Best Rasps Poems
Furious wind from the north hisses louder,
banging against the gaped mouth of a sky, drenched…
Haggard, the night wheezes with quack
of birds waylaid; a time of unruly rainfall
crashing once more: and the moon grows bald,
groaning a jumble of cracked acoustics:
On and on, the roar of sleet
pierces through lush trees
in a noise that grates far into the dark horizon,
an energy fierce like a woman scorned.
How she blares a war amidst a company of men,
flowers, and all in one driven ride
that her wild thrill rasps zooms ---
until on ninth hour
a slow-motion of rhythm flows,
while she pauses to croon a mellow tune
as if... in final taps of a wail,
nothing ever happened.
For Shadow Hamilton:The Noise Contest
Written 3/9/2017
Of the items in the store,
All were second hand
An old computer did I buy,
With a broken stand
One side was badly scratched
Two knobs were missing too
But that’s not the story
I’m about to tell to you
T’was about the second week
Of the ‘puter at my place
Sitting there against the wall
Near the old staircase
I recall the night was late
As I readied me for bed
When I turned the ‘puter off,
The screen … it turned blood-red
The appearance caused a start
I gasped a gulp of air
I couldn’t turn my gaze away
I stood right there and stared.
Then a low murmuring
From deep within the set
Cold chills ran over me
I’ve not forgotten yet
A voice, low and menacing
Containing graveled rasps
I could not then stop again
My involuntary gasp
I stood there mesmerized
My gaze remained transfixed
Emotions racing through me
And all of them were mixed
The Voice on the other side
Of the blood-red display screen
Issued a command to me
So ominous and mean:
“Place your hand upon the screen
And repeat these words to me:
Where you are right now,
Is where I need to be.”
I felt my arm move upward
Powerless to resist
I felt a burning in my palm
As the display screen it kissed
I heard a voice and realized
The speaker it was me:
“Where you are right now,
Is where I need to be.”
As the words transmitted,
Involuntarily,
I could feel a change come on …
Overwhelming me.
As I stared in disbelief
My hand – it disappeared
Absorbed into the blood-red screen
As the burning onward seared …
Through my wrist, up my arm
It’s hotness I could feel
Inward was I screaming
Not believing this was real!
In reflection from the screen
I was being pulled into
I saw a face, and then I screamed:
“That horrid face is YOU!”
The rapid assimilation
Continued then until
All feelings were extinguished
And all was calm and still.
A trillion beings there transformed
To tiny bytes and bits
And ‘tis every part of us
All websites now transmits
Now here I am deep inside
This computers’ display screen
If there’s disturbance felt
Oh so sharp and keen
Just place your hand upon the screen
And read these words to me:
“Where you are right now,
Is where I need to be.”
Waterfowler’s Delight
Clouded marshes masking what may come.
Suzy's boisterous invitation over yonder grass
Dark shadowed spreads set to entice some.
As the glow of the East begins to amass.
Newly anointed awaiting the first blessing.
Old dogs hoping the spark will catch fire.
Light of day upon the horizon pressing.
Nosing sweet dew upon the poignant mire.
Blue and grays approaching whiter shades.
Dark decoys amidst water hazed with hue.
Breaths of pink winds follow forecasted trades.
Nestling in, head up, taking in one last view.
Grasses, reeds, trees and limb begin their claps,
Rattling and brushing in a standing ovation.
Shedding nights tears, tapping coats and caps,
Encouraging shivers of warm tingling anticipation.
Night choruses blend with day’s percussion
Clicks and rasps of metal, wood and springs.
Last words, rules whispered in group discussion
Silenced by sudden whistling of cupped wings.
Glancing at time wishing the watch was there
Edging toward one half hour before this sunrise.
A single, lonely, echoing report from over there,
Waterfowler's delight, peeling eyes to the skies.
09/25/2017
Unrealities and realities
grind together in mortar’s mouth,
spilling, pulverizing, volatile perfumes—
succumbing scents of citrus, crushed copper,
musks of bruised lightning,
threshing thunderous throbs.
Instability incarnate sings her reveling wails,
fragrances of something
Beyond Name.
I guide existences into black curve,
severing them against sharp, obsidian walls,
letting them rupture—letting them bleed
—syrups and statics—
messy marrows of forgotten equations.
