Best Holed Poems
I’ve decided to be rid of some things:
a moth-holed sequined dress with bitter tags,
the weeping journal of ennui and pain,
the mocking trophy case of trophied dust,
proud calligraphed to-do lists left unchecked.
Let them shout accusations from the curb!
February 20, 2019
Yer briny whore
akin to boar
wit' mangy hide 'n scurvy-pocked
chomped 'n chewed
me black 'n blue
wit' carnassial chompers as of croc
Be curs'd, yer nit
me ample bits
equated ter yer own be nowt
yerz be carnivorous
scaly 'n scabrous
yer plaque be axed ter beef up grout
Uncomely wench
yer skunky stench
blunted me hook 'n scorched me beard
me peepers stung
me hornpipe hung
shorn ter th' bone 'n shrivelled 'n seared
Comely 'n curvy
riddled wit' scurvy
th' cap'n's whore-maid tooken yer whole
yer rat o' th' sea
holed and *****
yer fired yer cannon in a rottin' port'ole
Blow me down, lover!! I love it when we talk dirty.
(Hahahaha. I see the Soup powers-that-be deleted my word. I swear it's not used as a swearword. The word rhymes with "hussy". lol)
Discarded cotton t-shirt shrunken and stained
on the side of a street pot-holed and veined
pants sagging low with no shoes on his feet
headphones blaring to the latest hip-hop beat
Heading down to the corner looking for a score
the old 76 filling station with the boarded up doors
how times have changed in a mere forty years
youthful exuberance gone now nobody cares
Flash back we go to the days of my youth
hard work the requisite as was the truth
running on empty our roll was real slow
clean-cut attendant with bow-tie for show
Service with a smile, thank you and please
gone is simplicity and enjoying the breeze
Tobruk Siege
Rommel of the Blitzkrieg
had Europe overcome
With the Stukas and dive bombing
And the Tanks that overrun
North Africka would see his tanks
il Duce’s troops were beat
Aussies took 20,000 Italians
At Tobruk in stinking heat
In Europe when his tanks arrived
The captured did surrender
The Poms escaped at Dunkirk
The English well remember
Morsehead an Aussie General
He baited the trap
Strategic mines, artillery, cooks
manned Italian guns , and ack ack.
Tobruk the Panzer tanks came in
The rats went down their holes (Desert Rats Aussie Diggers said Lord Haw Haw)
They rose behind the tanks
Wehrmact soldiers bullet holed
25 pounders fired at just point blank
with cooks and Pommy Armour
Were thinning German ranks
true blue these little charmers
So they blew the turrets off
16 of the best
Unbeaten until this point
A trace of fallen crest
8 long months they dished it out
Though Rommel tried again ……….(lost just as many tanks again)
He had to wait till the Aussies left
To take Tobruk from them
Don Johnson
70 years ago, the Afrika Korp would attack the 14,000 Aussies and Tommy Tank men, Also known as Rats.
The Tanks rolled into the perimeter, Aussies sprang from their holes and fought the German Soldiers behind the tanks, “We shut the gate behind them” the Aussies said.
This thorn in the side in Rommel ‘s mind allowed time for the massive replacement of
armour destroyed by Rommel, with American tanks. The siege held for 240 days in
what is now today’s , Gaddafi’s Lybria. These Aussies were used to living rough
sleeping on the ground
walking from town to town in the great depression, they were brought up on roo or pig shooting and the occasional rabbit.
Young Father Murphy, Parish Priest,
he rang Archbishop Moore,
advising him he suddenly
had taken rather poor.
"I'll not be fit for Sunday mass
as I'm confined to bed,
I'm hoping please your Eminence
you'll do it please instead."
"Good Father Murphy say no more,
for you should never doubt,
the willingness of love my son
to help a brother out.
So have no fear, your flock is safe,
I’ll shepherd it with love
and while confined you should confer
with him who is above."
Then as the cock crowed Sunday morn
good Father rose in haste
and gathered all his golfing gear,
there was no time to waste.
He parred the first and second holes,
his cheeks were all aglow,
when up in heaven Gabriel saw
the sinful priest below.
He took the matter higher up
for justice must be served.
The LORD said, "I've been watching son,
it's not gone unobserved."
The third it was a par three hole,
so Father gave it some,
his ball it lofted in the air
and Murphy holed in one.
Poor Gabriel he just looked in awe ...
the LORD sensed he was vexed;
How justice had been served that day
had Gabriel quite perplexed.
"Dear Gabriel it may seem to you
the priest has gained the most,
but when it's said and done my son,
to whom will Murphy boast."
