Long Conveniently Poems
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You came home from Quebec,
you were never alone;
your shadow chased you around town
like a dog in love or out of love.
They told me you have been to places
where flies sat conveniently on the ledges of your lips,
you've eaten ugali with your fingers, someone else's fingers,
soaked in saliva and the red juices of greens and beef liver
I remember you leaving Scott County to drive along the roads
of summer with green trees waving at you. You were famous.
You sent a picture of Niagara. Before a mirror,
I saw my eyes in the falls that should've lectured you,
then you sent Alberta dressed in flora and sunshine,
but before a mirror, I saw where sorrow dug trenches in my brow.
At sunsets, I watched the tired lights walked slowly westward like an old lady on quad cane ... and I forgot the sound of my name on your lips
When July entered our town with loud children, you were in Whistler. His mother is continuing in Paris,
and poor James, God rested his bones somewhere in London.
You killed me with Yellowknife when you spoke of the northern lights,
but not once questioned my lonesome nights in White Sulphur
where fresh winds licked the skirt of a White horse to ignite a horseplay
You say Saint John spoke proudly of Como,
so I searched the map to find you where you would sit to sip something
that spoke proudly of Campari Spritz.
I found Whistle Pig Stout.
Some nights, I'd search for you when my finger was tired of scooping peanut butter from a jar. I traced from Revelstoke to Squamish, then to Halifax,
but I found no lobsters big enough to keep you there.
You called about Ottawa, and I found Rideau Canal, a lazy river that still works for the people. You told me Tofino spoke proudly of Costa Del Sol,
so I searched the map to find you where you would drive along something that spoke proudly of Ruta del Sol y del Aguacate.
I found Chesterman Beach Road.
December drove you home, pulling down your dress
to cover the spots where the cold winds were touching you.
I am getting used to being single.
Written 03\28\20
Artfully dodging explosive solutions
pretending shackles restrained prisoner
lobbed pseudo Molotov cocktails
kindly, loosely, and mutinously linkedin
liberal short (make believe) chain
leashed faux abysmal isolated confinement
former courtly poet,
who consumed prison fare
equalling bread and thin gruel
poetical, quizzical, and rational thinking
wrought eventual gladness!
Meanwhile elsewhere within
another complex edifice
Stormy (Daniels) reign
came and went
accompanying barren
cruel don, trumpeting
issuing expansion fiat
wielding, gesticulating, brandishing...
ironclad golf club spouting art of the deal,
whereby might versus right
simultaneously Putin on the ritz
song and dance routine
crooning Ivana mock up Earth,
especially figurative roasting statesman christened
Elijah Cummings, an American politician
and civil rights advocate who served
in United States House of Representatives
for Maryland's 7th congressional district
from 1996 until his death in 2019.
That oversized ego freezer
with pouffed hair,
who shall not be named
made abominable destiny manifest
regarding eminent domain
dominion, he forcibly
relocated natives to Cajun shelters
charging them admission fees
manumission granted serving
white supremacist conveniently optioning
kids as scapegoats
re: Deferred Action for
Childhood Arrivals (DACA)
labor away migrants
grunts passive pluperfect targets
no matter forbears indigenous
to America unfortunately
been man-date to bite bullet
within badlands of El Paso
meanwhile oblivious hermit aging
barnacle encrusted manacles
absorbing cumulative dampness
no longer granting resistance
to life nor limb
timely manumission lovely bones restored
swallowed potion frothing colorful brew
contrived exquisite firearms.
Ah redeemed character
(any resemblance between
initially mentioned unfortunate soul
and living persons purely coincidental)
mentioned at outset of poem
broached out Alcatraz replica
free and clear fresh air revived
fifty shades of gray
immediately sieged moment
weakly hollered carpe diem
elixir imbued immunity
against taken hostage at gunpoint
freedmen impressed into service
while waved magic wand
whereby enslaved women
retaliated hashtagged misogynistic
took appropriate revenge
as apprenticed warrioresses!
