Long Encrusted Poems
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Against a browning hill
oak trees' bleeding limbs are stretched;
some drops release to softly fall
some cling to dry encrusted scars.
A few short months and we will walk
beneath the springing trees
marking their swords of thinnest green
stabbing at the stars.
And so, life seasons make their rounds
in nature and in men
the flower wilts, the rose is pruned,
the leaves must fall again.
Everything of lasting worth
contains a seed of loss;
on young love's throbbing circlet
hangs a bitter cross.
We will walk life's lanes together,
cherishing this pain we share
for spring will come tomorrow
and bloom on our despair.
Copyright, November 11, 2014
Gaping open raw war exhales vapors
In the frigid gray stillness excavating
My souls for the unseen harvest
Reflected in the leaves desiccating
Through walls of fogs pale faces stare
And disappear like a random shiver
Like a slick violin string vibrating sad
-ness like a portent of a sickness open
-ing shaking thoughts of unknown frontiers
Full of four-dimensional forests and coasts
Where skeletons recite rhapsodies ravenously
Waving flags of unjust defunct empires wildly
In the encrusted fear demons lend severed gospels
Like laughing children without love keeping records
Of my actions and their forgotten complexions
Waning in the humid cold touch of misgivings
But the voice warbles without ceasing warnings
Releasing doves bleeding as they fall asleep
Descending into a valley where darkness shines
Limbs of unrequited hope desperately lunge
For the throat emanating light salvation
Indiscriminately reaping and sowing dreams
Seeming real as wounds which never heal
As flies hatch treasonous larva in the gash
And a new century is born and scorned
Now and forever have arrived starved
Demanding blood on the altar of profusion
Crying in concrete homes hallowing illusion
Until the last angel breaks illumination...
Gallimaufry
Your sandals make a strange mixing sound,
As we step together down this shadowy path,
Past the innumerable tufts of sprygen weed,
Where old farmers once hoofed to the music
Of the Elkhorns, and the Spitters.
We will soon eat from their generous platters,
Abandoned in the ice houses south of Belchork.
Piled high with sugared meats and bitter olives.
We will sit in plush lacquered chairs there,
Chairs of sandlewood, and mystic topaz.
We will be staring into each other’s eyes,
Globular orbs of azure fascinations,
Seeking unspoken permission to stare yet more,
But as an encore, at a pair of different eyes.
We will embrace behind sheer curtains of lapis lazuli,
Inside the vestibule with lotioned legs dangling.
We will move in infinite slowness,
We will seek the absolute devotions,
Of the shadow dances there.
We will listen to the singing sirenic voices
Of the Elkhorns and the Spitters,
Beckoning us with their spiral gyrations,
As sparkling mineral water is shared in goblets,
Encrusted with peridot and citrin.
We will at last find profound discovery,
Concealed within their mad enticings.
Proceed quietly, shh! Your sandals are noisy,
As we step together down this shadowy path,
Past the ice houses at Belchork,
Our lives and our consenting atoms
Enmeshed and entwined forever, with
The innumerable tufts of sprygen weed.
Jellyfish! Who could have named you
other than a creature structured
by a cage of bone?
Opaque but transparent
your arrested evolution
lives in an alien perfection.
You abide inside the sea, yet billowing that sea
through your bald, bladder body.
Propelled by the encompassing
and likewise, encompassed and captured
by that which fills and surrounds you.
Jellyfish, not a fish nor jellied
but muscular and powerful
yet in a strange, smooth-sided way
the way the deep is. Slick and slippery
as oleo. At once both a slack rippling
and a tenacious tough whiplash of power.
Your form a confliction,
a mass of otherworldly contradiction.
Under the knife
your body defies reason,
until we see the aerodynamics,
the subcutaneous aquatic precision
of your parts.
That glistening hood,
the bell shaped corpus of you,
but no brain just a stomach pouch
in place of any mentality,
perhaps your thoughts float free
inside that gaseous umbrella of your mind?
Multiple eyes dotted around the hood
like inky portholes.
A sallow mandible mouth
tucked like a fist under your hood
from which those ‘oral arms’
fan away from
to reach and gather morsels of meat.
These your only speech
as you consume a thrashing utterance.
Loosely arrayed about those mouth appendages,
are long trailing tentacles,
each sensitive feeler equipped
with venomous cells encrusted with barbs
that bite with a poisonous ferocity.
Jelly fish, your anatomy is upside down
and inside out, and yet
we cannot doubt the impeccable necessity of you,
the point of you,
and perhaps even the point of us
as we search
for that germinal sea within.
It’s nearly two as the Reaper’s clock begins to strike.
A thundering clap shakes the trembling ground,
as death knolls beckon me into this thick, hazy night.
Coming to a clearing, I see ceremonial tables
carved with the darkest of symbols.
