Made it to Mars
I stared at a creature
He stared right through me
Opened my mouth
He opened his wide
No teeth or tongue to hide
Took off my shirt
He removed his
Nothing there, not even one rib
Extended my hand
He stretched his out too
Menacing claws, both tattooed
Tried to head for my spacecraft
My feet stuck to the ground
Stared at a hill ~ future burial mound
The cold, so cold ground
Binding and pulling
And holding me down
Embraced by the crypt
Confined and restrained
And life’s breath stripped
Stygian inked
Such stifling dark
And soul’s light extinct
I find myself here
Trussed by death’s grave
Without hope, just fear
In the cold, cold ground
Decayed and corrupt
Neath my burial mound
Chet Atkin’s life work was profound
Mr. Guitar made Nashville’s sound
There’s no one to fret
Yet do one more set
From around his burial mound
The Spectre of sex appeal by Salvador Dali 1934
On the right-hand bottom side, we see Dalí as a
child, dressed as a sailor, observing his monstrosity
I misunderstand, tell what is the plan
As I change from juvenile into man
Her formation intrigues and repulses
Instead of control, there are impulses
Her head morphs upon a backdrop mountain
Sack cloth breasts, stem flow of sandy fountains
Solid rock womb, born of imperfection
The spectre miscarries, sans reflection
Propped up and falls forward in painful lurch
Composite pieces, on acceptance search
Ossified limbs, mangled bone skewers stone
Destined to experience life alone
She poses in pain and reeks of decay
I stand with a hoop, brought along to play
Ignores my advances, falling apart
I’ll return with barbed wire to bind her heart
No more cushioned stumps or flailing crutches
Unraveling her knots, where flesh touches
I’ll fashion a cross and burial mound
Existence fades as parts crash to the ground
Parts don’t stay buried, so I light a fire
Warm them back up, on a funeral pyre
My god she’s beautiful, I’m overcome
We join together in flames, curse undone
I see now
that the gardener has planted flowers
around my burial mound.
Last Spring
there were yellow and white daffodils
now in autumn
those blooms have their own graves.
The old man who looked after
these green plots died.
When he was elderly he could only
recall his own yesterday's,
but now he sees us all,
knows our lives,
even those irrelevant days
that no one marked or recorded.
He recalls us, all of us,
for we remember ourselves not.
My father worked the land with
Both horse and tractor plough.
That family way of life is past,
We are all city dwellers now.
My father and mother dead
My brother followed them on
I’m the last of that generation
And my country links are gone.
In the churchyard family graves,
Their once turfed burial mound
Unmarked by stone, are now sunk
To be level with the ground.
I use words to paint for grandchildren
Pictures of working days on the land,
Of much less complicated times:
And I know they try to understand
But i am just grandad reminiscing
When I tell of past country ways.
They try listen patiently, but
We are all connected these days.
After a while their patience goes.
They feel the call to be on line
To worlds more exciting than
That long passed one of mine.
So I dream of Fordson tractors
And the tall powerful Shire horse
And they dream of things
From their more modern source.
I wish them long and rich life
Happy and with good health,
Sad they’ll not experience my world
Once rich in everything but wealth.
Weasel was wiser than a coonhound
She weighed one pound, a foxhound
Traveled the campground and playground
Searched the fairground and all around
A sleuthhound, she would turnaround
Looking earthbound for something profound
On the rebound, her heart would confound
In the foreground was her hunting ground
She would often bum around and mess around
Searching the battleground for common ground
Renowned for her wisdom, though uncrowned
She took a ultrasound so she could stick around
Even going underground in the burial mound
Riding the merry-go-round so she could hang around
Nursery Rhyme 3 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Eve Roper
April 14, 2022
One of four acorns waits in the hatcher;
is he afraid of the cold air outside?
Others around him make gains in stature
while he shows strong signs of wanting to hide.
He almost peeked out but quickly broke stride.
Found them late last summer on the bare ground.
Pocketed four of hundreds I had found.
Demolition of our woods taking place,
at home I prepared their burial mound -
castaways, comrades from wildlife's lost space.
When they’ve resurrected and grown stronger,
I dream of a tree where songbirds can roost.
Though the last acorn’s taking much longer,
his buddies gave him a much-needed boost.
Caution set aside, his strength they induced.
Heard them this morning, telling his small world,
“You can do this, push harder, come unfurled;
there is sunshine, fresh air, so much to view,”
Dancing with the wind, the three of them swirled
as we witnessed the last acorn’s breakthrough.
