Long Consternated Poems
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Regardless of the ever slow and piercing passage of more than two centuries, her sapphire eyes still remain encrusted in my memory, like precious gems on an ancient fallen crown.
Only fractures and scars remain of the come-and-go parades of fabricated love, which served only as the ground to sow the seeds of my own desolation.
Like a hand grasping thorns, is the stigma of knowing the punishment of her absence has not yet ended, and that I again, will not have in this life her guidance, her light and presence.
Images flecked with dust twirl in my mind, to the rhythm of the arrhythmia of my eternally consternated heart.
As if conspiring, time managed to abrogate all its forgiving powers and magical healing, although I admit that the constant remembering of her love, like a refreshing ever flowing brook, has always been the very best of every day in each life, briefly relieving my withered and shattered spirit.
Losing myself in the memory of the thousand details of her Venus like beauty, gives me life, flares up my senses and wafts me through the swirling smoke of hours burnt.
Clinging on passionately and frantically to the memory of the essence of her loving way, I am momentarily able to perceive this empty world, as paradise.
I miss the way her soul breathed, and how every time it gently approached mine, I´d be engulfed by the violet halo of her auric light, taking me to heaven here on earth.
I remember the glory embodied in her poised grin, as she realized how I became bewitched when she described with her mellifluous voice, details of the impossible love she felt for me.
I miss her intriguing yearning for the science of the pneuma, and the amazing knowledge she possessed about the laws that rule the merging of souls. She taught me that love conceived thus, is the only force that governs and transcends the infinite, inheriting the power to enrich life wherever it may be.
I miss her intense urge to make me a better person, despite knowing just how difficult it would be.
An unforgivable mistake from my part, left her without option, forcing her to remove me from the magnificence of her life, leaving me adrift between the jaws of the three mysteries of time, and into the hands of living death.
Milanda keeps the voice to herself; she likes the keening of it.
The wails keep her on her toes, as the poltergeist rules her.
The shudders are drawn, and there are ghoulish shadows.
This is as it must be the poltergeist whispers in spook voice.
Milanda’s parents are alarmed, they take her to a psychiatrist.
He prescribes lithium which she pretends to take. Ha Ha.
For they are not going to take her demon girl from her.
She has a life now fashioned against all of their principals.
She is eager to find out about the darkness of the world.
The poltergeist moves her on demonic strings.
She resists in no way, glad to blame another for her antics.
She used to be on her own, but now there are two of her.
What is happening? Her mother asks. Talk to me.
She is the enemy the demon girl hisses. She nods, understanding.
It is the two of us against all of these others. They paint the room black.
Lie in the bed, whispering things that would alarm the girl’s parents.
Her father comes in to speak to her. She is annoyed beyond her threshold.
How dare he act like things are normal, when he was the one who split her.
His antics are what drove her to develop a demon girl in the first place.
She sends him out, consternated, not understanding his princess at all.
At least he did not touch us, the demon girl poltergeist says.
Milanda had hoped that he would. She is feeling strong and savage now.
She would have torn him apart, gnashed him with her teeth.
She would be glad to destroy him as he had destroyed her trust years ago.
I once knew a bloke
Who hailed from Stoke
He saw me on the street
And so we did greet
But I said to him with much ire
"You're a liar
You call me your chummy
But you hate me mummy"
To the allegation he did respond:
"You are mistaken, of your mum I am fond"
"Nay" said I
"You just like her black pie."
After much thought
To his lips he brought:
"Caesar really was a decent bloke"
I once new a lad
In dog tooth suits he was clad
As I boarded the tube
I yelled "Hey rube!
You slept with my sister
Explain mister!"
He consternated
And maybe debated
But he said:
"Caesar really was a decent bloke"
I once knew a sod
Who seemed quite odd
I was watching the Blues
When I said "Those are my shoes!
Explain saucy knave!"
He replied: "To me your girlfriend gave
After that
Unforgettable spat"
"That's a false report!"
I said in retort
To which he said:
"Genghis really was a decent bloke"
"Don't you mean Caesar" I said
Reply: "Forgive me cabbage head
I have no abode with which to rest my node
Be gone with you
I have two
That'll make you stew
If you don't shut your gob
Don't talk of Caesar my name is Bob!"
One day
On my parlay
Through Southhampton way
I was confronted
By a man with head bunted
To me he said
"I wish you were dead
200 pounds you owe me"
I shrugged at the fee
But did reply
"Caesar really was a decent bloke"
Dreaming of frogs playing guitars, lounging on a campfire pyre,
Her manifestation of these little hopping miniatures tickled her
Naturally nude with an upside down hat, she was uninhibited, fully exhibited.
Two prissy potential suiters ran out screaming, recognizing her strength.
Attitudes of grandeur did not play in her head.
She meant no harm to these males; yet they had been clearly terrified.
Women who are fantastical and barbastical confuse ones who are weak.
She did not wave, frankly, had not noticed they left. She was playing a harp with her bear.
Is she bizarre, modern, an alien or just weirdly avant-garde?
Status quo relatives who were watching were also consternated.
Their brains often pitter-patted by the norms society revers.
Creativity was outside their jurisdiction, thank God!
Pink woman’s frog dreams led to a parade of unicorns and eunuchs,
Horrifying the refined who sneaked peeks at her surrealistic attitude.
Why can she not conform? What is wrong with her?
Hell. How did they get into my dream state Pink wondered.
The watchers did not realize her spontaneity was a result of natural play-ity.
Which is why she moved away from them, for how could brilliance stay?
She took the frogs, unicorns and eunuchs with her of course.
The bear elected to remain. He loved frightening the relatives.
