Long Beholden Poems
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I let your eyes to visualise a garden on a loom;
Bluebells and marigolds in sway and lavender in bloom;
And there to play in a luscious green two kittens wrestling;
Up high in chirping swallow's play are feathered friends a-singing.
A figure of a handsome man is settled on a chair;
And by his side a beauty pure strokes lovingly his hair;
The Witch, or so the story plays, is set to work a-stitching;
For everyday she works to lay the groundwork for her witching.
The "Loom of Dunkele" is dark and glistens as if new;
That which it forges is by spelling set to render true;
This vessel handed down through time where Witches are sure wed;
Commutes it powers to the offsprings through that marriage bed.
At 35 she must be bride and to a handsome beau;
For Dunkele demands that beauty seeps through row to row;
The Witch beholden to this pact must honour this or else;
The Dunkele will take her beauty for its very self.
Dunkele demands a beauty in it's natural mould;
The Witch must weave the magic seams without her vêtements;
As pure as a newborn should she display her nakedness;
For Dunkele gave a perfect body not to be redressed:
No blemish, painting, marking, piercing for her skin to bear;
No jewellery should adorn her parts no braids within her hair;
Should she ignore these rulings and would set about to loom;
The magic would reverse all workings never to resume.
Above the loom, portraits in rows, of Witches one and all;
Each face a picture of a beauty unimaginable;
Throughout all time the loom has served and must forever more;
Or else a terrible curse be laid upon each maiden's door:
Indeed, to pander verily to a Dragon's carnal needs;
The Witch must feed on blood and guts and do as Dragon pleads;
Forever trapped in a darkened lair, no view of sun or sea;
The Witch would disappear from sight, no trace or history.
For 20 years this loom she spins as was the bargain made;
And in this time her beauty shone, success and wealth her aid;
Now in an hour the carpet loomed but for a patch to fill;
A slip of hair should she prepare to weave into the mill.
Then once complete the spell to speak releasing her shalom;
To lead her to that wondrous place where there awaits Handsome;
This rite of passage like forebears would guarantee the Witch;
Leaves on the blood line of her ilk a rich continuous stitch.
Estranged to a lonely room
Littered with trash and splattered gloom
Fettered and sentenced to early doom
Distressed and distraught to a sordid mood
Creeps and crawls and stalks at night
To make sure the windows latched
To make sure the door to match
Hope to God to soon to catch
Before settling to an unworldly nap
Creeps and crawls and stalks at night
Late night battered darkness broken
Metallic taste in my mouth beholden
Bathroom rush with my mouth open
Rinse the mouth and nose thus salted
Creeps and crawls and stalks at night
I never see the imp come or go
Only disturbance in light or dark shadow
Low to the floor slither and flow
Dash under the bed, I don’t really know
Creeps and crawls and stalks at night
Maybe it is up on the ledge
Or under the bed or behind the case
Or cowering in a corner or place
Peeking out from a closet embrace
Creeps and crawls and stalks at night
In my dreams I see a sordid face
Withered and shriveled and contorted with hate
Laronian imp with purpose of fate
In my mouth it squirts the paste
Creeps and crawls and stalks at night
Again I wake and bolt for the sink
From the corner of my eye I see the imp
He disappears in wink or a blink
Invisible to the man with a limp
Creeps and crawls and stalks at night
Pint sized demon un happily born
Raised to hurt and kill with poison
Never seen in a man with reason
Punished in a life of torture and scorn
Creeps and crawls and stalks at night
In the darkness I see a leap
Up to the ledge an amazing feat
For a tiny thing at most two feet
Hiding until I fall asleep
Creeps and crawls and stalks at night
Needles inserted into my feet
Slow painful sore legs they do retreat
Hope to lord my soul to keep
Late at night in darkness deep
Creeps and crawls and stalks at night
In the blackness I hear a click
Grab a sword and after it
Under the bed in a squealing fit
Damaged with a warbling tweet
Creeps and crawls and stalks at night
Should I slowly pass away
Hopefully my children remember me
Horrible taste with it at bay
Awakening to a brand new day
Creeps and crawls and stalks at night
Should I survive to tell a story
Of terror, pain and faith and glory
Unbelievable unreasonable stodgy and gory
Peering in as I swoon with sedated foray
Creeps and crawls and stalks at night
I
First thing on earth on birth if ye had done
Was ‘cry and breathe’, and survive every day…
Then on O man, had ye her blessings won,
She’d not be in a state so dire today.
Had ye truly believed as ye profess
That Mother Earth’s beholden to no man,
It’s he who is— that she goes on to bless,
She’d never be so weary, weak and van.
