Biking through winter's fog machine
as flakes swarm them to keep them warm,
kids exhale and are vaporized
from sight still clunking and clinking.
So much for fresh snow to unpack,
I wander across a
vanishing track.
Should we forget about freedoms.?? And accept some
Pre-doms? Like a pre-bunking' so childlike and clunking.'
Breaking structure much nomen-less clutter..' A nonsense of
Pre-sense..' showing credentials quite useless.' Artificial
Utopia advertizing a visionary myopia.' Its peonies and
Pretzels to supplement 'word salad' utensils.?? With Kids flying
Killer drones..' we must emerge from this twilight zone.!
A week of summer heat
with no cooling breeze
or break made bedrooms
like brick kilns
still hot after a day's firing.
You couldn't sleep.
Air conditioning back then
was a couple of loud,
clunking fans that blew
a hum of hot air.
To get relief
we would all sleep outside
on the back lawn on hessian
camping beds that sagged
and creaked even under
a child's weight. The night air
carried a slight damp
and the hint of a breeze.
I can remember laying back
under a blaze of stars,
giddy and full of questions
at such wonder strung
in filaments overhead.
Uncertainty and doubt
had begun to pick
my childish world apart.
I would grip the sides
of the bed possessed by
a strange sense
that if I let go, I would fall
upwards into the sky.
I could never get to sleep
even when a cool came
upon the early morning air.
There were too many
sounds I could not explain
and shadows my mind
would shape into threats.
I would creep back inside,
back into a walled safety
and the heat.
The moonlight shines perfectly on a town.
The sounds of Halloween are whistling by.
When you look closer you will see orange and purple lights on houses.
Blow up ghosts or ghouls sitting on top of the grass.
You may hear the pitter-patter of shoes running from house to house.
Little children dressed up as their favorite thing.
Could be as scary as a monster or as pretty as a princess.
The doorbells of the houses buzzing.
Opening the doors to find little kids saying trick or treat.
The sweets make a clunking sound, falling into their pillowcases.
They cheer with joy and run to the next house, to the next, to the next.
Leaves crunch under their feet.
This was just a normal Halloween.
The Halloween tradition is older than we are.
But the joy we feel is what keeps us young.
10/22/21
He takes the largest ladle he can find
And stirs them around and around
clunking their heads together
Scrambling their brains,
Making them angry
And he laughs
He is the sorcerer of the moment
popular with his followers
who revere him
because of the fear
that if they do not
he will turn and they will become
the sorrowful, the left behind, the unchosen ones
He throws in dashes of anger and dollops of grief
He is the master of manipulation,
There is no escape
Others have tried to get close enough
to toss in enthusiasm, love and hope.
But alas, he is stronger because of the numbers
who chase him, trying to be the chosen one.
He spits into the fray, frightening them just a tiny bit more.
The night was dark, in the park when I heard a bark
then a ringing bell, blood curdling yell straight from Hell
A loud clunking sound from the ground had me spellbound
by the ploys of the noise, but still maintained my poise.
I shed a tear from fear, but there was no one near.
No hand to hold, when I felt so cold, then behold!
Revealed, what had thus been concealed, an old airfield
Two ghostly planes and blood stains, wings secured by chains
The thump sound was a pump used to clean out the sump
The barking ceased. Time to feast, or a brew, at least!
August 20, 2020
Keen Observation I Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Funom Makama
I gave you a listen
the rhythm is missing
either it’s hidden
or locked up in prison
Say each word of the line
or it won’t clunking rhyme
speak one line at a time
so the sounds combine
You're a dad at a disco
this ain’t a diss though
you’ve a hit and miss flow
like a pissed ho
For that I leave an apology
I too can’t rap like a proper g
can’t keep my timing properly
but so what
piss pot
rap I’m not
I’m poetry
The Piano tuner
The blind piano tuner knocked on the door
Where I was a caretaker -like I can afford to buy a piano-
I showed him into the music room and left
to read a newspaper.
