The song my soul never seeked
The writings I never wanted to keep
The beautiful pain that’s started to leak
And my ugly heart that only shrieked
I own your signature.
The dappled papers in the ancient literature
The ink rubbing against my thumb and forefinger
My adoring gaze caressing everything you and similar
Your darling face, particular
Although I am ever the wonderer:
Who was the relationship’s true severer?
The blissful cherry-pink of a spring-summer’s day?
It is but, I say:
Your ears’ colourful glaze
When I am not the one to spot you first; but they
Perhaps you are a swallow
With a sweet sound of chirp at morn - no sorrow
Dawn and midday, the sound is never hollow
And in my calm heartache, I wallow.
Perhaps the poppy and the willow
is a better combo
Although you weep with joy, not with ashamed gusto
I would be lost, without you, you know;
In fact, you are my hero.
No, no, whatever was I thinking - my mind must be slowing -
You are a stream, blue-silver and glowing
Helping us swim, getting us going
Taking a chance, and always flowing
Until you have been stopped by cold weather and snowing
Alibi: Faeren
I rubbed the tips
of my thumb
and forefinger together
to accentuate
the scent
she had left behind
as she flew away home;
held it to my nostrils
and inhaled
the musky scent
of
green bell peppers.
Her house was not
on fire
or children all gone
but she
opened
her ruby red carapace
spread her
lacy wings
left her
smell of fear.
And Ann?
To my face you are kindness itself:
cheerful, always upbeat,
but in your anonymous blog
you rip me apart.
You press your thumb and forefinger on each side,
hold, pull and rend,
and rupture my very innards.
You focus on me,
my life, my words, my actions and my body
like you are a Celestron Telescope
searching for every single crater and irregularity.
With an Ultima Barlow lens
and your Leica M9 18MP
You grab each natural image
and then rearrange reality with
your precious, perversely persuasive, periscopic Photoshop technique.
poetic liberty has leased you a license to assassinate,
humiliate,
decimate,
invalidate,
severely lambaste,
and mockingly castrate
everything that I identify as me.
literary freedom allows you to liberally fabricate,
mutilate,
denigrate,
incriminate,
scathingly castigate,
and maliciously urinate
on what others think of me.
To my face you are kind beyond selflessness,
but on your online beat,
your anonymous malevolence
sets you apart
from all the others
that have ever wanted
to write me up,
put me down,
and publish me out.
— Zumwalt (2011) (used by permission from zumpoems.com)
Into the fog I fell,
amidst the bone chilling cold,
caterwauled by silence -
eerily the end
of the year, dismal.
With the call of a forefinger,
I float through the mist,
silence switches
to a whisper,
rays appear through the haze.
Into the cradle I amble,
dizzy from 2024 strange happenings.
Lemons and apples fill the trees,
bright, juicy, bountiful, and
plenipotentiary fruit
of a Happy New Year.
Here’s where it gets weird:
we must take care
to love and serve
and the trees will prosper.
Love, joy, peace
patience, kindness, goodness,
gentleness, faithfulness, self-control* -
the kind of fruit that will produce
good results
for years to come.
The Whos in Whoville give praise.
The pennypinching Grinch** gives in.
Bells ring and voices raised.
Cheers, hopeful and kinetic.
*Fruit of the Spirit, bible reference
**Whos, Whoville, Grinch - Dr. Seuss book references
Grandmas I teach how to suck eggs:
Marathoners long use of legs,
Soon hurting Enlightened People;
Might sooner unleash a ripple;
What would she say: The Western World?
Possibly, a heart is now galled!
Yet, will I this brash task perform
To a condom culture reform...
Thumb and forefinger on its tip
Making sure the two don't off slip:
For air removing at its tip,
Before facing your partner's hip;
Its space for Ejaculation
That fetches congratulation!
Condom roll over your organ
Like perfectly does Morgan,
Not rubbing off lubricant;
You won't end up communicant!
Job finished off slide no spillage
Or else one should query your age;
Your used condom for disposal
A vital point in espousal.
PAPER PLANE
A project with my small son
After so much paper folding
Sharpening important creases
Anticipation slowly increases
Thumb and forefinger holding
First flight testing has begun
He sees me throw the plane
Into the garden’s warm still air
At first it floats and then dives
A sense of freedom in our lives
What’s a wing without a prayer
Swooping down to crash again
Initial plans were crafted well
Launching to fly into marriage
Reminds me what went wrong
All planes land before too long
Skidding with no undercarriage
Flights suspended as you can tell
Dated 26 August 2022
There is a squat/stout duffer in a windbreaker and a Mets cap on the outskirts of the park
playing a rickety 5 string and hoot'in and holler'in.
I have no idea what he is singing.
