Best Noisome Poems
MY CLOUD by JOHN G. LAWLESS
I don’t remember asking…..
yet I am still hearing a babbling brook
of mindless chatter rolling pebbles
through my ears and across my mind.
Noisome, acridly scented, sounds,
a Charlie Brown like… wah–wah-wah
droning in the background of my life.
“You can’t say that!” “It might offend
somebody – somewhere – someday.”
“How can you even think that way??!!!”
“Don’t you care how other people feel?”
“Do you have any feelings at all for them?”
“You can’t do THAT!” “WHAT WILL
PEOPLE THINK!” “ Didn’t you see that sign?”
“Why can’t you just follow instructions, do
what you’re told, believe that we are right,
that WE know what is best for you?”
“If you ate less there would be more food
to feed the hungry.”(Yeah but then I’d be hungry.)
“If you drove less there would be more fuel
for others to burn and fewer emissions.”
(How the hell does that work???)
“If you would only follow all the shoulds
and musts then you’d know the reasons
why you should entrust the future of the
planet, the diet of your kids, to those of
us entitled to pry off freedom’s lids.”
“Every voice is equal when every voice
is heard.” (That could be said of cows
and sheep and noise within the herd.)
“What is it that you want?”, they ask
in obvious disdain and shudder when
I mention my First Amendment claim.
I wish that those who speak their minds
would allow me to do the same without
their constant reprimand “that I should
be ashamed”. When I speak, and write, and
act in a manner that I choose, I shouldn’t
be belittled by the puppets of the fools.
I do not need the politics of food, sex,
and lies, nor special interest groups that
see only through “their” eyes. I cannot
be an island, so I choose to be a cloud -
sit above the melee of “their” ever
spreading shroud. Therefore, the
conversations may be ended by
a verse, a substantial update
from the “islands” brutal curse
as I, in karaoke style, sing a
sixties refrain aloud:
HEY! HEY! YOU! YOU!
GET OFFA MY CLOUD!!**
**The Rolling Stones – Get off of My Cloud(1965)
John G. Lawless
5/30/2015
I left the noisome crowd and entered Caabia.
All was as before, save my own increased awareness.
The village square
a place of near earthly sight
(the senses, don’t you see)
Was veiled in powdered light
beyond peace beyond quiet
in total contrast to time’s deception.
There was a motionless standing figure now distant
I had not noticed before
OR
The person had not BEEN before
(and before when I cannot say)
Beneath salubrious trees a row of benches
in the talcum grass
the way ‘round this motionless figure AND
a silent throng come out of their dwellings
(the house doors stood open)
a tower bell chiming
(in my mind because there was a tower seen)
a perfect pastoral village as before
only NOW this mysterious distant presence
I entered the scene and took a seat
‘neath the trees
my feet on the talcum grass
head in the powdered air
And since the central subject did not speak I asked the one next me
“Who is this presence?”
“He is the naked man.”
“What sayest this man?”
“He says nothing.”
“What does he do?”
“He does nothing.”
“Where does he go?”
“He goes nowhere He is alone in Harmonia.”
“Is he beautiful?”
“No one can tell.”
“What thinkest this man?”
“He thinks of nothing.”
“Can we approach this man?”
“WE MAY NOT!”
then here,
idle now to some
small thought
i wander though
this timeless court
and drift beyond
what i have known
and see the weight
of pastures sown
discover i must
unknowing why
who i am
beneath the sky
i close my eyes
and feel the pull
of timeless days
I know the rule.
down down
to the depth
discover i
what is left
of what began
a simple boy
innocent full
of joy
down down
does this end
as i wash
in its decent
down down
and still it goes
back to where
a spring was sown
a fear grips
the torn grey heart
as it descends
to the start
will it stop
as still i fall
clawing at this
living wall
down down
out of sight
the noisome wind
the fading light
faster still
as i fall
dropped down
inside
a pit-stone wall
and slowly now
i reach the depths
of mind and soul
of what is left
the air is damp
i breath in deep
uneven bottom
beneath my feet.
and here i am
For five long days I've been snowbound.
My home with blanket pulled around
is quiet as the distant hill
that nestles in its white surround.
My world is still.
No small birds trill to break the spell,
all vanished with the flakes that fell.
Electric voice immobilized,
marooned in solitary cell
my world's disguised.
The morning sun sending his rays
to sparkle up the frosty days
in glowing opalescence,
so bright I must avert my gaze
in awed defense.
No noisome creature to intrude
on beauty of the quietude.
No foot on yielding snow has trod,
suspended in rare interlude,
alone with God.
