Long Feigns Poems
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The Game
She hears him long before she sees him.
It's the game.
She lies in her attic bed in the almost darkness,
listening as the house speaks in different languages.
The gurgling voice of the water pipes... always thirsty,
the roof where crows land with pattering claws,
the grandfather clock, tick-tocking around the house.
She hears him on the stairs; he has taken off his shoes.
It must be him .... isn’t it? The game continues.
He now plays the staircase like an out of tune instrument.
She knows he has never learned the secrets of the stairs:
the squeak and speak, the mumble and murmur,
the shushed and hushed?
She has!
Suddenly, a stair board groan, new to her tuned ears!
Her mind, a tap filling it up with worry. The game threatens.
Then she recognises that last step
and she knows he has arrived...
but she's confused, why is he hesitating?
The game starts to be frightening;
the game where she must never close her eyes!
Silence…so noisy she can’t hear herself think.
Her reasoning is smeared with fear. The game goes on.
She draws the sheet close, she fills her lungs tight.
The handle turns, the door sneaks into the room.
Her voice has choked, his offers nothing.
Is it him? She's lost, confused!
Her heart shrivels as he moves nearer-near.
She stops breathing, padlocks her eyes, feigns sleep and....!
The game is lost... to the silhouette looming in her bedroom.
Ian Souter
The Hill of Howth During Horse Show Week 1972
June 16 is Bloomsday when in a world defying time
which stately fat Buck Mulligan starts off with a swim
and Stephen Daedalus feigns teaching and plays with his
senses on the sand and Leopold Bloom goes to Paddy’s fun-
eral at Glasnevin, eats a gorgonzola sandwich, drinks a burgun-
dy, and bu-bu-belches gloriously before Gerty McDowell puts on
a show on a shore and in the afternoon Blazes Boylan gigs gigs gigs
to Molly Bloom to picnic on Plumtree’s potted meat and other comes-
tibles but she the eternal female gets the last words of flowing memory
and desire and yes Leopold may find a new fatherhood which Stephen
more snot than son may still sneer at because it’s already another day
and that’s what you do to time in fiction unleashing again memories
of what books do to readers I wonder, Ron, what’ll you be reading
this year but thinking I’ll skip the cheese and quaff Guinness or
sip bourbon instead but still I will be remembering the Hill of
Howth was magic in the soft evening air of the horse show
when Sally and I rode up there for drinks and a night’s
cup of talkin’ with Charly Stefan and his lovely wife.
A dim lamp flickers
by the side of her cold bed.
She shivers slightly
draped in sheets of red satin,
anticipating
the light touch of hands on skin,
warm breath on bare nape,
lips that brush her slender neck.
She shivers slightly
as the clock starts striking twelve.
Her heart beats faster.
Footsteps; the wooden door creaks.
She shivers slightly.
Holding her breath...she feigns sleep.
----------------------------
Contest: Midnight Poetry
Sponsor: Nathan D.
Placed 6th
How do I love you, my gentle rays of sunshine?
I love you like a summer day passes by so fine
Like the brightness of light that is so divine
With the sweetness of the smell of the fresh leaves of pine
and a love so pure that only heaven can design
The way I love you, my lovely valentine
is bitter yet sweet like the taste of old wine
Strong yet tender like a silver line
Without lies and again without the thought of feigns
Adoring you like the goddess in the shrine
And yet, my dearest wonderful rhyme
My heart knows that our lives will never be intertwined
and your beauty has given me a sadness so define
For I know that you will never be mine
Just let me place this sorrow in me, like a parasitic love vine
She had fallen so far where she didn't even care anymore
Driving that old car just another routine trip to the store
With her mind on other things pulling into the parking lot
Oh the blessings Life brings in knowing what you've got
For just up ahead was a man struggling with his two canes
And the little she said, as these words one too often feigns
Just as she was about to go past he answered her little reply
A thought that would last and would often help her get by
And as she held the shops door he slowly passed on by
And then he added just a little more to her original reply
For what she had thought instead, and all of her little pains
Was all just in her head but this man never ever complains
"With a God that is so great, how can I not but be amazed"
For here there wasn't any debate it was the Lord he praised
He didn't have to do this nor would any of us expect him to
But the point she didn't miss looking up at that sky so blue
Bedlam and mayhem in the mistress's boudoir
(Nsync with variations on a theme:
various and sundry
pseudo lurid fictitious escapades)
mostly I did merrily wet
whet madness aye ever did dream.)
The missus personal trappings
strewn helter skelter
every perilous step fraught
with danger analogous
riding as passenger
with death cab for cutie
'course thy quasi bohemian rhapsodic Queen
of denial feigns ignorance
attributes hazardous condition
linkedin with accident prone
little lord Fauntleroy's
double doppelganger, me
trumpeting pet husband,
her unrequited germane Liebchen
willing to risk life and limb
doting hand and foot
as proper husbandly duties.
He (ahem... me) exhibits drama
whimsically visiting slapstick pantomime
especially pretending to remove sneakers
pulling with all my feeble strength
off little feet of wife
half-heartedly struggling,
lamely denouncing marriage
nevertheless conveying jollity
regarding marital entrapment
er... rather unbridled wedded bliss
constituting fits and starts enduring
about two dozen years.
