Best Stock Still Poems
"Fata Morgana"
feet hardly touch the ocean
when silent stars of no voice
transmit words to pay the ferryman
on the water no reflection
gently the sun waves smiling as if to say
feel that, the warmth of waking sleep
no fear of what remains hidden
it will unravel from inside that which is all too deep
walking towards you across the briny mist
from ancient stories forgotten
a halo of St Elmo’s Fire surrounds
it stands still for a short while before you
watching
you,
walking water with your bare feet
faith in dreams consistent in their constancy
that visit you when you are complete yet incomplete
holds out its hand to lead the way across
sharp burning rocks, now a desert, climbing mountains that are steep
a small life crumbles to powdered sand
more than 40 days silent gone astray
years the turning of untimed tides pretence
meets a haunting vision beckoning, new horizon, odd unclear
safe harbour left long ago,
lost in that ornery time, cursed by flying monkeys' bellows
of bloodletting and betrayal, stock still, standing amidst the shallows
somewhere along the way dark narcissus followed
what breaks over the bow
washes all stern fear away
sacred wings of albatross
ne’er to be sacrificed, no more night nor day
souls of ancient mariners
forever follow me, even when I stray
the rich baritone of bedtime stories
messages in code conveyed, I hear them still today
now swallows spooning spinnakers
running directly before wind and sea
the water turns to wine, much stranger the belief,
all manna of trust it feeds
bells tolling
no man’s an island entire of itself
in unusual reckonings
observing swimming hearts, that hear and see
the eyes that melt, this more curiously
in truth, the dream defends
messages eternal
life it never ends
tides move in and out
never alone when we begin
fata morgana
softly the moon ascends
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
VCB
Lux Vitae
5.5.10
"Under a splintered mast,
torn from ship and cast
near her hull,
a stumbling shepherd found
embedded in the ground,
a sea-gull
of lapis lazuli,
a scarab of the sea,
with wings spread—
curling its coral feet,
parting its beak to greet
men long dead."
("Talisman", Marianne Moore)
As Miss Luby watches from her window
a moving van backs up
the driveway across the street
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
its warning cry has a beacon-like effect
on the neighborhood
arousing interest from all corners
everything suddenly shaken awake
Even the squirrels stop, stock-still
save an occasional flick of the tail
Miss Luby's cat, also
watching from the window
pauses momentarily, paw suspended
before continuing to clean herself
And one by one, the other inhabitants
invent clever ways to investigate
without seeming obviously interested
Miss Luby's next-door neighbor, Fred
flits outside to water the plants
in his front flowerbeds, distractedly
soaking the sidewalk instead
While dotty old Mrs. Pappadopoulos
puffs along, pulling her little Pomeranian
up the street for a “walk”
slyly turning her head, rather owlishly
as she passes by
Silvia, Miss Luby's other next-door neighbor
is still in her housedress and can't go out
so she sends her three beastly little boys out
to play, knowing they will get the inside scoop
and sure enough, within forty-five seconds
they have accidentally-on-purpose
sent a toy airplane across the street
and spend the next half hour retrieving it
following the new neighbors
in and out like so many
playful puppies
Not to be left out
of the hullabaloo, the hoity-toity
housewife from two doors down
high-steps out to size up the new arrivals
over-casually strolling with
her beautifully bundled babies in tow
putting on quite a show
suddenly disappointed
realizing they're just common-folk
not the kind she wanted to know
All the while, the new neighbors
exhausted, amble in and out
of their new home
staggering
under stacks of small pieces
lumbering along
awkwardly lugging larger ones
A teenage boy
silently glides past on a skateboard
giving side-eye to the boring, middle-aged
couple- as he is nearly hit by a car passing by
driver distracted by the moving van
Laying in my cozy bed
And drifting off to dreams,
A sudden panic fills my head:
What if this isn't as it seems?
What if while I'm tucked in,
Slipping into sleep,
Giant monsters and their kin
Through the darkness creep?
I draw my hand back to me,
deep into my sheet,
Scared that if I leave it free
Something monstrous it'll meet!
It's not like this is new to me
When I'm alone in my abode.
Frightsome beasts I fear I'll see-
Is there one in the commode?
Sure, to you it's just a toilet
Standing stock-still in the loo.
But of my mind, when I fear and fret,
You haven't got a clue.
Yes, I know it's just machinery,
But maybe when I flush
Horrors will purvey the scenery,
Responding in a rush.
Eek! Stop talking! Wait, wait, wait!
What's that above our heads?
A rusty, musty AC grate,
Is that what you just said?
I know it's dust, I know it's shadow
Behind the grate's steel bars,
But looking up from down below
I see a face pockmarked with scars.
