Long Arrayed Poems
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I see it now
flying low
over silver-spumed waves.
I am a watcher
I can enlarge the picture
zoom in
look into bright midnight eyes
as if it were I
that propelled it.
Spreading bright foils
catching the billowing blows,
a clean swell-rigged clipper
sky-sailing sailor
tacking to gypsy winds.
Within its avian breast a magnetic compass
on a pivoting gimbal,
soon to make a terrible landfall.
For a ship came upon it
a craft arrayed in the guise of a cruel crocodile,
snagged from the air it snared the voyager.
A ship blighted by its own wake,
a very flowering of evil.
A wandering navigator brutishly used,
deckhands bundling broken wings
bound it as if a flopping fish,
gaffed its body open
to a hollow of hope.
I also recall a monstrous time
inside a crocodiles smile,
a time when poetry
was cut from my lips.
Yet here I am flying
in an airplane looking down
upon England,
following an albatross
only I can see.
Few crocodilians in London
yet more perilous reptiles there,
I shall have to take more care,
plot a fairy-tale revenge
with Peter Pan’s time-frozen statue.
At last to Paris
a windborne glide tracking a dream
of slow rowing wings,
there to dine with a restless ghost
who knows well enough
how dangerous monsters
can be
on land and sea.
There to restore myself
with Baudelaire.
to remake over
an imagined albatross of a life,
return it to humanity,
should it ever want to be
that flightless.
~~~~~
“Often to pass the time on board, the crew
will catch an albatross, one of those big birds
which nonchalantly chaperone a ship
across the bitter fathoms of the sea.
Tied to the deck, this sovereign of space,
as if embarrassed by its clumsiness,
pitiably lets its great white wings
drag at its sides like a pair of unshipped oars.
How weak and awkward, even comical
this traveler but lately so adroit -
one deckhand sticks a pipestem in its beak,
another mocks the cripple that once flew!
The Poet is like this monarch of the clouds
riding the storm above the marksman's range;
exiled on the ground, hooted and jeered,
he cannot walk because of his great wings.”
- Charles Baudelaire
Of first embrace and broken glass
I cherish that first spark
New light upon our forest' dark.
Do you recall that northern wind?
It came at first so swift
Perhaps our growing light enraged
Poor Hopelessness', her whims denied
Inspired shadows from retreat
Those having once left us in our light.
"There's hope for you!” her battle cries
“Forwards; towards the glowing night
Attack! The lion will not bite
I promise he will turn blind eyes
Go back! I will cover your eyes!”
“Follow storms winds descent
True path through forests dense
Enter hence.
Rip, tear, rent!
From low to high
Head to toes
Even to above
Where dark forest glows
Churn even these shades
Whites and grays
Yellows arrayed,
Where once were dulled
"My children do not stop there!"
She would say,
"You must inscribe them full
Lest unseen hopes, occupy as slivers
As pretending tones, they have been known to hide
Shimmers upon the edge of shades
We must leave them emptied, lost whims, denied
Their ways left as waste to ruins
Despairs do not relent with dooms
Leaving chance to sparks in time
Per chancing kindles from hearts that loom.”
“Descend, my raging opaque!
The dense itself engrave
Teach young love old lessons
That she may now know at such young age
The heart of this forest lessened.”
“Now go' my shadowed tails delight
Slice sharp paths without care
Cause those within their ears too bear
The roaring of fresh leaves…
Torn from their rightful place
Before the given time”
“Dying screams let them endure
Let them feel your shadows
….Purge!”
The cold so swift
We were so sure This was spring
........residues
Your body’s naked form, lovely
Dropping, encircling our flame
Dying breath
Woman’s instinct
Nurturing
Disregarding winds intent
Then came the rains' extinguishing
Saving coals
Your hands were warm
My feet were cold
I shiver at this memory.
…Rains cold intensity
The downpour overcoming
Me
I'm sorry I could not see
My circle enclosed circles now
Circling
I knew the dark complete
As our smoke heavenward arose
To late this pittance; ash offerings
Ashes on the ground
Then came the rivers rage
Cutting its path through the heart
Forever too leave
Forever leaving its mark
Upon our forest dark
Meandering on; its choosing path
And I with it beside; belonged
For a chosen time
My love again I say
For a chosen time
Do you understand?
