Best Larynx Poems
Metallic city howls like a wounded animal
scraped by nocturnal vigils
of grandchildren and elders
emaciated like tuberculosis lungs
gasping from chug-chugs of tobacco soot...
and the face of a night is hammered by
ripped moans like plucked strings in motel rooms;
pagan women opening limbs for a meal in silent fury.
This is the other side of town, so real...
beggars peddling hope; factory shoulders
ranting over shuffled cards and fired gin
as wives’ blistered fingers
clean rented pots, gibbering same monotone of hymn,
“give us daily bread, daily bread”.
Outside, the pier coughs off
the commercial honks of weighed cargo
reeked with labor’s perspiration,
where pawnshops buzz with greed's snicker...
the evening owl attempts winks
under the grime of bloodied moon…
it spits the larynx of tenants’ raged hoots
wishing morsels of fresh sunset
would pour some grace of life’s salve. I weep
before the shrill of red sets in... again.
------------
Truth Contest sponsored by Anthony Slausin
Re-post 5/28/2019
Living on a planet, unsure if I belong
Where only sand grains and fossils, seem to last long
The instinct to breathe air, compelling me along
And the miracle that’s water, strives to prolong
Hear the wind blow bending the trees
Feel the bones crack inside my knees
High upon a mountain, an avalanche gives way
Yielding to gravity, and powerful sun rays
Down below I ponder, will this be my last day
Still all goes over my head, as life balks away
Holding my grip busting my balls
gives a nice twist when in free fall
A juggernaut of lies, hurtled down that slope
Widening debris fields, spreading rumours of hope
Is there any big truths, or just lies to help cope
The past looks basic, viewed under a microscope
Fossils don’t lie rocks are not bones
Sand remodels back into stone
I piece together the fossils, search out life’s source
Scream out eureka, til my larynx implodes hoarse
Scan skies for graviton waves, stretching time with force
Try stop that damn avalanche, least alter it’s course
Raw energy blood upon dust
Time’s eternal cascading rust
Evidence can be sketchy, when life forms a scree
In the end information, is all there can be
Empirical pathways, are straightforward to see
If they postulate a god, good enough for me
I’ve crawled before I’ll walk again
Encased in skin til god knows when
As a kid in confession, I’d mostly tell lies
I admitted made up sins, without compromise
The priest liked forgiving, so telling lies was wise
He went easy on penance, devil in disguise
Shame on us both playing such games
He wore a cloak, I’m still the same
There was once a king who decided that for him - beauty was silence.
He issued a decree that all sound was banished henceforth and that his land would forever more be as silent as snow. To enforce this impossible law he sent countless envoys to every corner of the land. Every creature was informed. No birds can sing. No dogs must bark. No man, woman or child could speak their needs and must now make them known by signs. Even the very thunder was ordered to be mute.
The penalty of course was death. Few were able to obey.
Flocks of birds were shot from the heavens. Dogs were slain before their master’s eyes. All the trees were stripped of leaves lest the wind should sigh through them. Brooks were frozen so water could not splash or gurgle down the stream beds.
It was like a permanent winter with bare trees and frozen ground.
Children at play were wiped out without mercy. Cows being herded were bombed for lowing. This unmerciful killing went on for many years.
The merest sound so angered the King that he ordered atrocious punishments for offenders that he did not kill.
The talents of artist were in great demand as they painted cards for all occasions for people to flash. in lieu of speaking. The effect on the population was to cause the formation of many covert societies where secret meetings, when betrayed, were raided and countless murders committed by the ‘silence’ enforcers.
The King was greatly feared by everyone and dubbed “Snowman - the Silencer”
Generations of good people were wiped out. Countless noisy species were hunted to extinction. Music was never heard or played.
Silent clocks were invented. Sound-proof rooms were built. Some desperate parents, to protect their children, opted to have their babies larynx-es removed at birth.
The King was surrounded by silent apathetic, joyless subjects.
The King’s obsession had effectively destroyed all the people, the life and the environment around him.
How much easier it would have been, if he, in wanting silence had only thought to destroy his own eardrums.
