Best Pocks Poems
Once upon a Pike’s Peak dreary,
This witch said her name was Carrie,
Fog so thick couldn’t see nary,
Though her screech was a bit scary!
Suddenly the thick fog lifted,
What I saw was nary gifted,
She stared as on broom she shifted,
Astrid the broom her dress drifted.
I saw her multi colored socks,
Her face was marked with multi pocks,
Ugly wench, as small pile of rocks,
She said, “Aren’t I a beauty’s fox?”
I said, “You are beauty’s least!
On your face, maggots have feasts!
You resemble something deceased!
Beauty’s returned as the beast.”
“Your beauty has been impeached,
Your ugly face has been leeched,
Dried up prune not lovely peach,
Leave me now of thee I beseech.”
Now visit to Pike’s Peak is bleary,
Because of Carrie I’m leery,
Resemblance to exes is eerie,
Place doesn’t fit my game theory!
vietnam reflections 1
i think that ihave madness
it shines through
most of what i see
and much of what i do.
lunacy pocks my being
some of what i am seeing
does not exist at all
maybe this is sanity
that goes before my fall.
(Pen in hand, the work will follow --
writers’ nature deplores a hollow)
I’ve seen the moon
in many phases
a wonder to behold
with telescope
sought clearer to define
only so much revealed
by the human eye unaided
the blinkered heart
having even less options --
senses themselves
Creation’s greatest mystery
what determines a life
the mortal language of feelings
very private till on vivid display
the craters of the moon so much like
love, even in light a pocks of shadows
at its elusive edges – strange what
we gaze upon in our abstract nights
wondering if you occasionally recall me
if you yet have visions of me and notion
to wonder what may have been missed
in transience?
~On Pike’s Peak in moonlight as fog lifted,
the maiden of gloom appeared on her broom,
this witch I saw her as her dress drifted,
with multi colored socks and face filled pocks.
~The maiden of gloom appeared on her broom,
she did screech, “Aren’t I a great beauty’s peach?”
With multi colored socks, and face filled pocks,
I impeached gruesome, eerie, ugly, wench .
~She did screech, “Aren’t I a great beauty’s peach?”
I said, “Return to east, you gruesome beast!"
I impeached gruesome, eerie, ugly, wench,
as she wickedly danced the moonlit glen.
~I said, “Return to east, you gruesome beast!”
She hissed and she retorted , “I’m a beauty!”
As she wickedly dance the moonlit glen,
she hissed, she squawked, in the moonlight she mocked.
~She hissed and she retorted, "I'm a beauty!"
This witch I saw her, as her dress drifted,
she hissed, she squawked, in the moonlight she mocked,
on Pike's Peak, in moonlight, as fog lifted.
For and in Honor of Paula Swanson
And Contest: Back to Back
the good
The doors to my mind and heart
circle as revolving doors.
A peek inside and you see
happy memories and joyous events,
the loves, and lifelong friendships
A cul-de-sac, though a dead end,
has a circular finish, a merry-go-round
that accumulates happiness as it spins
into a cloud of beauty and nature,
compassion, gods, and faith.
The breathless moments in life,
birth, newness, novelty, exuberance
in being, living, experiencing
laughter, butterflies, and springtime
within my soul, my gratitude.
the bad
The doors to my mind and heart
circle as revolving doors.
A peek inside and you see
the pocks of the years that came
to leave their soured, sadistic truths.
So, like a cul-de-sac you may enter
but the exit is the same as you came.
A Ferris wheel, past the highs and lows
of lost hopes, of murky dreams that end
with more questions than I will answer…
A dead end with death as the prize
for endless dreary days and noxious nights
of sorrow, sadness, misery, and grief
with no hope, no desire, no ambition
faith gone and forgone, abortive.
the ugly
The doors to my mind and heart
circle as revolving doors.
A peek inside and you see
the sear of anger and revenge
spiraling apocalyptically.
