I would like to listen to the sound of bonfire sticks crackling as he chucks one on and the second he throws to a dithering dog-or the waves lapping on the shore steadily, a toddler’s toes dipping in that sea and then he screams and runs right away to his parents who are devouring literature upon the shore. They loyally guard his sandcastle then chide him for pushing his sister who had stumbled and fallen on that work of art. I’d like to watch the tide go in as picnic baskets are cleared away and the last of the suncream is lathered thick on children’s skin. I’d like to taste the locals' ice cream letting bristles of my hair stick to my face and needing a second as the first melted right away sullying my beach wear. I’d like to smell sausages almost charcoaled on the grill as children are as speedy as rockets with plastic plates at the ready. A summer living by the coast would be sure to enliven my spirit and cater for my senses.
The Napping Cauldron
The rusty cauldron fell asleep
(he wasn't a creep)
in his bathtub by a charcoaled tree.
That was the last time you see
he filled up his tub with chamomile tea.
In his nightmare he was being polished by a happy
family of four in a
beautiful garden designed by the pappy.
He woke up on the first of November and
he felt really bad,
and
very mad.
He’d missed being used to (he felt
sad) hold the vodka punch drink
at Elmwood High Halloween Dance. He felt
so so bad and mad he couldn’t even blink.
Paint a smile on my face, until mid-poem
a grimace arises and the acrylic peels.
What are these dark angels that cast such shadows
over my cheer,
force my hand to sketch
the grim roots of charcoaled teeth?
The sun is struggling to rise over a pastured valley
while ravens pluck at my eyebrows.
Dark wings and meadow daisies mix and blend.
Death Head moths now emerge,
a word-canvas is once more lacquered over
by a dark and deep-throated coloring.
As quick as lightning, a clownish grin
flashes forth from singed paper,
such comic relief begets a portrait
of my surprised
and beamish laughter.
Charcoaled by the flickered USG light,
Crocheting living diaries of rose-glazen silk.
Colossal musings bloom through whispered stillness,
Doppler drifts its waves across sea-green marmoris.
A radiological quest through the wisteria of thought—
The sincere scalpel surrenders, a vow stitched in veins.
Cocooned beneath the autumn leaves,
Carrying the MRI of faraway stars.
Sowing scanned seeds in the ebony chambers,
Remember me when it rains on the petals of purgatory.
Paint a smile on my face, until mid-poem
a grimace arises and an acrylic peels.
What are these dark angels that cast such shadows
over my cheer,
force my hand to sketch
the grim roots of charcoaled teeth?
The sun is struggling to rise over a pastured valley,
while ravens pluck at my eyebrows.
Dark wings and meadow daisies mix and blend.
Death Head moths now emerge,
a word-canvas is once more lacquered over
by a dark and deep-throated coloring.
As quick as lightning, a clownish grin
flashes forth from singed paper,
such comic relief begets a portrait
of my surprised
and beamish laughter.
Meaning is over there,
beyond the burnt paddocks
and blackened hills,
the crumpled, flattened ruins
of houses. It is further out
than that nothingness glazed
upon the distances
of a vacant stare.
A powdery dust now coates
the walls of a terrible absence.
There is a gaping silence,
a hole emptied of screams,
of moans, cries given up
to heaven. What was living
has been burnt back
to where only
a dull numbness
chafes against passing time.
Melted pots poke through
a tangle of charcoaled waste.
Memories, lifetimes crumble
into flakes of ash and amongst
the rubble,
a fire blackened teddy bear
with outstretched arms
seems baked in a posture
of perpetual still,
holding onto something
beyond the reach of fire.
Lit
Like a
Little spark
Blazes blood red
Wild vampires compete
Black frightening owls soar
Charcoaled skyscrapers collapse
Dry bones of men and women seen
The solars and lunars shake in shame...!
12 February 2023
*Image of Original Gerber baby, Ann Turner Cook by KTVU.
R.I.P. Ann Leslie Cook, nee Turner
Ann Cook
Her look
Not name
Became
Households
Footholds
Aspects
Effects
Neighbor's
Favors
Charcoaled
Turned gold
Adored
Reward
Threshold
Behold
Quest and
Destined
Become
A mom
Four kids
Amids
Teacher
Writer
Thank you
Trueblue
My face
By grace
Glass jars
All-stars
Trademarks
Remarks
Sublime
Lifetime
Apprise
Demise
Gerbers
Furthers
Bless you
Adieu
Godsend
Ascend
*R.I.P. Ann Leslie Cook, nee Turner*
At five months old, she posed for their family's neighbor, Dorothy Hope Smith, who drew a charcoal sketch of her for a Gerber's baby-food contest. That charcoaled sketch became Gerber's iconic label when they opened and produced their products in 1928. For nearly ninety-four years of her lifetime, she has been in American homes, as well as, abroad. She died in her St. Petersburg, FL., home, (11/20/1926-06/03/2022) at 95.