BEWARE OF ENEMIES AND
ENEMAS
or JESUS CHRIST ROLLED THE DICE TWICE
Beware the scare to share with sharpened steel
To note the difference ‘tween fantasy and the real or surreal
Take heed for what I say ‘tis truth unclothed before thee
Three routes but bear right or left and where would you be?
Oh that old trail’s been there for too many years to count
That road be akin to an un-bridled mustang who no one would ever mount
The other two lead to a place where no one has ever returned to recount their tale
And obviously it’s not a place where someone could send me some mail
Tread contritely to the ones you’ve hurt who bare now the knives
Because it could be a matter of who lives and which one survives
This is no missive to depress you or make anger your way of the day
And I know because you’re all young but my black hair has now become gray
So I give you this lesson not to order you, discipline you nor tell thee what to do
You’ve got three ways to go but only one leads to peace and tranquility for you
I’ve known where to go when the road splits and I’ve known since I was an infant
And here you are at fifty-five, still consternated and no, I will not give you a hint
~© 2011.….free cee!~
Hostility and anger was zooming around the room when she arrived.
She sat in a corner, writing poetry, creating a pretty world of her own.
The hostess came by to take a peek, and ended up with a smile.
She patted her shoulder and said “I am so glad that you came!”
The angriest fellow in the room with a permanent frown sat next.
He wanted to see what she was writing. It touched him, and he softened.
He began to cry; letting out tears he had held for most of his life.
She ended up patting him on the shoulder.
Her husband watched without comment.
She was an empath bringing people joy in quiet ways.
She had an understanding of psychology that consternated others.
By the time dinner was served, three wanted to sit next to her.
He watched them change name tags around, each trying to get a seat.
His wife was a compassionate listener. She could turn a room.
He had seen this for most of his life; they were in their sixties.
It had been happening since she was sixteen when they met.
He winked at her from the other side of the long table.
There was laughter, there was hope, there was joy.
She had them frolicking like faeries by midnight.
And without alcoholic beverage or a witch’s spell too!
A flame of enigma bellowed in the pit of his belly,
its' seraphic luster so stout.
It peered through the windows of his body,
through dark stagnant eyes that rest mounted on his face,
so carved and clencted.
I blanched in its' brillance.
That flame so haunting,
it raptured the faint walls that buckled my heart,
making it whole.
So cold in stanse.
But now its' pulsing lay intweened with another outcasted heart.
One that had been expelled from the keen and glaciared persons,
whom walked down the breech streets of a banning commonalty.
My arms knew exactly how to clutch him,
wrap him in a pillowed comfort that masked my flesh.
For my arms,
what rest in them was a soul whom alike was overcomed and mangled.
He rested in them,
so alive in fresh freedom of an apprehending paramour whom could nod and weep to the
consternated apologues of his youth and future comings of a man.
And that's what traced the adulation in his blood.
Giving him the daring attuide to oust me bare,
broadcasting the truth that barked and howled behind false inhibitions,
a veal of empathy,
And if you're alone
and I'm alone
lets be alone
together
Form:
BEWARE OF ENEMIES AND ENEMAS
Beware the scare to share with sharpened steel
To note the difference ‘tween fantasy and or the surreal
Take heed for what I say ‘tis truth unclothed before thee
Three routes but bear right and wrong you couldst just be
Oh that old trail’s been there for too many years to count
That road be akin to a mustang who no one would ever mount
The other two lead to a place where no one has ever returned to recount their tale
And obviously it’s not a place where someone could send me any mail
Tread contritely to the ones you’ve hurt who bare now the knives
Because it could be a matter of who lives and which one survives
This is no missive to depress you nor make anger the way of the day
And I know because you’re all young but my black hair has now become gray
So I give you this lesson not to order you, discipline you nor tell thee what to do
You’ve got three ways to go but only one leads to peace and tranquility for you
I’ve known where to go when the road splits and I’ve known since I was an infant
And here you are at fifty-five, still consternated and no, I will not give you a hint
I ~© 2011.….free cee!~
Lyrics come to me by moonlight
When the power of darkness lessens
When whispers soften like overripe
Mangoes dispatched hurriedly from India,
On ramshackle East Indiamen vessels
Sailing fruitfully through consternated
Waters and heated lines of the tropics,
Selling rewardingly on busy markets
Charged with the power of buy-and-sell,
And order-and-supply.
I wonder how Bob would react to
My girlfriend’s long and big, sexy hair
Blowin’ in the wind,
Seeking answers to horizon-tossed questions,
When howling, racing gales accompany
Frightened sorrel horses, newly freed from
Spavins, and spiked by the energy of the sun,
Hurtle home happily towards old and battered
Picket fences newly mended?
I write often under the spell of night rain,
Striving much not to blend lyrics with poems,
Which, like zucchini and cucumber,
May look alike but are quite different.
I stumble upon the fraternity between words
And promises and splice them with soft, nimble
Fingers of the piano.
Gentle taps yonder come from happily sobbing congas.
And with an unseen ensemble, a song is born.
Cougar’s growl shakes me awake in the worst of ways
Her realism prances forth in my mind; I am disoriented.
The last line of a poem waffles through my brain,
And my eyes are not fully open yet. Poetry already?
I grab a piece of paper and take it with me to the bathroom.
Sitting, I jot down six phrases, and a poem begins to write herself.
She flings herself onto the page in dots, lines, and dashes.
I find myself writing seven poems before breakfast.
Without any energy at all and little conscious effort, it is a poetry day.
Who decides? Which muse is about in my head today?
Is she going to distract me from my morning drive?
I turn my I-phone’s tape recorder on, as I get into my car.
There are no more ideas for a day and a half. Then a full writing day.
Thirty six poems in twelve hours, my new record!
I am gob smacked, consternated, confused.
Where do these days come from? Who is in charge? Apparently not me.