Best Rattle On Poems
Should you venture home, now,
And see the cobbles gone,
Hear the rattle on steel shutters
As the rain falls on and on,
You might as well be leaving
Just the way that you arrived,
For there’s nothing for you here, now,
Nothing has survived.
Should you tread the streets, now,
Between the alien facades,
And puzzle at the structures
In the cul-de-sacs and yards,
You should do yourself a favour,
And turn away into the rain,
For there’s nothing left for you, now,
Nothing to remain.
Should you reach the house, now,
And fail to recognise,
The brickwork and the curtains
And the car parked on the rise,
You really should be going,
From the freshly painted door,
For there’s nothing of your life, now,
Nothing anymore.
Faces come at me as stricken
as graveyard moons.
The supermarket hangs heavy,
laden as it is with neon anchors.
The aisles are runways for empty eyes,
a few sections contain searching bodies.
She turns to me at the check-out,
she has me tagged;
wine bottles from the mark-down bin
rattle on the moving counter.
She clutches a red plastic pocketbook.
Brown knee-length boots, dimples.
Gold button earrings - worn-out pretty;
hard liquor in soft bottles.
There is just us, and the
shuttling hands of the shop-worker'
She has to talk. "Sorry," she says.
I wonder if I should apologize also?
I think we are just forgiving each other
for being here in an awkward moment,
in the late hour, exposed like this.
Outside, the car park is lifting off
into the night.
A thousand aliens are leaving
to search for salvation.
I can't look at them,
each face is a small moon shining.
drainpipes rattle on
as the downpour cleans the walk
papier-mâché news
so much for coupons
today is full price
Blasphemy
The caustic tongues of the evangelists,
Across all creeds and faiths,
Seem as brittle as an old bone.
For they promise heaven and they spew forth threats of hell
While neglecting the words of that man who walked in Galilee
'let him who is without sin, cast the first stone'
the caustic tongues of the evangelists...
across all religions
new-age and the ones of old
baffle me even as I hear
a single simplistic sermon
for they really do, view us all
as blind imbeciles
scurrying around like faithless vermin
the caustic tongues of the evangelists...
wag on and dazzle us with visions of an eternal paradise
while here and now
their hypocrisy festers
within their earnest
well-meaning eyes...
'...dil mein hai khwaaish-e-hoor-o-jannat
aur zaahir mein shauk-e-ibaadat
bas hamen sheikh-ji aap jaise
allah-waalon se allah bachaaye...'
'...in your heart you desire the maidens of heaven
yet in the now you practice the rituals of piety
o' sheikh, may allah protect me
from the people of allah like yourself...'
is my tongue as caustic as the tongues I write about?
if so, then glad am I
for they shouldn't be the only ones
who preach and rant and continually shout
from their pulpits ever so high in the sky
from their hubris of comfort in possessing the 'truth'
from their 'knowing' that heaven or hell
awaits both the strong as well as the meek
while oblivious to the reeking foul smell
that encourages prejudice and hate
and visions not of peace
but of endless chants and prayers
which they, in their opium haze
rattle on and on
as they never seem to cease to speak
and though I’m sure that all this bile that I have spewed
will threaten
hurt
and offend
friend and
unfriend and
acquaintance alike
but...
take pity on me instead
for it'll surely be I
who'll burn eternally
impaled by a benevolent god
on a slightly warmer than normal day in hell
on a crude wooden spike.
Through the woods I carefully tread
Darkness surrounds and fills with dread
Silent clouds obscure the moon
Briefly break and lift the gloom
A clearing darkness once concealed
Parting clouds have now revealed
As I draw ever slowly near
The scene, obscured, becomes more clear
In the meadow two giant oak
Loom over trees of shorter folk
Dead leaves rattle on gnarled branches
And on the ground, hide where the path is
A darkened pool beneath the trees
Ripples in the Autumn breeze
Cattail gather at the shore
Insects buzz and chirp and roar
As I step into the clearing
Sudden quiet greets my hearing
There beyond the pond, a shack
Light shines out from every crack
Branches woven into walls
Over which some ivy crawls
An old woman, a crone, a hag
Dressed in clothes of tattered rag
Stands beside her ramshackle home
In her hands a mysterious tome
She beckons to me, calls me near
Moving feet I can't stop or steer
Greenish skin and bedraggled hair
Pointy hat and an evil stare
Hands like claws open the battered book
From which she reads without a look
What she said I shan't repeat
But my heart did skip a beat
What happened next I can't recall
It was a dream, that's all!
So I climbed out of my bed
And from my foot, a leaf was shed.
You are my sun, you are the only star I have ever known;
One joy the more, one ache the less;
Had kindled those baby fires o'er your face;
Dimples that twinkle and a smile whose glow scares the dark.
The finest of what gold cannot buy,
Yet the purest of what love can find.
How dear, how divine their burning poise.
What a tress in all earthless grace
That runs down thine spine;
So splendid, so sublime, yet kink.
Like a brook that hums down its sequins unto the vale.
Where flawless curls and cloudless skies mingle,
And deathless rainbows find clime.
A fair yet rear beauty you are,
A heart whose love is chaste.
A hive of lips and fingers that spoil,
Whispers of sweet words and stingings,
And a caress whose sachet holds a million flavours.
An embrace whose tight leaves a smell,
A smell that crawls up my sleeves to the shoulders,
So pure, so garden-fresh, what a heavenly scent!
My darling Luche, grass cries, mails fly, numbers lie and flowers die,
but for you and our love, I vow to try.
