Best Slakes Poems
My life spirals ever downward...
The grave taunts me with its laugh.
Death's bony fingers are affixed my throat
As the jester of my unmerited epitaph.
My angst at my ever-flounder appears
Well-earned and justly placed
Where the rabid minions of an avenging God
Will no doubt make bold of my disgrace.
Have I lived too long a life so plain
Where my soul was too confined
And any realistic hope of eternal bliss
Seems mere folly at this time?
To live too long is an old Man's curse
And bound to evoke some industry
Where best intentions are set adrift...
To partake sweet ecstasy.
These stains that commemorate my Earthly Sins
Are laid denuded for all to see.
I drag them unceremoniously into an afterlife
That may not wish to bolster me.
But who among us hasn't stumbled
With Death's foot ajar the door
With temptations strewn like pearled oysters
On life's repugnant shores?
The righteous path is straight and narrow
And a vehicle for all those bold and brave
But only appeared crucial and strategic as
I stand with one foot in the grave.
How happier were those days gone by
When I was young and free from vice.
If I had only maintained such vernal guileless
To insure a place in paradise.
But I have come to this conclusion
As Death's whisper slakes my soul with dread.
Too much time has been my nemesis and any
Last minute burbling is better left unsaid.
So at this hour... this late late hour...
I now confront an awful truth.
I might have had a better chance at Heaven...
Had I perished in my youth.
The End
Ever-flounder: A bad situation of one's own making.
*I wrote this poem from the perspective of someone who fears their sins are
too heavy for God to bear.
*Follow my cartoon at Webtoon Bob's Your uncle.
While claws of full moon pierce the lanes, beware
For Hallow slakes on a witching twilight,
Ghoulish tricks from dark shadows choke the air
Engraving beams with ripped imprints of fright!
Halloween Moon Contest of Eve Roper
10/20/2015
Lake wind
slakes still water's
need for flight--
its envy of sea waves
devouring web-prints
of seagulls, a
temporary tableau
giving it wings
where there
are none
III
This is the land of the convectional rains
Which vie on the monsoon back scrubbing streets
This is the land at half-past four
The rainbow rubs the chilli face of the afternoon
And an evening-morning pervades the dripping, weeping
Rain tree, and gushing, tumbling, sewerless rain drains
Sub-cutaneously eddy sampan fed, muddy, fingerless rivers
Down with crocodile logs to the Malacca Sea.
This is the land of stately dipterocarp, casuarina
And coco-palms reeding north easterly over ancient rites
Of turtle bound breeding sands.
This is the land of the chignoned swaying bottoms
Of sarong-kebaya, sari and cheongsam.
The residual perch of promises
That threw the meek in within
The legs of the over-eager fledgelings.
The land since the Carnatic conquerors
Shovelling at the bottom of the offering mountains
The bounceable verdure brought to its bowers
The three adventurers.
A land frozen in a thousand
Climatic, communal ages
Wags its primordial bushy tail to the Himalayas
Within a three cornered monsoon sea -
In reincarnate churches
And cracker carousels.
The stranglehold of boasting strutting pedigrees
And infidel hordes of marauding thieves,
Where pullulant ideals
Long rocketed in other climes
Ride flat-foot on flat tyres.
IV
Let us go then, hurrying by
Second show nights and jogget parks
Listening to the distant whinings of wayangs
Down the sidewalk frying stalls on Campbell Road
Cheong-Kee mee and queh teow plates
Sateh, rojak and kachang puteh
(rediffusion vigil plates)
Let us then dash to the Madras stalls
To the five cent lye chee slakes.
la la la step stepping
Each in his own inordinate step
Shuffling the terang bulan.
Blindly buzzes the bee
Criss-crossing
Weep, rain tree, weep
The grass untrampled with laughter
In the noonday sobering shade.
Go Cheena-becha Kling-qui Sakai
(continued from Parts One & Two)
Jacob Luetweiler
1865-1948
From Highland Illinois I travelled,
Travelled with wife, children and the family bible,
Came with stout brethren and brothers in the faith.
And my far-flung epitaph is this:
My friends, I have seen the rain!
I have held the rain in my cupped calloused hands,
Heard the rain as it descended like a demon!
Assaulting the dry land without mercy,
Annihilating the barren and dead land,
As it washes and whirls,
Whispers, envelops and quietly caresses.
My friends, I have stood in the rain!
Stood in the inundations at Beaumont,
Stood sentry and expectantly there,
In its merciful, cleansing invocations,
Stood watching the approaching rain,
Come to earth like dead children,
Come from heaven,
Come to bring drink to the thirsty valley,
Come to bring hope for the new harvest.
My friends, I have seen the rain!
