Best Throats Poems
Within reason
lies a house full of ordinary
a chest of bland memories.
You end up with
a pocketful of might have beens.
Within reason is five square feet of grass
and the proverbial white picket fence,
nothing else.
The word 'important'
never makes it onto the page.
Nothing"within reason" was ever found
that didn't already have its place.
When u abandon
Reason
you also abandon
Impossibilities.
the brother of reason
The one needs the other
two heads of the same dragon.
One breathing fire and brimstone
the other living without hope.
They never live separately
they are siamese twins.
The ying and yang of yesteryears.
They had a reason with a hint of possibility
They had something,
something maybe,
at best something insignificant.
But imagine what waits
when you eliminate 'impossible.'
In the darkest dark
within the scream of 'don’t',
inside the insanity of abandoning reason
it is there you'll find
that decaying flesh infested with worms
it is there where the round wheel was found.
You use a black shovel
through the bone
into the skull
through the brain
along the heart
into the gut.
There lies that fine line between insanity and genius
but THERE is where you have to go.
To get there you abandon reason.
Abandon the dogma shoved down your
throats all these years.
Glide on the wild side.
Show your body hair.
Expose your fangs.
Lights, camera, DANCE!
Sometimes you have to let
the morning have its way,
set out its wide sunlit spaces
like a tablecloth upon your silence,
speak to you softly in the sound
of leaves, bright with the flush
of spring. There is much to tell,
the stories of its winter dreaming,
waking to a warming sun,
desires erupting in flower
and fruit.
As a child I listened
to the almond trees clack
their naked limbs all winter long
until late august when the first
blossoms broke into the chilly air
with their white whispers
and perfumed breath hushed out
of pink throats. It was my eucharist,
trees donning their green vestments
plump with promises.
I must make space in myself
to receive the sacraments of creation,
have a reverence for what comes
forth to speak a name
in all that is born, lives and dies
and reflects a beauty
to which I can be blind to
in the bloat of myself.
Sonnet I
In realms of emerald hush where sunlight strains.
Through veils of green. A silent throng takes root.
A clovered congregation on the plains
Their stoic forms a timeless lushful loot.
No melodies from throats unseen they sing.
No pleas for mortal ken their silence breaks.
Yet in their rooted quietude they bring
A symphony for Nature's gentle stakes.
From dust they rise, by unseen hands embraced
To greet the dawn's first kiss, a deep-green dream.
Unfurling fronds that grasp the sun's warm face...
A silent pact with life's sidereal stream.
No eyes behold the light their essence drinks
No lips confess the air for which it thinks.
Sonnet II
Through fragrant whispers secretly softly pass
On unseen currents borne a cryptic lore
A web of messages that dance like grass.
A wisdom! newly sworn on Nature's floor -
No clash of arms? no battles fought in vain.
Yet messages they send on silent wings...
A language dovetailed deep, a copious chain,
A bond that knows no end, the green world sings.
With patient strength... they pierce the earth's cold hold.
A testament to will unyielding. Strong!
Unmoved by tempests' raging fury bold,
Their roots like anchors grip where they belong.
A silent war against the storm's harsh might.
A battle fought unseen, in verdant light.
Corona
A quiet war in bright green
A song for animals and plants
Listen to people in every green leaf.
No songs from hidden throats they sing.
Through fragrant, sotto voce... secrets softly pass
Their stoic forms a timeless lushful loot.
Couplet
A lesson composed in green, a truth to glean.
Where verdant nature creates and wisdom sings.
