Best Dismount Poems
Under the Christmas tree sits a nativity scene in the old town square. I sit on a rustic wood bench and reminisce on the stories I’ve been told about Jesus being born on Christmas Day. When all of a sudden, I hear movement in the bushes; I turn my head and look over my shoulder. With a sudden fright, a tall pure white stallion with feathered wings, steps forward and says, “My name is Peg, climb on my back and I’ll take you to where it all began.” I arose to my feet and got on Peg’s back, held on tightly to his mane. He galloped off at full speed facing into the wind and took off soaring into the night full of stars, being guided by a large, bright, glowing star.
Peg turned his head and said, “That is the Christmas Star ahead.”
As I looked down below, I saw coming from the east, three men. Could they be the three Wise Men?
As we reach the star we slow down to a town. Peg said, “This is Bethlehem down below.”
Peg starts descending close to a stable and lands. I anxiously dismount and we both walk towards the stable. My spirit was overpowered with awe, there in the small dim lite stable, we found a babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger, with his mother Mary kneeling beside Him.
The shepherds that were watching their flocks near the stable also came all elated, one of them said, “An angel appeared and told us a Savior, the Messiah, had been born and that we would find Jesus laying in a manger. So, we immediately came to see if truly Jesus our Savior was born.”
The three Wise Men arrived and said, “Where is He who has been born King of the Jews? For we have seen His Star in the East and have come to worship Him.” They gazed at the young Child and immediately fell down and worshiped Him, they presented their gifts to him of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.
We stayed for a while in admiration of our Lord Jesus.
After a time, Peg said, “I need to get you back before you are missed.”
Together we flew into the endless night back home to the Christmas tree where I had been before.
11/18/2014 © 2014
hanging in the air
humidity’s heaviness . . .
the river’s slow crawl
On the Mississippi lies the beautiful little city where I once lived. How many times I trudged up inclined streets; or leaning forward, red-faced and panting, pressed up slopes with all my might, feet on pedals of my purple Sting-ray bike, urging myself not to dismount prior to reaching glorious level ground! The damp beneath my clothing in those days was a given. Simply stopped to rest. . . sipping pop underneath a tree, I would often feel rivulets of sweat that trickled down beneath my underarms, a surfeit which caused circle stains to appear beneath the arms of short-sleeved shirts or on Sundays, beneath the flowered dresses that I wore to church. However, despite the heat’s discomfort, it was summer, after all!
counting down the days
until the school bell’s last ring -
a fling with summer
Released from stifling classrooms for vacation, I eagerly embraced the sun. . .and how I played! Kickball with the neighbors, visits to the city pool with my sisters and friends, bike rides to parks or into town, where I spent my allowance on records and treats, and hours racing eagerly through the pages of Nancy Drew books in front of a cooling fan - all these things consumed me.
It was in the month of August, and more than a decade of muggy summers later that I found myself transplanted in a desert. As if thrust into a giant pre-set oven with a noose about my neck, I learned firsthand the meaning of “slow roast.” Here, in the new and different place where I've now lived most of my adult life, the heat can leave one with a burn like acid watered down, a deep sensation lingering in skin long after sun has left the sky. Perspiration may just evaporate before it has a chance to wend its way along the body’s contours. Discomfort notwithstanding, there’s no pain. Acclimated to these summers now, I find that it is easier for me to breathe in August heat than it was the first time I’d ever encountered it. Released from stifling work, I go outside into the oven, pen in suntanned hand!
sunshine reflections
so many summers have passed
writing till twilight
my husband and I used to argue
weeks after a verbal agreement should have been over
we were silly about it
heckling and harassing each other
over things that do not matter
ridiculously egging and goading
my husband told me a story about a soldier
the soldier kept beating his horse after it had died
his commanding officer said “the horse is dead, dismount”.
now when the argument reaches a silly stage
one of us yells “the horse is dead, dismount”
this has worked to end our idiocy for the last fifty years.
As I sit high on top of my mount holding my queens colors my armor has been tarnished from my queens enemies, as I dismount to go to her there is blood running down my side. Weak from battle protecting my queen she see’s the blood dripping down, taking her scarf from around her neck she wraps it gingerly around me. As my blood seeps through her scarf and as her tears run down her face saying, forgive me my knight for you have been wounded for me.
