Toddlers learn to walk.
Only then, they learn to talk,
Testing me with jolting squawk!
a fairy tale of Camden Town
Clancy’s Gym, the same old sounds
a minute’s rest then two more rounds
I’ll jack this in (like Bobby Prewitt)
but where’s the one who made me do it?
He hasn’t come, he’s never here
by now he’s on his second beer
presiding in the Dublin Castle
surrounded by his navvy vassals
they’re calling me “the Tralee Tiger”
I coulda been … where’s my Rod Steiger?
the jolting jab, fast on his feet,
the bantamweight that no-one’s beat…
my bucket? Something-Saint-John’s-Wood
and scum from gumshields, spit and blood
I’ve learnt a word I like – “effete”
You don’t hear that on Albert Street
He knows I never wanted this. He
said he’d cure me called me cissy
he calls me Rocky. What a sham
why can’t I be the thing I am?
I want to dance like Nureyev
which might explain the fury of
the shellacking that this lad’s getting
Look at those losers busy betting
Sad old slobs with Patterson poses
ten-buck suits and flattened noses
come to think, though, who’s the fool
they’re not up here on this stool
back room Clancy’s Masculine Sports
blood on the gloves, shamrock on the shorts
Standing on a rusted platform,
I look towards the looming, tarnished steel clock,
Ticking away my final moments of existence.
Oceanic eyes swell with liquid salinity
As a hollowing whistle booms in the close distance.
The scent of petrol mingles with midnight paranoia.
Placing a shaking hand upon my vibrating chest,
I can detect the trembling of a trepidatious heart,
Whilst the monstrous whistle is getting louder now—
Signaling the next, next stop: ruination.
Pulling up, two ghastly doors creak open,
Heralding me towards finality.
Stepping inside, all that surrounds is a blazing fog,
Like some surrealistic, dreamy haze
Engulfing my every gasping breath.
Choking on the ashes of all the sins
I have branded onto loved ones’ flesh,
I slam to the floor as the tempo of the train accelerates,
Jolting over a swinging bridge,
Taking my corrupted spirit
Over a modern-day River Styx.
The sound hits as ton of bricks
And see you flying off the ledge
The state of awe, emotions’ mix
It puts the soul on the edge
As if you found what you missed
Your whole life, in vain hunt
High notes foggy clear mist
While you get hit with something blunt
To grow wings on cloud nine
When life-long yearning satisfied
Those jolting voices are divine
Be drunk and happy and bug-eyed
Them words, they rip, caress and sting
They don’t leave no stone unturned
The fierce vibes of bowed strings
Leave one excited and upturned
Your mind cleansed, you are complete
Must listen times, what a song!
This tune is ever-so-sweet
Until the next one comes along
May 1, 2024
I netted a word today
spritzing in the back of mind,
examined it from angles:
politically, like stars and spangles
rhythmically, like Mr. Bojangles
spiritually, like sin~ the foolish soul
entangles
--------------------------------
Some writes simply
start that way, a little
prick, a piercing needle,
a little sip, then a bigger swig --
from a simple plan with
a hopping step~ to a stomping, glorious
gig! --
A bee of thought
from silent hive astray
a buzzing syllable
with small fanning wings
jolting every colony senator
with shocking, new contagious
temblor
till the whole damn swarm
takes alacritous notice --
the poet begins an inflating rock...
bursting out joyfully~ his pen verse
singing!
Cool breeze on hot day
pen and paper in my lap
random thoughts jolting
You offered me nothing new
You didn't have a trace of gold in your sandals
You merely came to my four walls
but we became confused
about the things we couldn't heal
Steve McQueen and Patricia Neal
came a jolting
All our yesterdays awoken
Paddling down the stream
did we care anymore
Changes the preordained way
Apologizing if i stayed too long
waiting outside
Make haste arise,
assert the words.
Salute each term
that now gabfest.
In mid of night
they waltz, serenade;
Jovially jolting
a rem-sleep state.
Appease them please,
awake, awake.
You have mere seconds
so soon they fade.
Witty performers,
these festive words;
Parade to play part
of a poet's verse.
Rare frolic idioms
seldom last;
Assign them purpose,
applaud their crafts.
Ink well the quill,
poetize prose.
Recite with vigor
what words compose.
Inscribe each stanza
on scroll egg-shell white.
A task I've done
numerous times.
Ideal locutions
dispel thy rants.
In poetic sequence,
I'll debut thy stance.
Morning Dailies
As the dews of dawn
Mellows down
Misting away the sins of yesterday
Hunting off the dust of the dusk
While jolting us
away from our haunting slumber
Then comes
the whispering of the morning breeze
savoring the day
With its mystic secrets
Sometimes,
I remember this…
This thing
We do
That sometimes feels
Like an infinite,
Never ending dream
doesn’t have proper endings,
Certainly not satisfied ones,
It goes far from a simple,
Little storyline,
Closer to an itchy,
Tangled mess
That there is no main character,
No villain,
No happily ever after.
This thing.
It has names,
Like growing up,
Or being independent,
In most cases,
Its called life
And the most wicked thing is,
It hits like a blow
To the chest;
Sharp and jolting
quick and painful
The mirror.
Then stoicism.
Frozen and calm.
Focused.
Then moving shakily.
Movements, and jolting.
Then I’m focused again.
Moving.
Calm but ready movements.
Knocking on the door, but I don’t react.
I can no longer move.
I can blink a little bit, still.
The mirror is blinking with me.
I am focused.
The mirror.
I am in the mirror.
They have this ultimatum.
I listen, and the their words are buzzing.
Drifting and muttering.
Then jolting, that is like a pinch or slap.
Then I start grinding my teeth again and blinking hard.
With this sudden shift, I will never be weak again!
I made them walk away!
I made them walk away…
Their ultimatum?
Is not my problem.
"This Satan's drink is so delicious that it would be a pity to let the infidels have exclusive use of it. We shall cheat Satan by baptizing it"-unknown 16th century
I am baptized every morning
by this rich dark delicacy
the first sip is energizing
a wake up into life
jolting me from the imprisonment of sleep
which has bound me for many hours
the next sip is to breathe in
the aroma of its freshness
invigorating and relaxing at the same time
how can this be -
a cup of darkness
has so much power
Your in a dark and scary place
It's written all over your face
And the words that you have spoken
You've been badly hurt and broken
By someone you thought would never
Destroy and severely sever
Your world with the loudest shatter
Like it didn't even matter
Seeing the tears from your eyes
Each one making your heart die
Sinking right into the core
Of pain it's never felt before
A new feeling that will stay
Leaving others held at bay
Who want to show you there is
True and better love than his
A new romance that will send
Energy to you again
Jolting your dead heart to beat
With a lover who won't treat
You the same as that dirt bag
But your holding up a flag
Of surrender--you are done
Too scared to meet anyone
That might put you through a rough
Life again--it's just too tough
Like phone lines from up above.
But there is some communication through the body.
Just like the noise of a thousand phone calls.
Cells in me are confused.
Jolting me awake.
So that my eyes are awake for the first time in awhile.
Vibrations, and pulsing.
I nod once as if answering their question.
Am I ok?
But then my head falls to my chest and that becomes clear.
It’s like a seizure of some sort.
But most people don’t have to remember a seizure.
But through magic, I can remember every moment through my mind’s eye.
Trying to articulate it though…
That’s where I went wrong.
Because it’s confusing to them.
I’m sorry to confuse you.
Related Poems