Sultry red,
yellow pillow sky,
teased tandem,
with citric,
shades afloat oe’r waking town,
mirror bubbly folk in lane
jubilant,
trademark burrs catching,
glad echoes,
urge urban,
tableau of chalkmarked gold stamp,
where sheer pluck triumphs
buses swerve,
rapid rail steel track,
squeaky noise,
hoot … toot…. cabs,
en route symbol’s “jaunty” march,
co migrant orbit
And when my body tires of me
I lie beneath a chestnut tree,
rolling among the broken burrs
where solid sleep rarely occurs
Waking up is the toughest part
when I've never slept to start.
I fear no place except the bed;
where pillows weigh upon my head
Memory foam gives no assistance;
insomnia thrives on resistance
It waits til eyes are almost closed,
never unconscious, then reloads
'Neath the tree is more appealing
than tracing welts upon my ceiling;
each one reflects a calloused lie,
the burrs tattooed on my naked eye
drilling dread into tomorrow night,
a future where there's no respite
This bed has worn me to the bone,
or have I worn its frame alone?
No dreams arrive; the lucid stays,
a consciousness that only strays
far from the tree l'm primed to be-
or not to be, ‘mid autumn debris.
# # #
I’m tired of the chestnut tree’s shade ~
being gentler than the bed I’ve made
Start with the fracture -
the splintered thing lodged in your ribs
that no cough can dislodge.
Call it "inspiration" if you must,
but know it is just hunger
with a prettier name.
Next, the bones:
a rhythm tapped absentmindedly
on a diner table,
the half-heard melody
of a stranger’s laugh,
the way your childhood home
still hums in your teeth
when you say its name.
Now, the bloodwork -
verbs writhing like minnows in your palms,
adjectives that stick like burrs to your sleeves.
(Here is where you’ll bleed.
A poem is not a wound,
but the salt rubbed into one.)
Arrange the fragments on the page.
Watch them refuse to fit.
This is the part where you learn:
a poem is not a puzzle,
but the hand that shakes
as it forces the pieces together.
Finally, the lie -
the smoothing, the sanding,
the pretense that this
was always the shape
you intended.
Sign your name at the bottom.
Walk away before it cracks.
The snake oil salesmen give a pill for depression
with the side effect of suicidal ideation.
A toxic concoction of charlatan greed
snake oil salesman and political madness.
At some point, you'll be diagnosed by a stranger.
Who has known you for 10 Minutes.
A D.E.I entity becomes your soul masseuse and manicurist.
Trimming burrs from the brain, putting pastel to dark words.
Pushers of protracted numbness and pain.
A million patches of burlap, never a concrete cure.
A heartless machine of trapdoor profit
and smash-mouth blame.
The mentally broken overflowing drains
a million sedated flowers
left in the jagged rain.
in the mouth of desire, inverted spires
lean toward the grots of Hell.
tongues forked, skewered with sapphires
in the mouth of desire, inverted spires.
Adam's apple burning cores, as moths for martyrdom's fires.
on the path to perdition: many had attended well.
in the mouth of desire, manipulation stirs.
the crone fanning her cauldron
a hot vat of ruin, Wiccan shrieks and whirs.
in the mouth of desire, manipulation stirs -
a warlock's cherished heart of burrs,
tears of crocodiles, his every gentleness abandoned.
in the mouth of desire, sirens sweet, curses
lure purple wearers and weavers, beasts with saints,
low_down to the broad gates, gilt black, swinging purses.
in the mouth of desire, sirens' sweet curses
but wisdom's rare jewels, bereft in their verses.
for want of wisdom, man's sovereign will faints.
Serpents slither here. Scorpions hide beneath our bed spreads.
Spiders, bugs, sticks, ants, and centipedes occupy our beds.
We have coasts. But what use of these? They burn with sultry heat.
Pirates sail to our harbours with their armour-filled fleet.
Predators of all kinds have filled our once lovely islands.
Where, once, flora and fauna flourished, wattles and burrs shake hands.
Our architectural castles seem to crack and collapse.
Dilapidated sanctums of temples reveal time's lapse.
Archaeologists try to explore our mausoleums.
They find noxious inland Taipans in murky museums.
Dogs bite their masters; cats, like tigers, cull their lords with claws.
Cows, bulls, and goats butt, stamp, and pin their herders for no cause.
Arrogance and aggression emblazoned by humankind
Their hearts and minds by evil thoughts, words, and deeds are maligned.
This place too is made by God, I know, like other places.
But, to cut the heads of others, here, each one runs races.
Notice how the birds sing long after we listen.
We oft’ are engulfed with our trampoline thoughts.
With gossiping beaks, they chirp and they flap.
We mimic their tweets, in our minds, as we beat
out the negativity of tenacious tumbleweed and burrs.
