Long Incinerated Poems
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Ethel Hurst
1889 – 1918
I saw the town rise up
Like a single blade of grass after a spring rain.
I played a multitude of hop-scotch games
With my best friend Hannah on Penn Street.
And sipped a hundred ice cream sodas in the Mercantile at sunset.
My mother took me to Jacob’s Grocery every Monday
And it was I who picked the plump oranges
From the big rickety crate.
On Saturdays we worked the fields at Strong’s Ranch,
Harvesting the pampas in the walnut fields.
And on Halloween I was the girl in the moon-face costume for five straight years.
When Christmas brought its luminous lights to the town,
Mother dressed me in red with a bell on my bonnet.
And father sang the carols with a guitar and a tambourine.
I graduated from the big high school in 1907
And in celebration,
Rode my bicycle to Bassett
Still in my starched graduation petticoats.
Jesse Forbes,
He being five years younger than I,
Was the love of my brief stay on this earth.
But when he ventured to steal a kiss that day in Black Canyon,
I used my calloused hand to convey my stern disagreement.
But what wild regrets I’ve entertained since Jesse drowned that day.
In the wild currents by Pio Pico’s crumbling Adobe,
His body bobbing like a sea bird
In the punishing plume of that old deep river.
Beyond the muddy banks and the wild flowers,
Jesse Forbes left this life with a surprised frozen grin.
Why Jesse? Why?
You never knew the truth, my love.
You never really understood what I meant
When I said nothing.
I said No to you when I said nothing that day in Black Canyon,
But I really meant Yes.
The influenza incinerated my heart and soul
With a 106 temperature in the winter of 1918.
Twenty nine years I dare say
Is nothing in terms of eternal life!
I had so much more to do!
I had so much more to dream about!
I walked and talked on the streets of my town,
And on the funeral-dark avenues of my innocent days.
And I planned and I schemed
And all for nothing!.
Indeed, I felt the pulse of fleeting time
And the never-ending,
Ever-turning circle of endless days.
But now I rest here in Clark Cemetery… a virgin corpse
Flirting shamelessly with the bow-tie worms,
Still wild with regrets.
And forever haunted in reverse
By the same recurring memory
Of Jesse Forbes holding a rose.
Under the old oak tree in Black Canyon..
The people were infected,
With planet playing Doom,
When soul, by truth protected
Appeared within the room.
From center of infection
Arose the sulfur fumes
That were the interaction
Of darkness and the room.
Some wondered whom to murder,
Others what to consume.
That seemed to be the order
When light came in the room.
It came like an eruption,
Volcano sending plumes -
An uncouth interruption
To business in the room.
It came like Holy Fire,
Dispelling all the gloom -
Mind, powered with desire,
Setting alight the room.
The fire reaching the clouds -
Like, for the bride, the groom -
Incinerated doubts
And darkness in the room.
Descartes, Hobbes, Aristotle,
Kant, Philo, Freud and Hume
Were quite completely totalled
When light came in the room.
"What was the consummation?"
"Well, what did you assume?"
Momentous conflagration
When light came in the room.
However dour the night is,
The beauty will resume
When in the midst of darkness
The sun enters the room.
And we of soul and matter
Will bring the world to bloom -
The cockroaches all scatter
When light is in the room.
3/25/01
FUTILITY FOCUSED
On unimportance
Perfection is put off
Till tomorrow
4/3/01
these shelves
have been emptied out
memories of a love
incinerated
all past tenses
blank name tag,
blank face serves
as testimonial
loneliness
****
On a personal note 4/10/01 my first birthday out of prison and my dreams are being realized…
Furthermore I have completed my first painting and have plans for two more my life as an artist is beginning to flourish and my hard work is starting to pay off and the lone thought resonates…
Praise God!
Two poems for mom---01
[snakeskin/ picture of fall]
Mother
As ancient time is not anxious
Of humanities youthful squabbling
You permitted my discourse
Allowing for the conclusion
(Mothers are wonderful in that way)
all the while operating
under the assumption
that serpents molt and
trees shed leaves to grow
Hermit
How many shells
Has this hermit
Discarded?
Growth is deemed necessity
And the shells,
Of who I used to be
Litter the beach behind me.
4/15/01
Lean
Lovers
Hover
Close to each other
While I have grown fat
And my Coffee time-thick
The complements we have are each other
Pine needles whir
Like birds in a thistle
Words flow from my tongue
Like the whir of a whistle
Porch side
Pool table
Reminiscence
Slightly awakened
With spring warming
My essence
Cool wind
Blowing white caps
On my skin
Ten thirty
Two coffees
Sundays about to begin
A beautiful princess lived her entire life locked into a dark dank tower.
What she had done wrong to earn this horrible bleak existence?
She dreamed that she would become a warrior and release herself.
Patricia loved her armor made of copper, bronze. Her sword was magic.
She used her sword like a wand, waved it over her oppressor’s head.
Her head popped off and rolled down all the stairs to this tower.
The oppressor was her grandmother, who never showed her true form.
In reality, the hag was an evil witch, who had stolen Patricia as a baby.
But I am getting behind myself, so I shall slow the story down a bit.
This is the prerogative of the story-teller, right? Smirk and smile here.
One day a battle raged under the tower; two armies, slewing each other.
Slashing and gnashing, Patricia watched it all, fascinated and excited.
“Bring that trampoline a bit closer,” she yelled to the red army.
They ignored her, she was but a woman after all, not worth their trouble.
A dragon from the yellow army flew up to the tower.
He let Patricia climb on his scaly bumpy broad back.
She was inches from the window sill when grandmother grabbed her foot.
the resourceful dragon turned and incinerated her grandmother.
