Long Cavern Poems
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To MOM; March 11,1979
This is the story of an animal trainer,
Whose mettle and courage, couldn't be plainer.
A search'd reveal if you'd care to explore,
None greater exists than El Eleanor.
She's faced the very meanest big game
And transformed them all , smiling and tame.
There's Big Daddy Harry, King of the Brood,
He fights in the jungle and brings home the food.
When the hunting is hard, his scorn can be raw.
El soothes the pain, takes a thorn from the Pa.
The next animal is Rusty the Red.
The patron saint of unmade beds.
A beast of habits, bad ones galore,
His head s in the clouds, his, clothes on the floor.
El's plans are to put an end to his bad mannered life,
By chasing him within,an inch, of. his wife.
Lindsey's the next, she's no longer wild.
El taught her well when she was. a child,
Out of the home and into the night,
She's now a trainer in her own right.,
By way of taming by putting a smile on,
She's done a dog, a .cat, and one big Italian.
The animal Robert likes his milk whole,
Drinks only unmixed, unopened and cold.
Devour, he can, a whole pound of meat,
Sharing with him sure ain't a treat.
El''s main defense against his devour'n,
Is a refrigerator as big as a cavern.
Next on the tour tour is Kristin Clothes-Horse.
Her closet is full, but never her purse.
El hopes to prevent a new"confederacy"
One which would a poor man, namely, "Poverty Lee".
Now we find Jenny the Baker.
With time, she's become quite the good pastry maker.
Jenny however''s a wrestling cook,
An odd combination that's not in the book,
She has her own reasons, for truth to tell, son,
The cooking is a wrestling move called a"full Nelson".
Hilary's a creature who likes to get around
In automobiles at the speed of sound.
She doesn't always though, 'specially not at night,
Then she likes to travel at the speed of light.
It's hard to see now but she's on the track,you see,
Of her own future business - called Hilary's Taxis.
Nori's the last, but not the least,
A full member of this zoo, and like the rest a beast.
A paradox of sorts, this Blue Prize winner,
Is proof that church schools are chock full of sinners,
Thus we are the animal house,
And though we may complain and grouse,
Everyone, no matter his status,
Thinks El Eleanor's got to be, the World's Greatest!
Happy Fifty-fifth Birthday,
From son Rusty,
Ask the fingers holding
an aloof pen.
Ask, where its passion has gone,
ambition has fled.
The fingers will be still.
How...
the empty eyes will look
at the pale pages
yoked with numbers in black...
Then,
just observe...
how a curve widens on the face
as they gaze out of the window...
The far...the farthest!
Fast, it dies out.
A swarm of feelings from the heart's cavern,
pick up their last daring flight,
to die at last
of thirst
of love...
These eyes will never dream.
Words will never be welcome.
One day they will be dumb as stars,
And grey as time.
They'll give up the race,
race to superiority.
Cold the heart as ever,
will sleep in a colder body.
Frozen as dreams they were,
will leave the turbid eyes.
Will leave,
for the worms to delight
in a body so baked in plight!
And Time?
Will it mourn or joy?
That it could not find
the fragrance of a budding mind
before it too was damned.
Lost forever
in its quicksand...
Now we have kings of hell
A metaphysical chess of wishes
All revolving around me
Trapped inside this cave
This mountain
It’s still really before Christ
the prophet hasn’t been born
but if we can find the exit
we can change the real world
come back to this cave and rediscover destiny
A dream within a dream
and the dreams of fourty thieves
Three wishes
And a genie passed around
An exit we can’t find
A world inside a mountain cave with a sun and its own stars
What will we do?
What will we say?
When the door opens?
The travelers come in
and the lamp with a will of its own escapes our grasp
and we are stuck here forever
Fighting amongst ourselves with our own selfishness vanity and greed?
When all of your wishes have been granted
Many of your dreams will be destroyed
Just another truthful romance of a famous Satanist
Born into something wished upon mankind
40 thieves created in drunken stupors intellectual combat and jealousy
When will the door open and the exit be shown to us?
Will we take the population of the future world into the past with us?
Or leave them behind in this mountain?
Will you build me the king of the fourty thieves into a god?
and lock me here forever in this mountain forever
With your genie
Have you figured out the perfect wish?
Are we sober yet?
Have we woken to find sobriety?
Take me out of the harpie pool
Lead me to the wishing well
Give me my coins of the days of old
and remind me once again that we are merely traveling forward in time
Can you hear me?
Can you see me?
Do you know what I know?
Can you see what I see?
Will u lead me to the exit?
To change our world
Or are you still wishing for all the glory?
In a dream with in a dream
40 dreamers wishing their dreams into reality stuck inside a mountain
this earth is what we are
A cavern with its own sun and solar system and space ships
and an exit into the past
where we the fourty thieves have just become
prophets and visionaries
Momentary gods of futuristic possibilities
to be creatively shunned and thrown away
Will you lead me to the exit?
