Long Inky black Poems
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An unkempt man approached me one dark evening
'In pursuit', he said, 'of a favour'
'A drink' he explained, but I was unsure of his meaning
When he specified it should be of a refined yet peculiar flavour
Then as he percieved I was not repelled, he moved nearer to enhance his rapport
Until in the light of a streetlamp I could see the bottle he held
And I wondered what fate had in store
It was clear now he was dressed in strange clothing
Of a style that one rarely meets
Except for perhaps if roving, in a town of Dickensian streets
I failed not to judge as I leaned closer to hear just what he might suggest
I thought 'how gracious of me to humour this poseur
In his pale make-up, black bowler and velvet overvest'
On the bottle he held his black fingernails drummed
They were varnished as per his morbid fashion
And in his throat the tune he hummed
Spoke of past revels and passion
Until at last had mustered his confidence and a pleasing tone
In which he proceeded to intimate his desire
That alas, he possessed no blood he could call his own, so therefore he was forced to enquire
As to the possibility of a small donation, it would not take much time just a tick
The procedure requiring just two things worthy of mention
Those being a vein and a slit
Of course I recoiled aghast, and vainly attempted to call
As I found I could not make a sound
Then it was only when my head lolled down that I saw
His feet hovering an inch from the ground
I was unable to engage any muscles as a fingernail pierced my left wrist
Or when he filled his bottle with a pint of my best red corpuscles
Then pocketed it with a hiss
He said he could see why he might be reviled
For the comtempt he had treated me with
Then he parted his lips and smiled
To allude to the fiendish alternative
It was a smile of rapacious appearance, that made my heart shiver and shudder
For as anyone could tell from even that quick glance
His smile was a smile like no other
Then with a doff a wink and a smirk
He smoothly departed our puddle of light
And melting into the inky black murk
He receded into the night
Now whenever I am about after dark
I determine to not be so too late
And ever since that experience left it's cruel mark
I portage garlic cloves, holy water and a stake
When I think of what to write
often the ocean comes to mind
Endless sea of pretty blue
and stretched out horizon lines,
impossibly flat
Yet when I actually arrive
it isn't the sea that my eyes
take a liking too
Rather it's just below the waves
my mind does go...
...to the little trinkets
beside my toes
Fossils of sea creatures,
alive one - and now, even in death -
you can see the beauty of their features
Seashells of every shape and hue
(even if they're familiar,
somehow they're always new)
Some are inky black or cobalt blue,
creamy whites and nutty browns
(pretty oranges, too!)
Some are hefty like a throwing stone,
others quite miniscule,
blending in with the sand
Some are fragile -breaking easier
than the waves-
others are like a hardened sunrise
Their well defined rays,
my fingers always finds themselves,
unbidden as an eye-blink
(as unthinking as a smile)
I like the clanky sound they make
when lightly shook in a mason jar
I shake them like dice in cupped hands
(loaded, in my case...
I don't gamble with a good time)
Yeah, when it comes to the beach
I'm like a kid at a candy store
My treats aren't in bins,
but glisten on the sandy shore
I scoop them in my hands,
still wet with the sea
Stick them in my pockets,
if the case need be
(and you know it always does
if I'm being honest)
Where it gets me, I don't know,
but, please,
just one more keepsake!
(this simple joy I try to harness)
I pick up a second then a third
while still admiring the first
A dozen or two, is only of mild concern
(a wagon-full is even worse)
Yes
It is an obsession through and through
I could be just as happy with one
as with a thousand
(maybe happiness isn't something
you can attach a number too)
And I don't know why I do it,
treasure to me (but not for thee)
And even rarity isn't an excuse
You can pick them up by the shovel,
they aren't difficult to find
You can count a hundred alone
within arms reach
(maybe joy doesn't have to be rare,
but can be as common as clouds...
maybe it's not something "out there",
but somewhere near,
even to the ground)
Near as an object
lying beside your feet
Near as a thought that came to you...
...while walking on the beach
The Generation Gap
The fragile, flawless ice encased
the crumbling soil below
And with it brought bitter winter’s taste –
the seed that wouldn’t grow.
Many a foggy year ago,
the father had bought the plant
Had carried it, through the ice and snow,
to his little son’s wish, grant.
Once again, the son was staring, eyes hollow,
at the seed that could not be a winner,
Wondering if fruitless years would follow –
when his dad called him to dinner.
