Long Gargoyles Poems
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early this year
gentle as calm ocean waters
lapping along a weir
thumb and fore finger
of right hand would peal back,
(via diagonally flippant motion
asper calendar
representing progression of time)
gets flipped over to veer
in one direction (linear)
revealing the next month at lightspeed
vis a vis tempus fugit galloping tear
thy head immediately lost hirsute thickness,
i starkly share
male or female pattern baldness
extant along
Harris genealogical trunk line rare
yet divulging distress
about limp decreasing strands
sends shivers along spine,
gloomy feeling linkedin
with old fashioned meaning of *****
and perchance tis foolhardy
reeding this Samson night issue must ap pear
tis unstoppable inching closer toward
as mortality gets near
youthful robustness fades
replaced by senescence mere
really ambling along tragicomic stream,
one evinces gargoyles mockingly leer
loosing sleep and kept raggedly awake
in conjunction dreams fraught
with frightful haunting monsters jeer
ring sound reverberating hair
splitting decibel jamming primary cranial gear
aye tell mice elf nothing to fear...
yet maximizing this plight with poem 'ere
Yukon also temporarily part
blond, brown, gold, et cetera locks mud dear.
Form:
oscillating back and forth
head tilting from leeward and windward
an abstract puzzling my imperial gaze
a Van Gogh in waiting
perchance a reflection illuminated
in broad mesmerizing strokes
some tantalizing insightfulness
else a superficial escapade
do the color menageries
stray my mindfulness or hold attention
each vivid hue enlightenment
to soothe & provide enrichment
is my inspiration desperation
to find meaning in the simpleton
gravitating and oscillating
between beauty and gargoyles
does incredulous creativity scare me
or woo me into submissiveness
the artist plying servitude
into mine cavernous cavities
Alan Scales’ exhibit of
Turquoise Abstract Landscape II
provides fodder for my mind
to exponentially explode
Andreas Simic©
astronomical anatomical atoms
buying brilliant blubbery bimbo blobs
collecting claustrophobic colorized clandescently clams
depicting deplorable dependable depraved dendrites
enticing and enlisting energetic enthusiastic enigmas
finally fueling fussy frisky flatulence, forming fleece finders
giving gluttonous glorious gargoyles grinning grace
holding heavy-handed hospital heathens
Ignoring impassible imaginative ideas of interlopers
justifying jiggly jealous jaundiced jugglers jumping jury joyrides
killing kinesthetic kingly Kansas killjoys
leaving lighthearted Larry lollygagging lower than legumes
memorizing momentous miracles of magic meaning moroseness
nudging nebulous narcissistic nightly northern narwhals
occupying octagonal orbital ostrich-like ocelots
pursuing persnickety picky perverted pencils
quizzing questionable quails and quacks
redeeming respectable rustic ricocheting roadrunners
scalloping scuzzy scared scarred skeletons
teasing torrential test tube tarantulas
undermining understated underwater umbrellas
validating villainous vagrants verifying vigor and vim
worrying wiggly worm-like women wasps
‘xasperating ‘xpensive ‘xpansive ‘xtraordinary ‘xtraterrestrials
yielding yellowish youngish yippy youngbloods
zooming zealous zebras zigging and zagging in Zimbabwe
From on high to the crowded corners
of the world's temples, castles, cathedrals
From frescoes by the hands of grand masters
or sculpted alongside leering gargoyles
cherubs look down from heavenly perches
Many myths abound about cherubs -
they direct desires, prompt passions,
hours to cherubs are lifetimes to us
When believers hear a bell rings
an angel has gotten its wings
Riding cumulus clouds in an aqua sky
Vaulting lightning bolts to earth
Shooting arrows into human hearts
Coyly cowering in naves, abiding deities' demands
Making mellow music, fulfilling dreams denied
When 12th century Gothic sculptors crafted
church cherubs, adoring peasants marveled at
how the honored the Eden Garden fable
By divine right they played their ancient antics
One 15th century cherub mused that
when Raphael painted him, it was
intended that his infantile face
would portray pure sanctifying grace
In 1946, George Bailey of Bedford Falls
had planned his own suicide
Angel Second Class Clarence
was charged with saving him -
after 293 years of wistful waiting,
Clarence would finally get his wings
The godly greet the "Power of Myth",
they know that "...the bell tolls for thee" -
pray, "Appeal to our better angels"
There are no wings for us mere mortals
Only believers hear those bells ring
So, in the vast domain of spirits and angels,
does it seem trivial to be concerned
whether or not a cherub has wings or not,
in the face of this world's "Pandemonium"?
