Long Hunched Poems
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God knows each heart that walks the streets, and then,
each sense of guilt caught up in false pretense.
How not to spend a tear at their expense
How do we not reflect what might have been
if circumstance had never been a friend?
If fate or chance might change the future, hence?
Their shoulders hunched, against cruel wind, intense.
Poor scavengers, who some call useless men
will migrate streets, in hopes for scraps of food.
A crumb, a nickel, dime, a place to find
A shelter dry, when frost of night is nigh.
And now I travel home, perhaps to brood
on cruelty of life that bodes unkind
to some. I cannot eat,...tonight I cry.
~
5/5/14
Miltonic Sonnet: For Contest
Resubmitted for Brian Strand's Contest: Mid August Premiere 8/11/18
I was scolding you
You were a 4-year-old
sitting in a big chair
at the dining room table
hunched over your copybook
the pencil in your hand
held straight, halting, looking lost
as you dragged the tip across the page
that has turned into a minefield
because one more misstep
another dot out of place
would set off a new explosion
projectiles masquerading as words
from the mouth of the preoccupied father
sitting next to you
not wanting to be sitting next to you
begrudging the time
Then I saw it
onto a blank spot on the page
a solitary teardrop lands
as if in slow motion
splatters
spreads
a translucent bloodstain on gauze
I don’t know if you remember it.
I certainly do.
Will.
Cease the moment and love unfolds
Stay within and time is still
A thousand swords swing against a single bladed spear
A surviving champion feared has the advantage
How long can his strength hold out
Slice and slash, lunge and pull a hundred dead before you
Shaky swords gleam in the scorching sun
You sweat but they bleed a hundred more fall
Like a haunting ballad of death, beauty in motion
a single soul as machine cuts and slaughters
a wall of human flesh the thirsty ground drinks blood
My enemies have come for my people
an invasion of a force too strong
Refusing to surrender, refusing to betray
a hundred more fall
Bewitched and stun are his foe
admiring his skill and technique
his will and his strength, raw courage
He fights for freedom of his people, for a love he never speaks
to a Queen he swears complete devotion
Down they fall a hundred here a hundred there
Around and around he swirls his mighty spear
the blade so sharp their blood so red
and again a hundred more are dead
How by heavens can he go on
The lord of his enemies lower his hand
two hundred archers shoot a shower of arrows
He swings high his bladed spear a hundred arrows
cut in half and a hundred foe shot down dead
A young princess in shiny armor aims her bow and shoots
her arrow pierces through his chest as he stops cold
Hunched over and held up by clinging to his grounded spear
Whats left of the swordsmen too afraid to approach
Amongst the circle of dead he lifts up his head
his life bleeding away, the mighty warrior screams out
My Queen lives, she is free and breathes his last breath
The princess in her armor of gold approaches him
across the field of death she reaches the mighty warrior
His head bowed his body stands, his hands death grip on his spear
His blood spilled onto the ground she knows he finally dies
My Lord, My Father he is dead, shall we feed his corspe to the dogs
No. He is honored by fire, burned onto a mountain of his
slain enemies, flames roar high, as his spirit ascends
into a realm of peace for a taste of Nirvana
2025.1.24
"Time flies when you are having fun"
Well, time has definitely flies in front of me.
It has been exactly one year,
Since we first met.
Amazingly, I still vividly remember how that day unfolded.
How we struck a beautiful friendship.
That Wednesday morning, I went to this place,
In a room, full of electronic equipments.
I scanned the L shaped benches.
You stood out in the crowd,
A light green khaki jacket, and a beanie on your head,
You hunched over your electronic device,
Which placed in front of a computer.
I clearly remember, how I started my first words.
"Excuse me sir, may I have this seat, please".
Quickly, you said "Of course, it is all yours".
You stood up and moved away from the swirlving chair.
I then realised, you had lot of belongings to pack.
I changed my mind and walked away.
Not before I said, "Don't worry about it.
