Long Boney Poems
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(Just for fun, folks - and a nod to Old English)
Wat?!?
No jovial banter? No easy give-and-take of rivalry? Naught there be a good-natur'd ribbing between courteous competitors? Nay a rusty-edg'd petulance on propriety's behalf? No acrimonious innuendo f'r the sake of the game? Nay there a parry and thrusteth of verbal interaction, given eagrly in the hon'r of athletic engagement? Not yea a poison-ting'd barb-or-two f'r a corky adversary?
Ah well, I s'pose 'tis f'r the best, lest naught gallant Prince Brady springeth from the ramparts and striketh said foes to the quick . . . dark h'rse ye sayeth? Aye, I grant ye such, but such darkness yea the fires of Hades himself shant cleave in their most earnest reakoning, n'r shall thither be any who abscond the ire of it's somb'r intent.
Hearken ye anon to the soundeth of the armorer's accomplishments . . . the busy hammereth closing cold the rivets, as valiant Sir Thomas shall likewise closeth the lighteth from his foes' furth'r days. Seekest thou mercy? Dost thy heart thump with the rhythm of a calleth f'r clemency? Dost thy eyes endeavor to findeth the spark of benevolence in Prince Brady's gaze?
No one - nay, not yea I - can knoweth of such things . . . but ye can, as all creatures of similar acumen art apt, prayeth. Thou shalt findeth eventual attainment on thy boney knubs anyway, best prepareth f'r such ends willfully, hands clasp'd and eyes to the heavens . . . thy doom is thy salvation, as is the glint of Sir Thomas Patrick Edward Brady's salient blade!
Consid'rest thou admonish'd.
Nothing or no one died today
For Death was on a holiday
No fires no floods just peace
Bullets and bombs all ceased
Young and old felt wonder amiss
Calm and tranquility was in full bliss
Happiness and laughter reign dear
The batter old world smiled with cheer
Life sprung green fresh and new
The sun shines warm, the sky so blue
Full with harmony from healing hearts
Violence and rage suddenly departs
Somehow fighting seemed silly and wrong
And all of nature burst into song
The might of living the strength of love
The gift of life glowed from above
All living creatures all living things
Rejoiced in beauty while peace reign
Death disgusted noticed his boney hands
What was this, am I growing skin?
His skull tingled with hairs taking root
Back into his hooded black robe with sickle to boot
Enough enough of my day of rest
Peace and joy I detest
The Grim Reaper felt a chest beat
Eyeless sockets begin to weep
Before kindness could make him alive again
He slashed a dove's nest with sickle in hand
The morning dove coos her cry over smashed eggs
The world had exploded in turmoil with so much dead
Chaos and hate bleed harmony down
Smoldering ruins as Death wears his frown
For a frown is just a smile upside down
A frown is Death's smile, upside down
Mother lowers her sullen face
against a volatile wind,
tasting the insolence
of a heavy laden gust
As she heaves quietly
from musings of unaswered dreams
grating her senses -- hope clinging--
through pits of lonely thoughts
delicately cleansing snarled faith
and disheveled pauses...
where hours impairs near death
as uncertain answers grow pale
...Waking her slow breaths flowing
from tears... Dad in a stupor :
I dreamed within her own dream
a fervent wish of life restored
that she hears my silent words
her boney figure collapsing --
through the bleakest of bleak nights
numbed from pain ...from agony,
That under panels of glass,
...we clutch onto that wish for life
My dream blending with her plea...
and realize she has learned
to pray with me in the rain.
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.
Until I've seen, Melbourne days
was not just emptiness in play
I know I'll see
What I didn't see,
the September soaked symphony
of Vivaldi vines climbing,
jacaranda booms,
tremolo spilling eaves
Until you know this suburban kid's righted the wrong
I'll verse on my way, you as the bridges in my song
Making choruses of dreams that could soon belong
And urban princes and their Porsches
Lost in winters, cold in summers
They adore to ornate you, over muskwood and glassy silvers
But can they look up to the night,
And know wonder in the sight?
In that blue-hued veiled Van Gogh I see your stars
These hardened hands carrying letters I send
will wear me down to some sorry end
And this I know
But I'll go knowing
the Chapel charade was the pretty noise
of sonnets chasing sunsets,
drunk Welsh poets
tearing tails for London wisps
Until it comes, a northern boy without southerly blues
The swaying Yarrans, sparkling flutes, Victorian flues
Keeps Flinders Station stepping full of over-priced shoes
And boney bonny dames, old money games
Skirts for winters, surgeons for gains
They climb to lower you, for fifteen lights upon their names
But can they look up to the night,
And know wonder in the sight?
In that blue-hued veiled Van Gogh I see your stars
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
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.
FRINGE BENEFITS FOR WANTING WHAT I CAN NEVER HAVE
snaggletooth and lonely
hungering for hunger and boney
in my mind, wanting to love you only
when you pass by, i gurgle in honor of you
piss poor and destitute, my shrine of you expresses from a quiet
place on the downlow
hip hurting and shaking for foundations of my body heat, my thoughts of you leave me with sticky icicles
crying like a baby to the open diary of the moon, i daydream in zonules of rocketship anecdotes
i am a pinball wizard rolling caravans of wishful thinking around the many mazes that the stars create
then i pause....become blank....lose focus....become devoid of all thought
i sleep a stiffened steep sleep till morning
then i become the antisocial broken record again buying flowers for all my thoughts of you.....
Foreword: we’re all aware of the ’pot ate oh’ and ‘pert arter’ debate... well, in some English accents (including my own) there is a third version: ‘per tay ter’. I lean toward this pronunciation in this poem... So please don’t throw stones... or pertarters.
Two cannibals went hunting humans one day
Hoping a decent meal might come their way
They came to a beach and there was a boat
A skin and bone man said, ‘I’m six weeks afloat’
Because he was boney with so little muscle
They skewered that sailor with barely a tussle
A fire they lit and then over it
They perched our survivor like meat on a spit
One cannibal said he was off to find wood
You keep him turning to cook him real good
And then in an hour he stood there aghast
He’d never seen anyone turn meat so fast
His mate was rotating the spit roast like crazy
His victim’s arms flailing so fast they were hazy
The other one said turn it slow or be sure
That damned skinny human is gonna be raw
Well, the cannibal cook said with undisguised ire
I’m having to spin him fast over the fire.
So he won’t be cooked till quite a lot later
’cause each revolution he nicks a potater
I saw a ghostly galleon as it sailed under a sailor’s moon.
The night was a ribbon of darkness, drawing a veil over a sea of
gloom.
Her sails were tattered and torn, her rigging in disarray.
Her watch bell hung in an eerie silence and on a windless sea she lay
The decks were littered and dirty, her rails in disrepair
The cabin door was rotten and broken and left to the ocean air.
A crew of boney sailors and a phantom captain at the wheel.
She sails on a sea to nowhere, a ship whose fate is sealed
We passed her on our starboard side as I felt myself began to fall
Did I really see her, was she really there at all?