Long Kin Poems
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I'm a Piketown son who left his mum
To sail the eastern shores
Spent a year in Gloucester
'mong the barkeeps and the whores
Then a man came 'round to Gloucester town
Said boys I need a few
Strapping lads such as yourselves
To join me whalin' crew
The pay is mighty lowly and
The work'll break yer backs
But if ye crave adventure, men
You'll ne'er get a better chance
Those who'd go out wi' me, lads
Prepare ta leave at dawn
There's a whaler at the dockside
She's called the Dreadful Mourn
Ho! Called I to Captain Frye
My services you've bought
I've traveled here from Piketown
To earn a tale heart'ly wrought
Aye, me lad then ye shall have
A yarn ta spin yer sons
So join me on the Dreadful Mourn
'Ere long's the risin' sun
I nodded Aye to Captain Frye
Then turned to swig my ale
When a man appeared beside me
And pulled up to the rail
He shook his head and then he said
His offer you should spurn
There was another Frye set out
Yet ne'er did he return
This other Frye for he was kin
Of the Captain now about
That fortune on their family frowns
Of that there is no doubt
I turned to the stranger, smiled
Said thank you for the warn
Then headed down the gangway
Out to the Dreadful Mourn
For weeks on end I coiled the ropes
Boiled the oil and pulled the line
Though it was grueling labor
I was feelin' pretty fine
But the winds they soon blew colder
And the ship began to slow
The Captain said don't worry men,
This is how the whales go
One day the ice so thickened that
The ship came to a stop
The Captain cried a wild whoop
Boys I think I've found the spot!
For 'twas about this latitude
Where me brother's ship was lost
And now I've come ta bring him home
No matter what the cost!
Sorry I lied ta ye lads
I blame ye not for yer ire
Now calm ye selves, we've work ta do
Afore we can retire
Of course you know we would not go
Along with his plan
The crew decided mutiny
Right down to the last man
For Captain Frye's madness
We must pay an awful price
But he would join his brother
As a ghost beneath the ice
The ship was stuck, the stores near out
'Twas nothing left to do
'Cept sing a sailin' shanty
And toast the Dreadful crew
So I took a final dram of rum,
Cursed the day that I was born
And lay down to my icy fate
Aboard the Dreadful Mourn
June 24, 2017
...He walked up and kissed her head so softly,
then said, “Good news, I’m off for the next few weeks.”
She said, “Mmm…and I’m betting that you’re are
thinking of all that you will do to me.”
He smirked, and said,”Well it has crossed my mind.”
She said, “I must work, but we will make the time…”
And they did enjoy that time together,
they went to dinner, took walks, and made love,
Cormack so enjoyed these little reprieves
from his chosen life, so brutal and rough.
Some days he thought it very hard to beat
lazing on the couch and rubbing her feet.
But good times are good because they can’t last,
eventually a new call did come in,
he told Christie he had to go away
for a sales trip, he shared no details grim.
She said, “It’s fine, I must travel as well,
to visit my brother, who’s going through hell.”
They said their goodbyes, Cormack went to work,
the patriarch’s gave him a new target,
a serial killer near Topeka,
“We’re not sure, but we think he’s a good bet.”
They told him as they slipped him a file,
he frowned, thinking this might take a while.
The drive took two days, but Cormack got there,
in a rented house he set up his gear,
see Nephilim left some strange energy
at any location where they appeared.
An electric charge from their angel kin,
unique to their kind, so Cormack did begin.
This was the boring part of the hunting,
walking the streets with a heavy backpack,
inside a device reading the energy,
hoping to pick up residual tracks.
He started near the sites of the fell crimes,
traces of a Nephilim he soon did find.
For days he looked for patterns in the readings,
using the data to triangulate,
narrowed it down to a three block circle,
armed himself and went to investigate.
The device went wild as he drew near,
he wondered if two Nephilim were here.
