Long Caved Poems
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President Trump has rattled Washington's cage
with an unlikely combination of technology and rage
He's twittered and texted sharp barbs, targeted criticism
at oversensitive pols, used to kow-towing and witticisms
He's shaken up the stuffed shirts of the established order
by trying to stop criminal aliens with a wall at the border
He's gone toe-to-toe with the demagogues of Russia and China
unlike his predecessors, who've caved in to the Soviet-Sinos
And he's raised a crucial issue, from which productive discussion has strayed:
If our government won't protect its citizenry, why should its workers get paid?
February 13, 2019
Entry in "A Positive President Trump" Contest
Sponsor: Anthony Slausin
The feeling of a ceramic mug being formed.
Mental blocks, not normal.
Just the clattering of pencils as if they are a cure.
Taking time out of nothing.
Taking tempered emotions.
Stemming and steaming.
I have enough opportunities.
They said that.
I have enough capacity.
Struggles, and other swirling winds.
When the thoughts escape.
The doorway gets caved in.
The ceramic mug is formed.
Waits for the way cameras speak.
Not a soft sound.
Just the sun and back.
They say I should consider not making connections.
They say I make them confused.
My mental block is endless.
I wish people would stop trying.
If the cure was found…
Then the moon landing is endless as me.
A cupola shin, prickly dick creed, hoary
testes tossed, master baiting ova all eel trades
crossed the fecund Rubicon and ejaculated
olly olly oxen yawping, in utero seminal raids
with phallic coup d’etat that buck came vasocongested spades
lit torch, where hello kitty Ernst lee screeched
amidst Grafenberg tit parades
bumping uglies during four nuke key eight ting game
where pinkish puckered two lips viz biological
Russian roulette played – birth control relegated as desuetude
hotly contested fee conned, caved heat seminal blitzkrieg overlaid
bilging swamped,
whence olds eye goat ruff fused exiting nightshade
shy ham mull in, and gave way to blast ta cyst
vis a visa viz biological fertilization qua two plump milkmaids
from inchoate seeds juiced beginning
to compress bladder re: lemonades
per diem mother via umbilical cord fueling gestation,
where sonogram shows faint genetic threnody skein
perchance manifold jades
nope – no fallacy when peppy thrust with sucks esse full feint
after thwarting objection against skin flute charmed thence invades
which begot conception from chromosomal traits stitched
via jean S, and her faction of trumpeting handmaids
whose fecund ditty began to feel swell as biological reproduction
showed no uterine back grades
as Tabula rasa In utero endured fusillades per what mother tubby ingested
sustenance promulgated noticeable womb dar full expansion fusillades
of nutriments ordaining future health of progeny
riddling endless questions within the gallimaufry
discombobulated mental, physical fatigue enfilades
and spiritual state of momma me ya in tha family way, whereby baby blueprint an outcome as nano sized atomic bombshells scoured decades
to determine the ontological makeup from when the fluid dynamics
spelling impregnation since time immemorial and into the future cascades
artfully concatenating eminent grise immaculate kindred laminated with waxy substance i.e. vernix, though smooth
doth serve analogous to microscopic switch-blades.
Form:
I read the burn to hand-feed
the dark with pills of pleasure ~
twilight entombed
within troubled walls,
swollen and sore,
throbbing with ache,
an insatiable appetite
to relish the realism
of your silhouette of sapience,
a breathing poem
with metaphors in motion,
meticulously merged
with the musk of euphoric musings…
O bronco wild, white force,
the bona fide heat
heaving in bedazzled breeze
around the fragile fingers
of my unclothed heart.
Walk me out of the devious
doors of demented dreams;
free-flow me to a realm
of quenching quiescence,
where condemnatory pupils
do not imprison
the tongue that savors
the flavor of foreverness,
with everlasting vapors
of pulsing peridots
staining these panopticon lips,
sealed with softly sewn secrets.