Felt the rain as it purifies and slakes,
Baptizes and consecrates;
Seen the rain from my gaping window
Many times in old Beaumont,
Inside the white house by the river there,
With Fannie, my brood, and a murder of crows.
My friends, indeed, I have seen the rain!
Come to earth like dead children,
Come from heaven.
This epidemic re: murderous love affair perfervid
with gruesome morbid
fixation allowing, enabling and providing terrifying
trappings, whence Pandora out the lid
anger loosed by gun toting recorded by hid
dee us aide de camp per grim reaper
milling crowd, each bewildered person stunned viz satanic grid
loosed bullets ensnare coterie upping ante bid
daring pernicious fare thee well odiously off loaded
per incendiary fiery maelstrom to mega death count added.
Suicide bombardier slakes thirst aims at billeted soiree
with deadly precision, and spray painting human innards
congregated engaged groupon people), with egregious pay
ment for exaggerated slight mowing down, a slew - nay
soon to be lifeless victims unaware - delivering may
hem to anonymous hunter a cannibal as well
family and survivors, who lay
down their sorrows, which bring revulsion and gray
obsolescence of faith in mankind to fray.
Death be not proud, nor ought airtime be allocated to these
heinous cavalier avengers foe tee eight-hour special (proffers
twitchy finger itching to squeeze
especial easy access to sophisticated high caliber compact
offspring family affair sport doth please
manifesting prize pride killing machine owners
posed as stonewall Jackson frieze
rapaciously with so much ease
lethal gimcrackery cutlasses incite epidemic violence as disease.
Sorrow soulful songs sung by the likes of death cab for cutie or goo
goo dolls in tandem with foo
fighting beastie boys pay homilies whence homage grew
to grateful dead nobody knew
fetishistic martyrs wannabe set sights of sister and mew
sic cull doobie brothers of their simian species with no sorrow to rue.
31.
Salvation
For lack of better judgement...
I perished far sooner than I thought.
Having never made a payment
For the salvation I now sought.
I am beset with want and worry...
Not sure how my death would be...
But I have a Mother safe in Heaven
Who thinks the world of me.
The End
32.
Deserving I Must Be
She loves me more than I deserve...
So deserving I must be.
Though it certainly begs the question,
What does this woman see in me?
I've honestly pondered this dilemma
With no answer there to be
Thus making the cowardly assumption...
She's not the gal for me.
The End
33.
Are You Silly
Are you silly? Just a little bit
To mitigate the severity of life.
Do you mock both form and function
To make light some future strife?
Do you laugh when others scowl
And in laughter start to cry?
Do you chuckle as the winds of fate
Cause a well-laid plan to go awry?
Do you temper all misgivings
To stretch the nature of your soul?
Do you frolic with the Ferryman
Knowing all must pay his toll?
You now grasp the Human spirit
Embracing its foibles and quirks.
But if you exist both drab and muted...
You should find some other work.
The End
34.
Freedom
Freedom is a curious thing
To treat with disrespect.
To grind into a nothingness
And thus perish from neglect.
But Nature abhors a vacuum...
Thus the dregs will have their day.
If I submit to their ambitions...
Freedom slips away.
The End
35.
Think Kindly
Think kindly on this poet's rant
If there is kindness in your heart.
If an open mind is yours to grasp...
We'll both have done our part.
But if chaos slakes your very soul...
My words may not ring true.
I'm well aware... we've all been there...
You have better things to do.
The End
Leaves drop down listless
Sundried crisp summer carpet
Saki soaks and slakes
And in the well-worn ache
of turning mourning,
there are no more tears-
for all is beauty-lathed
misery, held unswathed,
without fearing to uptake
hope's new sculpted shape.
A changeling exchanged
while flailing naked
in it's abyssal state.
And wholeness excises, to demean
only fruitless shoots, now seen
to sow what has no further meaning.
And in the ague
of restless morning's
fitful, nude, new break
from dim, unsculptured yaw-
fretful feet leave
dark, wet indents in dew.
Old soul trails beneath gift's gape-
heaven's gate, just ajar,
seeps, speaks healing wreathed
in Love- the writhing heart agape.
And thr dry-cried throat
too friction ground to speak,
slakes it's thirst on dew-
Heaven's assuage tempers, cools.
And in eyes' age
of blinding burnings-
forceful, rude muckrake,
there are no more proud airs.
For eyelids pasted shut, caked
in self- molded clay's despair,
felt insightful incision
draw sharp truth's decision deft-
knavish knots excised, reveal
man's Sculptor knows justly how
to grave His image.
And seeing is only believing,
when believing is cleft open
to high insight's slice and sculpt
understood, read, spoken.
