Best Marrow Poems
VERSE I
she brushed across my shoulders
the bedroom light broke
a breasted scimitar—dancing thoracic throat
what I once outran—now presses my lips
she carried no black-wing omen
yet every breath drew near
purple velvet summons
Murdering me with Cashmere.
PRE-CHORUS I
kiss drawn, the walls slant inward
and rouge, the dark-root took shape—
as if her inborne blackwork
could make the night a colourless drape.
CHORUS I
Murdering me with Cashmere
tugging at my countless heartbeats
stripping me down to bare nerve
Murdering me with Cashmere
touch that lifted a ceiling curve
a birthright that denied me standing
VERSE II
the air lost a beat near her
piano shuttered its strings
her keratin ruled its hidden kingdoms
where songs outlived clipped-wings
one quick brush of softness
could tilt the atmosphere—
an unquestionable sovereign reign
Murdering me with Cashmere.
PRE-CHORUS II
marrow-sapped, my bones bleached white
and oooh, my will to power grew thin
her presence pressed antique velour
against my browning-paper skin
a blue-litracution mocked my manly core
CHORUS II
Murdering me with Cashmere
negating my defenses
melting my deep fear
Murdering me—only Cashmere
mist that would not recede
a spell that outlasted me
BRIDGE
she stood there—the verdict given
queen without a crown
her secrets a crashing thunder
hinged to pin me down
and I—
climbed, she was higher
and her hemlock closed in—too near
I fell into her ghast-lit shadow
Murdered soft by Cashmere.
FINAL CHORUS
Murdering me with Cashmere
kindness with a strangler’s grip
a calm that finished the work
Murdering me in Cashmere
queen in vestment of highness—
Lady Caledonia Blue— cyanotic.
OUTRO
she brushed across my shoulders
the world skipped a breath to grieve
softness that occluded on my lungs and stayed
refused to let me leave
her after-mint lodged in my vertebral mind
thorn in every flowing tear—
the night she claimed my arrhythmic heartbeat
Murdering me with Cashmere.
What's the espresso this evening, Rubicam?
My random access memory will light upon it
As I riffle the files of my brain.
Pulling out something fresh,
I burst out with words to cover the enigma.
Bones
Bones are the fare--
Stewed bones with marrow deep inside.
Cracking the bones of the chicken leg,
I find essence,
Everlasting purity so well stored and tucked away,
Like a savings account or DNA.
The vapor of mud rises fleet and narrow.
This is the conduit of the inner sanctum,
The railroad across Canada in the snow.
Red vertigo covers the wheels as they turn,
Rolling asunder like a sky.
We eat and gorge on the beauty of it--
The holy thing--
Sent all holy and shiny new.
We split the marrow with a scalpel,
All sharply tooled and honed.
The operation is a success at last--
Liberation is at hand surely.
The vice has fallen away,
And the orange center is revealed.
My word-center is on autopilot;
I am still, silent, patient.
Then the marrow grows overabundant,
Needing quick hands to capture the thief,
Lest escape be granted.
The expository hose is drawn up.
The bare leg is covered and modesty satisfied.
There is no canker in this truth,
Being pure to the core,
Pure as blood-marrow.
The stigma is gone out of it.
Holy is the anthem and the chorus
Sings a greeting to the little people
Who stand waiting in line.
They watch for some illumination
Of the dark letters written on their souls
Bandits would not deride them
in such an instance.
Horses in a fever will trample words,
But words re-form; they cannot die.
You who bear the mystery,
Who cannot die,
You have palpated my heart
And signified a vast reference point,
Pleading to me with a sad song.
My turbulence is all inside me,
A stormy affair,
Always sorting and reeling back with shock
As the ivy vine climbs the ancient wall.
If you had no device,
Would you not read more books?
The man dignified in the third person
Will ask the questions here, mind you.
Return to me again loon of the wide lake,
Loon hiding in the reeds.
Show me your face before you fly,
And sound your voice in the evening.
Love broken down to the finest points,
penetrated by infinite thoughts.
In the aiming distance of cupids bow and arrow.
Ascending with love on the back of a sparrow,
holding on to my sombrero,dropped in golden yarrow.
love settles in bone marrow,
we trample on golden yarrow
lovely we dance
bolero
bolero
bolero
Morning rays
Ebbing bays
Harlunger of
A fruitful phase
Butterfly flutters
To unidate a morning chatter
Unfurls its wing
A heel of rainbow
Sits on the cup
Share the nectar sip
A touch divine
Ensures you are fine
A flutter of joy
O! that
Blush on cheeks cay
A journey of love making
Initiates convulsions rainy
Shower of Love
O! that
Lasting Pieruen spurs
Snowy touch
Blissful so much
Love eternal
After tornadoes nocturnal.
