Some wanted a mock monarchy
most were in favour of democracy
those who liked lawless preferred anarchy
few voted authoritarian
all with shifting goals, tipsy objectives
too many hands holding too many spoons
clashing in a hot soup pot, like blot bots
veggies ended in rotting heaped up coup !
FIRST PLACING : STANDARD CONTEST
Contest: Drop the Cliche
sponsor : Nette Onclaud
13.12.25
Do we all hear the rumour? A funeral draws near.' A spectacle is intended I think that much
Is real clear.' There will be black gloves and the
Muffled drums, that measured tread..Somber
Theater spun.' Staged to draw compassion from those (who might come?) The cornet may sound? Majestic..But I think we all know
What's the come..'
That vic-pols funeral is marching in the shadows here thrown long.'
Under the sun, As many narratives un-ravel.. That they still try to grow.' So will the
Blinds be drawn upon them? Will the windows
Stare out blank.? And also will True Blue Victorians 'about-face?' And here I shall be quite frank! Leave
Them to realise.? What a mess they have banked.! Heaped up like those mountains.'
When (they turned on their own?) Yet I think its not Victoria.? Nuh..Thats not where their
Love; and loyaltys are sown.' May they well listen.. And deeply' to that winds lone lament and moan.'
In a broken-hearted city.' Where they once did strut.! Its recorded and shown
To posture and enact such wicked anger, to vent, Yes I see, And saw
For me it has stuck deep in my heart, and in my gut.To remain reminder forevermore.'
I'm going to submit the words
the words that drive my daily thoughts
past wastelands of dirty laundry
and heaped up dishes that scream out
wash me while the water's hot
we're important, writing's not.
I can not seem to find the time
for sweeping all the dirt and grime
when all my thoughts reign far supreme
while bathroom thrones remain unclean.
priorities remain unclear
it's writing that I hold so dear.
But many women's efforts fail
their thoughts lie drowned in mopping pails
their words get lost in flying dust
and sensing this, I really must
submit the words, before they're lost
submit the words, at any cost.
Sweet
Strawberry jam
Sticky gooey gummy
And warmed up it is the most yummy
Heaped up on toast is what I like the most
Baked up fresh in grandma’s oven
Delicious on ice cream
Strawberry jam
Sweet
A time to rake; to search embers,
to pore over resurrected,
fire-damaged relics.
On an ancient shore
driftwood, fagots, and reeds
are heaped up onto a pyre of time.
After the fire there is a sorting.
a probing for talismans and trinkets.
Before the flames, flesh had hidden them,
in its open wounds.
An iron crucifix; smutter tarnished,
lays blackened by the quick flames.
It is held up to the sun,
by a tattered man of woe.
Death’s archeologist
wipes this soot-seared icon,
with a sweat-stained rag.
Other artifacts are long drowned,
they wait for the hands
of fishermen to haul them in,
to return them
to a modern-day Nazareth,
there, Islamic street traders
still sell religious curios
for Israeli shekels.
Sky filters through scant woods
printing a cold sunlight on shadowed tree trunks.
Only December has this light,
it both scours and forages,
it scythes away all heaped-up flotsam.
A December wind,
sings its own death song.
Ice hangs unseen upon the air.
The woodland acres shimmer,
then tremble upon a long fading note,
one that ushers in
last rites and other mixed blessings.
A time to rake; to search embers,
for fingerprints and the scorched optics
of the scattered and blind.
After the violence, fagots, and reeds
are heaped up into pyres,
but first the sorting,
the probing for trinkets of flesh.
A silver crucifix, smutter tarnished,
lays blackened by the avid impetus
of quick flames, it is held up,
by a tattered man of woe,
he calls out:
"I found something!"
Death's archeologist huddle,
wipe this soot-seared relic
with sweat
laced with new revealed
sorrows.
The recently threshed look upward,
not down. dull eyed, they peer
as though through the bottom of a fishbowl
at the red and bloated
afloat beneath an unblinking sky.
These smithereens of mortality
slowly bob in the ether,
they wait for the hands
of a meek fisherman to haul them in,
to take them away.
Daylight wipes its face.
I travel through a door
unlocking an attic of mind.
If I had a best pair of pants
I would wear them
but I have only the next to best.
Small unnamed birds
are clambering
over a heaped-up sky.
I may have to climb a little also,
my best boots are old
but they have been to the tops
and the bottoms
and know the distance between.
I have plenty of rope
new rope
rope as silver and sparkly
as the morning dew.
It will do.
Best case scenario -
my fame walking into the future,
all my failed handiworks
recognized as avant garde – well before their time.
Honor and distinction heaped-up posthumously.
