The freeze-thaw, freeze-thaw
of Newfoundland winters
plays havoc with the pavement.
Cracks become divots.
Divots become potholes.
Potholes become trenches.
Trenches become craters.
Exaggeration? No, not really!
And what lies buried beneath?
A treasure trove of history and mystery
rarely, if ever, to be uncovered.
The past in the past in the past...
in the present.
We stand on the shoulders
of all those who came before
until, one day,
we become a part of before.
Pause for thought.
Description, O my diatribe?
Stand before the court!
O comedians, with thy jibe!
Paragraphs to sort!
Where is hope on gallows hill?
Couldn't be real sure.
Yellow priestess, queen until?
Revelation tour.
Humble as a humbug?
Pride raises high the pain.
Dancers, rhythm! Cut a rug!
Doom is to disdain!
Death, thy destiny. Live free.
Placards of the plea.
O ye angels, come for tea!
Demons, how about ye?
Tyrant of deep waters?
Alliance Black Abyss.
Daughters, commit slaughters!
No one we will miss!
Rivers, needing rivets?
O lampreys, rub thy ribs.
Deadly are such divots!
Just nibble on the nibs!
Unify the endless hordes?
Bid them sharpen swords!
Watercress, thy water boards!
Mother Sin, thy gourds...
My footprints
are kissed by the ocean
as I walk the beach
looking back
the shoreline becomes an etch a sketch
leaving divots
filled with water
I dodge
between endless sand castles
built by creative imaginations
lost by the fierce kiss
slowly melting back
into the water
My footprints are
kissed by the ocean
as I walk the beach
looking back
the shoreline becomes
an etch a sketch
leaving divots filled with water
I dodge between
endless sand castles
built by creative imaginations
lost by the seas fierce kiss
slowly melting back
into the water
Sobbing
Swallowed by the darkness
Praying for a light
Waiting
Waiting
And passing
And yearning
The moisture of the ground, the divots of age
A nasty crunching sound as I walk into the black
The wet crunch of my forehead meeting the wall
A wall I knew not of before
And still I hope
I pray
I hope
But the light has not yet come
The wall speaks its age to the rub of my bleeding shoulder
Telling me stories I do not care about
I want to see but not this
The squeak of a mouse lilts through the stillness
Diving to the floor, I catch the critter
Holding it to my face
I can barely see
Its eyes of pearly white
I pray I pray; For a light to see; All that is in front of me
But what I look for; What I seek; I will not know until I peek
The ghosts teach me.
What a corner is, how to smell a rat
With their essence presented, they sail into the dark
I don't see with my eyes; I see with what I know and how I can know it
But I pray; I yearn for a light
To let me see effortlessly
To absorb all that is before me
I dont wish to bleed I dont wanna move
I'll inherit glory from the seat in my room
The darkness laughed
three ducks paddling
300 yards, dogleg left
……..no short game
a feral cat
digging in the sand trap
……..replacing divots
an old dog
lays on the first tee
………..licking his balls
the golf ball smiled
the golfer slammed his club
……the caddy smiled back
he addressed the ball
not knowing where it would go
……no return address
a blind approach shot
swinging from the hips
………a gaggle of geese
the nineteenth hole
burgers, fries, beers and BS
………lies about lies
John G. Lawless
©2/20/2022
With Careful Spoons
Your perfume essence speaks of lazy afternoons under sage trees.
You kissed my bent neck with a pointed snake of sweet saliva eyes.
Now we are twisting inside my slow tilted bedroom with creep shoes.
Your gray short skirt shows slender legs flashing firm nylon divots.
Panties white and tight beckon my touch amidst the soft furniture.
Lips gesticulating now with puckered tentacles made of sugared spit.
Taloned fingers with pink polished probings find the noble charge.
Music-playing minestrone tasters come to dance with careful spoons.
Why have you lead me into this frothing dream web of lilac spume?
We kiss now with mind-rushing lip lashings glued to the secret night.
We delve now with our bending statuary into the new morning light.
Lame lyrics of lost love penned by sweatered sirens
deep as divots, shallow as puddles
Doesn’t teenage angst get old by the time you’re thirty?
I’d think so, yet the lackeys lap it up like maple syrup
I derive my dirges from a deeper well
dredging the depths
the abyss of my essence
bringing it to the surface in buckets
thick as black molasses
ponderous to pour, painful to process
Reopening every wound
Exposing each scabrous scar
My lifeblood spread in red puddles on the floor
until I’m drained dry and there’s no more
not a drop remaining to be wrung out of me
Bruised, broken, and sore I struggle to strike the match
setting it all afire
throwing myself on the pyre
London
Past meets present meets future,
Smoothed pavement meets uneven cobblestone, water filtering through the divots accumulated from consistently dull weather days,
Tall buildings, cathedrals, skyscrapers, each holding different people, stories,
Short buildings, flats, pubs, filled with red-faced arguments over the classification of ‘chips’ in fish and chips,
Bumbling tourists getting pickpocketed on the Tube, an expat know-it-all watching from a cafe, a local haughtily observing it all as they speed-walk past,
The ferry putters by, the captain repeating his script and jokes he probably now hears in his sleep from the repetition, repetition, repetition,
“How can you tell the tourists from the locals? Wave and see who bothers responding,”
The people on board cackle because it’s their first time hearing it, and “Oh, Mark, dear, can we please tip him a little extra? He was just too kind,”
The London Eye keeps turning, blinking as the days pass, blinded by the cherry red buses that shock against the gray concrete,
The cars keep left, the people who have left are replaced on the next flight over,
London
There are wild horses in the heather;
their neighing follows the wake
of hewing wind-wraiths.
