Long Bowels of the earth Poems
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i was listening to Levertov read
one of her poems
and as she spoke my mind drifted
her words were of those moments
when manunkind sinks its' teeth
into the bowels of the earth
rapes untold but well known
riches for itself
my mind wandered from the reading
a slow walk thru the cedar forest
of the Levant, now gone
sitting on the ocean's floor
in sunken ships, rotting
sad but it is a fate
commerce will never be denied
as the neolithic exploded
agriculture within that admixture
abundance must be moved
but the most horrifying aspect therein
it paid for a military
the wars began, humanity failed itself
the Garden's tale repeats itself
Denise proves the point
the poets' words are in themselves
moments when the rights and wrongs
suddenly appear in neural pathways
marching from the shadows
as Sherlock Holmes noted
hidden within until life demands a clue
why in Medieval times the adage
following the overthrow of a king
what should we do next, warriors sing
kill the poets comes the cry
which is why they live in no cages
they are free-range natured
to wander the land in freedom
where imagination and inspiration
lie in the most surprising places
neural pathways within
inebriated by atoms surrounding them
a liquor brewed from casks
where creativity floats in pearls
adorned in every jewel
gifts from the heavens above
where success is the sweetest
the moment it moves from the mortal
into the realms of the immortal
coming full circle
as Auden so well points out
time says nothing more than
i told you so
we were never a paradise lost
OKC 7/22
(Idea engendered from Lombok earthquake: Indonesia)
Nary a chink of illumination pierces thru
thick cavernous rock solid chamber home
to this crepuscular anchorite,
who spent untold countless chunks of time
holed up deep underground
initially to escape deadly blight,
that afflicted vast swaths of
twenty first century
long fostered civilization,
the post apocalyptic scattered remnants
forced into subterranean redoubts
reliant on stowed away tallow
uber wax to forge poorly guided
niggardly flickering burning candlelight
where quotidian ritual entails doth dight
this Jainist Joplin ascetic, who
already donned the mantle,
sans adjustment to darkened eyesight
imposing keen aural habituation
to discern, and distinguish any fright
full scurrying, skittering,
slithering, unseen presence
triggering thine nostril to sneeze,
which nasal (gesundheit) claxon
serves to scarify shadowy silhouetted height
giving infinitesimal pause,
thence worry free insight
since my judicious jumbled
juxtaposed metaphorical jacklight
philosophies, viz Jainism, Jesuit,
and Judeo-Christian allows
no cavil, indiscriminate killing,
nor *****sapien superiority
toward multitudinous life forms instilled
into former existence as good Samson Knight,
now effectivel embedded,
entombed, and interred
within bowels of the Earth
hum canticle refrains
softly enunciating such psalms
to eternal night.
Exile prophet, seer of Patmos,
peering through a time yet future,
saw your rising, not from waters,
but from the bowels of the earth.
Lamb-like beast adorned with two horns,
destined by God’s grace for greatness.
Chosen while not yet a nation,
to be His servant in the world.
As the world’s Dark Age was ending,
you were rising like a beacon.
Luring Christians who were fleeing,
persecution in other lands.
On your shores, they built a nation,
on the bedrock of God’s laws.
Civil and religious freedom,
were the hallmarks of their compact.
Relying on God’s providence,
This nation rose to prominence.
Defying history’s outsized odds
She survived, grew, prospered, and thrived.
Though flawed, she proudly honored God,
opposing godless philosophies.
Her newspapers and magazines
were genial to her Christian views.
The children in her schools were taught,
the principles of Holy Writ.
The virtues that made humans good
were woven in her warp and woof.
The secret of her greatness was
the goodness of her principles.
Her founders warned of her decline
if she to evil would incline.
Then like a soul bewitched and cursed,
she started down a slippery slope.
This nation turned her back on God,
despised the good, lauded the bad.
The seeds she sowed have produced trees,
whose evil fruits have ripened fast.
