Long Flustered Poems
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You have come mightily upon my brows,
Yet blessing my folly when I had cried nude and
Watery,
My vagitus loud with the frenetic timbre of wartime
You have swept through the corridors of
Silhouetted stalks, fanning lean, vertical leaves that shield
The nakedness of the African seasons —perched
And soggy,
And at waking time, when November bares its
Thunder-whetted fangs with the ruthlessness of a Puff adder.
It is cold and skin-whitening.
Streaks of flaking, dancing rods descend on femurs un-pumiced.
Dehydrated throats accompany ancestral hymns on the
Humming bees’ melody, stifling the courage of the Tchagra.
Drab, and cracking the serrated softness of heels and
Stale, moss-ridden kernels, the waves of the storm,
Blinding, besiege our common sempervirence,
Long lost among the blurred firmamental gaze
And straw-gold material upon this prostituted earth.
Snuggly warmth comes by the power of woodsmoke
When dawn, shy from the raillery of the rising sun,
Hastens to the coronation of sacred rain beyond
Our limits —a pomp of relegated and flustered seasons.
Children are curious so they ask, why?
Adults, when flustered, let out a sigh.
We often ask why, when loved ones die,
and frequently ask why as we cry.
Why was I betrayed by my heartthrob?
I was naïve and married a snob.
Why did my loved one suddenly die,
leaving me behind to grieve and cry?
Why was it I who got the pink stub?
After all I gave, that was a snub!
And why did it happen at this time,
when I am so far past my prime?
Why is my grown son such a slob?
He just cannot hold down a job.
Why can’t he be like his sister Kate,
whose career is career is going so great?
Why did my parents abandon me,
and treat me as if I am a flea?
My life is now a living hell,
as with depression I daily dwell.
Why did God allow this to happen,
to my friend who was such a good chap?
Why do the good suffer with the bad?
When this happens, it makes people mad.
Sages have pondered the question, why?
To find answers they surely did try.
But despite their tomes which blear the eyes
We are no wiser and still ask, why?
When we are asked why, sometimes we lie.
The truth is we will seldom know why.
The best we can do is to just sigh.
So, do not waste your time asking why.
Learn from the things that happen to you.
Let what you learn inform what you do.
Life is a school, so, do not despair,
take heart, your heavenly Father cares.
It begins as a sordid space without definition,
with the nebulous boundaries collapsing inward,
enfolds the air thick with the dust of remote faces,
enwrapping you each time you think of freedom.
The winter of depression arrives detached
with heavy dense fog featuring as your desolation
that configures covertly your misty psyche,
shape-shiftng to self-design of vague despondency.
The somber sky falls flustered on convoluted awareness,
wrecks the crown of bejeweled night’s exuberance.
The sickle moon slices the shimmer of its fading glow,
dissolving at the brink of the pervading expanse of blue.
In the dungeon depth of opaque onyx solitude
the ground hears the feeble footfall of stillness.
Glacial sense of chilled passion congeals stealthily
the excavated exposure of lonesome inner secrecy.
Painfully curled broken wings of the petrified free bird
can’t fly in the lacerating chill of the woeful winter,
envelopes surreptitiously the frosted senses,
the fervent warmth of sanguinity freezes unfelt.
The sky of longing falls frozen through the morose mist
on the permafrost of abandon in the arctic silence,
where the icy fountain of the forlorn cold heart,
gets buried deep in the gelid blue of seclusion.
But somewhere inside of your self-devised sphere,
perceived not above, not beyond, but deep within,
the seed of patience germinates to defy desolate winter,
splits the ice, sprouts spring splendor of redeeming hope.
I was walking down a Vermont road
to stretch my legs and blow off stress,
stone walls flanked the hard, brown dirt,
half-obscured by dead leaves and grass.
When a fast rustling caught my ear,
I turned my eyes left to see,
exploding over the rock wall
came a flustered, frantic turkey.
He sprinted hard on spindly legs,
and it noud gulps gasped for breath,
then crossed the road and disappeared,
the cause for it not revealed yet.
Then suddenly, from the same place,
a majestic buck leapt in,
blowing hard, half-exhausted,
but the stag kept up the sprint.
Had he sent the turkey running?
