Best Pared Poems
It was the bronzed bell of a tinseled Ocean ship.
Until Destiny was scuttled by a fiery water witch.
In time, it became the haunting clang upon a reef.
A macabre knick-knack for cliques that ruled the deep.
They returned like blue birds, lonely for a blossoming.
To pay homage to every sailor overtaken by the sea.
They lay bouquets over shadowed grief...
as ghosts pared sweet memories into paper effigies.
Between shuffles of worn decks and ninety-proof lips.
They spin tales of crimson seas and horrible dorsal fins...
Torn hearts and sails, forever on a starboard list.
Drifting between a blue refrain and the salty mist.
In the graying vein of time, everything's forgotten.
The sweet angelic, the mundane, the eternally rotten.
Gravestones hoard salt within their granite cracks.
Tokens to a time when auroras bled into blackness.
One by one the crew will drift from this pearled realm.
Riding Tradewinds into the gilded scented heavens...
or become driftwood in the brackish heart of hell...
as the captain sways to the clang of his beloved water bell.
Sir Homophone came to meet the maid that somehow stayed so slim.
Her feat was to stay chaste to him and yet by his feet be chased by him.
She had recently lost some weight by refusing to partake in evening sup.
It seemed the more that she pared down the more likely to be paired up.
All night the weak maid prayed so meekly for the Knight that she sees.
But the Knight preyed to be made thrice weekly and she at night to seize.
She hoped he would meet and see her and then choose to wed,
But it was the supper meat that saw the sear that he chews instead.
She sewed her dress then pared the wood and the holy altar made,
He sowed distress when he prepared his wood to wholly alter the maid.
“Maid please tend to me now you’ve said you weekly have sordid sex.”
“Knight please you misunderstand I said I weakly have sorted sox.”
She begged, “Please be discreet with what it is that we’ve discussed.”
He shrugged, “You are awfully discrete in what it is that you disgust.”
But love conspired to steal, his heart soared and they were off to wed,
Then lust transpired to steel his hard sword and they were off to bed.
He was happy because of her sighs and she was happy because of his.
This concludes my good Knight tale and all of this good night tail biz.
You read it didn’t you? Shame on you, I had to read it because I wrote it
but you had a choice. Benny Hill would be so proud.
The stars are black tonight
They understand this indigo grief
to honor you, they dip their crowns
into the inkwell of infinity.
The stars are black tonight
mood pared by garish green
even the sun tastes of old dried blood
a heart wedged between tide and reef
the stars are black tonight, my love.
Will I ever embrace the grace of truer days,
when you coddled a nearly dead beloved pet
gave your time and lunch to that raggedy gent...
The thickest of your defenses stripped of all veneer...
The stars are black tonight, my dear.
This night lies, queerly tilted in the mind.
I've dreamt of you in thorny places
that I'd never care to seek nor find.
I'd much rather go completely blind; the stars are black tonight, my shine.
I imagine your skin kissing the cold earth.
Rain waters tickling that red kelp hair
swaying to the drumbeats' blight.
Of the final rest, there's no respite
The stars are black tonight.
At first, the rope was thick as a trunk~
I could balance on it sleeping.
Then years pared it down to a clothesline,
then a thread, trembling with my breath.
Grocery bags became sandbags.
Stairs grew teeth.
My shadow pooled at my feet
like a dropped coat.
One morning, I unstitched the hem
of my own skin.
Thread by thread,
I learned the grammar of hunger~
not the sharp want of before,
but the slow, voweled enough.
Now the rope’s a filament,
a hair of light.
I tread softly.
Anyone who has lived through them as I have,
Knows the Forties were the most memorial of all
Of the decades of the Twentieth Century
And surely the most vivid in recall.
Personally, they were the greatest of my life.
I was married in the year of Forty-One.
Then in March of Nineteen-Forty Three,
We were blessed with the birth of a new son.
Two daughters followed him in their own time,
One born in Forty-Five, and one in Forty-Six.
But intruding on the joys of my own life,
Was the world which was in a terrible fix.
Millions of Jews and others were slaughtered,
Although at the time we were mostly unaware.
In December we entered World War II
To fight Hitler and Hirohito, an evil pair.
Our young men went to war, the rest of us
Pared down our lives to help to win the war.
The barest necessities were all we had,
And we were proud to be giving more and more.
The Forties saw the first atom bomb dropped
On Japan by our own beloved country.
I would have begged Harry not to drop it had I known
But of course no one saw reason to ask me.
Despite the war there were many new inventions,
And we slowly climbed out of the depression.
We constructed bomb shelters in our back yards.
The horrors of war had left a bad impression.
There were block buster movies in those years
And television was just in its beginnings.
