The brindled drop tine bull
Brings his herd along the fence
He steers the steers and leers at me
His look not quite intense
We ponder life, each his own strife, this old cow boy and me
He clears the gate with one old cow
They amble past the here and now
And take me back to the woods by the creek
And the hedgerow post pile by the birthday tree
And the chicken coop and my first chores
The mem’ries flood
To the water tank and the crawdads there
In Holstine’s pasture, way in the back
Not far from a line of walnut trees
Black and tall against the breeze
Each straight as a sentry at his post
Who walked this land
Bow, rifle, plow in hand
It connects me to the land my feet
Negotiate in the autumn heat
I’ve drifted south, as things seem to go
Yet somehow in my soul I know
I’m tied to the land in a way not seen
By those whose mem’ries aren’t so keen
For the ground they trod when their feet were bare
But my mem’ries warm… and it takes me there
In the hallway of legends and ghosts
I wander aimlessly in dream
Talking with the dead of Brookhaven
The rope burns are still fresh on Helen's neck
A sickly scarlet mark upon her throat
In this corridor, I pace, a key in hand; lost
Forever the sojourn of quietus in keeping
Before a door numbered two, I stand
Silence a silver web with the muted sobs of angels
It is not a key I hold when she at last comes upon me
It is only the dark tangent of lost souls and vipers
And a blind man staggering upon a battlefield as
Cannons roar and the blue turban leers
The rains come like Jacob Marley's ghost
Riding the coach forever
A thousand lives, a million fears,
tremulous smiles and painful tears,
we sip the brew, which is now stale,
bound to ego, who at us leers.
We fight for freedom tooth and nail,
yet demons we conjured assail.
Assuming the rope is a snake,
no wonder then, we’re doomed to fail.
Silence gives consciousness a shake,
so that we may here now awake
but this entails we must let go
of attachments held, though they’re fake.
Thoughts orbiting both friend and foe,
are put at rest, for we now know,
all that’s manifest is a dream,
recognised in staid stillness slow.
Ephemeral is a moonbeam
or gusts of lust we choose to steam,
being but shimmers in the void,
which ego holds in high esteem.
For far too long we have been toyed
by dark desires and so decoyed
but since we’ve chosen to be still,
illusions conjured are destroyed.
Simply by surrendering will,
we do nothing, yet dark voids fill,
with divine light, that lights all lights,
making easy ascent uphill.
My Creed
I live - a child -
Wrapped in feast days of divine whimsy
When the world outlines itself
In blue zircon sparkle
A child of the season
When glittering petals of snowflowers
Rest on barren branches
Casting shadows of bursting light
Into tumult
Where defeated darkness whines
In an ebony gloom,
Cowering
In the amber blush of an evergreen dawn.
Taking a holly branch in my hands
I choose to walk through the shortest days,
Into the longest midnights,
Embracing the fire of the Spirit –
Guardian of precious light
From all consuming blackness –
To stand watch at the apex of midnight bells
To celebrate
Heaving darkness back into its sneering leers
To walk in an eternal festival of the celestial.
I choose to embrace jubilee
Source of golden radiance
To make merry in an eternal gala
And join rejoicing joy
Infecting every fleeting crumb of time
Dancing with triumphant jubilation,
Ambassador to consecrated oblation,
Reaching
Always reaching to receive celebration
From eternity.
There was a day once
when the factory boys
took to a rusty van
driving through the early morning dark
to play soccer on a muddy field.
Our team was called. now let me think,
does it matter that I cannot remember?
Let's call our crew the 'Raging Eagles'.
the Eagles had pimples and bad breath,
but we were all mates for the day.
It's not easy to 'rage' on a rutted field
in the middle of an industrial estate
on a misty Sunday, but we did our best.
The other team arrived full of snarky-jeers and leers.
Insults were returned, added to and sent back.
The game was more a donnybrook than
regular soccer.
Rules were made up on the fly
only to be broken.
Legs were kicked black and blue,
one arm and a head diagnosed by one and all
as totally for33ked.
Later we convened to a pub
at the other end of that sooty town
and downed a few, then a few more,
vowing to be brothers forever.
Our heart bled tears, confirming our worst fears,
that estranged from our lover, our soul died.
As the coffin dropped, we felt leers and jeers
of both friend and foe, of true love denied.
As was the custom, we bore a fake smile,
acknowledging kind words to us proffered
but all we felt was, bitter taste of bile,
finding no solace, in limp hands offered.
As a soulless ghoul, we wander the earth,
although to the bigots we seem alive
but now we’re bereft of love, light and mirth,
hoping that one day, heart’s joy may revive.
