Best Loping Poems
The sky broke like an egg into full sunset
and the water caught fire.
—Pamela Hansford Johnson
Sailor’s Sunset
Plummeting orb, hoary red sun,
envelopes us - we’ve just begun.
The ache of passion’s absorb.
Hoary red sun, plummeting orb.
The yolk baked ‘round the mammoth breast.
In loping eyes, our love’s expressed.
Infusion of colors, unbound.
The mammoth breast, the yolk baked ‘round.
Sailor’s sunset without warning.
Safe and sound, moaning in morning.
Life’s looking good from the onset.
Without warning - sailor’s sunset.
~~
Hand in hand they meander through the deserted lane,
freshly fallen snow crumpling under foot
Littering the sky, Bright stars, glittering like coins on a belly dancers belt,
slowly surrender to the coming dawn
Inch by measured inch the glory of Ra overpowers the starlight.
In a pale blue sky, a pale golden disc, the colour of ripe oats at harvest time,
looking close enough, and cool enough, to reach out and touch.
Brilliant rays, arrows of liquid gold, capture the pristine landscape,
splintering like a million shards of shattered glass.
No sound, only silence, profound, in the clear crystal air.
In the distance, a cock crows.
Long morning shadows cast by tall pines,
revealing a lone stoat, resplendent in his ermine coat.
Emerging from shade, merging with sunlight,
loping across the virgin snow with bounding grace.
White on white,
only the black tip of his tail and tiny footprints betraying his presence.
In the distance, a dog barks,
A small cottage, a stone chimney, a whisper of smoke announcing a new day,
A hardy little robin pecking with determination to uncover water under ice.
A door slams, the robin takes flight.
Snow slides from the roof to gather in piles like miniature Himalayas.
Icicles drop pearls as the thaw sets in. The world is awakening.
In the distance, a train whistles.
Still holding hands they walk on.
~~
There's a gonna be a crimson moon tomorrow night...
Me and Delroy, heading down Witcher at half past midnight. Our destination: Witcher Redemption Church of Christ. It's been pouring like crazy since ten. Lightning streaks are giving the church steeple with its twenty foot cross an eerie aura, as rumbling thunder shakes the ground beneath our feet.
Fueled by a bottle of Jack shared and a hatred for the evil that has taken place here, our intent is to burn this unholy building to the ground. Two bricks and two molotovs hurled at and through the stained glass windows should do the trick.
Just last week ol' Rev King was convicted of molesting three underage girls over the past twenty years. To think that he stood on that pulpit preaching fire and brimstone at us turns my stomach. It was Del who suggested we torch the place, his sister was one of the victims.
It's now 12:59 am. The rain has slowed. My heart is pounding in my ears between roars of thunder. On the count of three we take our vengeance.
One...
Two...
Three...
Crash Crash! Windows successfully busted. Molotov cocktails lit and hurled on target. Flames rising. Victory!
But wait! Silhouettes approaching from the woods just beyond. Suddenly, a lightning flash. Three, no, four black bears loping toward us at great speed. Our demise, imminent. Our destiny, sealed. My only thought now is this: What horrid twist of fate has led to this judgment? O GOD, PLEASE HELP US...
twisted happenings
mothers of the disappeared weep
baptisms delayed
* Poem/story inspired by a road and church I passed recently and the television series Zoo. Also a nod to a U2 song. Events are fictional.
My dad always takes care of me
He just loves me all the time,
Even when i disturb him
When his words he tries to rhyme,
He quickly picks me up
And gives me a loving pat,
He'll make sure i'm quite content
Before he puts me on my doggy mat.
When i was young i used to
Put my front paws on the window-sill,
It was to welcome home my daddy,
It gave him such a thrill.
I used to chase my sister
Around our large front lawn,
It became our favourite game
Ten weeks after we were born.
My daddy takes me in the car
Down to the local shop,
Then we go walking in the park,
Afterwards, i tend to want to flop.
