Long Hole in the sky Poems
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I find that if I cut a lens-size whole
in a cardboard box then place that box
over my head the stars
arrange themselves
into, not the named constellations,
but ordinary oddments once lost then found
and eventually junked.
I find that if I see a dead raccoon
on the road I will automatically
recite the El Maleh Rachamim,
(the Jewish prayer for the dead),
maybe it’s the pajamas they wear,
they only wear half-pajamas, but then
I am only half-Jewish.
I find that most concentration camps
are left open, and you never know
which abandoned factory once was one.
Finding stuff keeps my mind from wandering
just long enough to find a hole in the sky
where lost things have fallen through.
The wind blows your words to my deaf ears,
and I wonder,
where have you been all this while?
I grew up believing I slipped
through a hole in the sky
to trudge this sand.
My mates went to school,
but I stayed back, always waiting for bells to ring
and bring them back on pitch
to kick the round play joy.
My father debarred my scents
from seeping through his walls
because of his wife.
So I thought I was like our Saviour—
only that unlike Him, I have neither mother nor father.
I took to the street,
and it welcomed me.
It groomed me
and taught me how survival looks like.
I made it big through the backdoor.
But here you are,
telling me you are my mother.
From whence did I come—off the hole in your womb?
Mama… or mama-to-be…
please let me know.
Form:
Moonshot in the Spotlight Way gone jazz, tenor man, notes flying high like a moon shot, tearing the dusk apart and leaving a hole in the sky/
When you dug into his music, you didn’t listen with ears alone, you tunneled through color/ bright, brighter, brightest amber and emerald, electric blues and crimson sparks of colors that pulled you closer to Saint John Coltrane/
Man you felt his jazz pluse up and down your spine/ His horn shined in the club's spotlight, His body boppin' to the bands flo in time/ his every breath a comet, every note a constellation of peace and prayer/and the crowd moved as one, a living galaxy of listening to the way gone tenor mans lifes journey through his horn/
The drummers cymbals keep the groove and the bass player loosens the beat/ Man, It's the heavy gravity of the tenor man's sound that flips you on a hip trip/ The way gone jazz tenor man becomes a lighthouse in a sea of rhythm-N- Blues guiding souls through jazzy funky chords, and maybe even Bebop you can use/ In this night, the hole in the sky becomes a doorway, threshold where the ordinary jazz sheds its old clothes and becomes the new thing to behold/We step through, aligned with Trane's horn It's bright seam digging deeper to find that the way gone jazz tenor man's music wasn’t an escape from life but a ladder to something larger, braver, more true more real that will carry us home, closer to the divine, through sound. with jazz and Coltrane at the wheel for all time/
Did I hear you right in the noise high
you said to me with a deep conviction,
there’s a bright hole carved in the sky.
I asked you, is it not your imagination?
The pained years uncover on my sight
the full moon fixed on my gloomy sky
turning into a silvery hole in the night.
I didn’t ask my insipid intelligence why.
Did I see right in the deep darkness sly,
I said credibly to myself with assertion,
there’s a bright hole dug in the grim sky.
I didn’t ask myself, is it not frustration?
If in the night the full moon digs a hole
you find no pathway to the moon to walk,
you enter the tunnel imploring the soul
to take you out of the maze you’re stuck.
You said to me in sheer apprehension,
did you do it right in a lunatic confusion
to enter the hole, the mind out of action.
I asked you, is it not soul’s sublimation?
October 25, 2017.
THE SUNFLOWERS- With the morning sun on the rise, they slowly lift their heads and their petals of yellowish-gold spread smiling with the sun.
THE HOUSE- As a passer-by, sitting atop a hill all trim and newly touched with a brush, it's white and blue shutters swing to the light breeze as quiet sets the mood.
THE LAMP- On low-glow, dimness surrounds the light beige drapes and the leaves from the long-stemmed plant sag downward as if fireworks were falling.
THE HIGHCHAIR- The tray all covered with remnants of chocolate pudding and cookie crumbs sits empty and all alone in the corner...mom holds baby boy on her shoulder where he rests his head and sleeps
THE DOG- Sitting on the edge of a bay window quietly looking at the rain dropping, she sits with her eyes drooped and her head resting on her front paws.
THE SUN- As it rounds the world, hues of light and dark blues set the tones of dusk and dawn...birds, bees and butterfly's paint the skies.
THE OCEAN- A shoreline of white caps ripple while calm waters beyond views sailboats, seagulls, and spotty white fluffy clouds in the horizon
THE MOON- Surrounded by pinholes, the huge white hole in the sky brightens the paths through the forests and alleys where lovers hold hands and stare at falling stars
THE MOUNTAINS- Above the lake, their shadows mirror. Colors of brown, orange, red and green is center staged around the log cabin off to the left, to the right...a man and his son fishing from the dock.
Form:
Sorrow is the looming sadness
brought forth by the past
through a hole in the sky.
An image within an image.
A scene of a winter window
a young girl with pigtails peers
out of at nothing in particular
but the last hanging ice-sculpture
bowing the gutter above her.
