Long Brass Poems
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Vasava – An untold story 10/Many
Curtains made of Silk with gold thread embroidery
Were hanging on all the doors and windows of the auditorium
Big silk curtains, were hanging behind the dance stage
Shining and blinking, because of gold and silver on them,
Were brightening the dance stage, making it bright like a day
Beautiful Persian carpets were displayed
Covering the entire auditorium, where the guests were sitting
A thin such carpet was also lying, all around the stage
Leaving the dance floor, which was made of Mahogany wood
On which, Vasava was sitting to start her first Raga of the day
All the eyes were drinking the nectar like wine of Vasava
So lovely were her looks and so intoxicating was her youth
The beauty of her spotless body, was spreading its charms
Which was coming out, from every part of her body, specially
The matchless beauty of her eyes, legs, waist, hands and bosoms
King Suyodhan was invited on the stage to declare the Utsava to begin
And then appeared the attraction of the Utsava or the day, Vasava
The drums and musical instruments began to flow their sounds
The team of musicians accompanying Vasava, took seat near her
Suddenly all became speechless, so that they may not miss a word of her singing
Vasava’s face appears to have taken, the beauty from full Moon glow
And the gold Noopur* which she wearing in her feet’s
Were ringing, on her leg’s movements, creating a melody on its own,
Her recitation of Saraswati’s* prayer had already enthralled everyone
And now she was about to begin, her first performance of the day
Ravindra to continue in 11
Kanpur India 21st March 2010
Copy writes protection as per Poetry Soup automatic Copy write provisions also.
* Gold Noopur Noorpur means small bells, which dancers wear while
performing the dances in Indian. The Noopur which
Vasava was wearing were made of Gold. It creates a
sound on the movements of legs. Normally it is made
of brass and many such are tied up in a cloth belt.
* Noopur A hallow anklet containing tiny bells
The chapel wall ornate brass findings are long gone as no more
Years of dust and debris lie upon, the now no longer used pews
Pieces from the stain glass windows, broken upon the tiled floor
In this small chapel God’s words they no longer need, or choose
Years of dust and debris lie upon, the now no longer used pews
Old leather bound bibles, lie sprawled across the floor in misuse
In this small chapel God’s words they no longer need, or choose
Cited local lack of interest as in order to claim their poor excuse
Old leather bound bibles, lie sprawled across the floor in misuse
Their lightweight Scritta’ pages waver from the windows breeze
Cited local lack of interest as in order to claim their poor excuse
A religion to which these folk burdened in as some dirty disease
Their lightweight Scritta pages, waver from the windows breeze
As relate long forgotten messages written within its open pages
A religion to which these folk burdened in as some dirty disease
The small abandoned chapel, which lack of trust in God enrages
As relate long forgotten messages written within its open pages
Relictus, where the Lord’s words lie within here, as all forgotten
The small abandoned chapel, which lack of trust in God enrages
No shoes to clink the granite tiles as no more the aisles trodden
Relictus, where the Lord’s words lie within here, as all forgotten
Silence, befalls this chapel now, as no more sermons to be read
No shoes to clink the granite tiles as no more the aisles trodden
With God’s words now muted, his messages now remain unsaid
Silence, befalls this chapel now, as no more sermons to be read
Whilst yonder angels; weep in sorrow, to them they have failed
With God’s words now muted, his messages now remain unsaid
As the Lord’s purpose to his people, no longer his worth availed
Whilst yonder angels, weep in sorrow, to them they have failed
This forgotten chapel now lies in ruins so it ails in its own decay
As the Lord’s purpose to his people, no longer his worth availed
Once cited a place of worship, leaves its parishioners, in dismay
This forgotten chapel now lies in ruins so it ails in its own decay
Pieces from the stain glass windows, broken upon the tiled floor
Once cited a place of worship, leaves its parishioners, in dismay
The chapel wall ornate brass findings are long gone, as no more
Late night summons madmen,
madams, bold streetwalkers,
picking pennies from the gutters
as the merchants close their shutters
and the homeless crouch in doorways
in their rags, against the cold.
