Snowdrop all over the top
Runs to a quick flop
Daffodil thrown up
In a hasty set up
Lily’s eyes bloom on
petals grace a gentle beacon
Orchid bided her time
It holds an euphonious rhyme
Blossoming flourishing
blooming flowering
Dying falling
Decaying fouling
All then the graden bare
No red roses perfumed the air.
I wrap my fingers around the pen
which has lain dormant collecting dust
for months on end feeling as if
I'm lifting a fifty pound weight
straining not just my joints
but my brain, its neurons refusing
to fire like the broken burner of a
gas stove with a malfunctioning igniter
fouling the air with noxious fumes
as it fails to burst into blue flame
a single spark threatening an explosion
that will decimate everything I hold dear
My lone gift life bestowed upon me
I once naively believed would
change everything has altered
exactly nothing as my words are
like whispers in a windstorm
to the world, to you
whose image I was deluded
enough to imagine there might
be a chance would match reality
that someone, that you
could actually care
Soft and complacent
our youth in denial
What evil disguises
the past has on file
Wishing and hoping
a smokescreen at best
Masking our fear
while fouling our nest
The seeds of our history
whose names have been damned
And mocked until cancelled
our heritage banned
In near distant cauldrons
a pot stirs and boils
Awaiting our downfall
—and all we’ve despoiled
(The New Room: November, 2023)
The hull lolls,
anchored to a fouling current.
Juggernauts of heat sleep under a leaden sky,
bugs lurch and slow skirt.
I nod over my spine, afloat on a humming haze.
An osprey jumps out of a high ambit,
swooping fast.
I imagine a wind in the wake of its wings.
The bird dives, cleaves the light, arrow bright
parting the weight of these doldrums.
The wallowing skiff seems to shrug off the heavy air
as talons scoop up a wriggling fish
together with my up-lifted mind.
Fear sullies the thought of Death;
fouling the bliss in its kiss
as it releases the soul
from its mortal existence,
to a spiritual plane.
I cannot worry about 2082, or even 2032,
I cannot figure out in 2021 what I can do
To make the changes this old world needs
How to overcome humanity’s foul deeds.
I’d like to make the world a better place,
But we’re already fouling outer space.
I certainly cannot change the climate here,
Or do what’s necessary to save reindeer.
I am thinking the next generation must,
‘Cause my generation is beginning to rust.
written September 29, 2021
There was a time, before Hollywood
fully embraced commercialism – then love
was yet a part of Paramount; before ratings took complete
charge of the Industry's heart – changing sincerity and dearness
to rank commodity – a time when writer's wrote what
one's heart fondly projected...before editors assumed
the roll of Gods: preferring the flashy art
of covers over interior substance –
A time when a poet sang what his
heart instinctively felt and embraced,
unstained by articles of form and alliteration:
A time when God and His Heaven dwelt
among men – He and His angels interacting freely
and openly with creation, daily breathing
new Light and joy into earth's blossoming
spirit. A time before Satan's Editors seized
the throne of man's heart – fouling
his skies and waters
with Heretical Council.
I finished moving into my residential college as a storm began
- fat raindrops, as big as coconuts, falling from a black and fouling sky.
These northerners were acting like a "tropical storm" (Henri) was a big deal.
“Surely New England gets storms?” I ask, from behind my mask.
“What about NOR_Easters?” I say, like a meteorologist.
“Those are different.” I’m told, with no other explanation.
“Did you bring this storm from the “SOUTH?” I’m asked, accusingly.
*(This was after I told them about coming from one ”bulldog-college-town” to another.)*
“Yes.” I reply, “It was in my luggage.”
A silly question but they have a point - the storm feels like it’s involved and fulfilling some obligation to dramatize my college move-in story.
“Time to quarantine!” I’m informed - “Yep, can’t WAIT!” I lie.
One disaster at a time.
I’m un-fouling my anchor chain
In this seedy seaport bar.
Bid farewell to the tavern rats
Who’ll stay rooted where they are.
Pull the cork. Tip the bottle back.
Take a long soul-warming sip.
Feel that heady brew trickle down,
Braced and cocked to board my ship.
Cobblestones on a dirty street
Glisten darkly in the rain.
Find my way to the waterfront
Down a twisting gas-lit lane.