I chose the time of days
My shame
"Before The Gates Of Alahsar,"
By,
Michael .P. Clarke.
Full Version.
Bardic style.
Chapter..........1..........Part..........1..........1.
Come now, my Lords and Ladies,
listen now to the tale I shall tell,
the ancient tale of the dreamland,
of Alahsar, I lay before you.
look now within your mind's eye,
look on the golden gates to peaceful shrine,
they stand in wonder,
before a city of joy and peace,
a most ancient jewel.
I, your Bard, stand before you,
my words, I am ready to sing,
my beating heart of truth,
it shall beat the tales cadence,
as my words, I do speak.
Oh, Alahsar, your dream forever sung,
I lay it forth, following ancient texts,
come now, my Lords and Ladies,
listen to the tale my heart shall tell.
Never, had there been dark, in Alahsar's jewelled kingdom,
the sky afire, with a golden glow, in a night of lightened twilight,
all night, this sun would lie low in the sky, a golden glory,
this light of love, ever touching the beating heart of Alahsar.
The sun did sparkle off golden pinnacles and minarets bejewelled,
the sun, kissed gold so gently, and golden light did live,
my Lords and Ladies, such a dazzling display of light effects,
forth did come the rainbows of dream's desire.
Upward, ran the virgin white, stone dwellings, of the city,
they did tower to such heights, they reached for the heart of Heaven,
open your minds to the vision, look upward, upward, ever upward,
atop the great city, a golden palace, how that glory did shine.
This was a golden beacon to all, that Alahsar did live,
the city of dream, in its golden coat, arrayed, it did sing dream's song,
from the golden gates below to the golden palace atop, peace and joy did reign,
Alahsar, sing dreams song in majesty.
On the first level, the dwellings of Alahsar's mighty armies,
of the most sumptuous furnishings, they were arrayed,
seem within your minds, soldiers dressed in such regal splendour,
those on duty, they walk proudly. from dwellings to the mighty parapet walls.
They all know nights of passion, in rooms of silken beauty,
primal passion, emitting sighs and screams into the night
communal wash areas were to the rear of these dwellings,
they were behind high walls, built into the rock itself.
To Be Continued...........
I
Anchored on a sun filtered shore
Upon rocks which lay the days of yore
In swirling pristine aquas of alluring calm
Let it serenade heal my bruised palm
To chronicle tales of my hearts longings
And memoirs of my gradual bondings
To enthral my thoughts in the expanse of time
Parading on the lowly impasse of my prime
To write poetry ,prose or mystery fiction
Titled love on a mission to submission
For winds of change will unravel the future
And the dust of defeat will cover the past
II
Invulnerable In dens of sublime realms
where embers of hope forever gleams
Sparked moments that never fade nor flicker
Down the coconut groves lining the ocean Vast
Departing the depths of calamity chosen
To savour the dews of my late night hours
And devour not the memorable endeavours
For beauty was with me in those moments
One Inevitably engulfed in avid desires
An adherent of the much awaited messiah
With amalgam of glee and humility
And simple life of truth and sincerity
III
Traversing the blissful cavalcade holds
I contemplate in dissonant folds
Harrowing scenes from the sunset vives
I linger in my skimming crimson skies
Seemingly, my life plied on out worn roads
Embalmed by these hands in worded codes
In tongues of my fore fathers decent
I will lounge in their culture with no lament
Like those who came before me
Who fought oppressors from over the sea
and their legends enshrined in echoing songs
Of "murmurs of pleasures, pains, and wrongs"
IV
Whereon mindful of the lot i ought to do
Arrayed within scenes from over the hue
Gradually with hasty steps into depths unexplored
And withdraws, into chambers of happiness and scenes adored
To let the crest of my turning tossing mind detach from fearful odds
And my blessed struggling kind flee from the twilight of the earthly gods
So my heart and soul finally infuse with the fluidity of my course
Down the avenues of my maturity
Down the patterns of my progress
Down the depths of my humility
Down the tangled maze of my life I confess...