Rebecca, How Green Was My Valley, Mrs. Miniver
And All The King's Men, had coveted Oscar winnings.
Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole were famous.
Peggy Lee and Dinah Shore were heard.
These singers were featured and unlike today,
When they sang you could hear every word.
This is a small taste of the Forties,
I hope that I have made you understand
That everything was bigger during this decade,
War, rugged times, and big bang and big band.
Written 3/2/15
A is for ants, they love a picnic too!
B is for birds, you may have to shoo
C is for cake, maybe tangy lemon or spice
D is for drink, cool, preferably, lemon on ice
E is for Easter, the best time for a spring picnic
F is for flies, uninvited, they come and make you feel icky
G is for garden, an ideal place to sit and eat
H is for happy children, munching on treats
I is for icing, the frosty lemon topping
J is for jazz, this music can be mellow or get you hopping
K is for kite, huge, colorful and climbing high
L is for loud laughter, that travels sailing by
M is for memories, make them joyful together
N is for no, a word you shouldn’t say to Mother
O is for orange, gives a refreshing aroma when pared
P is for pies, very easy to make and share
Q is for quilts, handmade, in many long hours
R is for rings, like crispy sweet onions dipped in flour
S is for Sunday a good "picnicking" day
T is for tart, rasberry and coconut on display
U is for under, below a big tree, a cool spot for shade
V is for vitality, borrowed from sunshine at any age
W is for walking, a good thing to do after a meal
X is for xylophone, an instrument little brother plays with zeal
Y is for yellow jackets chasing the smell of sweetness in air
Z is for a Zebra picnic blanket of black/white stripes, colors always in pairs
~*~
I have always enjoyed picnics in spring with vibrant green grass and all things new. I have a daughter, sweet as can be. Picnics can be fun, so if you have little ones, they grow up so fast this may be one of those times to make good memories.
There are three of them, Cinderella siblings:
shapely, deciduous, their leafy green
darkness undulating in the specter wind,
its silent snare drum emulating heartbeats
in syncopated symmetry. "Take us, Take us,
Don't stop!" say the sisters, moving as deliriously
as a woman beneath her lover, while their stripped-
down stepsister, one on one, spells out stillness
in inelastic nudity. Wind shears through her,
unconstricted by skeletal shapeliness.
Nothing to arrange here by the coiffeur wind
in the pared-down beauty of brittle lace-
work, if lacework be brittle.
One nest rests halfway up on a slender limb,
a single stem supports its phantom occupants,
imagined, their ravenous snapper beaks --
landlocked shark-lings, all minuscule jaws,
learning to prey under their mother's bellies --
inhabiting a denuded nest, awaiting a spring
of speckled eggs, cracking the silent thunder
of shells, to free those of gaping mouths, who
know nothing of being born, just that they
hunger and someone comes they do not name
as mother: She of the dependable providence.
For now, there are no newborns, only
a feather; feather, feather, whether or not,
provenance unknown, caught in a branch
far from origin like us, trapped in our casings
of skin: softness pinioned in lacework of limb;
ragged, if lacework be ragged. Here,
where the sisters have been to the Salon,
come back as frowsy as ever, but groomed
somewhat, from a blow dry and a cut.
Pablo’s Plight
Blinding color, third eye closed
Squared off chin and angled nose
Arms in the back, feet from head
An odd sight it must be said
Eyes are pared but rarely paired
Ears an afterthought uncared
Daring use of brush and paint
Never quite described as quaint
One boob here and two boobs there
Disjointed limbs evry’ where
Jumbled mess by child’s hand
Or mastered work, each stroke planned?
