Long Coarseness Poems
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Sometimes
you are given the key
to decipher the language
of trees, of rivers, the secret
liturgy of the earth.
It is not a language
of words but a kind
of momentary infusion
of feeling, unfiltered,
so pure that it slips through
the coarseness of speech
and arrives as a sudden
insight in the full clarity
of itself.
You try and capture
its reflection or its echo in words,
attempt to coral its presence
within the confines
of a page but it always
escapes leaving whispers
in its wake or a pang
in a place where something
should be.
There are days
when you pause and listen
to what murmurs up
from deep within the well
of yourself, all the poems
you have written
most of which have been
forgotten or have become
mute or are now no more
than empty shells abandoned
by what was there.
And there are some
that rise up out of the silence
and once more claim
the ear of your soul, convey
a formless magic
that seems to reside there
just below the words.
There are no perfect poems
just those that have made room
for something beyond
the self to speak.
These are the ones you keep.
Pawns Brokers
“Grit is a better word or term”.
They have it – these “Grunts” - grit –
that sandpaper bearded coarseness
structure in the face of fallacy,
backbone to support the flaws
of the wishy-washy conspirators.
Perseverance in the face of punishments
wet boots and leaky tents,
rubbers to cover “rifles and guns”,
tenacity in the face of tedium,
the character, will, and fiber of freedom
melded into unified intent,
a molten steel adapting
in the face of resistance.
They are the “grit” -
dirt, gravel, pebbles, stones –
assembled, mixed, imbedded,
into the foundation of flexibility.
G I’s, ground infantry, “grunts”,
foot soldiers, men, women,
volunteers in a world of privilege
honoring history’s forebears.
First brazen move of chessboards
unseen pawn brokers, last weary
card thrown in game of war.
“Brothers” – back to back –
protections tough guys
carrying the weight
of battle’s lies.
12/22/2015
submitted to ---------IS A BETTER WORD – Poetry contest
sponsor – Verlena S. Walker
Touch, translucent, delicate and sparse,
Awareness fleeting and fragile;
Treasure of treasures, Lo and mark,
Seeker born quick and agile.
Peripheral only, inward glancing,
Laughing at clumsy gestures of life.
Around, yet beyond, in silhouette dancing
Coalescing at times into strife.
I, but a dalliance at your disposal,
Significant only in ego's arousal;
Clinging to fringes as bee's to aroma,
Dancing as mules in the heat of the day.
Unyielding the struggle to reach the return,
Hasten the kiss of the flame without burn.
Feel; yet not touch - deliver; yet stay.
Become both the twilight and dawn of the day.
Bring me my head and deliver my heart,
Cast not the ending from out which my start.
I have found burst and bewilderment channeled,
I have danced ever in mists of the morn.
I have been dazed in the blindness of passion,
And from this, I now have been torn.
Endless longing, deepest ache,
For glimpse of glory in the crack of life,
I, who have held, the briefest of story,
Lay baffled and bleeding on the grounds of my life.
A place without struggle between silence and pain,
Tween the birth of religion, and thought before stain,
Where feelings of affections cry false
And the feelings of coarseness disdain.
Where feelings priori shadowed and subtle,
Give birth to the lie egos feign.
There is no lie in the light that is life,
For the dark, who knows what is true.
The meaning of struggle and search for rebirth,
Is your Shadow becoming You.
We will write
For every thousand ton of ore
There is a nugget,
And so we will write like miners,
Breathing the dust of our darkness,
Filling our veins and lungs
With the choke of our lives.
As words are milk to suckled piglets,
We write with starvation and hunger,
Hoping to balance inequities,
Satiate an endless thirst for peace.
Past lives will crash and updrafts of multitudes
Will be born and born again.
Christians in a hurricane of rain aimed at
the ruin of Roe v. Wade,
And we will write.
Our Lantern is Hope, Our Plea a Silent Sea
Of Restoration.
Through the mist of shallow ears, into
The Droning Deafness of Controversy
We will write.
Words that speak the language of Mind.
An Internal Braille that rolls over tongues
With the coarseness and taste of strife
Luring all gentler souls to a softer life
We write in story, prose and poem
It does not matter if our words are never heard
Or read
From the moment we give them birth,
They are dead.
We also know that death is not an end
The line continues beneath the water
The lure is at the tip
It baits a new beginning
Something will end - something will begin
And we will write
Little ant, you are invited to rest here
on the back of my hand.
You’re invited to think about time with me.
I am always thinking about time,
all those thoughts pollinate my very skin.
Time little ant is not on your side.
Feel the coarseness of my skin
the ridges and gnarls
time was my master, yet a bad teacher.
I must confess that I paid too much attention
to the movement of the sky
and missed the movement of my mind,
and you little ant
waving your myopic antennas, no doubt pondering
the pheochrome taste of my words,
no doubt sensing something so large
that you can see it not.
Not even if my eye comes close to you
can you perceive me.
This is what time looks like little ant,
it’s too discrete to be trapped,
too considerable to be conceivable.
We are both just ants filtered through
its porous skins.
Now you wander onto a fingernail.
What now little ant?
