Long Bludgeon Poems
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A monochrome of boho days
segue one another surreptitiously.
Endless pantomimes of idle chatter flutter by.
Cantilever bridge, a one stop halting site for gossip and suspense.
Small talk, bespoke winged creature, Combe of pleuron.
Turin shroud spotter in the mise en scene melting pot.
The spirited stride of pavement strollers prompted by
agenda.
Metatarsals on the march.
Street vendor’s spooky cry with banjo beating busker at his side.
Dirt pan bellow and brittle strum about the
orange alert ahead.
Crowded car park, careening bus, frustrated taxi driver rank and file.
Backstreet Barney or kerfuffle on the lawn.
Swing sign overhead, a pawn in every trending breeze.
Office block malarkey cutting capers for the press.
New age ante-fix, the cover tile for corruption.
Whistle blowing wag inside the
city centre fault line.
Brass neck
reservoir of hoodwink high and low.
Harassed mother, barefoot beggar
nervously extends her rusted tin.
Guilt edge coin as bandage to our shoddy scruple.
Bag lady on the fringe of some haute couture complex.
Stasi-like security whose bluff veneer belies an inner
bludgeon.
Crouton salad diner has his finger on the pulse but not his pulse rate!
Tycoon in transition with an open brief!
Teflon tyrant
back to the future.
Ambulance chaser …. legal eagle…..with fortune in misfortune their calling card .
To the limit and beyond like an offshore Ansbacher.
Noonday bell
interloper at the scuttlebutt tavern.
Seconds out,
moments out,
hours in a hari kari haze.
Sensei’s of the left filling void with vacuum.
Laboured diatribe against dynasty, trite slogans, empty rhetoric, mannah from heaven?
All this from the cadres of social despotism!
Passage, the
pollinating insect of aroha.
Behind the rhythm of the grind a broad leaf grain of hope may sprout.
Green shoots of bounty.
Latent sidewalk bloomer.
Blossom by default or tender impulse
We tried to hide and could have died.
But we only heard the faint cry
Of the wind whistling aloud
As the devastation passes by.
From the darkness, we heard cries,
weeping voices of the night storm
Crashing through invisible barriers
That head the names of our heroes.
The storm uprooted old trees.
Bludgeon tool unable to rule.
Fearful plow into the houses.
Crumpling like an ancient scrawl
Night storm is an ancient journeyman,
Come on a visit to the isles each year.
To enact revenge on the jealous land
The divulged appetite has no fear.
The hunted died, and the storm's gone.
an evil force, crawl back into its silent shell
Planning a surprise for the next horizon
With whispers of awakening hell.
Hook, reel in, gaff and bludgeon;
no need to hurry it’s only a fish,
but I wonder
does that little brain
in that big head, think?
Does it know this gagging sky
as its gills
franticly suck in an invisible death,
does it acknowledge
the burning rays of the sun
as it scorches its glittering scales?
Does this still wriggling fish
discern or calculate
the amount of drowning air
it can withstand
as it is hauled into a choking death?
Can I afford
to think upon it, empathize.
Consider that we once
came out of the water,
should I measure my own pain
the way this fish might
while I fish for an excuse
and indefinitely, and with much pleasure
cast another line?
They say you don’t need one for self-defense,
that this no longer is the ‘Wild West,’
and we should leave such things to the police,
just sit and wait for them, that would be best.
But when seconds count, sitting and waiting
will leave a person well and truly screwed,
and oh, by the way, the courts say that they
have no obligation to protect you.
Some would rather you die then fire back,
they had so little respect for the one
you’ve a natural right to defend your life,
so don’t you ever give up your guns.
They say don’t worry about your family,
it is no longer your job to protect them,
delegate that duty off to the state,
which you should know is your greatest of friends.
And though that friend might not be there the night
you have to watch your own daughter be raped,
it’s better you don’t kill that ‘troubled soul,’
it’s much more ‘moral’ to let him escape.
They would explain away his felony,
use his sad upbringing as a bludgeon,
only you can defend those close to you,
so for God’s sake, don’t give up your guns.
They say you will never need such weapons
just to go out into the woods for deer,
as if the threat of antlered cervids is
the type of threat that free people should fear.
They expect us to forget the lessons
learned back in seventeen seventy-six;
that the state is necessary evil,
and can become too corrupt to be fixed.
Though the mere thought of such a circumstance
does not strike any sane person as fun,
the option must always be in our hands,
so we can’t ever give up our guns.
They will laugh and say in the modern day
that such notions no longer will work,
militaries have become too advanced,
it’s big machines that will cause all the hurt.
But I think of Vietnam and Iraq,
the great trouble that 'mere' guns did cause,
and those were people united for evil,
not for liberty and the rule of law.
Imagine what true patriots can do,
and the British, they have seen it done,
we must always be armed and ready,
so you can never give up your guns...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
Awe & shock bowlers in the dock our warlock & glock “the judge”
Rapscallion and stallion wrangling with dangling golden medallion
Facing the pacing battalion on our latest sinking Caribbean galleon
Our burly oracle with each follicle so curly a rock that won't budge
In that 90’s dungeon Robin our classy curmudgeon brassy bludgeon
Truncheon fine dining on a hurly burly Courtenay & Curtly luncheon
Calms alarms and qualms delivers us from harm with stoic heroic psalms
Call to arms more like baobabs than palms those offside charms “the Judge”
Speedsters scary & lairy others wary prime time for our hairy chest fairy
Robin our pace Pontiff willow ace not a whiff or a riff or sniff of what if
Believers in his jobbing levers will go biff in any tiff that's the pith of Smith
Not just a county squire but quite possibly the ultimate Hampshire Sire
Calling card hit it so hard earned the fable label of both BATman & Robin
Hall of fame name can’t smudge hats doff to a complete one off “the Judge”
We learn to skip before we run,
We learn to crawl before we walk.
