Incarcerated desires,
worth kissing,
immaculately
Mary's darkened eyes
wrapped lassos of heat
statues tell the truth,
break the broth,
as your lust-ful eyes
spy her soft hands.....
Its best to be like me
and never leave the circle.
Red little cuts with virgin oil,
never create the hurdles.
I can't be shut down
when I never agreed
to the on switch
in the first place.
I don't like humanity.
I don't like being touched.
I wish I could be all alone
I'll walk the entire
way back home.
The scariest cowgirl this side of Texas West
shows up on Halloween always looking her best
Ready for an eve of trick-or-treating and candy-eating
She spends the night too, hungering for good Day-of-the-dead-seating
We see her sometimes as she crawls out of her crypt
She has one of those twangs and a lazy cowgirl script
We can hear the wind whistling through her stark white bones
She reminds me of rodeos, lassos, belt buckles and cowboy poems.
A feeling of doorways.
Crumbling while we’re trying to relax and watch tv.
Numbers while chewing.
On my mind are edible as a fire.
I’m available for that appointment.
If it’s the clear kind.
That makes my joints itch.
And spiders make it worse.
A feeling of doorways.
Like a path but rectangular.
Seems normal yet is uneven.
Like cherries which are soft and have small creases.
Creases like sand.
On the path to the door…
We lift off.
And embrace.
It’s weird like a chair standing up.
He lifts off the ground.
Lassos us in.
A feeling of doorways.
A feeling of doorways.
Is inevitable.
Lazarus
lassos
What?
lasso
lassos
we laugh out
lasso
lesson
capital riot
cattle catch
what a stitch
but we laugh
A rope, right?
lassos
idiot time
Woman,
She lassos her tongue around minds
creating space in these harden times
she licks at the wounds
she culls up the glass
a virescent glow that forever will last
She holds off the pain
with a sacred of verse
charged up to the plus
we shall all come immersed
Soapbox, chair, on front porch swings
talking of peace and inequalities
journeys and strength
barefoot she bleeds
not caring for her but others in need
A warrior for rights
a woman of might
hard to the core
but soft as moonlight
Truth emits from her lips
listen up as she pleads
not gone she is here
girl, woman, she, freed
There was a day when everything
broke down,
structures collapsed ...
All our childhood dreams shattered...
teen fears wiped out but
and strength of maturity erased ...
Tenuous lassos made from the past,
remake our present day ...
What was lost flew to the afterlife,
on the wings of eld angels and what's left
insists on following us forever
amid calm and storm
Mystical crystal ocean faerie arrived the first time wearing light blue.
Quite a sight against a giant wave, mimicking the ocean’s frothy hue.
Staring ahead, totally unafraid, standing on swirly finned trout three,
Observers understood immediately there was no other faerie like she.
Tossing ocean was a wild woman that day, unpredictable and surly.
Cellophane Crystal Ocean Faerie arrived three moments too early.
Daughter of Poseidon with confident stance and golden curly hair.
She could take on the wind, the waves, the squall, anywhere.
Magical golden lassos firmly around two necks of the trout I do recall.
Arrived in the middle of the storm, standing less than twenty inches tall.
Her cellophane wings and her mystical aura further proved she was fey.
She was inspired, created, brought forth on a down stream storm day.
Mystical being, straight out of mythology, a god’s mind if you ask me.
Her frame petite, stature slim, her beauty something gorgeous to see.
She was a princess, a goddess, a tamer of trout and the wildest sea.
Best memory in my mind which still provides awe when I think of thee.
smoke ring from rouged lips rises, lassos the moon
A tractor trailer with slats and moos
pulls up at a city slaughterhouse.
The driver pulls the wrong lever
and two thousand pounds
of trotting cattle go for an easy
ramble down the street.
Cop cars follow in no hurry.
Police don’t have lassos and
wouldn't know how to use them.
The cattle stop for a snack in a park
where homeless men and women often
spend the day on benches talking
until the cops decide to round them up.
The homeless people eye the cattle
and the cattle munch and eye the homeless.
This is the last escape for the cattle
but homeless people never know if
tomorrow or the next day could be theirs.
Donal Mahoney
LUCKY MAY
May, May is welcome
And by these roads, these lanes
Young people come to home
To sing to my sisters.
