Desolate clown's
traveling train
tours famed cities
onto quaint towns.
He mimicks glee
for his ousted
heart's sutures
are dismissive
frowns.
Balloon twisting's
what he knows--
cause joggeling act
makes kids mope;
And sparking globe-nose
bombards
the Top's bleachers
with plumes
of blinding smoke.
His onesie sports
ink-stains for color;
And oily-face
with white base
sweating turns
cream-soupy butter;
Shoved and ridiculed
by crowds-even peers,
cause he studders.
His Mass Bay clown
soles have holes--
with grimy socks,
torn by nails and corns.
Grey's his story--
when a caboose's
the only corner
where he
can call home.
He'll tumbling fall
to gain their laughs-
cringing weeps
in silence--
from prying eyes.
The show must go on--
cause he's a star;
Like his forefathers
before him-since then past on.
obsessive mind is wit seeping in need
fills gaps with missing pieces external
desperation not love, pleading to seed
gardens to harvest fruits' tasty kernel
fragments illusive prideful love or work
person paints rigours as necessity
grips grey matter, unrealistic cork
attraction clutch mind, a complexity
balanced stability rests hovering
realism swallowed by clawing shadow
higher self cringing waits uncovering
delusions or compulsions dance backflow
urges or repeated thoughts lead to naught
heartfelt spirit will not rest till peace sought
Whimsical white word wizzardry
Really something heard or said to me
Inspired by the greats of poetry
Teal thoughts hard soft like lake deep
Emerald energy synergy all bottled up
Red romantic fantasy that I’m the star of
Singing off key to songs in the blue truck
Black ink is strong driven by pen of love
Like a dragonfly buzzing boisterous around
Oil anointed by amethyst acrostic’s sound
Cringing at raspberry rough draft on my page
Keeping humble laughs indigo ideas I chase
I saw it being built on sacred ground
a field where we boys had many times
reenacted Custers Last Stand.
Ashen boned jaws were riveted to the sky.
The school now waited to be
a concrete cave where madness
was injected into cringing sponge.
I dreamed once that I was a dog
chained to the school's bicycle rails.
Inside the new school, demented teachers
screeched through split nails.
Each lesson had to be hammered
into my psyche, each day my scalp tingled
with a foreboding.
Yet I knew that the arrow in my eye
had to be pushed in a lot further,
a whole lot deeper,
if my mind was to be ever
totally massacred.
The corn has ripened.
With it is the wizened laughter of a
Mirthless age, showing ashy teeth
Of dappled cowries.
A flavescence so bantered by the courage
Of wilting bloom!
Sadly, sea waves truss the feet of
Burning skies, loosening the tongues of beaches,
Which, with ague, recline on cold, cringing currents.
Old cats mourn the fall of strafed pillars
Burrowing through silt-buried kennels re-grassed for the
Salutation of new vistas.
The Crying Child
The child cries
wriggling limbs
Scrolling the heavens
Cringing away
from the clinging shadows
Streaming tears
drowning the earth
Echoing thunders
across the land
The land bleeds
even as the creators sleeps
Lulu wanted this, that, those, these and the other.
Thought she deserved them, she dated a rich mother.
He liked tattoos, pretty soon her legs were tatted up.
So many tats, it rivaled the hair on her cat and pup.
Red tats, blue tats, yellow tats, purple tats, black tats too.
We asked her not to tell Grandma as she fixed our stew.
We had to all stop our concern and our ’n
When we saw Grandma’s legs out in the kitchen.
Grandma had six tats herself in pink and blue.
Not as much as you, she told Lulu.
But I am going to get them now, I bet.
The only one we saw cringing was Old crow, grandma’s pet.
I did not think their music could become one iota more annoying
I was wrong
Maybe it’s the loudness; my ears are cringing
My sensitivity is crying
Why oh why do people use pounding music in a public place?
