Best Straight As An Arrow Poems
I hate
your brownness
your whiteness,
your blackness
your freeness
I don’t care about niceness
I’m more partial to meanness
I’m all the things bad
ugly and cruel
my venom pure evil
I’m partial to a fool
No one is safe
no not Christian or Jew
If you’re Buddhist or Muslim
I will hate you too
Richer or poorer
or shades in between
I will exploit your weakness
That’s always been my scene
Woman or man
Transsexual or gay
those straight as an arrow
they’ll all forget to pray
Fear and deception
are the tools of my trade
Sometimes the water looks calm
but it’s a trap I have laid
Love is the weapon
I most truly despise
Because it reveals who I am
and it opens your eyes
Egnehenots – of earth and stone
Chief elder – most wise upon the Salisbury Plain
an old man . . . loved deeply
revered father of the land
wakes before the sunrise
speaks with a clear wind voice
it is time . . . retniw ecitslos
The twelve bow . . . form together
three to a side
lift Otsego – clear water running
high in the air
in liturgical movements
move across the dark plain
whitlow grass . . . juniper shrubs . . . wild thyme . . .
sweeten the air
moss laden stones
soft upon leather-bound feet
Within the wind
haunting cries of the stone curlew
crested newts scramble for cover
the great bustard cuts the air with powerful wing beats
Ancient burial mounds appear
a sacred circle of life emergences
the procession stops . . . lowers
Egnehenots steps down, blesses the twelve
enters the holy inner circle alone
Laying his head against the mighty sarsens
begins to chant . . .
father of the blue stones
creator of the big sky light
upon these rocks I cling for your life
from sky, to earth let your love flow
On this holy day
your strength is once again revealed
wind and rain obey your commands
days, nights, seasons march to your song
how great and mighty is your power
Hear our cries upon the wind
absorb our tears upon the earth
our breath upon your mighty rocks
be now amongst your people
send forth the sun and rain
let the earth bring forth its riches
so that we may dance in your radiance
The sun breaks the horizon
Sending out shafts of lights
streaking across the sky
clouds turning purple then into shades of reds, oranges
a single ray of light strikes forth
straight as an arrow
illuminating the altar stone
connecting slaughter stone
and finally . . . the heel stone
Where
Where, an old man clings
A loud cheer explodes from the village
Food and wind flow – a celebration
A new year begins -
Rain clouds appear in the west
Egnehenots – of earth and stone
Love Generously
David Meade
12/8/2015
This is Mine, All Mine by Chuck Keys
Fall day, perfect,
Sunny brisk alive.
Filtered rays of sunlight.
Shimmering through semi barren trees
Almost skeletal
Scattered blown leaves
Patiently waiting their first winter freeze,
So - very serene, calm, barely a sound,
A bird or two chirping
Sounding lost,
Looking about ready.
There, a small sparse bush
Proudly showing a tiny new green innocent bud,
Nonchalantly waiting about.
His chance to grow,
Fading with shortened cooler days coming
On the trail, my dog,
At my front, back and
… side,
Protectively jumping, sniffing, flying, yelping
Majestically prancing about and over,
Manly pawing his ground,
Feeling heat from
The October daytime warmed earth
Dried decaying broken leaves of time fading,
In motion,
Wind behind his gate,
Cantering soundlessly but hard, manly
Racing airborne paws;
Panting with passion, drooling in chase,
Soaring gleefully effortlessly in-flight,
... off the ground
... leaping high, higher, highest
Endlessly into the wilderness,
On his ground. His movements
… echoing, uncontrolled.
The tamed beast; driven as ever,
Head locked rigid aimed forward, high, tongue draped aside out
Eyes opened squinting into the wind, starring affront
Nose twitching alive on fire in hunt,
Tail erect, straight as an arrow on
Legs in sync with one another, together
Body pulsing as one, muscles taught,
On guard, with pride and ownership.
He stops, panting eyes piercing,
… side to side, front to back
"This is mine, all mine" ... he says
... he says to his daddy.