Not to be taken lightly, I burnt all my clothes
Cut the tattoos off my back, tore pins from my nose
Foraged for food particles, where wild beasts reposed
Lapped water vapour off thorns, when the thirst arose
My identity gone, I herded mountain goats
Built a makeshift altar, one by one, slit their throats
Looking to the heavens, chanting primeval quotes
Tell me what to do, this sacrifice I devote
But silence returned, I knew nothing else mattered
The goats now all dead, my hands blooded and spattered
A local tribe watched on, their souls not so shattered
Idolised me, then to the four winds they scattered
After two score and ten, they returned unforetold
Carrying symbols, textbooks, diamonds, and gold
Smiling in joy, I asked what stories they behold
All wrote versions of my life in books, but mistold
Some had butchered nations, said it was in my name
Others brainwashed little children, feeling no shame
The rest knocked on doors, telling lies they heal the lame
Scamming billions of sesterces, their one true aim
I condemned the lies, but was a very bad call
They burst into laughter, and pointed to their haul
Just then everything made sense, as I do recall
Killing goats made me, the biggest scapegoat of all
He served as a deacon in his church and was as pious as they come.
(But on the side, he sold whiskey from a thirty-gallon drum!)
He taught the junior high Sunday school class and was a Bible scholar.
(But on the side, he 'stilled' moonshine way back up in the holler!)
He was faithful in tithing ten percent of his ill-gotten gain.
(For his John Barleycorn he used only the best obtainable grain!)
He occupied the same pew every Sunday listening with attentive ear.
(It was rumored about that he also brewed some very potent beer!)
He proffered an "amen" at appropriate times and wore a suit and tie.
(He was renowned throughout the county for his very delectable rye!)
His tenor voice blended well when singing, "I Love Thy Kingdom, Lord."
(On back roads he did a bit of bootlegging in his hopped-up V-8 Ford!)
He was the first to offer succor to widows, orphans and others left bereft.
(He'd run his still for years - at evading "revenooers" he was very deft!)
When folks were needed to serve on committees he was first to volunteer.
(When asked his occupation he replied, "I'm a 'Spirit'ual Engineer!")
At Yuletide he was generous with the parson giving him a beef, cash and pork.
(At the annual church picnic he surreptitiously passed a bottle to uncork!)
There couldn't be found a finer saint in all of Boondock County, Kentucky.
(He'll continue to "minister" to parched throats thereabouts - if he's lucky!)
Entry for Tania Kitchin's "Primiere Trophy Contest" Contest
This poem is worthy of a Primiere Trophy since it won First Place in the Poetry Soup International Poetry Contest in April 2011. (Won $50 and an Outstanding Poetic Achievement Certificate).
We swallow boulders:
(lead words, molasses covered prejudice, glass shards of promises long broken)
Mouths open wide and heads tipped back
like Hawaiian fire eaters.
Chipped teeth are bits of porcelain history,
sliding down our throats in rivers of neglect
and acid.
The stones settle,
BOOM...
BOOM...
BOOM...
Our stomachs are filled up, anvil weight
'till we can hardly sit, hardly stand, or walk.
We drag our feet in pain, as the quiet indicator that
we've had rocks for breakfast,
lunch, dinner, for years,
in the hopes that someone will recognize
the broken concrete footprints behind us
and touch us gently on the forearm:
"Honey, are you alright?"
(and isn't it the first sweet trickle of kind words that crumble
the already cracking facade?)
There's no stopping the torrent then,
tsunami tears and a heaving, convulsing
to the point of cathartic vomit-
boulders of every shape and size
tumbling out of our mouths and filling the room;
broken teeth and granite eyes
until we no longer see the floor, the walls...
And then serenity.
The hand has moved to the shoulder,
forming a universal hug.
"I'm here now... and you're ok."
We stand up, together, and leave that room,
a soundless void of yesterday,
to absorb the impermeability of stones,
carrying our gait buoyant, without gravity.
No weight at all now, and barely a second glance,
but to turn out the light - and lock the door behind us...
Beautiful Disaster
There she is
Silhouette in the night
Lights glimmer, as fame simmers
She is all of my desires
She is all of my fires
Here I am wet
Flooded with pain
There she is dry
As a desert rain
Her beauty rouge bleeding into my soul
I wash my hands
I wash my meaningless life
Of sins and woes
Alcohol in the sails
As I fade to seas far away
She at my feet
Singing her lovers lullaby
Me in the wind
Of sadness’s despair
The air soon to confess a sin
All my life, no lover in the morning bed
No future for a chance to wed
There she is now so devoted
Yet here we both are so bloated
Throats cut and floating
On a rivers dream
Wide the mirrored water stretched,
licking green upon the pointed pines, limbs sweeping low and cool.
