Best Gunmetal Poems
Unrhymed tercets
The Withdrawing Room
Huddled together in this abstemious grey chamber
no windows or means of escape walls closing in
trapped where the un-sanctified transactions are made
Daunting without exit the silent screams go unheard
ashen skin with darting eyes never looking up
forever too frightened of seeing the truth reflected back
In the unholy grail in visions of comrades within this un-sacred act of ransom
the collective voice of the masked chorus urging them on wards
then the integrated tragedy of hidden fears and secrets
A living sacrifice under this bargain where no one wins or gains
without boundaries of mortal limits there exists in this gunmetal airless demise
unfettered woefulness and vainglory vie for victory
The innocent victim's now the pawn's forgotten as pride twists obscurities
severing the umbilical cord drowning breaths of existence
the sterile smell of unfinished lives permeating into the coal and ice
Tiny little footprints always remain's inside the womb's silenced facts
the living water of life breaks no longer flows through the natural cord
leaving a chorus of continuous phantom's chanting in mendacious unity
Opening the door of perdition where the tactical glare of a butchers knife
held under a ghostly specter of a child that might have been treasured
a face imagined but never seen and names never uttered
A tortured remembrance of a pardon held precious beauty once
soon the vapour of shame burns off in an emptiness that still remains
glazes over a ruby rare passion
Where fear & the constant loathing cannot fathom the uncertainties
this future brings forth in the immenseness of what might have been
not touching the soul properly
The unborn yet to speak?
silenced unadorned gone forever jewel's
always held within prayers of the faithful loving grace
a co written piece by Liam Mcdaid & Donna Loughman
I fondle the brush strokes of a brown afternoon,
inviting me along, to the land of down under.
I will take a small journey, under gunmetal skies,
through country as rough as the crackled veneer.
On the trail of the outback, while the afternoon sighs,
there are three saddled horses, two men, and their packs.
Roustabouts are riding, with the sun at their backs.
A pall of white petals drift over their heads,
from a rift in the cottonwoods, that frame the river’s bed.
I will drink in illusion, as the horses refresh,
as they prance through deep waters,
on that calm, summer's day.
I am thirsty, and eager, to reach out and touch,
and to ride in the outback, beneath silver skies,
on the one extra horse, that lingers nearby...
________________________________________________________________
Based on the Painting "A Lil' Bit of Aus..."
_________________________________________________
Huddled together in this abstemious grey chamber
no windows or means of escape walls closing in
trapped where the un-sanctified transactions are made
Daunting without exit the silent screams go unheard
ashen skin with darting eyes never looking up
forever too frightened of seeing the truth reflected back
In the unholy grail in visions of comrades within this un-sacred act of ransom
the collective voice of the masked chorus urging them on wards
then the integrated tragedy of hidden fears and secrets
A living sacrifice under this bargain where no one wins or gains
without boundaries of mortal limits there exists in this gunmetal airless demise
unfettered woefulness and vainglory vie for victory
The innocent victim's now the pawn's forgotten as pride twists obscurities
severing the umbilical cord drowning breaths of existence
the sterile smell of unfinished lives permeating into the coal and ice
Tiny little footprints always remain's inside the womb's silenced facts
the living water of life breaks no longer flows through the natural cord
leaving a chorus of continuous phantom's chanting in mendacious unity
Opening the door of perdition where the tactical glare of a butchers knife
held under a ghostly specter of a child that might have been treasured
a face imagined but never seen and names never uttered
A tortured remembrance of a pardon held precious beauty once
soon the vapour of shame burns off in an emptiness that still remains
glazes over a ruby rare passion
Where fear & the constant loathing cannot fathom the uncertainties
this future brings forth in the immenseness of what might have been
not touching the soul properly
The unborn yet to speak?
silenced unadorned gone forever jewel's
always held within prayers of the faithful loving grace
a co written piece by Donna Loughman and Liam McDaid
Sea and sky in gunmetal grey
Cold as liquid nitrogen
The salty tang of ocean spray
The ozone and the oxygen
Caught in the lash of a flash downpour
Our winter walk on a North Sea shore
A light mist of ethereous rain falls
silent on his thin, sharp-angled
face. He lengthens his stride and
leans toward the wind. He walks
through plundered poverty; crumbled
by the weight of exodus. Abandoned
to the blood-rough nails scratching
on the concrete diasporas of multiethnic
history.
Past the playground echoes of PS #59,
as they drift along the faded asphalt
haze of time. Echoes still ring true with
elemental bones of hope: the children
break out and through gunmetal gray,
graffiti covered doors, outside to the
saturated heat of inner-city rage.
