Best Lopped Poems
The sun was setting, as it usually does
The town a ghost town, the main street all but silenced
The wind blowing leaves and dreams to and fro
The tension in the air was palpable
The few souls about all peering out shuttered windows
When in from the west, came a storm
Her name was Serena Storm,
They shivered in her wake, the poetess of dead lovers
Then over to the east side, riding in slow and steady
The grim reaper or so it seemed, hollowed eyes
Dead soul and dark mind, his side arm at the ready
The greatest duel in history, right here
In the town of Nowhere
The setting sun reflected of her dark long coat
The last tear drop, falling to its death in the dust
She stared ahead, face blank
Daring, with a glare, shoot me, shoot me, try
He dismounted his horse, called Heartless Soul
His eyes slits, staring down the curvaceous storm pacing untoward
His hand inside his coat, slowly pulling out a mickey
He belted down a shot or three,
In the town of nowhere
They both paced, hands at their side
Closer and closer, the saloon keeper
Not quite sure his bottle would be paid in full
Then as quickly at the sun set……
Vaso drew first.
The finest long black quill one ever saw
His other hand dropped his bottle
Magically a writing pad appeared
Serena drew second, pen at her side
The color of blood, and for good reason
She too tablet in hand, putting ink to paper
As they both furiously wrote
In the town of Nowhere
Hearts were murdered
The meaning of life was hanged not long after
Love was beheaded
The main street a river of blood
A storm of tears washing away crimson desires
An empty vassal, Vaso’s insides already dead
Dropping his pen, he pulled out his sword of mourning
The duel to end, as he lopped off his own head
She dropped paper and pen to the ground
She faced down the grim reaper, and it’s he who is dead
The only one to know, his name was Arthur
King of the dark, ruler of lost dreams
In the town of Nowhere
The poetic duel of the century
Both won and lost
Long ago
He whittled away
A very large branch
That in 6,000 days
Was part of his ranch
Yet not just the branch
Or a tree or two
He whittled a forest
Full, through and through
For this man and knife
Both aptly named, Jack
Had spent half their life
Constructing a shack
Jack’s knife was quite big
With hammer and shovel
To both cut and dig
A primitive hovel
After trees dropped
With Jack’s knife axe
The bark was lopped
To fill in the cracks
He whittled five oaks
And one hundred pines
Yet the pines, no joke
Took half the time
He sliced up the frame
Most days and nights
But could not hue stain
Nor pare out the lights
He whittled a door
Out of an ash tree
And also the floors
Of all rooms, just three
The man ate plenty
With no need to shop
Whittling fish hooks
And felling peach crops
Then finally old Jack
On a day with gloom
Completed the shack
That lacked head room
The rooms were too small
For all the hassle
Yet, Jack stood tall
Beside his castle
His wife took a tour
But quickly fumed
Since there was no sign
Of a bathroom
But Jack was prepared
For his fair spouse
Pointing out back to
A rough sawn outhouse
Still, floors were creaky
From lacking nails
And ceilings were leaky
Details, details
So Jack told his wife
That his next mission
He’ll devote his life
On an addition
And when they had kids
Of at least three
They learned to whittle
Their own family tree
I’ve seen them: humungous stumps of once gigantic trees
that made a forest sacred-
knowing it was men that lopped off such magnificence
Stealers of beauty and promise:
these amputations leave their scars
on the convolutions of mankind’s
collective brain
Where, if I could
I would venture back in dreams to stay the axe
Let nature take her time with this living, biggest, hugest.
Into forever let these branches spread their prettiness
Let generations stand in awe at their continuance.
Suzanne Delaney
FOR MARY MAGDALENE
Between necessity and freedom I was crucified
Perceiving Himself endlessly on the cross
Yet aware, as an onlooker, petrified
My vision that never was, would be His loss.
I mimed too, as they hammered in the nails
Once more assuaging myself in His deep tears
Once more my heart rallying where my speech fails
To give His lips the vinegar it fears.
Sun eclipsed, I dallied with the vision of day,
A multi-chromed banner the old enemy was twisting,
Till I could no longer read in stone and clay,
My flower-head lopped, topped to the moment’s listing -
I shone for Him like a speck in the glory of the sunrise
Waiting for twilight, the beauty of the stars’ surprise.
by Rosemarie Rowley
from IN MEMORY OF HER, Dublin 2008
The Yellow Head of the Hummingbird
Yellow hummingbird head,
Lopped off by feline fangs,
And left as a gift
On the welcome mat.