The baleful results of the crop,
has led to her colossal drop.
The vacuum left by ousting God,
has now been filled by man-made gods.
The Baals, Venus, Ashtoreth,
and sundry gods now rule her land.
Consumed by materialism,
obsessed with sex, drunk with pleasure,
ruled by passion, confused, debauched,
her subjects worship at their shrines.
Life is not valued anymore,
mass killings are so commonplace.
The substances used for pleasure,
destroy and kill instead of thrill.
The tales of civilizations past,
predict the future that awaits,
to greet a nation that was great,
but who became an apostate
The escalator keeps descending;
Seemingly, it’s never-ending,
Taking riders deep into
The bowels of the earth.
Everyone around pretending
That they’re fine, of course, depending
On their circumstances and
Just what their time is worth.
When the platform’s reached, there’s waiting.
Scrolling signs are indicating
When the closest train will come –
That is, if you’re in luck.
Minutes tick by, generating
Lots more people congregating
But you’ve made your choice and now
It seems that you are stuck.
Finally, a revelation –
See the train approach the station.
As the doors glide open, people
Rush to get inside.
Find a seat or resignation
Will stay ‘til your destination.
Then at last you exit,
Having taken it in stride.
London’s clock just struck three
A forewarning of events to follow
The gloomy afternoon, an old mans delight
The weather of no concern, working late into the night
The village was in a festive mood
Of good will towards all men
Mistletoe and family gatherings
A twinkle in the eyes of young lovers
As midnight approached, on this special night
There appeared a spirit of a thousand souls
He woke the old man, who shivered in fright
Who are you he demanded, feigning his bravery
I am the spirit of all that was, and all that will be
Was the cold reply
So dress yourself old man, for I am taking you
To where you have been and were you will be
I will show you how you loved
I will show you how ambition consumed your love
Now you sleep counting pennies not from heaven
This path shall render you a dried heartless corpse
Come with me and my chains
As I show you the destiny of the unloved
Where spirits toil in the bowels of the earth
Hells fires fill them with painful regrets
The want and ignorance of the poor
If your life has amounted to earthy possessions only
You shall wander the afterlife in wanting and suffering
As these wisdom's you ignored here on earth
The old man remembered the soft touch of a kiss
That fate stole his bliss
The spirit spun his words so wise
The old man came to understand
The spirit of a thousand years
Drifted away with the morning light
So the old man, wrote his final wishes
Of good will to all of mankind
Then in silence, rope in place
He pulled away his chair
All of life’s efforts seemed fruitless now
As he escaped his life’s despair
Notes: Dickens meets Poe
the air that we breathe –
an intricate part of survival –
reluctantly exhaled
lost in the cauldron of communal breath
we yearn for a world
hidden from troubling delusions
where dreams are cut short
aeroplanes circle in the muggy morning air
while others
for no apparent reason
fall out of the sky
souls ascending
taking their final breaths with them
lost in mid thought
as silence swallows the answer …
...to their dreams of a world
lost in the bowels of the earth
its unique, virginal ecosystem
leaving one breathless
where thoughts are entwined with the mist -
oil on troubled waters
a balm for the soul
diverse as their yearning
for a lost innocence and
as transient as the air that we breathe—
mere illusions …
Deep within the bowels of the earth
a pressure builds up in intensity
As lava and gases increase in growth
bubbling and seething with angry fury
The pressure continues to build up
directly under the earth's crust
Which finally weakens and blows its top
yielding to the pressure's upward thrust
The action produces a huge crater
through which ferocious flames exit
Painting the sky in a red orange colour
in an awesome fiery exhibit
It's a grand display of fireworks power
generated by Mother Nature
Which reaches out both near and far
in testimony of its grandeur
Clouds of ash and smoke rise up to the sky
spreading for miles and miles around
Obscuring vision both far and nigh
before most of the ash falls to the ground
A thick outpouring of red hot lava
