Best Sulphur Poems
A pregnant lass with eyes of glass had never learned to cope;
once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp’ry slope.
She fled the curse of worlds perverse by shooting shots of dope,
and stalked discreet’ Asylum Street her daily horoscope.
The stray was struck by passing truck which was her only hope.
Well, Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire:
“The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire
(born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire)
for no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require;
though faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar,
infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire.
Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her -
whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood are spattered on the spire;
though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer.”
Though broken there, she’s fled the snare with dying thoughts serene.
And now she’s dead, the rumours spread: her age? a sweet 16,
with child, unwed, her soul stained red, her body so unclean.
A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes,
in limey pits, as well befits, behind forbidding screens;
and all the while a dirge is styled on tattered tambourines
which echo through the human zoo in valleys of the Queens.
Without rejoice, in hissing voice, near soil that’s seldom trod
“In pious role, God bless my soul”, was mouthed with mitred nod,
(the twisted grin seemed dark and thin behind the robed façade).
“She’ll burn in hell with sulphur smell”, spat Priest and man of god.
Well, angels sweet with cloven feet, they sing in girl’s attire,
but Banjo Boy, he’s playing coy while chanting in the choir:
“The clueless search within the church to find what they desire,
but near the nave or gravelled grave, there is no Rectifier.”
And when he’s through, without ado, he stacks some stones nearby her.
When the night wind changes course
sending breezes from the north,
when farmer's fields lie brown and fallow
and empty ropes swing from the gallows,
when children's faces are drawn and gaunt
and earth-bound spirits wail and haunt,
when eagles scan the barren snow
and field mice shiver deep below,
The dragon stirs deep in his lair,
the townfolk sense him with despair,
the mountain rumbles as he wakes,
he spreads his wings, the valley quakes.
He snorts and breathes a sulphur fire
and eyes his cache with dark desire,
gold and gemstones line his cave,
a sea of diamonds with emerald waves.
The trees are black against the snow,
one warrior stands to face his foe,
chain mail clanking, his sword is honed,
he goes to face his fate alone.
Fire breathing, wing-spread vast,
the warrior is at first aghast,
the dragon's chest and stomach, too,
shine with gems of multi-hues.
He'd slept so long upon his loot,
he wore a jewel-encrusted suit.
He saw the warrior's weapon glint
and chuckled at this innocent.
The dragon swooped and breathed his breath,
the warrior smelled the scent of death.
Many times the dragon dove
and set aflame the fields and groves.
Lost in this game, he gave no thought
to the warrior who mattered naught,
and as the dragon flew by low
the warrior drew his mighty bow.
The bow and arrows were Elfen-hewn,
inscribed with words in ancient runes.
The warrior held his breath and aimed
and steeled himself against the flames.
The dragon saw the arrow cocked
and turned his head, their eyes were locked.
The arrow's flight was straight and true,
into the dragon's eye it flew.
The warrior was elected king,
he wore fine jewels and heavy rings,
but though he tried, he found no peace,
he'd formed some strange bond with the beast.
The corpse was plucked clean of its jewels
and all the people danced like fools,
though he was king of hill and glen,
they never saw him smile again.
When nature takes a turn for the worst
grumbling rumbles shakes
great balls of fire falling
in her tears black snowfalls
Burning smell of sulphur burns
rolling down the mountains molten lava
they salute death rivers of flames
the chariots of Hell's fire
Crying infants wailing out mercy
embraced in their mothers arms
held together with fathers
They roared to the Gods for help
falling silver ashes remains
Imagining God had forsaken them
as the skies disappeared from their eyes
falling into the darkening death vision
Their universe plunged into darkness
Victims they felt death falling upon them
A deadly feeling they are the children
cursed by the damned volcano
No where to run
No where to hide
They stop and the black ash swallows them
like a carpet of night forever gone
but always remembered in hearts
the fall of a great city in living history
truly lives forever in the archives of our time
I would be the Celtic gladiator
Be still, can you hear the drum, the drum
Hear it beat like a heart in the heavy night
Hold on to your soul, for the dead are come
To look to the living for light
Ashes and sulphur, blood on stone
Lavender, lilies, and roses blown
Out of the mist, they come, they come
Through the slip of a stitch in the hazy veil
With their feet all bare, and their faces pale
The dead come, crying for light
Lavender, lilies, and roses blown
Ashes and sulphur, blood on stone
Out of the past they come, they come
From the shadowy halls of history
From the battlefield, and the hungry sea
The dead come, crying for light
Ashes and sulphur, blood on stone
Lavender, lilies, and roses blown
Out of the earth they come, they come
From the cold of the grave at midnight’s bell
From the harrowing heat of the fires of hell
The dead come, crying for light
Lavender, lilies, and roses blown
Ashes and sulphur, blood on stone
Out of the dark they come, they come
With their winding sheets and their cobweb hair
With their violent curses and innocent prayer
The dead come, crying for light
Ashes and sulphur, blood on stone
Lavender, lilies, and roses blown
Out of their minds they come, they come
Who are lost in the maze of space and time
Who are seeking the grace of a love sublime
The dead come, crying for light
Lavender, lilies, and roses blown
Ashes and sulphur, blood on stone
Be not a-feared when they come, they come
Be as still as you can, and touch them not
Show them the way to the light forgot
Love them, and let them be
Be gone
In to the light they go, they go
To the glow at the end of the tunnel’s gloom
To the source of the scent of the rose’s bloom
In to the light they go
© Gail Foster 30th October 2016
THE NEW JERUSALEM
THE FIRST STANZA
Have thou ever seen such a concordance?
