Long Belied Poems
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LICKING WOUNDS
Lulling the bye and bye
In dreams that oozed and wept with the regret
Of unfinished business
In the portage veiled with the drift of confusion
Sustained by the envisioned memory
Of snarling words and demon eyes
Ejaculating horror from the love swept beginnings
We once knew
Reigning in this fiery heart so full of itself
To burst in the moment
Releasing its pent-up punishment
To sing in the realm of forgiveness
The harmonies long forgotten
Belied by the swan song that lost its rhythm
Along the path of little substance
Of fabled passion
Weeping upon the pillow of hiding
To disappear while each tear washes away
The dirty laundry stained with apathy and rejection
Dwelling in the temple of our shallowness
Buried in the effort of our escape
Emerging like the slow sunrise of a spring day
Diffused into believing tomorrow will never be the same
To any Joy that is created
Our heart is where desires arise
and where they are in time resolved
but since we cling to wisps of smoke,
we remain in our dreams involved.
Seeking love that soul may expand,
causes suffering since we seek,
whilst if we embrace and release,
monk mode plugs the energy leak.
Ego has objectified love,
reducing it to an exchange,
so when the echo returns not,
we feel morbid contractions strange.
Belied expectation breaks hearts,
destiny delusion foretold,
so it’s best to be void centric,
inking heart with love hues of gold.
True joy that does not come and go,
throbs within us as vibrant bliss,
at an octave of agape love,
bestowed by Divine Mother’s kiss.
Grazed by spirit, our heart is healed,
never to be broken again,
for we see this life is but play
and pristine soul is free from stain.
Hark bliss beats call to one and all,
as God’s sublime effervescence,
which is mirrored in every heart;
light eternal, our quintessence.
A drunkard, a thief and a con man,
Who was known by the name Greedy Jack,
Lived a life so vile Satan watched him awhile,
Said, "Of sin in his life there's no lack."
He decided to pay Jack a visit.
Thought with this man he'd have some fun.
Said, "Jack, you're an ass. You ain't got no class.
You're coming with me, Man you're done."
Jack asked him for one final favor.
One last night of drinks on the town.
Satan agreed, Jack really could plead,
And Satan and Jack made the rounds.
When at last the night's drinking was done,
Jack said, "I've no money. You pay.
Turn yourself into coin and the drinks we'll purloin.
We'll slip out the door free and gay.
The devil agreed to the trickery,
And turned into some coin on the sly.
But while he was coin Jack made sure he was joined,
In his pocket with crosses, Belied.
Jack said he would free him if he,
Would grant him ten years to be free.
The devil agreed and he'd have all he'd need,
But in ten years he must pay the fee.
In ten years the devil was back,
And Jack knew he had to think fast.
He asked for an apple for he wanted to sample,
The sweet apple tree they'd just passed.
The devil once more agreed.
He even got him to climb up and pick it.
But while he climbed the tree Jack whipped out three,
Silver crosses to lay there beneath it.
Jack told him that he'd let him down,
But first he must grant one last boon.
He'd not pay for his crimes to the end of all time,
And the devil agreed as he fumed.
Jack thought that he'd won the match,
But time passed and he grew old and sick.
He knew he must die and he let out a cry,
"God forgive me I'm all out of tricks.
But God would not let him in,
And Satan said a deal is a deal.
You must wander the earth, this now is your berth.
You're stuck Man. Now how does it feel.
Satan gave him an ember of coal,
To light his dark path as he left.
He carved out a tuber, he felt in a stupor.
He'd use this for a lantern he guessed.
So he now walks the earth a lost soul.
Not wanted in Heaven or Hell.
With a coal in a pumpkin at least he has somethin',
To light his dark path 'cross the fell.
When he blew into my life,
I was a flower, just starting to bloom.
With high velocity,
he tried to uproot me from solid ground.
I gave him my heart
but all the while - I was thirsting, thirsting. . .
for even half the consideration
I displayed for him
to be returned somehow to me.
But it seems my whirlwind romance
was all inside my pretty little head,
for it certainly was not the reality of what we really had.
Yet, OH! How very real it was to me.
Poetry flowed through me,
and I learned this was my way
of nourishing my soul, allowing me to cope.
With the outpouring of my emotions into poetry
I could put my disappointments onto paper,
release my anguish into something more concrete!
Words became my anchor; for in the words of my poems
I ultimately found my clarity.
