Best Pock Poems
fo'c·'sle /'fohksel/ noun deriv: forecastle
1. the forward part of a ship below the deck, traditionally used as the crew's living quarters.
2. historical: a raised deck at the front of a ship.
With the equinox illuminating a fortnight of recovery
On pelts spread like Ionian jars left askew,
My flame-keep sparked alight against the doldrums of
Greed. Stagnant and fetid.
My bark beats out a call stretched
Skin-tight over the sea’s virgin core
And sets trust aflame.
Ashes collected into the collated casks and
Corked with animus, Moon Girl pounded on.
Drumming a dirge on the tanner's own flesh.
Pounding the seed of echoing hope.
Pounding the corpus beat of life anew.
Those echoed my own harmony and emptied my ears.
My tunes would now be true and crisp.
My struggle to syncopate the middle eight
Was like on the saltchuck the time before.
Before we crossed the bar,
Breakers chasing, pounding aft of stern.
Now in the glow of the coal oil lamp
Sat The Dane who came to trade.
He mumbled a Chinookian curse and winced.
He sensed my mariner's cred, how I lit my smoke;
Muscle memory and addiction married in my subconscious.
But His eyes would never sense the venomous flow
Of the seabreak distant,
Like hounds baying to the highway of stars
And up to the dunes ran with phosphorescent faces
Fermenting the blackness.
Hell-hounds bounding.
Lungs pounding.
Driving on.
River may lick Disappointment’s shanks
But Drake’s gold remains unfound.
The cavities carved along the capes
Echo an emptied ethos and sapped spirit
Which salal and sage cannot clense.
Walk with me now Sister Ilchee.
Beat your dirge
Along the pock-marked ports of plunder
Laid before the flattened corpse of
Ebbing freedom found.
The old upright piano sits flush against the wall,
has been hushed into silence, out on the sun porch
Ignored, neglected, but standing erect
I can imagine it was treasured in its prime,..polished, stylish, and new
But age has turned the varnish yellow
The veneer a bit buckled, the bench has been repaired
with clamps, screws, and Elmer’s wood glue
A relic from another time.
Songbooks are still cradled, but pedals are disabled.
We can almost hear its breath exhale, with tinny-rhythmic sighs
Two white keys might stick,...and three or four are chipped...
And tears, chopsticks, hearts and souls were spilled on ivory seas
If only clocks could turn back time
Mother sitting next to me, side by side, ... our worlds aligned
Keeping the rhythm, over and over, measure by measure,
... playing together the “The Blue Danube”.
___
With her hands over mine, pointing out the key of C
And what I can still see,...so clear in my mind..,
are the blue veins of her hands enveloping mine,
leaning into the waltz, a bit off key
(It needed tuning…It always did. Never mattered. Never will)
I was small. My fingers couldn’t reach them all,
those pock-marked, scarred, and magic keys
But the measure of Johann Strauss would bounce off the walls…
She would hum into my ear…
Her soft brown hair would mix with mine
I could smell Breck shampoo, and feel her breath upon my cheek
And feel the music, soft and sweet, classic light…from that old Upright...
A simple tune…the waltz of time
that has played on and on... long beyond her life
and will play on long beyond my own
__________________________________________________________
Unblouse your breast
Where to nuzzle and warm
Areola to moisten and mouth
Urgency need, I scarce was born
Unclothe me in all unrighteousness
Sing for me no lullabye
Fetus reflection in alabaster eyes
Yours will forgive me, so softly they plead
The call in my eyes , so loving beguiled
Answers my whisper
Inaudibly you whimper
Reaching for the hearth of your home
Furthermost far, the call of the grave
But if I should die, please bury me here
We slipped passed the guards, their caution neglect
Our passion en-garde, the phallus erect
Discover a pebble in fissurely crag
Rolling in wonders and nacred in pearl
Both of us crying exhortations of love
Loving ungainly like giraffe on the run
Speaking in gibberish, talking in tongues
Becoming immortal banging the drum
Surpassing the portal the bloodhounds unleash
I Mount Vesuvius, youre so within reach
Im falling for you in tubular bells
Demolition crawls
Pots and pans all over the place
Flaming torpedos pock-mark the Earth
Harpooning the squid in ink fibrillation
Ecclectic joy in sense celebration
Two souls arriving from deep within
In baptismal breath I was born once again
Mute
but immutable.