The father nodded at his presence,
hen lowered his head at the thing
Staring at the lifeless, immobile pleasance
ike a puppet on ends of a string.
Email after email - would the work never end?
His fingers flew across the screen.
At least the son’s phone would make up –
material had to be the dream of every teen.
The son accidentally brushed the screen
and rock music exploded resounding
The dad jumped and yelled at the opposite teen
of the terribly insistent pounding.
The teen shouted horribly red-faced
that it was most heartbreakingly sad
That the rule he’d once taught - don’t work while you eat –
was forgotten by his dad.
The silence that hung impenetrable in the air
was broken by the sharp creak of chairs
As they were pushed back by the pair –
then the loud pound of feet on the stairs.
The dad shut himself into his room,
sucked in a lungful of air
Then lay down in the musty gloom
to, at his long-gone father’s photo, stare.
His young father winked at him through the glass,
a poster of James Dean on the wall
With a jolt he recalled that in the past
his father had loved James Dean’s bawl.
But then came the time when he grew mad
and screamed and yelled at stars
His father had then, disgusted, said,
that they should be put behind bars.
He stared off into the distant past,
staring at but not seeing the ceiling
Then drifted into determined dreams at last,
strong stirring emotions, feeling.
While the son gazed at a long-taken photo,
at the grinning father and son
Hand in hand and holding their motto –
“Our undying love makes us one”.
And he stared off into the inky black
at the far wall of his room
His heart seemed to jolt, and then to crack
as drops on his cheeks began to bloom.
He was once again gazing at the stubborn seed
when he was called for dinner, to eat
Form:
She senses before she sees
The manicured nails - the elegant fingers
Holding out the hundred dollar bills - enticingly - so temptingly
A generous nights takings of busking here
In one proffered hand
She grabs at it petrified it might be an illusion
Evaporating in a puff of smoke
Fingers hold it back, teasingly
Compelling eye contact
She looks up sceptically
Dark eyes meet her aqua blues, sparking a sort of affinity
‘Eyes are the window of one’s soul’- so it is said in all sincerity
But the magnetic dark eyes of her enticer are fathomless in their intensity
His type she has encountered before - money for favours
Well she is no novice - a living after all - a girl has to make
And his generous offer rivals his devilish good looks
But she senses a darkness favouring the energy emanating
A cold shiver runs through her veins like someone just walked on her grave
Fear ripples down her spine akin to a stroking finger chilled in ice
The spell he casts foreboding
The calmness of the night has taken flight
In its haste to set the macabre scene
Mesmerising are the eyes that bore into hers
Projected thoughts furtively slip into her mind
Infiltrating it like a slithery snake
Bringing with it forbidden thoughts of desire
She falls into the inky black abyss
Succumbing to heady dark passionate conceptualization
However the chilling message is coherent
This is not a mere opportunistic one night stand
That he desires
This is more - so much more
This is taboo concupiscence unleashed
This is her life in exchange for what?
Her life for immortality?
Surely not!
Yet his eyes eloquently convey it all
The hunger so unconcealed - so transparently flagrant
To yield to darkness
Satisfying his appetite for
Death of a different nature?
Obliteration of life as she knows it to be
Tenebrous Immortality in exchange for her blood
A prelude to his finale of taking her soul
And then a metamorphosis
From Prey to Predator
Video clip -
Like a Vampire- Catrien Maxwell
I love it when Lisa and I take our show out and, on the road,
like this twilight helicopter flight, from New Haven to LaGuardia.
I’m so excited about tonight, it’s possible that I might implode.
The rotor blades started twirling, our luggage had been stowed,
the pilot asked Lisa. “Ready for takeoff?” Lisa grinned and said, “Go!”
He gave her a quick and crisp salute and the engine noise started to grow.
As we went wheels-up, the whirly-birds warning lights began to strobe.
Yep, It’s the start of November recess and we’re changing our zip code.
We rise like a balloon, at first, until the harbor comes into view.
The engines were screaming like jets, when the whole world turned askew,
I’ve done numerous take-offs like this, but it still feels like I might spew.
Above the rear cockpit window, there’s an air-speed indicator that looks like a clock.
With a quick turn over Yale’s campus, we’re going 90 as we steak over the docks.
As we ascend into the night, the twinkling lights of New Haven seem to shrink.