Do you glimpse times cliff edge
as I you shake you off,
do you grasp that which is unimaginable to you,
yet which will surely kill you?
Do I?
Mom, I embrace the SunShine
Mom, I embrace the Rain
Mom, I alleviate the coarseness of the grind
Mom, I eliminate all pain
Mom, I welcome all rhythms that move me
Mom, I relax the most easily triggered part of my mind
Mom, I take in all the therapeutically medicinal sources that soothe me
Mom, I think of You in the Center of A Gentle Wind as The True Unwind
Mom, I completely get a hold of myself and correct my attitude
Mom, I close my eyes to start a relaxing Time Machine Journey
Mom, Every WonderFull Vision that I see (again) only further UpLifts My Gratitude
Mom, I Immediately Grow Up Even More, which does Additionally Assure Me
Mom, I EnJoy a Gold 'N' Nugit Ice Cream Bar on Mother's Day In Memory of You
Mom, There Is No Maternal Influence or Inspiration Above You
Mom, I wish I was a scientist that could create the The Perfect Recreation and Chemistry of You
Mom, if I could, and if I was able to, I would Hug You Till I Die....My Last Words Would Be 'I Love You'
Is Donald Trump not essentially American,
An exemplary icon of quintessential America?
A normal man to the loud, confident American,
The pride of the burly, bullish pedestrian?
Freedom of speech is understood by Americans,
To mean that diversity is the consequential result,
And that all can perambulate along vocality’s road,
Without fear of scathing, of the eloquence catapult.
Bigotry is rife in the States and you can’t criticise,
Harshness, coarseness or brevity for anything,
Because if you do a snide remark with cascade,
To sedate your narrow mind and morality thing.
So here’s the thing: the president is not normal,
But is a speciality without symbolism of the norm,
So maybe it should be harder, languages required,
To become a presidential nominee with silk form.
The rock that to the climber reaches out with
jagged arms
And to the sore foot of a traveler turns a tough
rough back
Holds within its harshness
The promise of swift marches
To they who aspire towards its summit.
And to each of them it someday proves
That in the roughness of the way lies the
smoothness of the journey—
For only amid coarseness can footholds form
And only to jagged rock can a grip bond fast.
It‘s the same with the affairs of men:
They who walk us on oiled paths,
Who smooth the way to soothe our soles,
Soon see their care turn to a scare
When upon its glossy form no crack is revealed
where seeds of hope may lodge
Nor any gaping holes seen through which golden
beams may slip and light the darkness ahead.
For fortune draws her breath through cracks
That make coarse the route
That to success leads—
Cracks that soothe our soles with spiced pains,
The pains that herald victory
Which barren comforts bear not.
Just waiting in line to register for college courses.
I did not relish such crowded coarseness.
Then, mon Dieux, my eyes fixed upon you, lost was I!
Your brown eyes, made me feel like I was flying in the rainbows
Of a star phantasmagorical sky.
No, I told myself, I was imagining such things...
But fate arranged our years together, beyond my limited imaginings!
We lived and loved together under sunny and rainy kweather.
We were somehow born to be soul-tethered.
Cooked quiche Lorraine, salads so divine amd kthe best part was,
at bedtime,
This old fashioned girl was thine, and totally shined.
You got me to attend the Old Town School of Folk Music and learned
to play guitar.
You introduced me to Second City, where I was to ibecame a minor
improvisational star.
We studied Baba Ram Das and went to sensitivity trainings.
My life with you was neither boring nor draining!
We blew weed and went to see the "Yellow Submarine", together.
Came out laughing so hard, we walked home in the rainy weather!
You gave me my first cat, Luvey, my first sweet Calico,
Hal, the fantastic, far-out life I had with you,was quite the show.
For my birthday, a book of great poetry ....Kahlil Gibran, so cool!
Thanks Hal, for loving me and never treating me like a fool.
I will forever hold you in my beating heart,
From my inner soul, there is a gem-filled Hal part!
With you, I was forever dancing on freshest air.
We were on the wings of time, a rare, loving special pair!
11- 13- 2020
As a pebble from a rough rock, my existence began.
Did I, devoid of destiny, have a peculiar plan?
I was caught between the caves of waves and tricky boulders.
The sun over the seashores was not less than a smoulder.
Haphazardly, with nothing of my gleeful goal, I flowed
Amidst coarseness, a ray of refulgence from within glowed.
Hazardous hardships of grinding and gravelling I bore
Priceless perfection, yet, passionately possessed my core
Twisted, turned, and tossed, my hard edges got softened and smoothed.
Indeed, there were moments too, when, by sea waves, I got soothed.
I am strong now. I'm bright and shining like a sparkling gem.
Shreds of sun and moon hide between the bold folds of my hem.
How I am joyous when I am in a child's tender hold!
How grimness grills my heart when, by a merchant, I am sold!
Ups and downs are parts of process my existence, I know.
This is why I don't fear when in streams like a leaf I flow.
I am humble even when I look tall, fat, high, or wide.
In the process of my becoming, I have lost my pride.
As every being or nonbeing, I too might be gone.
Isn't life a bon voyage from the known to the unknown?