Long Grassed Poems
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Diminishing virtues stripped away
From the flesh
By the fierce brined rods that freely
Course thy hot crimson blood;
Dry cracked lips attempting to
Fashion broken words of compliance
That so must needs to be spoken...
But...Ohhh, Meretrix...
My foolish and innocent child -
If you but only could!
Consider, Meretrix,..humility!
To which pleasure one thus
Submitted
Guiltily discovers:-
The joy in the act or posture of
Lowering oneself in relation to
Others.
For in your anguished dis-repair
You will find strength to endure and
Embrace:-
The acceptance of all your defects
And ultimate seduction
In the power of your:-
"Submission to Divine Grace"!
I will adorn you in the yellow Toga
Of the Vestal virgins,
They whom wise Augusta did abhor;
Burden upon you with an Imperial
Tax
Imposed by perverted Caligula:
Whither all Matronly protestations he
Didst dismissively ignore;
My Tribune forcefully exact -
When employing you in the
Degenerated role
Of my most reluctant Whore!
Clasp jeweled anklets abouts your
Shapely bones,
Decorate upon you like fired and
Painted porcelain figurines;
Whilst all the while, as your lost mind
Bemoans,
Choking between involuntary gurgles
And low-pained, stifled screams,
The gagged mouth bites down
Amidst salivating sounds
Borrowed from the hurtling
Nightmares
Of your darkest dreams!
For I will lift you higher than the
Tallest mountain peak...
So you may gaze with awe over all
The innumerable Kingdoms and their
Proud tyrant Kings;
Of the many differing species of all
Mankind type things...
And of the immeasurable riches
They so endlessly seek.
Lower you to the solitudes of the
Grassed floors
That sweep across the sunken
Valleys deep;
Where, besides enchanted streams,
Violated Nymphs quietly weep
For Abels broken schemes;
Now, tragically, all taken apart;
And for the wicked callousness
Of fallen man...
Whose desperate greeds ripped out
His live brothers still beating heart -
Then tore at the living throat of
The one true Gods Holy Lamb!
TO BE CONTINUED...
I can’t walk out on this feeling,
The fat lady has just about sung the
Ultimate aria of her own selfish pain and loss.
The duality of my desires schism through my heart
Like a fuzzy scalpel, cutting and tickling at the same time.
I visit the municipal baths site of my hometown,
Find it gone, the pool filled in and grassed–over as if
It had never been; the only reminder a blue concrete
Fountain still intact; no water, just earth and grass,
Filling the basin, moss and lichen clinging there.
I touch the stone; run fingers where as a child
They had been run many long years before.
Contact with the past, bolts in the brain, I am back.
Hot lemon sun beats down on bare skin,
Chlorine fumes stab my eyes, water splashes, crisp
Packets rustle and I see the changing cubicles: cupboards
Of wooden blue slats with batswing doors,
And myself swimming through cold, clean water
Aged eleven and full of life and vitality,
Future mapped as some golden pathway of potential,
As summer goes on and on, feeling like forever.
Above, the rumble of twin engines, a plane draws
A vapour trail, silver cracking the intense blue,
My eyes narrow and tear from glare when looking up;
I see the plane fly away, on and on without crashing,
No engine failure, no loss of life.
And I smile in the chill of the water and
The scorch of the sun when emerging to lie on
The grass or the sizzling concrete surround.
The skies dim, though, evenly cloud over that afternoon,
People pack up and leave before the first downpour.
Don’t go, I say, stay, it will pass.
They pay no heed, they do not hear me, ghosts are habitually deaf,
And soon I am alone as the first cold drops, big as shillings,
Spatter the ground; with shivers, the past recedes
I am back here; the pool is filled in and grassed over.
Modern rain, dirty, acidic, with trace elements of carbon monoxide,
Mocks my reverie; a junkyard dog cruelly barks laughter
In a distant scrap-yard of ruined machinations.
LONESOME
SOUND
Old man said he could hear that whistle blow a hundred miles
and they could write a song about that.
Said he could tell how many cars a train freighted
just by how sad was its wail.
Old man said, trains usually sounded out at crossings or towns
or coming upon another train. Said
No. 149 out of St. Louis left
the towns a hundred miles back.
Had no call to think about
meeting another train'til Lander.
Or maybe Crawford.
Old man said, keening cross the plains like that
only thing took it to heart was
coyotes and jack rabbits. Mayhap
a snake or two, sunning hisself on the rails.