Short sharp black beak
Arches downward hopelessly
Like the collective heartbreak
Of a million lost souls.
Misbegotten and forgotten.
Lacerated and left for dead.
This continuous marathon dance.
This never-ending lunge.
This eternal stroll in the park.
This incessant spasm in the dark.
I close my eyes and reach for something ahead of me.
I don't want to see it.
Because I am afraid,
Afraid of what it might see.
Afraid of what it might say.
Past my eyes
Past my soul
Past the lost days and nights
Of an entire lifetime.
Look.
I hold in my hand an empty bottle.
It once held the liquid refreshment of my youth.
Now I see the scum marks
The black residue of a thousand forgotten thoughts.
I throw the empty bottle down
Down into the darkening maelstrom
Of rippling voices, screaming and crying,
Like gulls in the afternoon
When the sun compels the vulnerable to the surface,
And the feeding frenzy begins.
The yellow head of the hummingbird
Is swept up with the shattered glass.
Now, there’s no more emptiness.
Let's cut our hair
locks lopped off in hopes of
style and convenience
only because everything in the media
had announced it so
to look one of two ways
stupid or not
the dichotomy of breathing
intermixed with thinking
a miscreant's
entreaty
based upon the logarithm of dog drool
of other's crisis mind fux=
a cute bob with fringe
perhaps, a beehive to capture errant thoughts
in clouds of hairspray
like ricky lake eating more cake
like the earthy done shaky
like prickly pear sports shake
like trickling ear sweat bakes
like a crepe
just spend the time
emulsifying the generations
tell stories, freak out the other one
basically, have fun
The thunderous thunder
Came thundering in a turmoiled town
Timing my timeless time,
June, you played a fowl gain
You can’t spare us even for once
That we may eat the fruit of our labour
Who’s next?
That we may celebrate tears
…Festival of tears
Nay, leak our rotten fingers
After eating the Idenyi Ai-iko meat
Udaburu Ogo Ukpoji
Falling fellow lonely
Your face tattered, like a pampered baby
Swollen like a bread soaked in water
Infected with sickle cell
Your broods are no more
Behold the grave poking tongue at you
Your are now an lopped tree
Behind a shroud of secrecy
Don’t count us out
For we are all victims of the grave
‘Cos to our maker we shall go
To give the account of our talents
–Grave, my son
–Linen, my daughter
–Casket, my eternal cradle
I owe thee a poesy accolade
For devouring my lungs asunder
Now the gods are silent
And the night is close by
Who knows-
Who’s next?
-
The draper shop in Drumshanbo town was busy on the day
The girls were moving bales of cloth and packing shelves away
Are you allowed to dance tonight Jackie's hall we all can sway
It's a ceili Band of Shan-a-han their good to dance and play
-
Dadddy's working late the pit and Sunday mass must go
The night before this dance you talk a condition don't you know
I will my mother announce to her and mammy will promote
My dress is paid and shelf a laid I'll take now then she wrote
Home that evening gay and trip the thatch upon the hill
Daddy home descends the thrown and says no way you will
Sad and cry by tears to sill and wipe them with the net
A car a pilot steps on out and walks the lane we met
American Uniform proud and boast a cousin from the states
Oh ! Daddy dear please come come here I beg it's not too late
Well fair enough a chaparone took, be home by midnight moon
Oh ! Daddy dear I love you here and Mammy stirred the spoon
Into the dance a pride so strong all girls with jaws a dropp
A stunning man she said at hand an accent slightly lopped
I know that day my mother say one day I'll marry him
But Daddy knows as cousins go not possible a sin
(Snippet of a story involving my mother in 1940s -West of Ireland)
She was a high born whore,
who lived luxuriously
Didn't have one ounce of compassion for the poor
She licked the seethed bones
with a viper's tongue
Guillotine parlor games fed her bloodlust for doing wrong
Marie Antoinette
was as stone cold-hearted
as they get
When told there was a famine in the land,
and the people had no bread to make
She boorishly replied: Well, let them eat cake
Life under her evil reign was pure living hell,
thus the people rose up and violently rebelled
So she suffered a most indelicate fate,
got her head lopped off ...
