Long Concocts Poems
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Damn anticipatory anxiety affliction...
trumps volition (mine) to don employee hat!
Until the grim reaper
whisks yours truly away
common joe just biden his time
chronologically old fogey
(albeit boyish looking goodfella)
at moon shadows he doth bay
meanwhile stricken with
dripping wet sweaty palms,
perhaps attired with
trademark Harris tweed
this August twelfth
two thousand twenty dog day,
viz just the mere thought
to seek part time employment -
cuz I wanna supplement
(social security disability) income
perhaps out of desperation
selling myself short on eBay
unless an anonymous reader
espies adept ace at foreplay
i.e. whereby his linkedin word choice
oft times evokes double entendre
essentially this poetaster
at large concocts gourmet
reasonably rhyming literary cuisine -
thus hip hip hooray
invariably an anonymous
respondent will inveigh
against playful badinage,
and/or perchance some grumpy
humorless cat (woman)
originally whose nine lives spent
housed within San Jose
will take objection with base (sic)
lame ribaldry (mine) laughable
courtesy none other than kkk,
(kooky, klutzy, and kitschy tendency)
who though reformed Caucasian Jew
coon sitter me laughingstock, nevertheless
(modesty notwithstanding)
he brews the best latte
this side of Schwenksville, Pennsylvania,
where whiplashing, madding, and
clamoring crowd fuels melee
along Perkiomen trail
over hills and across Atlantic Ocean
eventually leads to Norway,
which namesake river from “Pakihmomink,”
or “where the cranberries grow.”
Rather than get further
bogged down with inane zeal
I best steer clear of poetic poppycock
courtesy imaginary wheel
thus the following pablum I unveil
nsync with titled malady all to real,
which plight involves hyperhidrosis
quite a debilitating ordeal,
especially when thinking
to pursue gainful employment
emphatically steadfast
and honest think (me) leal
course this humble communicates
(hyperbolically) embodiment ideal
if seeking to gain insight how I feel
about myself, a tense body
inept to cartwheel.
Nights of flying dream world,
who might chase a raucous laugh,
or seek indeed mirthful excitement,
the sort that has embroidered twists,
as is generally perceived by intention,
but epic hurdles formed in still frame,
city snores past midnight bell clang,
dare one ever risk a robust venture,
should I have said pursuit instead,
sleep is diversion in that steel crib,
that modern crib pillow we fostered,
an idiom that has it’s silken source,
on foot of rainbow studded home run,
as denizens of driven blissful sprint,
with that palette city life concocts,
waiting to arise from brainwave surge,
but toilers so content at last wonder,
can still find that extra zestful yen,
nocturnal misnamed down tool free time,
energizing hour filler may arouse,
around the ink drape walkways,
quite surrogate and surreptitious,
character one may mold from time,
spent as a regal rhombic chaser,
boundary scuppered plot by strolling fleet,
as creatively imagining might edge,
vast supply has penchant without dent,
zeitgeist flower of a fluorescent flag,
warning mask so deft but visible,
canopy laid beauteous black fringe,
alliance in shade infused etch front,
squeaky noising trickle eardrum muffin,
hear full dose of ripple muttering,
clued on obscurantist thin,
taut code evasive decipher ask,
float of urban mirror pool by pattern,
reflection, mirage, cocoon,
after midnight curtain draws,
to protracted claps evinced from,
squinting imp coterie on foot,
ricochet off Moroccan spice tint,
outside vivid haunt so frequented,
perchance, perforce, pertaining patois,
little seen scatter mice squeak,
analogy horizontal spurt funk,
if only these dart and dash clan,
midgets metaphorical so jubilant,
in sonic meddle near edge encounter,
it would be strictly beyond a dazzling cast,
from other daylight theater staunch queue,
when aiming for parallel experience,
performance nocturne wise deep art,
even rich fantasy has upper boundaries,
some grating gulley flake debris awash
Denouement
The plot thickens broadens in plastered confused juxtapositions