Listen for the bell
I was walking down the sidewalk
of a big-box shopping center,
lost in my thoughts, as usual,
barely even noticed the thing.
Tucked back twenty yards or so,
I first thought it was a warehouse,
squat, and ordinary looking,
'Cavalry's Victory Church.'
No denomination listed,
just the name and cross to mark it,
a sad lump of steel and concrete,
cream-colored with no ornaments.
No spire, no tower, no bells,
nor statue of an ancient saint,
it had no sliding doors upfront,
could be a damn supermarket.
A grim feeling pulled me inside,
hoping here it would look better...
just factory carpets, few windows,
probably there due to building codes.
At least the pews are wooden,
if compressed sawdust is wood.
So many seats facing forwards
to a low, unadorned altar.
Just a cross to denote its job,
sans carvings and tall statues,
no stained glass playing with the light
while its images tell stories.
No pantocrator high above,
staring downwards from a big dome,
no gargoyles, looks a lot like
some high school auditorium.
I know the patrons are sincere,
and the Reverend does his best,
but this place doesn't inspire
or lift the spirit upwards.
Maybe it's a Protestant thing,
or fear of idolatry,
can't say. I only know that
nothing about this feels sacred.
Could it just be our laziness,
cheaper to build quick and move on...
or the money just isn't there
to inspire all who enter.
Perhaps it is a punishment,
laid upon us fallen sinners,
that He lets Notre Dame burn,
while this eye-sore continues on.
Sandkiller had a headache within the bowels of h.....
He was trying to get away, but here came his cousin Phil
Phil was a gargoyle, and he had his sidekick Demon Dee.
Can’t you guys stay back there, away from me?
Hell no, Phil said. We can see the flames from your head.
We have people to roast, arrogant Demon Dee said.
So they stayed close to his shoulder and used his fire.
It made him mad and irritated, Sandkiller, the Devil's sire.
Be good to your cousins, his father, the devil did yell.
Such great fun in front of all the stupid gawkers in .....
Sandkiller never got a break, he wanted to run away.
Maybe he’d go to heaven, and try to stay.
Heaven! Phil yelled as he read his cousin’s pathetic mind.
They don’t keep gargoyles there, or any of our kind!
Who wants to go to heaven? Demon Dee demanded.
Sandkiller wanted to die; they were so underhanded!
How many times?
I see plethora's of well-wishers,
an entire generation in stitches-
dynamic disasters carrying the pitches,
a welcome wagon wandering the bridges,
how many times?
I see a black castle on a hill,
staring down at my will-
has Gargoyles sending its thrills,
and trained Chewies pouring the drinks
and popping its pills...
How many times?
Why would I wait for a wonderful trance?
When now has a dance,
a new job,
and a focusing stance-
gets me to my France,
I eat the food,
and pleasure my chance,
roll my dice,
and sing to the enhanced...
How many times?
Like Lewis and Clark,
I chuck darts at foreign remarks,
in the dangerous dark I part from my narks,
ease into the current date that is universe today,
seize the opportunity to meet my future mate,
by becoming a plate,
spinning in place,
dancing to a face,
racing against the blaze...
How many times?