He heard a commotion from a warehouse,
not uncommon in a bad part of town,
he heard an angel voice and painful moan,
and knew something awful was going down.
He slipped inside and heard a voice proclaim,
“When the hunter shows up, you’ll get the blame!”
Cormack stepped out and lifted his pistol,
he said, “Or I’ll just kill you both here and now.”
The bigger man jolted as he appeared,
then his eyes glowed, and he bellowed out loud.
He then then himself into a mad charge,
but Cormack’s gun spoke before he got far...
CONTINUES IN PART III.
Far off the beaten track and trail
on quest for music’s Holy Grail
led pilgrims on biblical scale
more than can be counted.
With midsummer sun on our cheek
in tents to shelter we did seek
and pitched them at its highest peak
on a hilltop mounted
As we climbed the lean of the hill
my beer I would try not to spill
and sat with the great unwashed till
olé and adios.
It was I, El Skeet, amigo,
in my poncho and sombrero
half-cut like a loco gringo
who waved “vaya con dios!”
We lit yet another hash bong
all up in smoke like Cheech & Chong
and passed it to each one along
under the cop radars.
Till late as wasted brain cells flag
with every mind trip headfu-ck drag
I tucked in to my sleeping bag
on the hill ‘neath the stars
As music and mayhem did rage
back in next summer’s youthful age
we camped closer to the big stage
by a shallow hollow.
I’d sit and watch the crowds go by
in the hot sun and dust and dry
under a big Waikato sky
from our camp on tent row
And as I ripped in with the guys
to our grog trailer of supplies
we made a hanging chain of ties
with every pull tab rent.
Waiting for Cold Chisel that night
with a superdoob glowing bright
I was fuc-kin’ high as a kite
and lurched back to my tent
The next day I woke in a daze
and walked off my drunken malaise
when I heard singing songs of praise
in some weird sh-it I saw.
Tambourine hippies, punks and geeks
and chanting Hari Krishna freaks
burnt incense in clay painted cheeks
so I got high some more
Yet in a hot wet and wild hour
stoned in the unisex shower
I gazed many a sweet flower
in their naked splendour.
We bathed too in waters that flowed
down where the lazy river bowed
lest my head spontaneous explode
on my three day bender
That night by the stars we were led
as above a smoky sky bled
when out The Enz rocked “I See Red”
and fired a burning flare.
In the spirit of Sweetwaters
we lived among at close quarters
sons of Bacchus and his daughters
and I so revelled there
Written: November 2009
Sweetwaters was an annual three
day music festival back in 1980s.
In the void of my transitional mind,
the aimless scatter-shots of snapshot in kind
finding itheir way.through pokes in the brine.
Saran wrap bindings of biased memories, invent orys,
and tupper-ware leftovers tidings of dreams, kept palatable for the aroaming beasts.
I find the manipulations stirring like mercurial-gravy,
sardonical Last Suppers of my humanity at
the toppings station, insulting.
Where's the variety, where's the if there
is a will there's a way?
Where's the frikkin beef?
I heard that commercial say- (I agree,
where's our defense against the dark arts Teacher
or our non f'd with bandwith to have our say?
;My Atriuk-Consultants,
disappearing, through a buffet line
of suitors for my gun hand-as treason's malignant mercenary gland.
Stranger in a strange clan.
Now every thought is like a remembrance, a
severance to pay for it all.The tying to-me
in Gordian crossroads mocked silverly
by multi directional unabaiting winds
blowing adversarily.
Each pointing "this way you fail !"
"Every which way a noose !"
"This way you fall !"
Of on the loose this way dungeon echoes
a calling as dark corridor Shades
with no true form to call.
The past haunts, the future calls,
lost in the chaos urn, as time falls-
in diminished return,
for the base is nearly full to lay
as a squandored mound of time.
Like shooting stars across the sky,
my dreams flicker, then fade and die?
Searching for purpose, to see what sticks.