Midnight Email
Night burns both ends of the candle
Full bent upon those wilderness horses
Tearing in their stampede chains
As this scarlet sangria swallows its taste of regret
Heated on the words
Caught between my heart and throat
When the larynx wish for love
Do they cough their silence
With too many cigarettes
I love you too much to crumble
At the pillars of my salt
Or to deny the impossible
And hasten to the ruin of my blood
Midnight then fails to impart
The cold sweat of loss
By thirty degrees tossed unsleeping
On a burning bed of want
And never quench my thirst
Isis, oh Isis, cry to the prow of stars
And lay a blessed hand
Upon a troubled brow
Turn calico fortune to a thread of silk
Weaved into the tapestry of her heart
I hear the stampede
Tearing horses wild at their chains
Full burning on both the candles ends
You ignite the
romance of my dreams.
I wish to encroach your
lips with my
tasty sandwich of perfected
rosemary teat.
I'll make your brain
immune to my soul
so you become out
of breath when far
from your source.
My toes will python
your emotions,
make you feel good with
motions that can't be
found in Neptune.
Oh! my Fairy prince,
should I Massage
those fire clay
masculinity and
blow your mind out of its organ?
I'm devoured by the
moans of your consistency.
Devoted to the strings of
your intentionality.
Should I delineate your
cubes of grip so it
illuminates the lines
of storytellers?
Or are you too shy to
tell the world that,
You're the heel of
my heart, the calf
of my stamina.
The spine of the moon
and the Larynx of the dark stars.
Honey!
I'll let you dance to the rhythm of Calla
Lily while I paint in the beams of Zinnias.
Pounding at the resonant head
of my chest—he of hunger
latches his fangs just beneath my jaw—
not to sever silence, but to pummel poison.
Tissue parts with wet reluctance,
he with need more than malice
burrows into the larynx of what
was once controlled, fearful sound.
Nameless, shapeless he who
with shark-possessed teeth does not ravage—
but infiltrates—peeling cartilage from confession,
mining marrow-thoughts clogged in
curse-traversed trachea.
I am a conduit split open—
voice extracted in ligaments,
fibrous and twitching,
stripped from the cords—
myofibrils separatus tendon.
Nameless, shapeless he!
How does he so musically reshape
what I cannot say?
How does he gut syllables
I do not recognize—
yet still, convince me
they are mine?
With his guiding talons,
my breath comes out red,
heavier than blood—
tastes of steel-bitten soul—
boiled vowels
that never knew air
but somehow rise.
His incantation:
Spiritus somni!
Spits into my mouth—
a blessing—not!
a summons—not!
but a shameful dream behind my teeth
like bruises that speak sermons.
Nameless, shapeless he…
He says I was never mute—
only sealed for some latter doomsday…
And now, with my throat laid open like a shrine,
he listens as I blaspheme
my dream.
Life has become an amorphous mass,
Sans shape, sans structure.
And my mind is in total discombobulation.
I feel I am like a scrap yard.
My world has lost its tint and throb.
Defeated and decimated,
I long for an about-turn,
To reach back from whence I started
To get out of this quagmire
To restore all that slipped through my fingers,
In the tangled labyrinthine paths of life!
How I wish to curl unobtrusive,
Into the womb that bore me once,
To be reborn once more as my old self
To enjoy the peace and bliss, now alien!
As trees bared by the winter blasts,
Stay in wait for the spring to arrive,
I await a new life, fresh and new.
Before that, I must rip loose,
And peel away the covert mask
Sticking tight to my concealed face
Though it may cause me to bleed.
Exhale the soot of hatred,
Polluting my larynx and lungs,
The time is up for me to leave the stage.
But before I make the final bow
I should fit into a new cast,
And become a man again!!
Sunsphere
Sunsphere, purple to orange,
yellow in the middle,
setting at the rear.
Behind the wheel, gripping the steel,
Apollo, anxious, scans for falling flowers
along the roadside.
My petal scent
permeates the Lumina —
maroon in colour,
interior tone matching.
It is his ride,
our style.
I will never leave, even if we wreck
at breakneck speed.
I’ve got the need;
he’s got the deed.
My own Jimmy Dean —
flashing red and green,
amber
and lean,
colours of the scene,
of the chase.
The urban heart paces
its own race to the climax,
where it might end,
where it might dissolve away
in a state of perfect pink bliss.
The body’s calibrated systems all lined up
for twenty seconds of elation.
I tune the station.
He smiles at the recognition.
This song carried us along —
all the pit stops, all the speed bumps.
