Long At present Poems
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this middle aged rue stirring bummer
haint no stranger to cold,
when dark hen stormy wintry days
eggs hit from Arctic portal en fold
ding Atlantic Seaboard
in a blizzard of bitterly, blindingly, and
brutally sub zero temperatures
from an occasional nor'easter
fiercely gripping hold
the majority years, sans this prolific
recalcitrant scrivener lived
in various and sundry abode
housed within Southeastern
Montgomery County, Pennsylvania
with 19*** zip code,
and during my boyhood recall,
how massive ice sheets did erode
the (then) opened expansive farmland,
in preparation for planting time,
where runnels of frigid water flowed
with childish cheeks exposed to glowed
after hours upon
many a green acre got tilled and hoed
despite feeling energized and refreshed
with arms and legs n'er fro zen
aye didst eagerly await with exuberant yen
kickstarting thy body electric
experiencing hearthstone nook
designed and built by Christopher Wren
after heading indoors counting fingers
and toes to make sure, i still got ten
soon hearing the chorus of fauna,
and floral kaleidoscope of color
aground or taking wing
thus, upon thawing out thoughts
drifted toward approaching spring,
the season revitalizing
dormant natural inhabitants,
whose excite (like mine) didst ping
announcing the debut of fecundity
nsync with screeching from the lizard king.
This Spring Equinox (i.e. man date:
12:15 PM Tuesday,
March twentieth two thousand eighteen)
doth rejuvenate
inviolable hibernating animals
and plants, and me equate
to experience sensation,
whereby entire being does inflate
and (despite marital status),
nonetheless envisions another gal asthma mate
no...no...no...please do not think this chap
mean spirited and under rate
the woman (at present taking a siesta,
and i breathe easy),
who oft times doth henpeck, a trait
inherited many a chic hen
(with tantalizing tail feathers)
now (until she awakens)
proscribing yours truly to wait
for my repast most likely ad hoc
moist ideal for any nerdy kid to knock
senseless, the worst facet of self important jock
consisting of pop slop mock
Hungarian Goulash, a melange
of relics from age old meals
transformed into a petrified sawed little rock.
ENOUGH!
I felt deaf from the ‘noise’ of information,
constantly butting, buzzing against my mantra of:
“The quieter you are… the more you… hear!”
At present, my lifestyle felt media manipulated:
tv, radio, newspaper, mobile, computer.. ad infinitum!
Besieged by endless emails, monopolizing mobiles,
beset by frenzied yaps from apps!
Enough is enough is….. ENOUGH,
I have to escape from the unrelenting hullabaloo.
Can the human brain endure so much information
and who am I, an individual thinker or group dancer?
However, relief sat just around the corner
as next morning I boarded the flight to Reykjavik.
A three-hour taxi journey with a taciturn islander,
people and communication diminishing by the mile
until finally a twig of a boat out to Ellidaey Island.
Boating and bobbing towards the uninhabited …hideaway,
an isolated jigsaw piece of land
off the southern coast of Iceland,
I appraise a small-boned building clinging to its side
with ‘RIDICULOUS’ scribbled all over it.
Someone had said Iceland was a niceland
where you could float free, peace and tranquillity!
But someone hadn’t warned me about…Mr Loneliness
Who was soon tapping me sharply on the shoulder.
So here I sit, three days into my week’s stay
in the island’s lodge, dubbed the world’s loneliest house,
where the only neighbours are passing ships and puffing puffins.
No internet, no tv, no electricity, no running nor strolling.. water
just remote, alone and contemplating my countenance
while wondering if God is lonely too!
Suddenly, clouds bump and bruise against each other
as they race away before the darkness snarls in.
Soon, night has sent in its stormtroopers
who land and splinter into shadow groups
while wind angrily sprints up to the house
bombing it with blockbuster punches.
Then rain happily joins in, machine-gunning the house
until the building begins to stagger and stumble.
I check my face and it is still in the same place
but I sit timorously trembling, tyrannised and terrified
while my eyes follow the house’s dimly lit path
as it wags its tail to the cliff’s edge
and jumps into the void of darkness.
But this poem is a broken wrist, with a twist,
as suddenly, my bones brittle and inside myself…..I faint!
What possibly could happen now?
But there it is..
the knock at the front door!
Ian Souter
What formerly got celebrated as adventitious age of exploration...
1492 unleashed, jump/
kick started, and downloaded
a bittorrent götterdämmerung
spelling genocide of indigenous peoples
occupying Turtle Island,
now surviving tribes
just a shell of their former grandeur.
At present Columbus day
linkedin with high dudgeon
courtesy scattered remnants
of once proud nations
occupying contiguous United States
plus calling Alaska and Hawaii
their happy hunting grounds,
enshrine actual or mythologized
spectacular pièce de résistance
instances when counting coup.
