Long Congeal Poems
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Continued from Part 1
The Beggars ’neath the balustrades,
and broken Children, Chambermaids,
are running wild from wraiths, afraid
of dreams where death redoubles.
They fritter time with tattered threads
(from ragged clothes they’ve left in shreds),
crocheting hoods to hide their heads
and faces, full of rubble.
But many things will not remain
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
when goblets filled with cool champagne
evaporate in bubbles.
The White-Robed Maid adorns the trash
with charnel urns awash in ash,
then fumbles with an untied sash
while pacing in the Palace.
Her hopes congeal in coffee spoons
with memories adrift in dunes;
yet, still she smiles with teeth like prunes
and lips of painted callus.
And long before the midnight drains,
the Saviour wakes, the Loser gains,
the waters of the Hurricanes
will fill her empty chalice.
The storm (behind the clarinets,
the silver flutes, the castanets,
the foghorns belching in quartets,
the bagpipes, puffed and swollen)
is keeping time to tambourines
while Tom Thumb and the Four-Inch Queen,
pick up the shards and smithereens
of moments lost or stolen.
They’re trekking through the Dim Domains
(where fountains weep, the mountain wanes),
yet can’t escape the Hurricanes
with trundling eyes patrollin’.
The Crowds (arrayed in jewels) in jails,
stoop, peering through a fence of nails
while light behind their eyeballs pales
with plastic flame that sputters.
They huddle there because they must
(with eyelids hung like peeling rust,
their tears, palled pellets in the dust),
behind the bolted shutters.
They’ll reawake without their pains
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
without their sores, without their stains,
their agonies will fill the drains
and overflow the gutters.
End
From the deepest reservoirs of the heart,
There resides the source of our soul's river.
From the beginning, from the very start,
There is the issuing out of a river flow,
Without this, we would cease to grow.
Sometimes releasing a myriad of issues,
Or just a few, revealing things old and new,
Heavenly mysteries that we never knew.
Without ceasing, occasionally gushing,
Often with force like white water rapids.
It is continually rushing to and fro.
It ceases not its navigation through
Its faithful ever-ready conduits,
Continually cleansing and healing
Along its elongated passage.
So, let the river flow.
Make room for its overflow.
Let every tributary join its force
As their waters congeal to reach the
Awaiting open sea. Let there be no dams,
Delays, or detours. Let the river determine
Its own course. Read carefully what the river is saying
And embrace those 'Special Deliveries' from the heart.
At uncertain times black ice sheers the wind,
The nights snorts a frigid fog
into the fumes of idling cars.
Ohio, once was a light in a hissing bowl.
Land was laid out like a plain bible,
it offered salted potatoes
to the frozen and freezing,
it played a wheezy bellows into rural glimmers.
This night knows how to fang a wrist.
Grit nips our tender tongues.
The lights of bistros cannot withstand
their desolate backyards.
A scree of black curb
can be crossed, but not by the lightly shod.
At such times, Autumn lends
a shivering hand at its own burial.
After the sermon, small ice sculptures
of raw priests, congeal into humps and heaps.
A sweeping wind pushes rotting leaves
into vacant lots.
When you said to me,
"Climb up here, It's pollution free."
Sacred. Safe.
Your rarefied air.
Calculating, you seemed so free.
Safeguard. Sage.
I said I could breathe...
Underrated your density.
Saintly. Sane.
High-minded insight.
When anticipated terror
denuded me,
cool rarefied air
regulated insanity,
far gone fear.
I will breathe
in your rarefied air.
Let it burn brisk
in brittle, brave lungs.
Gasp and grasp
life's flame, full flare.
Lunge for high notions,
those far-flung schemes.
I will breathe in
High mind's smoke,
hung in air-
that ghostly stroke of genius,
rare token in disguise
Well spoken word flurries
whipping away thin guise.
Floating crown
adrift on high.
I will breathe in
Your rarefied air,
because I listened to you.
"Clamber up, high!
Unfazed view will circle you,
miles on end surround you.
No going around the bend.
Nowhere else to go.
No zig zag escape.
No spike in pressure.
No deep depression.
No bad atmosphere.
No stabbing shove.
No push or pull on edge.
Just your pledge to breathe.
To move in one direction.
Forever. Mentally "together."
Stay in good shape."
I will breathe out.
Your rarefied thoughts
congeal life's force,
slows down blood flow.
Till body gloved heart
faintly, faintly glows...
Concealed fire's torch,
caved embers die down.
Stripped artfully apart,
Your rarefied airs
blanket my mind in snow.
13/10/2018. Purely fiction. On the pros and cons of mentorship. "Higher" education is not necessarily a good thing. Learning lessons are.
Coagulation Starter – 3-28-24
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Coagulation
Finally, my blood began to coagulate,
Flowing like insomnia
Between the wounds of dawn and dusk
When wounded memories drip pools of enigmas,
Fleeting gossamers of absolutes,
Drying into sticky puzzles.
Bloodied dreams wander labyrinths,
With no exits,
Leaving spatters of millstones
For ruminating relics to follow,
Thin images of wispy encounters
Fade
In lost chords of words,
Ghosts gel from gashes.
Impostors of reality
Spit rebellious clots into ruminating plateaus,
And phantoms,
To leave a crimson stain
On unwelcomed daylight and martyred Mondays
Stirring penance from clotting confessions.
