Long Dirk Poems
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CULLODEN FORETOLD
A man he once said ta'e me,
You'll lay on heather, your gut will bleed.
Near Inverness you should na'e be,
Your end is there upon thee.
I paid no heed, jumped to my feet,
Charged through the Highlands, sword in sheath.
Loyalty to the Stuarts was my belief,
and to the end that will be.
The charge has stalled, and is no more.
The Duke has trained his English Score,
to stand and fight, not run as before.
This man who spoke has told me.
On this ground I now will stand,
dirk at side, sword in hand.
Bring on my foe, I now demand,
The day has come, God save me.
The volley came, smoke thick as fog.
We charged into the peat and bog,
They stood as one, and stopped our trod,
and slaughtered all that will be.
And now I lay, my gut has bled.
A man by me, still live, not dead.
A Brit comes near, thrusting as he treads,
kills him and I as foretold to me.
Graham Alexander Devenish
REFLECTION
In trance I leaned on the window
Of yesterdays, overlooking the dimly
Lighted memory lane and my eyes grubbed
For those faces that groped with me through the
Hazy thorny path to heyday.
Some of them, to the passage of time, serfs had become.
Some in the fabric of futility repose, some under the
Arbor of the leafy bough of tree of fulfillment berth whilst
Some, to the dirk of mortality helplessly had fallen and to the
Ravenous scavenger fed, on the platter of their six feet allotment.
Dead though, but deathless eternally they will remain in my psyche.
Scavenger is symbolic of
the grave because it only
accepts the dead.
The bowl of fruit left on the table
to wither and rot by those unable.
Those whose minds are shattered by death,
whose minds are weakened and bereft.
There cliché exhibit they concede,
tells of their leal for their dead lief.
We sing a laud then leave lento,
yet I looked back to see her alone.
So lane she was there by the lich,
so many did call here a dirty bitxx.
But with my eyes, I saw the effete look,
how loyal she was, the good food she cooked.
The mirth she shown, and the love she gave.
yet only to him after a work-long day.
Yes, I recall what the others dare not,
when time was, he wasn’t, the daft old sot.
When he came home, so decorous from work,
to see his wife & daughter, and son named Dirk.
There was an air of happiness everywhere,
there wasn’t the slightest thought for tear.
But Dirk went away, to war, and died,
never had a chance to live his life.
Someone raped and shot the daughter,
they didn’t find the one who got her.
His barn caught fire not long ago
well he didn’t have much then anymore.
With this all happening in six fortnights,
it was no surprise he was drunk most nights.
Then three nights ago he found that man,
story goes the sot chopped off his left hand.
The killer wasn’t drunk, so he beat the old man,
beat him with everything but his left hand.
The killer ran off to save himself,
as the screams of the sot finally brought help.
Still the shameful same, it was too late,
The sot lay dead with a sliced-up face.
yes, that’s the story of how it was,
Why did they blame it on her? Well because,
you see there’s a witch; gypsies knew about,
And after the old sot died, it was all let out.
How she lost her left hand, three nights ago,
. . they say there’s going to be a burnin, you know.
. . . come along . . . won’t you?
exclamation, which does nothing to stem dead locked high tide
proliferation of high-powered assault bazookas
manned by berserk cruel death eaters,
arch nemesis picks off life with a blip
simultaneously bipedal hominid(s) grip handily rounded dirk
as backup in case clip
misses mark, where siege mentality induces
nationwide sprinting into lockdown mode deterring by a drip
fiendish homicidal metamorphoses, where transmogrification
of generic guy wielding weapon subjugating hostages pits malignancy fill lip
mailer daemon hell bent on besieging bait (unaware
Snapchatting linkedin flickr ring beings) burst deadly quip
barrage of bullets malicious intent to spray
killing machines deliver click and rip
paying plenti deathly instagram howls amidst pandemonium,
thence funereal slip
epitaphs etched on tombstones proliferate taking souls to Hades trip.
