Long Burial Poems
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This land is played out on a plain bible.
Nightlights smear a frigid fog, the fumes of idling cars.
A flat-lined wind plies its wheezy bellows through burrowing bones,
smothers the distance, douses the glint of rural glimmers.
Knuckled chills know how to fang a wrist,
nip tender tongues, freeze the rivers run.
Here in the burbs the lights of bistros cannot withstand
their own desolate backyards. A scree heap of black curb
is not crossed by the lightly shod but must be booted-in and leveled.
At such times, winter lends a shivering hand
at its own burial. We become priests all frocked in fleece,
heads bowed or we howl a tune to a faceless moon.
Good or gone to the bad, we are there, in Ohio, anywhere.
"I have been a stranger in a strange land." Bible, Exodus 2:22
[X]X[X] * X[X]X * [X]X[X] * X[X]X * [X]X[X]
Hungry eyes seek substance, food matters naught--
sees the unpleasantness that drains the eyes.
The sea, Heaven on earth, explicit thought
of days that pleased youth oft courses--denies
to the stare of his feet, wherefore and whys,
slowly his head lifts, upright, turned around,
raises palms to rub eyes, lowers ... astound,
at last, life found its true purpose; a home.
Rudders turn stern, sails fixed, helms steer abound,
at last, life found its true purpose; a home.
[X]X[X] * X[X]X * [X]X[X] * X[X]X * [X]X[X]
The Creator last passed, blessed the Isles, ought
for the righteous--who first cheered led to cries--
so say I, the Lord of host ..., naught bethought,
lead to temptations; scripturally wise,
threshold darkness crossed, newcomers, eyed prize,
an ancient people's customs, rites, all-round,
diverse power creates oneness, propound,
at last, life found its true purpose; a home.
Afeared spread out and a kingdom compound,
at last, life found its true purpose; a home.
[X]X[X] * X[X]X * [X]X[X] * X[X]X * [X]X[X]
An influx flourish, commitments ill-fraught,
church breeds greed, false prophets, true profits--guise,
knowledge sought by natives plots short-changed taught,
forced natives, dethroned queen, kingdom, likewise,
unlearned natives conquered by day, by lies,
time passed, those with knowledge escapes eastbound,
some accomplished, tiresome measures, homebound,
at last, life found its true purpose; a home.
Though zilch, non-native highest seat -- renowned,
at last, life found its true purpose; a home.
[X]X[X] * X[X]X * [X]X[X] * X[X]X * [X]X[X]
Grant, native Hawaiians were first who found,
last Hawaiian; Isles, their burial mound,
at last, life found its true purpose; a home.
Moses, Exodus estranged you -- your crowned,
last -- prince by name, adoptee, choose uncrowned.
at last, life found its true purpose; a home.
Are ancient domesticated cats from an Arabic land
Is it where they came from, as history understands
But this is not so, they lived and graced
For in Cyprus was found, a skeleton in place
Egypt was favourite, until that burial place was found
Interned with its master, on Mediterranean ground
They evolved from wildcats in Africa at large
Five self-domesticating, in evolutionary charge
So the cats you see today, came from them
All coloured so different, every single one a gem
My entry into Constance's " Cat Tails " contest
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/poetry-soup-4.php
I fear
I fear not the glow of the rising sun.
I fear the perils that leave the tasks undone
I fear
I fear not the failure in examination
I fear the education that kills imagination.
I fear
I fear not the dearth of money
I fear stretching my palm in times of exigency.
I fear
I fear not the love's magical flow
I fear the burial of unspoken love in the grave of uncertain tomorrow.
I fear
I fear not the hurting word
I fear if there would be a day when I leave every word unheard
I fear
I fear not the untimely death
I fear the burial of notable thoughts under the blanket of ceased breath.
The living to themselves gossip attract,
but at death eulogies mitigate lies.
Love and care from he who breathes is withdrawn,
but his slumber does attract parties.
Fake mourners with feigned tears in burials act.
They rip off and use the grieving as pawns;
Their loss is their gain, their tears their laughter.
To fill their stomachs, they sob and flatter,
as they to misery dance, from dusk till dawn.
Whilst alive, at my deeds everyone frowns.
But at death, I am a departed 'saint'
whose sepulcher you spray with costly paint.
If you must celebrate me, do so now.
Do not in reverence to my casket bow.
Visit me now in my ramshackle house,
sharply rebuke me if you have a grouse.
Do as much you can to show you love me,
do not when I sleep go on bended knee.
Never belatedly show your respect
by attending my funeral in retrospect.
Goosies
Jennifer Lopez gets them a lot
when she listens to singers on American Idol.
Perhaps it happened to me a few times, but I can’t recall
the specific time that a song gave me the goosies.
Those crazy little pimples above which the hairs stand erect
most usually on our arms
occur when people are moved by things:
music, dance, emotions.
Also things that creep us out or give us great fear
can give us the chills or goosebumps.
My mother used to say, “When you get a sudden chill
for no specific reason, it means that someone
just walked over your grave.”
That happened for me just a couple of times.
Maybe my future burial spot is a little bit remote!
As I think and think about it, I can recall at least one time
this strange phenomenon known as goosebumps
caused not just my arms, but nearly my entire body,
to resemble that of a plucked bird!
It was back in ‘74 and I was with a small group of students
visiting the coast of the Mediterranean Sea off Spain’s beautiful Valencia.
It was late winter (or perhaps very early spring).
All my life I wanted to say I had swum in a sea far from America!