Mooring lines, like a spider’s web,
Bind my schooner to the pier.
Cast them off with the morning tide,
Underway without a tear.
Ride the swells of the raging sea
Through Poseidon’s fickle realm.
Dream of women I’ve likewise tamed
With my hands upon the helm.
Cross the line sailing far beyond
The landsman’s narrow world.
Navigating an open course
With a pirate’s flag unfurled.
And there’s poison in my blood,
Poison thick as delta mud.
Yes, there’s poison in my blood,
But I’m alright.
I’ve looted Treasure Island
With the young John Silver.
Yo, ho, ho, and a bottle of night.
Rolling ball in a football court, passing from one to other
Fouling some with dribbling skill, bouncing well, flying slow and fast
Ball of time, oh! passing by, hit at time will celebrate best.
God's bountiful creation,
our hearts with wonder fill,
held now in contemplation
with mind and body still.
Diversity of creatures,
varieties of plants
for our delight displayed here
that we may be entranced.
Among the host of creatures
just who am I but one?
Yet you and I together
the world have overrun.
We've stained its glorious beauty,
good habitats are lost,
exploited or polluted
at devastating cost.
Our planet's overheating
through burning fossil fuels;
all round the seas are rising
from melting frozen jewels.
Where will the plants and creatures
find refuge to survive?
Without their diverse presence
have we the will to thrive?
It's not too late God shows us,
and science also tells,
to change our ways of living
pollutants to dispel.
Jesus, in mercy lead us
consumers of excess
from fouling our surroundings
to making do with less.
Earth, air and seas defiled,
God calls us to restore
for future generations
to wonder at once more.
Diversity of creatures,
varieties of plants
for their delight renewed there
that they may be entranced.
Tune 7676 D: Ewing, Hatherop Castle, Aurelia, Crüger etc.
THE MATRIARCHAL LOVE PROTEST
On such a time as this,
When the faithful air
In the cupid enclave
Becomes vulnerable
To the fouling presence
Of the all intrusive diffusion
Of the strange breath of the foreign god;
When the dreaded local deities
Could no longer curb the patriarchal excesses
Of the men;
When the regulatory safeguard
Of patriarchy is wantonly let loosed,
The big masquerade, who hitherto had been in her full elements of shamefacedness, leaves the background,
To claim her territory in forewarning
To the accompanying goddesses
In the temple of the visiting cupid god of Valentine.
Chris E. Agbiti, Esq.
Black shades cutting ice
breaks ground deeply ebony chills
darkness creeps closely consumed
Abandoned waste easily exhausted
lands with it's own need
The fire inside laced sulphur
burning ash inferno remains
Venom underneath clay mixed
To extinguish the light
Blank rage fills an empty void
buried inside hate scorned sadness
mixed with madness condemns
Demons dance
upon the flame hissing spits
As fossils from the past ghosts
haunting negative abuse hides
With tortured truth
lies underneath bankrupt happiness
Forever self inflicting harm
Empty existence fouling grace
cold silk pearls shame
crashing down the neck
From the shivering timbers
falling vacant love exist's hallowed
Broken mirror reflections
beyond repair or answers
one blur crushing every lost soul
pulling the trigger
Without good reason
or remorse suicidal death
Numb nothing crashes fate
beneath the soil held sponge captive
Trying to see a future
from within the shawl of suffering
life's fate hounds deals their cards
from the crook in their heart
Countless empty hours spent
Locked inside chains
battle scared
breaking free on the last breath
I heard the things you have been saying
I felt it when the city woke up,
as cars have started practice; fouling
the still of morning air and bringing
a death to night, now found at sunup
my heart will seek a hidden meaning
a secret word in what you gave me
there must be one in this of dreaming,
of wondering on that which can't be,
searching all the haunted eyes I see
As some unspoken word will settle
the dream of dreams that follows, seething
the thought so drowned ever by metal
bleak and worn my heart has tried to be.
a tear fights his way through desolation
the purple summer flower is snapped
hope expired to memorial
green fields are hermetically sealed
mud splashes fouling soft cheeks
the worst in humanity has been reached
childhood dreams buried by cruelty
salt burns painful in bleeding wounds
monsters shuffling around
nailing hard steel in bare walls
behind the scenes reigns vipers
ruthless sounds die away in the cosmos
@ Bianca & Gerhard
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