that is bought
We ride the waves seeking adventure and plunder
It is Neptune’s wrath we curse, by thunder
The sea, she bares a woman’s desire
To set each sailors heart a fire
Battles are fought, plunder is sought
To ports abound, it is Rum that is bought
Canon and cutlass, powder and gun
We cut down are foes, one by one
To Davy Jones locker our souls will sleep
A funeral of apathy in the briny deep
Battles are fought, plunder is sought
To ports abound, it is Rum that is bought
With a hardy crew and an open sea
It’s a pirating life I want for me
Till then we will sing of the scallywag scum
Yo-Ho-Ho, Another bottle of Rum
.
Copper tone tan
that contemptible soul
not even my cutlass
her knowing its quickness
to make cutlets
cured her cravings for
me to complete
counting sundays
CUNNILINGUS
I dream to be a buccaneer out on a sailing ship
Purple parrot on my shoulder sharp cutlass on my hip.
Sailing upon the seven seas it's adventure I would seek
Treasure chests of gold doubloons I will capture from the meek.
A striking figure I would cast with skull and crossbones on my hat
“Surrender now me lowly dogs or prepare for death combat!”
“Cannon shot and the taste of steel should you choose to fight!
So save your souls and join my crew or to Davey Jones you’ll go this night.”
“Blood ’tis not my favoured wine. I’ve drunk it fully from my cup,
Surrender now me lowly dogs or blood I’ll feast from pups!”
A noble leader I will make winning battles from my lips,
Admiral of an awesome fleet of four and twenty ships.
The bards of court will sing of me, a debonair dashing brute
Swooning lasses wholly lusting for a buccaneer and his loot.
____________________________
After twenty years of pirating and spilling claret on the seas
Death lives upon my shoulders after brutal killing sprees.
Bereavement is the briny wake of this immoral trip
My lust's for wealth not fantasies, and innocence has lost its grip.
A hollow man with no regret the keys to Hades at my behest
No need for words of harmony as breathe stops, within your chest.
Stand and fight and I’ll feed the sharks or yield and I’ll do the same.
I have no need for spineless crew unless my blade you tame.
No value do I see in life unless it’s ransom that I pursue
I’ve slit the throats of worthless filth, destructions the path I imbue.
My crew they only follow me for their blood lust I do quell
They’re damned to me forever till we meet the gates of hell.
My whispered name fills men with dread, I’m a murderous bastard beast
The widows that I’ve created will rejoice when I’m deceased.
Ye dirty son of a sea dog
Ye rotten pile o' bones
Ye'll see the end o' me cutlass
I'll intrrroduce ye to Davey Jones
Ye'll not be getn me treasure
For Ive the map ye see
Ill set ye adrift in a leaky skiff
And food for fish ye'll be
Me chest be filled wi diamonds
And rubies, pearls and such
But ye'll be treadn water
Me treasure ye wont touch
My ode to pirates everywhere..
I'm a briny whore
wit' reekin' drawers
me honor ter make yer acquenchance
th' skipper's maid
me port's decayed
one doubloon, yer seafarin' urchin?
Yer scurvy rat
a-crawl wit' gnat
orf seadog scourged wit' rabid
yer cannon's immense
'tis cocked 'n tense
yer cutlass be yearnin' me scabbard
Yer stench o' sewer
me bits'll chew yer
bumps 'n boils 'n rottin' flesh
yer britches singe
yer helm unhinge
ter boot yer hornpipe thump 'n thresh
2013-11-20
Surface tension
Third dimension
Imperfect sphere
Rays interfere
Spectral contours
Numbers ensure
Hydroxide base
Light interface
Occam's cutlass
Logic's numbness
Can not destroy
Our childish joy
Ever humble
Soap sud bubble
Magical wide eyed wonder
Capturing a father's heart
Blowing bubbles
Soapy sorcery
Daughter's delight
Laughing
Must hold
Must keep
Must treasure
He stayed her tiny hands
These are our dreams
You cannot destroy them
Look how hope carries them high
The large ones wobble
Then pop under their own weight
The small ones float longer
Simple and sensible
None last forever
Don't cry
There are always more bubbles
Look how they touch
Some pull apart
They burst
Some pull together
They grow
See the rainbow colours?
There's a pot of gold at the end
And all the bubbles float upwards
To make a castle in the sky
Out of our dreams
But daddy
Soap bubbles are spheres
And have no ends
And no pots of gold
And castles belong on the ground
And they're made of stone
And not of dreams
Silly daddy
He looked at his daughter
And wondered where the years went
Her childhood an ephemeral existence
Of a bubble
The soap had run out
And she had grown up
As we all must
Entry to "utopia and the soap bubble" contest
Written 6th March 2017
Notes:
Soap typically contains either sodium hydroxide (caustic soda) or potassium hydroxide
"Occam's cutlass" is a reference to Occam's razor - the principle that the simplest explanation is often the correct one
Henry Morgan is my name
Being a pirate is my fame
A landlubber wasn't for me
Fortunes were made at sea
From port and starboard cannons roar
Through Spanish ships cannonballs tore
Strike your colors or face our scorn
Cutlass and pikes will make you regret being born
Merchant ships we looted, plundered and sank
Prisoners were ransomed or walked the plank
Raiding West Indies settlements was fun
Loved the pieces of eight, wenches, and rum
The Governor shivered at night in bed
His King put a price on my head
Buccaneers way were over or face harm
Keep on and you will swing from the yardarm
Poetry Contest: A storm on the Spanish Main
Sponsored by: Joe Maverick
Sir Henry Morgan,
Nickname "Barbadosed"
born 1635,
died 25 August 1688 (age 53)
The Pirate Who Invaaded Panama in 1671
Buccaneer and pirate, admiral and general, country gentleman and planter, custos and judge of the court of Vice-Admiralty, governor and knight ¬ all are titles he held
But night’s bell came with tears and without love,
As our bamboo door talked,
“KNOCK! KNOCK!!”
Before my voice could speak,
Legs ruined down my door,
Then eyes in different heights
In the starry night like
Torch lights… attacked
Me with their voices.
They came in mass,
Some brandishing cutlass,
Some matchets, guns and arrows.
Gang upon gangs,
Displaying their flags,
Blood stained, tattered, hair, shaggy.
They held human heads for their
Oracles of war.
They were muttering songs as if
Forced to sing,
They had leaves and grasses in the
Middle of their mouths, they were mostly teens,
They were the Hausa rebels…
“Wait! Wait!! Wait!!!
Where are the bells?
Is this day not Christmas?”
I was asking myself,
A short tick man came out of the mass,
Not looking like human,
He looked backed at the rest,
Feeling like the best.
He weakened my hear drums
By the manner of his question,
“Hausa or Birom?”.
To send my religion to the bottom?
Whom for this day, is Christmas?
And sweet Messiah’s Calvary at Golgotha?
I wasn’t prepared for that,
So the truth came out like a blast
“Birom!!”.
“Yee! Yee!! Yee!!!
Enemy tribes” they shouted
Like savage talking drums.
(To be continued in the next, same Poem).