Though the temperature was extremely cold for swimming,
I dared myself to venture out into the Mediterraean that day.
As the others in my group dared only to poke their toes into the ice-cold water,
I submerged my entire body. What a shock it was!
Nevertheless, for at least twenty minutes, I lay on my back,
letting my body float and float,
drifting with the tide while making sure to keep close by the shore.
When I noticed the group was wanting to leave, I swam back.
As I sat in the bus with a towel wrapped around me, I shivered uncontrollably
and my skin puckered up as the hairs rose up on both my legs and arms.
I had been foolish that day, but I felt proud to say
I had swum in the Mediterranean Sea.
Nov. 14, 2019 for the 'Goosebumps' Poetry Contest of Delilah Ventura
Living The Nightmare
by Odin Roark
Awake in a nightmare
He leaves scratches
Atop the licorice ribbon
His winding street
Through utopian cotton candy
Blowing in the wind
Once of gale force
A temper now but a breeze
His sack of intangible gold dust
Best sprinkled along dreamer’s highway
Through the burial grounds
Of hearts left pumping airless wonder
While white bones aka jazz sticks
Tumble rhythms across
Weeded skins stretched taut
Joining deserts come alive
With blooming orchids now drenched
In sweet lather of well chewed delusions
How rich this person of interest
Ready not for judgment’s road kill
Even as heavenly vultures bemoan
While fireflies emblazon life’s levitation
Along the trail left behind
Inviting guilt to whirl dervishly
Into emotions of joyful release
How fortunate the enigma
Graveyards of living continue
Where pious mountainous gestures
Stillborn by self-righteousness
Cartwheel their legless forms
With the glee of sophistry
Knowing so well
What can never be known
Such is puzzled innocence awakened
Once wrapped ugly by confessional tears
We began our day with breakfast at the Biscuit
where the biscuits were almost as big as the dish…
then on to Pike Place Market
where they’re famous for throwing the fish.
Since water plays a vital part of Seattle
the two of us went on a hunt
for all the things we could discover along her waterfront.
We saw a diversity of people, cruise ships and a sculpture garden
as we walked at our slow and leisurely pace.
We saw all kinds of architecture ending up where a needle rises into space.
After 7 miles of waking…over streets…some level…some quite tall…
we took a ride out of the city…to Snoqualmie…to visit her waterfall.
As we hiked a little in the Pacific Northwest
among the Himalayan blackberries and pine trees rising over 100 feet tall
we were greeted with the majestic beauty of the Snoqualimie waterfall.
Even before we saw the falls…we could feel their spiritual vibe…
knowing this is a sacred place revered by the Snoqualmie tribe.
This is their sacred burial ground…
They believe from the time of a baby’s birth
the mists created by these falls connect their Heaven to their Earth
You find yourself humbly respectful…and in moments of quiet reflection…
with the waterfall roaring in the background…you can actually feel that connection.
As we returned to the skyline of Seattle…we thought how we love the city
the building that rise to great heights…
the unending flow of people, the different sounds and smells and sights…
And how we also love the country…where the mad scramble and hurry slows…
Where we’re greeted by different sounds and smells and sights
in a place where only the river flows.
In the shade and slip of paternal seas,
a daughter dwells, known to all,
consumed in thought by maternal deceits.
Angel's flared bells blow a squall,
in protest of her love for only me.
I was a father, and she my child,
a fated mistake incarnation,
an angry descendant, the sea grows wild.
Waves of revulsion, attempt at purgation,
in disgust of her love for me.
Seraphs and hell-dwellers covet alike,
lissome Anna, they claim as their kin.
Honey-vermillion fledglings make seiche,
as expiation for the sin,
of her love for me.
Blue as humans, angels with disdain,
hatched a terrible plan ill-conceived,
sent a cyanic wind, Anna's breath now is slain,
leaving the whole of creation bereaved,
in spite of her love for me.
A father sees the reason of heathens
(as all men call rapacious saints)
that blew onto Anna the poisonous breezes,
and imposed dirty deathbed constraints,
on her unnatural love for me.
Surprised then they were, no wiser than thee,
realized they can never dissever,
despite how they tried from my Annabel Lee,
my soul tie to her is forever,
held fast in her love for me.
Sour lemon moon now stealing my dreams,
of a once devoted daughter.
Dark, starless nights capturing screams,
lamenting angelic slaughter,
of the love they snatched from me.
In burial chamber's embrace, my Annabel lies serene;
still strange affection lingers in her remains.
Neither angel nor demon could have foreseen,
the futile attempt of death's chains,
to restrain her love for me.
Even at end, entwine of despair,
our bond persists beyond the cold air.
Sick silence of tombs by the sea,
soft echoes of endless decree,
Annabel whispers her love, still, only to me.
They started out as a tiny spark
A stream of a flame
And then POW!
Natural combustion
They could not keep their eyes off each other
And then they could not keep their hands to themselves
Their friends were jealous of their cozy nest.
They did everything except spoon in front of them.
I lie.
They spooned too.
I wish I could find that, their former friends said.
They were no longer needed now.
They were different people twenty years later.
Things that had made her cute before made her silly now.
His lack of friends which she thought was endearing
once upon a time
was now a burden
He wanted her to entertain him
They ended up not speaking
Not living together
Pretending they did not have two burial plots together
Silly considering
All they had to do was take out their memories
And concentrate on what had built that fire
Remembering the combustion and the heat
But they were sadly not that wise.