Long Hinterlands Poems
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losing claim to fame
disappeared to hinterlands
nothing will be same
weary old folks fold their hands
others rearrange their plans
words too many say
imperfect in every way
stealing light from day
debts, too numerous to pay
selling dreams which won't convey
not what we came for
low dark clouds approaching fast
home with no front door
holding on to what has passed
restless dreams soon fill our glass
once alive and whole
now fully marginalized
laughter becomes droll
not what the experts advised
nothing comes as advertised
blown in with the storm
teaches those lessons wind knows
promises deform
not even gods can oppose
status quo soon turns and goes
secret dreams time stole
can produce a troubled soul
half but not a whole
but a name where fingers scroll
another for whom bells toll
Fishes are water-locked, or so it seems
But some fish can soar on fins as wings
They zoom up fast, bursting right through
the surface, flying up into the air,
Soaring in gliding flight above the waves.
Flying in air is fabulous for fish.
They feel the wind in their faces, scales ruffled.
They see the sky and sun beaming clear and bright
or see the eerie moon and stars, flying at night.
Nearshore the landscapes are stunning:
Rocky headlands brown and dry
Hinterlands green and lush
Rock shelves covered in foam and pools
Beaches yellow and bright, fringed with breaking waves.
Then there's the boats; you have to watch out for those
Otherwise you'll flip and flap on deck till you die.
It is sad when speed drops and flight is over with a splash,
and the waves gather the flying
'Fish Flingers' back into their watery medium.
he is a guest in another beings dream
a stranger sleeps behind his eyes
when he thinks about this
he shivers and turns to the window
letting himself be distracted by the dusty fields
the wind cranking farms
the bus is half-full
empty seats are occupied by the soon to be born
the soon to be dead and those in transition
hinterlands overlap and leak
a young man yet to be conceived
stares about him thinking he is in a movie
people speak a language known only to hollow trees
and wooden owls
there are no subtitles for his state of mind
passengers cling to the long straps of their thoughts
as the coach sways
some occupants are uncertain
if whether they have a real ticket for a real life
others think they may have purchased a ticket
with no destination
they fidget in their seats
wonder why the trip is taking so long
under spinning rubber
the ground sinks away
while an inverse sky
rises
Progress seems proudly perched on flyovers,
Sold on many a toll-dotted speedways.
Each, pylon-pecked, on hinterland hovers,
And not on friendly crisscrossing highways.
They slyly gloat over our urban mess,
And conceal, not care for local problems,
Which, ostrich-like, we bury to by-pass,
And do sweet little on the urban slums.
Should progress treat poor as from nether land?
Cut off from sun, fit t’be hidden under,
Whilst ugly growth is left on own to mend,
What price progress piled on planning blunder?
Everyone dreams a brand-new world to build,
Where no organic growth gets widely spread,
Wherein natural greenery gets killed,
Mother Earth gets gradually degraded.
Flyovers are fine, so are expressways,
Not if overlooked are our hinterlands
Shepherded on the leftover bye-ways,
Not if villages get locked as wastelands.
Yet, that's what most flyovers seem to do,
Expressways if they only metros care,
When dotted lines only but two dots woo,
And leave smaller towns in suspended air.
For concrete jungles, local greens we kill,
Block rivers to build giant reservoirs,
And make the freely flowing rivers ill,
Block neighbours behind winding flyovers.
That progress seems fair— even high in air,
If all that lived around were it to care.
___________________________________________
Happenings | 03.06.2004 | perspective
unaccompanied
I set out to traverse the hinterlands
perceiving myself as a blemish on society
all eyes averted from my unsightly visage
the pernicious shadow of doubt's cloud
casting an ominous apparition that darkened the mood
but failed to dampen the xeric ground with needed rain
feigning confidence in my destination
striding past sage and succulent - yucca and agave
longing for the carefree smell of the ocean
and the company of friends
feeling like Abram departing Ur of the Chaldees
seeking astral consolation from the night sky
kneeling to pray to the heavenly sentry
I'd close my eyes to rest from the weary enterprise
of surviving my high school wilderness
Written 10 Nov 2020
Meandering along Schwenksville Road...
while listening to SiriusXM Radio
An Autumn like day (August 28th, 2021)
found me and the missus venturing
along unfamiliar roads.
Said spouse manned wheel of automobile
courting entering land of the lost,
nevertheless experiencing zest
she drove as I determined,
whether we went north, south, east or west
her purposefulness deliberately linkedin
delving off course to test
comfort level, interestingly enough
not experiencing feeling over stressed
possibly because place names
(an abridged version follows)
Green Lane, Perkiomenville,
Sumneytown, Upper Salford,
and Zieglerville somewhat familiar,
thus any uneasiness
(straying off the beaten path)
got put to rest
regarding moseying along
our spontaneous quest,
cuz I trend toward anxiety
(and most likely
would suddenly turn gray)
at prospect of trekking into
hinterlands not many miles
away from the place
the two of us call home.
