Best Waifs Poems
’Tween hither and thither while wending our way,
skipping, dancing through sand dunes in seascape croquet
and woven in waves watching dolphins at play,
I first tasted her lips in the ocean’s wild spray.
Mystic moonbeams, suffusing clouds’ shimmering sails,
then unleashed us and whisked us down sensuous trails,
soon evoking the trills of untamed nightingales
as our passions pervaded green valleys and dales.
Being specters of splendor in wanton sashay
we mastered our meaning in love’s matinee –
sultry breezes, in passing, slowed down to survey
blazing bodies embracing youth’s blooming bouquet.
With the wind as our wings, chasing rainbows we flew,
two gypsies on junkets through dusk’s residue
sometimes following pollen to everywhere new
beneath the empyrean, painted pale blue.
Rising higher and higher, the sun lured our sleigh,
teasing time was our temptress, night ’n day after day
as we gamboled and gambled, two waifs led astray,
with our shackles afire, our anchors aweigh.
Yes, we’ve drifted, like dreamers where sprites rendezvous
having stars in our eyes with all time as our view,
and feasted on laughter and sipped morning dew
while rambling forever as one made of two.
So strange this land, old and yet young.
Where is this place of tall green trees,
and grey-haired men in unknown tongue?
they must have traveled summer's breeze.
Adobe brick quonset "chalets"
mud-soaked roadways in all the blocks.
WACs and wives and waifs everyday
midst hollyhocks and four o'clocks.
Los Alamos*, this place must be.
A land of Oz 'neath bluest sky.
Where science dealt humanity
a fatal blow, then watched it die.
A perfect paradox is this.
How splendid to contrast the two--
a lovely place/a devil's kiss,
and wisdom sprinkled like the dew.
I left quite soon but still recall
the secrets hidden on each page.
The lilac mountains looming tall,
their perfume of fission and sage.
August 5, 2022
"Terra Incognita"
for This or That, Vol. 13, poetry contest
by Edward Ibeth
*Los Alamos Laboratories, New Mexico, are where the atomic bombs were
created then dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Japan in WWII.
Your nakedness in the morning light,
Surrounds the JOY I received last night.
Together we watched the glow of the Moon,
Knowing this moment would end to soon.
Sinful Shadows of my Lustful greed,
YOUR Forever Love: what I want and need.
The sweet fragrance of Your Innocence,
Waifs through the grieving of forgotten sense.
Forever and Always, through all these years :
Our tale of Love, and sex, and all its Fears.
WOW..For My EVE.. " BARBARA JEAN "
The eve of darkness they come out to play
creepy crawly with our senses. The street
wise, the waifs, the tiny cherubs all blend
together to form a society of sorts that is
out of step with time; they become invisible.
They come with their drums, their guitars to
serenade the unseeing humans in tourist
tee shirts. You can see the beauty of
this youth who dances and plays from a
heart that just needs freedom.
You look into their eyes and you fall in
love with the innocence of a child who
sees his place in time as cosmic.
You smell their odors, their very essence.
A not so spent youth and you wish you were they.
You find yourself being pulled in by
their ethereal nectar and song...you see
for the first time what you could of had.
You are pulled in and the fight leaves you
the unseeing being the unseen...welcome!
*My impressions of the homeless youths of Ocean Beach, San Diego
Ah, the glorious damned winter
and the inviting
gray chill in the air.
I meander
ever
so
slowly
past lawns
strewn
with a cluttered array
of pagan snow zombies -
staring blankly,
as I obliterate pint-sized
snow angels
failing to don halos
that could have easily been
brush stroked with
da Vinci's golden teardrops.
(Impoverished attention-getters)
"I suggest you peruse Alighieri’s 'Inferno' –
it may, at least, promote heat - if not hope!"
(Simpletons)
Frost continues to cloud my spectacles -
thick and relentless
eagerly permeating the glass -
endeavoring to dance
a feverish Fantasia foxtrot
upon the skins of my pupils.
My heavy feet scuffle
past these endearing peasants.
Bleak…frozen…
forgotten Mt. Everest tombstones.
Disgraced outcasts of embarrassment -
smashed against a stark white canvas
hands cut off –
sticking out their parched tongues
begging for alms.
Click and count.
Their fragile bodies so much alive
their dark, hallowed eyes
so
much
dead.
(So be it)
They stealthily huddle alone -
(Hah! I’ve created my own personal oxymoron!)