Black or white, no compromise,
no colours clothe the empty streets,
as Bobbies tread their lonely beats,
the watchmen rub their crusted eyes
and settle into vigilance,
no accident, just circumstance.
Midnight passes.
Leila in her bursting bodice
lingers, guesses who I am
and flaunts her body, all the same
to her, a customer who'll pay
for twenty minutes' satisfaction.
Dressed in taffeta and lace
she'll never even see my face,
night's sweet anonymity,
the very definition of her name.
Later, as the moonbeams shift,
and cloudlines disappear and drift,
come images in stark relief
of twisted metals magnified
that catch the eye, suspend belief.
Abandoned building, hollow-eyed
and squinting in a death mask grip,
skeletal, once filled with pride,
now empty, and for ever tongue-tied,
cadavered, and condemned to drip.
Still later, the street-lamps spot
the cats a'creeping worldly-wise,
and rats along the quayside waiting,
ready for the avalanche
of waste into the yawning dumpsters.
I have seen the children sneaking out
before the dawn comes crawling,
dirty little ragamuffins forced
into leftover clothes,
weepy-eyed and snotty-nosed,
playing with a rotting carcass
or a broken bicycle.
Pre-dawn, and the street-lamp sputters,
merchants come to raise their shutters,
regard the fading moon, and mutter,
'yet another day.'
Begone, O Bride of Midnight!
favour us with not another glance,
put your spells away,
you'll not lead us in our daily dance.
Behold a wrinkled substitute,
a crone who likes to think that she's a queen;
with as much grace as she can muster,
she flusters, fidgets, lonely in her room,
feathered and be-furbelowed
and plays with her decolletage,
she's mutton dressed as lamb.
The smell of stale tobacco
and a whiff of old perfume,
no longer with her entourage
she dances out of rhythm to the tango,
rusty and unconstituted,
wraith-like, a phantom in her tomb.
At twenty past I'm home at last,
the brass plate spells my name;
come inside!
familiar and gratifying,
slippers by my bed still lying,
dressing gown and cap are crying,
here abide!
The sheets are turned and ready.
I leave the night and take a final bow,
grateful for the here and now.
I woke up one morning in a world full of lost things,
with no recollection of how i got there.
They curled around me and taunted me, examined me carefully with their hands so that they could better see me.
And when they found my ears they whispered in voices so soft I could scarcely discern if they spoke at all,
and told me of epic lovers until we bled together.
They shared with me what it would be like to be a lost thing too.
So full of inaccessible power, of sinful yearning, wanton longing, so full of empty space.
And then they presented me with a second hand clock,
small and brass and on a chain for my pocket so that I may never lose it.
They showed me and told me "fill it."
Then they felt behind my eyes and turned my senses higher,
Made everything so bright and lovely that it caused me terrible pain.
But with it I made life. I made such wonderful oceans,
I fostered worlds and tried to use them to follow out what I had been commanded.
And when the hands on my watch no longer ticked beneath the weight,
I forgot there was ever anything before my silent command "fill it."
Their voices ring out like angels,
they still sing to me of lovers. I want to sing too.
But the next thing they touched was my mouth,
and from it removed all its memories
yet left and burned in it the faintest ghost of what it would be like to ever have felt.
So that in its efforts to resurface,
it forgot how to speak.
At night, though less over time, (and I had long since lost track of that),
the other lost things will weave themselves around me like slippery shades,
and nuzzle into my neck as a purring kitten until I let them into my arms for the evening.
They'd hold me down and keep me awake as they sang to me foreign folk songs.
Occasionally they would break their song, and wait for me to pick up their melody,
and when I would it sounded too conspicuously like wailing.
They'd be gone.
I am not ready and I am not even sure for what.
I think about deliverance,
but less so with every passing phantom tick.
It is beautiful here, or so I think. I have no comparison.
There are so many oceans.
It's a wondrous case of Stockholm I'm sure,
but nonetheless a purposeful one.