We often look before we leap
But rarely think before we talk.
Words are our friends and should be cherished as such,
But too many, it seems, don't seem to care very much.
I have pity on poor defenseless words
When we batter, and bludgeon,
And pummel, and trounce them,
And feel especially bad
When I abuse, or misuse,
Or misspell, or mispronounce them*.
*Author's note and disclaimer: Many of you, dear readers, are well aware that in certain of my pieces, I do these things with a certain degree of frequency, but when I do, I claim poetic license and/or plead the Ogden Nash Amendment, which is: My muse made me do it.
Is it wierd how my scars ache when I think of her (unbled blades, tap of streaming tears)
Is it odd how I wish to kick, stab, bludgeon her (the dog hung within the gallows, mellow flesh hung low)
Is it wierd how I cherish my lacking ability to see her (as a true mother, was she?)
Is it wierd how I wished she simply died, (dead, dead, a dog borne to death)
Because its not (I know its not, its not, its not)
She is nothing (to me, to everyone, she never was)
Absolutely nothing, when I truly think of her (the torrent of clotted blood, free)
How I wish she'd drown within my mindless plain of unshed tears (searing tears bathed within my bath)
I wish I punched her myself (i did, i swear i did...)
Pounced with the same ferocity as my feline counterpart (slashes upon the very fearful fleshy wrist)
I wish she were dead (by my own hand, claws fail to retract)
perhaps one day the blood I mercilessly shed (the bitter taste of gall, black, hopeless)
Shall bulge and clot upon my leg (blood baring blood, eyes unseen to the eye)
And state her name (the fear of flesh)
Transform into her mane (the bane of bone)
As it were I who slashed every letter... (blood borne blood)
Is it wierd that I find solace in these wounds? (blade and bath)
Within the hurt of her (a bath bathed within blood)
I think not, because it is not, it never was.
(so I shall say goodbye)
"When your down and out you need some Joe Bonamassa."
Quote by _ Constance
His music is raunchy and moody, his voice raspy yet smooth. If I close my
eyes I am in a rundown bar in the middle of nowhere down and out on luck.
His name is Joe Leonard Bonamassa, an American born blues rock guitarist, singer and songwriter. Born in 1977, he grew up in Utica, New York, USA.
His parents Len and Delia were avid blues music fans and owned a music
store and this is where Joe got his love for guitars. He started playing guitar
at four years old. At twelve he was playing with B.B. King and has played
with many notable artists. He has fifteen solo albums, and eleven of them
have reached No.1 on the Billboard Blues Chart. He has been nominated for
three Grammy Awards. He has his own record label called Keeping Blues
Alive Records where he supports blues musicians and their music.
Something interesting about Joe is his vast collection of guitars and amps,
four hundred or more. Most are vintage. He has been buying them all his
life. A room in his home is called the Bona-seum ! He loves his Fender
Telecaster that he nicknamed Bludgeon. But, there is another rare and
valuable guitar that he uses in concerts, a 1958 Gibson, Flying V, he calls
Amos after the original owner Amos Arthur. I love this man, his music, his
message. He can play the blues for me anytime. He keeps his private life
private, I like that about him !
random lyrics from
Mind's Eye
Joe Bonamassa
help I'm going down
need someone
to slow the spiral down
reach up, dig deeper
I'm haunted by memories
you can'nt see
_____________________
May 07, 2023
Poetry/Bio/Joe Bonamassa - Blues Guitarist
Copyright Protected, ID 05-1545-662-07
All Rights Reservered, 2023, Constance La France
Written for the Premiere contest, Joe Bonamassa Inspiration
sponsor, Robert James Liquori, Judged 05/07/2023
First Place
Written: November 06, 2023
___________________________________________
A swarm of herring gulls amassed
Nexus Nautilus nabbed by zealous winds,
whitening the black soil
we hold spears in our hands.
blood-stained thorns on the side
sullen squawks a skirmishing sporophyte,
dubious, grayish rumors must be buried
drave in a drizzle, drape to deities.
Installation of sentry fences
Sisyphean stones
anchor down using seal and string
flaws in the swings used by blacksmiths
Unborn burning bullion bludgeon
Savage sunless swords embryonic
Edgeless, with no reflections.
Each peak over the Edenic Steppes is sprayed,
using torn paper candles as bait
climbing scaffolds with lumber rungs
pounding of leather-heavy boots
darkened, grimacing features
Flocks failing feathers or flight.
Our hold slips on windswept
Windswept updrafts carry us away
as offspring of the royal family.
Marx and Spencer
Were I to tell you what I think of Spencer
(the middle-manager, without the “man”,
and vilest cockroach since the world began),
my poem would incense the meekest censor.
But when our hands in insurrection join,
we arm ourselves to take back what is ours,
red banners streaming from the highest towers,
my first clip’s going straight in Spencer’s groin.
Don’t tell me that we’re going to do it clean,
that revolution’s flawed unless it’s surgical.
Old Shakespeare knew (and why not get liturgical?)
let slip the dogs, you get mujahideen.
Drag Spencer out and bludgeon him to death.
Revenge, and not reform? I’ve seen Macbeth.