Best Scaffolds Poems
Mentors like priests preparing me for holy rite
Institutional slaves to a false trinity
Subduing adventure, exploration and discovery to classroom rigor
Eternal stairway ... moonbeams to the golden dream
Dismatling who I am so I become who you want me to be
Urges denied constructing scaffolds, setting beam
Castling on beam, I climb like Jack the ogre tree
Ability acquiring arrows for what's embattling me
Tensions beyond the classroom, teacher grading my
Intelligence as if it were a canvas to her eye
Opportunity has too narrow a door for all our differences
Nestled in her pocket, I see the ogre search in vain.
Offering us like children to the fires of Molech
Frantic prayers sibilant in flickering tongues of despair
Teeming the locus of the African nightmare
Husked of gold, silver, uranium, copper and diamond skies
Each one scrambles up the vine compassless of self
Nations fall - without the eyes of love we are blind
Emerging people shaken out in global disarray
Groaning for nothing from classroom to classroom
Refer to their budgets and see what is prioritize
Oysters get their pearls from pain, I know, yet
Errors must be corrected, education must mean more, we
Substance truth only by the purge of a regulated history.
One must imagine Sisyphus’s
boulder, marble-sized these days
And Ozymandias’ plaque,
spinning despair into praise
Look on, ye hypocrites,
and sneer at my undoing
Your universe is a giant sandpit,
entropy accruing
Their legacies long crumbled,
eroded by rust
Gods built the wrong way,
on scaffolds of dust
Virtue or vice register
equally the same
Except between stars,
there’s space for one more grain
Down here, we clock in daily,
stack hours like prayer
Worship strong Wi-Fi,
evangelize on thin air
Imagine heavenly echoes,
because the silence isn’t fair
Some develop connection,
others a thousand-yard stare
Our Earth splits naturally,
along seismic lines
Greenwich claims centre stage,
only for the meantime
Sisyphus, still aching,
gets an epidural at last
But only in hindsight,
for his hump blocks the past
Redrawn are our own lines,
watchtowers in the sand
Sketching new borders,
carving up the promised land
Exhume ancient treasure,
and black, viscous stuff
Addicted to all things buried,
as if our dead weren’t enough
Still we write blindly,
tracing glyphs already faded
Helps lift the mood
when depressed and jaded
Gods stand on shaky ground,
myth holds them together
In schisms that bind billions,
then sever forever
Oh, look on—ye poet
Sisyphus now rolls his eyes
He’s seen the apps, wars,
hoodies, and cable ties
His hamster wheel’s a meme
for gods who merely try
Small wonder he mutters,
at least Ozymandias gets to die
And sometimes I pray to gods,
or maybe their ghosts
About versions of me
I’ve been missing the most
They don’t directly answer,
but do leave this guess
In the end, to keep on rolling
may be my passing success
By David Kavanagh
Written: November 06, 2023
___________________________________________
A swarm of herring gulls amassed
Nexus Nautilus nabbed by zealous winds,
whitening the black soil
we hold spears in our hands.
blood-stained thorns on the side
sullen squawks a skirmishing sporophyte,
dubious, grayish rumors must be buried
drave in a drizzle, drape to deities.
Installation of sentry fences
Sisyphean stones
anchor down using seal and string
flaws in the swings used by blacksmiths
Unborn burning bullion bludgeon
Savage sunless swords embryonic
Edgeless, with no reflections.
Each peak over the Edenic Steppes is sprayed,
using torn paper candles as bait
climbing scaffolds with lumber rungs
pounding of leather-heavy boots
darkened, grimacing features
Flocks failing feathers or flight.
Our hold slips on windswept
Windswept updrafts carry us away
as offspring of the royal family.
Sooth this irrational rage resplendent in its affliction
See through the foolish drawls that make up my surrounding core
Understand I see each flaw of mine in light of your brilliance
Not to compare yours to my worth as wretches do thrash in vain,
But to mold along your own tapestries,
And rightfully, in threads of gold, sustain
Oh, can it be as I request your stay,
That you are truly aware of the magic in your poetic sway
Of a life so drawn to the scaffolds of your welcoming mind
To see its dream, structure, and its whole, combined
It must be so, oh enthralling writer,
That we see through lenses reflecting all shimmers of might
Sifting and searching beneath all shades of blue
To find our reflections have touched surfaces we still yet discover
Within myself and you
And my love, it must be so,
That in your makings, your labors, your loves
I find myself not only nearer, but clearer,
As this budding rose no longer wavers in irksome winds of her doubt
Tremoring in such loathsome drawls birthed by some distant, parched earth
You, in your magic, cultivate and reward such growth
So that this rose ever rejoices her new mirth,
And with your sure, steadfast direction,
Out the very canals that gush your soul’s purpose
You seed her worth, feed her worth, and know her worth
Just as she worships yours
Walk the streets, Passed the subway trains
Echos of piss and debris, Filled streets
Rushed paces, Sky scrapers withhold glory
Look onto and pass, The city that never sleeps
An overwhelming sight of rodents, Amongst the people
Much like scattered roaches, They raid on Broadway
Faces fade into the dark, Looking straight ahead overlooking the light
Scaffolds supporting a frame, Old buildings becoming a hip name
Into the train I go, Onto the L from Time Square
Into Brooklyn underground, Almost there
Before Me Grand street, Next stop Montrose Ave
Up the stairs and into the light, Different from what I remember in these flights
To take flight and see all my childhood memories
Home always feels the same, When your heart stands frozen from a teen age
Montrose and Graham, The Ave of Puerto Rico to be exact
My pride still lives loud, That's a fact!