..In swirling moon beams of alluring calm
A faith in doubt amid a battering qualm
Under clouds which housed the days of yore
On this shell and plastic littered shore.
You asked me for a dance one night, ’twas late one New Year’s Eve,
and as I held you in my arms, your shape did wend and weave;
a sudden kiss as midnight struck (I thought it make believe) -
for stars and kismet ruled with zeal our lives would interleave.
I give to you the morning sun to dance within your smile
a flower wild amongst the stones upon a rocky isle
with hidden paths in ancient woods where we can walk awhile.
You lead me by the hand through nights into the waking days,
through swinging gates in mirrored walls and through the midnight haze,
through castles built in sandbox realms in children’s yesterdays.
I give to you a ragged doll, a puppet on a string,
a ride upon a rocking horse, a swallow on the wing,
a ribbon trailing from your hair, a red or scarlet thing.
You whisk me from a valley deep wherein a black wind blows,
and tracks upon the empty trails are hidden by the snows,
to share with me your secret thoughts and steal away my woes.
I give to you a silver flute, a whistle on a chain,
a drummer boy with dancing feet, a sugar candy cane,
a window flushed with foolish tears mid pitter-patter rain.
You lead me from entangled streets inside a circus town,
subduing smoky memories that haunt this wistful clown
by quelling plaintive melodies and sorrows that they sound.
I give to you a penny plain to cast upon a dream,
a streaking star inside the sky, a bridge across a stream,
a teddy bear with tattered ears and berries dipped in cream.
You show me how a rainbow lightens distant liquid lands,
where dew drops paint the purple leaves deserted on the sands
on roads of simple wonderment within your slender hands.
I give to you in winter’s chill my ragged scarf of thread,
a dripping ball of candle wax on fire blazing red,
and offer you this smitten rhymer’s loving arms in bed.
You spin me tales of laughter, yes, of laughter on a spree,
of laughter restless in the sky, of laughter running free,
of laughter dancing, skipping wildly far beyond the sea.
I give to you these careless words, arrayed in broken lines,
adorned, my love, with tempest winds and teardrop salty brine,
in cups of youthful passion steeped in desolation wine,
and promise I’m forever yours... if only you’ll be mine.
The Magical Epiphany of an Old Rusted Can
whilst out hiking one day in a countryside area
that was quite desolate and remote from any nearby
city, I discovered, amazingly, an Old Rusted Can
that was at least two-liter-sized and was partially-buried
in a long dried-out river bed in the middle of nowhere
this Old Rusted Can protruded out upright at about a
twenty-degree right-slant with some jagged-edges all
along its circular lip
its striking physical presence and the way in which it
was positioned, still partially-filled with dried river
sediment, for me, bespoke some sort of an old artifact
of sorts, yet it was the only object like it right in the
middle of this long dried-out river bed
its unique silhouette was, at once, quite discernable at
a distance on the horizon as it casted a very curious and
most soulful shadow under the limitless canopy of the
late-morning sunlight
although it was very rusted, this Old Can actually
reflected radiant light rays at various times when it
was touched by the rays of the bright sunlight as it
ascended to its customary cosmic dominance in the
late-morning sky
it also had five certain hole punctures located front
and back, in its upper-area, from whence the bright
sunlight reckoned a kaleidoscopic effect of sorts as
the sunlight touched and passed through each of these
unique apertures that were arrayed on this Old Rusted
Can
inelegant as this Old Rusted Can was—this unexpected
and most unusual light-show lasted for several minutes
until the darkened clouds overhead blocked out all of
the bright sunlight for the rest of the morning
yet, I just couldn’t help but feel the true divine presence
of Almighty God Himself—as I had fervently focused on
every aspect and precise detail of this radiant and very
unusual light-show which presented a magical sense and
aura of empyrean enchantment
and whilst I continued my deep gaze at this Old Rusted
Can, I was simultaneously and singularly transfixed by
the utter majesty and true joy of the holy epiphany it had
presented to me. I thought for a moment . . . God does
indeed, relate to us, at times, in very mysterious ways!
