Long Inauspicious Poems
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In a small stretch of tempo, I forgot your fame.
In a small stretch of tempo, I forgot your name.
In a small stretch of tempo, I forgot about the inauspicious and piteous moths that were attracted to your irresistible flame.
In a small stretch of tempo, I forgot to abrogate your lovers game.
In a small stretch of tempo, in the delay of my deliberated falseness, in my delay of barefacedness, infused by fierce streams of atrocious schemes, and baleful dreams.
In a small stretch of tempo, I was captured by you.
In a small stretch of tempo, the old had no power to cut into the new, from a small sum of time you sieged my body, permeating it, filling up spaces, touching barren places, erupting bridled desires, causing seismic waves of pleasure with; intense and faultless measure. In your arms and while my head rested against the swell of your chest, I inhale voraciously the sweet smell of your beautiful sculpted body.
At rest in an intoxicated mindset, I felt abundantly content; a perfect segment from my antecedent shameless intent.
In a small stretch of tempo, like the break of day and a timely resurgence of a nimble mind I realized that through the dull substance of flesh and encephalon, I did not adequately measure the art of your scope. With newfound hope, and like the hands of a clock swiftly pasting the minutes across its face, I put my plans back into place
Looking At The Light From The Bottom Of The Lake, copyrighted 2017
I will imitate you if I want to, I say to the arrogant iceburg.
He sticks out his frosty tongue, and I show him the identical act.
You are an idiot he tells me, igniting my wrath.
No, I tell myself, I am immune to his irrevocable idiocy now.
I attempt to isolate myself from my feelings, inadvertently making them worse.
Iconic that he and I should be isolated in this territory.
An inauspicious attempt to reconcile us, by my family, I imagine.
I suddenly feel complete inanition; I am completely depleted.
Shall we continue this iterative dance, or find new partners? I ask him.
It is totally up to you, he says, so I give him one last kiss, and shove off.
Written: October 1st 2023
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In the ocean of silence, I’m stunned
Astonish by its grandeur as I descend.
A comely curtain of conciliatory calm
Elapse the chaos, surreptitious and warm.
In the hushed embrace of the twilight sky,
A silence plummets, ambrosial all nearby.
Astonied hearts stand in solicitous awe.
A comely night implies her ethereal flaw.
Emollient whispers waft into the air.
Surreptitious secrets are shared with care.
Incipient stars start their gentle wafture,
Surreal leaves create a ripple in nature.
Mellifluous melodies mend meteoric might,
Fugacious flimsies that fizzle out of a fight
Gossamer moonbeams cast their diaphanous glow,
Creating an aura of silence, tranquility, and bestow.
Ineffable fairness, fiercely feisty, not frigid,
The break of dawn silenced, as if timid.
Saturnine secrets shrank in secrecy.
Stupendous silence slides, sinewy spree.
Lull launders, looping the limp land,
As warblers start with a duteous band,
Sullen clouds gather, ominous and dark.
Yet awestruck hearts find solace in calm remarks.
Reassuringly, the heavy silence lingers.
Dour faces are glum, yet prudent fingers
Guide the oxymoron of emotions that flow,
Glowering and divine in their quiet glow
In the gloomy hush, discretion gleans hold,
As discerning minds decry peace in the fold,
The prudent ones, with a discreet glance,
Understand the power of silence dance.
Glum faces settle in quiet repose.
Views deepen, and worries dispose
Astounded by stillness, they are in awe.
Of absolute peace that stillness can draw.
Awestricken by the amorphous depth it brings,
They decry solace in the lull that silence sings.
A curtain of calm tumbles, amazed and serene.
As the amorphous depth of quiet is felt and seen.
Inauspicious cruxes balmily soothe fears.
As diaphanous whispers softly, quell tears.
Hinky hearts hearkens a hypothesis behind,
A voice uttered, "Love silence will never hide".
No query or qualm can squeal this bond.
Silence is where my peace is dulcet fond.
In the hushed embrace of the twilight sky,
Silence reigns, and my love will never die.
No! I Am Not Lying To You
No! I am not lying to you.
It seems Life’s turnings here and now contain
Inauspicious shapes of endless goings and comings;
It seems Life’s headwaters of the deep waxed well,
the great steward river, of cold sinew and intractability is
rushing backward through bloody tubes and rusty spires.
It seems Life’s dead people have arisen, unbeknownst
to the living, from astonished graves in gaping graveyards.
