Long Buoys Poems
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The dark lake only buoys its own natatory denizens,
it allows some to swim, some to glide, dip or delve,
but those sombre waters pull down children
seeing them only as the cloud spawn of alien shores.
The waters are one unnatural creature, a sucking swirl;
a single stomach, that throttles, snags, and crushes,
it clogs the mind with the coiling swirls
of convulsive ghosts.
I am drowning, I fall upwards into a darkness
that contains no earth or sky.
The lake is a basilisk, it snakes into wide open eyes,
darkens the blood of small boys until they choke,
strangling on their own fear.
Decades later I awake, expelled once more
from the churn of its malignant maw,
still struggling inside a heartless embrace.
That cold lake remains within me to this day
It is a liquiform parasite that squirms in my dreams;
a submerged memory of my death - in waiting.
(alternately titled: venerated
uber transcendent state haint give me no lyft)
Ultimate mission (ofttimes possible)
closed eyed insight courtesy meditation
ideally buoys state of consciousness
to naturally induced doze zen realm
disgruntlement arises if yours truly
unaware headstrong winds overtake helm
I invariably drift into light sleep
hours later jostle awake
(analogously experience self named
compressed Rip Van Winkle syndrome)
just smidgen fifty plus shades
gray grizzle coating chin
clumsily amble toward nearest sink
splash cold water across face
apply towel - daub cheeks
various sundry mucus loosened
thick globs phlegm
subsequently, significantly, satisfactorily
expel smallish secretion
out nostrils (pressing
one damned nostril closed
expelling repeating process
other nostril cleared) Semitic nose
clean as a whistle
don glasses to espy time
digitally printed white
within rectangular panel
courtesy electricity illuminating
Verizon set top box
reckon eyes clockface reads
what the ƒ*©* in dog's name...
of Sam Hill, Judas Priest, Matthew Scott...
dadgummit yikes, the time
way past bewitching hour
relaxation cast sleeping spell,
I awoke with a start
'curse saliva drooling and curdling
chin see? ole beastie boy body (mine)
aging baby boomer codger
don't be fooled by
boyish good looks (mine)
nevertheless feral, corporeal
being somewhat refreshed
particularly quaffing
CALIFIA COLD BREW MOCHA
to smooth edges jagged grogginess
thus set self able, eager,
ready, and willing to dash off
aforementioned poem at expense
handily deferred (furloughed)
exercise ma moose hills with
two fifteen pound dumbbells
least till complete literary task
which syrup rise ending snuck up
from outer limits of twilight zone.
4th march 2012,by : Sashi.Prabhu ( zeauoxian)
Blue carpet waves,
White foam gyrates.
Cool breeze blowing,
Beaming sun growing.
Low flying crows,
Fishing nets throws,
Slumbering dog packs,
Dry nets on wooden racks.
Lone fisherman rows,
Sea gulls numbers grows,
Around water dripping nets,
Pelagic fish they ferret.
Silver silky waves,
Low flying eagles braves,
Sand shacks longboats,
Orange buoys afloat.
Rowed boat alone,
Comes ashore, home,
Round logs without bark,
Boat ashore and park.
Sun rays warm up,
Need black coffee cup
It is 8 am this morn,
Can I be here at morrow’s dawn?
at the growing flock
including male friends relatives,
minus yours truly, whose presence,
would merely generate a yawn,
though even a distinct black swan
received royal carpet treatment
particularly one named Shawn
encompassing another honorable guest
with illustrious surname Rawn
guests underwritten by Cupid,
whose presence surreptitiously withdrawn
(invitations distributed widely explained,
just beak cuz gerrymandering redrawn)
even provoking deer interest
of stray doe eyed fawn
hence lacking bravado and brawn
this bird den some seedy,
yet dove out crow kissing Avocet
trundled off to parts unknown you bet
far from boys stir russ, raw cuss, diss cuss
ting clacking clique, and thus this solitary fret
full ostracized, rejected, unwanted egret,
who heron there experienced many a let
down, not simply because of stork disparity
with the Aves and havenots,
but I never met
any other species so set
in their ways, hence off
on a wing and prayer
in search of other buoys and gulls,
whom this dodo bird they will coe vet!
as shockwaves chilled the tide, filled the water
on buoys where also my white face fell
would we remember this time, holding blue
in her deep cold blast, the ocean's eyes stopped
while salt drained what's left of an iceborn cry
invisible the shore moved, or footprints
in those sandals I still disappeared in
her frozen lap is everywhere to me
seagulls combing the green spray, but it's green
so you see the current left in the cracks
I beach on sea laying down, lying down
where shells in frost-dead surf core burned further
filled the water, as shockwaves chilled the tide
on buoys where also my white face fell
holding blue, would we remember this time
As the waves crumble to the shore
And doze the seagrass to a still.
My love will always pull back for more
And come back only for you.
I will wash across the sands
And bring you crest and troughs
Of rippled naughty musings to make
You smile.
I will bring the awesome power of
The moons and the sun that stand
Still like a broken clock.
I will jingle across the rocks and bring
The rhythm of angel wings
For you to dance.
I will conquer the essence of love and life
Itself and stay steadfast with the wind
To breathe through your hair.
I will push the claws of gulls and pelicans
Into squawk and haste towards the clouds
To reach you.