Serve me your sanguine silk…
They do not sympathize
with the bleeding thorns
painfully wanting ~
sleeplessly yearning
to trace the honest waves,
catalyzing the spark
awaiting escape,
away from the cross-eyed fables
fabricating the fragrance
of my zealous love ~
your rose lady,
restless to bloom as one,
rooted to the runes written
across your ambidextrous armor.
I am tattered and torn,
stuck in a scrutinized cycle,
yet still I refuse
to let these petals wilt.
I let my thoughts wander
to the waking wilderness,
where gypsy blossoms
caress and nurture
the penetrating luster
of pearl-light sepals,
resembling my damask spirit,
unstained by the sepulchral ashes ~
dust-laden, kohl-corpse chains
of faithless society,
of blood serpents
masking malevolence,
pretending to be well-wishers…
I care not for their callous clamors,
cruelty caved
in charismatic lies,
deciphering my virtuous dawn
as dangerous delirium;
so take me away ~
to flawless fields
bathed in orange topaz skies…
~ I am yours to worship,
your masterpiece of paradise ~
***Inspired by the artwork; The Lady Rose, by Paul Delvaux
Some young people just don’t seem to know
that freedom is the only way to go.
With minds addled by tired lies,
and not experience enough to realize
that when everything is said and done,
America is made of awesome.
They’re told to fixate and lock in
on only our past mistakes and sins.
They rant about how we had slaves,
forgetting we fought to end that plague.
Did the Romans ever do that much?
Did the Byzantines or other such
great empires of the eons passed
ever bother to get off their ass?
Did the Arabs or Turks free such men?
Hell no, they enslaved more than Europeans!
And even now, in this present day
the Islamists still claim God allows slaves?!
But our nation from the beginning
knew freedom’s fight was worth winning.
Eighty years of struggle, at high cost,
but freedom won, and bondage lost.
It was not the only battle fought,
or the only harsh lesson taught.
We made mistakes with the Indians,
but now we call them countrymen.
Women once knew not the vote,
now of this and more they boast.
Jim Crow once claimed southern lands,
so we ran it down, despite Democratic hands
holding up the great, finishing blow,
but they failed at that, now it’s no more.
Against external foes we soldiered on,
from Nazi filth to Socialist thralls.
The Nazis we put in the grave,
and outlasted the Reds until they caved
into the crushing, inevitably misery
that always follows their ideology.
The trend I think is plain to see,
when evil rises, so do we.
Though it may take years, even decades
we push on until it is unmade.
This is what our schools should teach,
and people everywhere should preach.
To reject it all due to past mistakes,
a certain type of fool it takes.
To expect perfection from a species flawed
goes against human nature’s laws.
Be glad your nation still fights wrong
when most go along to get along…
But enough of redigesting old days gone,
let’s go on to what makes us awesome…
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
The touch of imperfectionality on some naked truth.
It burns deep into the flesh of happiness,
Yet stands smiling at the laxity of frailty.
A drop of legality would have seared the ice.
Some degree of excess consciousness couldn't avail indiscretion.
So selfish I was, struck the baton to revealing.
Tore down the garment of wonderfulness.
If only it had wrath a shield against grievous consequences.
Strayed from the bareness of my palms, my cherished secret.
Caved in the passing-by of history, are acts and actions I adore.
Regrets bid me awareness but I annex consolation in satisfaction.
Springs of flowing emotions seals my loosed heart.
I'm hung to the persistence of negativity.
Sunk into contentions so absurd to gamble worth for kinds.
Traversing the petrified pining wasteland
I reached the emerald meadow,
emerged from the abyss of condensed aloneness
to be with you, entwined,
in the stellar sapphire night of desire,
but the enchanting echo of your faint footsteps
faded away from the portal of my heart.
What stayed with me
was the sound of silence you made,
I heard in the music of memory,
hidden in the fervor of my emotion, unexpressed.