Brutal and nasty nefarious scheme directed at humble lettered folks
(like those comprising my home town -
once evoked pastoral meme Lake Woebegone)
minding their p's and q's, when in extremis
out of the blue nightmare interrupts idyllic dream
a sudden bitta bing bitta bang rings terrorist catcall
followed by red tide and river of bloodied body where caskets
rendered veneer of dark wood within lies corpse,
pistol whipped, shredded and outkast, where mortician daubs creme.
Soundcloud boom echoes, thus occurs staccato sinister sonic strafes across
freshly fielded tombstone; pearl jam gray slate, some formerly anonymous
namesake, which underling, higgs bo son or daughter blitzkrieg cross
invisible trajectories shatter (at shutterfly speed),
democratic rubric rendered dross
disposable lives of society with senseless slaughter, whereat somber silence
pines nostalgia for Mill on the Floss
when life seemed innocent against gun metal gloss
wails of agony at another human loss.
A Penn Valley phantom appears to haunt and lurk
premises at 1148 Greentree Lane
his youngest daughter (Abby) I pledged my troth and, natch won my Zison’s
Dunkirk
ire and vindictiveness akin to rivalry of Abel versus Cain
now breeds and festers hallucinations that make me go berserk
also brings to mind myth of another named King Canute, a Great Dane
whose battle cry and hymn of the Republic made manifest with ease of dirk
visitations with ethereal sprite pushes me to madness and makes me go
insane
torture treatment mangles mental management amidst mire and murk!
The rattle of chains heard despite noiseless apparition and wraith, which curse
and bain
from dark and sinister shadows make me feel like a jerk
at such fallacious belief in preternatural imaginative creations ranked as inane
by this skeptic whose vulnerable acuteness to otherworldly visages does perk
especially during wee hours of morning when superstition runs amuck and
seems to gain
upper hand and let spiral out of rational control thought of afterlife quirk
yet confession must be made that long dead father of wife does wag finger of
disdain
and utter silent disapproval and near ruination by marrying a bum of a guy who
lacks for work!
Little adobe house on 160 acres
She grows flowers. I grow corn
Tomatoes, watermelon, etc.
Peace, love, hope, and joy
Grow themselves
Porch faces orange blazes
Draped over the rugged Mules
And a barn owl hoovers over
An old water tank with a bunny
In her talons for her
So-ugly-they're-cute hatchlings
Ladder leaned on it
to climb up and see 'em
Brothers and sisters drive from town
For Bible Study
Every Friday night...
After the Word there's coffee and treats
And men load up the truck
Armed rabbit assassins
Patrol Charlie's alfalfa fields
While back at the house
Women laugh and
Children play
Extra rooms
For friends who want to
Spend the night
Saturday mornings
Coffee and bacon waffles
In Charlie's pond across the road
Bass to catch
Beautiful, glorious days
Last night I dreamed
That in this economy
Where shelter's scarce
I was back at the ranch
With a hundred millenials
All of whom, knew me
The adobe house was remodeled
Terracotta with green and red
Lots of black wrought iron
Railings, fences, and gates
Rooms added onto
Big as a mansion
Dirk came to weld more iron
With his crew
And I was trying to make everyone leave
Then I went out towards the pond
And got lost in a huge coal field
A stranger appeared and I asked
How to go back to the road
And a sheriff stopped me with his gun
We, (well it felt like you)
Took his gun from him
But you wouldn't let me shoot him
And I didn't
I woke up... missing all that we had
Your home-made bread
Love by the fire
After kids went to bed
It was incredible
What we did
What we made
What we grew
Our little boys in their cowboy hats
Playing under the giant cottonwood
Our big sprawling porch every evening
Watching the orange purple fire
Spread itself over the valley
And fade into embers
Sparkling the big black night
Like those sunsets, we raged and died
Time after time after time after time
Until we didn't
My dear, sweet,
Warm, loving,
Beautiful
Ex-
You're still so good to me after all
Praying for your family
In that little old church
Where I lost my faith so long ago
Quit being the man you used to know
Something I still believe in though
And always will
. it
will there
be
wait'n
wanton wenchez
wild
((woe))
who
might thuh
have
daddio
companion
dirk
')>
A Penn Valley phantom appears to haunt and lurk
premises at 1148 Greentree Lane
his youngest daughter (Abby) I pledged my troth and, natch won my Zison’s
Dunkirk
ire and vindictiveness akin to rivalry of Abel versus Cain
now breeds and festers hallucinations that make me go berserk
also brings to mind myth of another named King Canute, a Great Dane
whose battle cry and hymn of the Republic made manifest with ease of dirk
visitations with ethereal sprite pushes me to madness and makes me go
insane
torture treatment mangles mental management amidst mire and murk!