Through the outpouring of my soul,
I would sometimes excuse his thoughtlessness.
The desire was in his eyes, but his actions belied it.
I would ask myself how he could not return to me
that same-felt love he had to be seeing in my eyes.
And for a time,
I took from him
any ray of sun that he chanced to shine on me
with his smile.
That is. . .until the day I saw him
with his wife.
Later, I pressed him and he confessed it all.
How yes, he had a wife. He’d simply never told me.
All those times he passed near me
like a warm breeze wafting into my day,
all those times he flirted so outrageously
yet not wanting to take me out into the open.
It all made perfect sense now.
I wilted
and yet,
I was thankful I had never let
him pluck me up,
as romantic as it might have been.
I learned in time
that his half a heart was,
in fact, a half
of nothing.
Written 1/11/2016
For the "Any Poem Not For A Contest, Ever" Poetry Contest of Broken Wings
Accosted many years ago
By the ghost of Edgar Allan Poe
I'm now obliged to come forthright
About that dark eye-opening night.
It's only fair to let you know
I've held a torch for Mr. Poe
It's all because of the ink of his pen
That my love for poetry did begin.
(His sad, sad tale arrested me;
the saddest tale I've ever known.
Small wonder then when he chose me,
an easy prey, home all alone)
Toiling to write like him for years
Happy was I when his ghost appeared.
A tragic figure past, present and now
He entered my room with a humble bow.
And fixed me with a haunting stare
And whispered softly 'life's not fair.'
I nodded my head just to agree
When a strange sensation took hold of me.
Possession felt more than 9/10's of the law
I felt frozen and badly in need of a thaw.
My body, not mine now was his to command;
Just a shell, a mere puppet, at the will of this man.
His voice so melodic, belied malice or vice.
He drew near to the fireplace, the warm hearth felt nice.
There was music, a waltz, seemed familiar {mere chance?)
Embracing the moment we started to dance.
His thoughts were with mine now
And mine were with his
And I swear by my bank book
As long as I live
The unbearable pain of his loss gripped my heart
And the moment I fainted we were ripped apart.
He was anguished at how he had handled his grief,
How his life was cut short by his own inner thief.
He'd wanted to write more
His mind was an ark
Just those few moments with him
Woke the poet in my heart.
And so it happened in just one night
He taught me verse; he taught me rhyme
And stretched my mind to higher heights
That's quite developed over time.
He's never visited my bedroom since
Or with my body had his way.
He left me with this gift or sixth sense
Of a fire for poetry that burns in my veins.
Unfinished business is quite finished now.
Passing on I imparted to him 'quid pro quo.'
'Rest in peace, the whole world
Knows your name Mr. Poe.'
-Reta Pruitt
July 22.2018
Impish Legacy
by Odin Roark
He was like you and me
Arms
Legs
Regrets
Passions
With little that stood out
Save his church-Sunday handshake
His calloused palms
Telling much of
This no-nonsense man
His plaid shirt
Always starting off clean
But wrinkled
Hating to bother anyone
To iron
Wafted oil and soil by midday
The kind sometimes tied
To grease monkey slurs
Labor-ravaged pants
Covered legs of hardlife-stamina
Where given his bumless backside
Help was always needed
But
Snap-of-his-thumbs suspenders
Imprinted proudly with Monroe’s famous
Skirt-blowing pinup
Kept shortcomings intact
Here was an everyday man
With time galloping by
Waiting for no one
He rose at 6
Quick coffee
Out the door
Down the road
8 at the yard
Change this one’s oil
Replace that one’s brakes
Add up the receipts
Take home the earnings
Make another deposit
College won’t be cheap
Leave front door open
Son’s out late
Comfort frail wife
Crawl into bed
Labor’s hand gentle
Jergen’s hand longing
Spooning together
Smiles and pain
Always slow to slumber
So went this life
Until it didn’t
The funeral brought
Many more wafts of oil and grease
Friends of a feather
Still flocking together
With tears and sadness
While upon his face
A subtle smile well known
Belied the crossed hand atop his chest
Some of us knew
He was dreaming
Just one more snap of the suspenders
One last reminder of life
Such became an impish legacy
One who acquired so much
Yet took so little
A HEART OF GOLD
A
Symbol of a
Seraphic being you are,
For to the hopeless, without a
Behest a chest of hope on a platter
Of silver you offered, and the cold
Maimed, with your fur, warmth
You gave.
