Beautyberries dazzle the eyes with
the appearance of deliciousness.
The purple wonders, that look like raspberries,
seem to coax, “Pick me! Pick me!”
Jelly jars appeal to the clusters of drupes.
However, one must beat the birds and wildlife
to the bush, before they strip it clean.
Yet, leave some for their sustenance.
In a small clear vase, a branch, of beautyberries,
patiently waits to produce a root. Meanwhile,
the centerpiece-enchant adorns my table.
This clipping’ released by a berry nice friend.
He buries a small hole in the garden,
wraps her thoughtfully in a pink blanket,
tears will flow down his skin so hardened,
the crops that failed proved no gambit,
Lowers her gently, tilts her head forward,
tries to pray but his trembling words slur,
Every day-break she was with the orchids,
Carefully clipping and small hand watered.
He still has a seat for her at the dinner table,
letting go of it has been far too painful,
He keeps her room as she had last left it,
scattered drawings and her red draped jacket.
There was, and is, a dark black hole resides in her somewhere;
he was not sure if it was in her heart or in her soul
but he was gravitated to her captivating stare
attracted to the only Black Moor in the goldfish bowl
as were many others clipping her event horizon
she, bending the light, the truth, the lies; until non escape
and he was never clear if he was father, lover, son
or simply, to her, yet another planetary ape.
They planted trees but forgot their water.
Each leaf a wrinkled newspaper clipping
from a world I never subscribed to.
Noise here is curated.
A choir of car horns, a sermon of drills
but I hear the silence
between footsteps
and the echo
of one slippered child
crossing the pedestrian overpass
with rice in a plastic bag.
My eyes collect
forgotten wrappers,
graffiti prayers,
the melancholy
of sky cut by concrete.
They say you must harden in Manila.
But I cracked
gently,
like an eggshell left in heat.
We beseech heavens to ignite
our heart that mind may see the light,
opaqued by both fear and desire,
thus long and lonesome seems the night.
Death looms ahead and now we tire
of narrow thought forms we do sire,
so befriending silence we pause,
with vast space choosing to conspire.
In staid stillness fickle heart thaws,
clipping in this way, ego’s claws,
that thus doing nothing at all,
we see our true Self, free from flaws.
When we are still and thought forms stall,
we hear clearly God’s loving call,
asking us to wake up from sleep,
that truth of being, we recall.
Silence the void, wherein we leap,
plunging headlong into the deep,
prior to which head and heart merge,
whence boons of grace we then so reap.
Feeling within divine mists surge,
our heart within the stream we purge,
witnessing wayward ego die,
that from delusion we emerge.
Peace engulfs us, we hear soul sigh,
in joy waving ego goodbye,
seeing earth life as but a dream,
now free at last, ready to fly.
There’s a demon on my shoulder,
clipping toenails into my ear
An angel on the other,
nibbles wax so I can hear
He makes balm for my lips,
lights candles once a year
Both play devil’s advocate;
God knows they’re insincere?
Their words are quite pointed,
but sharper when being blunt?
My ears burn like hell
as rumours exchange every month
This tug-of-war’s relentless,
pulling strings to win my soul
If i’m nothing special;
why fight tooth and nail for control?
Lately they’ve switched shoulders,
maybe it’s to explore
Candles burn less often,
not on birthdays like before
Toenails fall unchecked,
my balm-less lips crack and swell
One day I’m living in heaven;
the next feels like bloody hell
This war is wearing me down
I can’t do wrong for right
My hair feels thinner,
no surprise from this endless fight
Searching for bald spots in the mirror
sheds light on their attack:
Those grifters do Brazilians
and pedicures behind my back.
By
David Kavanagh
Autumn
Let us begin in the current season, Not the season of beginnings but of seasoning.
Leaves bold
Wise, old
Winter
Hither it comes, white or gray, falling, failing, smarting, incredibly enlightening.
Lets go
New show
Spring
New birds of millenials herded into facebook frames, those cribs engaged with each month’s age. I look on, remembering how this boomer’s recollection is in a box, more than one.
