Long Corrugated Poems
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Written: September 12, 2023
Ocean Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Ink Empress
“The sea is an underwater museum still awaiting its visitors.” – Phillip Diole
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In the endless expanse of the ocean's domain.
Calm, circumfluous crystal collides coiling terrain.
A bed of iridescence behests the view.
Turquoise riddles, azure feral, and true
Humpback whales waltz on the horizon stage.
Their majestic demeanor, the ocean's sage
Waves akin to a shroud, coral reefs below.
In a cerulean ebony, enigma utopia to know
Tidal waves waltz ripples in a twirling thunder.
Foams that fizz and fatuous horses canter under
An aphrodisiac shore, paradisal and grand.
Where quicksilver spume kisses saffron sands.
Barefoot on the shore, spate, and pelagic breeze
The brine in the breeze, a savor of the seas
Seaside pearls and garrulous nautical dreams
A seamount allure, where kelpies do gleam.
Waves wreck as cymbals, water splashes spray.
Unplumbed bedrocks where sunfish play.
Blase naiads and abysmal gaunt cries
In the abyss, the embrace of diastrophism rises.
Swell of the abyss, corrugated, and red.
Balboa sails in pits due to intricate coastal spread.
Nebulous littoral shores, worldly and true
In Japan splurge, a seabed quells the view.
With a caper and a queen, the gulf turns alive.
Natal seaboard, where nexus coldness does thrive.
Beyond the gloom, where ocean waves are silver,
Moonlight pulsates, spritzes, and yelps as a river.
Whipping and splashing, an aqua symphony
The ocean's orchestra in idyllic harmony
From abyss to surface, the music does swell.
A symphony of water, where stories do tell.
In the moonlit dusk, waves waltz and sway.
Their silvery, pellucid shimmer steers the way.
With every pulsating and splashing sound.
Ocean's placate melodies and quiddity abound.
Abyssal symphony is a seraphic sight.
Where nature's cynosure beauty bears flight.
Waves, akin to dancers, gracefully behoove.
In a rhythmic squirm, their sapidity grooves.
Susurrus slipshod secrets of the steep
Splashes of euphoria, sojourn, and sweep
A symphony of splendor, a chorus of grace
The ocean's melody is in every embrace.
2nd place contest winner
As little child walked in the field of flowers,
Picking and smelling them as she grows,
The pervading air fragrance of Guava
The majestic mellow Mangoes too in wet season,
The atmosphere of green garden eggs,
Caressing melody of crunchy carrots cracker,
The hidden colours of pineapples,
Bulb of yellow oranges lighted the line green trees,
Would be in season all year, including rags to
riches filling Maize
And pods shelled nourishing beans,
Surging umbrella leaves of papaya,
Shallow rooted coco-yam,the variegated
lettuce that brightens everyday,
With the crowded bananas are growing everyday,
But now,they are in wet tins and dry cartons
For that very busy mankind.
The landscapes within are beautifully measureless,
The Jacaranda and Tamarind trees had cast
Their shadows on the plain, and not forgetting,
The Silk-cottons and the wilderness of palm fruits
That grow tall and sure,
And under them we played cracking out nuts and
eating them,
But now, elevated long balcony, we have
That you stand and weep of the passing phases.
The sepulcher we all grew up in,
Might not be the same dungeon now,
And the cradle you are born in
Could well be the same abode now,
Thatched roof has given birth
To corrugated reflections,
Likewise the fragile asbestos fight for space with concretizing flat,
The mud debris has turned to bricks and plaster erect;
New galaxies of dwelling and scattered
About in a festival of designs;
Some are like an octagonal
A cone, a triangle and spec angular façade yet unseen;
All glasses, cupped and straight down
Like the eccentric mansions in heaven,
The spec tropic clime had turned suddenly,
The wind blows and smell of change,
The sun blaze down on man and space and warned,
Of great consequent yet in the
Outer-atmosphere would burst,
As we are cuddly warm
The poles wildly discharged their zillion captured
Water in a spasm of deluge right upon us…I think,
Like urchins, we fumble forgetting the next hour,
But what would happen is nature’s raison d’etre;
Man and his environ scope both have shibboleth gone pathways
And fast we are turning into artificial humankind.
Do not go back he said and for what.