Contagion ceremoniously weaves its harvest into a fabric of un-social inclusion
Haunted by lack of humility and lost serenity it serenades through the masses
In God We Trust but who listened to Nietzsche who proclaimed that she is dead
Lest we believe that a deity or other exists and really knows what she's doing
Divinity does not adhere to the faith that we are immune to such a great reaper
Revelations come at a price and blood money changes gloves and sterile hands
Engulfed in statistics and mortality rates we watch breathlessly old news in pain
No human creature is more equal than others when pandemonium is pandemic
Opulence luxury and money do not protect us from the insidious bastard bug
Foreshadow a lesson in morality diffidence acceptance and washing our hands
Alamo meets the apocalypse in cryptic proportions of ignorance and surrender
Loo rolls pasta hand soap have vanished from shelves as have bread and wine
Endangered species need to make offerings with the latter and worship at home
Surreptitious veneration of non-believers stakes false claims at burgeoning altars
Superficially cleansed with an insane amount of fake oaths in hypocritical pride
End stage scenarios roam beliefs narratives and reason beyond any much doubt
Reinvent biblical prophesies as devotes of virgin birth bow to rigor mortis instead
Grotesque gargoyles utter a cynical message on shrines mausoleums and crosses
Ogres whirl a ballet of youthful joy while funeral processions have come to a halt
Deliriously they applaud the harvest and struggle to keep up with all those in line
30th March 2020
Through eldritch streets I walked alone
With shadows on my track,
Full jellied was my every bone,
I thought my mind would crack.
Through mist and morbid mire I went
To revel where gargoyles dwell,
A guest whose soul was spent,
To meet the host - the King of Hell!
Through caverns dark I made my way,
The squelch of shoe, the crack of bone,
Chittering squeaks from shadowy grays,
Would never leave me alone.
At last I reached the caverned maw,
Ceiling glint with stalactites,
And of course its bretheren I saw,
The saber-toothed stalagmites.
And on the high-domed hellish lair
Hung a grinning crystal skull,
It threw a ghoulish, greening glare
Which made my senses dull.
All around there was a damp,
A noxious putrid smell,
And slightly a-centre on a ramp,
Stood grinning the Lord of Hell.
His feet were hooved, his head was horned,
He flashed his fang-like teeth.
His eyes were huge and darkly burned;
Heart stopped, I could hardly breathe!
"Welcome", boomed my infernal host,
And flashed a rotting smile,
"A welcome drink, a one-time toast,
Before you join my rank and file!"
Something clammy seized my mind,
My clothes turned very wet,
I screamed and woke myself to find
I wasn't dead as yet.
But close to it I surely was,
My narco-ed mind amid I had lain,
At hell's door without a fuss,
When with maddened mind I'd cut my vein!
Finding Presence
Night sky beckoning dawn
Gentle sensations
Early morning walks
Empty avenues
Central Park breezes
Village cobblestone streets
Wet with glistening reflections
Accompany the seeker’s every move
Citified whispers
Discordant choruses
The street cleaner
The sliding steel-front security doors
Excited canines straining leashes
Open casements echoing emphysema-regrets
Merging with the early morning smells and start-up images
City’s reality mix awakening
Conscious-walking shakes loose somnolence
Opening eyes to the gargoyles atop historic landmarks
Their stoic residence mirrored in all-glass surroundings
Urban growth towering over huddling addicts of all types
Weary of sleepless nights
Enjoined by occasional pouting mannequins
Dressing light-starved windows
Poised to portray tourist-trap knockoffs
Rayon for silk
Fantasy for verity
Predatory “going out of business” choices ubiquitous
Shut down shops—beaten
Barely open shops—clinging
Wanderers drifting listlessly
Rising early by guilty conscience
Some prodding their welfare bodies to move
Others fearing unfaithful one-nighters become known
Old widows lean from their tenement windowsills
Having endured another sleepless night of heat
Too poor to leave the city
Too proud to ask of children
Soon
Sunrise bathes the grayness with color
Subway entrances congest
Yellow cabs begin cacophonous warm-ups
Like an orchestra of out-of-tune instruments
Their blasts are met with the inescapable “Taxi!” “Taxi!”
Deli workers spread cream cheese
Warm Bear Claws
Brew bad coffee
Wish their customers “have a good one”
Keeping secure their jobs
For another day
Returning home
Five flight walk up
One’s feet beg relief from the morning roam
A pull on the carton of OJ
A flip-on of the two-burner
The water to boil
A drop into the drug-from-the-dumpster-couch
Chock-Full-Of-Nuts in waiting
Want ads front and center
A few deep breaths
Just another day
Surviving the city