Best Nettled Poems
On the south-western side of the old mission school,
near the corner of First Street, where blackberries grew
a field claimed by youngsters was crosshatched with tracks.
It was riddled by gophers and, nettled with fox-tails
and the children's bare feet had constructed thin trails,
cupping deep paths that were littered with smiles,
deep in the amber of tall weeds and dry grass.
It wasn't too far from the patched wire fence
that hemmed the backyard of my Grandmother's house.
Westerly whirlwinds would rattle the ragweed,
while seeds of the bull-thorns, that prickled our toes,
would spread with the tumbleweeds, now tossed into rows
like last winter's snowmen, worn to the bone
There were traces of honeysuckle mixed with wild rose
from Grandma's old arbor, that loomed in the distance
A rusty old weather vane like a merry-go round
would spin like a top that might never stop
The ivy was overgrown, and a sleepy old hound
would snooze by the clothesline, in shade he had found
But, deep in the field, was a land of our own
A place we called 'Neverland', a loft in this poem
In the yoke of one tree, with the help of our dad
was a fort built of scrap wood, from piles by the shed.
And by hook or by crook, I would take all commands
While my brother's brewed brainstorms, and his black plastic hook,
assigned him the Captain, while I was the crew
of a ramshackle galleon, brought to life from our books
While I dangled in air, from a tired old swing
"Tinker", my name...in this masculine game..
I would push off, while he pulled me, right up to the sky
and into the branches, with leaves in my eyes......
I would fly to the depth's of a steel gray-blue sky
I would grovel, and shovel, to have his approval........
for he was much older, much wiser than me
I would play like a tomboy,.....shove doll-drums away
Such sweet summer days,......while bright splintered rays
of hot summer sun, would spotlight our play.
We would stay until twilight, to watch the sun die
Defying all gravity.......I could see to eternity
Tootsie Pops clung to the tip of our tongues
while the sun of the twilight, dipped over the dunes
and the call of our mother, slipped over the moon
____________________________________________________________
To the sound of pelting rain, she woke in early morning
Upon the tattered tin roof, it rhythmically pitter pattered
No sunlight peeked through clouds on daylight's dawning
She thought of him and of the dreams that were shattered,
of the nights she'd spend without end, remorse spawning
Windblown rain pummeled windows, on sills it splashed
Obscured was her view, vision blurred behind each pane
Howled as does a wolf, thunder growled, lightning flashed
In rivulets like rain, was weeping she struggled to restrain
Like drops of blood from a wound, her teardrops splashed
That night, in shadowed lamplight she espied on the corner,
a familiar silhouette of one whose countenance was a given
Dark eyes of a raven who had waived his right to scorn her
No vocal cawing was riven as torrents of rain were driven
He was beyond the reach of this sad beseeching mourner
Outside she ventured, into the sting of nettled showers
for just one glimpse of him, she would offer as her reason
On the street, scattered at her feet, her espousal flowers
Fallacy, was an act Charlotte Bronte' would label 'treason'
Uncloaked, soaked, she stood with her memories for hours
From grief she could not hide nor abide her mirrored face
His eyes, for once unveiled, yet not one word did he speak
A webbing of fine silk threads spun, woven in warm embrace
He had raised no hand in farewell. A tear grazed her cheek
Without solace she would linger in portals of empty space
She trembled, shivering, eyes teary, there was no mistaking
her sips from tainted cup had the caustic taste of bitter gall
The impeccant knight chose the right to claim his forsaking
Nimbus skies lay overcast without surcease of a graying pall
Fraught with aching, she sighed one word, "heartbreaking."
An old herbal gard’ner turned bard
dedicated and well-versed
now works his pen from his backyard
in plants and poems immersed.
His choice nouns engender meaning
cleverly minted with scents.
Rare verbs gingerly gleaning
from time’s savory essence.
Somewhat focused on composing
but nettled by a drizzle;
unexpected down-hosing
causes this poet to fizzle.
Lo! His inspiration now gone
like the ink upon his page.
Mrs. Bard calls from the lawn
“I just watered the sage.”
January 5, 2012
Mocking the dead,
the vampire on the hill, high
above the cityscape. Why
does his cloak wrap around?
It moves with a hissing sound,
blackened on the outside,
blue on the molten graveside.
Sharpening incisors on the crag,
but
the villagers with their worn rags
tight fisted with their goodly lights -
those lanterns, infused with salt
of garlic, compelled forward in the dead
of night. Mockers and murderers, fed
by rage, want to dispel the wine and bread.
Hell,
the strangulation of fire, lava rolling
down the hill. Mocking, laughter -
the shivering of the old church rafters.
The reborn, new creation, settled
on roof-blowing praise. Nettled,
old Nick, the vampire king unsettled.
Mocking the dead,
making his own bed, jutting at jugulars,
darkening the atmosphere, drawing
congregants, unholy. But, someone holy
has his heels on the vampire’s head.
He’s been banished…dead heads’ rolling.
The glorious light of the lamb, consoling.