Unmoving, unmoveable;
timeless, yet tireless.
Solitary stalwart sentinel
surveils undulating horizon.
Aberrant, achromatic clouds
pock-mark the skies, as distant
rumblings herald his adversary's
latest gambit in their age-old conflict.
The wrath of a thousand crashing,
clashing, thrashing fists batter
against the beleaguered sentry.
Ceaselessly, remorselessly,
the maelstrom assails him.
But the foundations are firm and
noble gatekeeper stands steadfast.
Single-minded of purpose, placid
custodian morphs into combatant as
his luminous, voluminous blade carves
luminescent arcs through chthonic cloak.
Tenebrous tendrils wither and dissipate,
impotent under intense lambent onslaught.
His victory is only fleeting, as vanquished
foes are summarily supplanted by more of
their ilk in a seemingly continual surge.
Again and again, over and over, tormentor
presses the attack, exploiting any weakness.
Over and over, again and again, valiant warden
repels the barrage and despatches his enemies.
And so the pattern repeats endlessly, unabated,
as these eternal opponents jostle for position
in a perpetual cycle of aggression and defence.
Until eventually, finally, ultimately, the stale-mate
is broken; when Tempest's tantrum is tamed and
Blizzard's battalions have been banished, all is calm.
Tranquillity is able to reassert herself and order has
finally been restored; at least for the foreseeable future.
Obligations fulfilled, the triumphant Guardian can now rest.
Until the need arises again, until he's called upon once more,
he will wait patiently, watch diligently, in unflagging vigilance.
Forever resolute, a beacon of sanctuary, a symbol of hope, his is a
thankless task, but the Protector of Mariners will always be needed.
-----------------------------------
(C) John C Michaels, 27 July 2017
For Eve Roper's "Lighthouse" Contest.
(1st Place)
Drifting beyond the lightest cloud.
Pastel clowns in postmortem rain parade.
Cascading in the cold moon dust
to shed this latest mascaraed.
Wounded memories hang loosely from the mind.
Autumn berries quivering three quarters past their prime.
When did "mediocre" pock the virgin tree?
When untruth told us, painting by numbers...
was our first gilded masterpiece?
Then entered our very first critique.
When honesty stated our works weren't their cup of tea.
Like evening frost clinging upon a tender leaf.
A devastating reality.
They should have stated the slate-cold truth.
As soon as we could understand
that our masterpieces really weren't worth a damn.
He speaks with charisma and style
He portrays a commendable role
His words seek to charm and beguile
But who should we really control?
His words lift the beat of our hearts
We listen with passions on fire,
He taps into that very part
That leads us to bow and admire.
But his make up comes off in the night
In back rooms devoted to schemes
That seek to convince us he’s right.
For the next day he rises and gleams.
The façade is but glad wrap of fame
It clings to a surface of shame,
It masks every pock mark and crack
It is hard to see past the tack.
We see through the eyes in our skull.
Not through the eyes deep within.
By the time the façade starts to dull
We are lost; for deceit is what wins.
The candidate primps in his cloak;
He is hoist with a self made petard
Mark well how he carries the yoke.
It is us who will find the way hard.
Pock marked
Bert was cooking in a bucket,
Knew his hide at any rate
Pock marks on his thighs an biceps,
Shot that day by a sniper, mate,
Sniper chopped by Aussie Bren gun,
Fell from palm in many pieces,
Driven back by charging soldiers,
Jonno’s mates were ‘ridge e didge’,
Next day they drove off the Japanese,
Checked the cooking pots for tucker,
Fermenting rice, not much chop,
Starving Jap’s, not any luckier,
Two armies starved, no tucker,
in these green mountains, grim,
slaughter at point blank range,
shoot first boy, or get done in,
Evidence at the war crime hearing,
Jonno and the Doctor gave,
Several cases were reported,
Of Kokoda’s missing brave’s.
