Long Furred Poems
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Written: November 03, 2023, For Brian Strand Contest
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I was just a child,
enraged by my inaptitude to act
I dashed home,
surprised,
my eyes wide open
trying to retain the tears at bay,
fists clenched
palms are pierced by nails,
lungs contract, begging for breath...
I couldn't keep an eye on him.
He was
a dark furred man-bear
with forlorn, teary eyes,
waltzing to the beat of a drum.
In his irises, I saw
the lushness of wetlands,
cherries and wild fruits
the vastness of the mountains
as well as the nectar of icy streams,
and honey-laden trees.
With a chain around his neck,
standing tall on his back legs
all
he was pleading for
was
freedom.
Mangy-Monkey;
Gum thief.
Raggle-taggle,
Tail-waggle;
Bone-breath.
Gaggling geese,
Webbed feet;
Penny-anney,
Corn-candy.
Snakes-alive,
About five;
Or six,
Playing tricks.
Babbling brook,
Nearby nooks
And crannies;
Harboring teeth.
Fighting bribing,
Monkey-see,
Monkey-do.
Fickle-furred,
Out-turned
Waddle-feet,
Bearing bird.
Roaring-money,
Never tamed;
Hungry for
Avian-brain.
Itchy-scratchy,
Eggy-hatchey;
Teeny-tiny,
Shells cracking.
Tourists gawking,
Feathered-squawking;
Metallic-clanging,
Cage doors.
All this,
Attended quick;
When hungry
Bellies roar.
The crispness of the day
clarified my confusion.
Icy fronds perforated and
injected furred up elements
with sparkling clarity.
The fog cleared.
My mind had been tossed
on storm clouds of bewilderment.
Winds of change had carried
me away from where I
wanted to be - blown off course.
The tempest stilled.
When the sun shone it
penetrated the dark corners
of doubt. It's heat warming
the cold bleakness of abandonment;
the golden glow
melting a winter of loneliness.
A spring of hope is sprung.
A newness of vision and
clarity of contentment.
A new, refreshing direction.
Silver lining shimmering in the
winter sun. Storm clouds gone.
He sits through eons observing whirling
galaxies in spangled drops dangled from webs
rocked by wind, plucked like instruments
whose music only he can hear; webs walked
by a furred arachnid, angle-legged, which moves
from thread to thread as though on stilts.
Fascinated by a spectrum split from sunlight
by a bead of dew, he intercepts the colored
bands with extended fingers of one fat hand
and gurgles his delight, exhibiting a still
toothless smile. His brain a sponge to soak
up all knowledge the universe contains,
this salivating son of simian evolution
pulls the silvery web he watches
from between the wall and faucet,
destroying in a moment
what centuries produced.
Though the eagle needn’t worry,
For its place is still secure,
A new symbol has been chosen
And expected to endure.
Now the huge and shaggy bison
Has been picked to represent
This great land of ours where thousands
Grazed and wandered, quite content.
Since the bison is a mammal
And the eagle is a bird,
Both may symbolize our nation –
All the feathered and the furred.
But who stands for all the reptiles
And the fish with shells or scales?
Maybe there should be anointed
Some symbolic newts or snails?
I have nothing ‘gainst the bison;
It’s a fine majestic beast
But I wonder who decided
That our icons be increased.
Sometimes I like to stand at the edge of night and sing without words
I am free and I can watch closely how the hour breaks apart into a thousand shards of glass,
my bare soles touch the cold asphalt like the skin of an angel fallen from old maps,
I had just finished reading a book about people who forget how to dream,
and I went out into the street where the streetlamps burned like candles at the world's bedside,
a silver-furred dog ran between the legs of a crowd asleep on the inside.
Of course my pity had gone past every boundary my tired body knew,
I walked barefoot among people who watched indifferently as the sky cracked in two,
there were lights gone out and a great deal of silence buried in their pockets,
I could no longer go back to the house with blind windows and carpets of ash,
I walked, just as I was, in a nightshirt thin as a prayer, into the first lost garden along the way.
The people passing by looked at me in wonder, as if before an ancient miracle,
as though they had never before seen a man holding hands with a wandering moon,
I was determined never to return to the city with hearts buried in concrete,
I had grown used to this new silence, soft as the wing of a sleeping bird,
the silver dog had started to laugh, to bark old songs and tell stories from other worlds.