Amen! Amen!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
August 21, 2018 (Imagism)
THE HAKIMI'S GAME
He is a professional player,
Plays properly for his Parisian payer.
Family travels & lives the Player.
Player invites a beautiful slayer.
She laid rape allegations against the Player.
Even Ramadan couldn't stop the Player
from dotingly detesting the stranger.
No gainsaying he probably hates her!
Is the acting accuser another player
obliviously trying to play on the Player?
The untold truthful tips are only a layer
beneath this whole brouhaha.
Player vehemently issues a flat denial.
Nonfictive tale; she plays Beverly Naya,
the professional Player plays for his payer.
It's a rigmarole of "Who's playing who?"
And "Who is playing the fool?"
The jury wished to be a seer,
to identify the player and the Player.
Despite the case being adjourned,
Mass madness of memes had turned.
'net bandwagon of jibes & jokes I joined.
The case is still unresolved for the Player.
No comments from his payer either.
Though the stranger might be a slayer
but she could also be the true player.
Then Player's wife jettisoned the game,
because the case remains the same.
It's game day, but she wants no games,
and heaved on him all the blames.
She files for divorce & leaves the Player,
surely this should make her wealthier.
Player finds no ease with his Spanish wife,
The turn of events is about to change his life.
The foreigner played the case as a forerunner
and played the foreigner's game with the Player.
50% of his sweat to be forfeited on a plater,
She designs to suck him alil' & live him bitter.
But he played his wife's game & beat her,
Oh boy! He just couldn't miss the sitter,
instead, he became boisterously better.
Court said Player had nothing in his account.
All the money? What he did was hack out
every penny into Mama's bosom.
If actions were humans, I'd say that's handsome.
He'd played out his cash before being played
by the slayer & his player whose plan is arrayed,
But Hiba Abouk ended up being played.
Now, her money to be shared is warily laid.
"Player" is played by the Player & fuels his fame.
Please don't hate the Player, hate the game.
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Form: Rhyme/Alliteration
Copyright ©? April 2023.
#thehakimisgame #sadiamouth #vickmanuelpoetry
We are all improbable in our own way,
and who can augur the future?
I never could have laid out my course in advance,
though in looking back it all makes sense,
even if it was me flipping a coin (or if somebody flipped it for me).
Hindsight smooths the probabilistic waves,
and here I sit, having cast the coin,
having had the coin in pocket,
having gotten change at an early age,
the cashier having had a drawerful of metal,
the mint having stamped to its heart's content,
the metallurgists having had their smiles,
the miners having ground fault wiles,
the cosmos having performed admirably, elementally.
Here I sit, tonight's chautauqua taking place in a goblet of garnet, yea - a very phrontistery of fuchsia. Far be it from me to understate the euphonious manner in which the cork leapt from the bottle, the Olympian olfactory embrace, the bathykolpian brand of this elixir. The wind outside the window - what is it telling me? Am I entangled, unawares, in my ebullience, a ptarmic influence in the decoction escaping my notice? Am I blind to the greater reality, my words falling like amaurotic husks to the ground? Or, that given ground, does it emit the mephitic essence? Is this the supernatural revenge of some aspect of the wine's terroir, rendering the drinker typhlotic to the usufruct of this very forum, to an iatrogenic principle at work? Are we held at bay by external sternutatory Influence, all our self-reliant suppositions trumped by errhine externals?
Here I sit, wondering if 'tis no more than the contest of the Ego, Superego, and Id, grinding against one another in tribologic sculpting. Or is a spiteful, chthonian influence at work, stemming from that same terroir? Can the wine be blamed? Can we cry out, apotropaically, to rescue ourselves? Are conscious forces arrayed against us, or are we our own worst enemy? Is there a soil/soul for a wine? And is it only a fancy of Fortuna that I sit here tonight, deterministic tendrils floating around me in a manner that threaten my assumptions? Am I free of myself, or is there no such thing as such freedom? In the end, do all things come to one? Obfuscatory clarity - yes, I know, and peace won't sleep in the transparent bottom of my glass.