Past gothic orthodox cathedral
mausoleums which sit like ancient
stoics and stare through burnt-amber,
azure, crystalline-blue stained glass
eyes; focused out with a kernel of
eternal mustard seed hope: souls will
come again and warm the sacred pews.
Past the Puerto Rican market
where the pig's head led the
carnivore parade of mastication
promise every day. A meat-market
window of letted-blood and death
reminiscent of Amsterdam whores
with their wares on display for the
dead-eyed stares of the men outside.
He comes to the dust and
grime of an empty lot covered
by old and broken concrete slabs.
He stops and lets his mind drift
back to watch a woman who wears
a ratted fox-tail wrap around her
neck. She holds a long, un-filtered
cigarette, loose, between her two
bright, fuchsia painted lips. She
wears a black velvet hat with veil
to her nose and a straight black
dress that flows below her knees,
mid-calf, above her shiny black,
high-heel, patent leather shoes.
He can almost see through the blur
of a chiaroscuro choreography his
mother, visiting with the Kazakhstan
neighbors, in this dreamlike memory.
The multi-plexed, subsidized project,
where he was born, once stood just
beyond his vision of a mother's visit in
high-heel, indigo, tangerine, sibilant
sounds; lit with electric light smiles
of denial.
She would hold her cigarette between
fuchsia lips and wear that ratted fox-tail
wrap until the cancer cough began to spew
Chesterfield blood on the molted fox-tail
head of her beloved fur.
Then she went to bed. Went to sleep. And died.
Pigeons cooed quietly on that New York City night.
Those trademark circular elements of style in vogue every four years
When the crème de la crème of the athleticism
presents itself on the world stage
Suspending and transcending any present day internecine conflict
Allowing, enabling, and proffering the five continents
And gathering of top-notch mental, physical and spiritual prowess
Extant with adroit prolific curved arabesques on one corner of the globe
That (like Noah with his Ark kit) human techno wizardry
Bedazzles viewers charting unparalleled feats
Whereby the human body defies the laws of physics and challenges gravity
Fielding a hypnotic colorful tapestry
Whereby the woof and warp of any melancholy moody blue, mellow yellow
Gunmetal green, roman a clef real time red doth white out
The dark knight, temporarily sequestered in a bishopric
Of faux queenly royalty, where a pawn
out the parapet of her castle keep
She imbibes requiem toward protesting the limits of *****sapiens
Inherent parameters, where fluid dynamics
of each most supreme contestant
Sans his/her specialized arena
Further the prior leg holds with free from arm-twisting head lock
And make a mockery of invisible manacles
Purportedly and formerly believed to tether man/woman kind
With unbreakable hidebound genetic/ chromosomal restraints
But nay to those who professed impossibility against the reins
Boxed and fenced in by bow rings set by Mother Nature
Well nigh obsolete and superfluous
What with evident burlesque stellar performances
Leaving the spectators starry eyed with collective mouths agape
As polished prominent performers blithely offset previous milestone
Setting a new yardstick to measure the Olympian capacity
That Heracles and Zeus would most likely deem
as some sort of magic trick
Yet lo, the sensational and majestic pageantry absolutely serious
Lying to rest what used to be merely amateur games
Whereby most any novice could coax a charade, façade, travesty et cetera
Without fear of getting flagged, but phenomenal exhibitors of today
Can nearly bank on netting a truckload of worldly wide wealth
Whereby a hand-made Scottish tartan Harris Tweed welcome mat
Ushers August men and exuding mettle and iron clad dedication
With pomp and circumstance into pantheon of future legends!
Deep in the Badlands, are canyons that claim
many a man, who rides without name
He's hiding or runnin', from somethun' he's done
Outcast, or outlaw....without any fame
but keeping a lookout for someone to come
A hawk circles low, on a brown afternoon,
like a curious vagrant, in the land of the sun.
On the trail in the Badlands, while the afternoon sighs,
are two saddled horses, two men, and their packs.
Cowpokes done riding, with the sun at their backs.
with pall of white clouds driftin' over their heads,
from a rift in the cottonwoods, that frame the canyon's ledge
The riders have paused, under gunmetal skies,
searching the canyon, for a place to bed down
to un-halter their horses, before the stars fill the night
To stare at a fire, with meager a bite
and a place to find shelter, and rest up for the fight
They will drink in illusion, as the horses refresh,
as they prance through deep waters, on the next summer's day
They are thirsty for rest, wipe the sweat off their brows
Will be back by the sunrise.....when they're back on the trail
Keeping a watch, from the canyon below,
But moving along, as the tumbleweeds roll
.
