Best Marginal Poems
My island slept for years in the care
Of Tainos, Caribs and Arawak
Their canoes on the sea breast bare
Dreaming of milk from manioc
The swamps unscarred, trees secure
Batos and songs rinsed in the azure.
Then came doom laden caravels came
Prancing with Conquistadores
Their swords to slaughter, then to shame
The Ave Marias slutted by whores
Whose blazing balls of canons denied
The sufficient death of the crucified.
My island was the Mary Magdalene held
For ransome in the frying lust
For gold, the continental wars spelled
A trembling virginity in the dust
A lost of idyllic grace, where bloody men
Sowed the evil inherited again and again.
From Spanish to French, Spanish to British
How callous is all history
A spectre publishing the marginal brutish
Shrivelled glory of identity.
And still my Mary, her alabastor box a gift
This tropic wonder, this lignum vitae of thrift
From empty tomb to broken hearted disciple
Evanglizes the Mahoe dawn
Over the Blue Mountain where peace ripple
On the motto, still the fawn
In the forest brings the stag to court
This island stands ready to file a good report.
Public transpo buses are a poor man's taxicab,
but you can't hail a ride when you need one
You must sit and wait on a wooden street slab
Buses are municipal elephants
that move on asphalt trails
If one arrives on schedule, then all is well
Drop the money into the pay slot,
and get taken to that menial job you got
But marginal income don't motivate you a lot
Yet, be glad you're one of the fortunate few
that has a cool bus driver who loves to skirt the rules
He will tell you to call him Zeke
Not mister, not sir
Just Zeke
Thirty years, he says he's been
on the urban safari beat
Says he's seen it all
on the jungle concrete streets
Zeke loves to laugh a lot,
he loves to give out friendly hellos
And Zeke really loves helping
the disabled and old widows
Next time you're in his city,
take a chance and ride poor
If you meet Zeke, you'll be richer for sure
Finding Abigail
“Abigail! ~Abigail!...where are you, my love?
I can’t see you, nor smell you, let alone touch you…”
A nebulous cloud encroaches the corridors of mind,
Where a fallacious hope seeks its refuge in silence.
“Abigail! Is that you? I thought I heard someone talking…”
Disembodied voices revel throughout the empty voids,
Existence in the grand abyss impenetrable from both sides.
“Abigail, I know you care about me…I can’t see you,
but I hear you…I remember the time we met my sweet,
the sky and air stood still until we embraced…
then came the fireworks…we must still be there, for all I see
is smoke my dearest…Abigail! come back my love,
I’ve lost you in the smog!”
Illusions begging resolutions, the marginal mind wanders,
Taking with it memories of what used to be,
but now has been abandoned.
“Abigail my love…I’m afraid…can you hold my hand my sweet?
this is no good, I can’t reach you…where are you…Abigail!?”
The subject is going into Cardiac arrest… convulsions are increasing!...
We are losing him! Quickly flush with at least 20ml of 0.9% sodium chloride…
“Abigail my dearest…I can see you…so beautiful you are…come to me
My love…come closer...let us start anew.”
Nurse, prepare him for surgery…there is a good chance we may save him…”yes Doctor.”
“Abigail! Abigail! ...I’m losing you, my love…come back, come bac, com…”
He’ll be OK now…we saved him, but sadly he will still be enslaved by love…
Oct.04.2018
Brainstorm Poetry
Sponsored by: John Hamilton
Placed 2'nd [1'st of 8]
The winding roads weave in and out
Through the thick murkiness of my mind
Molass density permeates this soupy blackout
Opening the door for foggy convoluted whimsy
A marginal lucidity that’s delicate and flimsy
A menacing daze to which I am resigned
On the threshold sitting so precarious
I waver uncontrollably with wits amiss
Of a mind gone off track and delirious
Vile visions born of darkness whirl inside my head
That they might escape is what most I dread
Those shadowy creatures that umbra nights dismiss
Read on air by invitation ~ June 22, 2020 'LATE NIGHT POETS'
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on January 4, 2019 for contest RHYME TIME 7- DEEP AND DARK sponsored by LU LOO - RANKED 1ST
Wild blueberries taste
beyond the pale
of domestic cultivars,
sweetness cut by granite acidity
underlain by the spice
of marginal existence.
A blueberry’s destiny
is realized through consumption.
I satisfy as many as I can
to deposit their future
a couple portages down
tomorrow.
An older poem recycled as it fit's Roy's contest to a "P"
marx and religion
charles darwin hated them
he loved us,envy
Bursting moments
on Winters' first day
Fuzzy light
to show a seasoned way
Marginal fog
on an edge defined.
He who seeks pain for pleasure is a real aboriginal,
Runs slowly yet leads subservient to international.
He who has a mental condition stable aberrational
And is clearly confused for his rule over junior biennial.
Is such one busy doing nothing our leader fictional?
Believes has virtual reality and qualities supernal;
Worries by relaxing, is a truly called stupid sentinel
Off laissez faire causing democracy death prenatal.