Wish me to save you from your vanity denials and greed
Have you forgotten everything?
Do you know what I know?
Do you see what I see?
Am I here alone?
Did you leave already?
Is the door closed?
Is the magic word still
Open sesame?
Let me jump into your river run rich as Euphrates.
Let me lay in your tall grass valleys nestled between two hard black mountain peaks,
where I
Can drink up the sunrays.
And Black up my Brown and Brown up my Light.
Somewhere between them rolling black hills is where your thick bush hides the cool
crystal
streams.
I sip your fruit plants sweet cocoa milk and look up into your skies sunrays.
It ricochets off the smooth chocolate black trees that support your voluptuous magnolia
bloom
The wind blows and your flower bounces and quakes, fanning its sweet aroma through the
Atmosphere,
Sweeping those soft fluffy pedals across my face.
I smile
And you Black up my Brown and Brown up my Light.
In the arms of the soft black cavern, under the river’s waterfall, I make my home.
It’s a heart of paradise embracing me.
Inviting me in.
I hear the water passing over, throbbing and pulsing in sync with mine.
I suck berries at the foot of the open fields.
That sweet oil black juice dances down my mouth.
Every fluid filled bite overflows in my lips and runs down the side to drip slowly from
my chin.
I look up into your skies and stars look down and speak my name.
The moon moans. The womb of man is this woman
She alone can Black up my Brown and Brown up my Light.
Then ever so gently the leaves pull back and open up her vast and succulent fields
I slowly crawl into her pastures then firmly and stiffly begin to dig up her soil.
Turning over her rich black earth.
Toiling day and night tilling her meadows,
Unearthing her treasures buried below.
The constant pounding and packing up a full load;
Breaking into new ground.
Cracking the topsoil and penetrating her nutritious moist and sticky fertile turf.
Never has the earth been split like this to uncover her deepest mysteries.
Next I unpack my deepest confidence and my strongest statues.
Then with my tool, through the moist and milky mass, I scoop out a deep warm hole to plant
My dreams.
Packing and pushing it deep in the soggy substance, time and time again until….
The thunder cracks this empress’ tempest
The earth contracts. Fear collapsed.
And here and only here,
I Black up my Brown and Brown up my Life!
Form:
Time wasted.
Time gone.
Alone and empty with nothing to show.
I look down at my hands.
Their empty, red, so much potential, these hands.
Coulda created the world,
coulda destroyed it.
How much have they done?
if they could tell stories….
if they could tell, what they almost had accomplished.
The dreams they started to fulfill
the evils they had committed.
These hands that brought both good and bad.
Time wasted.
Time gone.
The sun sets.
This time it will not rise.
It is bound by a number
it reached the end.
Life flashes by me as if scenery pass a train
blurring as it hurdles past.
Only a mix of colors
a painting left in the rain.
And like it now, there is only an empty canvas left.
Nothing on it
nothing to show.
Time wasted.
Time gone.
I look at my hands.
Did they bring me to this place?
Did they lead me here?
Oh the things they felt
soft skin of a girl, smooth, warm
The comfort of a fire.
The fur of a kitten.
The gritty sand of a vast desert.
They didn’t need light to see the rough walls in a cavern.
But what does it matter.
They cant tell their tale.
It’s a secret that will pass with them.
But they helped me wipe away tears.
They helped pull me up mountains.
They’ve ran down six strings to create beauty.
They’ve written out words that have poured out my insides.
Now they try to grasp the wind that’s blowing me away.
Opening and closing.
I look down
their still empty.
They never held a pen that signed a country into being.
They never felt the steel that won a war.
They never held a newborn baby with hands like his
only smaller.
They never signaled commands to vast crowds.
They never brought someone from the brink of death.
They never had scars made from nails.
They’ve had cuffs around their wrists though.
They’ve shaken from fear.
They’ve clenched in rage.
They’ve felt as dry as bones bleached in the desert.
They’ve fumbled and dropped things
things that weren’t made to be broken.
They’ve left bruises and blood.
They’ve grasped my heart
trying to hold it together as it burst apart.
They’ve covered my eyes at things I could not bare.
These hands
now empty
now cold.
Time gone.
Time wasted.
I burrow in silence locked in the depths of a grave.
I need no more guidance as I dwell in my hollow cave.
Unknown whispers…they creek and moan and I am left breathless
trying to pick up the pieces of my last transgression. I’ve been here before. I’ve gained and I’ve lost and somewhere in between I remain
unstable. I want to dig a deep hole to bury my head. It would be
covered in soil and would reek of regret.