As the ticking clock of our sanguine time stopped
at the edge of eternity,
my yearning like the sun
flaming the fleeting horizon
engulfed you with the sensual spectrum of craving,
the pacified passion got configured
into the unvoiced language of love,
composing the lilting lyric of belonging
intonated by my ardent words, unsaid.
When drifting on the delusive trail
of the melting mirage of memory menagerie
you disappeared like the dry dust
of the caved-in dune of the desolate desert,
I heard the mute me murmur, I love you,
I never said to you.
She insisted on her own way.
Every holiday was at her house.
I am the matriarch, she said. I have the most children.
So I had thirteen, because she had twelve.
It did not make any difference. My husband still caved in to Mommy.
For Christmas she gives me a five dollar bill.
Our children each get a twenty-five dollar gift certificate
My husband wracks up anywhere between four and five thousand dollars.
Does she not realize we have a JOINT back account?
I believe he might stop getting his “you are my baby money” if she did.
I also think it is a suggestion for us to move out, but we cannot afford it.
She is not horrible.
I can live with it, because what choice do I have?
She raised baby to always get his own way.
All he has to do is have a tantrum.
He has had hundreds of them.
Which is why he cannot keep a job.
He goes from tantrum to tantrum.
I get the last laugh as she stays home watching thirteen children.
That I had to try and make her life a living hell in her old age.
It is working too. I pick up my coffee cup and leave for the day.
Glad she gets to see how much help “baby” is.
She raised him after all.
I heard the birds sing, brushing me the breeze blew,
for you as the sunburst sky flushed your face in hue.
How adorably you bloomed for me you had no clue,
if only you knew.
At the edge of dainty dawn in your garden I found me,
how brightly I’d sparkled like the pearl of pure ecstasy,
being on patina of your enticing rose a drop of dew,
maybe you knew.
From the eternity I borrowed the time we’d shared,
like the blazing sunset sky my love in reverie flared.
How keen I was to see the day my dream came true,
if it was you who knew.
In blue firmament of your eyes my fervor had flown
to the charming nest I’d built that became our own.
How fondly I sheltered my memory as storms blew,
from time to time you knew.
Sound of your voice rippled in the silence of longing,
filling with melody the void of my lonesome being.
How complete I was when I found my yearning anew,
perchance you knew.
When tracing the trail of the melting mirage you left,
like dry sands of caved-in dune I felt deserted bereft,
how sadly my unsaid words ‘I need you’ I heard rue,
perhaps you knew.
When your essence remained within me as a shadow,
fused with the darkness of abyss in my heart hollow,
how many candles my love had lighted there for you,
sometimes you knew.
August 4, 2020
Contest : If Only, Maybe, Sometimes
Sponsor : Silent One
Three hours suppressed before breaching the tight-lipped
container left neatly wrapped in homogenous foam
and smoky demeanor. Its lid caved in, having been tapped.
Through misspoken holes sprung arcadian visions,
lacking Peloponnese disposition, still semi-smoldering
with the tinder touch of Hephaestus extracted from
less subtle artistry attributed Zeus, high up on his steed,
bare-chested. Arms crossed.
How he used to look down on we mortals, wee, buttressed
by oxygen, in two-
parts hydrogen, one-part dioxide.
But this was real, not some Florescent church.
Outside the perimeter lay black stacks of texts I had gradually
gathered through time’s non-existence, way back when time
weighed as factual matter. Of course they still mattered.
Yet, I chose them to lay there, bathed in the soot of three daughters
I failed to veil. What do you say, Rita Dove? to wear
my white-skinned daughters spun lesser as still lovelier silk?
Is there anything clumsier to misappropriate than weather-vane hate,
with its gallant gait, with its augmented pigmentation,
when there’s no room in storage?
A grey-haired protestant behind me prayed;
“Oh, Thank God!
Oh! Thank God”
He praised through my bedroom window’s socket, shocked to shatter
by fire, fresh come splattered beard. I had not known him prior, this man I would learn was a fair-weather friar. So; I blew him a kiss.
But in my eyes,
he saw an unwell wish, so;
It needs to be done with this.