Long Boney Poems
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I reach for my phone.
All I get is the tone.
I have found the first bone, out here.
I feel something, but not fear.
As if I’m an explorer.
While taking this detour.
Fog is settling.
In the sand, I see a gold ring.
Instead of grabbing it quick-
I poke it with a stick.
A finger was hiding in the sand.
I should have known not to touch this gold band.
The rest of the skeleton starts to shake.
I want to hide from this earthquake.
But there is nothing but a dead tree.
On this beach that is silent, without even a buzzing bee.
That fog that I had just feared-
Is lifting to reveal something scary and weird.
On this beach, the water is dirty.
My legs carry me there, although they are not sturdy.
I might float out to sea.
Or I might turn into a log from a tree.
I think I see where the bones come from.
Covered in beach scum.
Maybe I am next to become,
A boney finger and thumb.
I send a prayer for the next person to appear.
On this beach, it is sandy with fear.
Maybe they will find me?
Or maybe I am part of the sea.
I am wearing a necklace that is gold.
As I become a part of this beach, untold.
Burning snow falls quietly on
cold rusted wire and brittle bone.
An ancient creature looks to the horizon
feeling is body built of razor wire and old bones, cold,
a delicate tone transmits from on far...
Wraiths walking in the burning
snows depths, as it falls, it drifts...
In eyes buried burning bright,
across this delicate armature
of wire and bone skeletal hands clutch.
Bloody foot falls leaving no footprints,
upon the burning snow lies cinders of stars.
Transversing transcending reflecting
in a vast landscape of desolation.
While ash gray clouds drift
on oceans of spirits they race,
undulate flow to rhythms eternal.
In frustration and rage as brittle fingers trace,
each a wreckage of eons past
like broken fine china ruined
in department malls,
dead cars and neon bars.
Alone in shopping marts
eyes of the damned...
Faces blistering burning bright
listening to black concertos
in dead concert halls as eons fall.
Someone something ethereally framed
by elections runs glistening bright...
A silhouetted figure in distance thunderstorms,
lightning wreaths it fragile face
it walks among the ruins
the wreckage of rage
in ancient graves,
Insane dominions blaze...
A boney fingers trace
secretly a wooden oblong box
full of oblivion and infinite,
feel the burnt primordial clock,
a face still cracked bold but
keeps the time as death comes
as memory of all is lost.
As mortality is crucified
on wire and bone a thin
delicate in tone resonates in grace.
Walking still onward in the burning snow
feeling the drifting imagery,
cascading across its face,
an armature of wire and bone
walking forever in foot falls
of time as it falls apart sublime.
In the darkening cityscape
lightning filigree fragile and frets.
Alone on horizons distance edge
lingers an oblique and obsolete monstrosity
it drifts in the burning snow
forever alone in the forever more...
!51+alabaster
Bender Biscuit
Jab_rightcross
Gut Wrench-
Fleeing the hold.
ah-ooh
ah-ooh
chopin
reversed
big chopin
told me
there it is!
referre contact
stay out of the action
there the bell
the outside ref made the call!
we wanna see the other camera angle
the
Big Kualwhonah
looks to be
our winna!
Aint to many
satisfied fans here
according to these boo's
let go to the ringannoucer
for the decision
" i wish That Gal
from Kentuckey was her"
hold my saddle
trim my toenails
ye Hah! a snapping whip!
oh hardy, the soup
thick and meaty!
Dip my bread in the bowl!
Skim off the grease< I'm hungry"
"Boney better get to the table first"
"Aint no tip
cause it steaks in here !"
beneath circling clouds
in the depths of the ocean
with little nearby
lies a speck of an island
of but thirty-five square miles
green mountain rising
from which hot lava once flowed
most toward the west
where the people live today
in modest isolation
not quite as busy
as during the Falkland War
a remote haven
for whale and turtle watchers
and those not easily bored
the Two Boats village
an airfield called Wideawake
the days are long past
when lookouts stood chilly watch
so 'Lil Boney' wasn't freed
amid the high seas
and the bluest of waters
a little island
not so much as forgotten
as never really known
There was an eerie feeling that represented a full moon.
Is it time? The skeleton asked his bunkmates, or is it too soon?
Sure, one replied. Let’s show them that dead is not dead.
They climbed out of their sleeping quarters, their earthy black bed.
October for sure, but is it Halloween? One of the skeletons asked.
The old wise one nodded, but he did not reply. Deep in his flask.
What are you drinking? One of the other boney ones queried.
He shook his fist at him, full of temper. A tiny vole scurried.
Halloween moon, a ghoul who had stopped by quietly said.
He was standing next to Dracula’s son, Draco B. Ted.
Let’s give the humans some howling, scare them into a mood.
Okay, agreed the wise one, but then can we get some food?
