Long Garble Poems
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Their faces are still there;
caricatures and cameos,
amigo mugs and jug ears.
Cheering, jeering chums
that would phone at four in the morning
to garble drunken thoughts,
make momentous plans,
or borrow ten quid.
The oddball humorist
and part-time suicide,
the drama queen
contesting her own shadow,
the poet who never wrote a poem.
The mon ami that drank for you
when you could drink no more.
Long after the late-night rides,
I see their features pressed against
softly glowing bus windows,
as London transports them
from other decades, even to far Ohio;
their lips silently mouthing –
warnings perhaps, or
maybe just trying
to cadge another ten nicker.
~~~~~~~
Authors Note: "nicker' and 'quid' are Brit/cockney terms for
pounds sterling - money. "Cadge" as in - scrounge.
~~~~I am so angry and I don't know why
I feel like you've changed right before my eyes
I left a while ago and you were fine
I fell in love with the other guy
You remeber the one, you used to be
Now you've gotten used to the idea of abondoning me
~~~~~~~~~~~~So damn confused
I hate how you always look so damn amused
Like a kick to the gut with steel toed shoes
I am so cold that my skin turns blue
Staring at me with lips that are silently fused
You are right that you have the right to choose
Whether or not, you'll accept me would be welcoming news
~~~~~~~~~~~My love you've started your life anew
Five steps ahead and im 20 to few
Right back here behind you
Choking on the morning dew
Tears in my mouth garble the words of I love you's
Wrap your arms around me I need to know you need me too
~~~~~~~ I am up, and then I am down, and then I am down
A yo-yo wrapped around your finger, flipping me around
I try to hold my head up, but i wear sorrow as my crown
with a matching frown.
My spirits have sunk and now have drowned
~~~~~~~Here we are, back to this tired old game.
Our fighting words have caused me pain
My heart is a dying flame.
Losing it all, and I am slain
You will soon forget my name
If you cannot catch my speeding train
headed for sunsets over the horizon on a different plain
~~~~~~~
Pals
Their faces are still there;
caricatures and cameos,
amigo mugs and jug ears.
Cheering, jeering chums
that would phone at four in the morning
to garble drunken thoughts,
make momentous plans,
or borrow ten quid.
The oddball humorist
and part-time suicide,
the drama queen
contesting her own shadow,
the poet who never wrote a poem.
The mon ami that drank for you
when you could drink no more.
Long after the late-night rides,
I see their features pressed against
softly glowing bus windows,
as London transports them
to other decades, even to far Ohio;
their lips silently mouthing –
warnings perhaps, or
maybe just trying
to cadge another ten nicker.
Translucent Epiphany
‘Kismet’ he thought ‘What nonsense please smooch my elbow for real’
He had no time for Karma as things are what they are without coincidence
Only believed in solutions for problems and none of that psychic garble
No slips of compunction no Higher Power no confidence in contemplation
When he tripped his fuse on life’s vagaries and fell down an obvious sinkhole
He stumbled hit rock bottom and fractured his Ego and arm in so many places
She threw him a rope made of silken dreams woven with innocent thread for his
Veiled blinkers to disentangle when her Kiss Met his virginal lips through the light
04th July 2018
8 lines of Fate contest
Why did it have to be you, it could have been anyone else
But if it was anyone else, I wouldn't be writing this
You took something from within me, you still have it clasped in your
hands
Are you going to keep it, or are you going to throw, discard, torment
You pull at the strings that controlled me, my love for you was histrionic
I’ll let you be my marionette
Even if it ends with me being like Antoinette
You can be my ventriloquist
Even if the words you put in my mouth are illegitimate
Will you tell them how hard I tried?
Or will you make them feed into your lies?
I tried to write your name in the rain
I didn’t cry at first, but now that I'm dead its only pain
I can't go a day without you crossing my mind, you didn’t stop at the
lights
The way you mould your words, picture me like Falstaff
Hopefully you will take me seriously when I mention you in my epitaph
Your eyes take in the information engraved on my pathetic stone
Yet in my eyes, you're still that beautiful girl I’d give my throne
There are hundreds of millions of graves
There are ones made of sticks, there’s ones made of marble
I no longer can curate words for you to garble
I no longer can allow the emotions riptide over my eyes
You were an awful girl, but still not one for me to despise
(alternately known as the Doubting Thomas Crown
Taj Mahal Cupid Affair)
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Fortunate (for me) thee bona fide "FAKE" Cupid
(aka Decoy Donald Duck
and side kickstarter Jay Rad,
colluded donning one alias,
which (former and latter)
amounted tube bing disguised incognito
as the cingular "Ivan Ha Bea Robber Baron),"
while same above placed
their System Of A Down on high alert
whereby, they unwittingly, fortunately,
and accidentally discerned disquieting "noise"
i.e. static electronic crackling
purportedly from nemesis, asper sans above
whereby broadcasters colluded
confusingly, congruously, and convincingly
as thee infamous digital (duplicity)
faux "Big Mac" Trump.