I recollect needing to know
scores of years ago
when a student attending grade schools
within Lower Providence District
as an important bit of information
contributing to (white washed) history
of western civilization
(and never forgot)
recalling the names Nina, Pinta,
and Santa Maria associated
with heroic measures undertaken
by Cristóbal Colón,
(but also been referred to,
by himself and others, as Christoual,
Christovam, Christofferus de Colombo,
and even Xpoual de Colón)
five hundred and thirty years ago,
who purportedly "discovered"
the Americas, when in
fact native occupants of the land
already dwelled upon
the then island paradises.
He/him and subsequent swashbuckling
gung-ho high spirited men
set sail across expanse of ocean(s)
exhibiting eager intent to claim
untrammeled storied quintessentially
opulently magnificent kingdoms
intoxicating greedy Europeans.
Blatant exploitation inexorably nudged
courtesy trickery vis a vis hook and crook
to grab good & plenty treats
forcibly wrested by violence
sabotaging the delicate webbed wide world
constituting millenniums of heavenly bliss,
where marauders wantonly ransacked
indeed lacking absolute zero selflessness
forcing diverse autochthonous nations
to acquiesce and surrender
ancestral grounds to aggressive, coercive
and offensive Europeans hell bent
to populate occupied territory
commandeering, humiliating, manhandling,
poisoning, subdividing, triangulating
every square inch
encompassing fruitful grand home
of rightful heirs to stolen
near boundless tracts
eventually hashtagging uncharted
pristine green acres
spanning from sea to shining sea
becoming commercial real estate
falsely claiming a haven
housing home of the free
land of the brave.
As a writer, people are my vocation.
As for humanity, men, women
And other abstractions,
Their interests constitute little more
Than my hobby; I can only deal in people.
As soon as I start dealing in sects
And sections, I am either an insider
Or an outsider, and I feel lost as either
And as soon as I feel lost,
I make no attempt to find myself,
But simply retrace my steps
And return to the people.
You can call me detached if you like,
But you see, the only way
I can remain sane as a person
With such an all-consuming instinct
For attachment, is to be detached.
The world of subjectivity
Holds no sway over me,
Because it is paradoxically impersonal,
Being affiliated to partisanship,
Sentimental causes and other such abstractions.
I couldn't possibly belong
To a school of orthodox thought
That accepted me as a member.
I don't believe in myself
Other than as a crystal clear container
For the freshest cream of human individualism.
When I was younger,
I ached to be famous for the sake of it,
But now it occurs to me
That anyone can be famous
Provided they are sufficiently audacious
And thick-skinned, and I desire fame
Not so much for the vain satisfaction
Of being seen and known and heard,
But in order to guide others
Towards a happier way of being,
The only precept for celebrity,
Indeed for being in general, as far as I can see.
Adversity seems to be my fate,
As well as fortune.
The meek ones gravitate to me.
I'm the prince of the hurt ones,
The damaged ones.
I resent all success and authority.
I'm so affectionate one moment,
So icy and evasive the next.
I'm in love with many people at present.
I over-accentuate my individuality,
Because sometimes I look at myself
In the mirror and I say:
"Who's that pathetic wreck?"
The more complex you are,
The less you like yourself,
Because you frighten yourself.
The more I find myself liking someone,
The more I doubt us both.
Liking someone negates them for me.
("An Aphoristic Self-Portrait" was based on a series of teeming informal diary entries made in various receptacles in the late 1980s. "The Compensatory Man Par Excellence" originally formed part of a novel written - at an estimate - around 1987. Its fate remains a mystery. "Self-Portrait" may also once have been part of it.)
The problem with war is not just confined to the front lines where the battle rages on. A
single shot can be traced all the way back home. For instance a young man stood on the
front line takes a single shot to his stomach, the patrol he is on is down one man, it takes two
pilots and 2 medics to collect the injured solier and take him to a feild hospital, where a team
fight to save his life. One of the medics, who work on him knows the injured soldier very
well. He feels distraught working to save the life of his friend. The young soldier's life can not
be saved and passes away. When the medic telephones home to his loving family he tells
them of the sad news that his friend has died doing the job he loved.
The family of the deceased war hero get an unsuspected knock on the door which, breaks
their hearts. One shot of a gun, one round, one family is destroyed, another family feels the
loss knowing thier loved one fought but couldnt save the life of his friend, and a full company
of heroes feeling overwhelmed with sadness for thier fallen comrade, and a growing fuel of
hate for an unforgiving enemy.
This is an example of one hero falling, and what effect it has had on so many peoples lives.