Be it rain or shine, always standing tall ~
We are expected to smile as we fall
"I have this spilling tea that would blend this conversation."
Does it speak beyond your intelligence and profession?
When words become bullets, that’s when you start pulling the trigger.
How can you murder names with joy and act like a winner?
Maybe noontime discussions are more absorbing when it’s all about rumors.
But gossips don’t make the truth, honey; They grow like tumors.
I heard you enjoy telling the mistakes of people. Can you please tell me what’s mine?
This cynical culture of yours fits your brand and design.
So I will never be adorned with your words of affirmation.
They are built with deception, jealousy, and false inspiration.
I’d rather be a mediocre who lost his gains over the years;
Not a sycophant who’s been pleasing others for leers.
Mounted to a wall
No matter what the shape.
It leers back through us,
With no place to escape.
Yet the reality it returns is flawed,
Some may even say cursed.
Since the images come back
Us, backwards or inversed.
Well experts might use physics to
Explain this dance of materials and light.
While the metaphysical soul might compare
And ask, which one is more right?
Such as, is the real beauty shown,
Or just wasted vanity?
Or might this illusion hide the
Sane, as well as insanity?
Beware
There’s a monster in the coat rack
He snarls and leers at me
Don’t go too close, he’ll sure attack
I was bit upon the knee.
But if you move, real quiet and quick
And part the coats, you’ll see
My little boy Buster, hiding
In the hall coat tree.
I’m a free spirit rising
a freethinker dreaming
Stoically climbing
the surreal limbo bar,
But I don’t know why
i’m no bright spark
for split seconds on fire
lighting up the dark
Yet we have one
with burning aspirations
peers into his own sky
it goes over most heads
Just like mother earth
oh that monster
who never shared a bed
Unresurrected yet alive
drones from a hive
uniformity in his wardrobe
reminds me of
a Gucci slave
in fox fur skin
self imposed virgin
His yellow ribbon tie,
symbolic of no hope
tourniquet for the throat
leers around corners
peers over the edge
paranoid with multifaceted sides
seen through opaque eyes
equals the root of Pi r squared
be careful not to stare
Does his hell refuse lepers
can I comment
without being masked
stop me spreading gossip
through questions I ask,
Searching for answers
or setting traps
they come thick and fast
But like always
with many gaps
Cast out of Eden
for the beef he’s eaten
an iPhone heathen
Doesn’t know when beaten
perhaps tofu can sweeten
the Shakespearian cretin
By
David Kavanagh
is... gushing pink pillow
of floss, froth and nonsense
reaching new heights
to obtain its non-worth
Sentimentality -
the word leers in your ear-hole,
stupid and vain,
to rush sense away
Sentimentality -
the word veers towards vomit.
S e n t i m e n t a l i t y -
hard on the brain
5/20/2022
Suspicious glances
cast by anxious neighbors
ignore the leers
the sweet mulberries
dance on my taste buds
Behind the ambiguity, the cloaking metaphor,
the language used is indecent,
it sets bear traps, leers at logic,
claps ears.
Poetry drives a train through heaven and hell,
box cars swaying behind
full of
rowdy, rouged delinquents.
Some have mothers who weep for them,
some were born from mud wombs
as wild as unbranded cattle.
A poem may well bury its dead alive
in front of our eyes,
recite a lullaby backwards,
then plant sweet nothings
over the heaped earth.
Lines of linguistic train wrecks
crash their coupled words
into snowy fields,
then out will come the scatological oaths,
the unglued bawdy survivors
of their own gypsy jargon.
Here’s the sleight of hand,
here’s the real indecency -
we are gulled into assuming
we hear only the shy murmurs
of a deeply respectable muse
dressed up in its Sunday best.
The art isn’t enough
To keep my head up
The time is getting tough
It calls every bluff
The air will cut
The waters will run
Red with fear
Anxious destruction nears
Chipping my lofty ears
The darkness leers me
My loathing legs can’t flee
My haughty hands can’t escape
My faulty fingers won’t budge
My falling feet lock
My heated head will stop
My broken body will drop
All to rise again
At the opportune moment in the morning
I wondered why you left that day.
I blinked to assuage the falling tears.
No spoken goodbye to ease my fears.
The sun setting as you walked away,
Your hair blowing with an easy sway.
You glanced at me with hateful leers.
What happened to us these past few years?
I knew it useless to ask you stay.
Awakening to a bright new start,
I swore to smile and begin anew.
Life worth more than desperate despair,
I encouraged my strengthening heart.
Thankful you’ve gone; my regrets are few.
New life, new love, answer to prayer.
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