Long Belying Poems
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It was said of old, 'Truth lies open to all', but today
perception is all; no one is perfect but perception
can cure all blemishes, avoiding the fate of being hero
to zero that brittle celebrity promises in life, in posterity.
What a vicar would be shocked to hear, to see, as though
these shock jocks of life and death are maiden aunts who
have never lived: after their demise what a media shock,
what a surprise that these puritans had a love life being
charitable on the sly, belying their dark clothed strictures.
Prim and proper Betjeman's Fifties pose metamorphosed
into a lamentation that he wished that he had more sex
unlike Greeneland's adventurist aunt who had no need to
fabled in the Sixties: our time for ever and always for everyone.
Making our moral dilemmas not confusing morality
with law, hating injustice but being unjust by being
self-righteous becoming our own judge-pentinents
before the fear of ourselves more than this wicked wide world
of wonders defying cynicism by imbedding in us scepticism;
not just of the hypocrtical red- tops that only rarely have a
kernel of truth besmirched by lawyers some of whom not
not having their chopped heads off are a sure defence
of the powerless and true. Even when perception is as
broadminded as the times while being full of righteous
outrage if time fast forwards the past obeying a new
morality old, dressed in new garb.
Who riots? Who occupies? Who wins? Who loses?
We see darkly as we shadow the mote in our
own eye until we can see we are all in this together whether
we are together or not; when hidden charity characterises
us in not in righteous mode in nor complacent commode,
so that one day, for all living on this oblique spheroid,
we can all truly say that, 'Truth lies open to all', on the good Earth.
GTF
Wizened skin like burnished leather
Thin, grey and long, disheveled hair
Clear, sharp blue eyes that seem to stare
Through sun scorched face, alert, aware
A ‘lived-In’ face that’s so expressive
Tales he tells read like a missive
His arms and hands he flails about
To all he jests, he seems to shout
Belying age with youthful vigour
He starts his day with seeming rigour
But, easy going, he always jokes
With folk at whom, light fun, he pokes
He’s up each morning before the dawn
Striding, planning, never forlorn
Before sunrise you’ll hear with luck
His famous catch-phrase, “Get Tae F***!”
He’s worked on rigs for oh, so long
With everyone he gets along
On the “fine old lady” Stena Clyde
No deference – ALL he does deride
From owner, manager and high paid “suits”
To lowly boys who clean the boots
The tone the same, The grin, the look,
The cheeky laugh, the “Get Tae F***!”
Sub zero frost or tropical heat
His ardour you will find hard to beat
Old habits die hard they say
Not his – he does them anyway!
Does a place exist he’s never been?
That has a port that’s never seen
This tall slim figure filled with pluck
Or heard his raucous, “Get Tae F***!”
They say he’s always been a sailor
From Antarctic wastes upon an ancient whaler
15 years old in the South Atlantic
A hardy life, forget romantic!
Steam driven ships before motor’s advent
He sailed near and far. Came and went.
A story true with each port of call
His audience he holds in thrall
But all through this, both feet aground
Though invitations still abound
To high profile golf tournaments
The best hospitality at these events
He mixes with the best of them
The rich and famous golfing men
Yet on the course when he mis-hits his ball
Not “fore” but G.T.F. to all
And so it seems his time has come
To rest upon his laurels some
He’ll sure be missed – God Speed, Good Luck
It’s been a pleasure Jimmy, “Get Tae F***!”
No dismissive snort from any here
From us, a greeting, a hearty cheer
Received with grace, a smile - a look.
You grin then tell us, “Get Tae F***!”
Historically accurate, narrative poem
27 November 1868, on the banks of the Washita River
Dawn’s peaceful first light streaks the eastern skies,
belying the horror of a marauding force of horses and men,
silently stealing over new fallen snow preparing
to deliver a fateful blow to the Cheyenne camp below.
The silence is broken when bugles sound the charge
over frozen ground, against a sleeping village that
having complied with every previous unjust demand
thought themselves safe from Custer’s command, deployed
in three columns according to plan, to charge from the west
and the village front, while Maj. Elliot’s column blocked
escape to the east. With the Washita river to their back,
there was no place for chief Black Kettle and his peaceful
band to escape the attack. Braves, women and children, it
made no difference, no preference was shown or quarter
given, most were slaughtered while their lodges burned,
though soon against other creatures the killing would be turned.