It does not help that I am waiting for a haircut
And two people are ahead of me
Neither of them looks like they even need a haircut
While I look like the wild child of Borneo
Who put her fingers in a light socket
Reflection
Staggering out of the maze
his mind still swaggers
Mustering up his wit
he shored up his faith
Sulking his present state
he craves this cringing hope
Bemoaning the looming darkness
he detest this fate
Yearning for a reprieve
he is caught
napping on the trail
The command is to write -
but every day you wake up
saying to yourself:
"I can't write, I was never taught,
my fingers are illiterate appendages
of a cheap Japanese laptop,
my mind is too oddly shaped
it has no dustcover
its pages have wormholes
holes that smaller worms fall through."
Every day the same old thing,
and a plasma screen mocks you,
mocks your open slack mouth,
your dull eyes,
the slow grinding inertia of every thought.
The command is insistent,
it prods the soft belly of your cringing ego,
demands a pound of flabby words
be made flesh,
and so, you tap random keys listlessly
until another string of consciousness
unwinds itself
into a last line,
that if not memorable,
yet at least will not live long enough
to disgrace you.
death rode by on a scooter today
I gave her a bit of a cheery wave
she frowned at me, and I know why
she wants to be scary,
will give me another try
by noon she had donned a distinctive disguise
dressed as dracula’s daughter, it made me laugh a bit
she jumped up and down, having a terrific fit
you are supposed to be cringing and fearful, you little chit!
I apologized, but she turned her back on me.
Stomped out through my garden, turned into not one, but three.
A mother deer, a raccoon and a spotted fawn.
I knew she would be back, but probably not before dawn.
election fears
icy beers soothe
old ears cringing
While mopping the melted snow of winter.
I remember when I got a splinter.
My expression cringing.
My finger twinging.
But still I reminisce.
Of the fireplace’s caress.
While dusting the places usually never seen.
I remember being-
Next to a draft.
Feeling bereft.
Wishing for spring.
Not seeing-
Flowers that bloom.
Feeling like I’m in a tomb.
But nowadays I slip from my mopping.
Dust flying and never stopping.
I miss being lazy.
Even when it was hazy.
But then I open a window.
And love for spring rekindles.
Soon summer will come around.
Then I’ll miss the smell of spring that abounds.
I comb the banshee’s long hair
until she is calm and silent.
She is older
than the lowest barren hills.
Then,
a young girls voice
issues from her open mouth.
“Daddy.”
I’m not her daddy,
No one knows her father,
unless it be the ever-wailing winds.
“Daddy” her voice is getting louder,
ceiling light-fixtures begin to tremble,
a picture jumps to its death
from a cringing wall.
“Stop it! No one knows anything!”
The banshee dissolves into tears
and silence.
Moments come and go,
the locked house door, swings open
with a shattering crack.
A little girl is at my front step –
the screeching from her mouth
is mind-shattering. terrible.
Seagulls drop like stones from the sky.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
An Irish myth. Some interpretations say that combing the Banshee’s hair
is the only way to stop her life-threatening bewailing.
She is said to foretell of death, but who or what is unclear.
This post might lead the reader to think of child abuse, at least I hope so.
Shadows 9-22-23
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shadows
Living in ethereal shadows of compassion,
In profiles of grace,
Mercy overshadows stumbling stones
Revealed in a lens of benevolent focus
To eclipse blisters of ebony shades
With wispy balms of healing from raining penumbras,
No longer shadow boxing with bruising lacerations.
Shadows of grace pursue cutting eclipses
And wraps golden coronas of clarity
Around impenetrable guilt, treachery and betrayal,
Forgiveness foreshadowed in rising cumulous mists
Chasing cringing palls back into impotent hollows
Creating translucent patterns of favor
In delicate dews of lotus clour.
Ever present living pierced hands of agape,
In crimson shadow’s continual canticles,
Engulfs dark demon wraiths with pure mystery
And with silhouettes of the eternal Eden
Reveals perpetual truth –
No shadow can with withstand
The incense of everlasting grace.
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