The cul-de-sac where giant wind turbines
turn and churn and gnaw at my insides
generating incompressible turbulence
that amasses until it ruptures, spewing
rage and outrage that I will honor…
In and out, inescapable, dead
like my heart, my soul black as coal,
seeking retribution for perceived
wrongs against me, ill-timed and
sanguinary persecution.
Imagine you opened First Aid Box
And, of all things, saw the blood of ox
While you’d wanted to help your Small Pox,
Would it you panic to leave your pocks
Or would you for gloves try your two socks
Or to gods try to sacrifice cocks
Or off speed in the manner of Cox
After reasoning things out like a fox?
Ox blood-stains on all sides of The Box!
Whichever you choose, not what one mocks:
This is The Twenty-First Century;
Much caution in handing injury.
Oh, the morning's Godly devotions
Amid ungodly emotions
Walking the earth, dampness soothing the sole
Bound to it with affinity and closeness
Yet heaven bound, tearing away from this concrete shoe
The coffin-drumming clods of clay
Covered with verge and fields of hay
A thin covering at that
As if the bountiful bosom is clad with a slip of silk,
A wisp of decency
Oh, the throes of fleshly woes
The shudder and fever of the soul's great war
Obsession, passion, thrills after fashion
The lashing of a scaly tail at the end of this mortal coil
Toil, toil, the gravel pit of survival
For what, mere existence?
The passions collide, asteroid striking planet,
Barren wasteland exploding in pits and pocks,
Craters round, dry as bone
Dry as love, old as valleys
Soundlessly, airlessly, lovelessly grey
Should I leave or should I stay?
Passion swells as sea's mighty tide
Thrusting the shore, thrusting, subside
Yet the shore is not moved, not even an inch
And on the moon there is no thirst to be quenched
No moisture, no thrust
No place, no lust
No sound to awake
No ear to hear the gong
of time tick and take
SNIPER
A yell “ man down;” then zing, pock, pock,
pock, pock against the sandbag revetment.
Down on the plain is a man in a spider hole,
he is well hidden and armed well enough,
smokeless powder provides no clues.
Binoculars and spotter scopes range and scan.
The wounded soldier moves arms weakly,
asking for help, hands exploring a bloody chest;
each attempt to get to him more whizzes and
pocks follow the movement of desperate men.
Zings and pock, pock, pock of sand bags hit,
in the distance a light echo of a rifle report,
a light pop reverberating from every where.
81-mm mortars inside the defensive perimeter
fire volleys of patterns mushrooming dust,
some air bursts for downward shrapnel,
these metal fragments might penetrate shelter.
The dust cloud shields medics and helpers
dragging this first victim to relative safety;
the dust-off flight already hurrying inbound.
Soon APCs roar by, their armour impervious,
tracks clanking the treads tearing ground;
carrier troops dismount and walk searching
investigating odd bits of clumps and weeds.
Nothings found he is too well hidden,
how did he ever dig in under watchful eyes,
how did he hide the signs of digging.
Now everyone moves about with this new worry
each movement cautious with little exposure;
careless soldiers leave trails of pocked sand bags,
one fellow gets ripped along his flack jacket,
too close a strike earning an unwanted souvenir.
Mortars continue to pound patterns on open ground,
this all to find a veritable chaffing grain of sand,
a grain that throws an inconvenient hail of bullets.
Our snipers and spotters set their own lairs;
hunting scopes by day starlight scopes at night.
The days are long as this deadly duel continues,
nerves are sensitised, some are shattered;
each move brings a buzz or whiz of near death.
Then there are no more shots, no more shooter,
perhaps the mortars got him or the gun ships,
perhaps he earned the NVA version of R & R.
Still every one walks, heads hunched, hair on end,
one sniper with a few dozen well place bullets
keeps one company sized position neutralised;
a good example showing us the fine art of war.