As I kneel on one knee and bow my head I spoke and said, my queen my life I would give to thee. As she starts to knee beside me I take her hand looking into her eyes, my queen I am not worthy for you to kneel next to me for without you my kingdom would be empty and my blood worthless. I say to you my queen every drop of blood that drips down from my side, Is my honor and my faith that I have shed for only you my beautiful queen.
As I lay in my humble room with her blood ridden scarf in my hand with my side bleeding my queen arrives with her servants to attend to my wounds, she kneels by my bed praying that her King will heal with tears of sorry leaking from her eyes and with a pain I can no longer bear. I look into her eyes wishing her our last goodbye closing my eyes never to see my Queen again. My armor hanging next to the bed my sword hangs beside it, as my queens last words were said: My King I cannot live without you, I take this sword and ask Gods forgiveness for what I do.
Carpet layers have to be on the floor
Deep sea divers love to go down
Computer gamers can't seem to stop
Taxi drivers are all over town
A dentist will do it till it hurts
A sailor sure likes a big swell
A hunter will do it with a bang
While a gymnast will dismount well
Lawyers reach into their briefs
A trash man holds on to his nose
Painters always use longer strokes
A ballerina stands on her toes
Salesmen have learned to use their mouth
While students try to use their head
The police will go on a big bust
And a maid always cleans the bed
I rode to power on a Midwest horse,
Bearing amongst the feathers in my cap this terse brief
from my broken people:
To lay waste to the irksome order
That home and abroad now prevails.
Strained voices break out in the valley below
And many more in the world across the seas
Bidding me to dismount at once
And move to saddle the global kingdom
Of Reagan, Roosevelt, Clinton, ...
That now is mine to ride.
Yet this very kingdom I came to crush;
My Midwest horse, I wouldn't trade for it!
In her neighs, I hear a nay
Forbidding me to consider the bargain.
Her counsel I think I'll heed
For between the two, she's the easier to ride.
A horse that trots on cheap lies
Or a kingdom that floats on costly allies--
That's the question I now confront.
Shores of doom
Needn’t engulf the space in your mind
Where without your will gloom
Can’t inhabit until faithless fleas and spiritual sleaze find
Room and space to waylay and slay without delay
The faith you profess to possess
In a spray without a ray stray
Strung and hung when you dispossess
Your faith of the strength and depth
Which faith has sunk into its roots
In each significant step and faith breath
You smuggle and gaggle in the boots
You wear with pride as you deride the loss
You claim not to suffer in the dwarf
You call disbelief and the abandon toss
Spotted in the wharf
Where faith ought to find succor
By virtue of the pride of place
You claim to allocate to the anchor
Faith can’t in your mind squeeze from a disbelief trace in a lace
Shores of doom and gloom striving to mount
On your faith a determined assault
Within a number of sorties you dismount
As conscience pangs claim it’s no longer our fault.
It seems I’ve traveled this path,
too many times to count.
A road which leads to nowhere,
mentally unable to dismount.
It was an easy route to follow,
for demands were not emplaced.
The only requirement needed,
was precious time to waste.
As I follow the road of surrender,
thoughts tease my mental state.
Is this the path I’m destined for,
and have I sealed this fate?
I should have turned around,
and taken an alternate route.
But rationalizing the purpose,
left me full of doubt.
The path less traveled is easier,
than walking towards one's goals.
The road which leads to nowhere,
always embraces this empty soul.
Ride, ride, ride thou figure from the East
In thy curse hath many a mother wept
On thy brow the furrows of distant steppes
Yield unto a steely mask of doom
Destruction follows in thy path and yet
Methinks I spy a flicker of regret
Extinguish it lest humanity engulf it betimes
As distant lands fall under your encompassing sway.
A fire burns, a coward trembles in his tent
What's won is rent from hands too numb to feel
The surging, coursing power of thy grip
Let slip thine enemies, let thy repute
Incite counsel of war then savor the fruit
Of a thousand-footed gathering of days
The purpled way, the jewel-encrusted chalice
Of wine claret. Drink to your heart's content.
If I were thou and thou wert I my friend
I should not pause to see the ground below
For lonely be the lofty heights, perpend:
Far art faren, far remains to go
Nor bride, nor bairn, nor comfort in repose
Hath sped thee on thy way from whence we ride
The rudest nutriments, the barest clothes
Sans bed, sans friend, sans tout, bare ground thou lie'.