For you are the shore that I crash for
I have brought thousands of tiny shells
To feather your ears to sleep.
I have knocked down sand castles and shovels
Buoys, conchs, and the promise of my heart
to wash over your body.
I have come to dance across your toes in gentle
Embrace, rushing between your legs
To bring you home.
I have harnessed the power of Neptune
With my trident and a piece of the Universe.
Searching for your body to be with mine.
To form one ocean again.
And become timeless until the end…
like the tide.
It isn’t yielding much result,
I’m still living below the bread line,
I don’t get a full night's sleep,
I still haven’t gotten the desired reap.
I come home after a hectic day,
Behind a closed door is a gloomy ray,
My kitchen gives me a cold comfort,
Nothing there commiserates my labour.
Not a star I see in you my father says,
I worry when I think about you,
I want to shut the door to my muse,
Believing it’s not a worthy fuse.
I pour myself into my art,
Amidst my turbulent part,
My father doesn’t see a serious son,
He sees the least of his children.
I almost tossed it out,
But for the joy it still brings,
But for its swift wings,
It’s a river that flows to me.
At night I still see the sky’s yellow eye,
I think it isn’t a lie,
The man outside may not be the one my father wants,
The one inside buoys the one on the outside who is on the path to a blooming meadow.
October 17, 2024.
Whether virtual or actual paths cross,
aye great thee ahoy
no fear Mademoiselle or Monsieur,
thy harried style haint cloy
rather, when embarking
on introductory acquaintance
ship, aye employ
swiftly tailored indistinguishable,
asper this wordsmith mebbe goy
or Jew, yet genealogically
thine Semitic lineage,
unknown descendants begat,
one generation after
stitched another thread,
whence warp and woof, sans dat
(moth eaten tattered wool worth
coat of arms), twas slim and/or fat
chance biologic dice throw
adumbrated me Matt,
a skinny, quirky,
and nerdy kid, who sat
alone during lunchtime
at school pained, plagued,
and pronounced with extreme,
where introversion didst agitate
chronic state of misery being alive
immobilized, hogtied, and forfeited
natural predilection
to discover and create
heterosexual relationships,
viz interpersonal experiences
re: raison to date
initial intimate rapport
(anxiety fraught) fate
full situation with a gal
giving her good grief great
(yes, twas Maryann Sage),
who understandably became irate
predicated on lack
of mine demonstrative affection
quickly becoming an unsuitable mate
though now in retrospect
(hindsight always 20/20)
a sudden resurgent spate
finds remembrance of things passed
(with her) engendering
cerebral tete a tete
rankling memories,
hence for death aye cannot wait!
Mideast Peace: Oxymoron
Though descendent of Jews,
I feel boggled at the brutal,
nasty and wanton war between
Israelis and Palestinians.
Many innocent victims
bred to know and hate their enemy
impossible mission
to reconcile one Semitic
group of peoples from another.
The bloody English
begat and fomented
debacle between Israelis and Palestinians.
little more than a century ago,
particularly usurping territory
courtesy aggressive premise
might makes right.
The human species
hell bent on making war
reprisals rank as a ,
and can never even the score
I harken back to childhood,
when our family lived
at Lantern Lane, and the Dailey's
(who threw rocks at Georgie
our Dalmation/Boxer)
rightfully earned before their time
the title fear thy neighbor
an altercation such
as aforementioned above,
would easily earn a spot
on Investigation Discovery
though deadly crimes violently hardcore
reenacted minus the explicit killing
fields not healthy for children
and other living things,
nevertheless even the most pious
and peace loving
exhibit fervent bloody ardour
if kith and kin held at gunpoint.
The annals of civilization
since time immemorial
replete with chronicles
of battlefield bravura
touting (with laurels of profuse praise)
for ultimate sacrifice
unnaturally, unstintingly, and unwaveringly
bravely giving oneself
to father/mother land.
Beneath the surface of the skin
we all bleed;
mortal kombat inked
in Mesolithic Europe
likewise dates to circa 10,000 years ago,
and episodes of warfare appear
to remain "localized
and temporarily restricted"
during the Late Mesolithic
to Early Neolithic period in Europe.
Idyllic as the fantastical utopian yen,
I feel pessimistic patriarchal wheelman
who steer autocratic
leviathan of state (witness Tiananmen
Square student-led demonstrations
known in Beijing, China
as the June Fourth Incident
lasting from 15 April to 4 June 1989)
cuz twentieth century ruthless demagogues
wanted to squelch
pro-democracy movement,
and not only stole demonstrators thunder
but forcefully co-opted with lightning force
their toys such as:
sophisticated erector set and playpen
for dolls loving buoys Barbie and ken
the former coming to life
as a miniature equestrienne
experiencing magical realism.
My youth was like a treasure map
in finest detail drawn,
experiences marker buoys,
of perils would they warn.
Islands of opportunity
places I dreamt of most
all littered with ambition
scattered flotsam on the coast.
Routes were laid and lines were drawn
all set in black and white,
the course into my future set
the outlook seeming bright.
But time and circumstance swept in
before I had made sail
and tore the rigging from the yards
the voyage doomed to fail.
The plans I made are ragged
like the mizzen on the mast
optimism's caulking gone
though it was meant to last.
So take me to the harbour
and push me out to sea
let me be blown by winds of fate
to what will be will be.