Imagine waiting for something or maybe it’s someone. Someone you look for in everyone you pass by but not someone that is easy to find. Everytime you pass by these people you look at their feet first, see what kind of shoes they have on. Destroyed black sneakers that are stained darker with red. Then you move up to their ankles, boney and sticking out like balls of compressed dirt, filled with worms and insects on the inside. Your gaze moves up to their knobby bruised knees that look like perhaps they’ve been painted on with watercolors. Next your eyes follow upwards to their thighs. You already know that they say it’s just their cat. Past their skirt you get up to their short-cut top, their ribs sticking out from their skin, looking like they’re trying to rip through to be free. You move your eyes up to their scarf wrapped around their neck hiding the bruises from their so-called lovers. Finally you reach up to their face. So sweet yet such a saddened look going across it. Pale white skin with tints of blue from the veins trying to shine through. Yellow and brown eyelids like dying sunflowers in a sad vase left behind and forgotten in a dark room with the blinds shut tight. Eyes that look like drops of golden honey or maybe even sap from a maple tree dripped into them, giving them the somewhat ‘life’ that they long to have. Their nose, glazed with hints of red around the openings from being wiped so many times to get away the excess ‘powders’ that make them feel again what they believe to be called joy and happiness. Lips redder than a blood moon that occurs only twice a year, peeling apart from the hours upon hours of picking and ripping apart with their teeth. Lastly your eyes wander up to their thinning hair which was once before very lucious and thick. Your eyes return to theirs as the passing is almost finished. You can see the worry in their eyes slowly go away a little bit as they find comfort in a stranger's eyes, yours. You smile and they return the expression back. You look back down at their mouth when they smile, their decaying teeth slightly showing right before their mouth goes right back shut to its distressed resting position. After you two pass all the way you start to wonder, do other people do the same? Do other people observe others as you do with everyone, looking for that person in someone else that you forever will long to be with?
Evening mimics the streetchildren
thrusting out and down with fright.
Predators heave along the bend
solid as a rock, bodies streaming brawn and muscle,
how cruel! Their red eyes shoot like arrows.
The young sceams and parries.
Laughter makes it way on dirt roads
a battle is won, the rattling clatter
of boney skins, of feet's hooves
tearing up the hard soll.
Older women whio a cry
veiled in old lace, their breath
spoied with the acid of midnight.
I will not take this!
Tell the air of freedom to come,
for I do not want to see the terror
of a nect generation on filth.
I will not take this!
The hours come wide open.
Flag of clouds rush on
and the heart rings of dreams
where my hut embraces their pain.
--- I try to help make this world a better one
by giving my time to abused children
as a Church volunteer.
--- Contest on Words of Wisdom
I'm haunted by this image of someone
With a smile that lights up the room
Colourful teeth that are oh so enticing
Often seen riding a broom
Legs with knees meet in the middle
Big footsies the size of canoes
Hair like a mass of squirmy worms
Breath smelling a lot like pooh
Gangly arms hanging down to her knees
Eyes that look in a different directions
Gnarly fingers so bent and boney
Quite a sight sure gets your attention
Forgive me for running off at the mouth
T'was an alarming vision I saw
A nightmare to end all nightmares for sure
A vision of my dear mother-in-law!
Timmy Jimmy O'Blimey was a boy who loved Christmas and joyful happy faces
So when he saw an old man living on the street with nothing to eat, he felt sad
Though small of frame his carousel mind was gigantically full of good thoughts for his next of kin. He had to do something to help Dippity Do man with sticky hands find a home for the Holidays and he knew, just what to do.
Inside the pantry he found oodles of bags of peppermint chocolates from mom's private stash. He filled his back pack and returned to the street to find his Project.
Leaving a trail of chocolates behind he kept walking "there is more where that came from" The old man frail and boney started walking behind the young boy.
Into a shower he was shoved while Tim ran to his fathers room and picked
an old suit that had been discarded in the back of the closet.
Holding hands they came into the dining room spiffed up. One had a toothy smile and the other was a toothless vision of grace under fire.
"Meet Uncle Bob," Timmy said, then sat him down at the head of the table.
Dad scratched his head thinking "who the hell is this" mom knitted her brows
" dam I forgot the mashed potatoes "
Diner was sweet, Uncle Bob's eyes were like two bright copper pennies of tinseled light. Between mouthfuls of food Uncle Bob leaned over to Tim and whispered, " By the way son, its Uncle Steve." but then he realized his name was of no concern to this nice family. Dad picked up the carving knife and quietly began to cleave the turkey.
No woman ever can be what he dreams
Nor can such give comfort on the road.
Yet every night he plots and thinks and schemes.
And rarely does he ever go abroad.
No food he eats will satisfy his tongue.
The best wine is as naught to mother’s milk.
He grumbles and will not admit to wrong.
I ‘ve known more men than him of this same ilk.
No bed can be the right one for his sleep.
No sheets and pillows suit his wary skin.
He often has made gentle maidens weep
Crying out they’are fat or boney thin.’
Beware the man who never can adapt
For in own lone wishes he is trapped