No! I am not lying to you.
There was a time indeed when a human person like me,
could calmly sit across from a human person like you,
and the both of us could pleasurably redeem the consuming time with
eyeful silences and poised stares containing muted determinations;
something like destiny showing up and knocking on the door,
saying: “your pizza is here,” and you open the door wearing only
stupid shades while reading with an ivory looking glass.
No! I am not lying to you.
There was a time when life was peacefully secure and placid,
back when the pleased and complacent skies seemed bluer,
safer than today’s chemical shroud impregnated by ejaculating jets,
35 thousand feet above the mad wasteland of spiritual coma;
The pulling dying aimless road to wherever your body is traveling to,
Is now a long coursing road paved with the fallow stones of fear.
These bloody sunsets have a raspy roar heard only in the death pits,
The final hors d'oeuvres served with croutons and screaming dramas;
There is now no turning down the forgotten deserted side streets,
hidden by shady oleander trees wearing bonnets of poisonous fire.
No! I am not lying to you.
Jesse Forbes
1893 – 1911
Black Canyon.
Now, there was a place to be!
It is true I was born a brute in a Quaker Town.
Born a bad-tempered brute of a boy
In the two-room digs on Bailey Street and Comstock..
My father fathered two other families,
Unbeknownst to his wife..
And I was the first one disowned.
But my father was a great believer,
And I loved the man like a fool.
I took up the milkin’ business at fourteen,
And made my morning way from Orange Drive down to Penn Street.
Delivering the dozens of clinking milk bottles.
Delivering the dozens of morning salutations,
To neighbors and friends in the glad and dismal days.
I had but one romantic interlude in my short stay,
Just one futile attempt at Carpe Diem.
But was left slapped and standing by a disheveled Ethel Hurst
There in the dark shade of Black Canyon
That inauspicious August day in 1910.
Ethel Hurst did not accept the entreaties of a 17 year old brute.
Did not accept my wild stares
Or my insanely puckered lips.
It was to my surprise that I died.
Died so young and so unready.
Still desiring the perfumed kisses of Ethel Hurst,
Still desiring her heart-quenching embraces,
There, in the dark shade of Black Canyon.
The year was sixteen-sixty-four
A comet crossed the sky,
And Londoners looked on in fear
Convinced the end was nigh.
The streets which once were paved with gold
Were now awash with waste.
A swarm of flies and scourge of rats
Foretold the death they faced.
And so it was that London town
Was struck down by the plague,
And corpse on corpse, wife, husband,child,
Were taken to their grave.
Deep in the dales of Derbyshire
A peaceful village lay,
Until a bale of cloth arrived
That inauspicious day.
A bale of flea-infested cloth
Hung by the hearth to dry,
Which stirred the soporific fleas
And roused the plague thereby.
The tailor's poor assistant died
A death of searing pain,
And pestilence intensified
Its unrelenting reign.
As many planned to leave their homes
The vicar intervened
Declaring that instead of flight
They should be quarantined.
'Dear flock of Eyam, sacrifice
Not self must be our plan,
For once enclosed we'll suffer but
Set free our fellow man.'
Within the space of just one month
So many perished there.
The smell of sadness and of death
Ingrained the putrid air.
The years have passed,the plague long gone
But graves still tell the tale
Of how their sacrifice and strength
Meant others could prevail.
13.02.20
Let The Pens Flow - Narrative Poetry Contest : sponsored by Jenish Somadas
N/A
A Historic Event Poetry Contest - William Kekaula
NOTE:
On 1 November 1666 farm worker Abraham Morten gasped his final breath - the last of 260 people to die from bubonic plague in the remote Derbyshire village of Eyam. Their fate had been sealed four months earlier when, after the onset of the plague from flea-infested cloth from London, the entire village made the remarkable decision to quarantine itself in an heroic attempt to halt the spread of the Great Plague.
In this beautiful place of worship, the pews are padded but uncomfortable, the sanctuary large, candle lit and cold.
There's a huge glass dome and I can see the stars. Are the stars our fiery heaven??
No, I don't think the stars care about us - they don't burn with affection or passion. And if the stars weren't there we could live with an empty sky.
The Greeks would call our star, the Sun, to perform their acts of God. I imagine most of their prayers went unanswered - not unlike our own??