An unexceptional life
discovered to have been really ‘sui generis’
uncommonly so.
Applause echoing through the ages.
Most likely outcome –
a contrived eulogy,
slightly embarrassed onlookers
searching for right words.
Shrugs.
Now see a fine display in market hall
Where fishmonger's stalls sell the freshest catch.
A world of wet white tiles and melting ice.
Seafood displayed, arranged in rank and file.
One Scottish salmon commands centre stage
Stretched out upon its own tray of crushed ice
And next to a few Icelandic haddock
Along with cod trawled from the Dogger Bank.
To one side are some plaice all flopped and flat.
Seems they are staring up with fixed focus.
A side display of small fry, placed parallel
And herrings heaped up in sad slump of grey.
Some calamari, tasteless rubbery squid
Are off stage with other seldom sold bits.
In the corner there's offal bin with heads,
Guts, skeletons and several layers of skin.
Take for your cat. Put pence in charity box.
A fine display we see in market hall.
Let's do dinner tonight at the Covid 19, the hottest new restaurant in town.
We won't need a face mask, we'll sit with a crowd and dine on Pandemic Stew.
We'll start with a creamy White Supremacist Broth served with Storm Trooper
Croutons
And then there's a cocktail of rare Racial Strife heaped up on a bed of Brutality Ice.
For dessert, there's an End of Democracy Cake infused with Suppressions to Vote,
From the bar we can order a Vodka con Putin dumped into a large Diet Coke.
There's no entertainment, the band has left town but there's reruns of Trump Photo Ops.
There's a two for one special that's running this week, no need for cash on The Spot
'Cause the sign on the door makes it perfectly clear, "Your Soul of America card Welcomed here".
Shall we go there tonight to the Covid 19 and dine on Pandemic Stew
And not wear a face mask and sit with a crowd?
Depends on what life means to you - it's to die for!!
My Grandmother’s Kaleidoscope
The stones and the planks of her heart
resonate with the pick-axes and the
hammers. My grandma’s mansion
loses its head, arms and trunk.
His hidden life in the Malaysian
woods during an old war, usual
silence of the empty nights near
her granary, which was always
filled to the brim, night wind
rattling the lone window of her
top scary story, her maid’s
calumnies tickling the eardrums,
haunting forebodings, ecstasy of
the reunion… I see all in her
yellow kaleidoscope.
Broken stones and planks are
heaped up before her wrinkled
emotions. She watches all in
silence from the kind veranda
of her son-in-law. The present
is only a ghost of the past.
First published in my book, 'Kanoli Kaleidoscope' by PunksWritePoemsPress, US.
And how the wind howled around
the old container,
wheezed through the cracks,
laughed devilishly,
fed demonically on our emaciated
living remnants.
Huddled together, the small flame
of life and heartbeat pulsed
slowly, throbbed lethargic
And how the snow heaped up around
that old container...
Where in icy fear expectations rose
as time passed
When will be next
Who will be chosen
In arms clasped around near frozen
shoulders despair cried out in muffled
sobs
For knowing nothing, nothing would
matter.
And how long would in the creeping cold life
remain in this old container...
***
February 23, 2017
© Darren White
It is as if I strangely sit between unfoldment and the
pit turn the heart and bend the lip of ageless silent
sun and trees of passing pageants aimed to please
the garish and the blinded throng from heaven sent in
hellish garb of bodies blown from end to who
have no goal but to amend raise sails and forward
step by step into the gaping jaws of death whose
heat and dust is lust to men who search for pleasure
here and call the flush of genius to stand before the
whirling throng of those who would be gods and dirt
where chance stands up and stares at passing
shows on empty streets and fields laid bare by
greedy hands heaped up on aimless needs
this play is not what you have made but is the
evening’s splendid ray that fall on ruins old and new
on tower street and avenue where tired feet that
cannot stay fall on and on monotony and pave the
way to gluttony
the leaves fall not from the tree
because of their own weight
but the weight of anxiety
heaped up like unpredictable tomorrows
and days after days of dismal weather
compel the leaves to leave the tree
pretending to be feelingless
without leaving any sort of emotional reflection
the leaves fall and roll on the ground to find a place
where they can take their hearts’ misery away
the leaves roll over the street
not because the wind blows
but to forget the meaningless days they have spent
because the past of the leaves are full of embarrassment
the leaves cry in unbearable pain without a sound
while kicked and tampled by indifferent passersby
a last leaf hangs on the tree
as if saying “don’t cast me away
but let me just hang on to…”
filled with sorrows unbearable
this one fell as well
sobbing soundlessly
heaving its shoulders
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