The creek meandered, soft giggles escaping mossy rocks
where polliwogs swam, nearly, but not quite frogs, still sporting pubescent tails;
the adults pontificating against the shallow bank,
throats swollen with amphibious wisdom.
Soft brown mud squished, a buttered cream,
between summer toasted toes wading into wonder.
Fragrant evening campfires heightened hungers,
supper roasting over charred coals flavored
the stirrings of a tempting crush on a boy much older;
this girl just barely navigating puberty's powerful push,
his smile extracting heightened pulse, blush brushed.
Life's long summer slipped slowly away
and autumn found his wife and child laying him down,
the plot unknown, unmarked by me;
yet, painful, still, the memory of broken trust,
of love-crust pitched to a not quite woman
deep in the rusting woods of Timberland.
Copyright, February 14, 2016
I have come to the point of decision
And I have decided in favour of love
Wisdom is not solely measured by experience
But more by capacity for it
I have glimpsed deep into history
I have sieved through its successes
...for the soundest advice I could find
Most profound I have received from the greatest achievers in its archives
I am a Student of Life
I am a Wordsmith of Optimism
And I am a Mason of the Castles of Dreams
This Trinity of Purpose for me goes hand in hand, side by side
Each benefits the other
Issue is, they set me apart from the others
Here I am, young when I should be intoxicated with the fads of modernity
Fortified with skills that are eager to pay the ordinary wages
But nay, I am not to be beleaguered
I focus ahead to perceive the greater rewards at the summation of days
For I place most value on the greatest wealth: WISDOM and HAPPINESS
I have come to the point of decision
And I have decided in favour of love
I choose to commit my heart entirely
To the work I love best
For it is this calling that shall liberate the sanctity of my humanity
The world I dwell in fathoms not a shred of my quest
For it views life through the lenses of reality
True as it may be that my work suffices not to endow me
...with common currency in these economic times
The rationale of my perception discerns far beyond this temporary mist
Let them roar their throats in laughter at my perceived stupidity
But it is their children and their children’s children that shall benefit most
...From this shelter of thoughts and dreams that for them I build
I expect no immediate remuneration for my onerous undertaking
For I rationalize it as a selfless gift to humanity
Hence I shall tap deep within to give all can give
I am determined to build this Shelter of Thoughts and Dreams
I have the basic skills hence I commit my willingness and ingenuity
The Good Gods shall present the mortar and bricks
The fear of failure has been permanently exiled from boarding my being
As my eyes are fixated on the prize
I am ready to pay the price
Blue washes over me sometimes and will not let me go.
Melancholy soon becomes the ROAR of frothing ocean waves,
toppling me into navy blue.
Frustration too arrives, sometimes in the form of gulls screaming in my mind!
That is when I’m sinking sinking sinking into deep dark blue.
Other times, however, blue is light - an airy powder and nearly tranquil
except for the occasional whoosh of a gentle breeze.
I love to hear its aqua lapping lapping lapping softly at my feet
while I lie in warm white sand beneath a cloudless expanse of azure sky.
Blue is often glad - winging its way through fields and trees
singing notes from throats of happiness’ birds
or raising heads of periwinkle flowers to beautify spring and summer days.
Blue nearly fades away completely in the fall
but reappears at times as splendid sapphire sunsets
melding into cardinal, amber or rose
and utterly silent - like the stars that glisten in the indigo of night.
Once in a blue moon I might see on snow
a rare glow.
It beckons me to venture out into winter’s beauty
like a brand new lover enticingly ice blue
so many sounds and nuances of blue!
but the one I always love giggles like a child
I want to slide into a sexy sports car - shining baby blue
and glide away Vroom Vroom Vroom
11/2/2013
Entered 1/28/23
For Mark Toney's 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 26 Poetry Contest
I chance upon her
in the far reaches of the backyard,
a place I never go. There she trembles.