Above the grass yet below the trees I live in a cavern made of clay and hard stone. It shadows each memory and releases all the reasons
why I hate myself. Please...no more thinking about the reasons I
need to stay alive. I ask the cold stone why I am left to
starve in such darkness made by my own hands. He tells me I forgot
how to be sane and my mania needed to take a break. I created a
world of flashbacks leading to my miserable life. Each
flashback contains less joy and each time of joy makes me shutter
in ugliness. I am undeserving of such things.
Under the brink of my life lies understanding of why I have been abandoned by everyone I know. They all say I am worthless and mean
nothing to them. I agreed with them and left as soon as the twilight hit midnight and before the dew spread across the land. I cry
out to the constellations and ask for forgiveness of my
mistakes made intentionally. I am nothing but a sorry cause ready
to take flight on top of a black dove. White doves are pure and innocent. Black doves are a reflection of my poor soul. I have seen the depth of this
cavern for so long I think I am turning into a man without
a thought. No eyes to see inside a home of obscurity. Murky and
dusty I feel so alone that I wish to breathe no more. It’s so stuffy in the
shadows. The fog outside tries to shield me from the bitterness of my resentments, but it carries not enough strength to achieve such a goal.
I have nothing more to give and no more reasons to live.
I have so much to forgive and please one more sedative.
I have no more lies to spill and no more time to kill.
I have no more cries to thrill and no more rhyme to quill.
-there is no more hope inside your soul when you’re a caveman.
Caves Contest
Sponsor: Anthony Slausen
Date Written: August 3, 2016
The cavern breathes.
Its walls slick with time, with damp, with secrets.
It has seen centuries of footsteps,
but tonight, it watches.
Above, the sky stretches wide—
galaxies shifting, burning,
too far, too indifferent
to witness what he has done.
She is beneath him.
Was beneath him.
Her breath stolen, her body cooling,
the fight long gone from her limbs.
He had taken what he wanted.
More than that.
Everything.
Now, only the cavern knows.
His hands, trembling now, touch the stone.
His chest heaves.
Guilt? Regret?
No—something deeper, something worse.
And then, he screams.
The sound rips through the cavern,
tearing against rock,
splitting the silence open
like a wound.
The walls tremble.
The ground shifts.
The cavern awakens.
For a breath, it grieves.
For a breath, it remembers her.
Then, it judges.
The air thickens.
The trembling stops.
His voice is taken,
flung into the void,
cast to the stars
never to return.
This is his punishment.
Not death.
Not solitude.
But silence.
The last tether to her,
severed.
Once, she pressed her palm to his chest.
Felt the hum of breath.
The warmth of skin.
The pulse of something real.
Now—nothing.
The cavern swallows the last echo.
Above, the universe turns on,
uncaring.
And the stars—
they do not grieve for him.
Reflection:
This poem is about justice—true, raw justice. The kind that human hands often fail to deliver. He took everything from her, stripping her of dignity, of breath, of life itself. But the world, the universe, does not punish men like him. They walk free, justified by excuses, shielded by silence.
But the cavern does not forget. It listens. It knows what he has done. And so, in a world where men take and walk away unscathed, the cavern becomes the reckoning. It takes the only thing left to take—his voice, his ability to be heard, his existence as something that matters. It does what the world refuses to do.
His punishment is not death. That would be too simple, too kind. Instead, he is erased, left in a silence that mirrors the silence he forced upon her. A silence that echoes forever, but never back to him.
And the stars? The universe? They do not grieve. Because this was never about them.
This is about her.
To Have Once Kissed The Monster Of Sorrows And Burning Death
I slow-walked hot desert sands,
cacti begging to stick my naked feet
volcano sun searing my white-faced skin
why, why has blindness sent me into this inferno
to wander its scorching earth, its mind blasting rays.
Shall I perish and become those white bones I've seen
just another beast that ate glassy sand
a dying soul, weeping for denied love, for lost love
a dying heart jagged in its loneliness
in its unfathomable emptiness,
hollow moans escaping parched lips
dried cries, showering hurt's coldest depths
with spittle from a cavern of pain.
Night winds seep into this body and its brief respite
no relief from broken thoughts
she that once had loved me the best
now as gone as, sweetest of hope once cherished so.
Has not, punishment been unduly gifted,
burned alive for a single unfaithful touch of lips
she that vexed me, ate my lust and gave this my due
now sings to me in my dying breath,
her true form now shown,
hideous in its ghastly armor,
its claws sharp as razors
its fangs glowing in crimson hues
only now does light reveal what lust had deceived
a monster birthed to bring only destruction.
I feel the sun, its rays warm my newfound white,
lizards hide under under my new bony white gleam
lighter now with flesh eaten and rotted away,
a ghost, staring blindly at that accursed fireball above
and in deepest of woes, in saddest of thoughts
curse the woeful day I first betrayed Love
to kiss that monster of sorrows and burning death.