To me, the whole Jesus story is somewhat sinister and inauspicious, but if Jesus, the son of God, and that whole story were the deepest, truest reality - then why hasn't Jesus returned??
**Imagining heaven's father and son dialog**
God: "Ok, Jesus, time to go back.."
Jesus: "Go back... go back?? Daaaaad... Did you see what they DID to me? Nailed me to a cross! Screw them, there's no way I'm going back. Why don’t you try going back, as an ordinary man - maybe they’ll set you on fire.”
These 20 millennium old bible stories aren't exactly Euclid's logical system.... I mean, the various books aren't even *consistent*. Are these really, I mean really our beliefs? Or are they just kind of *traditions* and good rules to live by?
My parents - unlikely pilgrims of the intoxicating poetry of belief - face front and appear to be listening... in all other things they're so *skeptical* - it's a puzzle.
If Jesus did come back, wouldn't he practically be a caveman surrounded by bewildering technology?
I'm sorry, there's something too rich in creation for these rehearsed responses and fairy-tale fragments from a primitive world to be the answer.
Now I'm not saying there is no God or no life after death.. I.. just..
*hopeless shrug*
So, anyway - I go through the motions, I chant the litanies with the enthusiasm of obedience; just storing up my spiritual loot and hiding my questioning, heathen heart.
Happy Easter Everyone!
Hollow morning,
unsweetened coffee,
words with
a meaningless cord
hanging in an empty room.
Monotonous days where
hope is thinning
leading joy to depart
to create a loner
who lives in a crowd.
Running,
becoming a machine
as a reader of palms
forecasted
doomsday early.
A smile is here
hiding the rage,
not belonging
still imprinted
on every cage.
Life is hard
for a bad actor,
masks if removed,
own reflection
will be frightened.
In broad daylight
a facade is going on,
a genuine picture
if captured
must be dusk hours.
Insomniac at night
to recover fully,
some moments to cherish
after a whole day
walking like dead.
Birds chirping,
their lies
are therapy,
an owl sits in silence
labelled inauspicious.
Music is playing
with all wrong chords
one who is
blessed with ignorance
dancing still.
In oblivion
become omniscient,
to understand is
bringing a slow death
and remembered as 'a retard'.
Shyness, more than usual, had been my core kryptonite!
Innocent me! Like a panda bear, in my boyhood! Bright!
Girlish, the grown-ups crowned me! An inauspicious floret!
Praying: May boldness breathes in me by the Holy Spirit!!
Youthfulness, like a peacock, expressed blissful boyishness!
Cherished, as in a colorful garden, in joyousness!
There entered, as though foul eagles, the puritan grown-ups!
Blowing up every flaw of mine in colorful close-ups!!
Then, the kryptonite of my unwillingness to marry!
As I felt, I need not have heavy burdens to carry!
There crept in, the vultures, questioning my male potency!
Laughed! Abandoned me at the hands of divine destiny!!
A fallacy, like an unknown big bug, entered my brain!
Or a mess, hell-like, hidden by grown-ups, for greater gain!
Link of truth, broken betwixt my, fantasies and person!
Or elements, like messy knots, leading me to treason...!!
All these kryptonite, were not like black kraits, life-consuming!
But something unknown went within me was very glooming!
Though the meaning of life, like permanent flowers, blooming!
Dejections... despairs..., day after day, dignity dooming!!
Heavy drinking, nay, my drunkenness, lo, held its head high!
Like a fallen man’s land-hit-head, looking up to the sky!
Friends, angels of greed, no gain from me, left far from my sight!
Alcoholism, though an excuse, became my kryptonite!
07 October 2021
YOUR KRYPTONITE Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anthony Biaanco
All night I travel, in a dream…
asleep since midnight - plus sixteen.
A ghost train’s whistle, softly drawn
through orange-black at cusp of dawn.
The phantom locomotive chugs
with each and every stroke,
then crests the hill, going faster still,
churning out black ash and smoke.
From this smoke cloud falls a raindrop
though some might disagree,
say it’s called a devil’s teardrop,
but knowing which is key.
The truth is somehow mottled
and can scarcely be explained,
there’s no hand upon the throttle
nor conductor on the train.
Passing by a murky cornfield
where it seems we’ve been deceived,
witnessed by a tattered scarecrow
who will never be believed.
The fog hangs inauspicious,
while the dark clouds tell a tale,
of the shadow’s superstitious
witch’s moon on endless rail…