2022 June 11
*6th Place*
A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE CHOICE
~~Brian Strand: Judged 2022 June 12
once more the rainbow paints in anthracite colour
graphite expressions of grave charcoaled remains
the lost beauty of obscure pastels is shadowed in pain
the horizon threatens rational geometry in obtusion
bursts cohesion and kindness at all angles and seams
refuses to square the cycle of life flattens its resolve
yet the philosophy of love prevails over all illusion
perspectives are formed in the heart-mind of souls
painters are mere reflections of palettes and canvas
24th October 2021
We’ll shoot. Don’t move.
Don’t talk or We’ll disapprove.
Don’t reach. We’ll kill.
Comply, Listen, Be quiet, Be still.
Four in the morning wake up.
Forget the horrors, don’t sip the death cup.
Get ready for work, put down the sharpened knife.
The first call will be in, gone is another life.
Typical day, it’s a suicide who blew off half his face.
Nothing a shotgun can’t erase.
Islands of dark red brain on the floor.
Smells as if an army of rotten animals went to war.
Next call. It’s winter. Grandma walked out.
Blame her dementia without a doubt.
She froze to death, standing, without a shout.
A limb is broken off, are you starting to get burnt out?
Cannot, it’s still the morning, what else lay ahead?
The car explosion, left two charcoaled bodies with no head.
Need answers? Go to the family they’ll treat you like vermin,
Pretend to not notice everyone views you as a burden.
Always witnessing the bodies enter an eternal slumber.
But mustn’t forget to remember,
The police are demons because you were speeding.
How dare they give you an attitude, their life has no meaning.
charismatically gifted
in conceptual leaps
expressions
opening
a doorway
to destiny
moments in time
stumato,
from a butterfly mind
scattered
with unfinished masterpieces
of imagination
drawings chalked& charcoaled
with tonal modulation
the inner person
portrayed
face on
in ambivalence
profiles turned to the light
display emotional depth
through the genius
of genuflection
with touch & sensibility
I’m RIGHT and you’re not
for no God loves a pansy -
a saint saves himself
abortion is bad
when white man’s soul is present -
but women aren’t men
adultery’s fine
for a man, it’s just hooky -
wife’s place to get stoned
raw power is gold
a man’s muscles are virtue -
slave’s chains their brain’s sin
a vampire’s the God
we whites worship on Sunday -
love rots on the cross
best keep love in check -
cash to shame those around me
I hope pay me back
black racists hate whites
but we’re victims of God’s love -
the slaves to ‘Just’ wealth
you don’t understand
truth, God’s plan’s white advantage -
except for the Jew
my status is quo -
my kid’s edge is God’s gifting
your place out of sight
let wealth trickle down
from deserving to less so -
best charcoaled for taste
Long Tooth
February 20th in 2021
[I really must learn to read the contest’s rules
before writing the damned poem...
What follows is not twelve lines!]
It was a good morning until
My face was shoved under the grill
With only six lives left within me
This charcoaled cat shot up the chimney
I fell from the roof and went splat
A whopping great weight squashed me flat
But that isn't all, there’s a hole in the wall
That’s roughly the shape of a cat
I’m silent and so I can’t wail
I’ve got a rope tied to my tail
At least that dog wont hear me holler
The other end’s tied to his collar
Out, through the hole in the house
A tyrant the shape of a mouse
He struts right by showing no fear
And chomps on that sleeping dog’s ear
I’m running like mad... on the spot
I think maybe I’ve had me lot
The rope snaps and I make a dash
And crash into mountains of trash
I’m stuck here with bins for my bed
And a fish skeleton on my head
It was a good morning until
Jerry went in for the kill
In spring
gaze into my hazel eyes
see distant horizons
flat-lining
the congolese savannah,
touching bruised clouds
against your creamy skin,
hives peppered
with puce contusions
your pummeled complexion,
clinging to warm clay
your frantic cuticles
scratch twisted wrists
in tiger stripe slashes
as night wolves screech
an anthem of loss.
Blackened clouds
smudge charcoaled
crimson tinted skies
as humid breath
exhales.
But now
these fists clench
like knotted rope
as ink clouds etch dusk
and punch the night
with their thundering.
Image of Daydreamer by Current
Wingless Angel
I saw a face of an angel
'twas without her wings
Tho' she glides, just
slightly o'er
Ne'er her eyes go yon
from a book of hymns
A smile that would make
a sun, be asunder
A voice that stars mimic
through their twinkles
Well after an ocher'd day
delves to a charcoaled night
Unwet in a deluge
of sprinkles
Constant her quietude,
a rare graceful sight
For I saw a face of a
wingless angel
Who said grace
at our dinner table
2019 May 21
*1st Place*
A Brian Strand rime me
~~Brian Strand: Judged 2021 August 26
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