make way, make way,
for a maiden banished from my desolate plane.
she holds her head high
with her bindle in hand, and nothing in sight.
her countenance? fierce yet seraphic.
like divine judgment, contrite yet panoramic.
i watch you leave with wist—
i know you plan to reel me in,
plotting on me, like i’m an oblivious fish.
so used to my lack of adamant action.
you think of me to be a fish in a well,
though i know that to be aspersions;
i’m much more than just a hopeless whelp
described as nothing more than an accumulation of precipitation.
i am the vast sky, with even vaster aspirations.
Ballooner, blink in the hot air.
Wink, O noonday sun.
On the brink, is life unfair?
Drink and be as one!
Supreme being, I imbibe!
Above god and man!
Dervish, deus, diatribe!
Lengthen, every span!
Grim-faced, O my spectres?
Well, that's the way it goes.
Singulars and hectares!
Core cone, thy carrion crows!
Trammell the enameling?
O nightingale, sing sweet.
O sky above, thy paneling!
O lion, at thy feet!
Yellow priestess, ritual.
Of this what knoweth ye?
Barrel out the brazen bull!
Fling out, fancy-free!
Rhyme and riddle, rill on roll.
Drums, thy wargods beat.
Goddess of the asherah pole!
Chosen to complete!
Tyrant of tomorrow?
An image wrought in spark.
Brindle, bindle, broken bow!
Gold, fluoresce in dark!
Hone thy skill, O warrior!
Dare not to drop thy tools!
Skyscraper, art free and sure?
Toss away thy rules...
Whispers of sound
in the dark of night
that I can almost hear
calling from far away
just outside
so very close
whispers of stories
once told to me
the lapping of wavelets
and bumpers that rub
creaking of lines
and distant gulls cry
as in times of old
to answer the call
go down to the sea
into the long ships
chilling air whispers
calling to me
to take my bindle
go down to the sea
old are those stories
of things that were once
remember in darkness
in stillness of night
I’m running away
to unearth consolation.
My knees - my bindle,
carried to the ground.
To unearth consolation,
I’ve traveled so far, so near.
Carried to the ground -
all my trepidation and loss.
I’ve traveled, so far, so near
to the presence of Christ.
All my trepidation and loss
laid down at the foot of the cross.
To the presence of Christ -
my knees. My bindle
laid down at the foot of the cross.
Yes! I'm running away.
8/9/2022
Modern non-rhyming Pantoum
The Bindle Stiff
Parks have beckoned me with aplomb
A bench to sit and lay at night
with limpid dreams I share with naught
And realize that I’ve been taught
To set my sails for wondrous seas
To live a life with only me
What prompts a man to live on scraps
To brave the heat and cold as well
A labeled bum who dwells in hell
The day will come though it may hurt
To change my choice and then convert
Until that day I’ll travel on
A vagabond for parts unknown
To seek the mysteries of lore
And beg a sandwich on my tour
December 11, 2014
The Bindle Stiff
Parks have beckoned me with aplomb
A bench to sit and lay at night
with limpid dreams I share with naught
And realize that I’ve been taught
To set my sails for wondrous seas
To live a life with only me
What prompts a man to live on scraps
To brave the heat and cold as well
A labeled bum who dwells in hell
The day will come though it may hurt
To change my choice and then convert
Until that day I’ll travel on
A vagabond for parts unknown
To seek the mysteries of lore
And beg a sandwich on my tour
December 11, 2014
cover'd over with the moon
backroad'n RFD,
spare biscuit breakfast,
flop house glad rags
tied up on a bindle stick,
down dog bark alleyways,
as bridge span gypsies
crouch split-bone knuckled,
soul worn boondockers,
gristle cracked
now tin can feasted,
wind whipped in a belt loop,
frayed into a railyard
stale coal house dusted,
silence like a drumbeat,
as mountains echo hinting
driftsnow blowdown,
vapor thrumming like thick cable,
northron clipper come carbon arcing,
harsh bitten as a cow catcher,
cold iron given life,
shaken snowflakes
deadfall driftwood,
blood pounded steam whistle,
quick step gasping
dead hand switched,
desperate for a ladder rung,
slide door framework
boxcar straw flakes,
ticket to the rising sun.
I sit, think; catch a quick wink as the ship sinks.
My instinct is to lip sync till the slip’s pink.
Can’t win fights when my chin swipes reach only shin height.
And when kin likes taking Schwinn bikes to my wind pipe.
It’s useless. I’m an aloof spruce, I’m fruitless.
The looseness of nooses is becoming a nuisance.
Screw this. Hope has gone the way of the dodos.
I pack my bindle full of beans and hop a train with the hobos.
I laid my Bindle down boys
Laid my Bindle down
Don’t know where it is boys
Looked all over town
Jolly found my Bindle boys
Found it in Mary’s bed
Don’t know when or where boys
But, I’m as good as dead
Jolly don’t stand no trash boys
He don’t stand no trash
Mary told him loud boys
Told him in a flash
I see him round the bend boys
See him round the bend
Say you’ll look me up boys
I know this is my end
My body’s in the grave boys
Body’s in the grave
Molding while you play boys
Hope you can behave
Bindle: A 1920's gangster slang word for a heroin wrapper.
© Jan 2011
For Joe's "judgement" contest
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