Joyriding not something we
(meaning said married couple in question)
indulge since cost of fuel thee
cannot deny nearly cost an arm and leg
as one who drives regularly can see
the folly spewing gasoline exhaust
tooling around within 2009 Hyundai Sonata
for no rhyme nor reason unnecessarily re:
leasing gasoline exhaust pollutants
into the atmosphere whereby eco police
unlikely accept me to cop a plea
one garden variety bummer
a bloke who strives to exalt glee
crafting poems, and reading as well
ranking his significance no higher than flea
common name for the order Siphonaptera,
dear unknown aforementioned comparison
ye might not agree.
oft times ('specially
these latter un-sainted days and nights)
death doth haunt me zeitgeist
which thoughts of my demise
crowds out purposeful thinking
in the twitching mind kempf
paradigm of this atheist
hence, he betook himself
to this MacBook Pro,
while swiss side dull ideations
for professional intercession, could not wait
asper affecting s cathartic,
emetic, harmonic tete a tete
and providing a meaningful surrogate
to expunge morbid mental state
accessed Open Office
and let fingers (of left hand) do talking heads
to an imaginary therapist
across this qwerty keyboard
allowing, enabling, and
at the quickest typing rate
striving to cap cha dismal, gloomy,
and ill lust tree us deplorable mood aye e quate
with pitching into a bottomless abyss where pate
fed ceaseless diet of NON GMO –
a last repast the grim reaper did orchestrate
gluten free, an extra heavy dose
of monosodium gluti Nate
which ingredient doth BuzzFeed thine appetite
for total mortal exter minate
'thou no need fermi to rush,
where angels fear to tread, cuz but better late
than never, the apothegm, credo, ethos...Kate
(the caterer maintains an open exit from life,
and cares only that each soul doth feel elan,
joi de vivre, and psalm times
a leaper chants, ecstatically finally
gustatory humming dont jubilate
for your final homecoming, or else
the mailer daemon lived
a devilish life will instigate
a de coup age d'etat, but such extreme
measure for measure heed doth hate
yet exceptions always made for a date
particularly when henchmen to die for
golden opportunity
to snatch a generic guy a create
an underground soiree will cease,
when ashes master
of hell raising circumstances twill use as bait
let underground missionary be my advocate.
Form:
Every doorway is well lit yet barred and locked.
This is my dream body, it is chasing its twilit shadow
down blind alleyways
pausing only to heave breathlessly
as it comes to a stop
in yet another walled-off cul-de-sac.
Daylight couples slyly with moonlight,
it forms a vaporous union that creeps under skin,
We are two hands and a mouth,
weak hands scratching upon a lid of fear.
We call such mind-hauntings: nightmares,
yet they seem so very real
as we fretfully slumber -
then they chase us remorselessly
through our daily lives.
Why record such fantasies,
these myriad variations of horror?
Why relive the frights, the needling frets
of these subconscious ghost trains - images
that fly through all our darkly hidden spaces.
Perhaps only to share an elusive puzzle-picture,
to reach into other sequestered minds
that may experience the same
other-worldly hinterlands, the same fear-threads,
and there know we are crisscrossing
the same unidentifiable landscapes
all of us have created for ourselves.
I can hardly wait reading welter of books...
courtesy Karen Windle a gift horse
ponied up late afternoon May18th, 2020
over roan nay bore lee volition.
Unbeknownst how she raised (cane),
and loudly wrapped outside the door
every ounce of her eighty plus pounds
slip of elderly lady petite bow legged
spry late 60's though older looking gal
argh – I expect unpleasant fallout after
piercing eyes unexpectedly discover
references made regarding aged waif,
who inexplicably signalled presence
in toto i.e. presents to comprehend, a
bounty, nah, not worth causing mutiny
nevertheless heave on lee delight hup
pea zing helter skelter discombobulated
alienation courtesy coronavirus lockdown
concomitantly venues to borrow books
puts serious and perilous bind aggravated
assault upon cerebral cortex regarding a
forced hiatus deprivation to binge read
reduced to peruse the daily toilet paper
no stimulation for imagination to indulge
magical mystery tour thwarted helter skelter
ye silently ask rather infer "what me bored?"
Despite severely circumscribed choices
whiling away hours, who knows lockdown
courtesy coronavirus (COVID-19)
warrants near indefinite closure accessing
literary material buzzfeeding noggin,
an egg gone eye zing torture rankles
healthy predilection to binge osmotically
passion for written word all the while
authors unbeknownst evoke quintessential
pleasant provocation dredging up
10,000 leagues below the jewel bedecked
cease son bewitched (Alder time) tremendous
metaphorical pristine hinterlands
Matthew Scott's vernacular semantic
hodgepodge orientation withered away
figurative gripes wrath and rail against
series of unfortunate events ala defiant
Lemony Snicket, when despair plummeted
to all time low, who should unwittingly
telepathically hear plaintive SOS sent
none other than intrepid Karen Windle,
who's mysteriously rapping announced
dog send appearance bore deliverance
(cue Banjos), where ecstasy didst delve
where still waters run deep, nevertheless
welcome respite when printed material
weekly magazines offered scant respite.
Galloping within the nights of her innocence
he raced around the field fire chasing the heat of equine glee,
the horn of his head, a wizard's weapon and a witch's wish
with which a poison may be whimpered and youth enriched with longer laugh,
rose gold gilding on the supernatural spike ribboned with ribs of silver spells,
sensing the magic of her intuitive love the beast of God's bridge halts,
her eyes pretty in patient approach, his alert with admiring admonition,
they tresspass upon each other by exhalation of warm airy awe
whirling from their mouths, measuring the elation of frienship newly carved,
although invited to mount, the Maiden rubs her chin along his velvet nose,
fingers glide through the mane like breeze through willow branches, he huffs from joy,
in a gesture of supplication she kneels to the Unicorn's lead leg, one arm around
and a hand of healing pressed against his ripened chest, be restless and alone no more,
nibbling her ear in acceptence she giggles at the thought of adventure's anxiety,
leaping like an angel possessed with purpose for playful liaisons,
his back forming a saddle of supple security for her healthy frame, they join naturally,
she names him Azyerbel and he rears in rejoice at the grip of her knees,
riding into hinterlands of history unborn, they share courage known only to legends -
J.A.B. written in honor of, and for PD.'s Unicorn Birthday Contest 2012 -
Happy Birthday my Sphinx -