Don Johnson…true story…16-aug-11
This Aussie war in New Guinea, was concurrent
with Gaudacanal's desperate U.S.fight with around 20,000 Japanese
...We only had 13,000 armed Japanese bent on coming over Kokoda
mountains, and then on to Australia, they had the Japanese
10 shilling note occupation money in their pockets. The Japanese
say they were ordered back over the mountains to Gona and Buna,
it saves face hey. The reality was they were dying slowly from starvation,
malaria 2 types, plus Dengue fever was killing many,
and the 2500 fresh Aussie blooded veterans drove them back
from Irobiawa mountain top with fixed bayonets.
After a day or so of our 25 pounders blasting them. Time to leave.
The crimson moon bawls on his flight
Doleful to be condemned to night
His samba partner teems with life
Yet he hangs listless filled with strife
Whilst craters pock his dusty face
Her smooth profile glows soft with grace
Waves splash coyly along her skin
As parching drought afflicts the twin
Halo membranes caress her soul
While he claims little to extol
He’s locked away from that embrace
Like a buckle upon her waist
Sequestered on his lofty perch
He ponders how to end his lurch
He tries to shake his mantle free
So he can float with meek debris
Just as he starts to drift away
He hears whispers begin to play
Prayers hailing romance twist his ear
Until he melts away from fear
Maybe those folks below can see
Just how lonely the moon can be
Words purify to help him heal
His love for her shall make him real
A VISIT TO THE DOCTOR
I had a bad cold,
And my throat was sore,
My husband told,
Me to go to the Doctor,
Before I got flu!
I made an appointment and was due,
To be seen at two o’clock.
I sat down next to a young man,
Who had the pock,
He was coughing and
Spluttering all over me,
Can’t you see,
Don’t you care,
Are you not aware,
That you’re spreading your germs,
All around this place,
He got up with a red face,
And sat on a chair at the back
Which fell as he sat for he was big,
And the chair had a crack!
As soon as he left, sat a lady,
She told me she had shingles,
Just to look at her gave me tingles.
I got up very concerned and ready
To take my next seat
I chose one whose occupant I didn’t suspect,
For physically I couldn’t detect,
Anything visible, she told me
She had swine flu,
And my flu vaccine was overdue!
I shot up and was ready to leave,
But the next patient was a toddler
Who seemed very shy, and I
Did not register,
That he seemed to have lumps
His Mom told me
Her youngster had mumps,
After he had sat on my knee,
And had a chew on my car-key!
I phoned my husband and told him,
That I had been in touch with a toddler,
With mumps,
I could immediately hear he fell down
In the dumps
For he had never had mumps,
And disliked the thought of getting
These lumps,
And of course any repercussion thereafter,
Would certainly not be a matter,
For laughter!
As I was about to leave,
A little girl arrived with measles,
Who repeatedly said
Mom I don’t like needles!
This was too much I was going home,
I opened my bag, and put back my phone.
We both thought it was certainly safer,
To go home and take a Corenza!
So if you get sick,
Try and get better on your own,
Or try to speak to your
Doctor on the phone,
For whatever it was I had,
If I’d stayed at the Doctor's rooms
I’d be sicker, sad
And feeling bad!
The Empty Bench
Sayings for a friends – Kimberly - photo cards.
(1) A lone sentry watches in silence, the silence.
Waiting to comfort, for company, for companionship,
for conversation, for the silence to be permeated
by some life, any life, as life eventually does, and often.
(2) Alone sentinel stands, watching - waiting in silence
to be of comfort for the weary – to be companion for the lonely,
to be the ear for conversation – to be the voice that permeates
the silences in ones life that surly come to one and all.
(3) A bench sitting in Mother Nature’s quiet hours,
enjoying the silence, those peaceful moments
that surrounds the essence of an entity
and that come out from deep within.