We’re swiftly gaining altitude, this quivering contraption, moves faster than you’d think.
As the red numbers settle at 260, the vibrations have all but ceased,
The engine noise is gone as well, as we race up, in the darkness and out over the sea.
I try not to think of the inky black water, how far we would fall and how quickly we’d sink.
Long Island Sound glittered, like fractured glass, under the waxing crescent moon.
The forever-blue sky was hosting a large, fake-star, because Venus was glowing there too.
That dark almost-orbit was prettier than the infinity-of-lights we’ll see on Park Avenue.
We’ll be meeting Peter’s flight from Geneva - a surprise - he doesn’t have a clue.
As the lights of New York become pronounced, so does my excitement that he’ll be around.
I’m sure we’ll get a moment of quiet intimacy at the LaGuardia international arrivals lounge.
I look out my window,
And I see the sunset.
God it feels like forever,
Since I’ve last seen one as beautiful.
I look out at the deep shades of crimson,
And yellow, more gold than yellow actually.
All the colors fading into the lightest of blues,
Fading into the never-ending sky.
Rising up against that sunset is the mountains.
I grew up in these mountains and hills.
I’ve hiked them,
And at the top have seen spectacular sights.
Down below those mountains are the valleys
Deep and wide they stretch across the earth,
Like a blanket,
Keeping the earth warm.
Blankets of green and many colors.
A great contrast to the mountains above them,
Which portray that wonderful deep green color,
That attracts the wandering eye in wonder.
In those valleys lie rivers, deep and cool.
The deep blue and dirty green of them,
Attracting one to jump deep into their depths,
So you can feel the way the water surrounds your body,
Swimming holes are full of people,
Crowded with bodies all enjoying the warm summer evening.
Children laughing, their parents chatting,
All enjoying this wondrous night.
I cannot see this all from my spot at my window,
But I feel it in my heart that they are all there,
Enjoying the sunset as much as I am,
Watching the sun sink down.
Then they will all get into their cars,
And drive away leaving the water to become still.
And I will turn away from my window,
And hope tomorrow’s will be just as good.
And the sky turns inky black,
Against the dark sky is the bright stars shining,
Shining so brightly,
That with the moons help they light up the night.
And they will shine,
Until the sun comes up again,
And I will once again sit at my window,
And watch the sunrise settle into place.
With its lighter colors,
Fading upward against the just lightening sky,
Where the new day begins,
And a new sunset waits to be seen.
A pair of blue wings is hovering
against the inky black covering
within ‘Little Fox’ constellation
of Vulpecula designation,
portrayed with stipple sidereal
in Hubble image ethereal,
‘Hen two dash four three seven’ labeled.
A hen with fox is Aesop fabled,
except it was really a crow
in that apologue still apropos
where pride overcame the bird’s good sense,
so fox got the food through the pretense
of disparaging its corvine caw;
thus the crow dropped the cheese from its jaw.
There are many stories much the same.
In Middle Ages the bird became
chanticleer; Chaucer’s ‘Canterbury
Tales’ has one that warns to be wary
of flattery false and specious praise,
since fox on inflated ego plays
with rooster to hear his special cry,
hence to distract and snatch him thereby.
Yet fox falls prey to his own conceit,
and chanticleer flees to tree retreat.
But coming back to high-flying hen
which Hubble’s scope brought within our ken,
this nebula with glowing surround
was by stargazer Minkowski found
then by Henize later catalogued
as nebula with the name befogged
in misleading term planetary,
for that title is quite contrary
to remnant of an imploded star,
which is indeed what those objects are.
As shown by the wings, it’s bipolar,
cast off from a star like ours solar
which nearing end of its astral span
swelled to red giant’s flash in the pan
then sent forth its layers into space,
as a white dwarf for core took its place…
And yet my inspiration’s essence
came from the alae’s luminescence
seen in this vast stelliferous sight
against the canvas of cosmic night.
Still, one might fancy those whizzing wings
borne by empyreal bird that sings
melodies wafted amidst the spheres
only a starry-eyed poet hears.
~ Harley White
* * * * * * * * *
The image and info can be found by looking up Hen 2-437 on the net.
It was my first journey by train all alone. When dropped at the station by my cousin, I saw a huge crowd waiting at the station. Like a drop in the ocean, I quickly merged with the crowd, and patiently waited for the arrival of the train.