It first played eons past:
sweet sixteen, neon skies blast
green wonder overhead.
He was not there; we had not met.
A song that touched the loneliness inside.
I realized I was not like everyone else;
I excommunicated myself.
And when I found him, I denied this song existed.
It reminded me of that time before my heart enlisted
in the endless dream.
I pretended I had never experienced sadness.
I was in pure spirit —
not doctored by my own health
or chemistry.
I was strong,
untouched by the dirty empires.
But it was false.
I had already fallen in the mud.
Music was the rope
holding me close.
No one offered their arms,
no one offered their charms
to save me from dismay.
I clung to whole notes
and registers —
treble and bass.
I only had theory to seal my edges.
I was not restrained, not in feeling
nor in the larynx.
I was fixated on expression,
the lexicon of my wounded soul.
He smiles at the remembrance
as the song plays again —
not because the lyrics are happy
or because it calls back pleasant polaroids.
We are still here,
cohabiting the vessel of our escapade,
together,
rolling through the hills of sonic recollection.
And here, in the passenger seat of an old Chevy,
I can finally name my sorrow
I can let the tears rise
if they wanted to break the levy of my eyes —
forest-coloured iris —
if I had reason to cry
LOST FRIENDSHIPS (Satis Shroff)
When old friends
Go asunder,
What remains
Are memories,
Of moments
In tranquility.
When world tremble
And words shiver,
When lips vibrate
And nothing comes out
Of your larynx.
Just the uneasy
Breath from your nostrils.
The silence and solitude
That prevails,
When friendships
Have lost their meanings.
Encounters,
Wiedersehen,
Become embarassing.
And words become superfluous.
The old wounds bleed again,
Causing pain,
That come like sea waves,
Incessantly,
Stab and go.
* * *
© Satis Shroff. All rights reserved
A lady was kept in a bottle, a glass bottle, for being so beautiful. She was kept for a long time as a prisoner because the witch did it to her.
Anybody at the present time may not believe in witchcraft anymore. Not even in werewolves or transformation of any kind. But who can tell which is which if we only base everything on what human eyes can see?
The witch was jealous of the lady's beauty and so envious of her angelic voice. How the witch was able to lure the beautiful lady is by befriending her, then deceived her that her voice can sound more interesting by inserting a string in her pharynx. The witch insisted that through the throat, the voice box (larynx) can be smoothened to bring out the best in singing. The lady lost her voice and cannot speak to anyone anymore. She was embarrassed and got angry to herself for being fooled. She ran away from home and was so irate for what the witch has done to her. The worst of all, the glass bottle is the place where the beautiful lady ran to -- to escape her sadness and regret. All of these transpired because of the witch's selfishness and unkindness.
The memory of the beautiful lady with an angelic voice is now felt and represented by a pink flower in a glass bottle.
Picasso painted me ugly.
Two lips slung over a rusted hanger.
One eyebrow burnt for attention's sake.
Let's tell Grandma how much fun we had today.
Picasso is still at work.
Monet swallowed your stupidity.
Five teeth missing and nary a barbed retort to bend.
One un-photographed smile was left behind.
Let's tell Grandpa his prized lilacs are in mourning.
Monet is still at work.
Seurat poked your larynx.
The roses in your hands may be the thorns in your side.
Ivy and Sumac spice the teas I serve the unfortunates.
Let's tell Auntie June her parasol spikes are dull and snapped.
Seurat is still at work.
O'Keefe smears one simply.
Stamens and pistils shoot the misanthropes dead.
A spare will be guarded for the one's I've missed.
Let's tell Uncle Ed the lessons you've learned today.
O'Keefe is still at work.
DaVinci played baccarat with Stalin.
Swelled hands made it difficult to paint distinctly.
Dirty tongues are as useful as frayed dishrags.
Let's tell no one anything.
Let's tell no one nothing.
(naughty, bastard boy -
using double negatives in one sentence).
Pay one tuppence to the tillerman
and remind the collected town criers -
I'm at work.
