Long Bleeping Poems
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A giant jellyfish was born
emitted from a neutron star
once on a whilom cosmic morn
amidst the stellar seas afar.
With tentacles from arcing crest,
medusa-like it hangs on high
cloudscaped with tendrils manifest
in astral sky of Gemini.
Exploding supernova yore—
whose light reached Earth so long ago
that last ice age was still at fore
and ocean levels then were low
by dint of all the ice around
compared to what they are today,
when history was oral bound
though art in caves was on display—
created nebula we see
dubbed ‘jellyfish’, made of debris
from remnant IC Four Four Three,
five thousand light-years from our spree
upon this tiny whirling world
of Man’s vaingloried destiny,
short-lived mid solar time unfurled,
in what’s to be or not to be.
If traveling at speed of light
it very well might take about
three hundred years of light-wave flight
to go across its width throughout.
The jellyfish on planet here
are oldest multi-organ group
of animals, found far and near
free-swimming often in a troop
that ocean currents might amass
together, and there is a class
immortal seeming, which can pass,
to prior stage, when foes harass.
In general, umbrella-shaped,
these creatures’ bells have trailing limbs
with stinging cells around them draped
to injure one who too close swims.
Pelagic animals, they dwell
in seas and oceans everywhere,
not all with venom to expel,
plus special senses; further they’re
adept at adaptation’s chain,
with range fantastic; by the way,
they manage well without a brain.
Could we learn from their résumé?
But back to Jellyfish in space,
a pulsar may have formed in blast,
or neutron star at rapid pace
which first burst inward, spinning fast.
The outer layers which caved in
bounced outward in that stellar scheme
of supernova with its spin
begetting radiation beam
that’s sweeping by like lighthouse ray,
perchance a beaconed message from
some bygone beings gone astray
in bleeping beats of warning drum.
Meanwhile on Earth we’re but a guest
to Mother Nature’s knowing eyes
in Goldilocks rare orbit blessed.
How sad that life Man fails to prize!
~ Harley White
* * * * * * * *
Some sources of inspiration were the following…
Article and image ~ What Spawned the Jellyfish Nebula?
As I tried to pull her along with me and our eyes started adjusting to the darkness,
we realized that she was not suffering from some sort of paralysis. Instead, a pair
of large harry hands protruded through the sidewalk and were each wrapped
around one of her ankles.
I am not sure why, but I unzipped my pants and started to urinate on the hands.
“What are you doing”, cried my girlfriend, full of fear.
“Our urine is like acid on their skins”, I answered, not really sure how I knew this.
She stared at me with a quizzical look on her face as if she, too, was afraid to ask
how I knew that – fearful of what my answer might be.
As the skin burned off the large hands, my girlfriend was able to step free and we
started running down the darkened city street.
Off in the distance was a barely perceivable blinking red light marking the
destination I was heading for. Even though it felt like we were running in place and
in slow motion, the red light grew larger and larger with each lethargic step.
Finally, we reached our destination. It looked like a domed baseball stadium
hovering five feet off the ground. I approached a door-like structure and
yelled, “Permission to enter the ship” – only the sounds that came out of my mouth
were strange bleeps and blips.
“No humans allowed”, boomed from the spaceship in the same bleeping language
that I had just used.
“It’s okay – she’s with me”, I responded. My girlfriend took a step back, stared at
me with terror in her eyes – eyes that then rolled back as she started to fall in a
faint.
Just in time, I stepped toward her and grabbed her before she crashed onto the
ground. Her weight and momentum took me down with her in a soft landing with
me cushioning her fall.
It was then that I awoke to find my girlfriend on top of me having somehow aroused
me enough to be pleasuring her in my sleep.
"Oh, you feel so good", she moaned ...only, it came out in bleeps and blips.
Spud's New Car, a tribute to my ever so lovely hamster Spud . . .