Said, last run she made, leaned on her whistle
from the Missouri straight through to the Rockies.
Never let up, just hollered cross the land
like the world come undone.
Like something lost
couldn't never be right again.
I said how that train was probly thinking
of the long empty plains ahead.
Of fenceposts ticking by
and cattle scabbing up the buffalo grass.
Thinking of passing unseen and unheard
the grassed-over soddies hunched at springs
once piped now trickling through old stock ponds.
Of empty match-box homesteads
timber-bleached and bowed before the
vast order of sun and sky.
Of tilted windmills wheeling, listless
as a fly wing-plucked and turning, turning
round on bleary heat-cracked panes
what look myopic upon the prairie
the grass, the sky, the land to come.
Old man looked at the middle distance. Said
don't know but she wailed for the thought
of her last pull through the pass at Lander stockyards.
Or for what she maybe wouldn't find
coming out t'other side.
My aim was spot on at close range or distant
The coppers were on scene post haste
The sirens were loud and extremely insistent
I gazed at the guns I now faced
Seven patrol cars had screeched to a halt
And tyre marks blackened the floor
Seven patrol cars may well have seemed nought
So the cops sent about fourteen more
The army arrived as the cops took their places
All crouching with guns trained on me
The soldiers wore camo with blackened up faces
The tanks that they brought numbered three
Two choppers were armed with hi-tech weaponry
And hovering just overhead
The super-bright spotlights that beamed down on me
Would fill other felons with dread
The little red dots that appeared on my vest
Meant snipers had me in their sights
Awaiting the order to puncture my chest
So someone could read my last rights
I don’t understand how they got there so fast
I didn’t think I would get caught
It seemed to me one of my neighbours had grassed
They’re not as good friends as I thought
Just then a cop with a gun in one hand
And a loudhailer held in the other
Addressed me like I was the scourge of our land
And I would bring shame to my mother
He said, ‘Just accept that we’ve thwarted your plans
For that's how such villainy goes
So lay that thing down and raise both your hands
And then step away from the hose.’
***
[On 5 August 2022 the Isle of Wight and Hampshire (UK) had a hosepipe ban imposed upon residential water customers. There is a suggestion that neighbours should grass on their neighbours. The fine for daring to water your Zinnias is £1000.]
A seam in a sock is a whistling clock. Wheelbarrow hours like a treading of grapes for wine. But swamped with the rest of the waters, teas, coffees and creams can bring a mingle of music to a break. But breaks are not breaking nor brave really for the breaks are merely for beakers and brooms. Who enter rooms and chat in slow monosyllabic voices with largely low accentuated accents. Apathetically apples appear appropriately at a arch. And the dust busters move in with their cloths and clothes hinged with a tinge of lint emulsion spray. Lint emulsion spray is quite popular and should never be confused for a carnation, a carriageway, a cart horse or a canned carrot cake. It is to be said that there is over one million ninety three thousand nine hundred and fifty three trees lining up in the foot long yard. How rather interesting that is really? And to say hello from the frozen pieces of pie is to take the meaningless ingredients for a walk on an extendable lead. Well they must exercise mustn't they? Little pieces of cut meat and vegetables love to run and run. And sauces can climb quickly over stiles. Ha the bracken bracket beckons to a bullfrog. Ha the deluge of indelible inks in a cotton shield of sanctification. Ha shoes on a coat walking with a petticoat in a goblet. Xxxxx therapeutically z z z z z taking the washing line and abseiling down the stairway of the breaded grassed house of Oven. Z
Form:
There are some colours
that can never be repainted,
marks that can never be removed
and stains that can never be covered.
Move on!
My past loved one,
don't hold unto my shoulders
as though nature formed us together.
We've once crossed that bridge
but even before reaching its middle
we had crashed into the river
and were swallowed
by the rocks of its depth.
Do you remember,
at first we built a garden
coloured in trust
and grassed with unbelievable care?
But we converted it
into an Oven
where love and hate mix
and our problems;
I'm the only one trying to fix.
Unfortunate episodes
of our heated drama
was already counting at thirty and six.
The beautiful songs of our hearts
we remix
as sadness and anger feasts.
Why shouldn't I leave
and prevent my heart
from an avoidable accident?
But you stick around
only to suffer from self torture.
My new and bright countenance
makes you wanna have sex
with other male colleagues, I flex.
It's barely two weeks
that makes you perplexed
well; it's your problem
b'cos I'm not bothered
if you're vexed.
