Long Cruelly Poems
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Loneliness
He sits at the table and watches the shoppers walk by
There aren’t many seats here, his half-hour limit’s long past
As one by one each worker chats with him; they know this guy
He offers them something for which they could never have asked
Is he all alone but for these times where these grocery carts
Roll blind past this spot where store patrons with sandwiches sit
How much does it matter: he touches the store workers’ hearts
As he in time opens his heart to them too, bit by bit
We need much more than loose companionship: each needs someone
Moment to moment – if you neglect this basic need
And find yourself lulled fast asleep in the Florida sun
The others who share the beach with you will pay you no heed
Your skin that was once yearning warmth having found itself burned
Though long you’d been caught in the thought that you hardly had much
Real need for another – your heart was blocked till you discerned
The pain forcing you to withdraw your own wound-healing touch
Loneliness thus begets loneliness through lack of flow
Leaving society toxic and cold, though aren’t we
Some of the most social creatures: you think we would know
Given the size of our brains that we’ll never be free
To live in our grand isolation – say is it not sad
That we who’ve accomplished so much remain cruelly alone
In safety behind our four walls or four doors, for we’ve had
So many a fear we may act like our hearts are of stone
Most folks are either religious or distant, I think
Though there sure is joy in connecting with someone untamed
If you can sell such on your pat ideas, you may well drink
One and all from the same cup; how could instinct be blamed
For scorn and exclusion of real individualists
Don’t we know strangers whose ways of life cause them to be
Left to themselves with their thoughts – why they’d hardly be missed
That’s why it’s trouble to live as a visionary
He sits at the table: what is he, a healer a saint
Or maybe Kieslowski’s calm witness of silent insight
Observing the Decalogue unfold without the least taint
Of any least judgment, since all of us know our own plight
If you would engage him in talk would you hear unique thoughts
Or would you yet cover him up in the news of the day
And squelch him clear out with a barrel of shoulds woulds and oughts
So leave him there lonely since he’ll never know you that way
~ Thanks Always Returns
Accursed human species
case in point Vladimir Putin,
who strikes terror across globe.
Don't underestimate his hell bent
zeal to attack United States,
one blood sucking infernal
predacious *****sapien
mercilessly bullies, interrogates,
threatens... with zeal.
Considerably less mortifying
constitutes wrathful ordeals
exhibited by adults who treat
thine wife with indecorous jibes
like punks who sat back of bus
or classmates at Methacton
High School, mine alma mater.
No different than typical mean kids
many crotchety residents here
Highland Manor Apartments
majority residents aggrieve the missus
though said counterpart (thee spouse)
exudes standoffish poise
countenance dons and
nonverbally trumpets scowl
body language broadcasts
social graces be damned
easily interpreted as snub
engendering hostile imprecations
cruelly fiendish provocations
undermine capacity to experience
peace of mind
exacerbated by her
figurative cold shoulder
propensity to flip the bird
notched, ratcheted, torqued... tension
courtesy miss prissy heiress,
daughter, she secured management role
albeit (hats off) to nepotism
guarantees lifelong job security
issued thee missus warning
rental stipulation disallows
overt middle finger flashing signal
emotional entanglement ensued
yours truly tasked
to pursue more favorable environment,
yet scant finances (mine)
and poor credit
two strikes against
locating affordable living situation
since sole family income
social security disability
direct deposited monthly
buzzfeeding checking account
regularly near anorexic,
cuz additionally I pay
costs of living expenses
cole king avoiding being homeless,
thus this penniless
among dime a dozen
day late dollar short
low income bracketed
(marching with madness)
mister casts quandary
couched as poetry,
no great expectations,
nonetheless cathartic to communicate
(hoop fully understandable)
present tense plight
projected as plotted trend
fat and/or slim chance
fate will curse me as lottery winner
pipe dream teasing
this word plumber flush with ire,
who feels nsync and drained
scraping hand to mouth
bemoaning apathy, dismal
effort, gross indifference
toward self sums (mein kampf)
plus academic struggles
proffers grim forecast
as coxswain at mercy
rudderless ship of state
edges closer to his waterloo.