SPUD’S NEW CAR
My hammy has hit the wheel, but; doesn't seem to be getting very far
So I thought for Crimbo; I would buy him a new, battery-operated car
First, he gave it the eye-ball; and then he gave it a few indignant sniffs
Next thing he was running round in it; even asked me, if I wanted a lift
O’ for the life of Riley he was just having himself a right old flamin’ ball
Then he decides that he would give all of his other hammy mates a call
Wow smart motor Spud; what has happened did you lad win the pools
As all the other little hammy’s lined up; and, over his new car did drool
It's a Crimbo pressie off me Mammy says Spud; cheered me up no end
Now my bleeping of the car horn is silently driving her round the bend
The other little hammy’s then jumped in the car, each taking it in turns
Revving up the motor; making all the tyres squeal; and, in turn so burn
A Grand motor you have got there Spud; you must ever, so very proud
Aye, said Spud; as yet again, he bleeped his horn, as so very extra loud
Then it was gotta to go lads; for there is something special I have to do
Spud waved his good-byes; and, it was off in his brand new car, he flew
It was down to the local shops for some flowers and some sesame cake
Just like the ones, his Mommy; that just for him used to make and bake
Then Spud; raced back home again, for Mom he did not want to be late
Just to find his beloved Mommy; waiting just for him at the garden gate
It was a fabulous Crimbo really; and, Spud truly loved his brand new car
Mommy; got her thank-you flowers, and, Spud is now away, driving afar
"God Bless His Little Heart" Mom x x x
Indiana <--- Spuds proud Mom . . . : )
It had been a long night, an hour drive just to be with my sister. One must stay in touch with family; it’s the right thing to do. I don't even know what movie we saw. Here she was again in all her glory whining, and whimpering, about her conditions. Confined space is the wrong place to be with someone bi-polar. Sometimes, I think the family should mark her eruptions on a calendar, maybe there’s a pattern? She was hungry; her blood sugar was low; hurry, get her home!
“Geez Sis, if my life depended on carrying peanuts, I'd make damn sure I had them with me!” I my replied.
the sleet fell
through the headlight beams:
fog inside
“You bleeping self-centered witch!” Her reply.
And on and on, enumerating all my faults at the top of her lungs. Her face was darting back and forth across the stick shift like a viper. The weather was so bad, and her screaming so loud; I almost drove us up a telephone pole. The back road to her house was serpentine through a pinewood, and over narrow, slick, bridges. Well, about fifteen minutes into my dissection, I burst a gut.
“You need to have some control. Your diet is horrible. I wish you could see yourself eating. Your plate might as well be a trough.” There now I’ve gone and done it, I thought to myself. The little devil in me was all smiles. When we pulled into the driveway; she leapt out.
the car door
slams rattling the glass:
eyes wet as rain glass
It only felt good for a moment. It was true; she did deserve the comment. She’d felt free to butcher me, but, it was wrong to try to hurt her. The momentary release, which felt so good, has given us months of anguish.
Published in Dead Snakes Magazine Winter 2014
It’s all of three feet long, in order it is not,
And then there’s all the other stuff she’s probably forgot,
The first thing on the list, it simply just says, ‘beans’,
Is that broad beans, baked beans, whatever does she mean?
Next is the marmalade, there’s a hundred in the store,
And if I get it wrong she’ll say, ‘it’s the one I had before!!’
There goes another ping, it’s the fifth message to date,
‘Don’t forget the milk’ it reads, ‘if you can accommodate?’
Next it is the bread - brown and white and crust,
With a helpful little note saying, ‘the thickness I’m not fussed!’
But the note that takes the biscuit states, ‘get something for tea!’
Now is that for the both of us or possibly just me?
Course the final item on the list takes me back to the first aisle,
It’s another lengthy trip, so far I’ve clocked a mile.
I reach the checkout desk and there goes another ping,
It says ‘tomato sauce, oxo cubes and a pack of chicken wings.’
The checkout girl senses, my frustration and dismay,
By honestly enquiring, if I’m having a good day,
But I look at all the stuff she is bleeping at the till
And wonder how, with three bags, I’ll ever fit it in!
At home comes the inquest of each item I have bought,
And all items not listed, I’m well and truly caught!
The marmalade is wrong, the butter isn’t light,
But think I’ve done quite well as it’s fifty percent right!
My Favorite Things comes to mind...