Her eyes are glassy like that
lone remaining vestige of holiday
warmth and heavy like the gravity
wishing away all the promises made
to visit again and keep in touch;
the last gift to unwrap that
her mischievous orange-headed
cousin rips from her hands
and hides away to be discovered
some years later beneath the
stairwell under a calico-checkered
wool blanket, frayed, the day of her
mother’s funeral, with no
accompanying apologies made
as her soft hazel eyes slowly
fasten a river flush with sadness
for her young adult form, slender
and beautiful, to swim through
next summers and all the way
back to the house that stole her
mother beaten to death by the
cancerous sun, so she can
watch once more the icicles gather;
watch as they droop into puddles of
sorrow’s fulfilment drip upon drip.
A murky pond into which an orphan dives.
Blue Hole
Caught between a high and a low
Wild winds created
Sneer at my sunlit scenes
In surrender -
Begging to share luminosity nascent -
Slamming clouds together
In tight hollows
Where my interrupted dreams cower -
Unfinished ravished rainbows,
Stuck on jagged mocking torrents,
Find no escape to share
Their arching colors
In hallowed hues
No path to slide upon empyreans of illumination
Or slip through invisible’s elusive seam
Come then gone
In jeering contempt
Blue to azure sapphire atmosphere approaches,
Turquoise tamed in twilight,
Slow rending open a hidden wrinkle
Forming a wide womb
No black hole of taunting lamentations
Like a devouring apocalyptic apparition
Of scorching laughter
Only an ever widening
Hole on wings of blue with serene edges
Sweeping away unholy hollows
Beckoning wide eyes
Look up! Embrace sight
That rises up on eagle’s wings
Shaking off the sneering winds
And mocking torrent’s tantrums
Reside in aromatic views of valley’s paradise
Stretch into enigma’s rubric mystery
Come from nowhere to somewhere morning glory essence
Through my hallowed blue hole in the sky.
5-21-21
Contest: Blue Hole
Sponsor: Anthony Biaanco
"Novitiate"
Wading through
turgid mainstream
Novitiate makes her
way to the bottom rungs
of the Clean Team
Where dreams are
captured a.m. p.m. .
on the run with
weeping neutered minds
zero sublime
same old, same old
Asks herself,
“Where’s the substance?
Am I gormless too?”
rewards are Molasses,
Sugar Plums and
Glory, if that's you
It’s like dipping your spoon
in Alphabet Soup
re-arranging letters.
Shirley Temples with
no flaming
Bombe Alaska clue
pour the brandy,
light the flame.
Ignite something,
heart, mind or soul
covert intelligence
wonderful electric
minds pollinating
intellectual beehives,
"where's all the dripping
honey?"
Novitiate dreams
Go punch a hole in the sky
block all emotional rissoles
it’s not a question of
do or die
the Game is called
take-the-ride, at all times
avoid blood-sucking Vampires
Strict insects in an
ultra strict machine
watching their wings
flutter pretty, all beat
in time bang against
a silent wall
koutou three times
It aint about numbers baby
nor who’s who in the Zoo
it’s about writing your story
lock, stock and smoking barrel
keeping it true
Cover all mirrors
old is dead
born is new
Mornings rise with Sun
Fold your cards,
Hearts are trumps
Win-Win
what's done is done
time to de-robe and run, run, run
You're a novitiate skating
daily in your black
Nun's habit, it's way way
tragique, it's all a bit,
"La députée a raconté
une histoire très tragique",
find a new Boo.
Passports,
TRANSIT LOUNGE
Airport
Escape the Zoo.
Time to Do-the-Do
Novitiate throw
off your Black habit
Perfume
Rouge lipstick
New shoes
Yeah, put on your
Kavorka
New You
Double Deluxe Choc Chip
take the double cream
and cherry too.
Escaping the Zoo
True Romance.
OUR STORY
Me and You
(Lovejoy-Burton/2018 Jan)
"Temple of Love"/Johnny Hollow
https://youtu.be/p64wbdRBzjk
We are the nothing
We are the others, the never wills, the nothingness of death.
We are nothing, you are less; spineless, useless, worthless, blessed.
Burn it to the ground and ground it down;
I love falling apart in your arms.
Everyone is going around, falling down to the ground;
We feel like the world is coming to an end.
Burn it down, burn it down.
Everyone is an angel and everyone is a devil;
All we become is ashes and dust.
Bite the hand that feeds,
Down on your dirty knees;
Who are you that we should trust?
There is a great big hole in the sky;
I think it’s time to die.
There’s nothing left to do,
But suffer fools like you.
Something inside me burns with hate;
It is you I have to kill or save.
Clinical and cynical;
We are nothing to the grave.
We are the nothing inside of you,
We are the nothing that you breed.
We are nothing,
You are nothing;
You are nothing like me.
(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Form:
Morning wears dark clouds like veils.
They churn among themselves and drift to the west.
They drift as spirits above wooded hills surrounding me.
A bare field waits to be planted.
A hole in the sky glows with opaque light.
Standing alone, I wonder where it will take me.
Standing alone, I ponder about those at home and those who left.
Silence leaves me with echoes of my thoughts and reverberations
of heartbeat.
Dauntless hawks making circles ride air currents, going higher and
descending.
This morning soliloquy stirs beginnings of a poem.
Shadows of a well-lived life linger.
A well-lived life recalls others.