(Part One) The first few hours.
I was just a ordinary man
caught up in the unruly throng,
The mob jeering and ranting
insults on the road along,
I pushed and shoved my way
through all the furore
to see what all the fuss and melee
was all about at the fore.
My heart shrunk as I eyed
in total dismay that ghastly sight,
From what befell my eyes, that Friday morn
befouling that dawning day with blight,
Was a Man sparsely clad, and bloodied soiled,
And about fifteen and a half hands tall,
His nut brown shoulder length hair
now caked and matted in disarray.
The way His hair and beard
was parted in the middle down
i knew that Man then
was belonging to the Nazarene Sect,
And brutally entwined upon His head
was a brambled thorny crown,
What more torturous and bestial
torment can a naked body be subject,
His body oozed and dripped sweat
all mixed with blood and grime,
And even more the gruesome
was the criss-cross lashes mark,
So visible, as He staggered along
on that arduous path that morning time,
Dragging a fifteen cubit long sycamore
torture-stake on His shoulder, bared stark.
His back bent and racked in obvious pain
bearing that one and a half hand in diameter log,
Then when, He stumbled in His stride
and before the Roman Centurion Him wanted to flog,
For that Man's wretched agony
and pain, I no longer could bear to stand,
Then in haste that Man to help
I shed my outer garments and tossed it to another man,
I stayed the Centurion's hand
and hoisted that stake upon my own broad back,
For I was Simon an Grecian man from Cyrene
and favoured arduous labourous toil,
When that frail worn-out Man turned
with blue-grey eyes and looked at me,
I saw in that look, relief and gratitude
then I knew, I did just right,
He sadly smiled as He said these words to me,
"Do you too now drink from this bitter cup?",
And added, "You shall indeed sip
its rim with Me to the end of time",
I knew Him then no ordinary, man could be
His voice so gentle and mild,
And I truly then wandered who this Man could be?
to suffer so cruelly, in the hands of man,
When He lightly placed His hand
upon my shoulder, I felt the load lightened,
as if I walked with a feather
on my back, and not His gruesome burden no more,
As we together trudged, on that path
that road, to Calvaria, that place of death,
I then knew that Man at my side
Was a Holy-man by His touch alone.
Given as a gift from Germany to Kabul zoo in Afghanistan
No fields to run in - just a miserable enclosed barren land
You were blessed with a beautiful lioness partner, Chucha
She must have made you feel no less than a majestic Shah
You survived against all the invasions, and the bloody wars
Behind those dark miserably cramped closed barring doors
You were a survivor, that against all the cruelly made odds
Was even threaten to be killed, by the unholy Taliban sods
But your loyal keeper fought for your life, using the Quran
With the prophet Muhammad to aid you to all understand
That an animal is to be respected, he also had his own pets
To kill Marjan, would in the end, will leave you with regrets
But you were brought down by an egotistical Mujahedeen
Who you killed for mauling your Chucha for fun it seemed
In turn the killed brother gave you three grenades as a gift
The damage it caused you was more than deserved - swift
You lost your sight in one eye and near all of it in the other
Because of a under deserving revenge of a grieved brother
You lost all of your teeth, with the blast all of your hearing
Yet you survived, to Afghans, you became more endearing
That they took it upon themselves to then kill this very man
For the ignorance of the situation as he did not understand
You had thought this man was a threat to your lioness pride
As it was in the end his own fault he was attacked then died
As the wars in Afghanistan raged so did the famine drought
When it came to food for you there was too little of it about
But the Afghan people gathered in force to see you were fed
No one wanted the Shah Marjan from hunger be found dead
You came through all of this, skin sagging on a frame so lean
But for it all, never did once made you ferocious or be mean
Your beloved keeper walked with you within your enclosure
Despite your injuries you always maintained your composure
Your name travelled the world, and they wished you the best
But after a quarter of a century you then laid yourself to rest
This tribute is to you mera jaan Marjan – the pearl of Afghanistan
May you always with Chucha, fly free, high above this desert land
Higher and higher with the longed for eternal peace may you soar
As the winds carry along with it your once mighty and proudly roar
I search for words
To describe this feeling...