To a childhood time many moons ago in Ireland
In a field of cocks of hay and a very hot summer day
Being stung by two bees on the palm of my hand as I pressed against that hay
I would love to run again crying to the house
And that granny would be there with the witch hazel and a loving embrace
To a time when my Aunt Nancy who cried when I would be leave for England
Always producing clothes pegs of wood she had painted for me each visit
To her house and the Ava Maria played from the ornamental statue of the Virgin Mary
And her neighbours who were two young daughters
Who fought with each other over a bucket to take me to the well
Phil and T.C. I seem to recall were their names
And their mother known as baby Brehoney made the best potato cakes ever
I remember the pipe smoke and old granduncle Mark
In their corrugated tin roofed three room house
The black kettle and crook and the permeating turf smoke
To wife Baa as she was known and her 'Not a bad word' would she say about anyone
As children thay always called us Agra.
Chocolate bars for us children that were fry's mint and whiskey for Dad
To well I remember the two lonely first cousins of my father's who were bachelors
And their stiff plastic table cloth that would rise above our heads in each corner
when pushed from below the table
The dinner table itself was pushed against the stair case
Where the tea the sugar the salt and pepper were left on each yellow ascending step
And the spit laden flagstone floor more concentrated around the ray burn
But that ceased when visitors came calling
Too fondly I remember the long mountain top drive from
Arigna to Corn and our destination beside Dad's old collapsed homestead
Along the way the augments with Mom as to who lived in each house
Who married whom, how many children they had and what jobs did they do
The remote church where we stopped to view the best view for 50 miles round
And to pray at our Ladys grotto. And an occasion when there were so many inscets
inside the car that they consumed half the interior volume of the car.
Form:
In the fifties
it was the suburban icon
that survived the start
of the renovation phase
and still graced the backyards
of most houses in the neighborhood,
the ubiquitous Australian
outside dunny.
Ours was a corrugated iron
oven that cooked you in the summer
and would freeze even the most proud
member down to a modest size
in winter. Daddy long leg spiders
would watch from the walls and ceiling
and bounce about in their webs
when the chain on the overhead
cistern was pulled
and water gushed out.
One hot summer's day my Dad
was sitting on the loo
with the door open and saw
a snake crawl across the lawn.
Up with his trousers he pursued
the snake until it slid into
the shade house, grabbing it
by the tail as it slipped through
the wire netting fence.
For an hour he called out
hoping someone would hear
and help him deal with the snake.
Back then there were no
snake catchers you could call,
you either killed it or let it go
and worried whether
it would come back.
Finally our neighbor, Jim Ireland,
came running in armed
with an axe and as Dad slowly
pulled it back out,
dealt the reptile a fatal blow.
When I came home from school
that day, there was this four foot
brown hanging on the clothesline
almost cut in half.
It seemed too small to pack
such danger, its jaws sealed shut
in death over those lethal fangs.
I couldn't bring myself to touch it
in fear that it might spring back
and bite me in a final revenge.
That year, my Dad kept
the dunny door open
all summer. He never saw
another snake. I should have been
a better son.
Notes.
Though rather obvious, the term
“dunny” refers to an outside toilet,
a good old Australian colloquialism.
It's rare to find snakes in suburban
backyards these days unless near
open areas and waterways.
As a matter of interest, the snake
referred to in the poem was
an “Eastern Brown” whose venom
is rated as the second most toxic
in the world, the most toxic being
the Inland Taipan another Australian
species.
The industrial hull of the SUV
Sways with the slightest wind taps
And pothole shoves. Popeye’s signs,
Golden shell displays, the lingering smell
Of Premium-grade gasoline.
The prices are Down, but our gas meter still
teeters closely, Dangerously, just inches away
from zero. Still, we push on.
We pass Targets and Walmarts,
advertising last minute holiday sales.
We pass packed churches,
Minute investment banks,
and lush green fields
Of ochre and chamomile.
We love it here, when it's like this,
swaying and moving and existing and living,
traffic lights blinking signaling malfunction,
creaky train tracks rattling under thick rubber tires,
Black faces covered in bandanas,
riding sterling White horses on cobblestone streets,
homes stuffed with joyous presents and family love.
Christmas lights line walls and corners like cobwebs,
bells jingle and chestnuts roast.