One of vivacious heartache, of my own design,
When the lost things, my strange companions, come for me again and find me,
and we find other lost things -like me,
And we make worlds together.
if zee al chemist trump doth win go hide in the bunker
to save your ass
brace yourself as this don holed
confabulates that gold iz brass
and conjures prestidigitation
like spinning false hoods in2 truth - crass
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
a synonym force head fabricator -
will threaten democracy, thus be afraid
as this pompous voice quotes
from hiz playbook, which = a charade
the hard core truths, he
(who i liken to the plague) doth evade
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
and dreams up fault of Barack Obama
for extinction of dinosaurs,
crucifixion of Jesus Christ
down fall of the Roman Empire,
or far tethered Fred Flintsone ca fetching an escapade
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
yea...this rip pub lick'n presidential contender
evinces a psyche that did brexit n got frayed
building and monopolizing castles in the sky -
nonexistent as a grade
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
school fib - or donning role
as play ground bully teaming with ivan
the terrible to dominate the greensward
in the above fiction, but...man
that loose canon dressing his
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
"make america great again" gag line - whar i ran
and mid eastern countries will rise
as one cheering him as star of global hit parade
despite any raging oppositional pandaemonium
birth er ring a conflagration
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
kenya believe the world acquiesces
to thine projected masquerade
blocking im grate shunning crowds -
which number of people rival in size
taller (if stack one atop thee other)
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
than the trump tower casino or high rise
with his signature - hm...mebbe funds provided
by drug lords, the swedish house mafia
or terrorist ties???
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
whom security details silence by tossing a hand grenade
sham on you Potemkin village people for quaffing draughts
from elixir purportedly to transform visage with trademark
swept back, wavy and coiffed hirsute.
Form:
When empty bubbles of stillness brimmed the place
Upon an emerald carpet of meads, she genuflected with gathered grace
Of languished bones and reverence plucked from nunhood hearts.
Mighty potentate dear, the wonted beseeching starts.
Oh! May the taper of thought illuminate the native firmament of youth
With eternal beams of clemency and immaculate truth.
May remnants of vernal days, emulate the unsullied string of murmuring Rhine
Which lofty silvern moon looks through in her decline.
Oh! Bestow sleets of diamond, shower the withering faith abundantly
My genuine night in ancient might and atrous raven majesty
Never admits a lucid ray of Cynthia's placid light
Nor scarce a pristine spark from virgin Lilies white.
In festal exuberant mirth, flowers rich in prime often steep
Banished from fervid fancies, my dreams slither from sepulchres of sleep
Dreary like spectres embroidered in soot-black cloak
Yoked with throat gripping images of woe, clawed than forked foot of hawk.
Oh! Grand down the enormous wing of unyielding throes
Intercepting the sun's beam of daffodil gold to disclose
The jolly throng of seeming friends in vizard faction knit.
Raze with fanged rust, the malignant swarm of antagonizing foes assailing in skits.
Once these cheeks flushed bright than crimson blossoms glow
Alack! Over those, briny springs of melancholy flow
From heights of penitence, from depth of pain suppressed
Creeping like subtle snakes from hollowed cavities of earth's breast.
Since wisdom hoarded in writhled lores and hoary sage
Never fades, stroked by boundless surges of age.
Since the raging cold of thawed snow, is kindly kept in summer's temperate heat
The severe taste of my delayed revenge, is neither lost in circles of time nor deplete.
Oh! Divine celestial quill, in rich characters of light, write…
Before the blind sentence groped to distinct light
Restless billows of black-faced misery, wretched the brass-chain of words away
Her thoughts bitter and sweet mingled without delay.
Through hollowed glades redoubled echoes nimbly fly
Plumed like pinions in boundless circles scan the scaled sky
Bearing the closing effort of sacred orisons, sealed with despairing cry
Imploring the sovereign sublime, perched upon Elysium throne
Oh! “Let go the string, before this withering faith is tempest blown."