Three years ago i went blind,
So my dad became my sight,
Sometimes he has to carry me,
My daddy is my shining light.
We live in a gigantic kennel,
Although my dad calls it our home,
"Hey dad i'm feeling peckish,
Can you fetch another bone."
Author Notes: I have two litter sisters, both 13 years of age. They are the best friends i've ever had. Bindi went blind 3 years ago and although we sometimes find it a little hard she still enjoys life immensley. When she's in our local park, she remembers the wide open spaces and feels safe to run. She quite often breaks into a loping run alongside me.
I wish to thank Bindi for her lovely poem-----dad
kidscomedypoetry.com.au
for F. A.
You, in going a little way from yourself
Have gone a long way from my gullible ilk.
« I’m trying hard not to like you, » you said
The breaths of several men surging in your nostrils
And the stench abraded in your flesh :
« You are unshaven. »
You took proper care to remember the right words :
« Why are you so far away, I cannot reach you. »
The ****** you probably tried to fake –
Thanks for the repeated protestations -
Blew all the other exhausted noises through.
« I think it’s all this lack of sleep and all that, » you said
Trapping me with your alien scents.
You have gone away more than a little from yourself.
I have felt and avoided the humiliation in your voice :
« Turn out the lights. I’m afraid
You’d never like me again. »
These are bothersome words.
Only constant repetition make them less wearisome.
One whole week you waited and watched.
One by one you chalked us down.
We fled, not so much from you
As from ourselves, not knowing which
You or the condemned flower to take :
« Why don’t you tell me something about yourself.
I’ve said enough, » you said and came closer
Wraithed in your trapper's overflying airs.
Now that you have prospected a little
Confiscated my intimate thoughts, coaxed my ego
Applied the guileful balms which embolden
A man in bed and made of the future a promise
And turned and sighed like the unwanted thing
Now that you have preyed in my sanctuary
Gazed long in wistful silence my empty shrine
How can I let you go – take my scent
And mix it till it roots in other flesh
And wandering, I’ll not know why someday
I might fret in the company of familiar strangers.
« What about the lad ? » Alone and wishfully loitering
« Oh, let him toss and turn. Why shouldn’t he ?
He’ll write better then, » you said, for once
Rippling the nimble calm embossed on feigning face
That poised flutter of your lips when words you wield
Assume a dextrous innocence
Little wonder then the sensually provoked blushes
Cross-fertilise the loping lurk of your poems.
You in going a little way towards me
Have gone a long way from yourself.
Before you go a little way prospecting
Leave leave a little of yourself in your safe.
©: T. Wignesan, 1965 (from the collection: tell them i'm gone, 1983, rev. 2012)
The deception of “free verse”: Dreams II, Translation of Etiemble’s “L’imposture du vers libre” by T. Wignesan
“Free verse, free not to be verse” – Audiberti
My love is not blue like a lake
my love is not blue like a sky
but red swollen with blood
and of ire
No lapping sounds of oars
playing out a nocturne
Bienne lake or that of Bourget
ever beat out the loping of my heart
My love’s neither blue nor like a lake
nor like a sea of oil
In the cauldron of boiling oil
a witch throws in a thumb
and the formula
My witching love
sputters and bursts out
stinging these busts and this lip
red
Vehement like a she-demon
it dances in a mad whirl
My left temple
wails
with the furious ocean
which rumbles under my pillow
What ships wreck in this sunken heart
still bleeding
of all the hearts it peeled
bleeding bodies of the young girl
And this heart weeps over its deaths
Like those on All Souls’ Day
the old hoary woman weeping
twisted up into wailing somersaults
which pad the cries of skeletons
clinging to rapacious granite
My heart beating on the pillow
muffles the voice of the friend
which begged the evening gone by
“Tell me it’s not over yet!”
And like the ocean cowardly
I collapse into my bed
to better listen to the tolling
of my temples and my heart
a delusionary
song of joy.
Signed: Jean Louverné (pseudonym)
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 2014 (Translation
Somewhere in a rugged sunny terrain
a bushy-maned pony kicks up his heels
amid biting flies in a grueling summer heat.