Black Kettle reached the river but lost his life while attempting
to cross over with his wife. The lucky few that did survive the
bloody strife and fled across the river to the ridge beyond,
below which their pony herd grazed, soon were filled with
dread and fully amazed when at Custer’s command the entire
herd was shot dead. But by now from other encampments
further east, many Cheyenne Arapaho, and Kiowa braves,
drawn to the sound of guns in the early dawn, were massing
on the hill beyond, milling and buzzing like angry bees, singing
and chanting prayer songs for their dead, filling the soldiers with
a fearful dread. So Custer broke off the engagement and began
to withdraw, but the stage had been set for another day-
June 25, 1876-
when at the Little Big Horne the debt owed for this atrocious
act, Custer and the 7th in full would pay. Meanwhile, as a
prelude it might seem, Maj. Elliot and his column, trapped without
a chance, were wiped out to a man by the Indian’s western advance.
I watched you this morning.
When the cool of the air settled on the morning buds
leaving only the hint of moist stolen kisses
as golden rays slowly caressed the dew from the petals,
I watched you.
Your Cobalt beauty beseeching my gaze
transcending mere mortal allure,
playful and mischievous
the Goblin dancing in your eyes,
as your burning gaze pierced the darkness within me,
I watched you this morning.
Then turning away, as if I weren’t there,
you teased me with your tantalizing flirtatiousness,
pretending that we shared but a passing moment,
a furtive glance, an instance’s breath of longing,
your laughter sighing through the soft petals of your ardent lips.
I watched,
your slow feline body, lithe and graceful,
belying the fragility of your nature.
Your deliberate movements agilely swaying,
then you glanced back at me
with impassioned pout,
as your love lies bleeding in your mournful sorrow.
Through billowing trusses of Amaranth blooms
in the breath of breeze
that gently whispers through the curlicue locks
of your glistening auburn hair,
you comb your long slender fingers,
passing slowly down your neck,
straightening each beautiful tangle.
I watched you
and my desire to hold you overwhelmed me
but you ignored me,
making me want you, yet, more deeply.
I watched you
speaking to everyone but me.
How I wished to be each one of them
and bring this sad loneliness to an end.
I watched you
until at last with a single final look, intentional and lingering,
you brushed slowly past me, smiling sweetly,
as you gazed beneath silken lashes,
like those of Aphrodite, long and mesmerizing,
deep into my longing eyes
through the bottomless pellucid pool of cerulean
from which you enchanted me.
“Smile,” you whispered,
and my lips turned for the shortest of instance,
my grin mirroring the beauty of you.
Tenderly you touched my arm
then walked away,
and I watched.
11/20/2017
I am Sphinx Stone, Sun stationed statue
silent sculptured synoptic, not marble or
granite nor black tourmaline or crystal
timelines cutting cross my magnetic
magenta miracle to dissipate in dry
desert winds, my gaze unmoved
as quizzing quantum queens swirl
around a Blue Planet ascending
Sphinx Stone gathering goddess’ goodness
whilst slippery Sophi-el sprinkle sparkle
Nile evaporations down Sumerian
phantom phœnix photons
here I stare broken-nosed across vast
expansions exiting or entering dual
portal claws hot rooted into Violet Flames
of Mother Earth belying my etheric origins
Did Leo descend from helium heavens
painstakingly perfect from His tumultuous
gut with goblets of gold, goblins gyrating ?
ask you may North African secrets slither
no soiled sounds to simmer in sandy
storms or scarlet sunsets spreading
spells, silence my singular speech to
skulls of pharaohs or peasant alike
I am Sphinx Stone, my silhouette
signposted in simple or significant sigils
Saturn’s starlit sighs bypass not my
knowing aloof yet vacant stare which
agelessly gather stories of aeons
imprinting dreams of God into manifest
luminosity becoming your words on lion
bones or this ephemeral page
Sphinx Stone I see sabian riddled profiles
making prolific progress patterns filled
with steely grit, come now release
agitated ages of bygone bitters to
prick or paddle dimensions where
appled anemones sing my stare into song to
swallow swiftly sweetly slivers of sanctities
I remain Sphinx Stone stable
unsullied forevermore
You chance upon her
in the far reaches of the backyard
a place you never go
and there she trembles a tiny tiger in a blurred world
secreted in shadows below blackthorn shrubs
faint mews draw you closer
the power of her vulnerability
fills your veins with a pulse rising
brimming you with a nectar needed
like a dry stream bed restored by remedy rains
how helpless she is with eyes just opened
her eyes like skylights —translucent
and filled with new wild blue innocence
neglected yet beautiful
you see the phenomenon of her will to live —
her outsized feistiness
belying such a petite package of need
with teeny needle claws and protests the wisp of a hiss
...and you recall when you felt small and voiceless
born a feral
her mother likely lost to speed-wheels of a car
or snap-jaws of coyotes whose throats float howls
above black tree lines with autumn mist and moon
it will never be known for sure
and you wonder if she wonders
if the sweet-milk-purrs with soft belly fur
will ever return to snuggle her
she’s been cold and alone for far too long
so you gather her in the hug of your hands
curl your chest around her littleness
a shield formed against her loneness
—a long-ago-child abandoned a silent
child lost amid foster care noise is heard—
and you decide not to let Nature take its course
instead you sit with her swaddle her love her
nourish her with eye dropper milk—
embers linger in brick-warm-hearth
as you heal the orphan within
Half solid half softened whence the moon sheds saturninity down to a boudoir maudlinly marooned.