Donald trump = pathological psychopath
Fred Trump taught his sole son Donald
how to steal the leading way into more ass,
though no hint given, nor prediction forecast
in his growing up years, that would foretell,
thru base anaphylactic cronyism, egotistical
gall insidious kleptomania call, malodorous
Machiavellian offal obnoxious quintessential
skullduggery, unfair wicked yik yak zeal
to wield selfishness, a mean mogul with brass,
who would unstintingly live up to his surname,
and trump every law in the books of jurisprudence
and crass bend avast set of constitutional laws
to feed his ferocious fealty to the all mighty dollar
flaunting, fleecing, and flipping the welfare
of those (he deemed must serve him
his insatiable hunger) to connive, dictate,
and expedite his hell bent assiduity,
an empire fit for a King, who felt no aversion
to mollycoddle, peddle, and wheedle
any zealous contractual obligation
(immediately abrogated), and concoct fabrications
vis a vis, a visa versa MasterCard his
American Express shun re: the art of the raw
FitBit (if necessary browbeating, depriving,
forfeiting meting out legally obligated pay
whenever an inconvenient truth awoke
in his noggin reneging fiduciary promises
to the risk-taking, moon shining, toiling citizens
ala Indian giving per many an unfair deal
exuding crass with especial treatment
to withhold wages for his (held in check)
Polish laborers, who built his city on rock and rolling
stock – so a Starship emblazoned with
outsize ego of an exploiter with no pay
to his backbreaking Polish construction
motley crue nor even mucho grassy us
for erecting his empire now ranked in
billions of dollars unfairly pointing a finger
to berate, dictate and finagle foreigners
(illegal immigrants, he would now boot
out of this country) to carry out drudgery
with hungry stomachs growling at slave wages,
lamentably plodding since any other employer
might question their vlsa status, hence anger
boils within this generic human enraged
his wealth squeezed from every last drop
of said craftsman, now if still alive old and
broken men crushed by the mighty
self proclaimed dictator of the proletariat,
whose hollow being blind sides those
he stares down, yet beware all that glitters ain't gold!
The klaxon sounds and off we do scurry
Up to the gun house we head in a hurry
Through narrow p-ways and up noisy stairs
We pass each other with far away glares
What threat to meet, all do wonder
We’re well trained and there’ll be no blunder
Hatches closed and scuttles secured
Drive motors humming, we speak not a word
Ammo to the hoist, battle dress in place
Flash hoods cover all but our face
“Mt 51 manned and ready!”
Gas eject air pressure is holding steady
“Air action port!” our circuits align
Gun slews, the target to find
“On target aircraft!” the checksight declares
Our peril confirmed, no drill, all just a deep inhale
“Right and left guns load!” first powder then shot
To the mad dance, cast we all our lot
Guns loaded, we track knowing not when
Waiting the salvo alarm, the dance soon to begin
Fourteen men poised, ready for the show
Bound to each other, not for their own glory they do go
Gong! Gong! Fire! The first stanza a roar
Then rapid and continuous we feed each bore
“Bore clear!” signals to load the next round
As hot-case men pitch spent brass to the ground
Practiced harmony, each motion robotic
Load!, Ram!, Fire!, Eject! the cadence hypnotic
Smoke and flareback, gases choking
Onward we whirl, and curse the foe attacking
“Foul bore left gun!”
A stuck case has us undone
Pry bar in hand, the Gunner appears
The extractors are broken, confirming worst fears
Casing removed and the gun finally clear
Up all night we’ll be, fixing this gear
“Cease fire!” all safely emerge
Realize we now, our fears to purge
Destruction averted, another hour to draw breath
Till the enemy returns, seeking our death
“Police up that brass and swab out those barrels!”
The chief keeps us all intent on the peril
They will come again, or we will seek them out
So little rest we take, while the issue is in doubt
***************************************
This describes a live shoot from the prospective of
the men manning a twin 5 inch gun aboard a destroyer.
These ships were common in our Navy from 1944 through
about 1980. The "old salts" out there will find this very familiar.
This is a spinoff from my "Tin Can Sailors" write even though
the ships in that story were single mounts. Same gun, but
with just one barrel. Those were before my time.
I have walked in the valley of the shadow of death, and I have feared great ill
And stumbled over stony ground, where surer feet have fell.