The Fisher.
A flash of iridescent turquoise
Captured by rays of awakening sun
As a new day born has begun
Among the thickets and leafy sprawling trees
Weeds and reeds
Kissed by morning dew
Wildflowers proliferate with a pleasing hue
Thereby a sparkling trickling
Silver ribboned stream
Reflecting fragmented images of evergreen
Within the stillness and quiet site
A small darting bird takes flight
Following the streams perpetual flow
As swift and as straight as an arrow
The feathered jewel takes a rest
On a overhanging branch
Displaying it’s striking orange breast
The little fisherman
Waits patiently
For a careless little fish to swim by
And kiss the sky
Down the fisher plunges
Within a blink of an eye
Skilfully it captures
It’s silver treat
Dangling from it’s pointed beak
And swallows in a gulp
A jewel to behold in natures treasure chest
A Juvenile
From a sandy bank cosy nest
A joy and pleasure to behold.
Peter Dome©2019.
Oh gracious mother of waters
beautiful woman has come
queen of joy pleasing to thy king
Oh green eyed silent beauty
Voice as sweet as a kind heart
Eye brows as straight as an arrow
Oh great mediator of divine
Fingers coated with melted gold
Shaped with a swan like neck
Oh princess among many others
Resolute cheeks steady as gaze
Gleaming hair with black locks
Oh goddess as capable as a king
lips as bright as berry fondant
Eyes outlined with silver glimmer
Oh daughter dark and comely
Legs long like the harvestman
Waist as round as a circle
Oh queen of beauty and devotion
Won respect in history of goddess
As most beautiful in your time
Remembered for beauty and power
Dear Jonathan you seem more refined than most
Were you appointed spokesperson to fill a post
I'm the Canadian equivalent
I'm really quite magnifient
When it comes to public speaking I can't help but boast
Well don't be shy you should blow your own trumpet
Need to show these guys we ain't just some puppets
Got savy galore
Taking over the floor
To the applause of many causing smiles by the bucket
Now don't get me wrong John, I'm straight as an arrow
It's my humble attempt to prove I'm really not shallow
My breath is strong
As I lead them in song
And they keep throwing me money by the barrel
So John, this is not one of those “Dear John” letters
Trust me, this little limerick is a whole lot better
To acknowledge your talents
Won't call you a savant
Though on Poetry Soup you're image is unfettered
Enough is enough, mustn't cause too much laughter
For fear you might think it's your body I'm after
On my mama's grave
It's only friendship I crave
Okay I admit writing this while a bit plastered
© Jack Ellison 2015
Fast river on my thighs, an act of god.
The soft silvery arc of the sun caught line,
the swish and the wish of the long fly rod,
the singing of the line and the reels whine
and whipping back, line stripped off and out.
Line tightening strike! Straight as an arrow
from the bow of the rod to the Sea Trout
The fisher fights footing in the shallows.
And yet, as he struggles to win the match
the fish fights for life. Where does my heart lie?
Splash, sudden slack. Freedom! No more the catch.
Coffee cool in my tight right hand, I sigh.
And an untouched sandwich in my left hand
with fresh cucumber and salmon, canned.
I opened the top drawer of my mind
and carelessly took out some words.
I threw them about with little thought
of where or on whom they might land.
Many bounced when they hit becoming scattered and lost;
Some stuck like burrs holding fast where they fell;
A few jabbed like barbs causing prickling and itching;
One flew straight as an arrow into the heart of a friend.
But I was amused at myself and filled with conceit,
there in the midst of an admiring crowd.
Caught up in the wonder and pride of it all
I gave no thought to the missiles I'd fired.
But wait, the crowd grew quiet, and
suddenly I knew something was wrong!
They were all looking at me with disbelief and fear;
then the circle parted and I gazed on a terrible scene.
My words had become visible, each ugly one of them,
glinting and mocking me everywhere I looked.
I ran from the crowd, from their jeering delight
thinking only one thing, disappear, disappear.
It was then I saw my friend.