Outside was Cold,
But I was Bold,
I wanted to get out,
So I started kick and shout.
Once I did,
I was terrified,
Conveniently,
I started to cry.
One day,
On some weird way,
I wanted to talk
So I learned to walk.
And point fingers.
When I was seven,
I was in heaven,
I just didn't know,
that time is passing fast, not slow.
I just didn't know,
that playing,
is my job.
that world is manipulated by some slob.
Years were passing,
One at the time,
At the moments life was like a candy,
but mostly like a lime.
Studying,
Lying,
Betraying,
Enjoying,
Crying.
Then I met her,
she was sweet,
prettiest girl I had pleasure to meet.
Blonde and Dark,
On my soul, she left a mark.
Soon she became my ex,
but even after that,
life was full of sex.
And again, and again, and again.
And again.
I'm twenty seven now,
Traveling to see...
you won't believe what,
a holy cow.
I was visiting a lots of places,
I saw interesting faces,
All kind of races,
People ask me, what do I do?
I say whatever I need, whenever I want!
They ask me how?
I just take a bow, and I leave,
I'm maybe not the most ethical person on a planet,
But just like a dancer,
I have my unique moves,
Of course, I'm a freelancer.
I remember one situation,
It was like a creation,
of imagination.
But it was real.
I was supposed to deliver a package.
Fortunately I ended up in a wreckage.
When my bus collided in a train,
package got destroyed,
A stain,
left on my skin,
Right before Raid was deployed,
On a recipient of my package,
A guess wreckage,
was a Win.
Few years after,
On the check in with the doctor,
regarding that stain,
a key factor,
a coincidence plain.
a new doctor came,
It was a women,
most beautiful I've seen in my life.
She gave me a son,
She became my wife.
Story should end here,
when things are fine,
but there was a line,
that I crossed,
my life I tossed,
away,
I needed some adrenalin thrill,
So I did not payed my bill,
It came haunting me in my house,
a monster, not a mouse.
My wife left,
I was and I am,
a victim and accessary in theft.
a Crank.
as Enemy of a Bank
I sank.
I lived on a street for a while,
on street there was no difference,
a minute or a mile.
I had all the time I wanted,
but I was still haunted.
Even when everybody forget who I am,
Strangers came and started to slam,
things on me,
until I cracked out,
blacked out,
was gone.
...
...
...
There are meanderings who itch and creep
To fill my night with dread.
There are cataclysms where I cringe and cower
That are better left unsaid
And there's an apparition to slake my very soul
Standing menacingly aside my bed.
A miasmal shadow whose form and substance
Seems porous with a brooding discontent.
A vaporous spook from a now empty hoary grave
Crying out some death-bed held lament.
I tremble at this ghastly wretched haunting unsure
How to appease this ghoulish malcontent.
Is it an harbinger of some impending doom
That awaits me in the night?
Or a bleak warning of a tenebrous dark abyss
In dire need of an earthborn sacrifice?
Or a horrific memory of a forgotten transgression
I have conveniently put away from sight?
Its eyes lock in a gaze of sinister desperation
As I search for some meaning to aspire.
But what I see leaves me morose and sullen
As the reflection broods a hellish brimstone fire.
And I turn away with a feeling of minacious fear
Not knowing the spirit's saturnine desires.
This haggard phantom stretches its bony claw
And wails like a banshee twice possessed.
Pointing an accusing finger in my direction
With some long held grievance to address.
It screams in hideous tones, "Beware! Beware!"
Which it most fervently expressed.
"Beware! Beware!" It howls in repressed anger
As I rest my weary eyes.
And through the night it wallows in acute agony...
Lashing out a mournful cry.
But I eventually grow somewhat accustomed
And it becomes a type of doomsday lullaby.
The days and weeks are now three long years
And it continues its nightly shrieking of regret.
But no one said creatures from the spirit-world
Would be straightforward or direct.
I am at an impasse with this ghostly apparition
And remain confused and quite perplexed.