a random assortment, a jumble of words
a quotient of portions, quotidian served
quixotic strivings of the great deca-dense
obscured in meaning, eschewing all sense
visions and nightmares and hallucinations
erudite arguments, odd fascinations
old geezers fondling memories of things
most folk would not to mixed company bring
inchoate ramblings of damaged young minds
bubbled through water and cardboard box wine
audible groans from the web server host
these are the ones make me giggle the most
shouting in vacuums, a riotous void
pontificating, or mildly annoyed
grieving, believing, or weaving a string
virtuous outburst that don’t do a thing
rants about orange man and all his mean tweets
and, yes, “Let’s go, Brandon” to make things complete
guns, poo, abortion, yes, all are discussed
sometimes the thin-skinned bail out in disgust
side by side, posting, the sage and the fool
the wise in their youth and those starting to drool
bleeping our excrement down on the page
somehow it all seems to soften the rage
when the bard shouts
when the muse screams
‘bout covid or Vlad
we’re at a computer
with just poo to fling
and that makes me laugh a tad
HEART
My doctor diagnosed a heart murmur
“My heart does not murmur!” I said
My heart shouts for the lives of five kids,
for the joy of real love, for the turning of
this earth
The voice of my heart has a rhythm that
must be heard because the size of my heart
was long hidden from view, bright as it was,
was eclipsed by a moon both mobile and dark
But the sound of my heart surrounded that moon,
reached around to the world, gave horizons
of hope still visible today
The sound of my heart is a drummer in prayer,
a thumping for the wonder of on-going life and
a rhythm for healing the fissures of death, distrust
and discord
Their machines told the tale of bleeping and blips,
of pressure and valves and contracting walls, and
on the monitor screen I saw my heart working,
the mathematics of its rhythm, the symmetry of its
motion and the specialists and I, we agreed on a Truth:
My heart does NOT murmur! There is no susurration,
no slurring of beats
It howls and roars
It barks and it sings
And like the pulsating sun,
it is a long-session drummer,
infinite, relentless, pounding
without echo, and its savage
intensity is aimed right at you!
I’m still here, y’all!
And I love you like crazy!
Emanuel Carter
He stands upon the salty,slippery deck,
Yelling yaargh matey ,
with a halfhearted pirate drawl.
He's not to impressed with himself,
not an eyepatch or wooden leg,
not even a hooked claw.
The parrot on his shoulder,
is a wannabee,
a sparrow that fell from the Crowsnest,
from high up above.
It has no quips ,or spikes,
or pirate quotes,
just nesting on his shoulder
with birdly kind of love.
Aye captain the crew responds,
snapping to their chores.
Tend the wheel ,lash the mainsail,
take the soundings
less we hit a reef.
The sea going life is not for every man,
walking the plank,storms and rickets.
Crabs in your knickers ,
really give you grief.
Aah but when the wind fills the sails to bursting,
yards of canvas strain to be free.
And the ropes play ,sea going music
of a tension melody.
A song that captures
every young buccaneers heart ,
and soul and fancy.
For the music of the wanderers life,
an endless expanse of blue,
bravehearts and fearless men find,
quite a bit too chancy.
Black Beard,Yellow Beard,
the famous Captain Blood,
were all fearless pirates of their day.
He truly knows that he can be,
a great one too.
If he could ever find that bleeping map,
and escape this landlocked bay.
W T F
Let’s imagine somebody
naive as they can be.
What might they imagine when
WTF they see?
For someone on a diet
could it mean “Withhold the Fat?”
“Wash the Fridge” perhaps?
My mom would think of that!
A girl into clothing could suppose
WTF means “Wear Trendy Fashion.”
“Wear Tight Footwear” no one though
could think and have compassion.
“Wash Tired Feet” might someone think?
Or “Warm the Feet” after time in snow?
“Wrap the Fracture.” Is that done?
I’m not sure that I know!
“Warm the Furnace”? That sounds lame.
“Woo The Folks” could be
a slogan for politicians
who can’t get to ME!
“Whack the Fiend.” I like that.
And “Whack the Fibber,” but
“What‘s the fuss?” sounds better.
than “Walk the Feline”. . . . What?
“Whip the Flesh” works for sadists.
Could “Wave the Fists” sound cool?
I like “Welcome Tiny Folks”
for a nursery school.
Just a few more. How about
“Wake the Family”?
Watch the Fuel” also works
in this economy.
Finally, when I think
of N/A’s from a judge,
if I feel my poem is really good,
I murmur “What the (bleeping bleeping) Fudge.”
What???...
To get someone to read my poems… Contests there must be.
They must be bleeping nuts thinking I can follow all those cockeyed rules.
Out of a zillion types of poems they always pick the weirdest ones.
Allowed only 16 lines… I found I stopped at ninety-one.
And for a topic they want a bird throwing glitter from a tree.
How about I spank them as I put them across my knee!!!
And why must I name it… as they told me? Where’s that for creativity?
Then they want a special comment added in the poem…
I would rather not add plagiarism… I’d rather call it my own.
But, you know, I am so very needy that I’ll do whatever they want.
Well… I’ll do, maybe one or two… of the things they want.
I know this makes it harder to judge the poems that are found therein.
But to me a poem… is a funny bent on my crazy whim.
Then suddenly, Lord Have Mercy… my poem didn’t win.
But I’m happy as punch for even with their strained smile…
I’m sure they read one of my poems yet again. :)
(Meant only for fun) I'm not really complaining. Just having fun.