I believe that writing is like spilling blood out of the carotid
Onto a canvas of sponge
This sponge can never be satiated
It takes generations and trillions of miles of neurons
Just to make a stain
My marrow is strained in such a glorious fashion
In attempt to produce even more lovely RBC's
So that I may contribute but just a mere speck
On this ethereal construct
Today I saw a man with hollow eyes buying homes with the skulls of rats
These homes onced belonged to living souls
The money machine came rolling in with the disinterest of a cow chewing cud
Masticating the precious juice from the canvas that once served
As a font of energy, an expulsion of electrons, something sacrosanct
To those who felt alive in a world consumed by dead, ridiculous intentions
Now
All of the canvas-blood-sponges have dried out in these places, and
As a result
The universe seems to recoil back in on itself as if in fear of
The disasterous implications
The dust seems to layer the meninges ever so slightly
Until I realize the fact that by doing so, I allow the miscreants running
This synthetic freak show of media pogrom and unheralded greed,
To stand in Pyrrhic victory
Somehow this is all
Compounded with an unaccountable need to accumulate as much
Material nonsense as possible because it helps fill
The inexplicable void
I just want to keep pumping blood out onto this convoluted stage, and
Scream in the ignorant face of the man arrogantly cutting others off
During rush hour as though where he needed to get to was so much more
Important than everyone else's destination
The disconnect is here
Look into the countenances of those around you
Thankfully there are those rare souls you see periodically
With some light left behind those orbs
They haven't been made grotesque by the modern world
They have been spending time with their canvas
"For What It's Worth"
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[[ ("~") ]] LOVE> [[ ("~") ]]
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" -- Swaying
Orchids swarthy;
Hallowed Meadows --
tenderer Hollo --
Willful; Mercy --
-- "Had?"
"Such it is
we have... "" --
"one Voice
discerning" --
"Agape'
Understanding,
one; for the-Other,
Another -- matter-given;
Whatever -- ""
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ud2XKt2N8fs&feature=related
Mystic marrow tells the time but an ashtray rarely ponders. Hard to receive constant delivery of smoked ash and waste. Wish not a coat filled to the brim with gym shoes then? Well that simply will not do. One must be attired appropriately for all weathers and all seasons and a car seat is mot a gymnasium nor a sports hall so never ever think that it is for something like a sponge could find out who would then inform the tea cloth who would then inform the rising moon and tides and so on and on and on and on and on. Like a gigantism of rotating square cooking devices with little beady eyes. Sealed sealant searching sails. And an archetypical archaic ant arriving with a broom and buttoned tunic plus a feathered hat sparkling. Wow. Walk a waltz then. Good. On bridges. Rope bridges only. Z Nebuchadnezzar Z at ten baboons cooking on camping stones to nineteen pig trotters typing on a screen. Z xxxxx and always wipe bottoms of pans with a dirty sock from the washing machine.
Thus says the Lord [Eternal] God to these bones: See! I will bring spirit into you, that you may come to life. Ezekiel 37:5
When facing adversity
Struggling hard through life
We sometimes feel like
A heap of life less bones
So many responsibilities
Demands
Placed upon us
By career, Family and community way upon us
When we know
How we will
Find the energy and motivation
Eternal God promises help
As I grow in excitement
Expectation for a birth of a child
Wonder if have energy to properly
Care for the little one
Parents can likely
Identify these feelings
I pray when we feel tired
Lifeless and bodies are aching for sleep
We can call upon Eternal God’s grace
To breath potency, vigor
And spirit unto us
So we can care for the child
I have faith that Eternal God
Who can animate lifeless bones
Will do
Just that
4212014
Her eyes are shining spheres, sculpted from the marrow of forgotten stars,
Each gaze a window into a universe that pulses in silence,
Charged with the intensity of solar flares dancing on the edge of the horizon,
Yet their warmth is a well-kept mystery, a burn that leaves no trace on the sky of the world,
But just a delicate touch on my soul, an unspoken secret of a silent love.
In the depths of those eyes, untold stories from extinguished times hide,
They flutter like an inner fire that warms my dreams on cold nights,
A secret call that whispers desires that cannot be spoken in words,
And yet, in that silence, I find the echo of an understanding that transcends the light,
A profound connection, like an unseen thread binding two souls beyond time.