After you told me
You hate me...
I remember when
I went swimming in the ocean
One day in January...
Ice was curled in elaborate design
Of wind-blown swirls on the sand...
Snowflakes mixed with grains of sand
And bitter wind blew both into my face-
Sea foam blew across the beach
Like stray, sodden mushroom clouds
And the ocean waves were dark
And angry...
It was so cold, this January...
But I wasn't scared.
That day, I had I thought of
The ocean in autumn;
When I swam last in autumn,
It was October, and the
Wind was harsh and strong;
Waves were wild with
The fresh memory of stormclouds,
So they crested high and broke hard
On the beach...
The sun hadn't shone that day either.
The water, when I dove into it,
Was cold, but warmer than the air-
Vicious to look at,
But under the surface of the waves
Still gentle as summer...
Familiar...
I had gone back in more than once
Just because I loved the feel,
The pull of the current, the raw energy
Of the water against my skin,
And I dove through waves again
And again...
I knew it would be worse this time,
A few months later
And so many degrees colder...
I almost decided not to do it
When I peeled off my coat,
My shirt, my boots, pants, and socks...
The wind bit my skin hard, tearing
Into my warm body, and the gound,
Icy, was like bared teeth against the soles
Of my feet...
Too late to back out now.
So I ran, barefoot, over ice-ringed
Puddles of seawater and snow-flecked sand...
I reached the water, the first soft waves...
I was slowed by the foamy surf,
Which, only knee-deep, was a strong deterrent,
But then I was past it, and I dove...
That first, frigid, smack in the face
As the water closed over my head
Stole all heat, all memory of heat,
From my body all in an instant...
I surfaced gasping in shock,
Heart about to either stop or burst-
I'm still not sure which,
All I could think of was the cold...
It was so cold...
Colder than anything I've ever known...
I retreated clumsily-
I should have recoiled from the ground,
Stepping quickly and lightly
Over cruelly sharp grains of
Equally mixed ice and sand,
But I could no longer feel the cold...
I could feel nothing...
Could think nothing...
When you told me you hate me...
It felt like that.
Hopelessness is that brief lapse, that necessary pause,
Closing the door on an existence of conflict.
It is that first gasp, that momentary stab of sadness,
Defying design and allowing no plan for escape or rescue.
It is fear rushing in on the glorious notes of Mozart’s Requiem,
Filling open wounds with beautiful sounds of death.
It is enduring pain that pierces so cruelly and cuts so deep
That emotion is broken and awareness is impossible.
Hopelessness is letting go of childhood dreams,
Knowing that neither perfection nor performance
Will ever change the outcome.
Hopelessness is finally accepting the sorrow,
Unclenching tight, childlike fists,
And simply releasing a childhood that never really existed.
Hopelessness is surrendering to anguish and despair,
Uniting with tears of defeat and pain; then silently saluting this passing foe
Who has graciously captured the field, and left open the door to compassion.
Compassion is the promise, the holy gift of hopelessness.
Compassion is the stairway, the path in the forest
Leading to that lovely grace, that perfect stop
To conditioned patterns of suffering.
Compassion is the meter, the cadence of the heart,
Transforming deceit into joyful affirmation;
Proving that control and intimidation
Had lost their power long ago.
Compassion is the redeeming grace of hopelessness,
If I dare to breathe it in and let go of the need to suffer.
Compassion is the golden key to my imagined prisons,
If I dare to accept its comfort and simply review the pictures from my past.
Compassion is the cool water of life, soothing me,
If I dare to lay my head upon the verity it offers.
So take hold, my grieving heart;
Embrace this gift of hopelessness;
Wrap hard your arms around it,
This saddest of sadnesses.
Swallow it whole
And let it fill your mind and body and soul.
Then exhale the suffering
And believe you are worthy of love.
For in the end, it is compassion that will walk me through
The painful shame of my past, then patiently sit beside me
As I release the familiar solace of suffering.
For in the end, it is compassion
That will give me the grace and courage
To accept the gift of hopelessness.