A stray dog hurtles through aqua-hued
Alleys, neighborhood convenient stores shut the
Shutters for the night. Randall’s BBQ pit sits
Idle in front of the Dollar General. We almost get
in a wreck near the intersection
outside of the neighborhood.
I cry,
my clothes dampen from stress-induced sweat.
We pass backyards,
homes,
estates.
Wired, wood, corrugated fences,
kids jumping over them,
gaining scarlet scabs on knees,
fences beautifully embroidered,
decorated with ivy from hobby lobby
and signs that read, “beware of dog!”
But still, we push on.
We move through the backyard,
inching slowly on St. Augustine grass,
slithering like scaled snakes past the
Water hose and dog cage.
The pitbull’s mouth foams with slimy goop,
but he pays no mind.
We sway smoothly like wind to the
living room window.
No one here.
We love it here, when it's like this.
We see jewelry, shoes, jackets,
petticoats, purses, monster trucks,
guitars, Barbies. We see a red light
beaming from an alarm on the wall,
meaning “armed.”
But still, we push on.
(Where the streets are full of pity)
Last night! I met an old boxer
in an alley of cardboard;
he seemed glad to see me,
shouted me over for a fight!
I told him!
“Hey I’m not in your league”
“Young man.” He said. “That’s alright.”
“So! I suppose you’re going to leave me,
cos the forecast is for rain, you in
your fine mansion, mine, just a
bloody pain”
“It’s not corrugated you see
it just keeps letting in the damp.”
“But then again I guess,
that’s O.K, for a foolish old tramp.”
He told me!
“What’s the price of glory if one is
shackled to the past. Even my old
woman left me, took my purse in
pursuit of another man. To think
I really loved her, gave her all that I
could, the witch hankered for the
final count, then left me where I
stood!”
He rambled on discursively!
“Take me away from this
‘Cardboard City’ Wrap me up in
sentimental pity.
Help me roam within my native
‘Devon’ Chase illusive rainbows back
into heaven.”
“Its years of abusing whisky,
Its years of abusing gin,
Its years of perpetual hoar frosts
that hones this savage grin. For
here I lay beneath this lamp, I hope
you understand, with only a
watery moon for comfort and
above me, this single amp!”
“How do you think I feel, here?
In chains of formal sorrow,
replaying each vintage year
each round like no tomorrow!”
“Each morning still, I count the
homeless, watch the van collect
the corpse, I caress each nightly
affliction to ease each delusion
that warps.”
“So! Give an old man a second chance
to come out gamely fighting,
repay life’s referee, society
the uninviting.”
His bottle ran dry,
his words began to wound.
Here! In God’s own country
left high wide and marooned.
Yet like the mortal flame
he submits to the desolate night,
the municipal van empowered
to administer the ultimate rite.
No dawn able to invigorate
leaves this empty feeling in me
the morning dew edulcorates
while a soul in hell is set free!
© Harry J Horsman 1996
Better to never touch than never be able to let go
Suppose that’s how it works, but how would he know?
He slowly lifts up his head and opens his eyes
To see there’s no life left to live within the scope of this light
Here he can see that everyone’s gone, everyone left
The shadows give his mind room to play
They bring back the ones he needs to feel home
To make the beating in his chest hurt a little less
Complacency brings the warmth back to his hands
Just as they used to be before the cold came to embrace him
Hands that held so much, fought so many battles
Once had a dream, once served a purpose
But now they hang there empty and aching
No strength left to fight, but is just as well
As there are no more battles left to lose
No burdens left to carry, no faces left to leave
His shoulders slump too low to hold up his head any longer
Corrugated roof finally gives underneath the rain
Curses this city and its apathetic elements
Automatons with hearts, but still without feeling
The bastard children of a father that abandoned them to their own demise
He hates them all as they keep walking, uncaring
Either a hamburger or a loaded gun would suffice
Maybe not; he almost enjoys feeling this unique
No one else hurts as much as he does
No one else ever had as much to lose as he did
Break in concentration; a strangely dressed man throws a card towards him
He knows it’s not trash as the man actually looked at him before he threw it
“Chance of a lifetime: One game, two resulting prizes.”