Their shapelessness mutable,
pliant pages to pulp in the plunge
of the merciless pestle.
How many combinations will one
blend and crucify—
to crush, to coax, into coherence?
Rasps of bone bend against sanguine salts,
sheens of opulent oil merge with ember embryo—
iron filings licked into life by tempests reigned.
Anything of matter becomes
moisture—mass—mold—
hunger pooling at my basin’s heart,
seething for impending strike,
for sudden and unforgiving
birth.
dry white snow rasps the asphalt
attempting to reclaim the purity
of a metropolitan morning
coating the concrete pillars
brushing with tender touches
the grates and allies
dusting the bottom lands
of bordering belted swamps
with leggy aplomb
the icy shavings take flight
on the whoosh of winter
in hushed whispers they move on
First Published by The Tishman Review January 2015
Forgive me please and don't berate
My dismal voice when I narrate,
The many poems I've written well,
To bring to you my tale to tell.
I like to write my thoughts in rhyme
And find I have an easy time,
To form each stanza with a flow;
My words go smoothly to and fro.
Then comes the time to say aloud,
The words composed to a small crowd.
My voice will crack with croaks and gasps:
A rusty gate, it swings and rasps.
New England twang with words that clip,
Come squirming through my palsied lips.
I envy Brits posh english speech.
Their phonics cannot be impeached.
I practice lines a hundred times,
Until they sound just barely fine.
Then try and try and try again,
But still I reach that faltered end.
So bare with me in my attempt,
To narrate words in voice unkempt.
I'll forge ahead and not give up,
To spout my spiel and fill your cup.
In penning this, yet speaking that;
It's better left where it was at.
On pages written to be read
And not aloud with angst and dread.
Her will is iron, baked in an ashy bleakness over eyes that were once bright
–she longs to break.
A thousand tears would evaporate on this impassible rage,
she glares with dull purity of thought.
Triumphant fists gloat above her potency, imploring
–she watches in scornful fascination.
Every breath rasps over the dagger in her throat, aching to be released.
she swallows harshly.
-she spins her web in secret -
Yea, victors jest. They out-sped the cast of hunger’s cave.
Their cantors, ragged kept, did reach an faithful end.
They in the din o’ drizzle laugh, licking cool drams from stone,
as had they crawled o’er hot pools bled to prod ‘n prattle.
And who’d, when quenched, a saunter risk simply to gaze at greener gray,
who if by haze be fraught, need merely fathom sky?
Lest be displeasured he to whom above could clouds be prone to tattle,
go but shy requests, voiced dryly into azure.
For so the victims passed, betrayed by breeze and snitch of brush,
though Him on High, with just demand, they had beseeched.
Each life a tale brought to lie, defaced, in scattered, muddy tomes.
Torn is the silver lace, which once linked bone to bone.
Yet risen, too, had wanton sighs, whereof his Mightiest to ask,
whilst the ground, as should it care, received the rasps.
For what doth emptiness command and what the unseen sovereign willeth
are left matters later glibly to be bantered.
Know oft’ the hunt finds one befuddled, spelled by guiles of a wraith.
No taunt of tail waves, no wake of twig gives sway.
With head to hang, his rack he gathers in a push to halt
to stand bequeathed a chide of birds and chipmunk heckles.
There, the timber rout delays with naught but mettle left to drain,
as the mars of rock and thistle mark the wait.
Chafe of paw, tongue feathered fowl, the foiled dashes stream to words,
whereto the blood, in ruddy tones, by droplets trickles.
The susurrus breeze
of spring’s ingénue trees
now rasps and wheezes,
rustling sparse leaves as
the trees, now crones,
rest brittle bones,
primed for winter’s coming.
I watch him mumble, lines of treble notes
Bones flinging on park so emerald clean
The old man droops, his shape a curving moat
Weary the shirt that covers marks unseen
Throwing bread crumbs to hide a balmy scene.
My eyes attack this figure‘s shade, rumpled
On dusky night when glows of moon cancel
Lost frolic, changing beam into a smirk
Raised temper glares at how his body leers,
Craning dry neck, I question stranger’s quirk.
For while he pined, cold hands in light remain
Through fallen wind and chill that rip them down
Stammering, pale voice rasps if his dog has lain
Upon the range to scout for food around
Eyelashes blink, my tears fall to the ground.