I fire all of my rounds at once
In this endless maze of day and night I pace
these walls, like those Demonic Shades,
who chant "hey Jude" and perform "Jude Law"
in Shakespearean play, "There's something about Mary...
whomever target to sway. Come wicked this way s.
But in the darkness, I find a kin-spark
guide in my self defense,
of cheerlead everence in reference to
hope belonging to everyone the same.
A torch in the deepening dark
to saber heroicly for my good name.
Iwill rise from the sullen ashes,
strong and brilliantly bright, aiimless no more,
faith in my sights.
Pull !
Let the scatter shot fall where it may,
I'll carve my path, come what may.
For in the chaos, I see the arts of strength,
the part I play,
I find beauty's confidence and vision
in the facets of my jaded heart,
that maybe I can help the World in some small but
contrite way.
Revelations of the Spirit!
Good things are known to come to those who come before their God,
who praise release from earthly woes by celebrating days
of spilling sperm (that meets its end or egg that sparks new life),
creation’s spark has pitched its tent in place of excrement.
“Both fair and foul are next of kin” (1) (if I might paraphrase
some words Jane speaks), with grave and bed compared, noblesse oblige
for those less traveled in this world! What Bishop knows a wife
(excuse)? The pleasures of the flesh called sin (despite intent)
by those who bow to Popes, to Satan’s spawn! A privilege
that they don’t practice! When they think, think those who do so odd!
Will Jane find love although her breasts have grown quite flat with time,
(though proud priests say she’s ignorant of things that matter most)?
I think she will, though dark days come and time eclipses all!
What Nature IS, what Nurtures man, is not his providence,
nor can we think to save ourselves, if God’s not real, we’re toast!
Is worth of self what Jane boasts of, the raptures of the mind?
Can body’s curves, a garment’s subtle wrap, how tresses fall,
boast they’re of what she speaks! Or lowliness her evidence
she matters? God’s grand scheme of things? Not judging (she’d call kind)!
Massaging rhythms vital, love for seasons, love of rhyme!
Long Tooth
1st of September in 2020
Poet’s Notes:
(1) One of my favorite poems by William Butler Yeats
Crazy Jane Talks with the Bishop
I met the Bishop on the road / And much said he and I.
‘Those breasts are flat and fallen now / Those veins must soon be dry;
Live in a heavenly mansion, / Not in some foul sty.’
‘Fair and foul are near of kin, / And fair needs foul,’ I cried.
‘My friends are gone, but that’s a truth / nor grave nor bed denied,
Learned in bodily lowliness / And in the heart’s pride.’
‘A woman can be proud and stiff / When on love intent;
But love has pitched his mansion in / The place of excrement;
For Nothing can be sole or whole / That has not been rent.’
*
*
Does anyone want to comment or have thoughts about why Yeats would be so
cavalier about meter in the last two lines of each stanza, even the 1st line of the second stanza when 'Both fair and foul..' would be such an easy fix! It seems hard to believe that he is deliberately sloppy. What is his purpose here?
Dear people,
In relation, Historically,
Historians heroically will fake it.
kids can serve themselves said correlation.
Take what is.
Record reels of Real confessions chalk full of truthful lessons on how to feel.
How to push for real progression.
Identify risk.
A population’s silent suggestion.
To get Upset, in that, to get up In accordance to time, all of mankind barely register. a blip on the tip of conception.
A burst of awareness, to realize each set is set up separate in each relative reality of self perception. To see in itself is a credit. To Receive it, It in itself ...
One second, on the surface of decades, in a sea of centuries before existence, well kept, below, a hush to a hum unheard and left off of all of the records.
Unaccredited, Easy targets to get over-credited.
When Run red their credits,
read: “It lives. Because I said it did.”
Who gives a line of credit to those who so desperately to get it, who need it like a medic,
But I’d wage to bet it’s to spend it in the opposite way that it’s intended.
Commend all of those that contended.