A new relation between man and beast
For beyond these hostile hills lies a place where the boisterous Bacchus feast
Imagine the fruits of Adam grow on a common tree
Where all would merry, ebony and ivory
Slave and free
Imagine the seven rivers meet at a widen strait
For today good has triumph over evil
Love burns up hate
The New Jerusalem is not a truce between Zion and Arabia.
Nor is it the fall of another great wall
It is not the end to man’s vicious battles fought with monstrous infernos, sulphur and thunder
But it encompasses all
THE SECOND STANZA
Have thou ever seen such an enterprise?
Where the stars would rejoice
For the lachrymal clouds would start to sing and dance at the slightest hearing of the voice
Oh! Pure ecstasy! Elysium devour me please
For a lamb has made it so
Imagine a land replenished with trees, gardens and lakes
Where untold pearls and diamonds grow
Imagine the Pandora’s box once unlocked now thrown into its abysmal grave
For a thousand pieces of silver, gold and mace
Is no equal to the deeds of the brave
The New Jerusalem is not the new –found romance between Babylonia and the Eagle.
Nor is it the coalescence of Prussia
It is all that is said and will be said
And not the rebirth of Russia
By Akanbi Olusegun
Copyright 2003.
I was Second Lieutenant of the Army Nurse Corps,
At Pearl Harbour when it was attacked and bombed;
I was in my room at the nurses’ quarters, a store,
Near Tripler Army Hospital, six miles from le monde.
At about 8:20am the on-call nurse called me,
Said Pearl Harbor was being attacked, grave concern,
She looked out and said something was strange, really,
“There is an awful smell…a lot of noise,” we did discern.
So I decided to walk to the hospital, ten minutes flat,
Bt as I stepped out the quarters, had an awful feeling,
No gardenias or hibiscus to sent my nose in a bat,
Just the odour of sulphur and burning oil, and buzzing.
Upon reaching the hospital, I saw twenty stretchers,
All with injured men, lined up, each with bloody wounds,
Some with an M on their foreheads for morphine, etchers:
I was an anaesthetist, and was commended at the sounds.
The chief of surgery turned to me and he did say,
“Madelyn, if we are hit, I want to say to you that,
It is a pleasure to have worked with you,” hey, hey,
“You are a good anaesthetist”, and I accepted that.
But I just replied, “I know God knows we did nothing,
To deserve this, I am putting my trust in him”;
And caring for the wounded took days, also the dying,
And our emergency rooms were schools and a kitchen.
We were very short of bandages, medicines for repair,
Totally unprepared for the hundreds of casualties,
But we did the best we could do with our work and fare,
And blood was donated day and night, no apologies.
In words deeply cased lead makes no mistake
held by one hammer hitting home
dropping through the threads of a barrel
smoking time words hotly fused within polished fire
Strikes the target truth into the heart of justice
pained no longer blind suffering fates path
it all makes sense in the end looking at four walls
reading the writings feeling a coldness in some
Getting a grip through spiritual reality
where ghosts hold no body exists to breathe
deceivers will fall like lightening sulphur based
when the bolt finally strikes them down being honest
Once upon a time,
When love knew –
No bounds and shackles
We dwelt in Eden
Then, the genesis of the ego
Spewed wide open Pandora’s Box
And its burdens and horrors
All, adventurously, flew forth
Now all humanity is in wake
Of a teardrop they await
Straight from heaven’s gates
Pondering over the Lord’s grace
But lead and sulphur,
Stirred in a lake – do burn
Where all hell is unleashed
Upon the earth from beneath.
your moment of concentration
has me mesmerised
I'm no longer a poet ~
just a fool with unuttered longing
this day already drew its close
but I can steady my weary gaze
settle it upon you
all but your beauty ebbs away ~
I look on with tired eyes
"lit by a match"
I'm half dreaming ~
my favoured state
and you
within arm's reach
as I drift aloft
caught between the shadows and smoke
that swirl together
one last time
Inspired by The Sulphur Match by John Singer Sargent
Watch existence burn; see vermilion flames flicker in my eyes
Whilst you stand amongst the ashes and bones of what was never meant to be.
Inhale the murky smoke of contempt,
Choke on particles formed from your contrition.
Feel the accelerating heat scorch distressed flesh.
Quiet—lest my demons hear you scream.
Perched, waiting to devour
A soul so frigid, frostbite seeps from your stagnant veins.
Mercy is nowhere to be found.
Hysterical laughter escapes from my broken lips
As you writhe in pain, trying to escape.