I’ve known the loss of guiding hand and mourned its steady hold,
and wandered in the desert place, beyond the shepherds fold.
My prayers have bounced from brass clad dome, to echo in the void,
my tears and cries unanswered, my faith and trust destroyed.
The bitter gall of emptiness, of wasted time and chance,
that choked the breath and stabbed the heart, with realizations lance.
The power above, no longer hears, the screams of mankind’s woe,
those omnipresent eyes of care, no longer watch below.
For in that place where heaven was, there sits an empty hall,
resounding every echo, of the cries and pleas of all.
The countless Gods, the Prophet hordes, the Holy men renowned,
lie unmarked in their wooden rooms, awaiting promised crowns.
Their statues bear this testament to all who look and stare.
If one of these knew truly God, why won’t his God declare?
How many thousand million lives, deceived by reverent fraud,
search in everlasting void, abandoned by their God?
What of the countless multitudes, who starve in barren fields,
Or die in futile battles, fought for other people’s greed?
Where is the justice where’s the right, where stand the meeker then?
The trite reply rings hollow from the lips of Holy men;
you cannot understand his ways, nor question God’s great plan.
Suffice to live, and then to die, a hope filled happy man.
Am I alone in asking, or wondering if it’s true,
Where is the God of Abraham and fiery furnace too,
this God that guided Israelites, from Egypt’s brutal hands,
and led the way, with power and fire, into a promised land?
Oh that I’d walked in Canaan’s fields, and spoken face to face,
and asked the burning questions, on behalf of mankind’s race.
Where did you go, why do we wait upon this tortured earth,
and Seeking God of truth and love, discovering only dearth.
Yet still I hope, and still I pray, not knowing if I’m heard,
and read and try to understand, the everlasting word.
A fool am I, apparently, to query mystic things,
to witness Faustian madness, and the pain religion brings.
Yet still the questions hang in space, their letters ten miles high,
For Who, and What, and When, and Where, and most important WHY?
A Franky and Spud Encounter
The coach, old and rusty, pulled up at the gate
The horses, portending the schoolchildren’s fate
Franky looked over and thought it was great
While Spud bore a look that said he was irate
But school children grow at a different rate
So different size horses stood calm and sedate
Spud’s not the quickest but must get the biggest
The chestnut he fancied was the tallest and thickest
If he could be first to that rust coloured horse
Then he’d lead the way on the pony trek course
He wasn’t a writer, he wasn’t a reader
But he would show everyone he was a leader
The coach door was open but he was far from it
So Spud shouted watch out, I’m going to vomit
The kids stood aside and that made a clear path
So Spud got off first with a victory laugh
Franky called out were supposed to be taught
Horse riding ain’t easy as you might have thought
But Spud found some steps and he mounted his steed
And screamed when his stallion set off at speed
Spud did his best to regain his composure
With tears in his eyes from wind speed exposure
But Franky yelled ‘Rusty Joy’ easy boy, Whoa!
He’d been here before, which Spud didn’t know
And Rusty Joy slowed and returned at a trot
And Spud acted nonchalant... which he was not
So as the kids stood by the horse they had got
Spud hammed it up... are we going or what
So gripping the reins in fear of his life
If I’m overtaken there’s gonna be strife
Franky called out, you should stay with the pack
Spud yelled, I’m the leader, you’d better stay back
To drive his point home, he dug in with his feet
And Rusty Joy went like a demon on heat
Spud just squealed whoa boy with futile insistence
But soon he was only a spec in the distance
Then Rusty Joy saw some lush grass, good for dining
Which proves every cloud comes with a silver lining
As, rapidly, Rusty Joy came to a stop
Spud landed face down in some festering plop
The kids soon caught up and Franky said Yuk
You’re gonna be rich ’cause there’s brass where there’s muck
You never said you were a horseman: that’s humble
What a good overhead, face first, tumble!
Spud sat himself up against Rusty Joy’s legs
I’m not gonna rest until each of you begs
If you don’t plead good, you’re gonna be dead
Then Rusty Joy’s bowels emptied over his head