Imagine the domino effect when over one hundred soldiers have died in one conflict, and
remember there is two war zones at present, Afghanistan, Iraq and dont forget the peace
keeping missions.
How many have to die or get left severely injured or disabled before someone stands up and
says no more?
War is not particular about religion, in most religions murder and hate is forbidden, but when
a religious man fires his rifle at an enemy, does he say to himself forgive me God for i have
sinned? War does not care for religion. For all of those who have been in a war, who have
stood in the heart of a foreign land tight fisted without fear, i commend you for we all fought
an ageless war against an unforgiving enemy.
Do we all know what we are fighting for, not the lies the politicians bring, i mean the cold
hard truth about why our government want that far away land. Would you still go and fight?
All i can say is a few hundred men and women have paid the ultimate sacrifice for what i can
make is oil, is it really worth it? and how long have this got to go on?
Success divided them
Opening up doors
That should have remained closed
The temptress walked right in
Made herself at home
And conquered what was not hers
Leaving Sylvia feeling betrayed and alone
Another man leaving her life
She was never given the opportunity to know
What security from a man feels like
She was always left to make it on her own
Never having anyone to count on
Never having someone to give
Her unconditional love and security
Then her tragic end
While her unsuspecting children
Lay in their beds
Peacefully sleeping
Unaware of the doom to come
She placed her head in a gas stove
Suffocating from the toxic fumes
Though her physical deprivation of oxygen
Made her body violently contort
Maybe her demise was
The only way she knew to
Release the pain in her soul
That was haunting her always
Like a shadow
Following her
Until she sought to end
Her life's journey
That constantly betrayed her
Though many believe that
The soul who commits such a dreadful act
Will be punished for all eternity
In a darker place then they ever knew on earth
I wonder if there is
Such a price to pay
Why cannot payment be demanded
From the ones who were
Figuratively gripping her by the throat
Leaving her feeling
That there was no other way out
Leaving her to face each day
Bitterly alone
Sylvia's life and mine
Are intertwined in so many ways
Though my Father is very much alive
It seems like his death came long ago
Because we are strangers
My relationship with him
Has profoundly affected
How I view men at present
And probably until the day
My life ends
Like Sylvia, my husband and I
Share a bond through our poetry
Our intellectual conversations
Stimulate our minds and strengthen our bond
But, then infidelity, abuse and betrayals
Ended the magic between us
Leaving our relationship dormant
Temporary bliss is all I have been given
Though I am grateful for
The chance to experience it at all
My life is empty
Without the security that a man brings
When you can trust him with everything
That you possess
Your innermost secrets
Your dreams
And even your very soul
For this security escaped
Sylvia and I both
This void bonds us
Even beyond the realm of death
Because pain is never-ending
My day starts with a cup of tea hot
Its steam ‘n steamy headlines in papers help boil the day’s plot
Nine to five make all efforts to achieve my day’s aims
Mind and body both it usually strains
Motto is to stick as far to the present
weaving past and future into its crescent.
Romance in evening is aided by the moon crescent
Red wine shots make it more hot
After dinner it is time to reassess the present
Tomorrow somehow sneaks into the plot
A warm shower helps to drain the day’s strains
Helping me renew my energy and aims.
I retire to my study to fulfill my imagery aims
To indulge in poems while admiring the moon’s crescent
which plays hide and seek with the clouds, and my eye strains
The scene in which the cupid’s arrows start hitting her hot
I get charged and run to find my own love’s plot
find her at terrace as she viewed the moon crescent at present.
Dreams of love and happiness we give each as present
But how does that help in the achievement of aims?
I try to scratch my head but do not get the plot
For the things of heart have invisible connection with moon crescent
The resulting low and high tides blow us cold and hot
In equal measure, causing us happiness and strains.
I try to sleep counting my happiness but wishing away the strains
I also pray to god that I stay rooted in the present
Over so many days I learnt not to worry unless iron is hot
this can happen if we get clear cut ability to decipher those damn aims
but things start to get hazy when out comes the moon crescent
and my attention gets tuned to the music that bush crickets yonder plot.
Falling off to sleep I am forced to loosen the strings of my plot
Off I meander on slopes which sprout flowers of different strains
From the slopes I can jump and closer feel the glow of the crescent
Becoming the king and receiving the queens in present
Having achieved everything I am left with no more aims
That is when I wake up to see next day’s sun turning hot.
Plotting the day’s programme again requires mind to be present
strains and stresses apart keeping a focus on the charted aims
Crescent moon providing the romantic touch later, with these expectations hot.
12.6.2014
Contest The Sestina Challenge
Sponsor: Jared Pickett
Dear mother earth,i came but now ive regret my coming, who brought me
is dead and gone leaving me to roam causing a lot of crime against
humanity.