To
The feeble minded
In the battle against cruel fate.
Courage for conquest you gave.
To the ravenous innards, through
The darkest ravine undaunted
You trod to feed.
The
Cleaved hearts from
Belied oath of love,
Solace, found in your
Salving speech.
The solitariness fissured hearts
In your companionship suture found.
Nothing
Have I seen,
That you would begrudge
For a heart of gold you have
Even your life, you would as lief
As the celestial liege give.
For his nature, in you reflects.
He, though, just a pearl had, but on
The altar of love down laid him.
For the hallowed carmine from his
Sinew our flaws to blot.
Oh
How like the sun you are
For though we are by distance barred.
Yet, the warmth of your benign rays
Here I feel.
(DEDICATED TO THE GIVER)
(my acknowledgement
to the loose canon of Robert Frost)
An above average snowfall
heavily swathed sage heather
followed by substantial unusual rainfall
punctuated months before, during and
after the growing season
delivered one of the
most hearty crop yields
in living memory
within the generations of men
of this (or any neighboring)
Norwegian bachelor farmer
long time residents
feeling like the sole housekeeper
of Lake Woebegone,
who can remember
the Edenic pasture with reluctance
raw bits and pieces mending wall
experiencing crushing childhood's end
weathered by their parents,
who as kids themselves
(during the worst
fear full Depression
in thee United States of America)
when countless farmers forced
by circumstance declared bankruptcy
locked out of hearth and home
no recourse 'cept to sell rural legacy...
family property deeds
(traced back to original settlers)
contrasts sharply with
plentiful, crucial, and
over abundant annual
precipitation, whereby these vestiges
of rural quaint lifestyle
awash with expansive lush cornfields,
whose silk like tassels
synchronously undulate
(sparsely dotting pastoral landscape),
blistered, calloused, and damned,
whether weathered by blizzards,
or pounded with powerful (one...two)
top notch pugilistic punch
topographical scars permanently earmark,
where Ole man winter relentlessly socked
or Mother Nature slammed a wall of water
saturating freshly mown hay,
which pungent odor
belied teeming flora and fauna
(albeit many organisms nearly invisible)
yet keenly observable to hawk eye,
also tempting black crows
to carrion camping
while a flock of seagulls
swoop down upon unsuspecting
school of fish,
and/or scurrying varmints.
The tattered Cabbage Rose peeled
Elegant décor of decades past, the wallpaper offered
only a hint of its former beauty
Its faded pinks and murky greens belied
the glorious blush of its zenith
As I stared from the perch of my uneven mattress,
I pondered the old Chester Inn
I thought about the lives it had touched
and I could almost hear the chatter of children
readying a day at the beach
or the clinking of crystal, a romantic toast
Its halls, still dressed in gray sculptured carpet,
told their story too, carried along on a musty
seaside breeze
An early twentieth century relic, the Inn was
bidding farewell, no longer able to compete
in a modern world
Its dated charm lost on new generations
As I considered that waning Cabbage Rose,
I contemplated the course of life for us all,
its cycles, its sequels
and as I drew my last sigh of crisp, salty air,
I said goodbye to room fourteen
I shook him and shook him but he wouldn’t waken
He had to wake up to take his medication
It isn’t for pleasure or for recreation
But just for the sake of the USA nation
But on second thoughts, severe constipation
Or send him away on a lengthy vacation
or get him to queue for that new vaccination
For anything else could be mortal damnation
And then he awoke with some consternation
Where am I he said with much irritation
I think he was having a hallucination
He looked up and asked me, am I a Dalmatian?
It’s my job to offer a daily summation
I gave him the gen on the evacuation
We’re ending our Afghanistan occupation
Really, he said, has there been consultation?
I told him the Afghans now face conflagration
Afghan? he said, oh, a shaggy Alsatian
I knew this would be an inane conversation
His mind was a void, that's no exaggeration
You’ve pulled out too quickly in my estimation
Jill’s ironic nodding belied her frustration
He didn’t respond with a quick protestation
And Jill’s little grin was a saucy flirtation
The topic I changed to the Covid contagion
He needed to issue a communication
We need to consider some rules relaxation
His vacant stare offered no illumination
He said that that pot plant needs fast irrigation
He whipped out his weener and issued hydration
He grinned as he offered a brief explanation
My name is Joe Biden, for your information