As I brush my pearly whites at night
I risk a glance up high,
And then I nearly die of fright
And soon begin to cry.
I see the face, still staring down,
Watching me brush my teeth.
Daddy runs in and looks around,
So I heave a sigh of relief.
He gets his tools, tells me to look,
And gently unscrews the grate.
I watch, see neither beast, nor crook,
Nor any evil trait.
After all this time, I've come to see
That I don't need to fear.
Creatures lurk not in shadows near me,
Nor every creak I hear.
I've come a long way, and I'll never go back
To how I was before,
When from every crevice, every crack
I feared beasties would pour.
What's that? It's time to go to bed?
Ok, I guess you're right.
But, um, well, before you go...
Would you please leave on the light?
Why is it called ‘The Binding of Isaac’
if it was Father Abraham’s Final Test
Isaac demanded to be bound to the altar
to lie stock-still ~ Father would do the rest
"Soul Contract - Part 1"
“I Am”. The All Seeing Eye. The Pineal Gland.
Perhaps God exists in all of us - the Great “I Am” exists in all of us.
Within all of us The Pineal Gland, The All Seeing Eye?
“I AM”.
Waiting there within us subliminal, covert, invisible
God’s been there all the time
A throne of hidden power for us to sit on, to be driven
Turn the key in the ignition
to another strange dimension
foot to the floor, hands on the wheel
change the gears up a notch
Drive out of this old skin and bone heavy body through
The Doorway to God?
Karmic Generation.
7 Colours in a Rainbow.
7 Dimensions on a rung
Ascending Jacob’s Ladder
Electric Golden shooting Souls,
Energy Light Beings now melting through the Centre of the Sun?
To reach the LIGHT one must have the DARK.
What if there is no light at the end of the tunnel -
what if what we truly see is the apodictic spark,
the Light emanating pure and strong is shooting out from us,
like high beam lights in an ever speeding car on a highway
and the Stag standing in shock, stock-still, eyes glowing bright in the headlights
in the middle of the road up ahead,
is our reflection like in a mirror that we’ve been forever travelling towards
and now is our moment to reach out and meet God above, in another dimension
perhaps this is pure sacred LOVE.
(Lovejoy-Burton/2017 Dec)
(1)
Genesis 32:22-31
(2)
http://www.stillnessinthestorm.com/2014/01/pineal-gland-referenced-in-bible-again.html
(3)
"When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me. For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known. And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is LOVE."
“Route 66” (Part 2)
The Wicked Old Witch stalked her, flying above
on her revved up battered old Peugeot Stick made from
twigs and oderous putrifying brown crud.
Up to this point all silent, the ugly old hag now cackled her passive abuse,
“You may have those Red Shoes Dot, but what matters to me you dim-witted dove,
is that, I now possess forever,
what you truly “most” Love.
Dot was dying bit by bit from the inside, but her fierce Warrior Spirit,
kept her soul burning with pride,
her head held up high,
however, at this point in the story, she wished she had a big gun loaded
with sharp deadly bullets of Bromargyrite.
Dot ignored the covetous old hag, pitied her, that much can be said,
you see, her brother the mindless Scarecrow, was bolted up tight, locked in a cold Tin Shed -
(punishment, his crime: “no brain in his head”);
Dot continued to soldier on forward,
kept up her Warrior’s stride
and thought of the moral in that story about one’s own bed,
there was nowhere to hide.
Dot now thought to look down at her magic sparkling shoes,
Ruby Red,
thought clicking them twice but what was the point,
all that was Home was now dead.
Dot took her eyes off her feet, with eyes now open wide,
she stood stock still, she noticed with pure horror,
clearly understood -
Toto, whom she loved “Most” of all
was missing, no more by her side,
nowhere to be seen
in this dark nightmarish neighbourhood.
A Lion came out of nowhere emerged from the mist,
Somewhere a tawny owl hooted “Who? Who? Is this now a tryst?”
He was holding his tail and a deck of Queens Slippers,
He purred ever so nicely, “Where to now Missus?
I’ve got your back. I’ll stay true.”
“How hard can that be,” he thought, “to dissolve all of her indigo blues?”
Somewhere in the background all foggy
but right on track,
ACDC was playing, that song,
you know the one,
“The Jack”.
(Lovejoy-Burton/Dec 2017)
Stock-still in gold dawn light while many sleep,
perched, scanning, on abandoned termite heap.
Expectant, skin tingles as in cold breeze
contrasting with the stillness of the trees.
The tracking beeper focuses our minds
as aerial picks target from behind.
Cheetah ten yards away now caught off guard
upwind of us, head cocked and staring hard.