The ponies are hardy and stout, they go
in and out of the clouds, slip through
swale and dingle.
The moors are high. You don't feel the altitude
only the depth of the land. When the sky turns sullen
it tilts to smother the earth.
If the scything winds falter, the shallow sod
bogs into sumps and divots
Where trees cannot be, clouds spread
a muffling mizzle over gorse and grass,
a grazing tide carries a spume of chills.
The hills here are thigh deep, rills of dark water
loiter and seep.
The small ponies shake their matted manes,
mist-sprays pool in muddy hoofprints,
the warm brume of their snorts
leads you onward on a lonesome track
for they alone know the steps taken
to cross over each dim acres edge.
Travel with them to a gritstone ledge,
where the heath plunges dale deep,
there above the tall treetops
a bright sky will rise up to meet you.
Another dreary journey down deaths highway
The daily life of cursed work
Outside Glasgows fair kiss
The free tv shows views as cars driven by the undead squeeze past
The grubby bus window that no one seems to use
All heads in prayer to the constructed deity
Creators of a binary god
My eyes survey a barren space of kermit green
and mud filled divots
And as if positioned by a godlike hand
A family of dearest deer
unspoiled and prohuman glisten from sunlights kiss
A miracle not that a wonderful moment in
a day of unlived life
But as we pass another moment holds hand with the moment before
A boy surgically attatched to his phone and headphones
Catches sight of deer a frolic
And unopposed and unreserved a smile lit his face
And the bones that slowly kill me
loosen for a breath
And a scottish poet finds inpiration and a warmth inside his chest
Las Vegas, Pigeon’s Paradise!
At the Angel Park Golf and Country Club
The pigeons sported neck scarves
Of iridescent iris, white and blue
As they hoped with expectations
Around divots in the turf,
Now filled with sand and seed
By a golfer's hand
And side-eyed morsels with
Tilting beaks in obvious delight
Seemingly in agreement
That heaven had dropped
Here.
Pigeon’s paradise!
At the Golden Nugget Hotel and Casino
The people sported lewd t-shirts
Of sexual slangs or comic twangs
As they hoped and smoked with expectations
That gurgled and beeped
As neon lights flashed numbers,
Slots filled with flashing icons
By a tycoon’s hand
Yanked and cranked handles
Seemingly in agreement
That heaven had to drop
Here.
People’s price!
...to Charlie Hebert, my father-in-law,
with respect and affection
Wind-swept and sunburnt alone on the fairway
he fusses and frets with his lie;
he's been here for ever commanding the course,
ever since you and I were knee high.
Golf is his passion, he lives and he breathes
for the chance to play just one more round,
replacing his divots, observing the rules
and keeping his feet on the ground.
Always nattily dressed he is ready
to tee up and go for the green;
the young guns are anxious to unseat old Chuck,
but he's crafty and wily and mean!
It's the day of the championship and he's all ready
to teach these young men how it's played;
at the turn he's ahead with a three under par,
he'll show them how great shots are made.
On the final hole two men are tied for the lead,
they are edgy as each eyes the pin;
Jim misses his putt, it goes wide to the left,
and Charlie makes par for the win!
CODA
In the clubhouse they congratulate the old boy on his score,
he thanks them from the bottom of his heart;
here's to Charlie then, to bunkers, to bad lies and to rain,
to another shot at glory when they climb aboard the cart!
...to my grandfather, Charlie Hebert,
with respect and affection RIP
Wind-swept and sunburnt alone
on the course he fusses and frets
with his lie; he's been here for ever
commanding the links, ever since
you and I were knee high.
Golf is his passion, he lives and he
breathes for the chance to play just
one more round, replacing his divots,
observing the rules and keeping
his feet on the ground.
Always nattily dressed he is ready
to tee up and go for the green;
the young guns are anxious to unseat
old Charlie, but he's crafty
and wily and mean.
It's the day of the championship
and he's all set to teach those young men
how to play; at the turn he's ahead
with a three under par, he'll show them
how great shots are made.
On the final hole two men are tied
for the lead, they are edgy as each
eyes the pin; Jim misses his putt,
it goes wide to the left, and Charlie
makes par for the win.
In the clubhouse they congratulate
the old boy on his score, he thanks them
from the bottom of his heart;
here's to Charlie then, to bunkers,
to bad lies and to rain, to another shot at glory
when they climb aboard the cart!
...to Charlie Hebert, my father-in-law,
with respect and affection
Wind-swept and sun burnt alone on the fairway
he fusses and frets with his lie;
he's been here for ever commanding the course,
ever since you and I were knee high.
Golf is his passion, he lives and he breathes
for the chance to play just one more round,
replacing his divots, observing the rules
and keeping his feet on the ground.
Always nattily dressed he is ready
to tee up and go for the green;
the young guns are anxious to unseat old Chuck,
but he's crafty and wily and mean!
It's the day of the championship and he's all ready
to teach these young men how it's played;
at the turn he's ahead with a three under par,
he'll show them how great shots are made.
On the final hole two men are tied for the lead,
they are edgy as each eyes the pin;
Jim misses his putt, it goes wide to the left,
and Charlie makes par for the win!
CODA
In the clubhouse they congratulate the old boy on his score,
he thanks them from the bottom of his heart;
here's to Charlie then, to bunkers, to bad lies and to rain,
to another shot at glory when he climbs aboard the cart.
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