Live Art on an open scene, untamed by four walls for all to see
Refreshing scent of pollutants from Mobile Steam
There's no place like home, Who needs the country
People bored in Manhattan, Vacation else where please.....I Do!
12/25/2015
“The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.”
~William Shakespeare, As You Like It, Act V, Scene I
I weep by the stardust shore where seraphs sing
Tangerine tears rain despair ‘neath a velveteen veil
My melancholic muse, muslin-wrapped in ice-cold caskets
Slain by ruinous romance swirled in absinthe abstractions
Despondent sloughs bespeak the depths of my soul
Saffron scars scream sonnets through metaphorical mists
Morose melodies paint scabs on pastiche strophe
Pregnant pause, so precious, submerged in lurid lament
But then it whispered, a voice unvarnished by purple plumes
A verse, it bloomed, untainted by thesaurus bleeds
Sculpting off silken scaffolds pasted upon profligate poetry
Leaving a profounder palate for plainer prosody
Fools thought wisdom speak in sequin-laced soliloquy
But wise men abrade from calligraphic charade
Orange bulb lit firefly,
Silhouetted scaffolds delude my reticent pace
Speckling lights flutter to my grazing eye,
Across a barren waste.
Lonesome night breeze crispends forward gaze,
Tomorrow’s evening builds on and on to a swell.
Hopeless hope listens less to reason, but only mad lovers craze.
Only by tomorrow’s touch will such emotions be quelled.
Longing day falls onward, draining every ounce energy welled
‘til yet once more does my sight jump
to dim lit sky, lined by five lights, gas filled.
And cackling crow stands perched on former electrified stump.
What sorrow song do you sing?
Such sorrow to tomorrow, keep beneath your wing.
My roots are strong stemming from bridges and scaffolds that embody the strength of a spirit Gracefully swaying in the wind
Dancing to a tune
Adjusted tempo to a rise and fall
I move to the beat
Battered and bruised
Soles of my feet
Walked a thousand miles to stare at defeat
Gazing passed moving forward on this concrete
Lightning speed on this track
I twirl till I'm dizzy
Mind on rewind gyrating differently
Masquerading within realism
Beats from a bongo
Dancing to this mambo
My heart races to chance
So I dance
All night
Till I see the sunlight
For all the Sphynx and Pyramids of their days
These that towered beyond Babel before me
Straightening the old gordian knot of our maze
Have too been swallowed by the unseen eternity
For all our might like sand dunes have stood
Satrapy of indelible caprice and wind
With force of sword we make our wisdom good
But know not the ends, since we fresh begin
To die the first hour of our birth and dream
We passed over the earth a frolicking stream.
How then this pain despite the old expectation
This fear of time that grips in a conveyor's belt
Hurrying my thoughts to conclusion, and extinction
To all the scaffolds of my certainty? I have felt
Before this same emptiness of meaning
This useless spawning and yearn for more
Light somewhere too at base is crumbling
Matter is vanity, vanity is matter, nothing more
So I'll take my farewell now of them and of dream
While clinging to the game, a pawn in the scheme
Go ole farmers, go on, where men go and none return
I'll save my heart for invisible things of faith
It's all the same to the glowing worm, the fires still burn
However pale the distant echo from the gate
I declined from academia marbled halls
Still leave a whitened bone behind the flow
Not every river into mighty cataracts falls
And some from rain, and some from snow
Yet every rill had sparkled sometime, and every mist
Unbound us from the mass and haste that so insist.
Some float,
move on the diameter of a whim.
A few articulate between joy and grief,
others are hinged
so that ears can hear each other.
Most are scaffolds.
One hollow bone hums in the throat,
it channels the smoky music
of sub-conscious saxophones.
A few are honeycombed for memory
and procreation.