sweet justice served on a pie plate
One's life can be so full
with various kinds of extreme
makes one so lopped sided
not seeking as one does seem
When you want to hold yourself
in a state of extreme fallenness
going from one end of spectrum
to the other fulfilling your barrenness
Such an up and down life cycle
removes any balance you may attain
by pushing your mind about to burst
makes one think you could be insane
This shows the importance to find balance
proving that maturity is your key
to be living holding all things equal
so your eyes can ever so plainly see
Once you've found key to balance
so important you hold this vital thing
life with balance so satisfying
this gift a present to many may bring
Marauding through the suburban
Merry-go-rounding through the city landscapes,
Marauding through the city ghettos;
Merry-go-rounding through the Metropolitan,
Marauding through the city gates,
Spluttering armoured tank roaring and rolling on
reconnoitered,
Mobilizing blazing mobile container lopped out of control,
Revving monster enthroned as the villain of the road,
Wailing ramshackle, the knackered one hell of a horse-power
plodded on,
All knee-jerk wounded out in roughly cut steel;
More the crawling millipede, speeding on roughly curl ruin
city,
A tangy flaming yellow lorry burnt into bleeding hearse
lorry;
Virulent virus attacking circulatory fortresses,
A living daylight nightmare dream haunting folks,
As the devouring beast fumed and purred proudly,
Off debris fragrance suspended in lasting pall
Gassing leering leaded blanket of Carbon,
Attacking painful and searing sore-blindness as a bat
And daunting shedding deadly poisonous mournful flowing
tears;
Fate, you seamstress old witch
Garments of life measured with line
The misery of men, a fabric been stitched
By your roughshod, wicked designs
Buttons missed, or threading used frayed
Throws muscular waste and decay
The world, steeped in suffering has paid
With the dystrophied lives you betray
Impoverished styles you’ve miserly made
While the hungry painfully wails
Cut-corner fashions are endlessly weighed
On your crooked, treacherous scales
Celestial shop, contains all the cloth
All the ribbons, the bows and the bands
Yet beautiful clothes, are put-off with sloth?
Or lie idle in withering hands?
No orders come in, tailored and chopped
For a dress spangle entrenched?
And what of the suit, with sleeves to be lopped
That for months sat on your bench?
Your life shall be hemmed, in a straightjacket locked
And laced with poisonous snakes
By a white coat I’ve mended, with pockets I cropped
And cut to your sickening tastes!
I am Babbit's rabbit, a cute and fluffy kisser
with a cottontail and lopped eared listeners.
Bought on the farm not the store, picked from the other kits
it was me brought home, the most perfect fit.
A mini dachshund not much bigger than a mouse,
commanded the order of the house.
But then I came and life would never be the same
for Heidi Ho, the dog and I played many games.
Fefferneuse, that's me, I was a little German cookie
French lop ear was my heritage but I was just a rookie.
The dog and I together, were trouble from the very start
wrestling, running, jumping and tearing things apart.
Ah but there was no escape for the owner there
a hop, a flip, a turn, a kick, after all, i am a hare.
Our presensce came with no question or doubt
there would never be any fun without
Babbit's dog and Babbit's rabbit.
So relaxed, it makes me nervous
Your dutiful, unbridled service
You, traveling in a gypsy's circus
Of course, it all makes sense
We put up tents and take down temples
Middle Eastern sands, and Oriental
The stark replaces sentimental
Geographical defense
It's time, now,
To meet in the tents
Our potions, bottled
Our money spent
So complete, it begs a question:
Where to assemble for the convention?
Coffee on a stove-extension
& tea on a river's bank
The grizzly bears all in our driveway
The summer marigolds in private
The ball of prophecy is shining –
Just tell me who to thank
It's time, now…
Gather on the trail –
The deer, lopped at the tail –
A wilderness travail –
Stored dinner in a pail –
It's time, now,
To meet in the tents
Our potions, bottled
Our money spent
If I could amend
If I could transcend
a new life I'd begin
I'd be the mother I should have been
If I could alleviate
If words could ameliorate
the discouragement you feel
You'd always hear words of comfort that heal
If abuse were stopped
If its affects were lopped
I would shout out loud
"This devastation is not allowed"
If sickness we could terminate
If death we could eliminate
We would see no more tears
We would hear happy cheers
If... does not depend on me or you
All these wrongs... Jehovah will undo
Its not a matter of if---but when
Trust in Jehovah with all your heart---until then