She never was, nor is in a hurry,
Her nature is to do what needs be done,
Had ye shown even a wisp of worry,
She won’t have gone green to grey and barren.
If each, a true Earth Day had ever been,
Would ye find on your face such silly grin?
II
No such grin… had ye treated her as should,
Ye scarce did care nor yet know what ails earth,
But desert her ‘pon plundering all worth,
Ye deserve if she shows her irate mood.
You’re keen to know Sun, planets, all the space,
Not, why her green garment shows early dearth,
Nor ye worry on loss of her vast worth,
Nor yet your thoughts go to her aging face.
Not life on earth, you love all things alien,
Hasten to heal some heaven-bound headaches,
Her fever, melting frost, nor why she quakes,
But muse on Saturn's moons and things Martian….
If every day had dawned as your Earth Day,
Would that strange smirk on face survive to stay?
III
Sure, no such smirk nor ever grin would stay
On a face whose heart heaves for Mother Earth
Who’s getting grey from lush green by the day,
So, better rid O man your idle mirth,
And shift your sight afar from so shorter,
Do what needs be done, there’s no time to wait,
Long have ye stared blank as mute spectator,
Be not one to frame your own fatal fate.
Today, Earth’s fuming with long subdued ire,
And like an escapist, ye plan to ditch
Her, be not such a feeble-heart ostrich,
There’s not much time ere deparate turns dire.
Else, breathless you will have to cry when die,
Just as ye did on birth— the last well nigh.
________________________________________
Sonnets | 03.01.2005, revised in July 2023|
Poet’s note: This is a chain of three sonnets making a so-called crown. The last line of the preceding sonnet is not repeated verbatim as the first line of the next here. Instead, the point raised therein is answered in a way that establishes a link.
The pursuit of justice was for her, just a child
To acknowledge her life taken by organized crime,
those who acted out the worst kind of evil
With cops in their pockets, they could do anything
Had a chief who protected everyone he chose to ...
a network with a cover up so very ugly and deep
Children grew up, threatened not to speak
Justice was for her
As the friend silenced,
finally stood up to them with the truth
Spoken with courage, facing backlash for years
They weren't going to let the truth come out;
not then, not now ... not ever in their minds
Her life became a web of their entangled lies,
there still was no stopping her as she ran
She learned how to move quickly to be safe,
life was always changing at a rapid pace
They vowed to find her anywhere she went,
just to keep their secrets hidden from all
Still she vowed to bring justice for her friend
Acknowledge an innocent life stolen by them,
yet so many still in power derailed what she did
Still she stands, still she speaks, never giving up
Her friend's life is not about the money and drugs,
and all the other criminal acts they smoothly do
It is about a child's innocent life: her soul, her smile
For these precious things and more,
her voice speaks from the grave ...
Justice was for her
A requiem is required
for innocent blood shed
Silence is not golden,
the truth never is beholden
to a lie
Yet, if justice is not her friend,
how will right prevail in the end?
If justice be not given to her friend,
what message then do the corruptors of truth send?
That lies of deceit win,
that criminal justice hangs a crooked grin?
No, her friend will continue to speak out ...
a sacred vow given shall not be turned about
So she press on, presses onward ---
unrelenting as down pouring, torrential rain
Exposing the matrix of corruption,
that will go to any length to cover up
the death of her dear friend
Willing to endure much tribulation
to seek justice
Risking her life, steadfast undeterred,
as long as justice remains deferred
And when recompense is given,
two voices will sing ... this justice was for her
This project was solely Heidi's idea and thematic creation. I was merely her poetic assistant.
I riff flecked about thee august
Autumn Equinox 2018,
this polymath learned why,
September Equinox
will be at 9:54 PM,
which spoiler alert thy
learned (courtesy Google),
when Or Sun Wells
crosses celestial equator
i.e. (imaginary line in sky
above Earth's Equator
from north to south), a quiet rye
hit moment occurs
Saturday September 22nd, 2018
(at 9:54 PM Eastern
Time) marks onset
of apple cider
and pumpkin pie
a distinct golden jacketed
matted palette well nigh
paints arboreal swath, sans
quiet riot of brilliant
color, that doth belie
rampant terrestrial, unreal,
and venal degradation aye
temporarily turning a (third)
blind eye apathetically, blithely,
and conveniently shunting aside
eyesore fissured gash - wide
cleft wound, where hide
ding away from
global abuse decried
as feeble effort
ignoring doth decide
fate i.e. as does wrecking,
where precious resources espied
snubbing, and thumbing nose
(figuratively) asper dead
serious portentous desperate
(falling on deaf ears) plea chide
dismissively mocking (bird
den some) prophesying,
whence creator cried
alarming, blaring, and clanging
sounding Doomsday Clock,
where ambivalence unheeded
scathing tragic miss guide
did exploitative testament,
where survival of fittest tried
to the max, viz (courtesy
of *****sapiens)
as Mother Nature dost allied
flora and fauna espied
comprising vibrant biosphere
each betrothed nsync, and guide
ding generic hominids shrugging
(Atlas sized fountain head)
off beholden hide
bound wedded bliss
to the other,
this observer awestruck,
sans whirled, wide webbed biota
adorns terra firmae analogous,
qua expectant wedded bride
named Gaia – resplendent
raiment adorned playfully chide,
when (dark and Stormy Dan
yells) Armageddon
legatee - time ran
out for *****sapiens meaning...