These gruesome street urchin waifs -
Dumber than a sackful of hammers and
frostier than a Maine Christmas morn,
convulsing and shivering ‘neath lampposts
without snow shoes or socks,
bawling and boo-hooing...
“Clutching weather-worn copies
of James Hilton’s 'Lost Horizon'
and littering the virgin snow
with salty saline discharge –
igniting street corner bonfires
without the faintest hint of smoke."
(Wasteful)
Ah, the glorious damned winter
and that magnificent gray chill in the air.
My arctic thighs carry me home now
where I am safe.
Where I can slam my door
and shut my eyes.
My cavernous domicile
whereas I can privately converse
with Mr. Dickens and Mr. O’Neill
and read “A Christmas Carol”
or “The Iceman Cometh” -
without a snaggle-toothed interruption...
Listen to the haunting strains of L’Inverno
from Vivaldi’s “Le Quattro Staggioni”
and cackle wildly as I burn first editions
of Clement Clark Moore’s
most infamous penning -
pour myself a
tall glass of ice cubes -
devour a heaping bowl
of vichyssoise -
scarf down a fudgcicle
and just...
turn the air conditioner
ON.
Blues in the Night.
A malignant moon
shines his metallic claws -
combs my hair and brushes me forward.
I am alone in the shadowy crooks
of a poisoned metropolis.
A clandestine garbage chute -
where waifs and strays burn
within the fetid bowels
of a cavernous concrete underbelly.
The orphanage awaits my arrival,
as muted outcries are crushed
beneath my footsteps.
A parentless prison
teeters atop Utopia's dreaded brim;
the hamlet where Orwell slew Hilton.
St. Peter has been released
and no longer tends the kitchen.
Agony and angel wings reneged
a redundant brotherhood of sorts.
His recipe for remorse shall be missed.
Blues in the Night.
In the distance,
feigned epileptic outbursts
placates a patron's fears.
Caffeine injections
stimulates another's venial sins
as it magnifies their cardinal options.
An insomnious woman converses
with a napkin holder. The surface
is dull and unreflective, like she.
Banter never-to-be heard
by her never-to-be gentleman caller.
I am home –
amongst the dead I adore.
A haggard waitress serves me a menu.
A laminated journal stained
with melancholy and mustard.
Desolation and demi-tasse
are tonight’s midnight special.
Ten cents additional, if you order deluxe.
Blues in the Night.
I twiddle my thumbs
for I have no other’s to borrow.
I catch my rugged reflection
in the asylum’s window.
I espy my counterpart again
in a twisted spoon -
realizing I’m three utensils short
from a grievous quartet salted
with Mack Sennett misfits.
A collection of dishes clatter
above the sanatorium’s jukebox.
I place my spoon on the counter
and pick up a lifeless knife.
I envy its potential and possibilities
as Woody Herman croons
in the background.
Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
alone with the enduring Earth, and Night.
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;
who wrestles with his dream; as some pale shape.
Their sharp black heads against a quiet sky,
where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies.
As if the vanward clouds of evil days
Call to the HOURS, that in the distance play.
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn,
the spots and struggles of the timid Dawn
here where seclusion looks out on a scene
not what will be, but what, long since, has been.
So scathe it, as the flocks with venom-bite
And where the red was, lo! the bloodless white.
THE relic taken, what avails the shrine,
or crackling holly, or the gummy pine?
The trees are full of the dark-stooping night
with octaves of a mystic depth and height.
When life is done? Perchance in other spheres--
across the gulf of darkness and salt tears,
I would not tarry if I could be gone,
as one who having wandered all night long.
Among th' immortal pow'rs, and free from care;
even the torment sighs soft in the air.
The shrieking of the tempest-tortured tree,
of her most ancient, chastest mystery;
untouched by morning and untouched by noon,
three months bade wane and wax the wintering moon
with vain Inscriptions, which the Freeze has borne.
But see the sun-beams bright to labour warn?
Every conception that a man can find
that dwell within the compass of the mind
sink tower and temple; nothing long may stay
of watered light and dull drowned waifs of day.
Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mould;
an orb's dim throes, by iron stars controlled.
A climbing moon upon an empty sky;
the grey lawns cold where gold, where quickgold lies!
Light, darkness, air and water, heat and cold,
who can distinguish darkness from the soul
for him, that calls for Succour from the Throne
till either gorge be stuff'd or prey be gone?
Catch the faint voice, and raise the languid head.
what need of name or music hath the dead?