I reciprocated amorousness,
whether toward MaryAnne,
(his long ago coldly dismissed
sagacious enchanting first paramour,
(half a dozen years my senior),
whose astrological forecast
accurately predicted promising
acquaintanceship/relationship
potential soul mates
(two score years ago -
gone to naught),
which latter aforementioned humble lass
decried he fomented
incessant emotional grief,
he cruelly (albeit unwittingly)
doled out nothing
but lackluster lovelessness
attributed to identical zodiac signs (Capricorn)
(matter of fact shared same birth date
January 13th - six years age difference)
stubborn misconstrued perception,
whereby fancy free and footloose
selfish nasty short brute nevertheless
deemed himself undeserving of love - humph!
Addeneum: Approximately four decades
re: one quarter century after
aforementioned baptismal initiation
love stricken paroxysm
forty fifth president of United States
took (i.e. plagiarized) many pages courtesy,
cruel playbook authored
by Matthew Scott Harris,
Through Her Eyes
It’s through her eyes, that hide her cries,
one sees into her soul
which feigns the fears and teems with tears
that time cannot console.
She’s heard the rhymes of ancient times
as elders tell their tale;
how strangers manned and took the land
and claimed to their avail.
The tribes were sent without relent,
to reservations far,
without a thought of anguish brought
which fused a lasting scar.
As hardships flailed along the trail,
they left their trail of tears,
and still today they’re held at bay
with passing of the years.
I wonder how life could allow
this girl of tender age
to bear such pain without restrain
and never turn the page.
Perhaps it’s we, too blind to see
the truth of yesterdays,
and through her eyes we should surmise
the error of our ways.
May 22, 2023
A big thank you to Susan Lawrence for letting me post this wonderful piece of art with my poem!
"The Gospel of John 1:5 KJV: 'And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.' -- The true light constantly watches over you, and is naught the drawn flames that burn the moth. The light is constantly shining, therefore pay heed, go and prepare your love ones, for they have need of you as you have of them," ... by The Poet.
Oh my, those faces, those faces of plenty. How dare they con to front me!
That explains the frames they pose. Perchance feigns afoot, as there are more than my memory could hold.
What a pretty bird! It waits to be noticed yet their presence mystifies.
What can I do for that bird?
Look for the familiars. Their facades aren't false.
Unlike them who look through me and naught at me.
Ceaseless smiles--heartless abandon.
Don't ignore the bird's mother. They are so very pretty. You did not forget my son. They are pretty, aren't they. I had thought it was my imaginations, but you both see them.
Your day was quite fulfilling. Is the day over? Of course naught mother.
For we have the entire day to ourselves. What of them?
We're their guest and they know you're with us, Mother ... the whole day!
How did the both of you find me in this crowd. The moment we saw your face, 'Light up the day!' Now where is that pretty bird?
"Road Kill and the 3 Fates"
Daughters of Nyx
the sisters
Stand strong together
when darkness
feigns innocence
next to the forgotten
Road Kill
Nyx becomes Themis
a memory
infiltrates the mind
prompting the true law
and order of things
Backwards towards
a beginning
Inside resides
the female Titan
somewhere winning
Collecting the threads
of each life enlightening
the golden chords copacetic
the beginning chapters
come in far too late
back to front
Road Kill and the
3 Fates
Empathetic
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
llb-klb-mlb
“Gold” / Chet Faker
https://youtu.be/hi4pzKvuEQM
“At the instant of drowning
he invoked the three sisters
It was a mistake, an aberration,
to cry out for Life everlasting"
"He suffered the enormous agonies of passion
Writing poems from the end backwards,
Brushing away tears that had not yet fallen."
Rosemary Dobson, Poet. Sydney, Australia
(extract The Three Fates)
1. Moirae (Moirai)
https://greekgodsandgoddesses.net/goddesses/the-morai/
2.a
Themis
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Themis
2.b
Nyx
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nyx
3.a
“The Three Fates” by Rosemary Dobson, Poet. / Analysis
https://poetryprof.com/the-three-fates/
3.b
Rosemary Dobson, Poet. Sydney/Australia.
(18 June 1920 – 27 June 2012)
https://www.poetrylibrary.edu.au/poets/dobson-rosemary
Anthology of Poems/Rosemary Dobson.
https://www.poetrylibrary.edu.au/poets/dobson-rosemary/poems
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rosemary_Dobson
The panels faded o'er time earlier creativity constrains
Yet the material value of past visions maintains
Canvas now tinted with darker hues; youthful vigor restrains
But each, underlying tone, burnished with yesterday's dreams, remains
Once gilded strokes now meaningless, paternalistic strains
Yet the meandering pattern an innocent quality still contains
Each, delicate, insecure swab the grainy picture retains
But on the brash backstrokes the forgiving eye trains
Every callous blot each year more opprobrium drains
But every thoughtful deviation the quilted fabric ingrains
Glossy pictures of green pastures corroded by earthy stains
But ephemeral beauty from burgeoning fount surrealistic vista still feigns
The counterfeit copy the brokered ideal even more disdains
But the bartered images serve to rationalize nominal gains