Long Foxes Poems
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"NEMESIS"
“Where do Angels go in their dreams?
They go where wolves go to catch foxes,
venturing forth out of small caged boxes
to the Between-Hours of Lost Love Woods”
NEMESIS
is watching her
from his dreams
prowling soft Silver fur
hear his soft-wolf tread,
Nemesis has left his comfortable bed
he is onto her, he is tracking her Heavenly scent
She is Light Angel
spreading luminous wings
shining it all around,
she thinks of escaping
barefoot from this sullied ground;
her skin is cold to the touch,
no longer standing sentry
she's lost in the murky
Between-Hours of Lost Love Woods,
Black Tulips abound
Wolf is stalking her,
her scent makes him wild;
lurking, nearer, ever nearer
invading her dreams of better
neighbourhoods and childish things
simple and clearer, she is
spreading brand new wings to freedom,
away from Black Dogs in their prisons
those kicked out of Heaven,
barking their ignored plea bargains
of rushed stolen innocence, begging -
all of their pardons are lost, 'tis a given,
her hot angel tears turn to frost
Nemesis soft-footed paw,
back arching, he snarls, bares his fangs
then he grins, he's closer much closer
he can feel her in the skin under his fur,
he’s hunting Her down,
breathes his turgid breath
all over "The Lost",
the hidden creatures running quietly wild,
in the Between-Hours of Lost Love Woods;
beckoning her, his low growl ever nearer,
ever never, his hot breath on the prowl
reaching out for her
he’s raging to roar -
in her sees his mirror
There are stories, she hears,
of a Wolf on the loose from his cage in
the Between-Hours of Lost Love Woods -
she forgets the real reason she came,
calmly brings her wings down by her side,
she continues to shine her light all around,
she can feel him
Burning hot breath on her neck,
he growls ever so softly, so clear in her ear,
“Don’t Run Sweet Thing, Don’t Run,
You are found, I am here.”
Black Tulips abound
(Lovejoy-Burton/Jan 2018)
For those absent.
1. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PKiI4RvEyDk
It was a Sunday cherry picker
Saints were coming not to bicker
We will take a few
Then on cue
Change them to
A special wine
And have a nice time
Mr. Bourne he did listen
Dreaming of a fantasy mission
Catching the hive
And staying alive
Missing St Mary
Saints knew this was not going carry
Mr. Bourne’s mouth
Was heading south
Before the first forty five
One went in, no lie
“This is not red,”
Mr. Bourne said
Thinking they were playing with his head
“And I am not dead.”
Looking to still get a point
Mr. Bourne kept himself in the joint
Until the final ticks
And the Saints dropped the kick
A shot they could not defend
At the very end
Adams gave it his best rib
Into the goal resting inside the nylon crib
Gold sands
Will be in relegation hands
Saying goodbye to the glitz and glamour
Sealing the high profile coffin using a hammer
Foxes headed to see the Lily in White
Needing something to stay in the top four team fight
Champions League fit was feeling right
Along came an honest test
Seeing if Foxes had anything to confess
Very early Foxes were a mess
Delivering the ball to the wrong address
Later on there was two from Kane
A double dip as per his fame
No one really had a complain
It was the final scoring in the game
Foxes still tied with the manuel Devils
For extra matches on an International tournament level
Noted there are two
Left for Man U
While Foxes have another against, you know who
Clever as foxes,
the children
hiding amid plume grass.
—Kobayashi Issa, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Even plume grass
waves farewell at last
to autumn.
—Kobayashi Issa, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
On the sleeping dog
gently descends
a leaf-hat.
—Kobayashi Issa, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Avert your eyes
while I poop in your field,
little wren!
—Kobayashi Issa, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This stand of trees:
my head
just as barren of leaves.
—Kobayashi Issa, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Lacking common sense
out-of-season flowers
bloom on my fence.
—Kobayashi Issa, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
All alone,
babbling nonsense,
I toast the departing year.
—Kobayashi Issa, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Kyoto:
even beneath bridges
beggars toast the departing year.
—Kobayashi Issa, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Living alone,
one bottle suffices
for toasting the departing year.
—Kobayashi Issa, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Come what may,
trust the New Year to Buddha
despite his former failures.
—Kobayashi Issa, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A wind chime’s
bubbly babble
ends the year on a bright note.
—Kobayashi Issa, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
It takes two
temple nuns
to yank out one radish.
—Kobayashi Issa, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Berating
my heavy drinking,
the mountain cuckoo.
—Kobayashi Issa, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
How the birds chitter chatter and the church bells ring.
Daffodils fill the graveyard and are picked by passers-by.
Families attend the spring fair where a florist sells arrangements.
The chided children are guilty of picking flower petals but are
Pacified by their parent’s sternness by partaking in a Spring dance.
Dancing deer dart away out of view in the village field.
Freshly hatched chicks are made victims of the foxes.
But not before the farmers so threaten their temptation by
A gunshot or two.
Another Spring rainfall, the grass greener and greener still.
Dogs are walked in the woods where children accompany wilfully.
They attend church with holy communion and in his honour bread and wine is consumed.
In his remembrance of his resurrection, it is such a ritual, and they are thankful for his offering.
Flying foxes hang replete from the tall trees
dripping in the morning sun.
They have sucked the flesh
of mamey sapote,
of rambutan and mangosteens.
Their dog-like pelts are copper pendants
that seep a dawn drenched dew onto our heads.
The summit of Penang Hill
is reserved for the rich
who live above the heat and hustle.
Cool nights favor a fragrant adulatory.
Jia Liu has an 'Uncle'
that is not related to her.