I hear huge Pestilence draw vaporous breath,
come, heavy sleep, the image of true death
with silent feet into sleep's poppied lair.
My Soul. I summon to the winding, ancient stair.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men
as silent Suns to meet the Night descend.
In the dreary whisper of midnight’s groan,
when streets escape the punctured cry
of thinning breaths, a line of stars blinks
trading some warmth with human arms...
beyond numbing sighs this dark possesses,
there are more wrists handcuffed on tainted
metal of cups and breadcrumbs for waifs,
as youngsters huddle in damp corners, till
a single violin strain bites the screeches
of grief and pain, of a crowd rendered
by lesions worn: a gauze of dingy shapes
coiling in fetal postures like bruised grass,
................
For Rob Carmack's Contest: Screwed lll
Theme: Pain of night
3/01/2015
Flowers flourish flavoring the field,
wild waifs that wave and whirl and whip
beneath the wind's wanton waltzing ways.
Bucolic bees buzz blooms and sip
sweet sage, sacramental savorings.
A halcyon habitat, a happy home,
for blessing birds and bees and blossoms,
majestic, magical May meadowland, my own.
Copyright, July 6, 2014
Faye Lanham Gibson
Standing in the frigid wind outside the bus stop doors
She seemed lost and lonely as the cars past with a roar.
Waiting for my only child the son whom I adore
I couldn’t help but wonder where was she headed for?
The prodigal returned through those same two frosty doors
But though the night was getting dark no one came for her.
Stopping right beside her, the radio blaring a Christmas score
We asked her if she needed help could we do any more?
Her wind burnt cheeks rose with the smile she wore
“Thank you, no.” She said. Her eyes they did explore
the warm interior and the street stretched out before
My folks are late but coming soon at least I’m pretty sure…
We left her there before the door yet still my heart implores
How many lost and lonely waifs are left standing by the door?
*Monorhyme is Sonnet form using slip or half rhyme.
Some good deeds go unaccepted.
All avenues are amphibious arenas
Bubbles belch-burst, bitter Bacchanalian bombs
Clouds' cast-iron crescendo creates cold cantankerous caricatures
Drenched - darkness descending, daylight dying, disappearing duskwards
Every eye echoing every eye, emotional evidence enveloped
Fake furs, fashionable fools, firm friends fleeing flowing firmament
Garrulous girls giggle, grizzled gangsters get going, gravity gyroscopes - ginormous gloomy grey gusts!
Hapless Harry's hairpiece hovers, hesitates, hovers higher, hurriedly he hopes he has his hat,
Intimate iciness infiltrates irrepressibly inside,
Jaunty Jack's japery, just jaded January jokes - jigsaw justice
Kilted killers, kleptomaniac kangaroos...
Lame laughs, low lamplight, laser liquid lines lash lustfully
Mercurial miasma mercilessly merging, mournful men mutter miserably
Nobody needs niceties, navigating newspapers, nothing new now
Ordered out over oof owed, obstinately offering old objections
Pavement pool-puddles pose problems, precautions probable, prayers perhaps...
Quintessential questing queens querulously quarrel,
Rain rushes relentlessly, rudely, rapaciously
Sizzling, steaming, slip-sliding silhouettes, soaked saturnine suits seething
Terry the tiger-tamer, tastefully tattooed, taking time talking tactfully to trembling tramps
Undernourished underpass underclass, underwhelmed under useless ubiquitous umbrellas
Vulgar victors, vim-vigour-verve, voraciously vanquished, vanity virulently violated,
Waistless waifs, wasted wastrels, wrestle with wicked westerly winds
X-rayed, X-rated
Yesterday's youngsters yellowing, yawning, yearning
Zero zest. Zilch.
Dad, born into white-hot poverty
eldest son of an adulterous drunk
abandoned
man of the house at five
white privilege.
His stepfather, also a booze bunny and bigot to boot...
To escape, he went to vocational school
as all the poor waifs did back in the day.
white privilege....
Married too young, a couple of sons...
was promised a job out west,
By all of people, the adulterous drunk...
3000 dreamy miles later.
With two small boys swirling in the prospectors' pan
but all the gold had vanished by then
white privilege.
He managed to make ends almost meet
with shovels for hands, soul of concrete.
white privilege
We survived in a one-bedroom, converted chicken coop.
At the age of twenty-two, he was crowned the king of desperation
Supported all of us without any complaint, including the deadbeat, my Uncle Frank.
White privilege.
Divorced, he lost custody of his doves.