salvation to late for human
knit tee, cuz field day, sans
grim reaper will
glory in field day
whar cross bones
numb skull pay fealty.
When I was young, older friends-family gave advice with their tongue. They gave me golden nuggets of advice, too young to use but I thought about them twice.
Now older and I hope wiser, each senior was my great adviser. With each ten years things get harder Ann,
do all you can now while you can. The golden years are golden, with health-money don't be beholden. Save for a rainy day, they are sure to come your way. Get rid of excess things, they will be given away with your rings. Give to those you love now, or it will become a fight oh wow. The golden nuggets of advice, were so sad and cold like ice. I have seen many a tear,
I will not live in fear.
Date Written: 3/12/2021
Note: "Golden Nuggets Of Advice" come from seasoned seniors.
Quote By Paula Goldsmith
Ephemeral social media rendezvous
"Abort, Retry, Fail?"
(or "Abort, Retry, Ignore?")
essentially spells does not compute
in bobbing spongy mindscape
of your friendly martian
donned with square pants,
when he experiences unresponsiveness
from *****sapiens
whose interpersonal offline etiquette
indicative as if yours truly
hailed from an alien nation,
yet said earthlings take objection
if their overture not acknowledged
to him/her, whereby he/she
exhibits vituperative ranting and raving
prompting me to speculate double standard
beholden courtesy egocentric species,
especially when attempts
to subscribe to netiquette
yields disastrous results
hashtagging me as deplorable basket case.
Linkedin thru tenuous
webbed world wide
electronic thread defied
no matter flurry of emails/
messages exchanged flattery applied
courtesy transient online
tête à tête downside
cyber venue offers convenient exit
personal aversion, I chide
brevity figurative thorn in side
futile effort Androcles tried
I haint lion, familiarization denied
fledgling cyber acquaintanceships
dead on the vine, yours truly sighed
potential friendship never fortified,
cuz immediate value judgement cast,
instantaneously prejudiced aversion
perhaps hidden agenda implied
maybe intimated illusions of grandeur
netiquette nuances overstepped, I chide
yours truly vouchsafe
absolute zero great expectation
love smitten wounds pride,
the Italian girl in Algiers
inchoate mystique forever unknown
nonetheless fantasize bartered bride
figment of overactive imagination
hence grist for poetry mill
grateful fleeting rapport tried
to take flight before sputtering
doomed to dustbin of history (mine)
filed within memory as template guide
against future unnecessary disappointment
best stick to your guns abide
against infatuation lest
conjured lass doth override
focus on reality no matter who espied
Facebook post, tis foolhardy
to allow, enable, and provide leeway,
hence aimless thoughts elide
dear boy, ya never learned always denied
rapture becoming ensnared
noose sense and sensibility stride
ding blindly, dumbly, foolishly...,
into own perilous entrapment, verstehen?
A venetian red yearling’s head
Pops up
From behind a fallen log
Licks rouge from its lips
And the syrup sipped from dark maple bark
Ears tweaking
To the snow-crunch creak
Of my dog and me approaching
From down the trail
Forest
Tamed by these trampled snow-winding paths
The deer doesn’t flinch
Up ahead
Top of the trash receptacle
Is aflutter with cardinals and sparrows
Though observed
The object has not coalesced to solid reality
Remains a quiver of particles
Withering with infinite probabilities
This should not be
Ah
I see
What it is
Slices of strawberry apple orange watermelon banana cherry
Have been perfectly aligned spaced and placed
By somebody
As juicy trails of treats for the starving
Collection of fruit on a countertop log
Tapped across a fencepost
Table-topped to a stump
Necklaced across a trailhead sign
Little delectable rainbows scattered by a hand
All over the park
Flamingos may come
Hearing these rumors
I imagine
The feminine work behind these succulent lifesavers
The work of a woman
A mother
An older lady
Who was determined that morning
Packing plastic baggies the night before
With morsels carefully counted out
To be fair
With a lovely variety of fruit
Pinched and selected from grocery store shelves
Sliced precisely by her parry knife
Sorry if that presumption is not acceptable
In this modern age
But we all know it’s true
And is beautiful
Call her a wayward witch
An angel
Messalina
Daughter of Cleopatra
Mistress to Van Gogh
Wife of Jesus
A goddess of which we’d be so much better
If she were
To rule over
The velvet corners of the Earth
From a garden throne
Men like me
Bowed to her knee
Like these animals and birds that she’s fed
Today
Beholden to the world of majik
Yes
We’d be so much better
If we were fed from the broken-braceleted hand
Of a woman
Who
From her kitchen window
And snake-led dreams at the flight of her feet
Is unafraid to say
I do not fear you
I will bring forgiveness to the creatures of winter
Startle the men who pass by
I will feed them all
The fruit of my Knowledge.