I am oblivious to whatever spectral information
This bit of ectoplasm seems to know.
And the creature appears in no discernible hurry,
But to be honest... I would miss its nightly show.
So until we come to a far better understanding...
I have a place to hang my clothes.
The End
*Follow my cartoon on Webtoon Bob's your Uncle.
I riff flecked about thee august
Autumn Equinox 2018,
this polymath learned why,
September Equinox
will be at 9:54 PM,
which spoiler alert thy
learned (courtesy Google),
when Or Sun Wells
crosses celestial equator
i.e. (imaginary line in sky
above Earth's Equator
from north to south), a quiet rye
hit moment occurs
Saturday September 22nd, 2018
(at 9:54 PM Eastern
Time) marks onset
of apple cider
and pumpkin pie
a distinct golden jacketed
matted palette well nigh
paints arboreal swath, sans
quiet riot of brilliant
color, that doth belie
rampant terrestrial, unreal,
and venal degradation aye
temporarily turning a (third)
blind eye apathetically, blithely,
and conveniently shunting aside
eyesore fissured gash - wide
cleft wound, where hide
ding away from
global abuse decried
as feeble effort
ignoring doth decide
fate i.e. as does wrecking,
where precious resources espied
snubbing, and thumbing nose
(figuratively) asper dead
serious portentous desperate
(falling on deaf ears) plea chide
dismissively mocking (bird
den some) prophesying,
whence creator cried
alarming, blaring, and clanging
sounding Doomsday Clock,
where ambivalence unheeded
scathing tragic miss guide
did exploitative testament,
where survival of fittest tried
to the max, viz (courtesy
of *****sapiens)
as Mother Nature dost allied
flora and fauna espied
comprising vibrant biosphere
each betrothed nsync, and guide
ding generic hominids shrugging
(Atlas sized fountain head)
off beholden hide
bound wedded bliss
to the other,
this observer awestruck,
sans whirled, wide webbed biota
adorns terra firmae analogous,
qua expectant wedded bride
named Gaia – resplendent
raiment adorned playfully chide,
when (dark and Stormy Dan
yells) Armageddon
legatee - time ran
out for *****sapiens meaning...
salvation to late for human
knit tee, cuz field day, sans
grim reaper will
glory in field day
whar cross bones
numb skull pay fealty.
On learning to become a guru...
The following artfully crafted back in the day
(actually poetic endeavor presented below
written a few scant years ago) in response to
unexpected positive feedback received on
the most popular social media platform.
Unbeknownst to this unsuspecting witty mortal,
a reverberation attributed to butterfly effect
linkedin to hotmail twittering Facebook member,
who resides within Bhutan, his dignified volition
accorded me magnanimity titled sage without any
influential collusion from Russians bestowed yours
truly with said honorably distinguished appellation,
which humility of mine humbly accepted without a
protestation, though never would I brazenly adopt
spiritual holiness, yet flattered to share such rare
pronouncements, when unsolicited feedback lobbed
in my direction (way before advent of Information
Technology Revolution) often tendered, kindled, and
belittled this gentle human, sans when bullies slung
byte ting bit torrent loathsome scandalous red zingers
targeting personal vulnerabilities, asper being under
socially withdrawn, painfully shy, plagued with speech
impediment (severe nasality) caused by submucous
cleft client, plus weighing where needle budged from
absolute zero pounds, topped with passive demeanor
susceptibilities conveniently converging to establish
this bruised Earthling ideal choice as scapegoat, no
kidding with dread to endure endless days, weeks,
months...a lifetime channel of opprobrious, noxious,
malicious emotionally demonic, cannibalistic, barbaric
abominable, damnable, horrible diatribes chipping
(dale lee) at what measly self confidence shielded
fragile psyche fast crumbling into grist for hungry
caterpillar, unbeknownst that flight path randomly
followed by a representative of Lepidoptera order,
would ineluctably set very subtly infinitesimal
fluctuations within air (currently supplying biota
with requisite oxygen), also training perturbation.