The rattle of chains heard despite noiseless apparition and wraith, which curse
and bain
from dark and sinister shadows make me feel like a jerk
at such fallacious belief in preternatural imaginative creations ranked as inane
by this skeptic whose vulnerable acuteness to otherworldly visages does perk
especially during wee hours of morning when superstition runs amuck and
seems to gain
upper hand and let spiral out of rational control thought of afterlife quirk
yet confession must be made that long dead father of wife does wag finger of
disdain
and utter silent disapproval and near ruination by marrying a bum of a guy who
lacks for work!
I am running around breathlessly, trying to do it all.
There are followers, admirers, helpers but this is my fantasy.
An orphanage, a dog shelter, and a home for unwed mothers.
It is the sixties, when they were tormented and abused for being so.
Add a movie theater, a skating rink and a dance studio I call to an assistant.
She jots some notes and hurries away, toward the children’s clown college.
“What can I do?” Dirk, one of my most persistent fawners asks.
Can you feed the sheep? Goats? Missouri mules?
He nods and runs off happy.
I am still walking at a brisk clip,
checking things out, making sure they are right.
My assistant’s assistant runs over to ask “popcorn in the theaters?
And Junior Mints, I tell him.
“And I want that theater built by tomorrow night.”
All possible when you are a nine-year-old child
But how in the hell did I know about unwed mothers?
This was 1961, and my parents told me nothing.
I still ponder this recurring dream I had every night for a year.
Multitudes enter the venue
all know there's something Entre Nous
You Take a Friend to find your place
it's time to just Cut to the Chase
All Losing It, the lights go down
Signals a start to the Countdown
Vital Signs race to Larry, Curly, and Moe
a Distant Early Warning that starts the show
Can't Resist that sound, distinctive
while The Stars Look Down it seems instinctive
The Spirit of Radio starts (with an attitude)
up on your feet you're In the Mood
Making Memories with a Headlong Flight
and straight on into The Color of Right
Might they play The Necromancer
or maybe even Fancy Dancer
Tom Sawyer starts a wild frenzy
One Little Victory follows unrelentingly
No Ghost of a Chance they'd play Cygnus X-1
but books one AND two - they aren't even done
only Intermission
Presto - back with 2112
how far back will they delve
A Passage to Bangkok brings you to Tears
then showing four aspects of their Fears
While Mystic Rhythms start to grow
O Baterista is next, as we all know
YYZ, Working Man both kick ass
Natural Science and then The Pass
Makes The Body Electric and Time Stand Still
knowing you are Here Again of your own Freewill
They Test for Echo seeing all still alive
Red Barchetta makes sure you can drive
Trees stand tall in Cities of Gold that are Seven
swaying themselves under the starry heaven
Limelight shines in La Villa Strangiato
Wish Them Well for it is time to go
But We Hold On....
Malignant Narcissism starts the encore
Spindrifts into The Snow Dog and By-Tor
One can only Hope it's not the last tour
Closer to Your Heart than ever Before(and After)
In the End you know
you are Finding Your Way back home
endlessly rocking
endlessly rocking under starry heavens
As the Caravans travel onwards
riding out into a heartless sea
Remember what, to you, brought these words
Dirk, Lerxst, Pratt, and the lonely letter of E.
song/album titles/partial lyrics-Lee/Lifeson/Peart ©