02/12/2017
sweet music swing
gypsy bells cheer
berry wines swoon
lulls aloft wings
warm’d honey cache
slow’d lyric beats
plays fork’d tunes
sweet music swing
skirt, tango, twirl
ruddy flame aglow
tests muddy water
swims under brows
slakes river lusts
brews vivid scent
‘round robin crest
skirt, tango, twirl
12/18/2017
Rhoda Tripp’s Fem Bogstaver Contest
(Triple Triolet)
Dark skies announce the snow’s advance
while forest roof displays pinched edge
and angel wings begin fluff dance.
Dark skies announce the snow’s advance
as hidden lake usurps her chance
and gums her banks to form a ledge.
Dark skies announce the snow’s advance
while forest roof displays pinched edge.
The flakes descend to catch on cheeks
as angel aprons spill through clouds,
white hills arise from snow in peaks,
and flakes descend to catch on cheeks.
We rest on mute as chipmunk seeks
concealment under cushioned shroud
while flakes descend to catch on cheeks
and angel aprons spill through clouds.
A winter whiteout slakes my thirst
for nature, un-excelled on earth,
and draws these lines in bosom versed.
A winter whiteout slakes my thirst,
expands a heart of unrehearsed
delight and wonder, wild rebirth.
A winter whiteout slakes my thirst
for nature, un-excelled on earth.
Like A Fire Cat - Teaser Taste Of Spring...
Did Fistbump With Ole Man Winter
Once again, this fella alights
this poetaster and trots out weather,
nope not cuz freezing cold bites,
this poetic instance highlights
spate of unseasonably warm temperatures
circa early February 2019,
melting oppressive plights,
whereby totally tubular solar balm
energizes and alights
to zoom into heavenly heights
pleasantly zapping dendrites
with heaven sent
sunny rays, which excites
every fiber of this fella, writes,
a diametrically opposite
meteorological pleasure
pitch perfect to fly kites
versus torturous blast, sans
polar vortex arctic
cold one futilely fights,
where no complaint as
ecstasy knows no heights,
asper in above average winter
cathartically, holistically,
therapeutically... quiets
cabin fever with sneak
preview of summer -
skipping over stone temple rites
of spring despite dramatic
unseasonably warm weather
this anomaly nonetheless delights
this wordsmith voluntarily
holed up days and nights
from bone chilling, crushing brutal
(cudgel wielding) cold
understandably inducing flights
of fantasy imagining
(like...just yesterday)
hightailing to tropical
island paradise sights
blinds this sun worshipper
twittering revelling,
basking with robins
noah matter an old gipper
slakes insatiable thirsts
nsync with teetotaling
brewster herbalist honeydripper
ah... methinks this clime
makes me chipper
recalling good ole times
feeling like a day tripper
sprawled out atop roofed mansion
fronting happy hunting grounds
upon memory steadfast gripper
amidst haunting demesne
of "Glen Elm" transformed
courtesy where backhoes did stripper
of native flora and fauna
into ticky tack vinyl city for hipper
crats all in the name of progress!
"Yaaaaawn," I yawn,
the morning's pawn,
I then put on
pajama pants.
Stumblingly walking,
mumble-talking
unable to do
my dance.
I drink caffeine
something obscene,
and can think keenly
once again.
Then down the lane
to work, my bane,
energy draining
spirit waning
my body's slave
until my break
which hardly slakes
my pains and aches
and then and then and then and then and then,
"Yaaaaawn," I yawn,
the evening's pawn,
I then put on
pajama pants.
Stumblingly walking,
mumble-talking
unable to do
my dance.
Resting
The purple canopy above
Soars majestically to the heavens
Shrouding my view
I lie raised
In a caffeine haze
Deafened gloriously
Breathing to the rhythm
Reverberating through the stage
Vibrations soothing my aching limbs
Limbs which have slaved
Creating the musically Eden
Forging metal and wood
Blood and sweat
Sugar and caffeine
The sky darkens
Gentle patting comes from the canopy
Refreshment from the sky
Though just the taste in the air
Slakes my thirst
I turn and look out
The faithful stand weathering the storm
Rocking in the free world
Shouting to the gods
With refreshed bones
And mind
I stand
At one with the vibrations
Basking in the noise
As the night falls I leave
Under a lower skin
I tip my hat to her red hair
As I pass and move on
So under a thin plastic skin
I now lean on dead wood
As the angry strings
Caress the senses
The hour flies
And return at speed
Parting the crowd
With a voice louder than the din
Breath is heavier
Boots rapping across stone
The night draws in
I stand
Assimilating with the vibrations
Reverberating
Breathing
Diving
Back
Into the madness of the night
A bitter well
taps the icy waters
from the sulphurous deep
slakes my thirst
makes my transformation
into the beast
complete.