Written for Deborah's "Beauty" contest
The Balking Mire of Fanghandrath
‘Twas late when the misted veils
Suck and drew
‘pon the reeking fetters of claxon screams
Wailing echoed dismal to
Too late for lantern to pick a path
In the trickster passages
Of the boggish marsh
The Balking Mires of Fanghandrath
Where ‘oer the shake-ed sheaves domain
The Shadow Hunter was know to claim
The souls of less fortune given men
Or the eyes of the innocent
Aye ! They told the story well
Should the hunter of shadows
‘pon your path befall
would devour all in The Balking Mires of Fanghandrath
But needs must some they need
To prove their bravery
Of foolish men never seen again
Returning from the trickster paths of Fanghandrath
Of one such a man who’s courage by beer
Was made stalwart young and without fear
Through the haunted waste he dared to travel
When the misted veils suck and drew
Not yet half way there before the chill ate his bones
And from the rear the rushing fear
Did The Shadow Hunter draw ‘pon his heart
In noisome fog the Rake appeared
Too far to hear the sounds of screams
Too lost in the mazes of dead beaten reeds
To mouth-less to utter a prayer
And beseech the fate of balking mires
No wind it was the laugh, the laugh of Fanghandrath
The hunger of its desolate seed
To feed ‘pon the soul
Of innocent and less fortune given men
‘Twas not till dawn when he reached the rim
Ashen grey his youth had gone
And no shadow did he cast in morning sun
No shadows fall on The Balking Mires of Fanghandrath
For five long days I’ve been snowbound.
My home with blanket pulled around
Is quiet as the distant hill
That nestles in its white surround.
My world so very still.
No small birds trill to break the spell.
All vanquished with the flakes that fell.
Electric voice immobilized,
Marooned in solitary cell,
My world strangely disguised.
No noisome birdsong to intrude
On absolute of quietude.
No foot on yielding snow has trod.
Suspended in rare interlude
Alone, alone with God.
The snow remover coming through,
The telephone and power crew.
Although their efforts I applaud
I miss the peaceful time I knew
Alone, alone with God.
By: Joyce 12/30/02 We all won first in this one.
Dreadful dawn dug doggedly deep, dazed dues
Prickle-prone paths pierce peer-less purpose
Buried bricks burn beneath brine and blood
Homes and holes hitch-hike heated Hours
Sync'd steps stoop, saddling steely shores
Shadows of sagging shoulders shed shrewd strokes
Sanctioned sympathy sealed and soiled in stoic stories
Homes and Holes hauling hymen of horror hormones
Nagging newts nutured nadir of nervous noisome nuns
Jilted jones jaded in jiltery journey of jerky joules
Measled mare much-malligned by myriad of magnetic manacles
Homes and holes held hostage in hidden hydrogen hades
A squirrel died on my front lawn.
I saw it fall,
As warm and round as an overripe peach.
I heard it land, like an olive dropped on hard wood,
splayed in a spot where passers-by
looked away on purpose.
Flies congregated,
brushed their legs against each other.
I canceled a dinner party because of the smell:
a low noisome hum
thick as sulphur on the head of a match just burnt,
sour as eggs.
My stomach curled low into my hips
when I searched the air outside my window,
perversely sniffing.
Swollen flies met in congress,
they rubbed their legs together,
trying to start a fire.
We boarded the busy, bustling bus
Adults and children – it transported us
When a crotchety man I knew as a neighbor
Exhibited his usual Scrooge-like behavior
He snorted and snapped “Get out of my way”
“I’ve paid my fare on this miserable day
Oh how I wish I could commit suicide
I hate this nasty and noisome ride”
Now, also traveling to his destination
Was an old man of a very different persuasion
Who sang quite loudly, as teenagers laughed
And didn’t mind if they thought he was daft
Whether carols or pop songs, he cared not one whit
But warbled away – for the sheer joy of it
This curious cacophony caused me to chuckle
And I thought: “This is certainly quite a kerfuffle”
Some passengers stared, and some others scowled
While more of them smiled, there were some who growled
Which shall be your bearing this season
As you search for meaning, as you quest for reason?
For Elaine George's "Tell Me a Story" contest
(In a 19th-century legal judgment studied by all who
learn the English common law, Sturges v. Bridgeman,
the court found in favour of a "nice" doctor over a
"common" manufacturer, for reasons of pure snobbery.)
The Candyman Can’t
Some legal battles have the power to thrill,
while others never have, and never will.
Some touch on human themes which really matter,
and some do not. We’re dealing with the latter.
This present case is hardly OJ Simpson:
it lacks dramatic shape, and simply limps on
listlessly, with abstruse reasoning,
no sex or violence to give it seasoning.
One Mister Bridgman manufactures sweets,
in premises where Wigmore crosses/meets
its neighbour, Wimpole. Eighteen seventy-nine
of our salvation, two lives intertwine
when Doctor Sturges takes consulting rooms
around the corner. Disagreement looms,
for Bridgman’s grinding, pounding candy line’s
destroying Sturges’ peace, fragging his mind.
The law of nuisance really is quite funny.
It says, “he did you harm? Well, here’s some money”.
What if you’d rather dodge the damage, and
defer the dollars? How to countermand
the duty-breach-then-damages regime?