Vines of razor-wire belladonna barricade;
The hunter is now wholly ensnared.
Visions of the past materialize like static,
Disrupting the penultimate bits of your sanity.
Microscopic questions flow rapidly:
Is this version of reality just a delusion,
Disrupting the very fabric of time?
Or are you suffering for your incompetence?
The smell of sulphur grows stronger with each thought.
Through melting breezes, the Pied Piper plays
Such sweet music—wrath’s revenge.
The Devil’s Inferno is calling you home.
— A Study in What Remains—
October had already entered the house before anyone mentioned the cold,
the windows breathing faintly at their corners while the kettle delayed
its answer, and every autumn afterwards I remembered that kitchen first,
before the illness, before the visitors, before my father's chair had learnt
to remain where no one pulled it out, for really it began years earlier,
with the empty matchboxes he never threw away, each of them keeping
one match inside, never two, never none, and when I asked why
he smiled as though I had mistaken the question, saying only
that an empty thing should never be completely empty, then reaching
for the newspaper, folding it once before reading because the crease
was already there, while outside the pear tree gave up its fruit
without giving up its leaves, and the postman always closed the gate
with his elbow although both hands were free, details that seemed
to belong more faithfully to the afternoons than to the people themselves,
until years later, clearing the drawer beneath the clock after my father
had gone, I found the little row of matchboxes pushed against the back,
their labels faded into one another, each still holding its single match,
the sulphur untouched, the wood unblackened, and without thinking
I struck one against the side of the oldest box,
expecting only the brief obedience of fire,
but the head broke away,
dropping soundlessly
among the others,
where every remaining match
was still waiting
for the one
that had never been meant
to burn.
"HUMAN"
WE are stardust
CHNOPS
6 essential
building blocks
Carbon
Hydrogen
Nitrogen
Oxygen
Phosphorus
Sulphur
somewhere Cobalt and Gold
On the stockmarket
we could be worth
$46 million each and sold
for what our body contains
Bone Marrow
Heart
Lungs
Kidneys
Brain
Eyes
and
DNA...
and then some
literature relays;
53% water, salt tears
oceans’ memory
ancient and old
4.5 billion years
with an error range
of 50 million years
or so, we’re told -
Chemical elements
different atom types
created during a
Supernova explosion
a brilliant point of light
the death of a star
that has reached the
end of it’s life
the DEATH of a star
created from a point
of LIGHT
distributes and
gives BIRTH to life.
A Supernova burns
only for a short period
of time
life and death
death and life
Electric particles
Souls of Light
from a Universal womb
rushing through
a molecular wormhole
to commence all
over again
in another body
of solid matter
covering
electric particles -
bodies that are shells
containing beings of light
life and death
death and life
ashes to ashes
dust to Stardust
We are human
LIGHT IS LIFE
(Lovejoy-Burton/2018 Jan)
Steal young almonds
Under the full moon
As spring fades
Now, Railroad Bob has lost his job, he’s got no place for working,
His wife, she cries with desperate eyes, their baby’s head’s a’ jerking.
The union man don’t give a damn, Big Brother lies a’ lurking,
the boss’ in cabs are picking scabs, they count their money, smirking.
A pregnant lass with eyes of glass has never learned to cope.
Once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp’ry slope -
she casts the Curse, the Holy Verse, and shoots a shot of dope,
and stalks discreet Asylum Street her daily horoscope -
the stray was struck by random truck which was her only hope.
Well, Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire:
“The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire.
Born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire
where no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require;
where faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar,
Infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire.
Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her -
whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood are spattered on the spire;
though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer.”
Though broken there, she’s fled the snare with dying thoughts serene.
And now she’s dead, the rumours spread: her age? a sweet 16,
with child, unwed, her soul dyed red, her body so unclean.
A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes,
in limey pits, as well befits, behind forbidding screens;
and all the while a dirge is styled on tattered tambourines
which echo through the human zoo in valleys of the Queens.
Without rejoice, in hissing voice, near soil that’s seldom trod
“In pious role, God bless my soul”, was mouthed with mitred nod,
neath scarlet trim with black, and grim, behind a robed facade -
“She’ll burn in hell and sulphur smell”, spat Priest and man of god.
Well, angels sweet with cloven feet, they sing in girl’s attire,
but Banjo Boy, he’s playing coy while chanting in the choir:
“The clueless search within the church to find what they desire,
but near the nave or gravelled grave, there is no Rectifier.”
And when he’s through, without ado, he stacks some stones nearby her.
Continued
I write this bouncy little tune
With a flouncy ickle fume
My poems are the best
In the world
I rock the planet more than
Mountains and hills
Indeed, I am orf me rock
Except for sulphur dioxide
Volcanoes erupted in Washington
So did a drug culture
I nearly forgot what an excellent poem
Writer that I am
Insane, yes
Real, no
The bells won't stop ringing
In the church
Flow chart, box chart
Insane brain chart
Money, by golly
I'm rich
Lottery money, the dough just rises and rises
Carbon Dioxide
Lovely summer, autumn and winter
Ahhhhh memories of home
Enjoy