________________________________________
Cowboys In The Badlands Contest: Sponsored By Isaiah Zerbst
9/20/14
I. BISMUTH [83]
rainbow-sheened cubist castles -- silver-pink of hue
II. IODINE [53]
gunmetal grey crystals sublime -- and billow purple
III GALLIUM [31]
metallic grey and stiff -- melting in a cordial clasp
IV. HELIUM [2]
spent star-fuel -- alpha-ray remains – blimp-floater
V. RHODIUM [45]
brightly-burnished -- rarer than platinum -- dearer than gold
January 4, 2020
NOTE:
Many years ago, 1975 or so, I found a little book in the library of Pine View School in Sarasota, Florida, which contained mostly-humorous verse of an unusual sort: a quatrain each for every chemical element. (Whether the non-primordial elements were included, and whether the Rare Earth elements were treated individually or as a group, I cannot recall.) The name of the book has eluded my memory... a portmanteau or pun on "Chemistry" and "Christianity" of some sort, perhaps? I can only recall two of the quatrains; they went:
Xenon has a cross to carry,
Staying single his chief goal;
Now they've gone and made him marry!
Modern science has no soul.
and:
The melting point of Rhenium
Is high as a proscenium.
She plays the part and shrieks "Thou liest!"
When Carbon says his own is highest.
If anyone recognizes this, or could help me locate the book, I would be most sincerely grateful!
Oh please for the sake (and sock e)
of brethren deemed friendly, i be
see-ch ye with genuine humility
to desist launching nuclear missiles.
This American bloke put his lock,
stock and barrel of gunmetal faith
in mister Dennis Rodman to serve
as a figurative lightning rod against
any aggressive actions that would
set in motion the end of civilization.
Not only would the majority of homo
sapiens (yes, some clusters of earth-
linked yahoos might still remain a
live) suffer a nasty, short and brutish
death, but also other flora and fauna
could be equally annihilated. Under
stand able, those grievances against
sanctions against the populace of north
Koreans (who most likely experience
unfair hardship) fuels resentment against
the hegemony of western powers. Many
of these societies authoritatively bran
dish their devout pledge for concurrence
with democratic principles. Any endemic
protestations declaiming objection to
the American way affect an immediate
alarm. Imposition of so called "puppet"
regimes get forcibly installed those
countries leaders who run counter to
capitalistic productivity. This one anon
a muss citizen of those fifty states also
takes umbrage how might of american
to predominate and demand that other
nations follow suit solely based on what
agrees with those like minded in power
sans the brotherhood/sisterhood of vast
swaths of the global population. No
great expectations (by dickens) to affect
passionate sentiments per those pea
poles somewhat hermetically sealed
off and separated (viz - by the demilitarized
zone) from the billions of other human
beings. Thy sole missive from one older
mwm dreads locked linkedin catastrophic
chain reaction of events once atomic war
fare triggered by the disgruntlement over
some differences in outlook could possibly
resolved via "active listening" and access
to exchange a word of reconciliation. As
one flawed chap prone to his own bouts
of anger, he attests that more positive plea
sing results can prevails with the treat of
world war three diffused in a manner that
plays less havoc once unleashing of weapons
of mass destruction occurs!
a gunmetal blue
sky with clouds
like wet grey
smoke breaks apart
into patches
a few stray cats
among the chickens
combine in a playful
fight and tumble
coming down as rain
they fragment
into a mist of cats
or raindrops if you
like or care to watch
them slowly fall
chickens squawk
scratch, peck, and
squawk some more
and scatter before
the cats arrive
the notorious hotel...
monument to the greed of men,
it is a breathing stone-hewn titan -
looming over her, threatening pomposity,
selfishness threaded with egyptian cotton,
the cold stares of people from the upper leagues of life...
yet the young street girl enters anyway, defiant,
stilted and out of place in her cheap summer dress -
the breath of success sucks her in,
money-scented sussurations kissing her plebian cheekbones...
taken by the hand she glides up velvet stairs,
half-drowning as she soars past fish tanks bubbling to the ceilings,
past effervescent marble arches...
the rich flit by her, swan-like, with noses tilted heaven-ward
emitting the subtle reek of idle hedonism...
breathless, restive, she perches in a gilt chair,
bitten fingernails tapping ivory tablecloth,
waiters descend like falcons swooping in for the kill -
'tea or coffee, madam, scones with devonshire cream madam,
your soul on a silver platter madam...'
who is this madam, she muses,
checking her reflection in the silver teapot,
who is this woman wearing my skin,
a pretender to the crown of the landed -
distracted, melancholy, she crumbles her fruit cake,
swallows the strawberry sorbet in icy gulps...