Yours truly does readily confess
the following poem crafted more or less
approximately a year ago,
when coronavirus (COVID-19)
wrought havoc creating global mess
when panic against collective temple did press
a feeling of melancholy and world-weariness.
Along luscious green acres banks steep grade
(in close proximity to
Petticoat Junction) naturemade
Perkiomen Valley watershed,
verdant landscape displayed
yours truly, (a garden variety
proto human) arrayed
solely donning birthday suit,
whose fifty plus shades hair gone grayed,
i.e. one infinitesimal measly mortal
whiles away hours, laid
back days of his life as
the world wide web turns
comprising second decade
of twenty first century
civilization, where
coronavirus veritably waylaid
furlough afflicts populations feeling betrayed
entire fabric *****sapiens staid
threadbare existence now best describes
chock full of endemic ennui proliferates,
where vast majority of people afraid
to leave their houses lest COVID-19 played
greater havoc, whereby society already upended
unemployment factor at record high since...
Great depression witnessed
courtesy somber parade,
ninety years ago benchmarked
from May 11, 2021,
an invisible oppressed heaviness weighed
down the madding crowds
aghast how stock market trade
hit rock bottom making paupers,
ill fate clobbered breadwinners
circumstance none could evade
October 29, 1929 haint no charade,
when Black Tuesday hit Wall Street
bitta bing bitta bang bitta played
bitty bitty chitty chitty bang bang
linkedin with irrational exuberance portrayed
American economy supine splayed
versus March 11, 2020 characterized
coronavirus outbreak as pandemic
by the WHO subsequently signaling
Trump cited "fake news" and not dismayed
to expedite drastic measures
none would impede golf nor Mar-a-Lago
leisure him sipping lemonade
acid test tee zing 'bout quaffing electric kool-aid
without getting his doggy dimples in a bunch
he grudgingly complied and obeyed
purveyors (governors) and Anthony Fauci
complete United States government shutdown
approximately mid/late March 2020
which undertaking generated brisk business
grim reaper experienced
(still does) protracted heyday.
Antiestablishmentarian inherent malevolent violence
wracks human species, a most brutish and nasty beast.
An embittered nihilistic teenager
grown haggard and old,
hence not surprisingly yours truly
crafts pseudo dystopian reasonable rhyme.
An evangelized atheistic adherent,
I aver evolutionary theory
posits prelapsarian Eden
of astonishing plentitude
gone to hell in a handbasket.
Ever since human species stood erect
exhibiting prehensile appendages did allow
cupped fingers upon brow,
whereat vista unveiled to succor chow.
Dawn of consciousness begat
superstitious vagaries daunting
present day Democrat
and/or Republican to issue fiat
denouncing extremist militant uprising
raging across Capitol Hill habitat.
2021 presidential inauguration
today January twentieth
(broadcast right now)
augurs horrific repeat January sixth,
when bedlam and mayhem
rocked Washington District of Columbia,
where hoodlums ran amuck lionizing violence.
Lawlessness bled constitution white
marauding bands of hooligans
bombarded, desecrated, fueled,
harmed, jackknifed, leveled, nailed,
pummeled, rioted, terrorized, vandalized...
with glee and spite
yielded windfall regarding
headline grabbing newsnight
motley film crews recorded
gangsters scaling storied height
(cue spiderman/woman)
think rescuers quick
as greased lightning they did alight.
If only real and/or
fictional life action heroes/heroines
came to the rescue
to avenge forces of evil,
where virtue dispensed,
and trumpeted courtesy better angels.
Meanwhile indefatigable defenders
of human rights
dole out just desserts
upon the heads
of self styled lawless brigands
militaristic thugs hell bent
to wreak havoc
upon cradle of liberty
including complex edifices
linkedin and embody
blood, sweat and tears
of freedom fighters
arrayed against merciless
demonic forces upending
foundation upholding enshrined
nearly divinely inspired principles
quantum leaps since
early man/woman trod
across terrestrial firmament.
I experienced exhilaration
upon witnessing confirmation
genuflection, liberation, restitution
espoused by Joseph Robinette Biden Jr.
forty sixth president of United States.