Every noise needs a silence to rattle on;
Every candle needs a dark to shine on;
Every heart needs a cage of ribs to drum on,
Yes, very day of my life needs your love to lean on.
Old bones rattle on the lawn mower
Electric in nature through Texas grass
The brown wrinkled man is Spanish
Speaks English with a foreign accent
Thick as the greens he tractors through
Broken as his soul
Older than you know
The hills remember him as simple
Rumbling over weeds to make a living
To mow things down to make them pretty
Heavy lines take turns humming up above
Electric songs in nature through live wires
The man stops to take a beer
Under the oak he spies a row of trees
Weeping willows cry this time of year
He cuts the grass to keep it Gringo
Night falls on Jose and his widow
From across the border orders come
To leave the human race behind
They could never come fast enough for him
Moving through a landscape that's not his
Pale sleep awakens.
Another light scorns the earth
as crooked fingers lash down,
their jagged streaks slashed by
nagging pall puffs, shattered
by lofty white swirls.
Breath drawn in- then out,
burying itself in rusted, fallowed
dreams and nettled streams of
daylight bleeding through
slatted blinds.
Humming drones of life
whine along bustling streets.
Sphinxian machinery grinds
stone to dust, settling somewhere,
lost in a terra incognita- finding homes
in pink blushed skies, and seaports where
the smell of fish and oil hover over wharfs.
Market flowers wag brilliant heads,
seeking homes. Songbirds scold,
haggling over baptism in shallow basins.
Dead leaves rattle on pavement,
scratching destinies, left to southern winds.
The sun tips its hat to the moon,
and slides to an end...to begin again.
You think that cowboy is all chatter
Seems to rattle on about stars
Truth is what you think makes no difference
He's about to taste first love
She has long golden hair
We've seen it before when a cowboy gets the wobbles
Won't be worth a damn for some time to come I'd guess
It won't be long before his head gets to turnin'
Be a little short handed 'til she tells him "yes"
Cowboys fall in love
Harder than other people
You'll hear him say "shucks"
He might even say "yes ma'am"
First time he's ever been wise
August 19, 2016
For Contest It Takes Four
I Search For Equilibrium
O I have given more to thee
Than thee hath given back to me
But rattle on thy prattle proud
For I be soft where thee be loud
And those with holes that burrow deep
Can hear thy ***** pitched voice so steep;
An irritant to mine own ear
But new to those who choose to hear.
And I begrudge thee not your choice
To listen to her ***** pitched voice
But gather not her blather bold
Her words are crystalized and cold.
She catapults her weighted steam
Across the sparkle and the gleam
Of yonder pond filled full with trout
That dive and dart with every shout.
I search for equlibrium
In this and that consortium
Once shared with my adoring spouse
Till rumbled mumbles filled our house
And madness forced my own retreat
Away from all that was so sweet
When youthful truth was easy found
By two whose love was lifetime bound.
I first saw Snakey in my flower garden.
I had moved a large rock and he was curled up under it.
There were some beautiful X’s in his pattern.
I did not want to know if there was a rattle on his bum.
So I put the rock back and let him continue his slumber.
The next time I saw Snakey, he was slithering in the yard.
He had dashed around the base of a walnut tree.
Going fast, traveling for what reason? Was he after a mouse?
I watched, but could not see at this distance.
I am pretty sure it was the same snake. Tan with a bit of yellow.
About a week later I found Snakey at the top of my concrete steps
They are in my side yard which lead up to my second garden.
It was a sunny day. He was curled up in a fetal position, soaking up rays.
I decided to go a different way that day.
I was not afraid, but he looked incredibly comfortable.
I did not want to disturb him.
Run over here come to me in this place
where the creek goes between the woody hills
and flows to the pond, where spiders make lace
where the streams meet and come to end their rills
Where the dirty old white horse takes his drink
his tail batting away the buzzing flies
and the sun comes and turns the water pink
where the wind blows over the pond, and sighs
The cattails rattle on the northern shore
and look over the pasture to a barn
old, rusted hinges and a broken door
and the hay weaving through like golden yarn
This worn-down place is not a grand manor
But it's home, and I wave its' torn banner
8-20-2018
“Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.”
Sonnet 18: Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Waiting for the dentist’s assessment of my implant screw.
I watch Dogwood buds on dry branches rattle on the window pane.
Why did Shakespeare’s quote pop into my head right then?
while wondering if the bone graft grew,
‘every fair from fair sometime declines.’
Nancy Jones,
on ya babe yer twice as good,
a mate for sure who understood,
me madness.
Death can come when eer it wants,
i'll spring about n ponce,
with just a little sadness...
see you on the other side,
when death does take me for a bride,
i wanna be the bridegroom...
i'll rattle on, can't find a tune,
sidestep dodge the bloody moon,
johnson's locked away 4 badness?
addled with some gladness...
phallic hellic gallic fella,
slipped and fell into the cellar,
gargled with a vat of wine,
stayed for a longish time,
when he found one Isabella,
she was dark as one othello,
hot and steamy primed to go,
seconds later there she blows,
yes you bloody so n so
said the Isobella...
words could not dispella.
i do rattle on ,
Its her fault........Linda-Marie The Sweetheart of P.S.
Don
As you see below Linda-Marie,
your words were ferterlized by me,
so i put it in a poem,
chinese phallus buzzing home..
Yes trials is what its all about,
come here to suffer learn about,
tangled pig trough for the snout,
this methinks without a doubt... :)