Long Egging Poems
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Some days my writing runs along the track next to me.
Sticking out her tongue or wiggling her hips in a provocative way.
My muse is hanging on to this elephant for dear life.
Pretending she is slowing her down, actually egging her on.
Other days my writing sits in my lap and pats me down.
Pat. Pat. Pat. Like a cat who is getting her nest ready.
It is difficult to ignore this, so I pick up my pen if I am able.
My writing starts often in my dreams and finishes right as I awake.
That’s the writing I am the most curious about,
As I almost never am able to capture any of it.
Maybe the last three words
By the time I return from the bathroom, they are gone too.
Hellacious howls tickle and titillate
the trompeleil scene
in the pastel Court of Kings.
Flamboyancy rings as the
fluttering coo of a rapiers dance in the hands of fops,
through the high ceilinged corriders of castle in the chill air
buzzing past the ears
of the mischievous lillipitians, yearning,
egging on yearlings with antiquated filigreed foils.
Ludicrousity runs riot
trolloping in fandango-clicks of hooker-red
across the quilt-stitched batten puffed blazers
of Dukes and Pimpernels pompously prancing
before beatific, porcelain, wig-topped dolls
rouged and hollow-eyed.
Chroniclers cavort in the manner of angry bees
on spindle-pins, their stocking encased legs
pawing at pedagogs who gawk slack jawed.
Only the puncture of flesh-framed torsos
brings an end to the melee.
*Melee, generally refers to disorganized close combat
involving a group of fighters.
Black cats dart across my path
As I head down the street
Children hide and spook their friends
And all around shout “Trick or treat!”
It’s Halloween! It’s Halloween!
Hear them scream! A scary dream!
Witches gliding past the moon
Riding fast upon their brooms
The dead are rising from the grave
Their restless souls rant and rave
Pumpkins on the fence posts grin
And on the porches frown
It seems tonight like everything
Has been turned upside down
It’s Halloween! It’s Halloween!
Hear them scream! A scary dream!
Some children squeal with delight
While others shriek with fright
What a night!
In these darkest hours, evil deeds are done
Smashing pumpkins, egging houses
Some kids think it’s fun
Oh, what a night!
It’s Halloween! It’s Halloween!
Hear them scream! A scary dream!
Draped in orange, white, and black
Children fill their candy sacks
Door to door
More and more
Little ghosts in sheets
Wander down the street
At each house they collect sweets
Every time they yell “Trick or treat!”
Bats fluttering through the air
Werewolves roaming everywhere
Creepy, crawling spiders
Pumpkin pie and apple cider
It’s Halloween! It’s Halloween!
Hear them scream! A scary dream!
They survived the Great Depression, my parents did
living from hand-to-mouth for over a decade
Took any job they could get, and were grateful for it
working 72 hours a week for a ‘salary’ of twelve lousy bucks
My father watched grown men cry and jump out of tenement windows
ashamed that they could not provide for their families – two or three a day, he told me
My mother heard ‘dirty Jew’ hurled at her so often
she became obsessive about washing her hands and face…
…Yet when it came time to serve their country
they were first in line for the privilege of seeing America through WW2
Fighting side by side with fellow un-hyphenated Americans
Jewish or Catholic, from Italy or France – didn’t matter
Americans all, they fought their hearts out for the Stars and Stripes
for the land of the brave and the home of the braver
******
And now, it pains me to see what we’ve become on the cusp of our 250th birthday
Capitalists fleeing our signature city, NYC, run by an unrepentant socialist radical
‘Woke’ Governors, Congressmen and Mayors giving away ‘stuff,’
Free health care, free college, free food, free rent, free bus service, free, free, free
The greatest public misfit of any age, Bernie Sanders, the cheerleader egging it all on
And the devil himself, George Soros, quietly financing the destruction of the country
America! that saved his life, granting him refuge from the Nazis
******
May my mother and father, and their entire generation, rest in peace knowing they made
America great once and made us all so proud.
"As I leave
this compound body
of flesh and blood
I will know it to be
a transitory illusion."
Could transitory
embodied illusions
become mindbody gateways
toward transitional systemic illumination?
Could hybrid mind/bodies,
sacred/secularized thoughts,
spiritual/naturalized neurological feelings
of attachment
to harmonic self/other resonance
ego/eco-perpetuating
inside/outside climates of peace
restoring Earth Justice CoAttachment
also become CoOperative sensory experience
of Integrity's Universal Promise?
Could climax of death's Yang loss
also predict Yin's deeply seeded memory
of passionate fulfillment
as inevitably healthy DNA's redevelopment
peacefully, and yet relentlessly, seeding
rooting
breeding
wanting
needing
ungrasping
kneading
egging
bleeding
longing
belonging
edging both in and out
through all past pain and passion people
of Earth's passionate Yang
(compassionate Yin)
Win/Win Promise of enlightened/empowering Earth
Future health-wealthiest Creations
of body-flesh and mind-nurturing blood,
together known to be
Here in space,
Now in conscious bilateral time,
transitional bicameral systems
of Yang loves
what Yin needs
Yang compassion
empowering illuminations.
As I live
this compound body
of flesh and blood
I know and feel me to be,
and yet become,
a Transitional Illumination.
My dignity MUST remain intact
while i conceal my lack of tact
i will still trust my instinct
to give up my “pleaser” stint
So in this particular instance
i CHOOSE to stay firm in my stance
against all this negging going on
Just give over with the egging on
I simply refuse to oblige
Your offer to indulge
in the tussle and rumble
inside a mud pen rife in grumble
I'll have to turn down for now
I just cannot afford, to allow
you, to nudge me into reacting.