[written on the theme of the Buddhist Day of Enlightenment -
and to release all that is hindering our attainment of compassion]
The armies they are massing:
They line and ring every shore, every strand bristling with
The deadliest of weapons;
The tocsin should be sounded,
And every cannon is round at its bore.
Fires rage unchecked and unopposed throughout the
Entire world, and mankind, in part, prepares hastily and needlessly
Yet more and crueler,
Harsher atrocities, cruelties
And machines and weapons of horrific war.
Bloody folly and empty vainglory to
Embark imprimis upon the roads to all-out war,
I greatly fear that these are man's fate,
And though I attempt to raise the alarm
With this writing of mine, yet I fear I may be too late!
"Too late! Too late! This, then, is mankind's fate!" It cruelly mocks,
Crows and caws as the ebon raven,
Croaking its dread prophecies in my ever-attentive ear.
It chills even my waiting
Tankard of frothy, frosty beer;
Yet no beer-drinker am I,
No quaffer and lover of ales and lagers.
And still I hold a lonely vigil,
And keep a silent, motionless, breathless watch on the swiftly storm-filling sky.
5. Making steel-enclosed aeronautical, aerodynamical vessels sealed
And brimming only with overmuch indiscriminating death:
Dual-edged, oiled with and soaking in an abundant poison bringing
Vicious death to the poisoner as well as the poisoned,
Man is a violent, self-destructive fool: Lame, impotent,
Obsessed and somehow impatient of vilest death.
Death for his opponent, his manufactured,
Fancied nemesis:
Nay; his NEMESES:
Yet not for himself, this horrid death he dreams of bringing to an imagined enemy only.
Additionally, he hath built and placed all his faith in titanic weaponry of
Awesome destructiveness,
Possessed of the devastating potency of an angry, rampaging god.
And these vile implements of utterest extirpation;
Encased within a very nation of steel tubular;
They are as wayward, incorrigible,
Marauding, plundering, malicious gargantuan
Monsters:
Great, cyclopean giants of a horribly puissant
Destroying fury
Bringing only disaster upon all heads;
Anarachic, ultra-liberal in there dark and evil slaughterousness:
Slaying even their maker, having no loyalty, cold and cruel:
Delighting only in death, wanton destruction, infamy and cruelty.
No man nor nation should possess these terrible weapons,
Yet too many do.
Form:
On this peaceful land where we live comfortably
with the neighboring villagers sharing the sun and moon,
stars and clouds, winds and waters, rains and snows;
we sow the seeds on the field, wander in the wilderness
to spot the games to hunt in the changing colors of the flowers
in the time of bloom and fruit and revolving seasons
One day, from the east, crossing over the great sea,
the white feathered gluttonous bird flew into this peaceful land
and took our land by force; the bird cruelly pecked us with his avaricious beak, cold-heartedly tore us with his sharp talons, kept pushing and shoving us eastward, and this vicious cycle drove us into tribal wars and at last, Illini
to extinct.
And this moaning butte throwing its shadow on the water
atop of encircling cliffs is the Starved Rock, the site where
the great tragedy took place, all Illini tribesmen lost their lives.
The water of the Illinois River mixed with the tears of the people
who lost everything in the east via this legion for further west,
now moans to ease the spirit of Illini wandering around
the Staved Rock, which is still hungry, in the evening glow
as a soundless requiem.
The water flows embracing sorrowful Rock where:
the mother jumped into the water holding her beloved child,
the village elders who collapsed while upholding tribal pride
followed by the war cry of the warriors who grabbed tomahawk and fought but, alas, fell to enemy’s hand, now is telling the story of their last day
it becomes whirlpool in the very middle of the water.
When the streams small and large come together the following paths
meet and form a pool on the top of this lonely butte on the other side of the river, and dashes into the basin of the waterfall;
some of them fall rapidly into the steep ravine with heartrending cries
some of them drift like slow moving time in deep sorrow
some of them descend to the rocks of level stratum one by one
singing a funeral dirge.
The spirit of Illini drifting along the river
carrying so many sad stories touches the tourists’
heart; stepping on the site of the tragedy
makes tears stand to casual sightseers;
the grief-stricken stories raise the ripples in the river
and leaves a lingering imagery in the eyes and ears of the travelers
The afternoon's a fire, but my head still frozen to the pillow.