I heard some clunking as he tunes; then there was a long
silence, he had fallen asleep with his head on the keys.
When he awoke I said the piano was perfect, but for
some reason, it only plays Edelweiss and similar tunes,
not that I care, never cared for classical music.
Press your eyes with
The strength of the
Index and the ring finger.
What do you see?
See the shifting orbs of luminescent aqua,
Starry-eyed fireflies wafting in a
majestic, arrested stasis.
See the fabled constellations
Form and appear, illuminating
The dark void. They tell
Stories of primitive times,
Clinking and clunking clubs
Banging on the dusty ground
While newly-minted fire crackles,
Bursting with the galvanizing spirit
Of God’s creationist firepower.
See the subdued hues ooze freely,
Seeping into each other to form
Fractious fractals, each corner and
Angle forming the triangular wings
Of angels singing the songs of
Heavenly peace and joyful sublime.
Take your index and ring finger off your
Eyes. What do you see?
See a darkened world seemingly dejected,
But with glinting color orbs all around,
Threatening to burst through the sun-kissed
Meridians, lingering in purgatory.
One only needs the strength to find them.
The ordinary toothpick fills the needs of mankind
With a pick, pick, here, and a pick, pick there.
A little piece of stick with no holes, handles
Cords, plugs, tops, bottoms, insides, or batteries.
You little piece of stick, literally at the bottom of the totem pole.
Probably preserved in a bottom drawer in the dark rusted hull
Of the Titanic at the bottom of the sea; you little unwanted stick!
You little piece of stick, colorful, glistening, and perky sticking
Out of a pig-in-a-blanket on a party boat that’s floating
Off the Boston skyline, then slung; I said slung like spit
Into the cold murkiness that keeps the ship afloat, the party going
And the hors d’oeuvres handed out. Or, is the ship clunking about
On millions of discarded toothpicks?
All hail the toothpick.
You ordinary little piece of stick, or maybe,
Unordinary!?
Lithospherical clunking, zest of our navel
Tumultuous melt, fizz ridden obliquitous
Inestimably stemming, trunking, branching
Exaspergrasping for equichosis, ecliptic apotheosis
We shimmer and charade as though dwelt in strobe
Inscribing the vitroglyph, micro slinks to macro
Then back again
I sit lotus, perfecting the interlocking polygonoids of this scape
I resonate and learn over a new sheaf
A Palm Map.
Sea Life
What I see is not very much, a Formica table
greasy plying cards and dirty finger nails.
It is like being stuck in a deep valley between
green waves; tomorrow will be the same and
my ignorance is as the flat map on the wall that
shows oceans and land but nothing more; in
the corner of the map is writing something
idiotic in Latin: “navigation is more important
than life. “Valparaiso and Buenos Aires names
on the map, harbour bars are the same a dirge
of empty, laud music and idle lips is what I see,
just like a Formica table greasy playing cards,
dirty finger nails; clunking fists hitting a table
in impotent triumph… and nothing more but
endless gossiping about fun last time ashore.
A TV. Star.
The man hiding in the light his persona, sparkling
sunglasses not enough when we gloried in his
mesmerizing peculiarity. We saw not the sinister
black shadows behind him… except, from time to
time we felt revulsion a glint in his eyes and shark
teeth that told of what we didn’t want to know.
He died a much loved hero, the abused stayed silent.
Now the dark hideous nature of the man is for all to
see; and must bring shame of those who knew but
for the sake of his fame never spoke out. Pedophiliac,
the seducer of children, his clunking gold chains we
followed, to the tune of greed into the dark abyss of
fear and loathing.
Concrete bedroom w/ lights & sound.
People gather across wet streets --
The click of a women’s heel --
Many clicks like horses trotting.
Herds of clunking mares fighting
for the prize.
Recognition in being the first horse
across the finish line
The first blue suit from Calvin Klein.
Our country is at war.
Kids are dying!
I know those things but do you know
when the Rolex store closes?
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