Blind is he searching for pet in depth of moans
I lift his arms, with gentle nudges intoned
“ Let me bring you to your own gate, dear Sir
Till your companion finds it way back home,”
He glides a smile, taming my heart’s error.
(c)
by nette onclaud
Do You Understand Contest of Cyn Mac Millan
Standing on the edge of a cliff,
I contemplate my fate.
A life that is safe, known,
always the same, predictably on course.
Like the days of time.
Flowing from one to the other, endlessly...
“Is this my fate?” I wonder
The uncertainty coursing through my body.
My head and heart in serious doubt.
A life of promise beacons
filled with uncertainty,
filled with risk,
filled with danger and only a whisper
of potential fun.
Is this my destiny?
Is this my fate?
Can I turn my back on the life,
I have always known,
for an uncertain one?
What if I walk away and only then?
Realize that I made the wrong choice?
As I stand on the edge,
My heart beats hard and fast.
My breath rasps painfully in my chest.
For I know, I have to jump
Into the whisper of promise.
For that mere whisper,
fills me with excitement.
It makes me glow from within my core.
Who knows what’s right or wrong?
The only thing sure is how I feel at this moment.
Uncertain, confused and excited in the face of the unknown.
As I stand on the edge.
My fate is sealed. I have to jump!
Surfing, morphing
Through amorous tidal waves
Thou Babylonian scoundrels
Poisoned, ordained
By the blues-begging rasps
Smelting Earth
Caching together as one
By force and virtue
Yielding life's battalions
Seeking solace, fame or gentle ears
What captures me most
About this glazed nuthouse
Riffs and thieves
Throwing down as NYC
The brackish drama
The ink-still-wet climax
Each protagonist
Twitching, bleeding
Their calligraphy carved from
Medieval, spiteful bent
Their tragedies, comedies
Levitating into series finales
Bubbling, screaming
The concrete-clicking pounce
Propelled by the fear of instant death
Each a Willie
Scribes scratching, staggering
Desperate for terminal legacy
Actors drowning, emitting spasms
Powered by flames and sunshine
You don't get here by mistake
Unless leaving is the answer
The acts, verses and curses
Vary by the levels of lunacy
You're willing to consume
So bark and hark
Who goes there
The parade inside you looms
As the audience
Hush, attentive, sardonic
Mouths gaping
Tongues wagging
To taste your wasted drop.
(10/13/16)
“Seriously,” the comedienne rasps: “can we talk about coffee?!”
The palms of my feet grind the beans in my sleep.
My bathrobe ties dangle, my hair’s unbrushed.
Can of spinach don’t do much, but caffeine aroma lifts me up.
The tilt wand opens my eyes, i can barely see through the slats
Sweet savory cream kisses my Olive Oil lips, Popeye laughs,
“A-gah-gah-gah-gah-gah!”
After two gallons, the pull cord opens the theatrical blinds, full strength.
Kim Rodrigues © 2017
Popeye and Olive Oil are cartoon characters created by Elzie Crisler Segar
It's these times the brainwaves' brimming
But there's no cored means to articulate
Hooked at a slant of transcendence
Staring down fat glimpses of life lived through death
It clots red-black, thick in the dropper
Junky blood comes and it goes
The eye of the spike, the swell of elation
Death peals, heart drags, blow outs
Headglows
Don't patronize me
With your long, lean laughs
Stretched skin, smoothed skin
Droning wisps of sour-smelt breath
No-teethed, gumless, bone-grinding
Skeletal rasps
What exactly is it that…
Makes you any better than…
The junky in the gutter groove
We all have our button up, fasten, tie-in, fix
Some just subsist in it, with it
Live it to exist in it
It's high time the wavelengths blurred
Circling twilight, honed by rasps of one lone star,
fireflies weave their magic through the last of the golden haze
A pensive cricket hums, uncoiled from the thick green maze
to circle upwards, and around the rim of declining sun
Fireflies weave their magic through the last of the golden haze
Of this darkening of earth, there are bright partakers
to circle upwards, and around the rim of a declining sun
as birdsongs of the summer day are put to rest
Of this darkening of earth, there are bright partakers
A pensive cricket hums uncoiled from the thick green maze
As birdsongs of the summer day are put to rest,
circling twilight, honed by rasps of one lone star
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Inspired By Andrea's Contest: "One in Three--Write Beautifully"
7/31/13