over time there and then weaves tapestries lost unfound caught
Viscous tears dried out shed rivers searching oases oceans of love
squeeze suffering hatred solid misconceptions scripted resolve
Crocheted dreams unsnarled in disguise colour rainbows stain-bows
stain blows and arrows offer inkblots from coiled council reconcile
Waters cascades cataclysmic beginnings alleviate alluvion’s weight
skirmish tease entice droplets of truths splashing change alteration
Naïve native losses childish unadulterated tangential torrents unfold
allude inundate delude adulthoods’ illusions commence from afresh
Under the bridges of ricocheted echoes trickle drops from Styx to
Ganges feed and contend with the seagulls and vultures of life
The story line concocts and conceives tell retells and remembers
the past as it blends narrates a misty final initiation’s webbed spray
Resolute resolution wets the gills washes clouds spins them around
until springs guzzle project thoughtful narration to entangle once more
Denouement Renewal De-new-ment confer contain depositions repositioned
as some tangling wisdom posits one swims in the same ocean never again
09th August 2016
Originally entered for contest 'Denouement' judged 24th August 2016
Kate and Bram, so in love or so she thought, but he was after Kate’s rich cousin. Laura, was just as greedy for Bram’s striking good looks. Does lightning strike twice for Bram? Will he find happiness with his fiance’s kin? Kate was prettier, confident, sweet. He moves the candle over the treasure and concocts a vicious plot. Laura was guilty of one thing - she coveted what was not hers. Bram’s sin was greater.
WAXING OF CANDLELIGHT
Longing of candlelight - the shadows slim.
A flicker steps downstairs; She’s trembling down.
Kate’s tapered low-light tears, without a hymn.
Green spirit in her phosphorescent gown.*
She remembers Bram’s face, his smile. The bleed
of blush no longer stings - a swan-like snow
running from head to toe; done is the deed.
The late night storm will search - its fury grow.
The strike of lightning hate will court her beau.
He tripped a switch - she fell headlong for him.
The candle burns - the fire’s leaping stairs. Sow
And reap - the pyre-steeple of life and limb.
The separation - vinegar and oil.
Reunited, Kate shrieks - Bram’s on slow boil.
7/30/2021
A BRIAN STRAND SONNET
HMS used
*Green - 1) color 2) new
The heart within pumps
The rich red royal fluid
And your body machine functions
Your creative, expansive mind
Concocts formulae
Deciding how your body organism
Finds sustenance, enjoyment
And most of all avoids pain
The dreamer, you, perceive, create
As you build, block by block
To accomplish
To reap rewards
As you move
Ship, build, design, experience
On a higher plateau
You do this within the framework
Knowledge acquired
Reap the reward
Beautifying your nest
Dress fashionably
And end each day accomplished
Proud to the point
Of ignored acceptance
Yet strip all clothing
Wealth – all materialistic
Right to the naked bone
Your total stored mental reservoir
Your intellect, your acumen
Like the youthful wise hermit
Now, like a savior in sheepskin
Gather your companion
The echo “What is life all about?”
Sex, debauchery, procreation
Or our collective wisdom
Our attitude towards harmony, friendship
Local and world peace
A sensibility to friend and foe
Yep – platitudes, platitudes
Our ego sparkles and blind
Our lust driven bodies
Enter the arena of flesh
Gleaming immediate status faction
While the nuclear bomb is waiting
Brick House
We call them bricks.
Cold, hard and clueless.
Stacked together, creating a thick wall of ignorance.
Unwilling to learn, resistant to change,
Eyes dull and confused,
with faces as dry as the day before.
Dragging themselves to their designated seats,
not expecting much from their day.
No energy, no enthusiasm,
no imagination or curiosity.
Just there to fill a space.
We shake our heads at the occasional shout of a wrong answer,
a spit ball, or a fight.
Helpless and hopeless
we go on, speaking to no one in particular.
No amount of planning can spark their interest.