Patience Young Grasshopper mine alter ego spoke
when yours truly figuratively chomping at the bit
more accurately fretting with anxiousness when
boyhood body of mine underwent metamorphosis
impossible mission to thwart biological transformation.
A little red fox
Entered the forest one night
The moon failed to pass through the canopy
A dark crunch he felt, as he walked each time
He wasn’t scared though
He didn’t have a reason to be
His kin would find him
For sure there was no need to grieve
Until he remembered
That they weren’t the same souls he once knew
They’d abandoned him at the edge of the mountain
Nothing absurd or new
He was used to it
The quick silver changes
In their voices as they would play
In their expressions as they would say
“We love you”
But they wouldn’t change for him
“We'll understand you”
But they pushed him away yet again
They treated him like a criminal
When he’d try to be one of them
Don’t break your word, he’d cry
Only to be heartbroken again
“We’ll be kind to you”
Falling for that one promise
He’d foolishly landed up
Here at the edge of the mountain
Where he had once thought their temperament would never change
Hi readers! So the poem ends here but I wanted to attach a little piece from my thoughts. I would be grateful if you would read it and perhaps, you could relate.
I don’t understand why people do what they do. Sometimes they say selfish things, it hurts me but I’m told to get used to the ways of the world. Why must I bend my heart to avoid shattered glass from cutting through, why is it not them who are told not to break it in the first place. Either way, my heart ends up getting cut, and I end up back here to write it in poetry. For in no other way would the world understand if I tore it all apart one fine day. They wouldn’t think I smoked something or went insane, they’d know it was them who made me slowly turn against everything I thought I knew and everything I felt I was. They’d know that I did it not because I hated them, but because I hated the way I was supposed to not mind all the hurt and forget all the times my thoughts were conveniently left unheard. And if my ghost were to take revenge, it’d simply wait beside my grave for all the hypocrites who broke their promises and changed. For it was them whom I had leaned on to make the world slightly bearable, but it was also them who refused to share any burden of my faltering heart and tireless mind.
I can see them
Clouds of voracity
Covering my stars
Shadowing my reality
These civilized consciences
Have raped my protest
Have spun my web
I can no longer pacify
The tenacious circle of hate
That daily haunts me-
The deprived race
What is it I longed to be
Where come this aggressive reticence
Why this intellectual lock-jaw
I longed to be an alcoholic
I longed to join in the ecstatic dance
I longed to leap into the unknown
To preserve my ancestral pride
Neither did I know
I had no ancestry
I belonged
Not to the human race.
I could no longer trade
That rotting corpse of ancestry
For a dream
Nor could my voice
Accentuated by gesture
Give sacramental significance
To the ailing corpse
I bled from my wounds
I choked in your bonds
I baked in your avarice
How infinite this unity
Of free slaves!
How therapeutic
This hibernation!
They preached brotherhood
Their god issued
Commandments of charity
Which they conveniently
Reserved for the virgins
The silent majority
These invertebrate disturbers of peace
Must always answer with a nod
To those honeyed phrases
Which phased out moral indignation
Only to usher spiritual aberration
The saints had to turn the other cheek
I resigned from imagining, designing
Protesting and even dreaming
Into the routine of living
Without emotional wavelength-
A kind of unconsciousness
What do you say, brother
Should we take flight to freedom
Flee this intellectual tyranny
And accumulated weariness
Should we indulge our consciences
Can one dream thus
Dream of the miracles
They craned their necks
Dream of the great darkness
The ends of the universe
Dream of the wonderment
Of transcendent realms
Is there anything beyond
This shadowy future
Is there another universe
For the spider?
I queried thus and thus
In my ice-age mind
Whereupon emanated
Vast ramifications
Spinning a web for me-
A universe
Beyond which loomed
Irrational extraneous universes
Was that a miracle
Was that nature
Were those her snares
Perpetually gnawing my reality
Could those questions be answered
With a nod- however studied?