We're all
at Work.
a disinteresting air
another gaze
within a full length mirror
a persnickety grimace
bandaids
the severed slices
of crystal
sleeping
within my
larynx
excuse my idiotcy
not utilizing
punctuation marks
cmon darling
please please
warrant my arrest
dementia is not covered
under my insurance policy
but
cough spit
mutants
like myself
somehow survive
religiously pathetic
empathically morose
sympathetically laughable
one last day
one fleeting
precious
moment
the rifle is gently removed
from an uncolored mantle
periwinkle would have
been my palor of choice now
Say ah and place
the hunter's
metallic eye
strategically
down your throat
everything is pretty
everything is so goddamn
wonderful
sweat on my forehead
sweat on the trigger
one deep breath
one more for good riddance
go my sweetheart
cmon
pull it
i said pull it
for a starved beggar's last day
will be
righteously
and
magnanimously
honored
by himself
passing the city limits you can see how
others (the poor) live and die; their scrabbling
for rotten turnip, disturbs the fresh earth, their smell
pervades the air: passing the city limits brings home
the effect of the third great war; disease,autocracy, poverty
and greed of course ( never off limits). there are no wateralls
there, only sandpits with voracious weeds, planted there by
unknowing small birds and other creatures, keen to stake their
claim: but if they had language wouldn’t they shout in keen discourse
”Up with the new order!” or “Down with the new!”… that’s supposing
they had a larynx or two?
Peter Lewis Holmes 2/8/15 for contest... Limits
'Tis well known that when medicating cats they can become rather crabby,
So, this free advice is provided when feeding pills to the family tabby.
As if holding a baby, cradle the cat in the crook of your left arm.
(Wrapping both arms with towels wouldn't do any harm!)
Putting pressure to the cheeks, open his mouth, jamming the pill down his maw.
(Apply bandages to the gashes on your jaw left by Felix's lethal paw!)
Since he wouldn't swallow the pill, pick up the soggy mess from the floor,
And try to tackle the little rascal as he streaks for the open door!
Next, kneel on the floor with the cat firmly gripped between your thighs.
(Enlisting your spouse's aid to subdue the critter would be very wise!)
Place the pill on the end of a drinking straw and blow it down his pharynx.
(Taking care not to swallow the pill yourself or damage his delicate larynx!)
After using naughty and nasty language that is here best left unsaid,
And coaxing the rowdy patient from beneath the king-sized bed,
Try forcing his clamped jaws open with a handy tablespoon.
(Then, pick up the shattered vases that all about the room are strewn!)
After chasing the scoundrel around the neighborhood on an exciting spree,
The fire department should be called to rescue Felix from the neighbor's tree!
Then, call the local animal control people to pick up the cat from hell!
Later, call the pet store to see if they have gerbils, fish or parakeets to sell!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Every time I get happy
the Nana-Hex
comes through.
A dog's canines
change into chainsaws,
toothpicks turn into knives,
coral reefs diverge into dirty sponges,
a sandcastle into a mausoleum,
a soldier-ant burrows deeper
into my borrowed grave,
reveille trumpets tap
a tip-toed timpani of
disenchanted malevolence;
all for the Nana-Song.
I am eleven.
I am naked.
I am screaming.
I am kneeling in the shower
and every time I shriek:
"I feel like dancing today or
look, I can tie my shoelaces or
my bruises have healed or,
my neck is not scarlet like
the underskin of
Grandma's fingernails" -
it plays again, it reprises -
like a Bizet refrain
scraping pitchforks
against agate slabs,
shaving fresh flesh.
All for the resurrection of...!
All for the redemption of...!
the Nana-Hex.
Now, I am fifteen.
I don't talk. I fail to eat.
I scratch poetry and snivel.
My front teeth
are chipped and broken
like the high-browed brim
of Nana's low-ball snifter.
I picture four undertakers
from my windowsill.
Three of them are for me -
the fourth filthy fist,
clutching a scratched
chromed rung,
is for her.
Throwing confetti
from a guarded train
as she selfishly vacated me,
Dr. Zhivago evasive and...wait!
"look I've made my bed, dear Nana.
I lost another tooth, I received
an A+ in geometry.
No. I'm not part of one's family circus,
I'm not a crippled duckling
in a shooting gallery anymore."
Mom, Momma - I...
I can't catch her confetti, Mother.
I can't, poor Momma - but...
when her swastikad locomotive
bleeds into the
frozen chambers
of Auschwitz's
omnipresent shower heads,
and my stifled tears choke
your starved larynx
like a rabid cat
untangling balls
of matted string; then...
and only then -
dear God,
please tell Grandma Nana -
I've formidably said:
hello.