There is no discernible melody.
Every now and then he stops/ freezes/ puts his forefinger in the air
to take some sort of measure
before plunging back into his flailing guitar.
After another stuttering burst he will stop/
then let loose with an elongated cry to the sky/
punk operatic/ style
nobody seems to stop/and listen/he does not have a container for contributions and probably would not get much trade/
he is playing/for his own/self/and that is / enough
It's/utterly senseless/ wholly out of key.
Beyond the realm of anything/
resembling cohesive musicality
/rambunctiously obtuse
yet imbued with an innocence that casts proficient excellence into a pallid light.
His songs/ performance/ like life/ a messy and inconclusive/ thing/
You can have/ your polished practice and Carnegie aspirations/
and make of that an evening/ with class
but I like the way this codger lets her rip/
this ragged chanteur/
airs it out/ no class/ no talent/ but lotsa / style
all the angers i sent into the world
all the injustices i never got to stop
all the sorry i never spent
not spending more time ogling the cloud
never wearing rain for a shroud
all the times between forefinger and thumb
i have firmly grasped my tongue
and gently held my words
wore my heart upon my sleeve
cause everything inside told it to leave
always jumping out
---------------------------jumped up
while everyone else
never dripped dew from a summer petal
Never smiled as if i meant it
Me and the box have been outside
having a laugh about your thoughts
I missed the echo's return
That this was tooooooooooooooooooooooooo loooooooooooooooooong
if my eyes open tomorrow
That i never followed the mist home
Held fire and ice too long
Jumping rather than walking
all the tears i wasn't there to wipe away
Missing the dipping of the day both ways
never holding an embrace long enough
not being able to touch a shadow
laughing when others sombred silence
I Hold the Sacred Heart in My Hand
I anger, I make a fist,
ready to throw ... but no.
My heart pride will not hold.
I humble my heart, I let love flow.
lt is love from the mightiest heart of all,
the heart I now hold in my hand.
I tighten my fist, the Sacred Heart.
I extend my pinky, the precious blood.
I touch my forefinger to my thumb, the crown of thrones.
I extend my thumb upward, the eternal flame.
I open my fist, the light of grace.
May it shine upon me.
Indeed, it has.
I crumbled the dirt between thumb and forefinger
grit tumbled and rolled
following the grooves and fissures
of wrinkled worn hands
light seeping between my fingers
glinted off of some of the specks
like splinters of diamond
trapped within the grime
Hand slipped hand
to remove the dusted layer
and with deep breaths push
the final particles gone
God must be playing marbles with the planets...
It's Earth's turn to be in the palm of his loving hand.
For millennia, mankind had its chance at the loom.
Endless wars, lust, and greed are all he could weave.
Now we're perched between God's thumb and forefinger.
Soon he'll flick us to the outer edges of his patience.
Branded a cold and hopeless snot ball of darkness.
As he reaches for another sphere, rouged with potential.
It was there I waited for you
Outside your office
That unforgettable afternoon….
Suddenly, at a quarter to four
Came a sound from the outside door
In walked the princess
Mi querida, Mi amor
I saw you but you didn’t see me
For I stood outside your periphery
That’s the reason I suppose
Your thumb and forefinger
Dug inside your nose
Holy cow!
You’d a made a 49er proud
When Rome ruled the world,power was king,
A freedman proudly unveiled his iron ring;
In later years of olde,
The forefinger,the preference of the bold;
The middle by the prudent and discrete
Such dignity now appears polite & so effete;
A loop upon the littlest,show a masterful mind,
The circlet on the third,one of a different kind;
Love& affection,wed as one,to bind & then remind
Clustered cactus trees sprawling, reclining in the summer heat
where agile pollinators dart among gorgeous silky blooms.
Day by day the prickly pear fruit swell and mature.
Already the mind conjures visions of red,
magenta, pink, yellow and white.
thriving on spring rain
deep-rooted fantasy
mellifluent desires
Experience has shown that the best time to pick prickly pears
is early morning before the sun’s rays become too hot.
A steady half turn with thumb and forefinger
gently releases the ripened fruit.
The bucket soon fills up.
dewy prickly pears
at break of day
impotent thorns
Rinsed under running water, the fruit waits to be disrobed.
Both ends of each fruit are cut off with a sharp knife,
followed by a long vertical slice along its body.
The thick skin is then peeled back, the
fleshy coloured fruit revealed.
prickly pears
in a glass bowl
naked temptation
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Contest: “Haibun”
Sponsor: Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer
©17th July, 2017
just when you thought
you had it pinched
between thumb and forefinger
it squirmed out
slithered into a crevice
leaving a slimy trail behind
taking turns watching
the crack for eyes in the dark
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