Gravelly Poems

Misuses of Charismatic Privilege: The Violent Pressure of Personality

after Privilege of Being by Robert Haas

A tipping point of too many
are talking harshly. Down below, 
demon-dead in the unstirred inferno 
and perdition of animal thirsting
are coiling one another's tails in response.
They are honeyed vermillion and covered
in trim the texture of hot picamar.

They espy up all the time 
at the graceless rapture—
     it must sound to them like cold butter
dancing across a cast iron skillet.

Then one voice—she is about to shout—
takes the man's rigid hand and says,
listen to me, and he does.

Or is it the man caressing loose
the gravelly noose of anger? 

Anyway, they do, 
they listen to each other:
two minds with matured mediums, 
hungry to be heard, to be fed by the frisson
of recognition, their skin sizzling with it—
brutal words turned into kindness 
by well-intended touches,

and the gossiping, nosy dead are derelict 
and growing deaf. They hate it. 
They scream a chivvy about injustice 
that breaks no skin, but frays the veil 
between 
what's bone and broth—
a warning, a dirge, a hiss of envy 
worse than silence.

brownie elf gnome pixie and fey

Brownie, elf, gnome, pixie and fey
Walked to large mushroom store on the bay
Met a grouchy gargoyle along the way
He was made of concrete, all gravelly gray

Meeting a Fortune Teller

There are deep creases in palm of the harried hag’s hand
Her wizen face is wrinkled, freckled, there is a brown spot on her cheek.
She has a surreal expression; her voice is gravelly and ethereal.
her tent seems mystical, with embroidered crushed velvet table cloth
taro cards are next to her left hand, she lifts a palm over her hard runes
there is a beautiful purple crystal ball in the center of her work table
I feel her mystical powers, and my hands begin shaking like autumn leaves
An energy I do not recognize begins zapping lightning bolts around the room
The hag smiles, there is no fear in her, I can see this is her normal.

Molly McBee

molly mcbee had a brogue that was thick
her gravelly voice scared her neighbor Brick
when he saw her coming he ran away
she laughed at this, showing her sense of play

here she comes, cute Molly McBee
She will be the death of Brick and me
Brick is hiding behind yonder tree
Please hide me from Molly McBee

The Tale of The House in Sounds

The  CRUNCHING  of tyres on the gravelly driveway
The CLANG of the garden gate sharply closing
The CLICK of the key in the lock
The old door CREAKING open on its hinges
The SNAP of the light switch to brighten  the house
The SWISH  of the curtains being drawn
The CLATTER of crockery being laid on the table
The GUSH of water from the tap into the kettle
The WHISPER ,HISS and SPLUTTER of the boiling kettle
The annoying SLURP of a GULP of tea
The CHORTLE of laughter around the table
The SCRAPING of chairs being drawn back
The CRACKLE of the open fire in the sitting room
The SCRATCH of a match to light the pipe
The comfort of being indoors at the first CLAP of thunder
The even more comforting CLINK of glasses for a safe homecoming

Shadow Wolf

My body cringes as thoughts
start to rub together sending
a warm wave through me that melts 
the ice around my heart revealing
the pain that haunts the love trying
to slip through screaming for mercy
as personalities grind it into a hatred
that sits in the pit of my stomach 

I sit in a pool of doubt mourning
my self-esteem as words start to
bend around me trapping me in a
vortex of lies that suck the light from
my flame drowning my confidence in
the sea of darkness contaminated by
the whispers of envy and jealousy that
bring me to my knees gasping for air

I feel the oxygen leave my 
conscience as the shadows dance 
around me with a gravelly laugh
intercepting every emotion that
breaks through while breathing into
me a new reflection opening my eyes
to the flames on both sides of the 
fence exposing to me a new horizon

I rise with a fractured smile
taking each step with my head
high learning and embracing my
self-worth while watching the
lies fall flat on the paper shifting
my attention to building myself for
the experience of a new chapter

Monet In Rain

Maybe a thousand people 
are in a room, two rooms away, 
all popping bubble wrap

with thousands more waiting outside
ready to take their place
Or a deathly hand slowly turning a dial

through medium wave radio
missing all the stations
finding only constant rhythmical white noise

But perhaps a wily dry scaled dragon
is sliding down a gravelly mountain
as my windscreen patters

with the sounds of rain and yet more rain
My view rapidly becoming a Monet masterpiece
A flick of the lever and suddenly the glass

palette is cleared ready 
to quickly become a Monet
all over again

And I sit on the dry side
of glass, watching, waiting
for the next landscape

Enthralled

He sings of a pain
that births a grotesque form
his sadness black tendril fingertips
that drags from tree stumped darkness
echoes carry tendered tears
He sings of hope
that never came
of love that learned of shame
of punishment meant
a smile gravelly buried
Happi
-------n
-------e
-------s
-------s cracked in two
all the broken bits skip the spaces
scars and bruises now replace the skin
Morose arose upon its toes
and as the umber embers
of his fires ending
licked and sprinted
around the camps shadowed edge
i caught the remnants
of others slowly rotting
trapped by songs
deadly enthral