When wings catch the air - either we can’t breathe
or we catch commonsense & attempt a sound mind landing.
The canal, closest to the great outdoors, detects signals
of the sweetest sounds, beckoning the eavesdropper -
reminders of a mother’s cradle drop; will we fly?
Let go; indeed fly. Flap those wings. Give it a try, baby bird.
All ‘round, the spellbound flight of robins, bluejays, sparrows.
There are horses for the courses,
We know, and there are race horses,
What we know’s too little,
Horse bets on no people,
He knows with men all sense ceases!
_____________________________
Limericks |12.01.2023|
Poet’s note: They say: as a rider, the best compliment you can get is not from your trainer; it is from your horse. This is horse sense. I don’t know if the best compliment a poet can get is from his pen, but wish it were. A horse can advise: ‘Take life’s hurdles in stride. Loosen the reins. Be free spirited. Keep the burrs from under your saddle. Carry your friends when they need a ride. Keep stable, and gallop to greatness’. And as someone said: when in doubt let your horse do the thinking. He has the horse sense, as man you have little.
Read these words,
no Not ‘these’ words,
read the words
that are laid to rest
under a thorny bush.
See how they emerge
to eat the spikes and burrs
become this life of yours?
Tell the teacher
the one with the gray heart,
tell that teacher
you have known all his words before
and they are now buried
under a briar patch
hidden from the light.
From barb and thistle
your own words shall flower;
they will utter a wisdom
only the wounded may know.
Grotesque Gimply the Green Eyed Witch
Was trying to rake her hair without a twitch.
Tangled burrs and fleas made her skull itch.
We watched in silence, myself and Fitch.
Fitch is the cat with who knows the switch.
For Grotesque Grimply can be a rather mean witch.
I sat in the dark, hiding away in the pitch.
The silent bat, who understands her niche.
Another Australia Day has dawned again
The question s why can’t we all be friends
A flag flies over us
Including the Union Jack makes a fuss
We are here now and will remain
The years and wars attest our fame
And there are things that I feel
Were abhorrent in our deal
The first Australians had it raw
And it’s difficult to even the score
It seems that colonialism still echoes on
Even though it is long enough gone
So our national day occurs
Where excuses are like saddles with burrs
Should we be left to make it right
When we weren’t even in the fight.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Most of the time, flowers will suffice.
Those gentlest of ambassadors.
Dispatched to disarm the caustic ego.
Trim burrs from misunderstandings.
Temper the burn of good intention gone awry...
To most, they whisper of peace and love.
They're a brooch to the breast of forgiveness.
Conflict and Confusion often arise.
When the blossom stompers arrive...
A brute cannot comprehend the language of flowers.
These are the times when powder must flash.
Bullets must strip the copper from its silence...
Blood must get the attention of the icy rain.
To glean a grain of humble from the ogre-hearted.
Whose every breath wishes to singe the garden.
I don't care for snakes
They hiss and bluff me
I'm not really sure
Is he friend or foe
Cats, I really take
Though cats don't give she
any return purr
any loves warm glow
Steps away not fake,
soft as cotton he
claws like prickled burrs
begins tapping slow
Around pretty lake
Strolling light as bee
Among fair flowers
Light dainty halo
Set atop him, make
head held high as thee
proud hero allures
and females follow
Prancing gay fine rake
along path, high knee
dance he follows pure
His own tune mellow
I don't care for snakes
They hiss and bluff me
I'm not really sure
Is he friend or foe
By Doris Culverhouse
6/12/2021
The gentle pull of floating waves,
The current strong that sinks or saves.
It stirs my heart to sing along,
A voiceless tune that turns to song.
It brings to me eternal rest,
Cradled to the river’s breast.
It welcomes me with open arms,
A peace that keeps me from what harms.
My soul will journey on to send,
As spirit mingles with the wind,
A freedom floating over all,
It catches me so I don’t fall.
I spend forever in the deep,
In waters dark my soul will sleep.
The oceans carry me away,
In places far I’ll make my way.
The sea will claim that which is hers,
Be rid of all that clings like burrs.
I’ll join a place away from time,
A place to rest from life’s long climb.
Old white liberal man, going off on another white guilt rant.
Readily bending over because of the wrinkled past.
Generational guilt is no way to smooth a wounded land.
Always appeasing and promising forever freebies.
Is shallow and sneaky, void of heart and soul.
Quilting patches of color just to buy a few black votes.
Like slapping burning barnacles to the hull of paper boats.
They'll scuttle long before they'll ever be able to float.
Healing is not about owls hooting at dead moons.
Nor panthers snarling at the distant past.
Forgiveness is a long and painful journey.
Down a steep, rugged, and righteous path.
Hate is a crumbling pillar in a weak man's soul...
Love is about joining hearts and hands.
Navigating through the burrs and chains of the past.
Moving forward in grace before the whole $hit house blows.
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