Months beyond broke, he staggered back home.
Into the embrace of, you guessed it, the same drunken bigot.
White privilege.
Deadly happenstance brought us all back together again.
For forty years he wore the burning wreath
of back-breaking gigs on cinderblock dreams.
2 steps forward, 2 and a half back
One foot in the grave, the other on a snot rag
His ledger, never in the black.
White privilege,
Four decades, he earned the right
to hang up the shovel and pan.
The concrete settling into the joints
of his bent turtle hands.
Willing us away from poverty's fangs.
White privilege.
Soon after he retired. Mr. C arrived.
For three long years he battled and survived.
With Veins still flooded with benzene rings.
He had a blind date with open-heart surgery.
White privilege.
Old battleaxe versus scythe, he fought off the reaper.
Only to bury his mom, whom he loved very deeply.
The next to go was his beloved son.
White privilege.
He's not quite out of that shadow.
But I think he'll make it back to reclaim that glow.
I'm honored to have known such a bright angel soul.
My Privilege.
Half Moon high above
After a red setting Sun
A jasmine odor waifs.
If nowadays we have become so wise
And are proud achievers
Who have explored the world from our cradle;
If these days men would hear with their eyes
And men would speak by their actions
And would prefer to reason with their flesh;
If today you see chicken gnaw bones
And billy hunt and prey on rodents,
Do not stand to stare or wonder,
For these are the last days!
When a day's old child would stare,
When teens have now become bachelors;
When at twelve you have known
Men and women and fulfil God's injunction
To procreate and litter the earth with waifs.
If at twenty six your name goes
With the scholastic print of Ph. D.
And when at thirty sitting at your verandah
Having coloured teeth from tobacco and kola.
What else are you waiting for my friend?
Do not wait on what the earth has to offer,
Prepare your bed and die,
For these are the last days!
If nowadays we have become so wise,
If today we are proud achievers,
We are like the young child, Umu,
Who sighted a ripe mango amidst dozens
Of unripe mangoes up in the tree.
He detest the burden of climbing
And would never think of waiting
For the mango to fall to the ground.
In his excitement, he pulled up the young stalk
Of a healthy peer tree and
Threw it up at the mango tree.
He threw it up again and again and before
He could struck down the one ripe mango,
He had plucked and emptied dozens
Of unripe mangoes to the earth.
He picked the one ripe mango
Among the others and left in triumph!
If nowadays we have become so wise,
If today we are proud achievers,
When an infant would reject
His mother's breast because he has no time,
Do not stand to ask why or wonder,
For these are the last days
That shall give birth to a new era!
The fat director in his piggy mien
Sitting in opulent oval office,
Wearing costly French suit
A delicate silk bow tie,
While the buttons are straining to keep
The belly from bursting out,
In performing callisthenic of the bulge.
Telephone rag, he lifted two of several
Dropped and picked with Havana stuck to his pout
And spoke rapidly with cheek dancing:
I want them in my piggy bank
I want the whole, as my piggy position is concern,
I will take seventy five per cent of the piggy taken
Forget about them,
Leave the piggy bubble project uncompleted
I will meet you for a brunch,
Masses rendered impotent, swallowed and wolves down
By the pig and his henchmen
Raining down hardship and flooded hopelessness,
Wiping up suffering and slashing death,
They fed and sold selfishness
And leave many to immeasurable loses,
To wash and watch shame
Inside the sewage of the rich
Presenting dramatic performance of bone to bone,
And starring, the ultimate Warrior Kwashiokor
For nouveau rich spectators applause,
Waifs and beggars begged and flogged more
Expectation refused to manifest in globe
Yet those who have expanded chests came out
To yell protestation but, castrated in their ranks.
The robbed queued in supplication to Almighty
Ears from the nooks of the ghettoes
From the air every blessed hour,
Wailing mulimukun sobbed Allah
That of rabbi baritone Jehovah Rapha
Enough! Prostration to lead infinite frustration
And threw hands up,
And supported the jaws with fragile limbs waiting
Aluta continua! Drummed the repressed voices,
With boundless bundle of fists thrown up
To face the militant ants with all laser weapon
Punctured, battered and marched down
Until the rout were silent;
Real war is not wage on the battlefield
But on a space minute than head of a pin,
World is just a rounder
Which urchins kick about in the streets,
The rule and regulation, don’t bother
Whether pricked by volley
Or pretended thorns hidden all around
When permitting dribbling,
We are fools to the brim.