Soon came the grating voice of the loudspeaker, “The Rajadhani Express from Delhi to Trivandrum scheduled to leave the station by 9 pm would be late by one hour’!
I went cold at the thought of another long wait in the sweltering heat of a summer night. Amid an undulating mass and deafening holler and roar, it would be hell tied there for one more hour.
The cry of babies fell in my ears like the squeal of piglets. Youngsters busied themselves on their cell phones, sending missives to their loved ones or chatting with their pals. I sat away secluded, inhaling the soot and the dust, and looking vacantly at the curl of smoke from the grumpy looking man’s cigar sitting opposite to me lazily. When his red falcon eyes fell on me, I withdrew more into cover, regretting once more, being a woman! Drawing a deep desperate breath, I thought of the risks of travelling alone by a night train, and it made my guts contract.
Finally, when the train came hurtling, elbowing my way through the mass of men, I got into the compartment somehow, and found myself, among total strangers. Shoving my suitcase between legs of people, and pushing it under the seat, I sat near the window. All my former fears resurfaced with ugly pincers. Being late, all readied themselves to sleep. Though I lay down with my eyes closed, I couldn’t wink an eye, every little sound and movement, sending chills down my spine. It was the most nightmarish night I can ever think of!
the sky, inky black
moon veiled by stygian clouds~
ants of panic creep.
The tongue was locked in argument
With its master’s hands and feet.
Though none had his own armament,
They could accomplish any feat.
The hands had said they were the best,
For they accomplished feats of might,
While the eyes must always rest
When comes the inky black of night.
And the eyes, though they could see
And guide the master on his way,
It were the feet that set him free
And led him on the paths of day.
The ears chimed in, for they could hear
To warn of dangers all around;
They helped keep balance, helped to steer,
Though they could not sense every sound.
And so the master, guided by
His feet and eyes and ears, had gone
To visit then the King most high
Who sat upon a mighty throne.
The hands then placed a wager to
The eye, the tongue, the ear, the sole,
In order that each one could prove
That he alone was powerful.
The hands then punched through solid stone
To prove to them his steely brawn,
But unimpressed upon his throne,
The King gave them a tired yawn.
And so the ears then tried to test
How greatly powerful were they,
But better heard the dogs at rest,
And so they lost the bet that day.
The feet danced with impunity,
And even had they almost won,
But in their utter mutiny
Would bow before the fluid tongue.
The tongue had not the others’ might,
And so went at the very end.
And yet, she’d cast eternal night
On enemy as well as friend.
The tongue spoke just one word, and yet
With terrifying, awful dread,
The tongue then won the foolish bet;
The King cut off the master’s head.
The hands can lift up any stone,
The feet can climb up any hill,
And yet in power stand alone
Our tongues, for with one word they kill.
Leap off a Day
Leap off a day full of struggle and toil.
Pleasure-power fuels freedom's few precious
hours. Head for the cellar where solace is
found. Shoulder a way through the jostling crowd.
The thicket is wild and dense by the bar,
winter-branch arms shedding autumn-leaf notes.
Barmaids flick taught-aloof tails while they flit,
ripping off balls with their sharp little ****.
Machine-gunning speakers spray punters with
rap. Call for ''strong-ale!'' Leave the lager for
louts. Survey, edge away from the wankers
and drunks. She's got mad-eyes. He's pushing tabs.
Ocean of faces polluted by booze.
Snatches of voices wind-torn from the storm.
Crackhead is screaming about his bad hit.
Rodents are filling his skull full of ****.
Rhythm-girls bob up and down to the beat.
The one called Desire has wings on her feet,
legs and white pants like a rose in full bloom.
the one in the crowd who lights up a room.
Shouting and cursing and breaking of glass.
Fun at the bar... stampeding, girls crying,
chairs swinging, fists flying, then Exocet-
bottles-and-boots in an all-out attack.
Faces exploding in fountains of blood.
Shatter-glass windows ice-blue-psychedel;
game-beating police rousing quarry to
flight – any brace cooks-the-books for the night.
Scatter and panic, a jam at the door
as we tear and then pull and then kick and
butt heads, now dash for the street and the sweet
inky-black safety of swallowing night.
Find the fair-maid Desire, cute little sprite
whose ignoble-knight offers Vindaloo-
sauce – plan for scalding her **** and covert-
ovens-of-love as we leap off a day.