What pretty they are
With her golden hair
And coloured lassos
And my mother combing them
To disentangle it.
That is their faces
What face so bright¡
Their lips, what loveliness¡
Painted with lipsticks
Where the same Cupid
A Kiss plant.
Their eyes, waht pretty and lovely¡
As star lighting the same Sky.
Their snub noses
(I wish I could to have them¡)
Silver twists are
That none of the jeweller
Knows draw
Only mother Daniela
As their ivory teeth
And their two little bust
Behind their white blouses
As two early lemons
With a dress of virgin
With brads in its shorts
Straight to the point
Axle of dancing and music
Moving their nice legs
And their agile feet.
And Me, now, an injured angel
With all my features as seraph
Imploring to our mother
That she plays a May with me
Dressing me as my sisters
With Rosemary flowers
With legominous flowers
Puting in my hand
A palm of Sun and Moon
As my lovely sisters
Because I want to dress as a little girl
And don’t want to be more
The Little man of the home
In the Lucky May.
LUCKY MAY
May, May is welcome
And by these roads, these lanes
Young people come to home
To sing to my sisters.
What pretty they are
With her golden hair
And coloured lassos
And my mother combing them
To disentangle it.
That is their faces
What face so bright¡
Their lips, what loveliness¡
Painted with lipsticks
Where the same Cupid
A Kiss plant.
Their eyes, waht pretty and lovely¡
As star lighting the same Sky.
Their snub noses
(I wish I could to have them¡)
Silver twists are
That none of the jeweller
Knows draw
Only mother Daniela
As their ivory teeth
And their two little bust
Behind their white blouses
As two early lemons
With a dress of virgin
With brads in its shorts
Straight to the point
Axle of dancing and music
Moving their nice legs
And their agile feet.
And Me, now, an injured angel
With all my features as seraph
Imploring to our mother
That she plays a May with me
Dressing me as my sisters
With Rosemary flowers
With legominous flowers
Puting in my hand
A palm of Sun and Moon
As my lovely sisters
Because I want to dress as a little girl
And don’t want to be more
The Little man of the home
In the Lucky May.
W inds whip lassos of snow encumbered razor rodeo ropes
I ce glare blinding beauty stealing sane men’s secret hopes
N ever mind the sun has wandered down a lonesome trail
T ethered now to mountains so the twilight sky looks frail
E dgy nights attack lone hearts with blue brained Northern Lights
R iling men to suicide on endless time dead nights
V Anderson-Throop Jan 2015
Valdez, Alaska
Through the peep hole of Egyptian darkness shackled by conquerors hypnotic scheme
awaits the incarnate spirit of Ra.
Summoned to defend the skies of eternity and the land of death
against the traitors to the throne of the sun god
peace in these savage times shall be your curse.
may your conscience be your pillow
and your wretched hearts your lullaby
you and your puppet slaves will never tame this mane.
there is nothing your lassos can suppress
your skin of deception your pillars of lies and halls of betrayal
will fall to the hum of my dynastic roar
I am the truth the originator of galactic time
your presence was my flatulent secretion
your death will be my orgasmic sigh.
Women of gaze that by-stand my struggle
fan as you may your perfumed air
it is your heart my canines seek
your tongue has collapsed my rump
and stolen my corner stone
may your blood from my mandible spell
Traitor!
written for Isaiah Zerbst's contest, Ancient Egypt.
from the ridge line, with the mountain breeze
among saguaro and mesquite trees
a lone rider spurs his horse
and from a distance lassos my heart
not riding off into the sunset
he has a thirst he needs to whet
in the valley the oasis waits
drink your fill, drink your fill
Roy Rogers and Red Ryder rode on that black and white stage—
It was the best of times, to be a kid of any age.
Gene Autry, Hopalong Cassidy – that Durango Kid—
They kept us shootin’ outlaws and drinkin’ milk – yes, they did!
We ate up that cereal and sent away for those things,
Like trick lassos, milk mugs, masks and those plastic cowboy rings.
It was another time of Mix and Tim McCoy, I’ve heard--
When men rode horses and ‘cowboy’ weren’t a four-letter word!
They have not rode into sunsets, as they were apt to do—
They’re now on the mountaintops of the minds of me and you.
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