Death walks slowly down the street
with the hood pulled way down low
ain't no sound no not even his feet
his hourglass ready to go
are you ready hey are you ready for this
are you sitting on the edge of your seat
out of the doorway the soul-scythe rips
the end prepare to meet yeah
'bomp' 'bomp' 'bomp'
another goes to the dogs
'bomp' 'bomp' 'bomp'
another falls off his log
and another one gone and another one gone
another one down the bogs
hey I'm gonna get you too
another one pops his clogs
With apologies to Freddie Mercury (1946 – 1991) & Queen
Rattling through the bogs, my love in limbo
Battling against the odds, arms akimbo
Too late to tear down the walls that they've built
Ate a cat-o-nine tails and swallowed their guilt
They demanded, then broke, my humanity
Hot branded, and stoked, my insanity
Purely for sport, the game, and the kill
With orders to READY, AIM, and FIRE at will
Now hobbled in pain, where the crossroads meet
On a cobblestone lane, with unshod feet
I've groped, so long on this road, I'll just say
I've hoped, I've dreamed, now I'll just fade away
Take a plane ungrateful one
to a distant land...
don't forget to walk the straightest paths
freedom bogs down quickly in shifting sand.
You may have to cover your body from head to toe
you may get a lash for dancing with your Beu
you may not be able to go for a walk alone.
You may be married off to a stranger
your worth measured in skinny cattle
You may lose a hand for stealing manna
Walk the straightest of paths ungrateful one
keep your faith close to the vest
or you'll spend years in prison
or even lose your head.
If they find out you're gay
it may be your last day earthly day
When you come back ungrateful one
will your vision still be opaque and narrow
as when you left
will you still burn- loot- rape - obstruct
will you still spit on freedom paid for in blood
will your privileged and entitled attitude shift
like the shifting sand just experienced.
will you still sashay the path of truth distortion
blinded by that selfish lens - so very opaque
Take a one-way plane ungrateful one
I don't think you'll ever change.
Hodgepodge of high-brow, hoity-toity happy hogs
Happened upon a wagonload of St Bernard dogs
In a hocus-pocus way they turned them into logs
You do not fool with a witch’s razorbacks in these bogs.
I thank the sun ...
The soil, the summer rain,
I thank the apple tree
The fields of golden grain
I thank the corn crops
And the pumpkin patch,
I thank the warm barn
Where new poults hatch
I thank Tom turkey ...
From down on the farm,
And the good old farmer
Who caused him no harm
I thank the potato fields
And the pecan trees,
I thank the earth ...
For bogs of cranberries
I thank this land ...
The sky and the air,
For giving all of us
These things to share.
I Form - Imagism 9-18-24 6-20 lines
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A Golden Kiss
Summer bows out and leaves a golden kiss
Maize dozes in mellow aster afternoons
Orange glows on future jack-o-lanterns
Multicolor bumpy gourds ride snaking vines
Yellow corn silks dance like razzle dazzles
Apples drink in the fading crimson sun
Sunflowers sigh -autumn storms breach the sky
Geese with twilight on their wings see new stars
Ruby gems of cranberries swim in bogs
Purple grapes soak in the warmth for harvest
Twirling leaves leave frosty lace skeletons
Fuzzy bees bid adieu to yellow days
Tawny acorns shiver in the cold nights
Fall wears an amber blush of jubilee.
I’ve heard it said that poetry is dead
But I don’t believe that’s true.
It runs in our veins like water to rain
Somewhere inside me and you.
It’s up in the air, in circles and squares
And oceans, rivers and tides,
In cats and dogs, bayous and bogs,
In taverns and tall rocket rides.
For life is an ocean of poetry in motion
Though we can’t always hear its rhyme,
As it twists and turns, beckons and yearns
Throughout our lives and minds.
Poetry lives in the love we give
One another from day to day,
Intrinsic in nature like Ursa Major
And all the music we hear and play.
While tilling a garden
Or gazing at stars,
Poetry is in motion
Wherever we are.
In photography, paintings
And all manner of the arts,
That move our minds
And stir our hearts.
And while some may deny
The plain simple truth…
This life is a poem
That needs no proof.