Half directly half deviously whether the night wind sneaks to snoop about the notes therefrom crooned.
Half mauve half blue, with empty goblet impaled, whither diffuses the table lamp's dim light.
Half sharp half shaded whether a woman's shapely profile touches up an unshapely night.
White cigar's smoke curling up, red wine's spirits fizzing up, her own
soul sinking into shackled sallowness breath by breath, hard to lift;
Buckets of betrayal bolted down, jorums of jeremiad guzzled down, her own
yearning wafting into the wild dark yonder wisp by wisp, hard to suppress.
Woman in the small hours, hickeys on face faded, attachment in bosom fast; The face, jaded, nowhither to recall belying kiss passed.
Woman in the small hours, redness on lips faded, fret of remnant fizziness fast; The lips, jaded, nowhither to retrace fine wine passed.
.
Beauty's bane, Hebe's drain, the least lasting are tender looks on the wane.
Mood heedless moon hearkening how teardrops are stealthily strumming the crow's feet.
Romance's fane, Penelope's pain; the most indelible, bulky bleakness down memory lane.
Melatonin meagre melancholy massive how muliebrity, murk-muffled, is moaning in affinity to lone lamb's bleat!
Beautiful Destiny
She wraps her arms around him
The warmth of her body
Kissing him passionately
Her lips soften with desire
Disbelieving his presence
Her eyes sparkle with wonder
They hold each other in an ardent embrace
An unspoken longing filling their senses
Neither one has the breath to say a word
He can feel her body acquiesce to his touch
As he witnesses the emergence of a butterfly
Shiny and new, she unfolds herself to him
He is taken by her extraordinary beauty
In awe of her body’s perfection
Accentuated by the beauty of her soul
A goddess fulfilling the fantasy unknown
God’s masterpiece truly complete
The most beautiful form for his eyes to behold
A common desire captures them
They cannot contain the yearning any longer
The careful distance vanishing with every passing moment
He gently releases the feelings that have threatened to spill over
Like a sculptor, he carefully lets his passion take shape
His restraint belying the imminent tide of desire that threatens
His passion matched by hers, she brings her own
As the earth becomes motionless and heaven envies
They wait no longer
The wave of desire washing away the ache
Destiny fulfilled as they come together
The most perfect of unions, love made for the first time
With skilled search plans, maps and watchful scanning eyes,
The packs of hunters and dogs head off into the pine trees,
Scouring the land carefully, as the dogs yelp their cries.
Digging out strange white-brown and black lumps, while on their knees.
Pushing the dogs away as the hunters from the earth they prise.
Beneath the earth, lies this wondrous precious culinary surprise,
A delicacy much cherished, that's more priceless than gold.
Its truffles they're after, lying low in the pine roots there is the prize,
Dogs have been trained to help in the hunt since the days of old.
To sniff about under the trees, for any tell-tale scents that arise.
The truffle unearthed is a strange amorphous, dirty ball.
Belying its splendid aroma and tantalizing taste.
A pile of soil-like lumps pulled from the stumps is the haul.
A harvest, which could so easily be thrown away in haste,
Is this rare delicacy, so much treasured by chefs one and all.
In fancy kitchens everywhere, the magic becomes clear.
From pasta to risotto, sauces and sprinkles, truffles infuse delight,
With masterful hands, the lovely delicate flavors appear
And make every bite a symphony, a culinary trip, a joy-flight.
Savoring the earthy flavor and aroma beloved so dear.
I find it hard to believe the sun is setting
That the noble experiment is in fatal decline,
Just because so many people are forgetting
Descending into what I’d call a piteous whine.
That the noble experiment is in fatal decline
Belying solid foundations of our Constitution
Descending into what I’d call a piteous whine,
Conspiracy theories adding to rank confusion.
Belying solid foundations of our Constitution
With safeguarded freedoms in amendments
Conspiracy theories adding to rank confusion
Bringing to the forefront ridiculous arguments!
With safeguarded freedoms in amendments
And not elevating to power insurrectionists,
Bringing to the forefront ridiculous arguments
To remain stalwart, we need constructionists.
And not elevating to power insurrectionists
How close we came to witnessing a coup
To remain stalwart, we need constructionists
We need strong leaders who know what to do.
How close we came to witnessing a coup
Just because so many people are forgetting,
We need strong leaders who know what to do
I find it hard to believe the sun is setting.
Written July 4, 2022