Long looks exchanged,unspoken things are passed
and finally, spell broken, goes at last.
Reeling, those breathless minutes went so fast.
A memory of my time in Namibia, 2009, and the above
photo was taken by me. We nicknamed him 'Blackeye'. No fence between us. Awesome.
13th January 2016
For contest 'Spectacular Acrostic', by John Hamilton
On a cold winter’s morning
in the Wicklow mountains
a lone man stalks the land;
his hound shadows him.
He moves silently, swiftly,
approaching a clearing
where the pine forest gives way
to heather-covered hills.
Alert to movement,
he steps carefully into position.
His dog stands stock still, waiting;
its nose quivers
in the icy air.
He slips the rifle from his shoulder
moving to a tree
bare of branches.
Carefully he pulls the trigger,
the dog darts forward.
Dragging the carcass of a Sika
he walks through a forest
stripped of bark.
Trunks ooze with infection;
the reason for the cull.
He hears gunfire ahead.
‘Could be poachers.’
He investigates.
Poachers are the true vermin
in this environment.
They kill for money,
no respect for the species.
Stags beheaded, bodies remain,
inexperienced hunters,
the wounded animals suffer.
An animal lover,
he lives a solitary life
at his isolated cottage.
Keeper of the deer
deep within the mountains.
Under the sea foam and skipping on waves
while holding those regal heads up high;
their beauty is pure and their magic draws raves
into the deep under moonlit sky.
Many a ship filled with sailors and such
had witnessed the mystery of their dark eyes.
Some even swore they had felt a cold touch,
had stood stock still and become mesmerized.
Womanly body and tail of a fish
were what they remembered when telling their story.
Some even were granted their every last wish;
some quite overcome by tumultuous glory.
Those tales through the years grew from timid to strong
as men of all sorts recounted their fate;
meeting beautiful creatures who burst into song
and gathered at a most alarming rate.
You may doubt these tales but just watch the deep sea
and wonderment will surely fascinate you.
As waves overtake you you're suddenly free;
some glorious being sails you through the blue.
Dam you bastards with water; I think you all are coots
While I watch the weather everyday and plead for rain filled fronts
I’m not some greedy bastard, which wants to grow more grass
I need my stock to have a drink, and save their thirsty ****
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some greenie, with an axe to grind
In many areas our futures, are unbelievably intertwined
But for god sake, sit back and think, just how lucky that you are
Because all that water that you waste, well some comes from my jar.
I can’t but help, smile a wry grin, when the irrigation stops
As the whinging starts, about the loss in cash, as profit production drops
Your stock still have water, to pour straight down their throats
Water troughs filled to the brim, not erectile dysfunction floats
I see your places from the hill, circles of dark green crops and grass
Metal robots, pissing water, creatures born of greed; I have to sigh alas
There’s more to farming than factory farms and copious quantities of water
Deciding on paper, which animals must go, on the truck to slaughter.
So please forgive me when I wish on you, pestilence and misery
May your cereals wilt, stock get the shits, and your profits become history
I’m not some greedy bastard, of extra dry matter I have no need
If my stock just had clean water to drink, from my anxiety I’d be freed
It’s the silence war that’d always been fought
whether to say yes or no to the thought
Give it a try? It might hurt…
Stand stock-still? Nothing will divert
but at the end its experience they’d brought.
Published: Edge of Humanity Magazine
July 2026
________________________
So the tree stood in the centre of the desert
mangled by winds of change and truth of joy
chains of dust and torrents of rare rain
Burnt black and senseless by an
unrelenting Sun of nightmare beauty
orange was the sand of scorpions
orange was the mirage of miracles
orange was her veil of innocence
As the tree stank of heavenly myrrh
itched to pour its oil over orange
nippled breasts and buttocks
stroke curves and carves
of luminous beauty with its
ancient branches of stony bark
as beetles made holy love in its
crevices of dark deep velvet depth
And the mangled magic of the myrrh
stood short and stumped and watched
the breath of a timeless desert
slow movements of noble camels
with long thick lashes speaking of
magnificent slowness in the lick of lick
a lip in a lip
Tree of a thousand loves
sprinklings in sparkles spaced
over a tent of chiffon on sand
slithering with patterned serpents
and eyes of dark magic, of long
limbs all in One
twine and twine and grow together
as all become One
with myrrh and magic
heavy beads of sweat and
amber laugh and scream
Moments of a tree of ugly love
as ugly melts into vacant beauty
irresistible wordless wrinkles ageless
Deep furrows of sweet scent
sent desert creatures weeping
to smiling stars as a tree of life
stood stock still to imbibe
eternal myrrh itself
_____________________
The crisp-cut, full moon hung high in the sky,
Staring down upon him like a demon eye.