We sat down then on the cold ground, playing with blades of grass like violin strings,
we reached the edge of the city, where the train tracks fade into fog and memory,
beyond the field there was no one left to disturb our peace, only a forest and a green strip of sky,
we took off our shirts heavy with doubt, we took off even the names weighing on us like stones,
we ran through the grass, we climbed through the trees, and we flew, weightless, alongside their birds.
We soon reached the green strip of sky, full of angels and nameless birds,
morning had come, a morning so new that even the shadows didn't recognize it,
the people left below, in their city of stone, began to laugh in wild bursts,
my shirt floated around my neck like a scarf woven from abandoned dreams,
and it surprised me greatly, because up there, in that light, I no longer knew what shame meant.
On the hill, a mother
is desperate to nurse babies
who have gone still and silent,
with milk they'll never take
She knows they are not sleeping
but cannot bear to leave them,
so licks their tiny faces,
that they might come awake
She thinks if she can warm them,
then Winter will not want them
and Spring will find them happy
and hale, and furred, and free
As sorrow overwhelms her,
she curls herself around them,
soon dreaming in the way of
all creatures such as she
of fish in rippling water,
of game and earth. Of watching
her mate at play in powder,
unmindful of the chill
And when the Winter claims her,
she's chasing stars with children,
reborn among the flowers
that bloom upon the hill
—Sub Iure Cordis—
If I must choose a furred estate,
I’d be a lion—composed, aware;
Who lingers with deliberate weight,
As though the world conspired the air.
My mane demarcates tempered space,
No vagrant touch, no errant near;
Love sole may consecrate that grace,
And sanction who may venture here.
Yet you—approach; I know your art,
I might concede a tempered view:
A velvet nudge, a yielded heart—
A lion inclines where hearts are true.
For others—pause, observe, depart;
No casual claim, no passing due.
I husband distance into art,
And share my kingdom with a few.
At times I range where shadows lean,
As though I ward some veiled throne;
I watch, unseen yet half-foreseen—
A sovereign most when left alone.
But should you bring no gift, no plea,
No hurried hand, no grand display—
You might, by quiet chance, find me…
Asleep upon your lap. I stay.
The cold comes
following an endless spring
that lagged forever into summer
where it could not keep its hold
then returning again in autumn
to linger on the trees and low in the grass.
Now, comes the cold
chills dropping twenty degrees
barely reaching thirty
with frost forming on the vines
along the silvered rooftops
wrapping around fallen leaves.
Tight, full and unrelenting
crab apple and sugar maple
hold firm their form
paling yellow greens
tatter edged ochres tinge crimson red tips
rustling, wrestling with the windy breeze.
Squirrels wait patient
thick furred and bushy tailed feathers
running to and fro with acorns nd walnuts
clutched in their mouths
searching for that perfect spot
to dig and bury next years saplings.
The cold comes,
chilling both body and bone
enveloping this hideout of the world
wrapping round the trees and brush
marking my corner of the earth
as life slows down embracing a winter watch.
A torn tale ere was sewn b' time's tool;
''f haggard hemisphere 'n' nocturnal nude,
'n which porous promiscuity 's oft draped -
furred fabrics, scales embroidery.
This tale 'n which cursed clothing was hexed;
porous past oozing sassy spell.
Makes marred maidens scarce behove laud,
but fractured flaunts cum odds grilled galls.
Tell those who 'gain sew this torn tale,
that nosy needle anon 'll break,
'n' sewn sanity would foster pawn
''f bruised beauties, gaunt graces 'n' plagued pores.
Let throbbing themes ''f this taunting tale
'n' wools ''f sewn silk canvas wits, fame 'n' shame.
'20:07:23:13:41
Note:
a) Of fractured fashion.
b) Written apace with Middle English lexis:
i) Ere - before
ii) oft - often
iii) Hexed - cast spell
iv) behove - suit
v) cum - and
vi) galls - biles
vii) anon - soon
c) The following are used with no syllabic consequences:
i) b' - by
ii) "f - of
iii) 'n' - and
iv) 'n - in
v) 's - is
vi) 'll - will