A tiny tiger, whose newborn eyes blur the world,
secreted in mother-scented-shadows
below blackthorn shrubs.
Faint mews draw me closer.
The power of her vulnerability
fills my veins with a ripple rising,
brimming me with a nectar needed,
like a dry stream bed restored by remedy rains.
How helpless she is with new eyes open.
Her eyes like skylights — clear
and filled with new-wild-blue innocence.
Neglected yet beautiful, I sense in her
the familiar phenomenon of the impulse to pulse.
Her outsized feistiness belying
such a petite package of plea and need
with teeny needle claws and barely a wisp of a hiss
...and I recall when I felt the fear
of being small and voiceless in a choiceless world.
Born a feral kitten, her mother likely lost
to speed-wheels of a car or snap-jaws of coyotes,
whose throats float steaming howls above black
saw-toothed pines to haunt the long night moon
...and I wonder, if she wonders,
if the sweet-milk-purrs with soft belly fur
will ever return to snuggle her.
She’s been cold and alone for far too long.
So I gather her in the hug of my hands
warming her as I draw her in and curl
my chest around her littleness.
A shield formed against her lone-ness.
...and I, a long-ago-child abandoned,
a child whose silent cries heard only by stoic walls,
reclaims a voice that helps me make a choice
not to let Nature decide how birth and fate collide.
So I sit with her, swaddle her, love her.
Nourish her with eye-dropper milk where
hearth embers still glow after the fire,
to heal the orphan and raise the phoenix within.
Sanctus!
Sanctus!
Sanctus!
Unison of voices in floral cathedral
Viola and pansies, a chorus of daisies
Amarrylis Chrisanthemum Agapanthus
Cascades of colour inviting a crescendo
Yellow petalled flowers of the sun
Bowed in prayerful contrition
To the Great and glorious One
Agape throats of ululating halleluia
Victoriously perched in garden Getsemane
Infected the song of creatures on high
Flying flowers of the sky
Glorificamus Tè
Benedictimus Tè
Adoramus Tè
Here come the butterflies
Flitting and darting and dashing and fun
Unhinged and erratic in zigzagging flight
Probing proboscis a coiled searching spring
Suffronic powder cover their knees and their wings
Urgent the nectar! The burrowing bees
Assembly of beauty -I become undone
Annointing my spirit- unfurling my sight
I do not like you folk
I do not like you woke
I'd rather you not spoke
Your throats I'd like to choke
All you do is criticize
See things with an evil eye
The embodiment of cancel culture
The predator we call a vulture
I do not like the clothes you wear
I do not like your unkempt hair
I do not like you here or there
I do not like you anywhere
I do not like you folk
I do not like you woke
Your opinions are a joke
I hope you end up broke
May all your plans completely fail
Then all of you wind up in jail
And if you try to ban this poem
I'll put some ants into your scrotum
~ Theodore Geisel, posthumously
Muted Echoes
The echoes of piano notes
play softly in my mournful mind
as melody so gently floats
like ghosts of songs she left behind.
My memories are brought to bear,
the echoes of piano notes
forever floating in the air,
as lumps well up in saddened throats.
This winter day we don our coats
to lay her body down to rest;
the echoes of piano notes
show sadness in our hearts expressed.
The instrument sits dormant now;
its presence quietly emotes
her playing, as our thoughts allow
the echoes of piano notes.
News flash
Huge bash
Big fight
Last night
Clyde's Bar
Bizarre
War zone
Chairs thrown
Snouts poked
Gals choked
Eyes blacked
Ribs cracked
Hair snatched
Backs scratched
Throats slashed
Heads bashed
Tossed stools
Blood pools
Ears chewed
Tossed food
Knees kicked
Knives pricked
Low blows
Stomped toes
Dames sprawled
Cops called
Clyde's closed
Foreclosed