Shunshine

Shunshine was a character I would do for
the Grands when they were little.After securing them in the toddler swings at the park I would push them for a while.Then to mix things up I would absent mindedly start singing
Flo de doh doh doh in  a gravelly voice .This was  the announcement
that old Shunshine was back in town.With exaggerated movement I would gauge just where
their feet were in the swings arc and would place myself so that when I bent to retrieve an imaginary
object of concern their little toddler tootsies would boot me in the butt.Sometimes I would move out of the way just in the Nick of time to build suspense .When I thought the time was right I would linger at my imagined inspection.Bingo! Then all indignant I would whirl
around and say" Hey!,don't be kicking your old granny.Every last one of them thought it
Was just too much fun.When the oldest was ten I leaned over one day and said Hey  Mase do you remember this?, and softly sang Flo de doh doh doh into his ear.A sweet smile played upon his face as he said I remember that.Old Shunshine.

Antagonisms From Ten Hateful Organisms

All the men in the upper deck
Are after my fragile neck;
For every step of mine, the longest check;
Looking for plans of mine to wreck…

God! Did I their wives’ cheeks peck?
These guys could my body toss into a beck!

Now, on my defensive right hand
Is assaulting gravelly sand
I had sourced from a sympathizing land,
Bearing though A keep Off!” Red Band;
The sand its way shall find into eyes;
While I coolly assemble excusable lies…

What I’m fighting: Antagonisms
From ten hateful organisms.

A Pensioner

A Pensioner
An octogenarian - he moved to the retirement home
which promised all-year sun, blue sky, and sedate sea.

A grey, balding, and stooped figure, 
his gait is far from firm as he walks.
Panoramic vistas, crushed-cardboard like hills, 
frame the backdrop to his daily meanderings.  
His dim and distorted memories mimic 
the surrounding mountain range, hazily silhouetted against 
the sparse, cloud-strewn sky. 

A startled hare darts across the gravelly lane, 
to join a squad of exuberant fellows, charging headlong
into the shrub, tails held high – quick flashes of white.
Transfixed, he stops to admire the moor-hen crossing his path,
her brood of chicks faithfully following in line. 

The pomegranate grove sheds overripe fruit, 
sighs with relief, longing for hibernation.
Artichokes, green and bright, proudly claim eagerness to be picked 
to make room for a different crop.

Rebirth and renewal, the pattern of seasons,
calibrate the remaining years, (months and days), for this old man.

Sleep

Another roll-over-in-bed poem
A nose blow and a wide yawn separates a lubricated **** scene from a gravelly scripture. In that gap, the harlot’s far from the screen. 
My blade’s lacquer reveals the blood of my nightmares. Evasive mirrors hide the sum of my white hairs. The mucus of the acetic isn’t enough to stir up lust for a ghost, so I scroll for a post that soothes me the most.
When they let me in the garden, I don’t bite the apple; the yoni is worshipful.
It’s buried in the pit, and excavated in the chambers.
It is massaged. It is kissed. It is suckled. I return to sleep.

For What the Wordly Hate

For what the wordly hate
The spiritual would wait
Sexual intercourse after marriage
A fanatical pursuit of Mary's image
At what The Wordly jeer
The spiritual would cheer
The gravelly carriage
Of The Domiciled in village
What the former often waste
The latter oftener preserve with haste
The grossly undervalued chaste
Sometimes ,a soon-to-be-spat-out toothpaste
The Wordly eulogizes not Honesty
Why mess around at all with a coward's modesty?
The untouchable theories about Fate
Religious men's most enduring bait.

Imagination Owl

Imagination Owl was tired today.
He had collected first and second editions
And kept the wolves and hounds away.
Everyone had heard about his collection and wanted a peek.

He was not against showing them, but he had a tired beak.
Tomorrow they want you to do a reading in Des Moines.
He was the kind of orator and reader that many seek.
He had a gravelly voice, and he rarely charged more than a coin.

Not tomorrow, he stated. I need a break of a day or maybe two.
He was tired of fan mail, suppers with widows and old maids.
He sat down at his fire and played a bit with the annoying flu.
Then opened up some missives and read those that made the grade.

When he finished reading the things that delighted him the most,
He took out a pen and wrote the beginning of a fine exciting tale.
He would apologize to his agent, his mother, and his persistent host.
But tonight he wanted a good book, a fire and some fantastic ale.

True Cowboy

Tan leather boots with fancy stitching
Butterscotch vest with pencilled fringe
Polished black Stetson size eight and three quarters
Faded denim shirt with copper snaps
Silver oversized belt buckle that shouts rodeo
Deep gravelly voice with cigar precision
A pronounced limp unnoticed for years
Shoulder soreness no longer felt
Calloused hands scruffy with purpose
Symmetrical Unadorned hatband 
Chiseled well mapped chin
Blue eyes faded by hundreds of suns
Hawkish nose with brownish patch
Saturday night cowboys stare in awe
Trying so hard to look the part
He wears with ease, unaware
He is being studied, real cowboy
Doing his own stuff, no agenda
Unconsciously perfect
In his maleness

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