No measure of strategy can help them to understand.
A last glimmer of hope concocts ideas of action.
Hoping to make a difference;
to convert their mentality from complacency to achievement.
Our attempts are rejected.
With deliberate defiance we are met with objection.
The lack of support produces disappointment and regret.
A new found disdain hovers over us.
Optimism is a fleeting thought.
Helpless and hopeless we go on,
Speaking to no one in particular.
My nights have lately become sultry
as suffocating heat chases sleep away,
I lay wide awake unloved and sweating
beneath the murmurous ceiling fan
hoping for some refreshing relief.
Each eventide I hear her bittersweet song
drifting from the verdant vale
like seductive perfume on the breeze.
I cannot resist for long. I must visit every night.
People say there's magic in her.
Rancorous rumors have it that
she seduces with a whimsical smile,
subdues with an enchanting laugh,
soothes with a surrealistic sigh.
Maybe they're right. I know they’re right.
For I am under her arcane spell.
Late at night I leave my rumpled bed
and like a somnambulist I tread
through mysterious corridors of my house.
The dazzling moon shines the pathways
that lead down the surreal vale
into the sonorous cavern where she
concocts her alluring recondite runes.
There I hope to get a glimpse of her
Embrace her gorgeous beauty for untold time
Till inexplicably I find myself alone back on my bed.
Can you blame me if I’m under her spell?
8 January 2021
Unidentified my world
this push and shove battalion
take from them and leave them broken
Crassly ridiculed by viral industries
black blood automaton
the throwaway plagues of economy
Enemies arduous in pestilence promise
digital demons disposable to pay the fist
take from my brothers and leave my sisters bereft
Born to breath into not my world
the grit pitiful distance between unity
as miseries tourniquet mocks all of us belligerently
From innocent eyes to haunted heart
a misplaced paradigm of sentience
concocts for idiots the demons ideology
For a lifetime the world of not me
my rebellions soaked in propaganda
liberties plasticidal warrior
take my brothers
take my sisters
and suffocate their orchestra
And all the more the cruelty shall reap
the intoxications of biles inaction
and rejoice in the cursed ideology of demons
Unrecognized my world of human
compassions every degree shall embrace every soul
and with the quill of love a future transcribed
by heavenly scribe in the ink of life
is written for our children
To hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature,
embracing truth as only reflection can hold.
While our mind concocts fastidious pleasure,
in search of mottled excuses bent to unfold.
Some threaten openly, words of censure,
hurled against the family tree displayed therein.
Yet which innocent, casts with stoic composure,
a stone of malicious word for the game to begin.
While the tree of life muddles fate in quiet solitude.
Its restless soul begging for optimistic pleasure,
It thinks its time before the mirror, but an interlude,
when in fact, the angel Gabriel takes his measure.
Only the tree of knowledge, cannot be maligned.
Within the face of it, read this significant truth.
From a reflection, the soul of man, you will not find,
only the sweet, sweet face, of innocence of youth.
© Apr 17 2011 Charles Henderson
for Constance "the tree" contest
a family tree, tree of life, tree of knowledge
A wizard drops his briefcase and he’s
late again to the mystical gig!
Knocks into a green-fur dragon
milling about, smoking a cig.
Stupid dwarf, he double parked!
In the cab, he holds his nose
(a potent spell to fend against
the rancid smell of dandruff and booze).
He slips on hay as he sways in;
a levitating hop-scotch keeps him going.
Dust on the elevator knob, it sparkles
like sand in glass, but upward flowing.
His body is flying, pulsing and hot;
He gulps down gallons of inky potions.
Splitting wide, the chamber door
guffaws and laughs at his silly motions.
The draw-bridge closes, sealing in
his nervous airs like rabid bats.
He quick concocts a pretty image:
gentle mouth and abject hat.
Icicles pierce the feeble enchantment.
Council has cooked a spell of ire:
embers light the bridge ablaze.
“That’s it, Merlin…You’re fired.”