scorches everything that lies in its path
Streaming down the sides of the crater
as it moves on with relentless wrath
Volcanic action has an awesome tale to tell
of what goes on under earth's placid shell
It's where red hot lava and gases dwell
which when released create a fiery hell
Brilliant light reaches down, a hand from above
Touching life, illuminating lies, searing my retinas
Like something holy that defies tangibility
Reflecting upon the water as a striving, sorrowful soul
A dream of death, the final moments of a friend
Pushing the darkness into the despairing depths of my heart
Hidden from the luminous brightness by walls of stygian gloom
The hallowed secret a friendship locked away forever
Night comes, a god of old billowing from the bowels of the earth
Snuffing the light from our minds like hope crushed under fingers of death
Something we once possessed, now transcendent in our memory
Elusive laughter and light dancing across the pages of our life
Tears mingle with the dew of dawn
A fleeting fog vanished by the sun
Emotion cloys our senses
A miasma of feelings echoing into eventide
The body a prison cell containing only a soul
A vessel for the works of a heavenly deity
A vicious fight for life, taking no prisoners
Touch and go
3/31/21
"Touch and Go"
for "This or That, Vol. 1" sponsored by Edward Ibeh
© 2009 (Jim Sularz)
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, by wagon, train or foot.
Days not all that long ago, in tall ships made of wood.
“A gold rush struck in ’49, all quite by accident.
A burning fever that cut men to bone, in a sea of dingy tents.
Day and night, they toiled and told, many headed home without a cent.
But some packed out bags of glistening gold, and made a stop at Buzzard’s Breath.
The town’s mud logged street, deep with horse manure, bubbled like a shallow grave.
With a Sheriff’s office, a livery stable, and a church for souls to save.
And a fancy house, on a grassy knoll – sign read, “Madam Lil la Tart”.
With soft, curvaceous ladies who mined for hearts – and gold of a different sort.
Didn’t take long before easy gold, was extremely hard to find.
And burly miners, tough as steel, moved in to hard rock mine.
With bloodied knuckles, dented hats, they blasted at a furious pace.
To find the gold, called the mother lode, yellow blood coursing through their veins!
The mine they worked was called “Long Shot”, the men thought that name a curse.
But the miners hankered for the handle, “Buzzard’s Breath”, and the mine’s name was reversed.
As luck would say, they held a royal flush, when they hit that horse-wide vein.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found, this side of the Pearly Gates.
Eyes wide as saucers, they were all in awe, everyone was filthy rich.
The miners should have all retired and should have cashed in all their chips.
But a man’s hard to figure, when his blood is yellow, and he’s stricken with a gold fever.
“Eureka! boys, git the dynamite and a whole lot more mining timbers!”
They mined that vein to the bowels of the earth, and the heat increased by day.
Buzzard’s Breath became the hottest place, to Hell – the shortest way.
And then one day, the men never came back. – Hell must have jumped that claim.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found – that’s where the Devil mines today!”
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, died a slow and quiet death.
Along with days of tall wooden ships, and the ghosts of Buzzard’s Breath.
On my first spelunking excursion with a few friends
I got separated from the group, and hysteria quickly overtook me.
The cave led to a dank cavern, and when I lit a match, I could see
a kaleidoscope of colors reflected in the stalactite encrusted ceiling.
Looking down, it seemed there was nothing but perpetual darkness,
and chaotic thoughts raced through my mind.
Suddenly I heard a cacophony of screeches and clicks,
clamoring towards me from the bowels of the Earth.
At that moment, it felt like the apocalypse had arrived,
and I half expected to see a horde of demons rushing to devour me.
Cringing in fear, I felt the sting of a thousand bat wings hit my face
as they swarmed past me, stealing my breath as I soiled my pants.
Terrified, I screamed like a little girl
in a state of panic, petrified with fear.
My friends heard my pitiful cries,
and a chorus of snickers and laughs preceded my rescue.