I am in a paradox with visions of backwards clocks
knee high socks people popped with chicken pocks
the purple elephant has entered the room full of doom
who knew we had no clue what to do its gonna happen soon
rainbows reaction to reflection of water is beautiful
baptism parents raging priest slapping the lord is crucial
lines cleaned with a nose no one knows the blows
everyone dreams of life well lived we are all living our own shows
the laughter fades out the room with no reason for leaving
people taught old knowledge the monkey way of deceiving the believing
the shark fin in the water guard your daughter fathers
men are out there mixed chemicals looking for slaughters
lucky be lucky who lucky is thee never ever me
fighting life constantly like a leprechaun trying to climb a redwood tree. -TA
This boy must be in season,
this blaze-headed feather jack
hammering shack up condos
into swooned oaks, sautéing up fire
ants for a seductive nibble in the pulp.
You can hear him all over the island
a mating pummel; his peckered pocks
embarrass us along our saunters
such a committed pecker, this woody,
drilling wood, making mating dust
around your mailbox by the road,
out there, an exhibitionist hammering
Nessum Dorma’s into the timber,
belting away at his craft;
his hard wired love gut
to persist, and the fade out
of us jaded human shucks,
looking through our
windshields at such wide
wondering howls
in the dead of the wood.
Planes fly higher and higher
I see them sometimes
Looking threw my third eye
I wave but the people are to too high.
If they could see me I’ll tell you what they’d find
A man with his hand out his pockets
And fingers on the grind.
I smile at my computer if only if only there was a camera in there
I would make people feel homey,
Like a chicken pocks scare.
Yes, I am.
No expectations left at my door.
And no sprite sticking me to the floor.
I fly in my home, sliding over the hardwood
Only asking for more time
Let me live these days
Over and over is what I pray
And those who make me smile are who I praise.
So I keep the best company on gravel and on the web
Happy as a pirate with a new wooden leg.
Life is not meant to be thought about in the past
Life is for now, and it won’t last.
So smile,
And kick your troubles in the ass.
I smile in public because I know they are away
From their problems for at least a conversation
With me - it should be filmed,
We are the new cast of Glee.
The python comes with cameras
Offers to take photos of lion’s family cabs
He admits and congratulates the python
Then when he opens his eyes to see things
He sees whole family in the python stomach
The foolish lion keeps singing
The flood comes with canoes
Asks to carry lions’ subjects to safe land
He welcomes the mercy of the floods
Then pocks his ears expecting good news
He hears mourning-cry of drowning subjects
This foolish lion keeps singing
The future comes with biscuits in bags
Tells lion to exchange them for idle bushes
He hugs the future praising it for its charity
Then he waits for future to go, get and go
He sees the future overstepping the deal norms
But the foolish lion keeps on singing
Then death comes dressed in golden linen
Invites lion to enroll his family as choir of angels
He welcomes holy gestures of smart guest
Then he sits waiting for angel-choir to appear
A shock! Disarmament, paws, jaws plucked
Foolish lion weeps bitterly to the zoo
Blemish and blunder.
Upon my face they thunder!
Speckled paint splattered down and around my nose,
where else might I find these spots, no one knows.
These spots, these useless spots,
are they God's gift, or a curse that reeks,
obsessed over these pocks upon my soul and cheeks.
Whether dark or light.... red or brown, or as black as a brat,
ponder this..... they stand out and proclaim..... I'm different, Oh drat!
Please leave me and go away, never to come back another day.
Plague another with your stress, for you've left my face a mess!
Stop
Sadness is when you think you’re alright and then full stop
Like a disease that doctors shrug their shoulders and nurses mock
Like a stigma with which if you sit with it you’ll catch it like the pocks
Like a homeless person who is trying to reach you but will not
Like a sheep with no wool in the winter time he only knows he has not got
Like a broken toy car with only three wheels it only circles and is thrown away forgot
Like an apple that is dropped and bruised still quite edible but looks wrong like rot
Like an old gate that squeaks when you open it and you have to lift it up to latch on the lock
Sadness is terrible because when you feel it all the time stops.
Winter fairies tunnel deep in snowbanks
pop up here and there- unleashing a prank
they're fond of black ice pie
canning fruit and fireflies
above each of their doors hangs a snowflake.
Come spring they have to be on the caution
when the skyline pocks with blackbird and hawk
if they let their shields rest
bones will line every nest
and their souls will become wee puffs of chalk.