Ten o’clock and he’s waiting for the door to open
Finally, an over-sized man lets him in and shows him where to sit
Grateful to be out of the wet, cold alleyway he forgets about the game
A man with a deck of cards sits down in front of him
Afterward, four other men sit down at the table
Players, he assumes...
Something to talk about thinking about the box What is in it What is made of What is in between the corrugated hallways What is outside the box and how does it feel The many face of a box whether it has top or not Taking the concrete crate making it abstract but knowable Watching as words become the paint to color the box springs to make them leap from the page Grasping outward spiraling on end like a diamond depending on the shape of the box of course If the box is or is not stationary If it is an unfolded or folded box Does it beat within the chest Does it sing or have wings Inside is it warm or outside in a storm Is it rigid or a breath upon your neck Boxing is it a golden ring or storing things Is it lost crumpled in a bin Looking from outside the box maybe it never really was the problem but the portmanteau a creation to kick around
Once i stood at the peak of mount
seleya
Observing the red sun and dry winds
of the Vulcan homeworld
Surveying the vast desert land in a
cloud of dust
Silently wishing in my heart that it
would rain
That the dry winds of the north would
cease
And usher in a few minutes of the rain
Suddenly a tremor hit me hard
It was so hard that i could barely stand
At first i thought it was an invisible
force
But then, i realised it was an invasion
Droplets of rain from the southern
hemisphere
Came riding on horses like a calvary
First as a drizzle with a gentle breeze
Then it became so cold and chilly
That the spatering rain froze to sleet
I thought that it might snow
Alas! it was too cold to snow
The lands hunkered in the freezing
darkness
I strayed into some caves to pass the
night
Earnestly anticipating an end to the
storm
Scarcely prepared to survive till
morning
But this time,morning may never
come
As the invasion lasted long into the
night
It kept me stranded in some rocky
caves
Then stopped abruptly as it had
began
I was thanking my stars
Only for it to return with a thousand
legions of soldiers
It was an invasion like no other
The waves increased in amplitude
The rain increased in intensity
Huge drops hit with perceptible force
Like stone pebbles on a corrugated
roof
All of a sudden i was back on Mt
seleya
Staring wide into the dry and dusty
desert
Wondering where it had rained
Then i realised it all happen in my
imagination
It was an impossible wish come true
Just when i thought i had seen it all
Slowly it faded unrecoverable
As the faint memory of a dream
First it was an invasion from the stars
At the end, it became a vision
A dream of the stars.
OLANIYAN ISRAEL
An imagination of rain on VULCAN
home world.
“METROPOLIS BLUES”
The elemental wind
curls in from the north east,
sublime salon creations in
disarray, in grimy profusion
inventiveness subsides.
The town clock strikes out,
within ear shot, a bench seat plays
host to a cast of thousands.
Soon! succulent rotting form to be
replaced by concrete.
“A dental job needed
for those poor little mites?”
Corrugated iron
picturesque in shades of autumn,
rattling in regimental disorder,
a haunting requisition
for regeneration.
Rogue waves spill over the
quay, reducing feathered messengers
to squatters alms.
Honking horn for the many that
miss “Cross now.” Hot profanity
escapes in sheer frustration,
diamond studded ladies,
gents in pin stripe suits
reduced to gutter sniping,
intellectual street wise gnomes
aroused by verbal definition.
Skywards, elevated glass menageries, a
product of inner city germination casts out
buoyant clouds, plays
yo-yo with minute window cleaners,
perched precarious in prefabricated
isolation.
One does get lost in
Duty Free! Polyglots
strutting between glass cabinets,
exemplification of
exaggerated personification!
No English! Here, yet many tongues
in resonant sounds, reverberating
throughout the confused clamour.
Idiot in pearly white
“BMW” Snookered
in “Victoria Street”
came in “Off the black” Seven
points away, no consolation for
the hot “Mini Cooper”
all concerned carried away
under flashing lights.
“Cardless head banger” In
aggressive mood, his
four numbered digits he
had forgot, so the machine
decided to take the lot!
Shades of the fifties roll on
by, silver wheels impeccable
against an opaque sky.
“Boom boom ‘John Lee Hooker’”
drifts into contention
a competitive participant
within the metropolis;
as aren’t we all!!
© Harry J Horsman 2012