This I thought as he bounded clear,
then I asked what had spooked him,
started the running of this deer?
Just them a large, robust black bear
streaked hectically onto the ground,
I froze in fear at this bruin,
he must’ve weighed three hundred pounds!
But this bear didn’t notice me,
he panted hard and was afraid,
followed the buck into the woods,
what could cause this panicked race?
Suddenly a sprinting hunter
dashed out onto the dirt road,
big rifle there in his hands,
a threat that smart animals know.
But he kept running, half-shaking,
giving me not even a glance,
what, I say, could put to flight
a fully grown, well-armed man?
Next, in a burst of braying,
came the hunter’s big draft horse,
his shoulders taller than I stand,
weighing two thousand pounds of more.
He was sweating profusely,
charging on with a heavy gait,
taking off after the hunter,
into the woods to make his escape.
I stood stunned and wondered
what could this all be about?
Then scurrying onto the road
came a tiny, harmless mouse.
If sniffed a bit, then disappeared
underneath some dead, brown leaves.
Had this rodent triggered the horse,
and started this whole crazy scene?
I just rolled my eyes at it,
Then kept walking on my way,
to think that such a tiny thing
could cause such a strange cascade…
Rarely not windy
In the far flung
Squarely unfairly unsung
Seriously deliriously magical
Mystical..mythical Catlins
Rather adept at being
Scarily palaver kept..
Wild & warily windswept
Gusts crept not
Slowing then leapt
Boom & bust thrust lust
Not caring us despairing
Sussed trussed trees cussed
Unruly unjust showing growing
Glaring..nonplussed
Haring..not fussed
Duly well &
Truly cruelly blowing
A helluva Hooley
Mean flurry of almost obscene
Breeze seems in no hurry to ease.
Smashed...whacked...bashed.. smacked
Lashed...by gusting...busting galloping gales
Never fails to leave me blustered and flustered
Lolloping..at the end of my tether
Amazed by crazed walloping weather
Raised & mustered
Brazen Mother Nature dolloping
All turned to custard
Surely they will pass...these fast blasts can't last
No need to be cryptic..it's almost apocalyptic
Have we sinned against the god of wind
Feel the real deal glee of Taw Fee Ree (Maori God of Wind)
Maybe he might hear me...respond to this plea...
Help our plight...let us alight from
The fight against the fright
Flight of breezy bite blight..
Just some respite
But it is quite a sight
Wild fling..Aotearoa spring can bring..
Darkness & light
Centre staging..in the raging...roaring..rampaging forties
No point deploring..knocking..ignoring
Shocking haughty windy warlocks
Soaring..scoring..rocking the joint
Warring.. doing their naughty thing
SUBLIME SOUL
Agitated, ruffled, flustered mind
dreaming, soaring high
drinks desires demanding
treasures out of reach.
Ardent ardour to sky touching summit.
Heart wobbles on emotive urge.
Passionate feelings know no bounds.
Confused mind acts possessive, obsessive
amusing placid pristine sublime soul
of perfect persona.
Serene tranquil soul flashes ethereal ray
to illumine dark restless mind
transcending spirituality.
12/11/20
Dates and times.
Shapes and forms static.
But I’m as grand as a shower curtain.
Things pointed out to me.
Time didn’t occur.
At some point, it just became “me, my thoughts, collapse.”
A chart to explain everything to me.
Got thwarted by the bursting tennis ball of nothing.
When I see calendars?
I could believe them but then I spoke to myself.
They just are lines of lines of numbers.
And I am a fluttering being.
Dates and times exist as I do.
As glossed over, rambling, jumbled, and ran out of pencil lead.
The grotesque nature of time is a quest to me.
Whether it is 2025 or 2011.
I do know what year it is when I’m crying.
When I’m flustered the scars unravel.
And I know what year it is- the year of mistakes.
I think I can time travel if they let me.
And they won’t.