I do know the dangers ive caused, the lives ive wrecked, the future ive
destroyed,i'm feeling very bad for the sorrows am inflicting on so many
people .
Dear mother earth please tell your kids i'm around ,let them stop taking
risks to there graves.
Mam tell the young ladies that are carrying me that there is moe to life
than me.
To the young men i say your future is still bright and sparkling you can
still make impact and transform others that may want to think i'm not
around.
To my angels,the kids, just ignore me and think of what you will become
in the future ,above all forgive your parents ,its not there fault neither mine
but those that brought me.
To the single parents i hate taking your mother or father,husband or wife
away please forgive me and always cherish their memories.
To the orphans i cant confront you to say sorry ,please mother earth beg
for mercy for me and tell them i'm terribly sorry.
To the world at large i say i hate being around causing you the pains i'm
causing you at present.
For the sake of humanity and especially the orphans here is what to do
to get rid of me,
Know i'm around,live safe in all aspect,and for the sake of humanity here
are the things to do written on my back.
"I want to go back please help me to go back i know i'm not welcome
and please dont welcome me .A-abstain from all risky practices
B-be faithfull to yourself and others.
C-concious use of condoms.
D-discipline your self .
E-educate yourself and others.
Yours sincerely Hiv/Aids.
Form:
somewhere along the way
s/he lost track of themselves---
perhaps it was because they had been
hurt before & swore to never go into
anything full swing again,
or perhaps it was out of a genuine
dislike of themselves---
either way, the passion was there in the
beginning
(as it always is),
and with it came the words---
words that seem to come naturally
even though they are said by the same people
to different people
a thousand times before our death
words that fill the air with new life & energy
when they first appear again
words that coax us with comfort like the
inevitable calm before the coming storm &
finally those same words that cut like razorblades
& streak down the blackboard simultaneously
with horror movie violins creaking & clanging
in the furthest regions of our heads
when everything falls apart.
there was a promise promulgated in that sea
of first flowering words
a promise that no matter how much it is exemplified on
television or in films for its dramatic purpose,
always seems to con someone under its wing---
this promise that one of the passionate two
would eventually leave their spouse for the other
this promise that the affection that at present was being
hidden behind closed doors
would someday be able to flourish amongst the public world
with all of the boisterous spontaneity of a real health
relationship,
free of any guilt that the two might be feeling
while they worked their magic behind the back(s)
of those that they already had made promises to.
and yet as the early bliss of love turns into the
neurological disease of which it can seem to fester as
all the other moments of life with a person who no longer
interests the other party,
like rotting milk
it’s stink fills the room &
inevitably the apology begins---
long & drawn out with too many words that are all saying the
same thing---
it is over.
one of the promisers didn’t pass the litmus test &
so the less guilty goes back to their spouse
honoring that ridiculous charade that is known as
marriage &
the guilty party
now dumped by the person that they were having an affair with
walks back out into the world
with a feeling that they were not even good enough
for someone who is already married.
for a while now i’ve been taking advantage
of the online used book market
which is piling up the stock from all of those
vulnerable little bookstore---
the smart ones,
seeing the writing on the wall & no doubt,
the commercials for kindles, nooks and the
pandigital novel for androids,
they have committed their store’s holdings to
bigger online reservoirs who are getting rid of
tons of literature
for next to nothing,
as the death of print media & the complete conversion to
ebooks looms on the horizon.
today i received one in the postal mail,
the snail mail,
which still holds true at present in serving a legitimate function
which we have yet to make
digital---
while opening the package to pull from it the work i had ordered,
i was submersed in a wave of
old book smell---
it was not the moldy disgusting smell that you might find at a
garage sale
when people are throwing away their junk because the ceiling had
fell through and water had gone
everywhere,
instead,
it was the smell that only a reader who has been taking part in the act
for quite some time
would know---
it is as if the wooden shelf that the book had been sitting on for
all these years
enveloped the book itself &
holding the book to my nose,
flipping the pages slowly
i felt like i was in a library all to myself &
as i have in the past,
like a kid in a candy store,
i felt as if this online rounding up of all the dying little stores
was my own way of turning my abode into that
store which liberated me through offering me so very many
abundant treats---
this smell tickled my intellect & my consciousness,
it wreaked something of sandlewood, dust and quite frankly
aged
paper,
which holds a unique & wonderful scent
all its own.
yesterday’s books never seem to disappoint &
that is not to say that i do not look forward to more years being alive
where large quantities of new literature do not make their way to me
via our most cutting edge technology
whatever that might be---
i consider it a pleasure to stroll amidst the paragraphs,
the sentences, the words,
the meanings & the overall
narratives,
wherever they might take me.