Jewel-encrusted cups—flowing freely with blood and whiskey—are placed amongst bones,
whilst monstrous funeral pyres loom over the uninvited.
Shadows flicker off the glint of boiling streams;
souls, trapped between conflicting realms,
bewitched by dancing with death, can’t quite grasp that it all has to come to an end.
A cacophony rises from the corpse choir,
growing louder and louder until my ears burst,
with blood pouring down my confused cheeks.
But why am I here?
I have no memory of crossing over;
I have not forsaken life—I swear my heart still beats beneath my breast.
Or does it?
I take my shaky hand and place it upon my chest,
whilst the dance with death amplifies around me.
Dizziness takes over; I can’t focus.
“Get a grip—breathe, feel for the heartbeat.”
There is nothing—just silence beneath my fingers.
Recollections come in and out of focus.
He came to me, after all the times I cried for him,
whispering sweet promises into my ear:
“No more pain, no more fear, just white noise.”
Plunge the knife in and take my hand,
dance the eternal dance.
Reality comes back into view;
my hands, now covered in sticky hemoglobin,
reach for a reaching palm as I sway endlessly
in complete, everlasting oblivion.
I reminisce about the sunshine days,
I listen to soul-lifting music,
Absorbing the melody and its message.
I remember my mother singing spiritual songs.
I talk with my siblings on the phone,
Recalling our memories,
Discussing the present,
And anticipating a bright tomorrow.
I sing under the vast sky,
Unbound and unrestrained,
In the tranquillity of nature,
As tears of joy and reflection flow.
I rise before daylight as inspiration knocks at the door,
Heeding its call,
I walk through a blooming meadow,
Emerging from the encrusted shadow.
June 28, 2025.
There's no rhyme or reason to live
Ive nothing to offer , nothing but misery to give
Id sail off into the sunset but this vessel's riddled with holes
and i haven't seen the sun in so long i can almost see through the darkness
Tried dreaming of being a child and playing in the park but the parks not there the weeds
are laid bare and the swings and rides are rusted and crustacean encrusted
No desire to wake each dawn i find harder to take , a situation of my making from constantly
taking
Haunted by the malady frightened to insanity and riddled with guilt from this life i have built
Even God has forsaken me for granted i have taken Thee , I cant handle this persecution
God please expedite my execution , For i alone cannot find a solution
Roommate is on my plate
Dropping herself into my grits
Little flecks of warm porridge splash into my eyes
It is one of Trixie’s assistant muses
She has a killer smile and rainbow hair
Hi she greets me with telepathy
Lump of eggs rises
I see two glowing green eyes
Getting higher and taller.
Fascinated I smile
Wondering what will happen next
Grape jelly jar falls over with a clink next to plate.
“She is comin!” A tiny red brownie driving gem encrusted chariot hisses.
Rainbow muse and mini-dragon jump aboard the chariot
Trixie my main muse is riding black puma with stars chasing them now
Her head turns toward me. She glares and sticks out her tongue.
The perils of having a hopped up overly territorial muse
I cringe wondering what diabolical fate will next befall me.
There, in the old gray shed, I spotted it,
beside the window, hanging on a nail.
With sadness, I remember it so well
from that September day so long ago.
An old, small shovel used, then put away...
one caked with salty tears, encrusted earth,
there left to hang in silent memory
of its sad job from many years before.
Beside the old stone wall, neath planted grass,
and buried there that dark and mournful day;
our twenty years of heartfelt, happy thoughts
lay with him in his grave...and in our hearts.
Yes, there it is...our grave for Charlie cat.
There, in the old gray shed, I spotted it...
the dirt still clinging there upon its blade.
But now, the spring is here, perhaps its time.
A scraping of this crusted shovel, yes...
perhaps it's time to scrub and make it clean;
grant its rejected purpose a new life.
Dig in and plant new flowers 'round his grave.
March 11, 2019
~4th Place~
Premiere Contest: A Scraping of Shovels
Sponsor: John Lawless
Judged: 03/16/2019
Rings, what are they ?
Those gaudy gem encrusted things displayed by those in places high and low.
Or on the other hand the kind that pricks the ear when one is half asleep.
Incessant earworm.
Authentic ring,
eternal ring, engagement ring.
I wore this lustrous band or should I say it wore me out,
ill-fitting token of affection that no longer fits.
Finger swelling pawn shop cast off,
fools gold object d’art swept up in sudsy tides only to be swallowed by a viral vortex guzzle.
Geometric arc light, stricken by its own silver rays,
silently preserving magic memories of yore,
stoically the keeper of past dalliance,
fractal shadow creep among the pigeons,
dancing fairground cul-de-sacs.
Closed loop seal a tamper proof exemplar,
clinging desperately to bonds once watertight,
impregnable,
as impregnable as any fortress.