Patricia felt a teensy bit guilty, but dragon gave her a wink, and off they flew.
Together these two lived happily ever after, and Patricia became a warrior.
Buried in an avalanche you
might see on "Hoarders buried alive"
back and foreground
white sheet with limited pay per view,
nonetheless sky scraping heap
(Uriah not kid) nsync with a 'U'-
shaped tube anchored securely thru
solid wood - sporting
towering, leaning, bulging, et cetera slew,
sans huge sized mounds,
this goodfella cockily rue
stirs memories while
almond joying sifting,
(comprising ream mains of outdated queue
vee cee paraphernalia, bank statements, old
fair maidens faded letters, phew
against unrequited lovely lasses
kissed by either gentile or Jew
us gal, during young manhood
confession stated, aye did accrue
now (said besmirched Casanova
wannabe across floor I did strew
said, no longer promising princess,
whose once tenderly fresh rose buds
exuded profusely courtesy ingénue
argh..., how frivolous to argue
with cowardly former self, hence
into the maw of das spouse (Sibyl)
she more than enthusiastically
masticates regarding unblossomed
(romantic opportunity) yours truly blew,
when flickr ring spark flame snuffed out
before profound love chanced to hint
of compatibility, ah... nary a blues clue
maybe best not to fantasize
going down nostalgia avenue,
but cast attention upon motley crew,
no matter I traversed
boulevard of broken dreams
(but oh this...pray lemme tell you
more on this cool spring green day)
ornamented with boughs of churrigueresque
mother nature's divinely wrought
sensational beauty procreative forces construe,
yanking fanciful thoughts back to feeding
pulpy material pages of me child's worldview
scribbled squiggly blurred lines
no doubt gifted artistic prodigies shew
did evince talent this papa doth truly value,
yet an excess of near identical curlique
leaves little breathing room, plus report
cards shows innovative smarts,
frequent affirmations this dada paid due
tee, which gushing praise
my girls never taxed for, yet both knew
this aging baby boomer father decries
being swamped with exorbitant clutter
hence effort now made to save whar grew,
some artistic embellishment and/or
intellectual award, the majority hesitantly fed
into jaw of thee missus the human flew
where hard copy quickly incinerated inducing
me to sneeze atchew!
I walked on the garden path,
young heart pulsating
with the cadence of love,
fostered dream of permanence
in the transient world
for being loved and possessed forever.
Times turned into an inferno,
my dreams went up in smoke,
blew away the incinerated mind,
a dislodged withered ashen leaf,
disappearing silently undiscerned,
like a drop of uncared tear.
In the ravaged desolate garden
trampling the razed flowers
in the summer of discontent,
I walked a lonely journey
with the smoldered yearning,
buried within mind’s ash debris.
That’s when searching the soul
I discovered the inner divine light,
revealing the real sense of belonging,
defined the heavenly purpose of being,
and by the grace of God I found
the devout course of life so beautiful.
__________________
January 21, 2022
Title Chosen : Up In Smoke
Contest : This Or That, Vol 9
Sponsor : Edward Ibeh
A slack jawed drunk
thugs his way toward
a down-town bar and grill.
Red lights over sizzling steaks
add flames to his eyes.
Cincinnati on a Sunday morning
trashes its streets
cold winds scatter empty plastic cups,
cigarette butts, sick spills
and the ash of incinerated dinoursours.
Once there were rattle snakes,
now high-rise
mark their once tunneled territory.
The drunk can't find the door
to the bar
he pisses himself
grins through a window
at the beer guzzling diners.
Happy hour
drags itself
through the night,
the Sabbath has to be swept up
made to walk sober,
resurrected.
FINALE
last cut of autumn
emerald smell pervades air
lawn-mower silent
LITTER
dead leaves on the ground
fine garden bonfire pending
incinerated
PATIENCE
daffodils planted
spring border waiting to bloom
yellow dreams silent
BREEZE
lively autumn breeze
blows summer quickly away
breathing pure fresh air
FLAMBOYANT
Indian summer
flamboyant shades golden glow
incomparable
DECAY
slight smell of autumn
hinting at nature's demise
garden bonfires spark
Free Clker image
Johnny W. Barrow
1890-1914
I was appalled!
Appalled and flabbergasted indeed!
Indeed, when I heard in 1912,
Heard that which I did not comprehend
Heard that which was absolutely impossible
Heard that which was absolutely improbable!
I wept, wept as Christ wept,
That night in April, long ago,
In the dark gray garden under the olives there,
Under the silent screaming stars there,
That night in April
When the invincible, the seemingly unsinkable happened.
I too was like him.
The whole world was my oyster!
The universe was at my calm command!
Nothing could destroy me!
Nothing could defeat me!
Nothing could slow me down!
Then, as with that impossible sinking,
That impossible undoing,
I too descended to the dark depths
Here in Mt. Olive Cemetery.
Not even the ice bags bestowed upon my chest
Not even the desperate prayers
Said in faithful earnest on my behalf
Could reduce the flaming fiery fever
That incinerated my heart, mind and soul.
One moment he was alive; the next he was dead
Gunned down midst a gang war, a bullet in his head
No motive whatsoever, nor rhyme nor reason at all
Only alienation and desperation casting their dark pall
Over an act so unspeakably wanton and cruel
It incinerated once and forever all Laws and Rules---
Society's fabric pierced, penetrated, shattered and rent
As mourners paid clumsy tributes, broke down and went
Home to a future that now felt so grim and so bleak
A Future of ambulances clanging and sirens' shrieks
A Future here Now on countless sidewalks of slums
Where murder's a hero, law and order a bum