Fighting for breath and losing the fight;
impaled and dying on my careless word.
I cried, "Oh my dear God. Please, what have I done!"
And I ran to my friend saying, "please, please hold on."
Then I opened the bottom drawer of my mind
and carefully, so carefully took out some words.
I carried them to my friend and gently held them out
hoping, praying that they would be enough.
My friend lived that day, no thanks to me,
and forgave me for my awful deed.
But oh what I'd give if I could recall
that word and the pain that it brought.
To you who, like I, have been careless in your talk,
take care what you say, set a watch on your tongue.
Else you too some day will see effects you never meant
from words you can't get back, ever.
Submitted 5 Sept 16
Taking the Top Off the Bottom
Have a goal of taking your piece of the world apart,
Taking on, as many as you can, life’s kluges and quirks,
Buy a ticket to the reach the matter’s heart,
Aim to see how the inside works.
It takes imagination, the trajectory of a dart,
To see what is obscured, what lurks,
Shedding light on life’s gremlins’ starts,
Ending demons that drive us berserk.
But though it takes aerodynamic parts,
Be straight as an arrow or your effort won’t work,
Anything has a cause-effect mart,
Paying the asking price certainly irks.
Not paying is like swallowing a quart,
Of 100 proof liquid moonshine murk.
Getting beneath the muddy bottom is an art,
That teaches how to use a scalpel and dirk,
And to be alert, and Heaven knows we need more lerts
I think I’ll just stare at the wall for a while,
painted in latex, light beiges and creams
Searching for nail holes in random-like patterns,
counting the cracks that appear at the seams
Glance at the baseboard, an alternate color,
maybe a calendar hung from a hook
Red and blue dates with a few of them circled,
months of the year hanging there as I look
Gaze at an outlet, it’s face made of plastic,
switches that point to the fixture they light
Dark jagged lines by a chair that is rubbing,
corners and ceilings and floors all fit tight
Seeing the texture and shapes it’s creating,
abstract illusions as faces appear
Near the reflection of blinds from the window,
illumined distortions that aren’t really clear
Flat as a pancake, not sure if that matters,
straight as an arrow, hey that’s kind of cool
Strong as an ox, that is one man’s opinion,
he was the carpenter wielding the tool
Funny, but while I am sitting here staring,
it seems that it is now staring at me
It doesn’t blink, never changing expression,
making me wonder just what does it see
I shouldn’t worry, it’s merely a structure,
sheet rock and lumber supporting the roof
Something to separate one from another,
see for yourself if you really need proof
So….
That is my day if you happen to wonder,
pen in my hand amidst office decor
Jotting some lines that are found in the boredom,
perhaps next time I will stare at the door
Oh gracious daughter of Aye
beautiful woman has come
queen of joy pleasing to thy king
Oh green eyed silent beauty
Voice as sweet as a kind heart
Eye brows as straight as an arrow
Oh great beauty of Aton
Fingers coated with melted gold
Shaped with a swarm like neck
Oh princess among many others
Resolute cheeks steady as gaze
Gleaming hair with colored locks
Oh woman as capable as a man
lips as bright as berry fondant
Eyes outlined with silver glimmer
Oh daughter dark and comely
Legs long like the harvestman
Waist as round as a circle
Oh queen of beauty and devotion
Won respect in history of women
As most beautiful in your time
Remembered for beauty and power
Its handle, darkened with age,
had split from bottom end up.
It’s necessary to hold it together,
with a tight grip,
while striking the nail.
“I bought this in Montana,” he said,
holding up the hammer he was using
to repair my wisteria trellis.
“Whoa,” I said.
“Can you still use it?”
“Watch,” he said,
driving nails into wood.
He looked at me in triumph,
hand extended toward the trellis arm,
now straight as an arrow.
His eyes spoke to me,
not of an old hammer's worth,
but of his own un-laureled vitality,
the promise,
and the permanence of love.
West Virginian Mountaineer, hill country free,
Born down in a holler to folks of dirt po means.