An elegant cattle egret hitches a ride.
Devouring grassland insects, his daily diet,
the egret helps his buddy in his plight
keeping the flies at bay while loping along
together through brush and grass and sage.
Glorious Queen Blue Kitty with your crown so high,
You delight me in every aspect of my being
Your majestic magnificence precedes you
With every paw step or turn of your royal head
Glorious Queen Blue Kitty you have turned my heart
Taken over my chambers, invaded my heart.
Your preferences etched into my brain forever,
As I never want anything but your approval and respect.
Glorious Queen Blue Kitty with your haughty airs
And your fluffy tail, I am delighted that you chose me
To be your fetch and carry slave, your mistress,
The one who tries to please you in every kind of way
Glorious Queen Blue Kitty, I do not remember life without you
I am certain it was not magical until you entered the castle
Loping off the heads of those who displeased you,
Showing us your preferences, proving who the real queen is.
Thank you for allowing us to serve your needs, Miss Blue Kitty.
You are the best animal we have ever encountered,
With more personality than any cat we ever met before
Or shall meet when you deem our abode unworthy and go to cat heaven.
With a ragged bag and a sack, I am leaving you to chase a dream…
Dry your tears, my dear; no more wail. No more songs of grief,
No more tired bones and tired soul. Just dry your tears.
How mother died awhile ago and father stayed, and made us howl
Like ghastly wolf, a creature of the night. The food we scrounged on
The floor, when your tummy cried… my eyes cried.
But dry your tears little one… just dry your tears,
I have words in a bag, a dream in a sack. I have stories and novels
Poems and tears. Remember the sweater I gave you, when even fury dogs
Would freeze? I lied when I said ‘I felt heat, I just ate or I just smiled – you missed it.’
Close your eyes, and do not stare at my back, not tattoos, just
Scars on my back, disfigurements I wear.
But dry your tears little one… just dry your tears.
Hold on! Even when wolves are circling, knaves are preying
And God is loping deaf. There are stars and there are blooms that
Even we shall see. Just dry your tears my little one… just dry your tears.
Othello was in heat of passion’s fire
Being truly locked in love with his desire.
Seeing Desdemona gave the Moor new life,
Eloping in the night to make her wife.
Soon Iago executes a devious plan.
So, Othello will think Cassio’s his wife's man.
In Othello’s eyes, she was a worthless shrew.
Obsessed with rage, his lovely wife he slew.
Not long after, with his sword he kills self too.
7/19/17
OBSESSION
Sponsored by: Silent One
As you cruise along the interstate in your ultra-sleek sedan,
You should ever keep in mind a little-known engineering man.
His name is Ralph Teetor, inventor of a device called cruise control.
Perfecting the auto for the comfort of the public was his lifetime goal!
At the tender age of twelve, the budding genius built a full-sized car!
He graduated from the University of Pennsylvania as an engineering star!
He moved to Hagerstown, Indiana, which is my old hometown as well.
There, he founded Perfect Circle Piston Ring Company for many years to dwell.
Ralph was annoyed by the auto's lurching, gas guzzling driving habits.
It reminded him of the hopping, loping attributes of irrational rabbits!
In the basement of his home he spent hours tinkering with his invention.
Cadillac first installed cruise control when it was brought to their attention!
He received numerous honors and patents during his creative lifetime,
Making driving for the traveling public more pleasurable and sublime.
'Twas truly remarkable the many accomplishments he was to contrive,
Since he was blinded due to an unfortunate accident at the age of five!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Received
Part One
“The Kurral owes much of its popularity to its exquisite poetic form. A kurral is a couplet containing a complete and striking idea expressed in a refined and intricate metre. No translation can convey an idea of its charming effect. […] The brevity rendered necessary by the form [composed in the Venpa metre] gives an oracular effect to the utterances of the great Tamil ‘Master of the sentences.’ They are the choicest of moral epigrams. […] Tiruvalluvar is generally very simple, and his commentators very profound.”