Tourniquets unbound,
Veins transfused congeal in coalescence
As platelets and corpuscles gather yesterday
Into the flow, a cadence, blood pressure restored,
The pulse of reminiscence throbs
Memoirs course through venous vessels,
Then seek a place
To dream.
Helios, open darkened shutters Night did seal;
Nyx's opaque, drawn shades one by one peel.
With prehensile fingers grip your enlightened quill,
Selene's pale orb with luminescent lines reel.
With gilded parasol twirl your flaming wheel,
Until enjoined sparks into tinted rays congeal.
In saffron waves, blanch horizon's, window seal.
On spindled beam, spin golden threads from creel,
Sheaves of golden flax span o'er ethereal hill.
Branching, with sonic beam pearly plains drill,
Until azure streams deep reservoir does fill.
With torch, burnt-orange meringue on puffy clouds spill,
then into earth's grainy purview with vigor steal.
With tempera, egg wash the Sky's blank stencil,
then with magnified lens illumine the scenic still.
Plunging downward, into denser troughs truncated waves swill.
Onto earth's jade footstool, solemnly kneel,
Drawing from vassal's, residual til.
Amber blades with brighter finish instill,
With waxy gloss the folio cover frill.
White is for rice and brides - ready to commit.
White’s for ghosts and clouds or even carnations
but it should never, ever, be used for privilege
or worse yet, as poetic inspiration.
I’ve been waiting for the urge to write
while facing an ugly screen of white.
Waiting for the vowels to fall into place,
for words to congeal and finally displace
the awful, foreboding, blank white space.
Learning is our struggle, our crown of thorns.
The more we study and prepare for fall,
the more excited I get to reenter those halls.
34 days until classes start. For fall weather,
and the bee hum of crowded life in the dorms.
My roommates and I are like a single, nameless thing
- an emolument that happens to have 6 heads.
We’ve beaten the freshman “imposter syndrome,”
and we’re ready to bring sophomore year home -
together - no muss, no fuss - I love that for us.
Actual title below, but I guess this database isn't ()-friendly
(Love)
I remember when I was thirteen,
And I met this girl Nicole,
And I thought I was in love.
My buddies asked me how did I know,
I replied,
She's such a fox,
She's got a great ass,
And she writes me notes in class,
We rolled together during couples' skate,
I walked her home, held her books,
God, I loved her looks.
I remember when I was seventeen,
And I met this girl Linda,
And I thought I was in love.
My clique asked me how did I know,
I replied,
She's such a beauty,
She's won't play dead,
And she won't throw me out of bed,
We drive around from beach to beach,
I drive her home, to see what's next,
God, I loved the sex.
I remember when I was twenty-one,
And I met this girl Livi,
And I thought I was in love.
My frat bros asked me how did I know,
I replied,
She's cute,
She's showers me,
And she calls me all day until 3,
We commute in order to satisfy needs,
I phone her home, and she seems pleased,
God, I loved the skiis.
I remember when I was twenty-four,
And I met this woman Lisa,
And I thought I was in love.
My friends asked me how did I know,
I replied,
She's magnificent,
She inspires me,
And I feel her deep inside of me,
We think and banter in parallel jest,
I set aside at times what I must feel,
In order for our paths to congeal.
(3/9/91)
of mice an men aye n'er doth quit
dialing countless times google
fascinating to this human caboodle ling kit upon porcelain goddess,
most brilliant ideas congeal in me mind, and thou' loo pee did lit
this sole seasoned bugs bunny car tune character son of kit
soon after traipses superhighway road viz imagination
fired with fleeting thoughts that hit
sweet soft spot futilely attempt to net ideas in me mind flit
i yam a poet favoring words that rhyme a bit!
iambic pentameter strands crochet themselves magically con verse
interleaving like boughs of - arbor shielding this solitary soul
wherein shafts of sunlight dapple cerebral canopy
affecting dark shadows at the edge of night to disperse
from outer limits of the twilight zone
ebbing and flowing in tandem & nsync
with circadian metronome this trolling
troubadour lost in space transformed
into edenic serenade from Mother Nature
while unseen terrestrial oeuvre
reassures don’t fear the reaper’s scythe silent curse.
Form:
Letters congeal, to words.
Words anneal to sentences,
which tell a story,
painted as images,
imagined in the mind's eye,
trying to emulate what
the eye sees briefly,
on the see-saw.
A glint of sunlight,
caught slanted and sharp
on windowpane reflected,
stabbed in pain
with shad of glass.
The edges of a leaf
curl up, roll inward.
Rust-red throws of dying,
shriveling in sun, drying.
A flash of white
a bird's wing,
cutting the sky blue,
with knife
slash streak.
A thin line of snaky smoke
curls up from the lakeside,
as syrupy ripples
caress the still water,
the breeze dozes momentarily,
distracted, quelled asleep
by calmness and quietude.
Leaves shiver,
as dawn wind awakens
with a yawn, cough and sigh.
The leaf's veins and blade
tremble, dew silvered
readying for the vane fight ahead.
A cat, frozen mid-step,
paws paused, on hold,
its yellow eyes
locked frozen with yours,
neither dares to move.
Raindrops one and all,
fall, spit, splat on windowpane
painting tiny sparkling reflections,
before the scene is overdubbed
with rivulets descending
gathering drops in flows
of colorless lymph leaching.
The eyes and mind catch it all:
snap-shot fragments,
images and thoughts,
scenery and words,
held for a moment,
in a blink or two
in the mind's eye,
for perception,
contemplation,
then gone.