Suppose we interpose a better scheme?
Instead of “you must suffer, he must pay”,
we stop the harm? The problem goes away!
This ruse is known as “equity”. It functions
by granting prior relief (they’re called injunctions).
So Sturges stemmed stentorian sweetie sounds
by order of the court, and Bridgman found
his business gagged and bound by hoops of steel,
for no good reason. What to do? Appeal!
(For thus advise the lawyers. Such affairs
drag on for years. The lawyers? They get theirs!)
Said Bridgman: “I’ve been cranking out jujubes
for decades now. It’s all gone down the tubes
because some quack dislikes the earnest hum
of my devices. Why, then, did he come
to Wimpole Street? He wants tranquility?
Go hang his shingle in Highgate Cemetery!
I have a remedy for Doctor Sturges:
it’s swallowing his antimony purges!”
But Bridgman lost. One cannot help but feel
that making toffee wasn’t quite genteel
enough. Their Lordships said behaviour
that’s unacceptable around Belgravia
can find a home in Bermondsey. The latter
has lots of lowly types. It doesn’t matter
if they have noisome noise, and have to live
in filthy fumes – for they’re not sensitive.
What is this coming like the flood of Noah?
A strange wind blowing from the East with all fury
Before it goes fear and panicking,
And behind it comes crying and weeping.
This is definitely beyond science and money,
“Lockdown, enter my ark” Jesus keeps warning
What a noisome pandemic is this?
The strongest of men go hiding.
The high and mighty suddenly become helpless in the face of COVID-19.
Hopelessness has led to suicide of many,
But His Spirit keeps speaking to my heart
“Lockdown but not closed heaven”
Where are your idols and star gazers?
Your soothsayers are again in darkness and confusion.
They can’t keep wondering why?
They have failed again like magicians in Pharaoh’s court.
But the One who lives in heaven and rules in the affairs of men says,
“Lockdown until my mission is accomplished”
“I fear these furtive brumous depths,” the aged sailor growled,
“‘Cause nestled ‘neath these noisome reefs creep creatures cursed and cowled.
They flounder thus and, seeped in brine, patrol the waxen sea,
And when it drains in years to come, will slue ‘cross land for me.”
My eyes fixed fast on this cowed man, an enervated soul,
And felt his dread leap to my chest as I commenced his role.
So tempest-filled my world became as hunters strode the sea,
Yet all my thoughts returned to shore, held by this phantom, he.
The poisoned tales he wove like waves, eructed into air,
Trailed terror down in floods of fright to moor me in its snare.
And so I left these merchant minds to profit from the deep,
And knowing that their die was cast, abandoned death for sleep.
Though the tide blows rough and tough,
And the tempest rages long and strong,
I’ll keep sailing on and on.
The sea might be slide and wide,
And could be noisome and troublesome,
I’ll keep sailing on and on.
Even when my strength is small and fall,
There’s no going back or slack,
I’ll keep sailing on and on.
Till I see the light right and bright,
And get the primed prize and rise,
I’ll keep sailing on and on.
In the mazy thicket of thoughts I search
With the fork of foresight on cloudy march
I pick meaningless pebbles from eerie plane
Meaning hisses at the futile chase of fussy lane
All doorsteps lintel-ling and leading to the most sought clue
none is rock and rilled across anthers of the age-long hue
Yet, life minstrels museless must trudge through the parks
Crowded by thorough thronging noisome marks
I must search for missing meaning along this boulevard
Of naked plumes wishing, waiting for the rush-roller yard.
ii
In the mazy marble of thoughts we search
With the fork of foresight on clueless march
We pick meaningless pebbles from eerie plane
Meaning hisses at the futile chase of limpid lane
All doorsteps lintel-ling and leading to the most sought clue
None is rock and riled through thronging of the age-long hue
Yet, life minstrels museless must trudge through the parks
Crowded by thorough darting noisome marks
We must search for missing meaning along this boulevard
Of naked plumes wishing, waiting for the rush-hour yard
Waiting all along
Tilling for a songless song
Tender hearts are set on success,
Their future paved with progress.
The jolly march, the zest of life—
To the beat of drum and fife.
Beasts from Sambisa darkness
Couch in supernal stillness.
Unknown, snatchers are mooring,
Hiding in the quiet morning.
Soon they burst in moony gory,
Garbed as in fantasy story.
The hooded beasts tower;
The hapless virgins cower.
Bulging eyes, quivering lips,
Throbbing hearts that fear rips;
With the visit of havoc,
The future's chilled in Chibok.
A cracking shot, a soft fall,
Sudden gasp, noisome bawl;
All's quiet, now and future:
Chibok, her life can't suture.
What a black morning sunset
For kids whose future's preset
With hopes and rosy bloom,
Assured of better boom!
All's gone to Sambisa wild,
To beasts that strut, humans styled.
They careless for our future,
Our mums who are our nurture.
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