The chalkboard scratching, hair sprayed bouffant,
and knuckle crackling
appeared tubby the handiwork cleverly disguised
(as tinpot dictator antics of Moscow's version,
sans Putin on the ritz),
which decrypted garble (a fluke) as iterated above
strongly emanating via polygamous,
prestigious, and pseudonymous
pull no punches ploy
innocently convincing feigned
duo code named "Ashley Madison and Bert"
disclosing (when uncovered),
a heartless conspiracy in concert
with Sesame Street studded lesser known Muppets
pretending tubby oil tycoon Bedouins
intent to fleece "sensitive"
top secret military defense contracts,
which Russian motley crue ace double agents
intended this act of espionage thence sabotage
feted as a Black Sabbath Lupercalia feint
not for the faint hearted clubby fete
where Cupid given free rule of the roost
allowing, enabling and proffering
Cyrillic chattering Cherubim
hook cooked United States "figurative goose"
lock, stock and barrel, which stratagem
captured president unawares
and did significantly boost
Eastern Bloc reconnaissance (on par
with the Philadelphia Eagles
winning 2018 Super Bowl LII
which surprise clenching championship
wrought frenzied hoopla, gala, and bacchanalia
where barenaked ladies
cavorted nsync with beastie boys,
whence City of Brotherly love hoopla found
nearly every man, woman and child soused
(analogous to each person garnering
an early Sainted Patrick's pot of gold.
I had laid foundation for this moment.
But who I wonder, might be listening?
The deftly fashioned phrases I had planned,
now tumble into mismatched tiles
of scrambled words, from scrabble's hand
spilling garble out of hand!
Now, this is news you may refuse
But let me tell you: HOW NOT TO ARGUE!
Yes! Wrestle, woo with words, I will!
I spill opinions, and take a stand!
Will he fall and say “Yes dear,”
while my stunning words appear
taking hold the upper hand?
Darn it!, much against my will,
emotional blubber, my tears will well!
My calm approach, and swift attack,
falls apart, WHAT'S UP WITH THAT?? !!
My soapbox, platform, for two left feet,
will crumble with my shamed defeat!
My five alarm fire, starts with a blaze,
too soon becomes a fading haze !
Just gol-darn smoke gets in his face!
Gibberish, senseless words out loud,
once proud embers, sound absurd!
Can't I once, get THE LAST WORD??
The surging tide, a frothy ripple,
makes him giggle, never grovel!
Pleasure gleams in both his eyes,
This drama queen just wants to die!
Dang it, I can never win
He folds his arms, and sports a grin!
Better end this bitter novel......
Let me dig, with my own shovel !!
______________________
For Verlena's Slam Contest...Round 2
You've read it correctly,
that's what the directions said directly
but
it's not some innate random homogeneous gift
that encourages and displays these internal poetic rifts,
we are somehow blessed,
betrayed, besieged, bestowed, beleaguered and bemoaned
by words, phrases, unmatched rhymed teasers enthroned
upon some grandiose display of mismatched garble
a picture, an image, a brain's ensemble, quite remarkable,
the integral, seamless agreed-upon selection
of who or what could be prisoner to our dissection,
there within the confines of heart, body, and mind
lay hidden pseudo images soft, hard, vile, and kind,
therein those coherent enigmatic systemic wholes
buried, shaped, unseen, rhythmic whispers of our souls,
the center of our individual, molded, subservient whole.
Poets Hanging from a Poet Tree
Poetry in motion is perilous a dangerous pastime a thing of the anachronistic
past in the global villainous village in which minds are colonised for the greater
comforting good of synchrony when all are equal at speechless lack of words
It is decreed on pain of death that meter rhymes and scripted feelings tercets
appealing to the trinity of liberty justice and dignity are abolished from now on
that reason must appeal only to the rationale of what the rulers think for us
Signs around rebellious broken necks state crystal clear suggest resistance to
be futile ‘I am a poet swine and slept with words’ draped from the garrotte of
those scribes who could not be reformed in genocidal concentration camps
Surely civil society is a better place with those demised who smear the thought
police with craft and artistry dreams fantasies and aspirations of a loving kind
or critical reflection of virtues happiness not derived from greed or power
Will I hang gladly from the tree shout in defiance ‘death to silence long live free
expression eat my words’ or would I prefer to save my skin since once the chip
to monitor my mind has been implanted all evidence is centrally collected
Or underground persistence burrowing subterranean streams of consciousness
hacking into silicon and copper in my brain to garble up regimental surveillance
short circuit and cross wire all those in power with one massive Trojan virus
Scaremongering you think and cynical exaggeration spreading rumours croaking
ominous fake news and propaganda well think again and make a plan for how
you’ll fare with threat and passion because the trees are there and so are the signs
Then, he knew why he must hew
old memories from marble-
emotions quarried from heart's slew-
Oblique fight with his faith's garble
Cut block unfolds Christ, enthroned
on mother's lap- death sleep supine...
Sculptor's concepts cast in stone,
art wrestles with thoughts divine.
And sorrow, stilled in her young face,
speaks truth of words kept in her heart-
mother, son, distilled in saving grace,
sacred words saved in graven art.
A pity, the piety
so few true onlookers saw...
Revealed in society-
few look on In devoted awe.
II
Now she knows why she must express
emotions whittled away, and smoothed
from quarried heart's deep distress-
The process leaves her soothed...
Such feelings are not cast in stone-
Warmly carved in reflective marble, maybe,
as he wrestled with tempestuous thoughts
burning, guiding hands that draped
unmoving drapes over motionless shapes,
shaping faith that cannot be bought.
And the tenderness on her gentle face
belies the hurt of curse's sword driven
straight through her mother heart...all trace
of ancient prophecy hidden.
Till truth, preserved, be told.
Had he not told them many times
he would return, come back to life?
And that word was kept, unfailing.
And the stone was moved, revealing...
Posted: 22nd April 2019.
Note: I am totally in awe of the stupendous sculptures produced over the centuries.
Miraculous as they are, I believe in greater miracles, the resurrection of Christ being just that.
I am also a mother of two grown up sons.
My little miracles...<3 <3
Luke 2:25-35. Luke 24:1-8