When he is away
she takes me to the villa
as a tennis partner,
and sometimes lover.
After the game
we stroll under the bat dribble.
“It’s good for your hair,” she says laughing,
running ahead.
I call after her:
“Where do they go in the heat of the day?”
“To the fruit markets in George Town,
“they hang from the rafters.”
Last night I was with her again-
a dream.
We were drinking amrita of guava,
our lips smeared
with a sweet red thirst
that felt no shame.
Was it attraction or affection? One wished to follow
I have no place to lay my head; you said, Where will you go?
Foxes have holes as their home. Birds have their nests. What is mine?
What else but renunciation leads one to the divine?
I should, first, bury my father, one said. I'll follow then.
He heard the clarion call within. Could he say, amen?
When will his father die, and, lo, when will he bury him?
Didn't his discipleship, for you, the Godhead, seem grim?
Kith and kin should fondly bid me farewell, another said.
Will, with bondage, towards heaven, anyone go ahead?
Does any, after placing his hands on the plough, look back?
Shouldn't everyone pass through one's very conscience-made track?
Will you, dear friend, with no burden of the cross, follow me?
Be kind to yourself. You have many more mercies to see.
I had a cat that marked his territory right
into our TV – fried the whole thing
But I will not graffiti my alleyways with
crude phalli,
Spewing armchair warrior slogans across the concrete
My best friend growing up was a real whore,
in the kiss-and-tell sort of way
A real ladies’ man... He was a real bastard,
I’ll tell you that
But I will not line the walls of my den with
taxidermied lovers
Nor will I cage my dove for fear of a hawk.
Does the absence of glimmering swords
Take away from the radiance of her smile?
And what good are these powerful minarets,
Without the sweet, sweet song that echoes across them?
I have not fallen in love with a fish in a
bucket.
I have not fallen in love with a fish in a
bucket that will dart away
Never to be seen, if she ever touches the
sea again...
Which raises the question: why the bucket?
I have no interest in the bucket.
I have no interest in being the fisherman.
I bait no hooks and reel no lines.
I would much rather be a sea horse.
We can all learn a thing or two from the sea
horse.
So enough with this nonsense of honor and
chivalry
Enough of this predefined manliness and
rhetorical dick-waving
Enough of cages and lures and foxes in the
chicken coop
I see a lioness and her fawn under acacia
shadows
While my thirty-something year-old
compatriot playboys
Are on the prowl for pretty young things in
search of a fantasy
Wearing cravates of woven chest hair resting
over shirts not quite buttoned,
With Ralph the Polo Player getting bigger
and bigger
I have no fur coats, and I won’t sport any swag
I have no car horn to honk at your skirts,
No sly comments to mutter as you pass
No scarves to force around your heads
No honor to vest in your purity
I have only my faith in love
And whatever flaws that may bring
So what is it then,
to be a man?
Dreams of the Shaman
David J Walker
It was the Prairie version of Eden
In the evening light
Awaiting the day exposing the
Cover of Buffalo Grass
Its flag-like banners of male flower
Flying in the morning dew
Guarding the female blooms
Hidden amongst the leaves
Rounded and burr-like but not spiny
The fauna is dense but unseen
Prairie Dogs bark out warnings to the
Burrowing Owls competing with foxes
hunting field mice
Cougars patrol the canyons for
Passing Elk following the water
Wolves stalk Bison
Claiming the lame,
the young, and the old
Tens of thousands of Sunrise pass
Before Adam arrives with his Eve
Abiding in the canyons of Artesian Springs
Living in harmony off the land
Awaiting the changes in the
Dreams of the shaman
Time to time, live alone
Walk on the fields
All the foxes are witnesses
They're just looking at my life
Who is this guy?
Ghost of fields and woods
So many times I visit this place
Good to be alone here
Studying my past and life
Fate, fate, why is this mine?
I see others' lives
Between us, the ravines, differences
How can I find anyone to this fate?
How? There is no answer. I am sorry, I can’t fly there
“You are so sensitive”, said Satan
Satan, hmm, he helped me many times
I remember when he first spoke to me
He gave me new hope and life goals
And the true faith to new worlds
Other planets mean new opportunities
In my youth, I loved science fiction
Now I know alien lives exist
And the next life, so it’s no fantasy
But how could I get there? How?
Live and start an extremely different life?
New goals, new relationships, new fate
This dream very high
So far
But it will be realised
homelands / husbands / playing house / strands
& strings of horses behind strangers lounging
un-belonging to Thebes of Sevens or women,
depending on how you slice matters, as a perspective
as a twisted bark of favors
sneaky is a wooden gift donkey at a garden gate
overbitten hinge with ten front teeth, grinning
hidden from you looking into it, questioning
its motivated patience rolling up in wait—
weighted with sweat-salted men huffing
inside an oaken belly chewing tight lips, they be-lying
trojan claims of apple cake philanthropy, a ready hoof
as a broken wood tooth busted off in breaching trollop
secretly hiding a picked body of men
beckoning their silent armies to bolster a side
there lies in its midst a flatulence of language
no fox lays a stake on the hole—
protecting its skulk in prevention of domestication's leash
as all before have done, better a murder
of crows than shifting troops proving
stud horses hiding should be stabilized
as leashing foxes having lost the lead
chasing a venery— manufactured hare meant for horse
plot-plottering hooves against his own wood
stoking a smoke-show inside a swollen belly
raking at the gates to get out of the agreement
of being,
for being part of the picked body, scrutinized
for pulling short to remain quiet at the dying chaos
of the rattling sounds from a losing side