He is the original copy; autocracy does he disannul.
Is such one busy doing nothing our leader nominal?
Babbles less on many topics but talks lot notional;
Real oxymoron, a worthless gold is a role fictional.
Such a stupid, such dark snow acts like nocturnal
And wishes us follow him like a true myth tensional.
Is such one busy doing nothing our leader attritional?
As little pain hurts none, such nonentity optional
Is singly double natured like oxymoron is binational.
Such a tiny elephant of no use is a leader sectional,
Unlike Modi or Mahatma who is pretty fierce finagle.
Is such one busy doing nothing our leader supernal?
A rightly deceitful leader propagates worries parental
Agony, by loving humanity loathing persons is menial.
Is such afunctional leader be only choice? Oh! Marginal!
An open secret for such leaders, this Monorhyme is a signal.
Is such one busy doing nothing our leader eternal?
Banish listening, and teachings end.
Between "Yes!" and "No!"
How much spectral difference is there?
Between healthy "live" and "evil"
Is the difference not normally 50-50?
That which we fear
Is indeed to be feared;
That which we love
Is indeed to be beloved;
But, alas, distant, yet also at hand, is this dawn of awakening
toward loving to be loved as
fearlessly unafraid of Beloved Climax Community!
We merry-make today,
self-congratulate while sub-optimizing,
As if consistently absorbing redemptive nutrients,
As if playing Mountain Warrior in Springs redolent climax;
I alone am mildly wild with harvesting unemployment,
Like a new-born babe that cannot yet smile,
Unattached,
neither grasping at joy nor averting lost identity,
contention with dissonance is like one without a zero home.
History's prevailing culture has enough and to spare,
But I am like one left out,
behind marginal invisible boundary,
my heart and mind must be that of buttless comedy,
Being as muddled,
ambivalently equivalent,
nebulously coincident!
Left-brain dominator cultures are knowing, luminous,
strength self-fulfilling and prophesying futures;
I alone am dull, confused, equivalent.
Egocentric culture is clever, self-assured;
I alone, depressed, repressed, suppressed,
not impressed, pressed, pressing, birthing.
Patient as the sea,
Adrift, seemingly aimless tipping points.
We all have purposed meaning,
teleologized ecological faith;
I alone appear stubborn and irrelevantly uncouth.
I appear to differ from SuperEgo Culture,
In optimally valuing succulent sustenance from Mother Earth,
universal natural systemic polyculturing in/out-formation.
Minimal involvement with extracurricular activity at Methacton
limited to playing Baritone Horny within the band
though marginal interest existed to maintain constancy
feigning noteworthy interest second to none
eventually Mister O'Donnell
(I remember without mental exertion - surmising that tubby name
of bandleader) synonymous with attitude ill suited,
thus loss being banned haint grand
loss, and subsequent loss did not stun,
nor disheartenment arose to forego hearing
future applauding hand, or standing ovation
and felt reprieve, relieve, when refused further sharing of any awards won
yet the greatest joy arose to even the score for decision
foisted upon me to play Baritone Horn now a choice I manned
in tandem with with late afternoon rehearsals
necessitating this boy not much bigger than the baritone horn
to make a mad dash with truckload of academic material
plus encased “mini tuba,” which constantly banged upper right thigh,
and nearly tripped me to go flailing head over heals.
Exhaustion (a welcome relief with sprinting the distance –
possibly even setting a world record) getting linkedin
(half heartedly envisioning myself whizzing
across the mountains viz tour de France
measuring a winning distance – quite an expanse
whereby giving the strong armed cyclist brandishing his lance
a run...er rather pedal for his money,
yet this flight of fancy fragile as a séance
vanished without a trace, although this trance
figurative shifted gears burnishing via sans deus sol invictus
and didst witness glory, where ignominy, humility, and disharmony
Mister McDonald (supposed namesake) from looming maestro,
whose countenance evinced
countless cartoonish, distorted expressive facial grotesqueries
earning apropos sobriquets
who jabbed the air with each illusory add vance.
Make hay while the sun shines.
I grew up as a closeted polypathic nature-mystic
on a marginal, at best, family farm
in Michigan.
This farm was my embryonic home,
an extension of my vastly loved and nurturing Mother,
more than my workaholic homophobic Father,
who most emphatically did create a patriarchal god in his own image.
His farm was for slave labor.
Her farm was a garden for growing healthy wealth.
I loved Mom's Multi-ReGenerational Family Farm
like an extension of my ego's mind and body.
And, like a turtle without a shell,
when I first headed off to Ann Arbor's University
I brought my happy and healthy ego with me,
eager to begin my new adventure story,
yet I emotionally stumbled,
felt naked and exposed and depressed,
for lack of my embryonic habitus,
my eco-center,
my home,
my interdependently embracing love of sacred spaces
and their seasons of regeneration and degeneration,
growing still and fading without ego me
conjoining.