Time exists as.
mystique mist
of opaque veil
designs in desolation
amorphous ambiguity
swathes with singularity
penultimate pathway
obscure
at terminal time-post
of future crypt
a m b I g u o u s
sunset swansong
in transient twilight
resonates
in void valley
of abandoned present
silhouetted still
on somber skyline
of indigo filigree
morphing into
melancholic epithet
e n g r a v e d
turmoil threads
embroider morbid motif
at pallid tassel
of obsessed clouds
latticed by passion clumps
with fervor fringe
f r a y e d
sensuous storm
from onyx horizon
ornate once
with halcyon hues
constructs chameleon chimera
of configured illusion
on yearning canvas
ablaze in cold flame
of dormant desire
f r o z e n
memory menagerie
from burnt relic
flies away
in wasteland whirlwind
u n b o u n d
hope shards adrift
in poignant current
of fluid psyche
ductile
flow flustered
in sullen stream
of billion teardrops
in twilight terrain
reminiscent
of remnant rays
of sublime sunset
shape shifting
to intuition violin
r e s o n a n t
symphony echoes
the last vibrato
behind fallen curtain
for the lone audience
latent concerto
suffuses listless life
with tuneful resonance
of sonorous sanguinity
e t e r n a l
A kind word, of course,
Can soothe the flustered soul or bring a smile
To a frowning face. That’s a given, but
In one’s troubled times, words still are
Only words.
Naked they become, for we see right through them when
Sincerity is misspoken and devoid of thoughtful deed.
Simple gestures are more meaningful than pretty words.
Persuasive poets perhaps pen verses to their beloved
Elegant and extravagant like pearls. Empty all the same
Are artful words given in pretense or with thought of recompense.
Kindness for me is found in action!
Lovers - real and honest lovers - are
Obliging, and they are more than kind!
Unabashedly they step in to defend those whom they hold dear.
During good times and bad, they will be there,
Enduring every hardship by their lover’s side,
Relinquishing their own needs for the needs of their adored.
Thank God if such a man or woman
Has ever graced your life.
Actions of their ardor
Never should be taken for granted.
Words can be loud with promises,
Overflowing also with
Romance! But only a fool would
Deny that one's exhibition of love is
So much the sweeter!
Written March 29, 2016 for the Cliche contest of Silent One
He walked into the dusty saloon,
maybe an hour after high noon,
his face still smooth with the touch of youth,
eyes dead-set on seeking out the truth.
He saw him there, two men at his side,
looking just like his mother described,
the scar, gold tooth...the cold countenance,
Silas knew that he had found his man.
He strode up and said, “You’re Dalton Wise,
you killed my father, so now you’ll die.”
Dalton and the two men looked amused,
said Dalton, “Who’s gonna’ do it, boy? You?”
They laughed again, and young Silas seethed,
said, “For his death, you will answer to me.
You took Joe Hamlin from my mother,
and brought no small deal of pain to her.”
The name caught Daltons attention quick,
“You claim your pa was that weak-willed twit?
Oh kid, your mother has told you tales,
that fool Hamlin did nothing but fail.
“Joe was a coward, a sniveling fool
tuck and ran when we treated him cruel,
a pasty lunger, barely could breath,
much less attract a woman to breed.
“There was a woman, Lauri, I think,
who screamed that we did terrible things,
she pitied the fool, got in the way,
girls shouldn’t trifle with men at play.
“I told her as much, but she kept on,
blathering how we treated him wrong,
one day while smacking that fool’s face in
she dared to stand between me and him.
“With hands on hips, she flustered and fumed,
‘Stop bullying him!’ he small voice boomed,
thinking we wouldn’t lay a finger
on a woman, that’s why she lingered.
“I slapped that yapping to the ground,
took aim and shot that fool Hamlin down,
dragged her to a barn when it was done,
I took my time…had a lot of fun.”
He leered and the other men both laughed,
said Dalton, “What you think about that?”
Silas felt his rage slowly turn cold
as more of this cruel story was told.
“Hamlin couldn’t be your pa,”he said,
“’cause when I took young Lauri, she bled.
Just looking at you, it becomes clear,
Joe weren’t your pa, he’s sitting right here!”
He thumped his chest, just to emphasize,
supreme confidence blazed in his eyes.
“So wipe that bravado off your mug,
we both know that you won’t kill your blood.”
He smirked at the two friends at his side,
not a one showed real fear in their eyes,
said Silas, “If there’s truth in your words,
then I’ll have to get revenge for her.”
CONCLUDES IN PART II.