From the way you keep on acting
i can tell you are really itching
to rip off all the stitching
where my heart was lacerated
the heat from your hatred
Is rather daunting for me
your words to this day, haunting me
Yet I refuse to be deterred
from my path, I won't be deferred
I'm intent on being true to my nature
i won’t hand you the aperture
to have me for your scapegoat
I won’t let you lay the base coat
to better showcase my unraveling
Your actions are rather revealing.
they clearly show ill intention
I refuse to give that any attention
I'd sooner revel in my newfound peace
build back my resilience by the piece
Soon, i will find a home for my presence
worthy of my energy and essence
I CHOOSE to align with values, that reflect
the importance of compassion and respect
Form:
Life is like a galloping horse,
Flying around a track
Faster and faster, he gallops
Too fast to look back
His need to win is crucial,
He cannot afford to lose
If he could communicate
He would refuse
One day when hurtling
Around this long race track
The jockey pushed him too far
And cracked his whip
On the horses back
Faster screamed the jockey
It looks like we might win,
He cracked the whip again
That broke the poor horse's skin
The crowd were all yelling,
Egging the jockey on
Hoping he's a winner
And they'll be rich before too long.
The horse was exhausted,
He had suffered enough
The winning post was very near
But the race had been tough
The rider was feeling jubilant,
He was sure he was going to win
The onlookers thought so too,
Cheering louder, making such a din.
The horse was breathing heavily,
His heart was beating fast.
Sweat was pouring off him,
As the other horses passed
One by one, they passed him,
He was no longer in the race
He died peacefully later in his stable
As he could no longer keep up the pace.
recurrent suicidal thoughts vain
gloriously wend
(o'er a death cab for cutie weeknd)
yanking zeal
becalming this crash test dummy rolling
stone temple pilot inxs
of maroon 5 plus decades long
perdition hellaciously slogging
slow as adam and the ants,
thru fifty shades of gray's
anatomy common weal
masterly baiting this motley crue (cutting),
beatle browed, beastie boy,
outre gee (bee) us, grateful dead,
mailer daemons inhabit
cavernous fist size vastness steel
via Herbie Hancock (Hermans Hermits)
cheesy Munster trap doors that steal,
deep purple swiftly tailored
culture club members squeal
hosted by mega death pack rat boston for real
venue at Tokyo hotel, via en grave invitation
signed by Alice in Chains poison huss kiss
sing, which will spellbind
once contents unveiled, an instant app peal
immediately choking off air supply
then Alice Cooper egging bad company
to hypnotize the guess who sacrificial meal
supplanting raw primal scream from spinal tap
acquiescing self to abandon all hope,
especially if black sabbath joins
creed dance clearwater revival
dark shadows would demand one
(to take a knee) and kneel
before sacrificing oneself at the beck and call
of evanescent nirvana
experiencing permanent relief,
sans soul (twisted) sister riding a hansom
off phish hull heart shaped coffin
ample room enough for blind
melon collie 10,000 maniacs, their heal
ling powers profusely emanating
via m&m shaped talking heads
methinks averring obeisance
to judas priest and hooters with coldplay feel
ling of eternal sleep, where quiet pussy riot
joins carpenters, whose underground
sepulchral crowded house indicative
cynthesis iz a done dizzy Gillespie afterlife deal
and you bet your sweet bippy meme
an extra bonus for orthodox believers
(absent myself - a skeptic),
whose karma with long deceased will anele!
Form:
....My Poem....
I dare you not to like "my poem"...not to read my writing...but when you do...you passively read it like it's some child's drawing on the refrigerator....I dare you not to comment on "my poem"...but I know you read it...skimming through my words...waiting for a cute antidote to cure your reading mind....but still not
having the decency to leave a comment in kind gestures...this poem is for the suggesters who encourages me to keep writing...exciting the reader's mind with my pen to write a no comment response poem again...it makes me shed a tear
which falls on "my poem" and causes the fountained ink to leave smudges on the sheet of paper...think...this poem is for the poem contest judges...I hate ya...
I enter the contests....follow the rules...but I don't even get a good job comment
from your views....I dare you to skim through this poem...and not comprehend
that I can't stand it when I put my poems out there to make the world of poets
realize that I am here...aware that I am alive...well enough to write "my poem"
which gets no comments...but receives reads...4 of them are mine...
but at least i know they were read...thoughts of my words being copied or stolen
stay circling in my head...but I'll be fine...I dare you not to like "my poem"...but you read it fast enough to know that...I'm not begging I'm egging you on to keep me strong 'til I'm gone..or done with writing...pen to paper...reading mind exciting
mine to write..."My Poem"
By: Peter DeSpirito
Life
appears as stories
varying in focus~
those more weighty
peace and war
push away a provincial
story of cows on a road~
(and others recorded below)~
It is deceiving though:
each story appears
vanishing immediately
rendering a sameness
a simple equality
to all stories~and
a sense of freedom
for a fleeting
new year~~
((La Plata County Sheriff’s Office Police Blotter (Durango Herald)
Friday
7:43 a.m. A man was walking around another person’s property and barn in a suspicious manner on U.S. Highway 550.
7 p.m. Four to five black, white and brown cows were in the road on La Posta Road (County Road 213).
Saturday
7:28 a.m. A truck with snowboards hanging out of the bed was reported to have passed someone on a double-yellow section of U.S. Highway 550.
10:19 p.m. A man called deputies to ask if he had a warrant out for his arrest on East Tamarack Drive.
Sunday
7:08 a.m. Someone was shooting firearms so close to the caller’s home on Waterfall Lane that buckshot was sprinkling onto their roof.
10:11 p.m. Multiple people were videoed egging someone’s car on Big Bend Loop.
Most items in this column are taken from logs of calls made to authorities. Their accuracy may not have been verified by an investigation.))