I was homesick,
but not for Nurturing Nanny
and Fearsome Father
or even Perfect Princess Sister, whom I cherished,
whom I could talk and listen with as whim might invite,
and, although somewhat more of a sore detachment from our farmhouse interior spaces,
my disorienting alienation from Ann Arbor
was as a too-urban outside place
just as my recreating resident embrace
favored my dorm and classroom youth-learning multicultural race
against more oppressive monoculturing times.
To this day,
despite a six week backpacking hike
along California's Pacific Coast Trail,
plundered by surreal vistas and fragrance and light and unspeakable beauty,
when I imagine a meadow, a field, a woodland,
a pond,
a barn,
an unpaved road,
a gravel drive,
a herd of cattle,
a pen of pigs,
a coop of chickens,
a litter of kittens with eyes still sealed shut,
I recall iconic scenes from this sacred originating home,
my eco-memory
calling my doubly-bound ego-enculturing self
back home
to where we permaculturally began together,
making hay while the sun did shine.
Whenever in the company of his trusted friends
St. Paul Lafargue had always said:
"I sure hope I never get a sainthood someday
- That would be supremely lame for an atheist
In any day and age."
The man was modestly honest - If not honestly modest
So I did everything I possibly could
To make sure we would celebrate his feast day,
Every-single-friggin-day!
I ran all the way straight to Vatican City,
Where I skinned all which remains
Of my horrendously disfigured knees
After tripping over my own two feet and half a sheet of LSD
- That's when I said: "Serves me right for not taking it easy."
"Jesus I'm witty!" I was nervously thinking,
as I picked broken grass
and bubble gum
Out from under
My gaping wounds - "My God,
I don't have any time for this modern-day humdrum!"
I defiantly said as I proceeded ahead
Demonstrating little more concern
For my previously acquired gangrene
Than I did for my recently sustained ruptured spleen...
...So to make a long-story painlessly short
And to keep all threats of (comedic) violence
Condensed to a marginal fault,
All that I really had to say was this:
"So; How about it? What do ya say?"
- After smashing up the whole place
With a couple of my favorite teamsters
- And that was just about that!
Paul Lafargue had been canonized
All for a philosophical laugh!
- I must've cracked every single situational gag
His Holiness had been expecting to be pulled
Straight outta my brimstone hat!
I guess it's true what I hear everybody say:
The Pope is behaving far too liberal these days.
So the next time the stupid boss comically asks:
"Why is you writin'?! - Why ain't 'cha workin'?!"
Tell them as many times over as it may take
Until it fully absorbs into their tyrannical brain:
"I refuse to work when I don't really wanna;
It comes on like a hunger, sometime, after lunchtime."
In Kew Gardens I feast on
daffodils and swans and honk-
ing geese in turf protection mode
and one spectacular show
from a strutting peacock’s tail,
its color chart exploding
against the day’s gray weather.
On warmer days Kew is packed
with mums and dads and kiddies
running about or being pushed
in prams. Today’s marginal
weather has cut the numbers.
I am drawn to a park’s promises
in crowd depleting weather. .
In youth I’d sit on a bench
beneath a chestnut tree and feel
fully protected from rain
by the natural umbrella
of thick leaves above my head
or, barefooted, tramp through wet
grass after the midday storm.
In the misted gray of not
quite Spring Kew Garden isn’t
in full bloom but I can feel
the promise of warmer days and,
with luck, the persistent need
of a peacock to impress
his ladies with the full bloom
of his magnificent tail.
From Mastadonian timelessness
Thru Neolithic mankindliness
Past icy agey instances
Cave-ember dream sequences
Animal carcass sustenances
Tribal ritual religiousness
Guttural language utterances
Savage native dominances
Eking marginal existences
Toward era-ending extinguishes
To Nomadic brutal homelessness
Under cracking cultural bridginess
Under societal forgetfulness
Under Military expansiveness
Governmental negligences
A congenital hopelessness
Constitutional vagariousness
Evolutionary pervasiveness
Solitary survivalness
That’s my piece of boniness
My tent reeks of holiness
On the edge of precariousness...
Being Invisible
I live within the invisible reciprocal realm
Directed divisible via vessels heading helm
A quantum quixotic thru magnetic movements
Meaningless myopic of expanding exponents
For if you touch me
I can not feel
And if you comfort me
I will begin to heal
I am the unseen that sees forever
Banished between the noxious never
Coated in camouflage a chameleon in vogue
A marginal mirage a renegade rogue
Can you see me?
For I am here
And if you find me
I will shed a tear
Sleeping thru timorous time a fading fool
I awaken a faceless mime in a punitive pool
A ghost in the abyss of marooned mirrors
A misguided miss floating in the zeros
So come closer to the mirror
My face then becomes clearer
For you and I now stand nearer
Who is the taker and who the giver?
In these illusions of enigmatic error.
02.16.2017
Jamie's interesting contest 1... Contest
Sponsored by: Jamie Pan
Theme...Being Invisible
AT LEAST 25 lines in length