"The Wormwood Portfolio"
Reams of stories
riddled with worms
wood for burning
all the children
cover their eyes
tears smoked
into the lungs
gender fluid
propheticising
bitter water
electric brains
chipped like
fine-boned China
downloading
overloads
dumps are
damp
the fuse
sizzles and
stops
green as absinthe
gauche ghosts
gone all grey skinned
scales of merit
charred unweighted
vacant and vacating
like dandelions
scattering over
the barren wombs
of the childless landscape
dreaming of biblical babies
suckling the wanton breasts
of Desdemona’s structural points,
a sharp essay, feeding insouciance
mistaken identities and confusion
side-blinded by the light
of the tempestuous kill shot
burnt and scarred
beeseeching open handed
faces turning like time dials
towards two suns
gold gone all black holed
dead verdant plants
hot feet blistering
make no more demands
skipping, games of patter-cake
powdered ochre yellow
here's the church and here's the steeple
open your hands where are the people
like viruses, germinating
no more prayers to enchant
daughters of eve
sons of man
when the Word finally speaks
there is hearing damage
Reams of stories
riddled with worms
wood for burning
all the children
cover their eyes
;
the ides of march
recant.
(LadyLabyrinth / 2021)
"A tear in the brain
allows the voices in
they wanna push you off the path
with their low-frequency wires..."
recant. v.
Wormwood.
Ides of March.
Mix black lentil batter
Must add salt and spices
Make holed rings, put in oil
Meduvadas frizzle
Mouthwatering, fluffy
Melts in mouth, soft, crispy
My most favorite snack
Jack and our Jill
went up the hill
And there she broke her water.
She laid right down
upon the ground
and bore them both a daughter.
Poor Jack, undone,
had hoped a son;
their marriage, it was fleeting.
In deep despair,
fell down the stair,
and there his heart stopped beating.
But life goes on,
so Jill wed John;
and they too raised a daughter.
A giant mouse
broke in the house,
ate all their cheese and got her.
Off on a quest,
John was out west
to find work as a double.
You might have guessed,
Jill, sorely pressed,
addressed the rodent trouble.
She tracked him down;
he’d gone to ground
all holed up in his hidey.
With daughter there,
she must take care:
no guns, just nice and tidy.
The mouse was sly,
he near got by
but Jill knew rodents better.
And in a snap,
she set the trap:
herself, all smeared with cheddar.
As rodents come,
he wasn't dumb
but instinct overtook him.
Got on his knees
to smell that cheese;
her big knife arced and hooked him.
The mouse now dead,
her girl in bed,
scanned headlines for a story.
There right up front:
Failed Movie Stunt
the details, rather gory.
While filming Wick,
John goofed his trick,
fell head-long through the rafters.
That third time charm
raised Jill’s alarms,
stayed single ever after.
Virgil the virgin was eagerly urging
his girlfriend to make him a man
Had nowhere private to go get excited
so he bought an old caravan
The seller in Dover said it’s been checked over
it’s actually ready to take
He took his word for it as soon as he saw it
so he didn’t check the handbrake
Parked up on a hill, played safe, took a pill
He’s sure she’ll succumb to his begs
But he wasn’t able to make the van stable
He forgot to wind down the legs
But soon getting fruity with his little cutie
The van was rock rocking all day
She cried out for more then they fell to the floor
And the van began rolling away
Sped up as it rolled down a hill that was holed
And each pothole made his girl Yelp
She clearly approved and cried out ‘The earth moved
Those little blue pills really help’
But at the cliff top the van didn’t stop
And she snuggled into him sighing
He gave her a kiss and said ‘I’ll tell you this
Baby I feel like I’m flying’
Turning over in a ruffled bed,
stark red numbers sear 4 a.m. into bloodshot corneas.
Nothing but darkness creeps through threadbare curtains, frozen in place.
A desolate silence becomes deafening, as birdsong no longer crescendos—
what would have been the breaking of dawn.
It's been six years now since our brightest star was thrown out of orbit,
exposing the frozen side of the sun.
No longer does our planet experience the warmth of its radiation,
nor the glow of its solar flares.
Within a fraction of a second, humanity was plunged into an everlasting night.
Temperatures plummeted; mass hysteria was at its peak.
Crops perished within hours to days,
as the new icy tundra eclipsed once-thriving farmlands.
The birth of a perpetual Ice Age was at hand.
Power grids crystallized and snapped.
Cities crumbled; small towns were blotted out,
disappearing off the map, never to be seen again.
Death's gelid hand spared but a few souls—
holed up in a scientific research bunker in the Arctic.
We are but the unlucky few who get to “live” in this glacial purgatory,
wandering aimlessly forevermore.
Time is a mirrored hallway.
As you walk down it, the past echoes at your heels,
The present flashes briefly as you pass,
And each step brings you closer to a future you can never see.