You came first, you have the right to use it"
I did not know why, but at the time,
I felt I should be fair and act like a lady.
I left the place and back in another day.
Over the next six months.
We became two close friends.
We met everyday and evening, except Sunday.
In the same room and also at my private place.
One evening, during a casual chatting,
You told me, you also remembered our first meeting.
Of course, you should never forget,
Because you almost lost your seat,
If I had insisted taking it.
I shall never forget that day.
And all of those followed.
Time seemed to be in abundance; enough to chew and brew
Sleep, play or gossip; enough to spare despite all that we blew
Dreams, expectations, full of flurry; no tick to stir the blurry
Life discarded as wasteful worry; hurry, worry all went to bury
I the Master, I the Supreme; others, the ordinary got little attention
Times came and crept by slowly; learning shirked away at mention
Who cares, motto was straight; something will happen, why haste
We will surely learn as we grow; grew we sure, but in utter waste
Overtime, the uncared suddenly became important; time was short
With hunched shoulders I prayed for mercy; hoping for His support
Help! I shouted, but they laughed; I got no solace, calm or sleep
Fear, unknown, induced a maddening; my end seemed so cheap
Mercy, somehow was restored; zero, the ordinary I learned to ask for
Time, the industry & thrift; I learnt to strive for, not ignore anymore.
(This poem is a modified (couplet) version of an old poem titled 'Transcendence' which was in Free Verse form.)
He stared at the pictures,
faces of the love searchers,
twenty first century wanted posters,
scanning their rewards,
nothing pecuniary ,
preliminary,
maybe,
move on.
“Shall I advertise myself,” he thought,
no one appears sold or bought,
given to the mass,
on a screen of glass,
the physical hidden,
abrogate madness in description,
we are all still strangers,
with keyboards,
watching screens.
Laptop lap dance dreaming,
muscles screaming,
from the primal theatre,
soul said rise,
clearing eyes,
bleary plasma vision clearing,
fresh air endearing,
left behind the digital desert,
went out to speak,
parched vocal chords starved,
thirsting for voice.
No dust on the keyboard,
he moved away in dead skin’s storm,
hunched and wild,
hair hung lank and ragged,
bedraggled wardrobe on blood and bone’s frame,
almost lame he walks,
to the shower stalks,
water staving off the slaughter,
the hot water,
a dream of cascading falls,
at his feet the last days drowned,
washed to the sewer,
where screen days live,
blending easily;
with battered shopping trolleys & ****.
He dressed slowly,
went to his front door,
where the mirror smiled,
I remember you,
you once passed by often,
don’t be a stranger,
I’d rather see you leaving,
twisted contradictions of a mirror’s perspective,
not because you’re ugly,
because you’re beautiful,
and you shouldn’t be here with only me,
he laughed and said goodbye,
fresh air and light,
a missing intoxication,
he drank deeply;
walking to bid the strangers hello...
©David Nickle Read2015
All Rights Reserved By The Author
The rose, bright and red
watered and well fed,
she was the most brightest and alluring of them all,
she was someone by whom one would be enthralled,
Slowly the attention was drawn away,
And just like that the new attraction was kept at bay,
By the timeless beauty of the lily flower,
thus it became the superstar,
its unique palette intensified with the attention,
but the rose slowly started to cripple away, with no mention,
the piercing red started to dusk,
and so did its honey scented musk,
petals fell one by one,
the thorns was loved by none,
brittle and brittle to the bitter ignorance,
its life slowly being stolen away by the lily's brilliance,
the rose hunched and timid to the pain,
all it efforts to stand out turned out to be in vain,
oh, wouldn't it be booming bright,
if like the lily flower , it be kept in the light?
to the last calyx, it was slipping away,
crying and left alone throughout the day,
the lily flower stood proud and upright,
the once beautiful rose was also a good sight,
but the resilient rose refused to give up to the shun,
it took its chance one by one,
its roots gripped the soil harder with every bit of strength ,
and slowly the brittle flower started to length,
the water from the soil flowed slowly through its veins,
breaking from the comparing chains,
this time the flower was louder and stronger,
not by its beauty ,
but by its flourishing recovery,
it embraced its own light ,
in the everlasting bright meadows.