Rev. G.U. Pope, Former Fellow of Madras University
[Pardon these futile measly words from your great Potiya height: they can hardly belittle your true worth.]
Under what leaky hutment roof by stamped-mud floors
trembling clair-oscuro straw-wick kuttuvilakku
on the stark anvil of crisp phrase and sparse syntax
by the raging nama-nir rhyming brine
at Mayilapur’s S.Thomé sandy doors
while peacocks danced to your innate pulsating chimes
have you chipped away at uncut gems
Those the Yavanas brought with the monsoons
or such as your sea-daring captain friend Elela-Cinkan’s
Even those the Christian missionaries preached
in daredevil enticement
after St.Thomas fell to a vel stuck in his bosom
or of those like you who were stamped underfoot
Caste in cast-iron strictures
Priest only to the proclaimer paraiyar drum-beaters
The warp and woof of intricately woven venpa verse
elevating your weaving clan to fresh artistic heights
YET
in the humbled ways of your birth
on whose steps have you pitched your ears
whose wisdom have you had to pilfer
filter
whose ways have you had to ape
whose mere thoughts have you then had to set aright
ennoble
and remould into inextinguishable lines
Or had you tread the ahimsa path of gentle-foot Jains
Treading gently the earth for fear of loping boot pains
(Continued in Part Two)
He realized shortly after seating himself
atop of a massive stone on the park's knoll,
gazing out over the lush spring-green prairie
sewn together by a clear, rippling brook,.
that sky reflections on those softly-rippling
waters were countless murals drawn,
washed clean, and painted anew on
the canvas of life in the blinking of his eye.
Sun's accretion warmed the back of his neck,
now more intense, risen past the vernal equinox.
Breezes buffeted fresh green grasses in the park.
Thermals carried gulls, geese, and migrating
pelicans on their journey to marshes and
lowlands in Canada. When last he sat on
the great stone the fall elements were stern, cold,
and annealed; anticipating a harsh plains winter.
Loping from south to north along the brook,
a wily fox worked his way toward a wide slough
and marshland near his view from the rock.
The fox's head swept side to side in instincts
perpetual sweep. From the stone he saw himself
an interloper, a fortunate meddler in the affairs
of nature; a nature whose portraits were always
vivid and vibrant; endlessly unique and pure.
Spring Impressions
9-24-16
I am a dog of Caanan. Protector of Israels settlements,
and scavenger of the deserts. Cowed in movement and
strangled with inhuman voice, I feed upon the waste
of the crowds that gather about your lingering soul
Traipsing around the anguish of the Golgotha crucified, I
smell their departing vapours. Yet, each step around
your fading ruin ignites a crucifixion within me.
Impaling me to your cross.
I hang upon your sorrow like a broken scarecrow, and
linger at your feet, hoping to be remembered in the
land to come. But, all I see is a simple man, pained to
the end of his tether. Shedding tears that fall from pain
filled eyes, as desperate for earthly release, as he is for
heavenly deliverance. Tears that nourish the dirt where
they fall and bless the heads of those who stand close
Loping between the legs of your faithful, I nip the ankles of
your accusers, a rightful dispenser of their pennance. Final
miracles are demanded but no longer heard, the weak of faith
tumble away like brittle leaves, blown by the frailest of winds.
Eliciting akward glances that feed my empathy, and soul
wrenching moments drained by your despair. No longer
cowed by man and his craven destructions, I sit at the
foot of your cross, resolutely guarding your ascendency.
Glowing and white, pure liquid flowing
My heart is expanding.
And I hear angels singing a song that fills my soul.
Rose petals are falling.
A slow steady walk, a gentle loping grace.
My smiling man in all black
So gorgeous. So perfect.
So mine.
My face is shining.
The angels are singing.
Rose petals are falling.
A steady warmth
So strong, and so deep
That gentle heat fills me to my core
And I find myself falling
Falling…Falling….falling.
Rose petals are falling.