Life is what happens between the past and the future.
Every second we live is both the birth and the death
Of that particular moment in time.
We can never know if there'll be a next one;
All we can ever really know is now.
Though living only occurs in those brief glimpses of the present,
Much of life is taken up with remembering the past
And planning for the future.
But, as important as those things are,
Or seem to be,
Does either of them really matter in the here and now?
The longer I live, and the older I grow,
The more I'm content to be what I've seemingly become…
A relic.
That long, long hallway of time, at times,
Has almost proved too much for me.
All those mirrors, all those reflections.
But relics have thick hides,
We learn how to adapt and survive.
Relicdom doesn't have to be synonymous with defeat.
I would rather be an old, scarred, but undaunted relic,
Grittily holding on to what I can of the past,
But eager to see what the future has in store,
Than be an old, fearful, derelict relic,
Holed up in a dark nook or cranny somewhere along the way,
Afraid to acknowledge life as it passes by,
Just biding and waiting for time to catch up to me
And swallow me up.
Life consists of before and after;
Living is what happens in between.
The challenge is to make every second count,
And make a graceful and dignified exit
When you run out of mirrors
And reach the end of that hallway.
Ragged and funny
In dire need of money
I bruise the pot-holed streets of the city
Maiming the waste-filled alleys and dirty
Daily I play hide and seek with death on the razor-sharp edge of humanity.
Once I had a home
Now I cannot pay the dues
Once I went to college
Now I cannot pay the fees
Once I had a wife
Now I cannot afford the price
Poor the result of no economic emancipation
Bound to the street because of some people's creation
In a vacuum-filled belly I try the robber's invention
Oouch! I cry in incaceration
This cry , my cry, I cry
Bound to the street, is it God's case
Bound to the street, the street my place
Bound to the street, the street I hate
Eyes closed, tears drop
The drama of my sleeping mystery
unfolding before my mental eyes like a tapestry
I ravish and languish in hunger
Feeding on left-overs
Left by generous shoppers
Hungry I was, am and still will be
The history but of themhitherto societies is a history of class struggle
and exploitation. How shall I leave the street struggle
In such a society tailor-designed to suffer the helpless
Where the should-be-helpers
Are the pioneers of the exploitation,
Suppression and oppression of the defenceless
As for me and my street-mates
We will travel along singing a song
The song, my cry.
Bound to the street, is it God's case
Bound to the street, the street my place
Bound to the street, the street I hate
I come from far further
I am not a bird of your further
You are a son to your father
You are your mother's daughter
I have non to call father or mother
Neither to call sister nor brother
But pay no attention to criticism like weather
Rather lets read the holy book together
Ang gather as a congregation together
The bread as you gather
Lets break share and eat together.
Until we harness a new philosophy
I will always cry
This cry my cry.
Bound to the street, is it God's case
Bound to the street, the street my place
Bound to the street, the street I hate
bushes berry filled
mouth stuffed, sated, stone stands up
black bear! I’m holed, freed
P ower held with in my grip, Run bastard, run.
I nnocence once taken can never be un-ripped.
C olorful the names they'll call me now, hateful;
k eep your pity, you've not poisoned my soul.
Y earling limbs spread for you and you rode.
O nly anger lofted life above the bloody fray,
u ntil today you'd thought nothing of my pain;
r ancid was your heart, but there are many deaths.
P igeon holed in the alley of your miserable hovel
o n a night as hot as hell, what will it be dear,I ask.
I display a fine array of knifes and a scatter gun,
s oftly I whisper Run bastard, runand laugh.
O nly, it appeared, he could not make a manly choice?
N o, poison, it’s too meek, too neat for my voice.
Published in Sweet Dreams And Night Terrors 2013
"kamikaze"
Isn’t it odd
how you always gravitate back to me,
I circle your mind like a helicopter
you watch me
like a moth
attracted to flames,
lit in succulent tender air waves
the others will state their absolute grievances,
it’s a force majeure for preconceived
unaccountable and unavoidable catastrophes
but We,
persist, We,
kamikaze
all artificial
and unintelligent,
other side of the wall
reasoning
bows,
to Love,
always
Love,
gravitates,
persists,
calls us all in
just as debutantes,
there We are,
our insides shining out,
illogically
semi-public
so un-upperclassed,
We are, barefeet dancing
under eye-glass boiling,
serious insects
quartered illogically
'neath microscope petri'd
kamikaze
Love
calls Us all in
debutantes
illogically
troped
“Juliet is the Sun!”,
espouses Romeo;
little does he know,
She is more
than a
soft black-holed velvet galaxy
She's a
Universe, diamond sharp
turned inside out
Candide Diderot. ‘24