The fan blows soft and I lay softer.
Without a signifier I'll get up for the 4th hour in a row,
I'll stay ignorant to all the day can offer.
That's the sixth day out of eight I've laid, late.
Fostering doubt.
Guess I'll try out gout.
Stuck in the bed that I've made.
They took the trees down on Spring Garden
"Regrowth is a process" I said lying
I remember stretching out my arms when
I spread out these roots of mine.
Branching out, I watched bark harden
As we were dying on the vine.
I used to see the pasture line
Far beyond what I can describe
These days I just can't seem to find-
The right words
Make all the difference.
All your sins laid out before you, which ones would you keep?
What misdeed really makes you proud?
I know you have one too, that ball of black down in the heart, deep.
But you just won't say out loud
It's okay, take your time
It's a tough question I know
Could be a theft, maybe a lie.
Could be something darker though.
I betrayed the one I loved
I did my very best impression of Brutus
It's what I'm most shameful of
When I broke the trust between the two of us
But it set off an avalanche
That broke the mountain, truly
Memories of our last dance
Taunt and tease me cruelly
But then I saw another chance
So I reached out and pulled it to me
I was looking to come to terms
With the people I hurt and the lessons I learned
When I saw the sun set on the skyline through someone else's lens
And I waited for my new life
And my old one to end
It inspired me to live again
To put the past behind
Take the opportunity to make amends
"Regrowth is a process"
I mean it this time.
So this is my confessional.
Every passage is a penance.
I put myself on trial.
With every line a sentence.
No doubt it was bad, I couldn't prove you wrong.
Afterward it really dug into me
And I tortured me for so long
But there's a lot to personality,
People are complex
And when you do the work it seems
Your personage resets
So judge me all you want you see
I'll gladly be the black sheep.
Because without it all where would I be?
All my sins laid out before me, which one would I keep?
I think I'll just keep all of me
Wood Nymph, wraps white
gossamer legs in hello, as branch shakes
in obvious "ka_ching"!
'Oh wait till you see what she does next",
tattles the tree, in an excited and mischievous
foreboding.
Itself, a Familiar and Servant,
hypnotized to carry and present her gift of wrap
and wrap of gift.
The naughty Nymph O pushes herself halfway up
like a tired and cautious sloth
(on the lip of a drinking cup.)
An innocent look beguiles her face
as essence of bark soils it's digits up,
To stick like a sponge to her curves like a leech
leeching much.
Nurses a clamp to her soft skin
as if to aspire seed of sapling in sap, sapping sin.
As She stares through, impossibly pierced,
her cruelly clumsy jiggle starks the eye
in an ultra violence of lumplumpsum.
The forest stirs with whispers of silence,
gossiper secretions to soil more.
Wood nymph dances careless,
her story unfolding, merciless amore.
Her web weaving legs, wrapped in ethereal grace,
licks of
delicate tricks of creature of delicacy.
Surreal ad vise given visa visage
it's enchanting embrace.
The trees, they giggle with mischievous delight,
as they await her next move, a magical sight.
A familiar servant, the branches extend,
presenting her gifts, their devotion, bend.
Halfway she rises, cautious and slow, oh dear.
Like a tired sloth, uncertain where to go
but nearer near.
Innocence plays upon her beguiling face,
as she clings to the bark, leaving presiding trace.
A sponge to her curves, the bark holds so tight,
seeks to crumble there.
Leaving a mark, a visible sign of it's mare.
But she dances on, with a clumsy sway.
A violence of debauchery in a mystical play,
there there, tears tears tears.
Her presence, it lingers, in the air, a fragrance,
mimicking the soul bare.
A poem to stir souls, in carom of supernatural
resonance in crept.
The wood nymph bewitches with every step,
to numb your penance swept.
Leaving an imprint of memory kept as plum-line erect.
In the depths of the forest, her essence will remain,
a powerful muse, never to wane.
For she is a poet's dream, an excuse so rare,
relished relic of the gone insane.
Captivated, beyond complain,
the Satyr's forehead yields sign, pops a vein.