distractedly she notes the taste of gunmetal -
her cappuccino is sprinkled with gold dust...
caged in by gilded illusion her lungs labour,
claustrophobia gripes though the roofs soar up to touch God's soles...
she is not welcome here,
she feels doomed, somehow, unworthy -
a goldfish floundering with the sharks...
jumping to her feet she flees, kitten heels clattering on mosaic floors -
out the door, panting, flushed,
into air that smells of exhaust, of seaspray and sweat and natural things
relieved she slows, straightens her spine, sniffs the wind -
a smile flirts with her lips as she strolls away into the anonymous night,
the little lamb who escaped from the slaughterhouse
A silent figure stands on the edge of a cliff,
the wind is sharp, winter is in its heart.
Its thoughts are lost
in the sterile Point of Finality,
the hollow point of all…
The harshness of an indiscriminate sun.
Wind pierces the tumbling absent rhythm of clouds,
ruffles its black raven's cloak, like wings, fluttering.
Emerald eyes stare focused far
and wide the mind drifts into the distance…
Down below the long jagged rocks,
fathomless water turns churns darkly and disturbed.
Glancing along the razored edge
of the horizon, the figure beholds a rusted hulk,
a mechanical beast.
That once dug into this ephemeral earth,
a pale blue orb in the distance of black space.
A white, hot sphere burns cold
behind gunmetal clouds
along and on horizon wire…
Over waters turning, churning the surface
thoughts ponder the depth of Emerald Eyes narrow.
As the somber sky reflects
nothing but this figure upon stone…
As waves lap, crest,
come to rest where storms are born.
A figure stands alone…
He intends to challenge you
Has thrown down the gauntlet
Vitriol the weapon, a face slap
I am the go-between, the help-meet
And spectator
I sign treaties
Running with the dawn
Gunmetal grey mists
Layer upon layer, a mille feux
Shards of early motes
Watered in pastels, shot silks
Pale lilac and gold.
Look at him pacing his own stage
His small corner, his fifteen minutes
He has poisoned me with innuendo
Red matador words
Lying in the long grass
Whispering and keening
Like a lover
I am imprinted there
And the bell tower clock leans and listens
The long dark eye of the doe casts down
The stricken north winds whine
The curtain falls.
Rather than crank up the heat...
and ratchet up global warming
like bubbling vegetable stew
with tsk... tsk... heard
courtesy Greta Thunberg,
who would utter "how dare you..."
I bundle with layers to stave off cold
energy efficiency drilled courtesy
me late mother conserving
nonrenewable resources she extolled
now ewe best heed following suggestion
wool worth 3d printing than wearing
a sheep doubled over
along dotted line to fold
cuz expending (fossil fuel)
leaving carbon footprint
would immediately being lectured
by ecology conscious eldest daughter,
(a University of Pennsylvania
biomedical engineering alumna)
who would mildly scold.
Myself and thee missus holed up
here within Highland Manor Apartments
(unit B44 in case you wanna drop me a line)
we're here moost every cold December day
sipping warm cup
of our favorite beverage
exotic coffee latte brew
suits this muttering pup
actually yours truly
a doggone ole
long haired pencil necked geezer.
He can be found moost any given warm Green Day
shuffling along boulevard of broken dreams
overhead skies colored rosy gunmetal gray
occasional huff fro zen cloud slashing solar ray
heating inside cozy nook,
though outside temperature brisk,
nevertheless for winter quite balmy
while I sit here heavily clad,
hence yours truly quite toasty within
perfect weather for wedding,
especially one hashtagged December/May.
After dusk i.e. established misnomer known as sunset
occurs 4:36 Post Meridiem heavens quickly turn jet
black today - Thursday, December 10, 2020 (EST)
whereby darkness lulls one into sleepiness, I bet
dollars to donuts impossible mission
to keep eyelids opened, particularly if sleep debt
necessary to pay the sandman,
who knows maybe you gotta get get
comfortably numb vis a vis temporarily unconscious
state, whereby dreaming of a white Christmas
analogous to eventual Elysian Fields,
where divine creator
conjuring Nirvana and/or
a place called Willoughby
if a believer, said Almighty eventually met.
The sky, the water, a mix
of battleship gray and gunmetal
and dreary
sandblasting wind biting
away the tears
and eventide reflections on life's direction
diluted by a passing squall
of not much intensity, not as
a relationship requiring the focus
of a knife fight,
in a phone booth.
Thoughts slowing to a relative crawl,
the seventeen miles-per-hour I'm taught
focuses the narrative of elsewhere
in the eye inside my eye,
there's more vista
and less twist of road
as I am extra,
as language is to prayer.