Face crib
Ad lib
Summer
Watch those new birdies fly. Life is fleeting. Parents hold onto their wings, sometimes clipping. Grandparents no longer open their wallets to show their pride, but with much more intensity and videos, besides, put the kids front and center for thumbs up, hearts, exclamations, tears, never anger.
Emotes
Devotes
the brightest toe nail clipping
in the sky the moon two points
one hook where by a dangling
dangler of collar and tie swung
a swinging caught he estranged
and left forgottenly o deranged
for he deranged and hanging
there saw stars drift past and
faces wear the smirk n smook
of laughtrous jeer that when
finally loose broke out a cheer
"Be still my heart!"
The thunder, the splatter,
all the drenching liquid matter --
then the storm passes,
and out come beautiful lasses,
clipping roses for bonnets,
choosing beaus for dearer sonnets -- it's really about love --
A sand weight walking in a noon
Slumber stutter and sun moon fiasco
Lit morning and walking in shrill
Not many come keeping away the judge
As finally roaming as a sand world casted
The REM moods of inside mettle
And the sandman scoops for noontime
Abreast be less full of oneself
Hushing those whispers by a bent elbow brush
The trees escaping into blue
Yet the furnishings swooping the mystique
Varied by the dreamscape so flash
The moon tearing, the sun flaring
Upside down in the gases of apocalypse
Cunning the steady swoop of the pendulum
Clipping the utterances of a Latin hazard slay
Fingertips click a
desperate breakbeat
as eyes glaze over
in blue light baptism
please overwhelm me
Binary jungle,
you glowing cesspit
through the clipping
curtain echoes a choir
of post-post ironic
agoraphobics.
Dopamine is a myth,
an expired meme
deemed mega cringe
Let the file rot into
informational abscess
Here we all wait before
Heaven's blockchained gate
tired of partaking into
a satire so removed from
a cogent solution,
It is simply void.
Here is coldest oblivion in
this stupid cyborg machine,
but the world is so
Y2K heat death-core
Whatever that means
It turned a generation
made us abandonware
Just to feed us nostalgia
for times when we
would bother to care.
Rhymes -normally I love them-
But tonight they seem like sweet-tongued harlots.
Cheap.
Cliche.
Predictable.
More concerned with sounding right
than capturing the truth.
A poet would use them to empower his words,
but, instead, they rob him of his dignity,
chaining him down,
clipping his wings,
building walls around his baffled imagination.
Tonight, oh rhymes, I would chase you with a firebrand
as did my spiritual namesake.
You stir me with anger,
make me wish to grab a gladius,
leap into the trenches,
and cut away all pretenses until I free her-
the true love of all true poets:
Truth herself.
11-12 December 2023
situacions make so
when we need some time
to be alone
talk it out
get it right
re-connect
with my wife
thangs tween us
have been strange
people meddling
tryna rearrange
strangers come and go
You my everything
thought I let you know
made some new friends
that strain our relationship
been musing on
I've been thinking about
proper perspectives
staying true
to our objectives
clipping fringes
and tying loose ends
see your my lover
and also my friend
all up in that
there they go again
saying divisive thangs
there they go again
tryna keep us apart
there they go again
damn! there they go again
Away in the garden
No plants are ill fed
The soil is perfect
In all the raised beds
The fencing surrounds
All of the plants
But something burrowed
Who invited the ants
There’s chewing and clipping
At night while I rest
Just wait til’ I get
My hands on that pest
I fired the shotgun
To nab me a bun
Don’t mess with my garden
Run rabbit run
A butterfly with wings once whole,
Now broken, shattered, with no control.
The invisible cage surrounds her tight,
No freedom to spread her wings and take flight.
Society and family, the ones to blame,
For clipping wings and causing pain.
Gender norms and biases hold her down,
No chance to fly or even leave the ground.
She dreams of soaring high and free,
A life of choices, just like you and me.
But the broken wings just won't allow,
The freedom to escape, to take a bow.
Yet hope remains, a tiny light,
A chance to mend those wings and take flight.
With strength and will, she'll break those chains,
And rise above the hurt and pains.
For a butterfly with wings once broken,
Can still take flight, her spirit unspoken.
And soar above the hurt and pain,
To live and love, and once again.
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