One is a cave for old mind-muddles,
it has a window view.
All the others
are flesh garbed trombones
that slide in and out
to unlock our whoopee cushions
with their skeleton keys.
© a day ago
It's too beautiful within your soul, like a garden blooming under clear and endless skies,
It's too late within my thoughts, where the shadows of memories lie like a veil of silk,
We share the same secret, a dance of dreams entwined in the silence of the eternal night,
But no one knows until when, for time is a bird flying through unknown skies.
Too many cardinal birds whirl among illusions, drawing circles of unknown desires,
Contaminating with elevators our earthly mystery, lifting us to dreamlike skies,
We grow old with happiness in an attic without flowers, where moonlight gently embraces us,
Leaving dolls without addresses for dawn's celebrations, messengers of a universe forgotten by time.
We dream of the same mill hidden in the tragic decor of days that dance like leaves in the wind,
Grinding the same tears when parents call us, finding echoes of longing in their sound,
We are lucid to the blood, inseparable to the sky, with hearts tied by unseen threads,
And I don't even know, after love, what else I should ask of you, for our love is an entire universe.
Words lose their warmth in a protocol kiss, like butterflies losing their wings at dawn,
Guilty birds circle the scaffolds, drawing dances of shadows and lights on the ancient sky,
Under my brow, it becomes night, in your eyes, it becomes day, a balance of the inner cosmos,
We give up knowing which stars might protect us, for we are the stars that watch over.
In the silence between us, a gentle light is born, like a candle burning endlessly and warmly,
In this light, we find answers to unspoken questions, like hidden treasures,
We step together on the unknown paths of destiny, with hands united like two branches,
And in this silent union, we discover that we are whole, a wholeness of dreams and light.
Mind the Paint
Oh, to paint the inside of the egg
restyle the matted gray of sunless gloom
splash color on the curtains that belie
soft filtered light through windows of the soul.
Scaffolds to paint the Sistine of the Dome
brushstrokes to taunt the essence of our thought
teasing the tortured remnants of dreams lost
rainbows - revelations of a Master’s touch.
Creation’s palette in fetal fingered grasp
a water colored future dab by dab
a valiant streak of orange in the blue
the glowing red of life’s untarnished thrill.
Wild dance, cerebral choreography,
brushless art upon the eyelids of sleep.
©3/7/2018
submitted to – Mind the wet paint – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Viv Wigley
Purple bats and evil cats and strangled ghosts that laugh
jet black cloaks, snickering blokes and witches that gaff
Pumpkin grins, talking garbage bins and all that moves
Halloween rhymes and pentacle signs with evil grooves
Children running from the shadows towards the gallows
skeleton molds on scaffolds, and specters in the shallow
Phantoms and demons, bogey men with haunting looks
talisman, walking totems, demon hags with spell books
Haunted houses, mummy spouses and imps that steal
cemetery moans and groans, stiffs that oink & squeal
BETTER HURRY ON HOME BEFORE YOU BECOME THE NEXT MEAL
What Dad Did
Friends from the nearby projects bike over e'er since we had hit-it-off
and dad atop his makeshift throne, food aplenty, points to the nearby ladder.
Time is October 1973, it was on a Sunday and this day was to be the best-of-seven playoffs of the World Series.
Home from church, mom out with the sisters while dad says, "No
shame, just serve yourselves," as we began to watch our Oakland A's
engage the NY Mets.
None of us had known that our dad would have made the rooftop into makeshift bleachers with our TV propped on scaffolds from our neighbor, the painter, who was sitting next to dad.
I need to point out a fact and that is, our homes are basically in the shadows of the Oakland Stadium.
Dad, a realtor, was also a part-time stadium worker and had moved us to Oakland, getting us in the 1972 World Series when they played at home, as it was Oakland A's 1st win since 1930.
He had subbed our rooftop, that being his day off, as A's won again.
Fireworks blast the last evening air for the World Series to conclude in daylight. It will not return to evening hours until 2020.
Dad was the best for I had realized what he did and why he did it.
They were my friends, and though they were ashamed of the projects where they lived, we all knew from the start that we were never ashamed of our colors.
2021 May 16
For years I’ve seen a pair of ducks
In front of a fountain close by.
They swim or sit and those who notice
Likely wonder why.
The fount’s in the front of a building;
Pedestrians pass night and day
And the street’s filled with traffic and noises,
Which you’d think would just scare them away.
In addition, this year there’s construction,
With drilling and scaffolds and nets.
For some ducks maybe raising a family,
It’s as stressful as city life gets.
Yet this morning, my duck friends were waiting,
As indifferent as creatures can be.
Their return was, to them, nothing special,
But it sure brought some smiles to me.