Written: September 17, for a contest sponsored by: John Lawless
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I flipped the book with a steady hand,
chapters etched as runes into the sand.
The tale was tangled, the lead crowned,
beyond, silence fell, no closing to be found.
The final leaf had vanished, sly and fleet,
perhaps devoured by some voracious beet.
Or maybe scribes, with quizzacious delight,
slipped it away to prank the sleepless night.
I searched the margins, parsed each crabbed line,
for clues the author left in sly design.
A smudge, a doodle, statice pressed in place—
but no denouement, no triumphant grace.
So now I tell the tale with aplomb:
the villain married, bought a stately home.
The hero tripped, repined, then took a nap—
the dragon joined a choir, and learned to rap.
And if you ask what moral can be spun,
I’ll say: beware a most distant sun.
For endings hide, as frenemy or ghost—
the last page missing always laughs the most.
She was here the other day
She’s still here with her wooden cart, devoid of paint
She believed posies and periwinkle could feed her children
For a while, it was good
Not until the leaves fell off by the street
The cart was too heavy to push
And the newspaper used to wrap a bouquet had soaked
The lines on her face grew visible
And her hair lost its vibrant ebony hue
Her back against the ruined
Where big crabbed letters run across the dilapidated walls
The passersby in the city had become unfamiliar
Her head down,
Her arid eyes watching the parched petal
Of her sunflower
Till late evening, the flowers sit cold
Summer came, a young lad pushed the same cart
With the same sight of decorative flowers
And I never saw her again
Shock absorbers don't help,
the axis is broken, the axels are crabbed,
forked up.
No garage can unflex the inflexible,
maintenance cannot be maintained.
Axially speaking, the world
and its billions of video artists
is off kilter.
Social influencers
have sold their souls to the godless
and by god, we are pissed
with just about nothing anymore.
"That's problematic,"
chorus all the blind owls.
HOMELESS
Pale palms spread ! Lie flat, damp on a beer mat
lip stained pint glass, bubbles rising,carbon gas.
Puddle, pooled, red-eyed perspective, insulin injected.
Life lives in a toilet visit, dripped, stained, unzipped.
Crabbed-walked, twisted-talked, bent legged kneeling
urine smell immune, numb, no feeling.
Blurred haze across table strewn, stool, chair maze
falling body held in a strangers grasp, a sick rasp.
Limp-mouthed words fall out, joined in spit
short breath from Hell and split trousers smell .
Cold gutters await, dark, alone late
and no home, not there ! No care.
Please bus fare ?
A few months of 'us'
was enough, but memory
has no expiration date.
I do mostly forget who us were
way back then.
I forget how we slept together
did we sometimes
snuggle together like puppies,
or did we just lay there unhinged
by unbridled nights of carnality?
I do recall rocking back and forth
on the top of a coastal cliff,
swaying over a crabbed axle
(risky for an Austin Mini,
with a corroded back door).
Metal, lust, and rusts,
yet that was us.
Decades later I found an old photo of us.
I was clearing out the garage.
Maybe I was tired and hot,
maybe I was in a bad mood,
but I threw ‘us’ away in the trash bin.
That evening though
I drank more than usual.
Café Nuestra, Buenos Aires close to midnight,
heavy perfumed loud tango classic dressed of sight.
Am I willing to compromise myself in that situation,
two to tango after all, slow slow, quick quick, slow creation.
The slow consumes two beats and the quick steps one,
melancholy and romantic essence in a tied serious spun.
Out of nowhere a manicured hand crabbed my wrist,
gorgeous dark eyes with a rose in her hair, consist.
Closed position right hand on left shoulder,
my left in soft cushion of waist to hold her.
She is leading me by that beat beyond time and border,
giving me freedom to presume my stumble order.
Whistling and clapping laughter and pain,
sweating in pleasure by this love rhythm insane.
Nocturno de tango, she whispered in my ear,
pressing her body so tied for another gear.
Slow morning dawn exchanges the light of Moon,
and we walking to a near cafe opening soon.
Her english was very little, her spanish very fast,
and I wonder is she still leading me aghast.
Budweiser T-shirt
And hair to my jaws,
Viet Nam waning
While Watergate roared:
Was a summer in Milford,
On Long Island Sound,
In a cottage with family—
We swam and we crabbed,
Suffered sunburn a lot,
And bikini-clad girls
Went stealing my eyes
To teach me of beauty
And life’s ultimate prize.
The bible and my parent taught me to be optimistic,
sometimes situations are tough and make me pessimistic,
When broke,I say to people 'I have plenty of money',
Even though I borrow,my tongue is coated with honey,
When sickness holds me down and weakness moves along,
I say to myself and friends 'I am healed,hearty and strong'
which backfired once as I fell unconscious and was rushed to the clinic,
the doctor said "no serious problem" so as to avoid panic,
Sometimes when in the mood I speak in irony,
Though it seems confusing but its not funny,
When impressed by her,"I hate you very much"I say,
which makes her to fidget and smile all day,
She is so rigid and crafty like an iron queen,
when actually she`s cool,gentle,naive but not mean,
I pronounced to the world,how I hated John for his malevolent,
when he helped me out by being benevolent,
When I say 'crabbed' ,what I really mean is' fine and good',
And when I say 'I have belly pain',It means I need food.
Contest:"When I say...what I really mean is ....." sponsored by Nancy Jones.
They all presage for me
Signal calamity -
Deep etched lines that fall from Saturn’s mount,
Crabbed islands on wavering lines of fate,
A mole on the southwest corner of the palm,
I stay calm
For I
Have seen the rising sun lave snowy peaks,
Seen ditchwater drowning dreaded kings,
Hunted with the hoary hounds of hell,
And through these all have seen my poems take wings
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