Through the foliage a column of moonbeam fell,
Pinning him in its center as a scream did expel,
Reverberating and echoing like a tolling bell.
Unknowing if it came from him or another,
He stood stock still, repressing a shudder.
At that moment on the outer edges of his sight
City light filtered through the trees like blight on the night,
Neither bettering or worsening his situation, place nor plight.
Forever followed by a malevolent being,
One so inconspicuous, rendering others unseeing.
Fear frozen, he listened, felt and silently stood,
Unable to tread and thread through the wood;
Though, with its open passage, anyone could.
Desolation and depression then danced in his head
Like the dust motes within the moonshine overhead;
Their swirl and twirl did hypnotized and hinder
Bringing forth his dark, death harbinger,
One composed of an inner specter.
Since flight proved futile, his pursuer closer than his heel,
He abruptly decided to embrace the ground and kneel.
Within his consciousness there was a drastic upheaval;
A sudden exhumation of pure, long-dead evil.
The metamorphosis complete; purity lost the fight.
He then strolled down toward the city light.
Acid reflux ~ 7:00 post meridiem September 24th, 2019
Ah... nothing more enjoyable than acidic gastric fluid flowing backward into esophagus, resulting in heartburn, disrupting pleasant dreams, nor unsure how successful literary endeavor crafting poem regarding aforementioned will yield.
While deeply asleep
during late afternoon siesta
above name named date/time,
yours truly immediately awoke
with a start, at strong violent
urge to upheap
I made little or no bowed peep,
but sat bolt upright stock still
tear ducts activated eyes
as if ready to weep.
Sadness less pervasive than fright
since reverse peristalsis uncommon
within body electric regarding plight,
which analogous volcanic eruption
albeit bubbling magmatic flow slight
reverse peristalsis found yours truly
on par with fire breathing dragon ar
goo ably momentarily nonplussed -
while dry cough minus gushing lava
gratefully only smoldered before sim
ring upper gastrointestinal tract did
allow, enable, and provide mouths
full of distilled water quench sudden
unquenchable thirst relieved result
ant unpleasant aftertaste (no pun
intended), yet distilling humor helps
me weather, manage, cope... with
unexpected physiological fee nom
mina - shot straight up within digest
heave tract, and did lament this rick
hitty packet of muscle and bone aft
times susceptible to disheartening
woebegone news afflicting this non
Norwegian bachelor farmer, whom
if the missus cooking triggered bout
unleashing bit torrent of unsavory
plate tectonics, perhaps indicative
of continental drift shrunk down to
miniature, where fault in thee stars
must be held in contempt of court
if for no other reason, I just wanted
to incorporate said phrase, tip here
me got some legal lear'n, when truth
Philly admits he seems to know less,
the he learns, which prompts me to
posit emphatically that ignorance iz
equivalent to bliss, thus presenting
quandary how kin this pronouncedly
reasonably intelligent garden variety
*****sapiens unfetter himself with
cumulative knowledge without reek
horse to invasive surgery such as...
prefrontal lobotomy, or te deum down
smarts some unknown cyber surfer(s)
could easily misconstrue as vainness,
smugness, quintessential pomposity?
A splatter of random color,
literally thrown on the canvas,
sold for two million dollars,
has it really come to this?
Somebody would shell out cash
for what is really a paint spill?
Perhaps they really ‘get it,’
I’m thankful that I don’t.
A naked man with a bear
painted upon his chest,
stands stock-still as he
blends in with all the rest.
They say that it’s ‘conceptual,’
the only concept I see
is that there’s always a fool
who’ll do anything for money.
A literal pile of human dung
decorated with three tooth-picks,
people stand and admire…
who can admire the smell of it?
They say that it’s a ‘vision,’
a ‘take that’ to the middle class.
If that's true I think I’d better
find those ‘middle’ folk fast!
A proud artist stands by
a rock with a green streak.
“Neo-naturocubist deconstruction,”
are the nonsense words he speaks.
Should I envy or hate him,
this pretentious Hipster man,
depends on if he believes it,
or knows it’s just a scam.
A canvas covered in black,
the centerpiece of the scene,
the thing they all came for,
this squarish, darkened screen.
I stare for a second,
hoping for something more,
I did better with black paint
on my old basement door.
I head home to my place,
and there up on the wall,
is a framed movie poster from
the greatest space opera of all.
They’d say it’s ‘crass’ and ‘commercial,’
and they may even be right,
but I’d pay more for this ‘hack-work’
then any of the crap I saw tonight.