Robert Lindley, 10-20-2018
Free Verse, Dark Verse, (A Dying Desert Stroll)
Note: Woke at about 3 am , dying of thirst. Went to
the fridge and got cold water to drink. Wide awake,
I decided to read some of my old poetry. One sad poem
gave rise to my sitting down and writing this, a dark
tale of lost love, punishment for a weakened kiss given
to a monster deceiving in appearance and later, too late
finally seen for what it was.
A tale that has had befallen many a young man-- when a
sexy vixen set fang and claw in, to led astray those
in a weak moment of temptation yield to its deceiving beauty.
This inspired by an old poem written in 1975, and the Halloween
decorations in my neighbors yards..
With a staff fitted with a blade in hand,
Leonid entered the cave.
It was dark and hot,
And with each step,
Leonid became more and more fearful.
The cave then opened up
Into a large cavern,
And in the center,
On a stone throne,
Sat the dragon
And in his hand was the chalice.
Quickly,
Leonid positioned himself
To attack with the sharp end
Of his staff pointed at the dragon.
“Now, where are your manners?”
Boomed the dragon.
“You enter my home uninvited,
Point a pointy stick at me
And not even say a simple
‘Good day, Dragon’.”
Leonid was taken aback,
He did not expect
The dragon to speak
And not like a nobleman.
He, quickly, put aside his astonishment
And yelled back,
“Good day, Dragon,
I have come for the chalice
You hold in your hand.
I am prepared to do battle!”
“Do battle?!?
Whatever for, my dear boy?”
Why exactly have you come to my home
And threaten my life?
Have I burnt down your house?
Killed your entire family?
Killed your beloved dog?”
Questioned the dragon.
“Well, no…
But I want the Chalice of Courage
And I will do whatever
I have to do to get it,
Including vanquishing you!”
Answered Leonid.
“Truly,
Why don’t you simply
Ask me for the chalice?”
Cooed the dragon,
“It would be much easier.”
“Alright, Dragon.
May I, please, have
The Chalice of Courage,
So I may sip from it
And become courageous.”
The dragon stared at Leonid
For two heart beats,
Then said “No!”
“If you were not
Going to give me the chalice,
Why did you make me ask for it?”
Bellowed Leonid, angrily.
“First things first,
I made you ask
Because it was the polite thing to do,”
Said the dragon,
“And I won’t give you
The Chalice of Courage
Because you don’t need it.”
Leonid’s jaw dropped,
And he stared at the dragon
As though he had lost his mind.
After a minute or two,
He spluttered,
“I don’t need it?!
I don’t need it?!!
Do you know what I went through
To get here?
How far I traveled?
How I was jeered at
By the village folk?”
The dragon just smiled
At the young man
Growing more and more angry,
“Oh, I know what you went through.
It is quite a task
To make it up here,
But the fact that you did it,
That you made it here,
Proves that you don’t need it.”
Form:
he was looking for a new enemy
for it was the man he hated before
which defined his very being &
in that respect, there was no other
who could possibly take his place---
he searched far and wide, after the last
fight had come to a close---two
young men with all the anger in the world
comparing themselves to two old men
who in giving up on everything had only
each other to hate.
with clenched fists he walked in his
black wool trench coat during the frigid
december early afternoons,
keeping his eyes peeled for a target in which
he might shed some of the pent up aggression,
however,
to no avail, his search ended as quickly as it
began & home he went,
frustrated & without the meaning that an
exchange of mutual despise could
bring (as it had so many times before).
twiddling his thumbs inside his cavern of
confusion, he wondered just what he would do
if he never did find another adversary?
inevitably, after drinking himself into a stupor,
he meandered to the bathroom to relieve
himself, taking a moment to stare into the
mirrored reflection before exiting the room.
the young man gaining wrinkles by the day
saw the old man happy still in his ability to
nitpick at such lesser priorities in life,
especially when his friends were dropping like
flies, their bodies filled with all those
wonderful cancers & diseases that come to
you once you’ve carved your little niche out in the
world.
he wasn’t envious, but he was jealous of the
meaning that came with disease---he wondered if
he had developed the problems that came with
the lives of others he’d known, if he would
treat himself as the sickness then---for, he
would disappear into the vast mass of
individuals whose lives had been cut short,
whose personalities were now time clocks
all set to a differently specified ending---
one which was already know,
and therefore, much less interesting.
on the contrary,
if he was to make the very absence of
sickness his enemy, then he felt he’d catch
himself in a damned-if-you-do-damned-if-you-
don’t sort of context,
where meaning might arise in whatever
conclusion did come from that mindset---
still, tracing the wrinkles in his face with his
index, he imagined that not even he
could take such a cliché seriously enough to
act on it.