© Terrell Martin
09/08/2024
Beneath the fury of sun
Wades a wobbly nun
Stomping on thorns
Watch the teary ferns
Scars on her skin
Carrying wounds engraved
Curse devious grin
And snakes she once craved
She sucked and spitted
Bouts of venom in her blood
Tainted by flood
Of emotions she once knitted
Profuse tears of fern
They observe
Drip on her burn
Numbing pain so perverse
Weeped the clouds
In meloncholic ambience
Silence crept loud
Spotting redemption in defiance
Step out the vines
Adorning her bruises
Wind's penchant to divine's
Yearning, she refuses
Blanket of ferns
Ease her shivers
While the moon upturns
Bogs were her new weavers
Time passed by
Has been watching the sky
Fern decays
Her soul repays
Reverse Engineering a Surreal Eden.
To grow a mountain, - - - - - right!
In, an old jam jar, yeh right!
Of clean soil, Soil! Isn’t that soiled?
Such a seed could be, soiled and would be exclusive;
Perhaps part time growing in window box?
May save the roof? No rain mind, just a tarry dim sun,
Breezed by a filthy wind ; alone!
in its eroded scraggy day, while
expanding, a different slice of the colour green.
Pushed skywards, it all looks the same!
What about Apples and Snakes?
and our engineered countryside,
of plastic and glass, filling allotments,
with mirrors for the gods! And soured bogs.
Eyes only open at jar breaking time
Its stop tap, but no tap to stop, too late,
And – the mountain? We shall keep it
Under the bed, so it can’t be seen.
She’s a witch Carol said. She gave me the evil eye.
I know witches do not do that, so I asked her why.
She casts spells and causes dogs to turn into pink frogs.
That has happened six weeks way down in the bogs.
She’s a witch said my mother, my sister and brother.
I was annoyed by them, their rumors feed off each other.
She is not a witch I said as I watched her dip an eyeball in her tea.
Well, on second thought, I thought, she really might be.
The bogs’ their fruit – the woodlands’ leaf
embrace a ripened red motif,
as cranberries and maples blaze
Oh Lord, I praise October days.
Where starling murmurations dance
a breathless susurration trance,
ballet in blackbird-shape-shift haze
Oh Lord, I praise October days.
And neath the cumulus, the breeze
colludes with stalks in raspy tease,
unfazed we ramble maize-field maze
Oh Lord, I praise October days.
As apple-cider-sunset spills
behind the bluish granite hills,
I’m grateful for my eyes to gaze
Oh Lord, I praise October days.
When rain does bead on pumpkin’s skin
his smiling face still lit within,
I pray myself be filled Your rays
Oh Lord, I praise October days.
cloudbursts never stop
swollen lakes mimic buckets ~
and bogs soggy mops
The Gunas three twirl us around
Hemmed in, all we may do is to respond
In waking, dream and deep sleep states
Mindful not to trauma bond
Tamas or sloth, a measure of our instinct
Stupor and inertia bogs us down
Yet if our heart be love inked
Transformed as light, we can never drown
Bemused by illusions, Rajas, fire of desire
Propels identity into action
But dwelling in stillness, eye of each storm
Feral urges gain no traction
Purity of Satva is the love and light of Self
A singularity wherefrom we chose to descend
Thus vaporising lower mind in surrender
We behold our inner being ascend
The see-saw battle of mind-body and senses
Manifests through the Gunas, that we may learn
That if God be the sconce within our heart
His flame of love and light in us will forever burn
I delight in your twaddle inside me, young girl.
Restore the golden-pink gleam with a swirl.
Memories of who've died or are close to dying.
Delve deep, according to inner-child supplying.
Taking apart each self that has been dark-dyed
Then, closely dig up the shimmering past's side.
Until we draw a kinder rainbow hue, we must wait.
Vacant space below crops and owned bogs is fate.
I witnessed my parents waiting at the school gate.
I spy my father wandering the area near the grate.
The stems of ivy felt alike wings around her neck.
I can view my mother eschewed quickly to the deck.
ignited by her tenderness and exuberance.
Hijinks start here, unlucky protuberance.
Her giggling sounds akin to the essence of life.
Her grin, which is always braw, stops any strife.
Written: May 1st 2023
Let’s hang the moon right here, gnarled oak suggested.
Won’t that disturb the cardinals who are well nested?
I don’t think so, said wise oak. Let’s give it a try, shall we?
So, oaks hung the lovely moon in the arch of their tree.
Forest was full of fey who sprinkled themselves about.
They had not seen the moon this close up, it gave them clout.
A happy midsummer dance commenced, waking the frogs.
Decorated caterpillars and damselflies flew in from two bogs.
The moon loved being this close but got chastised by Dad.
I have to go, he said, but this was the best time I have ever had!
The fey frolicked as he left, retaining his light as much as they could.
A whimsical, wild, wonderful day in the dark German woods.
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