It all comes down to point of view
What you see is up to you
8th May, 2017
empty void blossoms
pared from societal core
suicidal thoughts
No, you’re brain does not have a viral inflection
but in this deception, it is a case of inflexion con
Two stand co-erected but you mind must be corrected
I am writing a stationary bike a unique cycle
It’s not like wash, rinse and repeat is a unicycle
for it is the same old hearing paired, with punctuation
For it is, in the herd of pun cunctation
Fortissimo heard a thin pared whiff, of the wrong flour,
This is not rotor psychobabble
Thesis knot motorcycle baffle
Have you ever, sung the wrong toon
It’s an excuse me while I kiss this guy
and Lady Mondegreen has the right flower,
while bacon something eight, in Tucson Arizona
Wiles bake on sum thing ate, in two suns aroma
when parodies become wind pear of d’s
and the whole case is full of misunderstandings
The women of Georgia are like a peach
Beautiful in all ways~ emotional,
mental, spiritual, and each will teach
skills to young women~devotionals
Peaches are versatile, fresh fruit to eat
Chopped added to milk and cream for ice cream
Pared, sliced, cooked in cobblers and pies~ a treat
Made into jam for biscuits; toast, a dream
Women of Georgia pass along their gifts
Whether homemaking or politics teach
Each one has something to share that will lift
our daughters to levels higher to reach
Women of Georgia dig deep in your well
Lift our daughters to ride the highest swell
Written: August 26, 2016
In my memory you stand proud and tall
There you beckon, and I answer your call
In the past, in times gone by
You were all I needed to launch and fly
Your hand reaches out to grasp and hold
My fears are gone, I'm left but bold
Your eyes shine bright, cheeks blush fire
The time is mine to climb ever higher
I wrap my arms about you tight
And pretend you're mine, to hold tonight
Your caresses are soft, gentle tinder
To ignite the flame which now I hinder
But now I wake from a dream I savor
To find it fading, gone-but for a waver
We are gone, no more to be us
It all has faded away to dust
The cracks are evident in the crust
Yet this memory is crackling, is rust
As days flow past, I move a bit further
I make new memories that will yours murder
You are gone to never return
I remain here yet, become taciturn
She is not you, she will be better
Yet still you hold me in memorial tether
Release me Pechenya* this day this hour
From years gone by, our withered flower
They blossomed and flared, sparked so bright
It's all gone now to deepening night
I cannot remain and be beholden
To a past gone by, a dream long broken
What I wanted, I thought I needed
Are here present now and cry to be heeded
Your graceful fingers in life as in past
Hold me prisoner, an iron heart cast
Her eyes are warm, beg me consider
A here and now of future unfettered
Tonight I bend my head and bow
To your lost love, your long gone power
Yet tomorrow she'll be there, to hope to care
Tomorrow she'll bear, what you wouldn't dare
She's here to tare*, what you told me to fare
I'm here now at last, sin thought, sin cere*
Your hold so rare must be now pared*
Goodbye and be banished....
To your lair.
* Pechenya - Russian, translated here as a pet name, "cookie"
*Tare - "the weight of a vehicle without cargo, passengers, etc"
*sin cere - Latin, pronounced "sin-sair" - meaning "without cheat, falsehood, lies,"
meaning complete honesty
*pared - "to remove by or as if by cutting, clipping, or shaving"
In an Inn, Pierre pared a pear which came in a pair
But his butt is wack’s coz he whacks the wax one first
That he won, son of a gun, under the fare sun at the fair.
Yet he needed Ann the witch, who kneaded and was well versed,
With sects of belles and beaus who have sex, wearing bells
And bows. Back in the Inn, the merry witch Mary,
Planned to marry off two halves of an ogre, using spells;
She chanted hoo and oohs, too, until the ooze from a fairy
Brewed a brood of eight, plus the maid, that Ann the witch ate.
Who could have guessed that her twice four guests
Who lived on a ferry and made wax fruits and fake cakes;
Yet for odd reasons, buried berries with awls, fore all evil quests.
For Homo's Only Contest
El sueño se me hizo pesado
y, de pronto, me llegaron olores
a pasadizos secretos,
herrumbrosos y abandonados.
Abrí los ojos
y tropecé con el vacío.
“¿Cuál es el tiempo?”
Las metálicas y enormes
manecillas en la vetusta pared
de la cuarteada iglesia,
fundada en la pálida plaza,
indicaron las tres.
“¡Las tres!”
Era la hora en que el amo del mal,
gobernando perversas legiones
sulfúricas sobre caballos
alazanes y mortìferos,
rondaba con odio y artimañas
la parte negra de la tierra.
En el frio que pasaba,
en los quejidos profundos,
en el ardor de una terrible mirada,
en el chirriar de puertas cansadas
y en el tambalear de
putrefactos ataúdes,
yo, inclinado en el espanto,
sentí el desasosiego
y la insalvable amenaza.
In an old briefcase
capsuled for years in a corner
of the shed, I found a rolled up wad
of poems, stalled, still looking
for something to say, frozen
in a futile gasp for air.
I should have thrown
them away.
There was also an old plane ticket,
a beer coaster from an Antwerp cafe,
and a few photographs taken
from a bridge across a canal
in Bruges with three nuns wearing
starched white cornettes
stretched out like enormous
butterfly wings perched atop
of their heads.
And tucked in a side pocket,
were letters from my mother
written more than thirty years ago.
Long dead, I could almost hear
her voice read each word.
In one, she told me how
she scored an A for English
in the HSC exam she sat
when well into her sixties.
She could recite Frost's "Birches"
off the top of her head. Stevens,
for her, made no sense. Mum liked
plain language pared down
to bone.
I am not sure why I am writing
these words about such
middling matters, much less trying
to shape them into poetry.
No matter.
Sometimes just ordinary things,
like those found in an old briefcase,
seem to find a moment
to have something to say,
at least for me.