Heard wind blow wave ‘er wave o’er regal mountain peaks.
Fed on cornpone, biscuits, country gravy, and beans.
White mist over each peak a crown of majesty.
In rich valley below, unique person dwelt.
Admired sprawling mountaineer family tree.
Anyone not ‘bon up ’thar in the hills was suspect.
Ran like a deer, strong as a bear, eyes like a hawk.
Had speck of earth’s riches: smidgen from modern store.
Used outhouse year 'round, often times in the dark!
Worldly things rated low; Evermore got high score.
Shot rifle straight as an arrow flying through the air,
As ray of sunshine finds its way through leafy trees.
Had the stealth of bobcat leaving his secret lair,
Could seek up on someone; unaware presence there.
Honored no pass signs around moonshiner’s grove.
Words sounded odd to some; "Whar, thar, airish out ‘har.
Folks growed "tabaccer, lit oil lamp and wood stove.
Misjudged as brainless; mind could ace lawyer’s bar.
Volunteered one day while wearing worn out jeans.
Proud to be a soldier, as ancestry of yore.
Eager to serve country; had just turned nineteen.
Sent off to hostile land; part of medical corps.
Ten soldiers died when compound was hit one night.
Each one was honored; a national hero.
Military honors; flags, taps, and over flights.
One from West Virginia; Marine, Megan Marlow.
Oh...and hello
to you, some hours past, I
returned from counseling,
(hence this boy yent -
albeit beastie boy
figuratively basking
in fading afterglow)
great kickstarter session,
countless moments ago,
sans treatment plan,
she facilitated emotional airflow
i.e. Stephanie Dodds,
(sat straight as an arrow)
whereat this client purged, avow
hid lee, his psycho
logical reflux backflow
(Matthew Scott Harris) did crow
as said professionally trained
medicine woman actively listened,
(no doubt other male patients
similar to yours truly entertained
(alignment with see
thing hormonal concurrence,
where ego super vies iz
Id dee hot - hook line, and sinker
attributed to Sigmund Freud,
who sired, midwifed, and fathered
psychoanalytic theories)
sexual kindled fantasies,
viz being bedfellow
this soul, hood doth not bellow,
but keeps mum
(during my allotted time),
yet willingly shares
with utter strangers
intimate gal olive
hunt ting fantasy,
that doth beshadow
obviously no intent to breach
such prurient thoughts, bestow
foolscap upon mine noggin,
and most definitely blow
future appointments
with aesthetically pleasing
(tomb maa cryptic) bowwow
wing hot diggity
dog inner primate, perhaps,
and not surprisingly get brow
beaten, where dire
erect tor of facility
wilt hell me
"go take a hike to
penile solitary bungalow,"
where all manner of
libidinous desires wanna burrow
(where warren peace
can thrive hare and now),
on par with rabbit - burr reader,
which confinement would
not principally peter out
till dawning transgression vetted,
and avered final cockrow
trumpeted, norte - til last cornrow
reaped, hence unable
to thwart counterblow
permanently, doth nada
different she hate
lustful zeal from eye
dims sum – genital fateful dayglow,
thence high lee
grant ting deathblow
to testosterone laden satiety,
randy proclivity, and
concupiscent adoration from
combine nation of #endow
ments to ghost of - Grant
yule leases eyebrow
raising candy cane upon fallow
da weeder foreshadow
wing sowing field of poetically
wet dreams plying fecund,
feminine, and fertile ground
godaddy on his gangplow.
If I were straight as an arrow, or gay
as a songbird; then I'd consume the time,
exhaust “carpe diem,”—and thus seize the day!
For life's too short; and youth's brief paradigm,
like the spring season, is much more fleeting
than young love (a fact that's best left unknown).
So, you see that I'm not above cheating
fate: growing old and wise is overblown.
Just as wisdom is wasted on the old,
so is youth and love wasted on the young
(as they say): so, if being gray is like gold
in one's twilight years, then my cock's well-hung!
For what's there more to say? Life's just too hard
and short: so make much of its brief reward.