To the sound of pelting rain, I woke this early morning
Upon the tattered roof, it rhythmically pitter pattered
No sunlight peeked through clouds on daylight's dawning
I saw him in a dream and those that were shattered,
and of nights I'd spent without end, remorse spawning
Windblown rain pummeled windows. On sills it splashed
Obscured was my view, vision blurred behind each pane
Howled as does a wolf, thunder growled, lightning flashed
In rivulets like rain, was the weeping I struggled to restrain
Like blood dripping from a wound, as if my heart was slashed
That night, in shadowed lamplight I'd espied on the corner,
a familiar silhouette of one whose countenance was given
Green eyes stared at me, not with looks of a foreigner
No words were spoken as riven torrents of rain were driven
He was beyond the reach of this sad beseeching mourner
I ventured outside and into the sting of nettled showers
for just one more glimpse of him ~ that was my reason
On the street, scattered at my feet were wilted flowers
Fallacy, was an act Charlotte Bronte' would label 'treason'
Uncloaked and soaked, I stood with memories for hours
From grief I could not hide nor abide my mirrored face
His eyes were unveiled, and yet not one word did he speak
There were no spun silk threads, woven in warm embrace
He had raised no hand in farewell. A tear grazed my cheek
Without solace I would linger in portals of this empty place
I trembled, shivering and teary eyed. There was no mistaking
that sips from a tainted cup had the caustic taste of bitter gall
My impeccant knight chose as his right to claim this forsaking
Nimbus skies lay overcast without surcease of a graying pall
Fraught with an echoing ache I whispered, "My heart is breaking."
“Quick smart struck onion!
You metronomous fishy tail!
You’ll not be taken in by me,
you fraudulent legume!”
I seemed to have soundly unsettled her
Set her mind cross firing, flailing
But it’s not such a thing to be nettled for
No reason for wail and paling
“Quick, smart, lush young-one!
You’re melodious, pithy, hale!
I’m already taken much with you;
please do let me resume!”
Still I unbloomered my hand and bloused it
Found her skin a singin’ an’ tinglin’
Thrilled firm and brazenly arouse-ed
Her dissent clearly dissemblin’
“Oh quick, start, rush lovin’!
My ‘band’s a louse, gritty, stale!
But he’ll not be taking long from now,
or so we should assume!”
That’s when I heard an unsettling foot step
Eared hobnail booting scooting
And so sought out the exit I 'ad free kept
Flash fear foul intention mooting
Quick; dark, hush, re-button!
Your ‘band sussed our betrayal!
I’d best be taking my leave ‘bout now,
I’ll see you in no time soon!”
I Wait With Bated Breath...
(slack jaw froze mine countenance
when eyes blinded with figurative
daggers asper mistakes in original draft,
hence...this flood proof, fire resistant,
and fever reducing error free version.)
(yes...yes...yes, this rhyme
resembles a recent one of mine
from a previous time,
yet appropriating wands zone writing
haint no crime -
at least not yet!)
Okay bull heave me you,
at this moment
alm completely unaware
what the a muse zing
genie of poetic
inspiration will bring
possibly shelving what Calliope
holds in store for me,
meanwhile now
with impatience it ching
visa vis to discover
what this Earthling,
(albeit modest) will be amazingly
graced with pizazz, meanwhile aye fling
haphazardly, indiscriminately,
and jocosely blitz
krieg feebly attempting
to contrive ingeniousness emits
poetic prestidigitation in fits
and starts, sans "FAKE" wits
as this humble
human imperceptibly orbitz
around mister Sun,
(which about bajillion years
from now suddenly quits)
shining foisting misery,
where Nyx knocks
(paddy whack give
my dog a bone...) divinely,
knowingly and spiritedly visits
(believe me you) this trumpeting
stupid moron loser
forever doth taint
after this moment
(no need tubby saint
lee and suppress any quaint
gut wrenching chortle)
at what aint
no farce), nor literary feint
yours truly painfully,
sorrowfully, and verily avers,
he now lacks fire and fury
(as if nettled and docked by burrs)
nonetheless, which ambition
dust hanker mink thinks furs,
and foremost (Tom
morrow i.e. purrs
sues tha owl mighty,
where fame posthumously spurs
me amidst pantheon
of great writers
which dream dashed
into a million,
(no...no...no...not
bajillion this instance,
though good guess) pieces
abysmal silence replacing
(palimpsest like),
mine over active imagination whirs.
Families sacrifice savings, every petty frill
Praying a lucrative grade to mill
Seeking a bartered shill
Greedy coffers to fill
Hopes and dreams to rill
Nuggets of fine gold to spill
On Porcupine creek's nettled till
Hearty crew of six sated to drill
Though sorely lacking experience. skill
Shoddy equipment of patchwork steel
Surrendering to elements with whimper, squeal
Black sand, gritty rocks pass through grill
Garnering thin wispy flakes; will not pay the bill
Note: A diatribe on the Discovery TV show Gold Rush
There is a small eternity
'Twixt my coming and my going.
Though it be filled with riddles
And words crawling in the mud,
Time is no interloper, and I freeze.
Up from the shale and storm,
Up from the majesty crawling forth to mate,
Life shouts like a thunder shock.