Come individuality
Remove these tenterhooks
Let me leap into a new rhythm
Let me split the capsule
And witness how long
The trip of human triumph.
(Apartheid era stuff)
IV: Nothing will bring it back...
Nothing will bring it back, ever again
So must learn to live with or overcome the pain
A tough decision the brain will have to make
The heart will need to follow for sanity's sake
Leave the gloom in an abstract form
Charge ahead, break the norm
All well thought and said
Difficult to follow the path ahead
Be it dark, steep, winding or treacherous
The storm of fear may seem perilous
The right change is what the mind needs
Something fruitful for all the good deeds
Asking is not what one does anymore
Waiting endlessly makes the heart sore
Leave the future in destiny's hands
But still that something the heart demands
V: That something the heart continues to demand...
That something the heart continues to demand
The brain gets stronger and wants to reprimand
Unfortunately for no one can time rewind
Best to regain peace and sanity of the mind
So focus on the right and not the wrong
Not the things that didn't work, didn't belong
The moments that brought joy and warmed the heart
Snuggling up in the arms was the best part
But the good times make the heart yearn for more
Conveniently overlooking how badly it tore
And even though it keeps beating as it heals
It can't stop feeling the way it feels
So time is exactly what it will get
So the emotions can be rightly set
The brain will be wise and support it for now
And hope for a better tomorrow somehow
VI: A hope for a better tomorrow...
A hope for a better tomorrow I try to keep
Attempting to lock away the emotions in too deep
They're raw, they're real, but I won't let them seep
For this moment in time, they only make me weep
Thought I was strong, better than this
Things were rosy, everything seemed a bliss
The prickly thorns creeped up too soon
Bursting the bubble, crippling the boon
The mind can't help but mindlessly wonder
Why it all happened I often ponder
Life is such, unfathomable, cryptic and intense
More often than not, things just don't make sense
The wise would learn and bravely move on
The rest would wallow, struggle and moan
I don't deny I currently belong to the latter
But give me time, will top the former and be better
With women the heart argues, not the mind.
MATTHEW ARNOLD, Merope
1. The stand of old growth Melalucas, graces the lowlands of our farm.
For over fifty years, accumulations of leaves have formed small soft islands.
“With selective clearing,” my husband says, "larger areas of grassland will grow.
More grazing for the cows and less hay we’d need to buy in Winter."
Inwardly, I lament, not wanting to lose the beauty of these trees
with branches that rise like huge broccoli bunches against bright blue skies.
My husband, much harder, by necessity, over-rules my sentiments.
2. Conveniently, earth-moving machines appear early on the first day
of the New Year. They cut a long swathe
but on the dam are left a large row, marked by me,
for sanctuary.
They cast reflections on the still water.
3. The felled trees are piled into rough heaps. Prophetically, the car
of the Inspector for Primary Industries appears.
“You must know, these are protected trees.”
He asks for permits (not granted) and orders a ‘cease and desist.’
His scowling looks are an indictment.
4. For months the operation was on hold
and, then the rains came and the floods—almost our undoing.
Flocks of water-birds occupied the flats, nesting on the islands
formed by the grassy hummocks. When these waters receded,
an overgrowth of young melalucas sprouted, where the old trees
had once stood. A network of roots underground had signaled
a catastrophe. New nodes erupted along all the root-ways.
Dumbly they announced their guardianship of the swampy land.
“Give us back to time,” they said , but the un-relenting slasher
leveled them again, so grass could grow.
5. I go back into my house now, secretly pleased the trees are speaking.
The topaz flames from the fireplace, warm my bones.
The hoary frosts have come. The envelope containing the D P I’s
decision waits on the mantel shelf, propped by a row of grazing, ceramic cows.
From the window I see our cows enter between the Melalucas.
They graze on the new growth pasture.
I warm my hands, as the flames lick firewood.
The scent from Melaluca smoke haunts me.
Suzanne Delaney
365 words