Now polished steel glistens, mirrors gray
The slanting dome of sky's inverted bowl
Oiled leather on black courser's velvet skin
And restless hooves an inch in sodden loam
A leathern mask, five halberds thus skyward
Stand, barren hillock's strange reeds
Sprouting in the wind-swept smoke
Of morning's hasty decampment. Thus proceed
These men unto a destiny untold.
Of Indus, Asia, Europe, northern climes
Of snow, of sand and vine, the watery strand
I sing. Dismount and pluck the crocus sweet
But brief, then crush beneath thy heel. Spur on!
Ghengis Khan!
Of Afrique dark and thrice-looted Rome
Thy story-tellers may rhyme and make song.
Home, home rider from the East return
Scorch the earth and burn to cindered ash
Laugh with all the mirth thy new-found freedom
Might yield unto thy solitary path
Unlearn the lessons civil, richness hath
Bone and marrow, thew and sinew softened
Thy courser turn the sod, horizon calls
Spur on! Sing thy song, thy name live on
Ghengis Khan
final dismount, final ride
pasture waits for dappled roan
girth mark of the lonely byways
lather from the battles flown
dew eyed weary, spinal backed
stumble step'd and nostril blown...
stirrup brass with bugle hung
faded strap and leather worn
bridle twisted, crackled spur
broken packboard, blanket torn
carbine scabbard, saddle sore
salt and stain wrung round the horn...
cosmoline and splintered stock
powder burned and pointed lead
flashpan crusted, blackened sight
ramrod tamped and barrel fed
faceless names etched in the action
thunder echoed, eardrums bled...
now the rider, less the man
mustered out a thousand suns
restless eye and palsied hand
scattered mind behind the gun
drumbeat sigh and breaking heart
no true glory grasped and won...
in the world
of the world
in joy's cascade as much as grief
season turns
while seasons end
wind blows down the autumn leaf.
Here, under the dead moon,
Under the twilight,
I write of my wife.
Where are you now,
Wearing robes of grandeur?
For you the synthesis
Of life and death
Has met at the juncture.
I see you all in white and looking on,
Waiting as at a bus stop
For someone to dismount,
While I, with a tear,
Remain and remember.
Somewhere in the cat’s cradle
A nexus is woven in silk.
Here in the desert of standing rocks
Every monolith is a monument.
The sun sank today,
And so did you sink
Beneath the sod.
It is a long night for me,
Held by gravity
To this flying rock
Like a sentinel on guard.
The nights are long with torment.
My night waits with a hood.
13 March 2015, City of Rocks, NM
Gymnasts and Poets
Poetry writing, a practiced passion,
Gymnastics, practiced poetry in motion,
Choose your form with the first line.
Move quickly into the mood,
directly spoken, intimated,
free verse or rhyme.
Mount the apparatus in graceful form,
forward mount or backward mount,
conventional, unorthodox.
Execute the routine flawlessly.
Express the idea to the core.
Stretch your legs and arms beyond the limit.
Dig deep into your mind’s eye for images.
Lead into the dismount, backward or forward.
Set up the next to last closing phrase to return to the idea.
Nail the dismount with energy.
Nail the last line with emotion.
Such is the passion of gymnasts and poets.
11/19/16
Two faithful souls stand listless in the great big tower
overlooking the stranded city that once stood tall
yearning for a quiet place to lay their heads
while far beyond the deserted land
a soft blue light gleams gracefully above tranquil skies,
dancing shadows rocking to midnight tunes,
and sweet melodies echoing from the gigantic moon.
She spans more than a thousand feet long soaking
up the exhausted earth, her immeasurable depths
cuts and carve through valleys and streams
with clear blue water and powdery white sand
what more could you ask for on that distant land.
They have been planning this trip for many years,
but when the time draws near their saving disappears.
An empty refrigerator with two trays of frozen ice
lean against the corner of the kitchen
in their ten bedroom mansion
and a bare pantry exposing a slice of mildew bread
filled with little mice nibbling and playing tug of war.
Not many people knew their story
they have been broke for twenty years
but lived a painful lie, cutting corners
making back door transaction,
eating lamb and turkey from profits
made from sordid deals.
Their empire that once stood tall hangs in dismay
While it watches the world going up in flame
by those who continue to play treacherous games.