The earth retches,
And a form arises from the thin mud,
amphibian as a cross.
Part fish,
Part rat,
It is inscribed on the genes,
And I read it like a nettled book.
I read the record of the dead
And wonder, could this be us?
Or from a passing comet do we hail?
My soul flies over hill and dales
Where rainbows sit in fairy tales
Butterflies dance pale blue skies
A skylarks throat love it cries
In open fields the grasses sway
Time and breeze doth gently play
A deceit of Lapwings dip and dive
The glinting sun the hearts alive
Shorts and nettled legs the proof
The heady days of innocent youth
Oh how I took those days in vain
But clinging memories shall remain
With heavy heart I sit and contemplate
This monstrosity of an industrial estate
No more paper boats on babbling brook
With all the beauty that progress took
Poisoned waters and toxic land
Smites the palm of natures hand
Adapt, adjust she will surely try
Alas of me
how can
I
oh, You ...
you found me again
unveiled amid the bosom of my dreams -
my consciousness peeled back
and flayed
tabled in a twilight mist
for the memories of you to feast upon
drowning in the fathoms of your gaze
your scent ?
pouring its alert fascination
into my marrow
the tang of your pulpy tongue
the sweet confection of your skin, resplendent
(and the warm, wild places beneath it) -
vessels and walls and fair, tepid flesh
your intent within it all -
to conduct me
while allowing me the sway?
to exploit my exploitation of the moments -
letting me control your control of me
coy, seductive smile on your face
perfecting your line and movements
as a ballerina should …
it is all still there
as if the years since were phantoms
gone with a breath of irresolute regret …
and you inhabit me now as then
as EVER
preying on my sleep-time meanderings
without mercy, without bridle?
without an ounce of benevolence or pity …
oh, You -
no other vexes me
so completely
so purely
no one pervades my
nettled dreams as you do
nor will anyone -
ever …
morning always comes too soon, blushing
and much, much too bright
for the love that we both swore eternity to -
that we knew with all conviction
to be as sure as starlight
as dire as death itself
and as deep as the sea of suns
is now nothing but a
damp blemish ...
on my pillow.
More things can happen or could have happened,
From a cold metal,
Sharpened in fine fettle,
Making skin nettled,
Damaging the mettles,
To keep minds unsettled,
Provoking to ask, if this is or if this was real or mental?
Blade on arms,
Skin might be harmed;
Skin was gashed,
Blade grinding and gnashed,
Red colors coming in a flash...
Blade on gut,
Feeling a sudden jut,
Provoked as a rut,
But, this was a guff...
Blade on neck,
Thinking about a sudden sweep,
Discord trying to overcome conviction and peace,
Even though, the blade failed again,
Failing to provoke the red gushes and streams...
Blade on heart,
Might be the last battle so far,
Trying to not give in, being so hard,
Though in the past, there could have been to many cuts,
And more deadly slashes,
Creating red splashes and plashes,
As I slowly might have fought, winning or losing,
Against the sleeping and life flashing feeling,
As I bleeded out..
There is a young lady whose name is Nette
On a computer she places a bet
She opens accounts online
While drinking a glass of wine
Her passwords she forgets and gets upset.
----------------------------------------------
Inspired by Nette's password comment!
----------------------------------------------
Flee, my Heart! Leave this vessel, a husk of metal- my Spirit sick!
Now! Depart! No Conscious wrestled, decisions settled- fingers pricked!
A map to chart, my tested mettle, deeply nettled- the wounds I've licked;
A Quest to start, the finest fettle, a boat of petals- please kill me quick!
Such Agony! To be besotted, tightly knotted- paltry sums;
A Felony! Memory blotted, Veins are clotted- Soul succumbed!
Lo! Verily, the Time allotted, eyes are spotted- gently strummed;
Terribly, the Gods have plotted- like Ghosts in Psychomanteums!
A tableau of brass sits with serious intent;
A Court it is of the martial bent.
And before it I stand stiff with pride,
I did my duty with nothing to hide.
My men they were , my very kind,
Hardened soldiers, the best you can find,
More than brothers of same mothers born,
Out of war's dirty entrails were we torn.
The dust of battle was scarcely settled,
By the enemy's ambush we were sorely nettled.
Then suddenly appeared a mother and son,
In my sniper scope they appeared as one.
How unnatural was the scene to my trained eye,
One small mistake , my comrades would die.
My heart did flutter, my finger did twitch,
I spied through the scope a dead-man's switch.
The seconds ticked by, they would be within range,
My mind clicked shut, I felt something strange.
I let out two shots, the bullets went true,
We were then evac-ed, myself and my crew.
The brass at the desk in sanctimony asked,
Tell me, my worthy, with what were you tasked?
Can you justify, the death of a child
Of his mother, or did you run wild?
I was tasked to do my duty, which I did well,
I put aside my emotions, I went through my hell;
For the life of my brothers is worth more than their wage,
And war asks no creed, no gender, no age.
Men, we are, victory and survival is our goal,
You may condemn me, the Lord will commend my soul.
~13 Jun 2016~