Are you the first
to be an ex?
Just move on, my dear past lover!
It will be the height of folly
and the worship of loneliness
if you visit our world again.
Dear diary, I write these words, so sad and true,
and etch my heartfelt thoughts forever in this book.
Now, with a broken heart, I share my pain with you.
My childhood home, in wooded setting near a brook,
I now will have to leave with permanent goodbye,
and etch my heartfelt thoughts forever in this book.
For many years it stood, pure white, three stories high...
our home on a grassed hill, old-world design and proud
I now will have to leave with permanent goodbye.
My childhood home now stands below a stormy cloud;
is doomed to action that brings us lament and pain...
our home on a grassed hill, old-world design and proud.
For, New York State has now ruled eminent domain;
a bridge between two towns is planned, all set to build.
is doomed to action that brings us lament and pain...
So, on this page, my bitter, weeping tears are spilled:
Dear diary, I write these words so sad and true;
a bridge between two towns is planned, all set to build.
Now, with a broken heart, I share my pain with you.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: A Poem Called, From My Diary
Sponsor: Broken Wings
Judged: 11/07/2017
True Story ~ 1960
Written in Iambic Hexameter (12 syllables, 6 feet)
“Back garden” of my childhood I remember,
The front for special roses was reserved,
We sometimes ate outside in the back garden,
Alfresco though a word I never heard!
The apple tree the highlight of the garden,
The blossom in the spring adorned with pink,
The “pond” that was bricked over many years ago,
The shed where you could go to have a think.
The football on the grass that needed cutting,
Try not to hit it over next door’s wall,
The separate patch where mum grew potatoes,
The rowan tree just laughing at it all.
The coal bunker a relic from the fifties,
The strawberries that grew from time to time,
A venue that we used for Hide and Seek games,
A tree behind the shed we’d sometimes climb.
No special bins then for our garden rubbish,
We’d have a day to tidy and to weed,
Incinerator used for the disposal,
Before we’d plant the latest shrub or seed.
And when I had my own kids did it change much?
They may have ps one and x box 2,
But in the garden they did have a trampoline,
And sheds? We’ve 2 to keep their stuff from view.
There was no pond but stones that were grassed over,
We’d sometimes sit out for a barbecue,
The hide and seek games also reoccurred here,
I don’t think things have changed that much. Do you?
9 June 2020
Why not be righteous, stay one of the best
Spill not your beans, keep cards close to your chest
Today you are bounding, fresh in your head
Tomorrow a mind change, you wish you was dead
Your brother is your best friend, you have loved him from birth
Then tomorrow, the world hears, he is the scum of the earth
The friend that you schooled with, that one of a kind
But now shes a slag head, another change of mind
Why tell the world of the things in your head
They don’t give a , if your alive or your dead
Bragging rights on holiday, living the dream
Photos from wine bars on everyone’s screen
A picture of happiness, sunshine and wealth
While they burgled your home, when you grassed on yourself
Emptying your cupboards from the baggage they hold
One minute your pretty and the next, you look old
Why tell the world all the thoughts that you think
What happened to the good days, the old pen and ink
The press of a button, the type of a text
Reveal your first secret, then reveal the next
Facebook oh Facebook, you sure got a hold
An headlock that locks round the young and the old
Facebook oh Facebook, well you ain’t got me
I got chocolates and cider and my colour tv
Fearfully filed emotions and feeling weeping,
Integrated sorrow, bottled pains, hush tears;
Generate the entire atmosphere to madness.
The aroma of the lustful lost environ lashes
The oversized bellied walls of the stinking heart.
No sight of goodness but stuffy smoke filled home.
Stinks stationed in every part of the heart,
silent flavoured tears with mucus, blood
decomposed green odour seen in pain.
Tasteless filled aroma generated in lust.
The heart is sick, sick of the hole in whole,
The wound within was never to be healed,
It looks out for vengence and revenge to all.
The shadow of death smells along its path,
Looking out for the thousand moons that hurt,
An Aroma of a burning heart perceived in hurt
Smells like the burning flames of the wild fire;
Wildfire on an arrogant wet grassed in the forest.
Atmosphere of grief, sadness, mutilation and
sorrow fills the air as the eyes sight a broken heart.
The aroma of a broken heart smells
More dangerous than the smoke of a wildfire.
Teach the heart the act of goodness to avoid
A broken part that mighty soil others shamefully.
(C) John Chizoba Vincent
Voice Of Vincent 2016