"I have dipped my pen in the sublime, it is my gift to you . . ."
A Rambling Poet
There’s always been a significant person
Who has guided me through life
And taught me everything
A growing girl should learn,
From counting all my numbers,
To knowing how life can be cold.
My gratitude rewards this person
For, I was not easy to train,
Oft’ times I turned my shoulder cold
I believed I knew everything.
I just wanted to be young and live,
And tried to stray too many times to count.
I’ve grown beholden of the things I’ve learned.
My knowledge floods in large quantities,
Through my veins, from the veins of a special being.
Accepted, and hoarding his words, entirety
My mind suppressing reality of his un-beating hearts coldness
Building castles in air, deceiving myself that he might live.
~”I walk solitaire, but not alone”~
Through the graveyard, choked by after-life.
His name on the monument, bold & stone cold.
I run my hand across the surface, and embrace it whole
Suffer the etching through my fingertips, I’ve new things to learn
“He” isn’t really here, only his flesh and bones.
I close my eyes to preserve it all, and count to 10.
Within that 10 seconds, his spirit enlightens my company,
Sits with me, we discuss everything
“I taught you a lot, especially these things of cold,
I know what I promised, I know what a special person
I was to you. But Randa you must now learn
To do things on your own. In the way of your own life.”
~”I shan’t forget the words he left me with…”~
“Pass my knowledge to my grandsons, for them to learn.
I see already you’ve taught Logan to count.
Princess, you know I’m still here, even though my flesh is cold
And, even though now I cant do every little thing
That I could when my blood flowed, I can live on through your life
And spiritually lead you to be who you want, as a person”
Then my daddy faded away, and everything
Went back to the way it was. Like numbers
On a clock, must be wound to keep it’s life.
©2011-06-23
Miranda Lambert
Contest: Writing In The Sublime ~
Gnarled and twisted, gangly, forlorn,
the mirror encompasses the product of scorn.
A large withered beast, the scourge of the earth,
stands in view of himself without mirth.
Heavy of heart he's been forced into exile,
once a renowned litigator of beguile.
Seduced, himself, by the warder of threes,
he now resides in amongst a copse trees.
For thrice he was cursed as the deception bearer,
for knowingly thieving from the ruby carer.
And lied in abundance did this litigator,
but deception does stain; evident to the weaver.
The souls meter is tarnished and you cannot hide,
from the prophecy that we cannot confide.
Yet the theft was apparent and cause metered out,
so thrice he was cursed, as there was no doubt.
The weaver herself, set the challenge three folden,
and removed the gentry from the place he beholden.
To live the life with insatiable hunger,
as he took from the carer all that he could sunder.
But the hunger does not slake, and he must transform,
in the nights luminosity his physical shape takes form.
Nails, bleed through the tips of his fingers,
he screams through the agony but the pain still lingers.
Arching his back as his skeletal impression shifts,
to transform this man into the nights hungry glimpse,
A savage rendition of a once man,
reclaims the stance of some unseelie brand.
He searches the forest for fodder to sustain
as taking a life; in this form he will remain.
The double curse now has been explained,
yet the third has a loophole carefully ingrained.
Thirteen moons he must refrain from live flesh,
and bring to the carer all she requests.
Not one drop of blood must he spill in this time,
or the punishment will be eternal for his crime.
For to beguile the enchanters with a fraudulent smile,
the price exacted is not worthwhile.
Yet redemption is held in their greatest esteem,
and the litigator apparent, knows the clause it would seem.
In the polished silver disk, he considers his reflection,
and takes a deep breath of introspection.
He moves through the night, devouring old carcasses,
and comes to the Ruby and does all she asks'.