Sobibor and Hiroshima horrors of the past
Should have cleared the way for a more sophisticated path
But now athoroughfare mixed with complexity
packed with insidiousness
have ducks walking around
quacking without wings or tails
They finally got an offer to go to Utopia.
with packed bags not a penny in their name,
they set off for Utopia hoping to find a new life again
but when they got their it was the same old begrimed game.
Their entire world has been shaken,
shaken by its own guilt and self-reproach,
the transgression that their ancestors have borne
have been handed down for generations to shoulder
A land that they believe was pure and holy
has turned into nightmare and horror
dreadful things dismount in dark corners
women raped strangers abused
yet religion forms the core of the throne
They have witnessed empires toppled,
Kingdoms have fallen in their sight
Rulers have shaken and wept bitterly
causing the great big god to balance the scale
but blackmail in Utopia remains a formidable game
©2013 Christine Phillips
Assaulted Peanuts
They rode across the Western Hills,
For the land of Middle Eyed Bong,
To raid the Salted Peanut Trees,
Of King Pod and his merry throng.
Who were they, this reckless band,
Dare to plunder with motley crew.
They knew not what their fate would be,
Angering the wrath, of Old Cashew.
Cashew is Sentinel of this land,
Most powerful Nut to crack.
Born and raised in the Pecan Mines,
Eyes of Steel and Walnut Black.
Renegade leader of this Gang,
Was Outlawed Percival Grimface,
Once a native of Middle Eye,
Until his assaulted Peanut disgrace.
Pod and Cashew received a snitch,
Of Percival’s imminent raid
and so, prepared their men elite,
The Special Peanut Brittle brigade.
Grimface had an informant,
A betrayer amongst his ranks,
Passed the word to King Pod’s Men,
Who were grateful and offered thanks.
The Brittle Brigade were fighting men,
No one could take them down,
May contain some traces of Nut,
Emblazoned above the Town.
The attack was planned for Midnight,
On the Thirty-Third of July.
A new Moon was clearly visible,
Under a cloudy dark blue sky.
On the edge of town, they did dismount,
To make ready for their swag,
In expectation of stealing Salties
and Take-away in a plastic bag.
The Peanut Trees were just to hand,
When Cashew shouted, GO MEN GO.
Percival walked into an ambush,
He was struck underneath, down below.
No match for King Pod’s Brittle Men,
Who had muscle and sling shot bricks.
Grimface and his Gang, outwitted,
Only Conkers and pointy sticks.
They never saw it coming,
No protection from Peanut shells,
Hastily retreating under fire,
Their pain and ear-piercing yells.
Those Renegades had been dispatched
Back from whence they came,
Never to return to Middle Eyed Bong,
In fear; of getting more, of the same.
If there’s a moral to this story,
Of which I seriously doubt,
Buy your own Salted Peanuts,
Else your villainy will find you out
What co-arises together
must co-exhale to part.
Last night my HIV+ hunted down my negative,
my darkside,
death and fear,
my anger about my mortality,
my greater anger about our mortality as a species,
my greatest anger about our mortality as Earth's DNA/RNA Tribes of Life,
that we all are so wrong and pointless
given limitations of our time's memory
riding,
hiding,
hunting inside our skin
for how to not let this incarnate hunt ever end.
Yet, with dawn's light,
this haunting by endless nothingness,
as if we had never become, so never been,
this fear of death and anger against its organic final demand,
we hope to end
with seamless faith in eternally timeless ego-identity.
Where did this ego emerge from?
Endless nothingness?
Or, a paradise womb of cooperative eco-normics,
eco-logically self-optimizing nutritional health,
perfect temperature care,
nurturing co-abundance
between this seed of ego and this Mother Earth ElderEcoSystem,
sufficient well-being wealth
which, as decomposed,
became creolizing syntax
Natural elements with spiritual flows and functions
progenerated by co-arising gravity of time's folding
and refolding
and unfolding revolutions,
the stardust structure of Father Time's seasonal
reasonal
primally relational language.
How do we ecologically reason and induce,
expand and contract,
regenerate and decompose,
produce and consume,
this emergent hypothesis about ego's discontinuous nondual co-arising.
Inevitable mortality,
just how frightening and maddening is this,
to embrace
absorb
devour
soak up
co-prehend
Ego v Eco-science
co-arising to co-decompose
integrative/disintegrative folds
of cosmologically progenitive
dual-destiny transparent
Eco-Time?
Those who surf our co-arising together
must learn to co-exhale dismount
to co-arise the waves of future's time
now foreshadowing sacred co-presence.