October 3, 2020
Sponsor: Anthony Biaanco
Contest: The Last One
Death Penalty
Sonny Johnson’s home was on the street
Sharing space with rats who nibbled at his feet
Until he moved his blanket to the county jail
‘Cause someone said he stabbed a white female
He faced the court without a scrap of money
So no lawyer of renown defended Sonny
A jury found him guilty in two hours
And no one wondered if the fault was his or ours
No delays or stays of execution
How sweet they are, revenge and retribution
A pork chop and beans sat cooling in a bowl
While a portly priest sanctified Sonny’s soul
They strapped him to a gurney hard and fast
Two witnesses looked away, eyes downcast
Beads of sweat on Sonny’s forehead glistened
“Ain’t done the deed; how come y’all don’t listen?”
Sonny shuddered once before his heart stopped beating
Nary a soul mourned his tragic life so fleeting
With other poor men, they put him in the ground
And no stone marker graced his burial mound
Sonny’s fate isn’t hard to justify
The Holy Book supports an eye for an eye
Does anyone care how many men are taken
With the chilling chance that we may be mistaken?
HALLOWEEN
it was no bump in the night
a ghostly hand on mine caused fright
the slow click of a bicycle wheel made me tight
the wind blowing it around with eerie might
my eyes won't adjust to light
every impulse says something is not right
creeping cat paws don't touch the ground
so bizarre they make no sound
a deathly howl comes from a hound
I can not turn around
I stumble over a burial mound
and run from where the ghouls abound
Another day's sun
Lights the carpet of the earth
Where an evil that is done
Waits suspended in the dirt.
Unfortunately, the aura
That was fashioned from his life
Cannot be changed to flora
Like the flesh that now pulls tight.
He butchered all my daughters
One savage, blasphemous night.
Now I fear his poison waters
May flow farther than the site.
One day of intense tortures
I visited that grassy glade
Where the beast escaped the torches
But fell upon my blade.
Two dogs with canines blaring
Fought hard to claim some food.
The victor now lay staring --
Dead and strangely lewd.
I hastened from that burial mound
Least my shoes pick up a trace
From that moist, infected killing ground
That -- God forgive me -- I helped deface.
Cold and rippling diamonds passed
the brook beneath the willow tree
These jewels they trickled through our hands
then a million times a million we
Our voices long since faded away
now left these sullen stony lands
The mournful ghosts of our leaving
Without sweet child or loving hands
Raggedy people on raggedy feet
left a river just for grieving
A chorus without its verse
and sounds without meaning
Then their ghosts slipped from the cracks
as the sun did finally recede
Among mortar dust and grass
and bowing blades of water reed
Yet none care now but that child
who slumbers in this bitter ground
He dreams of people far away
let evening kiss his burial mound
I hear voices and see faces
Of warriors who died in faraway places.
Some gave their all, all gave their best.
When they were judged, all passed the test.
As I sit here alone on this bench by the lake
I wonder just what chances I’d take.
Would I show valor on fields of battle
Or would I display fear and nerves that were rattled?
Spirits still roam this hallowed ground,
So I stand and listen to every small sound.
And just as I leave I hear a faint sound
Of taps being played over each burial mound.
Written by John Posey
05/12/15
A soil well rested after winter`s sleep of death
Waiting anxiously to receive life`s new breath
Seeds of potentiality sown, laboriously planted
Not knowing whether fruits to them will be granted
Blind, creative forces of nature flood the earth
Soon, many a wondrous creature will be given birth
Plants and animals themselves faithfully reproduce
But a greater miracle the heavens will also induce
Phoenixes use the souls of men as a nesting ground
Their fiery selves resurrect from their burial mound
A new beginning, birth of warmth and hope in the heart
They slowly boil the blood with their alchemical art
The bard had just penned a ballad profound
and stroking his beard, this clumsy word-hound
just spilled his last beer on pages unbound.
A marvelous monorhyme sits uncrowned.
Deluged under streams of thoughts that still hound,
I venture to guess the piece has just drowned
from rainclouds of doubt with thunderous sound
from faraway lightning seeking a ground,
Now mopping up foam, he waits to impound
damp shadowy reservoirs which redound
to poetic skill reserved and renowned,
concealed in debris, its burial mound.
Like nebulous chords which cannot be found
his poem is lost with drinks he just downed.
Can there be a way to use ultrasound
to track fickle brainstorms flitting around?
written April 5, 2012, revised August 17, 2021
Contest: Your Best Monorhyme, Host: William Kekaula
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