To fill the empty space Linda,
a bonus for your pleasure – if it be ?
A barren, silver orb floating on high – a rocky place
drifting around, along in the cold recesses of space.
Upon its tattered surface, a pock- marked face
taken on its round and round – endless race.
To what ?, to where ?, and what the hell for ?
Life’s destructive debris striking it more and more.
Leaving craters, large, small, hollow and deep
as they press ever onward, into the heart -
of the matter - killing any possible start
for new life, the soul, spirit, heart – away will seep
into that black hole abyss – life’s fires never to keep
alight – no more reasons to keep up the fight.
Left with nothing more - only a desire to take flight.
Written words are the only emotions.
Life no longer in fluid motions,
with meaning for one or for all
as life takes that spiral fall.
B. J. “A” 2
August 9th 2004
for my beautiful Mary Kate
Bubble and double, trouble and toil;
Smell the kettle as it starts to boil.
Rack-ety frack-ety, goopity-goop;
The witch stirs in liver, a toad, and some poop!
Rock-ety pock-ety, zim zam zoom zot;
Eyeballs, spaghetti go into the pot.
Tweed-lee dum-did-dee bake me a cake;
In goes a waffle, a yoyo, a snake.
The brew's almost ready and soon we will see
What the final ingredient is going to be.
Abracadabra and bib-bi-di-boo,
The final ingredient is (he-he-he) YOU!
This is like, a contemporary, rhyming-take on a sonnet. Nothing serious. Just havin fun. Enjoy, ladies and gentlemen!
“Lady Justice”
Shadow on pavement's not sparkling white
The chill, dark space consumes the light
The Lady in robes takes truth to weigh:
the blind, the sad, the sick, the great
Palms decay, they sweat, unsure,
shaping shells to pock the world
With chaos, war, compassion dies
as twisted lips are spilling lies
Power turns inverted, deaf
The rebel's voice, defeated, left
Peace decreed for mass-deception
as the Powers That Be breed misconceptions
for justice is nothing but interpretation
Along the lost lanes of my life
Where pain and hope Blemish and blend
The child I was, and I, Traverse
An Enterprise of pock-marked maps
Whose stone doors Dampen splintered eyes
Flicked by fortune's Pernicious tongue
And with the forged Visage of thunder's sword
Her Sentry slays monsters of gray
Freeing Astral blooms to spark and blaze
Across the brief November sky.
11/07/20
8 Word Challenge 11 contest
Sponsor: John Hamilton
A white blanket of
fluffy snow covers
all the land; it glitters
as we pass.
As we walk on it crunches
beneath our feet, like sweet
sherbet in our mouth.
Icicles as long as spears
glimmer in the winter sun.
Every window is covered in
snow and mist, creating a
sense of cold.
Every garden is the same:
white and filled with snowmen
created by the humour of children.
As the weeks pass, the sweet
blanket of snow begins to melt
creating pock-marked surroundings.
Many gardens appear barren without
the once luscious bloom of colour,
still winter begins to pass and
nature awakens; snow-drops
appear in every garden, like
a message of welcome.
Slowly the gardens begin to
bloom of colour and the
snow-drop disappears
once more.
Wearing your red pock-a-dot dress
Miss Ladybug, you look divine,
it is beautiful today, the sun is out.
Go now, Miss Ladybug,
flutter your wings,
buzz away from me.
Go now, fly Miss Ladybug.
Point me in the direction of love,
see you flying North.
May I say, Miss Ladybug,
that you look divine,
and beautiful as ever.
I walk North,
I follow you Miss Ladybug,
point me to her.
You flutter over to a beautiul girl,
five foot, seven.
Nice pick Miss Ladybug.
I walk over to the girl,
She is beautiful,
long hair, jet black, flowing.
Miss Ladybug thank you,
now fly away,
I shall need you for another day.
Take me away now, baby
show me something new,
take me away from the few.
And Miss Ladybug,
there she went off into the sunset,
with her red pock-a-dot dress
flowing in the breeze, alone.