On the dark sky of my heart, her eyes shine like beacons of hope,
They guide my steps through the dense fog of doubt, revealing a luminous path,
And in that light, I lose myself and find myself, a traveler of an eternal dream,
For in her eyes, the universe finds its form, and I find my peace,
A dance of lights and shadows, of desires and fulfillments, in a never-ending story.
Painted Delilah's,
scarlet sirens,
apples and bloodshed-
all these,
a breathless,
quilted extinguisher
to save my soul
Temptation, danger,
damnation, anger,
a shade of shame;
a reckless taint of hell.
But I'm not a red woman,
I don't go looking for Red,
don't invite it for a sleepover
or rent it a room in my soul
but I feel red
red all over,
burning;
a rolling blaze taunting,
daring me to breathe
and when I inhale
it consumes me
and I live
in a moment of passions
and I act
with the spirit of fire
each breath I take
between this convention of maturity and that
is freedom,
the marrow of of a Lifetime,
an instant when the fire of life
finds amnesty
from the suffocating restlessness
of written and unwritten rules.
It's in these brief, red rages
that Life is created, saved, lost
but appriciated all the same
It's in these moments
that mountains are moved,
oceans crossed
limitations exceeded...
and when the moment is passed
I live on in red-blind denial
for the next whorling tempest of petals
to blossom
like nature intended.
Mystic marrow tells the time but an ashtray rarely ponders. Hard to receive constant delivery of smoked ash and waste. Wish not a coat filled to the brim with gym shoes then? Well that simply will not do. One must be attired appropriately for all weathers and all seasons and a car seat is mot a gymnasium nor a sports hall so never ever think that it is for something like a sponge could find out who would then inform the tea cloth who would then inform the rising moon and tides and so on and on and on and on and on. Like a gigantism of rotating square cooking devices with little beady eyes. Sealed sealant searching sails. And an archetypical archaic ant arriving with a broom and buttoned tunic plus a feathered hat sparkling. Wow. Walk a waltz then. Good. On bridges. Rope bridges only. Z Nebuchadnezzar Z at ten baboons cooking on camping stones to nineteen pig trotters typing on a screen. Z xxxxx and always wipe bottoms of pans with a dirty sock from the washing machine.
Toad marrow
Look about the day is near,
the evil ones will interfere,
importing labor cheap,
visa, tainted lies,
30,000 needed special guys,
she snickers in her sleep..
Toad marrow she sits upon the heap,
cheaper labor cheep cheap cheep,
greed glitters in her eyes,
all workers are despised,
the evil one's don't weep,
desperation 4 no jobs appear,
shootings in the streets, oh dear,
death coming very near,
How many dead this week?
no future for the worker, sweet,
no house or car or life complete,
the cynics have gone *****,
rich are so insincere,
Anarchy will complete,
end society hit delete...
Don Johnson
My gardening proclivity was widely recognised,
A gift to which my friends would all attest ;
A nuance of distinction in the flavour and the size
Produced a crop a cut above the rest.
A sorry saga started though when carrots disappeared
Then lettuces were strewn across the ground.
And in the barren garden which was once my pride and joy,
No sign of vegetation could be found.
So when my monster marrow met the same disastrous fate,
I hid from sight to catch the brazen thief
And peeping through the aperture within my garden shed
I viewed the scene with utter disbelief!
My neighbour's rabbit sat there somewhat swollen now in size,
Such brash temerity left me aghast!
And then I heard its owner speak these words in gleeful voice:
'The village trophy shall be mine at last!'
23/11/18
Eight Word Challenge-9 Poetry Contest : sponsored by John Hamilton
Ideas
or wordcraft
There’s times
you must choose
The style
or substance
Which one
left askew
One choice
or the other
Becomes
zero-sum
Delivering
prescience
If words
—on the run
(The New Room: March, 2023)
....seeped in my marrow and flesh
Can't help thinking about
those days
When you seeped in
my marrow
Those lovely hurts even in
my flesh:
You innocently arrived with
lovely trends
feeding me with ease and
Elating junks
But like a wind you
Blew strange
As if drunk in pride
and Guts
Breaking off the wall your
love built.
Barging into my heart
and soul
stealing away love,care
and joy
Even all that could make
me hope.
You made me seem as
A fool
You took my love as
A food
You consumed all without
my consent
And sent my soul wandering
in jungles.
My heart can no
longer contain
The lust poured furiously
into it:
By those brutal eyes
and words
That pierced my soul
like sword
And made it like an
ocean bleed
The ocean is flowing
even still
Needs the cause to
mend it
I'm torn by you:
your acts.
Yet,i'll be sown by you:
true love.
17:23:12:22:58