nestled in the lee of a thick flint wall
guys taut, grappling to hold firm
our canvas castle shook and shuddered
flimsy but somehow reassuring respite
as mountain giants prowled through the night
inside, hunched low over his stove
blue flames licking around the pan
Pops whistled a calming retort;
his gourmet dish to warm us up
bangers ‘n beans in a tin camp cup
we ate and we watched through the half closed flap
as lightning struck nearby -
so, while thunder grumbled at the drumming rain
(still in coats, with hats on heads)
we stretched out on our blow-up beds
father and son fishing had been the plan
on the shores of the lake that weekend
but different memories, caught by different lines
were shaped and set in that storm
as Pops read me ‘The Hobbit,’ all cosy snug and warm
Tall and narrow,
the houses stand,
wall against wall,
hunched together
on the edge of the
cobbled street,
as if armed against
the unknown.
Tiny balconies
Where laundry
Used hang on railings
To dry, now bursting
With potted plants
Walls bright yellows,
greens and blues,
stucco and stone
mortared together
hundreds of years ago
by stout men in
leather aprons
with the rudest of
implements,
they lean inward
over the street,
which once ran with mud,
the contents of
slop jars, and wash water.
Now teeming with tourists
who hobble on the cobbles,
peering into first floors,
converted into tiny shops
crammed with hats
and shirts and sandals,
soaps and wine and bracelets,
postcards and paintings,
candy and local delicasies.
Oldtown suddenly finds itself
squarely in the middle
off the twenty-first century.
“Speak from the heart”
What a load of crap
Cut straight to the point
did this all even matter?
From the start, the middle to that bitter-sweet end
A strange affair
A compilation of half-assed dates
Boring moments between two boring individuals
A couple of airheads
A blind trust formed by dimwits
Strangely normal, strangely plain
Formless wandering in a hollow husk
Dead, dirty skin flakes off my shoulders
Brain-dead is labeled across my head in bold
Casually tossing what remains out on the curb
I don’t seem to care
Remaining the same day by day;
“There’s always tomorrow,”
“I can’t reach the phone, try again tomorrow,”
“It will have to wait for tomorrow,”
“Today is not tomorrow.”
Monotony brought flowers to my door
You preached about Today when Tomorrow was yesterday
All those tears won’t get you anywhere
what made you sad, anyways?
Turning away from closed doors and shaken dreams
what were you fighting for, anyways?
There’s someone willing to bid a “Goodbye”
what are you waiting for, anyways?
It’s all so maddening, tumbling, waking, apologizing
Shaking my fists in anger
falling down a steep cliff
rising with the morning sun
crying on my knees
Was I ever prepared for walking this world alone; life is throwing a curveball and I’m no batter
Hunched over the bathroom sink, my eyes see something extraterrestrial
like a bad trip on drugs I can’t seem to break that nasty spell
Viewing life through a fish-eyed lens
the photo prints Hell
Oh, such a horrid sight but I can’t find the will to look away
Find a way to kill me
I can’t stand this any longer
Death is my only resolve
It’s all so maddening, tumbling, waking, apologizing
Shaking my fists in anger
falling down a steep cliff
rising with the morning sun
crying on my knees
Was I ever prepared for walking this world alone; life is throwing a curveball and I’m no batter
Hunched over the bathroom sink, my eyes see something extraterrestrial
like a bad trip on drugs I can’t seem to break that nasty spell
Viewing life through a fish-eyed lens
the photo prints dying
Oh, such a pleasant sight and I can’t find the will to look away
Find a way to kill me
I can’t stand the wait any longer
Death is my only resolve
When the clock strikes twelve
When the night is at its peak
When the dark has spread through the room
Striking down— a bullseye!