And anyone at all whom attended.
Correct view. Corrective is collective let’s give ‘cause it’s best to - to the rest I guess it’s -
Just set it and forget it. Much as distant relatives;
-Figure it’s Best to just let us live…
As long as it’s ...Immediately gratative...
Our best method, many mini moves toward moving for a more major movement forward,
Observe and compare pre-approved plans for improvements, no one can afford.
Redact, reform, literary rebirth bursts into the truth that in which we will record,
and now it’s more, collect, from pre accepted hits, Recreate in-an-organized-list. Of the top samples,
A fool and A toolbar together with helpful tips.
Slip bits in hidden messages, to send to ratchet kids to send them off,
Off on A trip, on a Botanically based-spaceship. Hope they know that it’s All made up,
While we Make believe that they arrive at home and safely they do make it.
IS...crazy. (Imagination)
The craziest. The human case, it is. Inside the human case within…Is a sharper image, of every last face that formulate one’s nation.
A Hereditarial misclarification taken down the forsaken line and educated In within the others next of kin.
-hope you’re still out there, people,
if you’re lost, you can still win.
VIVA LA ELVIS
In Tupelo Mississippi, twin baby boys were born,
To Gladys and Vernon Presley, but sadly one passed on.
They named him Jesse Garon, their hearts so full of pain,
And then came Elvis Aaron, a breath of sweet refrain.
One heart beating for the two, their spirits intertwined;
To restore faith and hope and joy to dear ones left behind.
Elvis grew from babe to boy his heart set on a goal,
From boy to man to legend; The King of Rock n’ Roll.
He lived in humble dwellings, his Pa his Ma and he;
Playing his guitar, singing songs, pure golden melodies.
Country, Gospel, Blues and Jazz the rhythms of the soul,
And Rock n’ Roll, the very core of hearts both young and old.
While rising up to stardom, his pelvis did he swing;
Some church folk banged the gavel to crucify ‘The King’.
Their efforts came to nothing, as fans from near and far,
Surged on with huge momentum, to win that holy war.
So once again he stood there, gyrating at his will,
Until the day he heard a call that made those hips stand still.
Called to serve his country, the nation’s rising star,
And while along that journey, he sadly lost his Ma.
On the first of May, a bride’s bouquet, a blush of summer wine,
Elvis wed Priscilla; his beautiful fraulein.
Soaring in her lover’s arms on the wings of destiny,
Nine months later they were blessed with gorgeous Lisa Marie.
The happiness they shared together wrapped in melody;
Like a poet’s dream, a symphony, a lover’s rhapsody.
Then fate stepped in and dealt a blow that tore the dream apart,
And in its wake it left a trail of tears and broken hearts.
‘The King’, on stage and silver screen, he took the world by storm,
A real hunk of burning love in a GI uniform.
He rocked the house to loud applause, he played the matador,
And danced with pretty Hula girls in the Hawaiian sunset glow.
August 16, ’77 was the day ‘The King’ had died,
But forever lives the Legend, born on 8/1/35.
His mamma smiled and gently beckoned to her second born,
While holding close the one she’d lost that fateful winter’s morn.
The joy he brings to us down here can never be replaced,
Though many keep on trying in vain to fill the empty space.
His spirit fills all Graceland, to watch o’er kith and kin,
In the Heavenly sounds of Dixieland … I hear God joining in.
Elaine Randolph
Copyright ©2009 Elaine Randolph
Poem written near a Cemetery 1 of 2
On 13th February 2012
While moving near the walls of a cemetery,
I saw the glimpse
Of a bunch of some tiny wild flowers,
Blooming in the golden Sunlight falling on them,
They were waving their simile,
With every gush of wind,
On the monument of a deserted grave.
For me it was a new and exciting experience,
To enter in that cemetery of eighteenth century,
What had brought me to that spot,
Where those wild flowers were still smiling,
Remains a mystery
Every time, I think and rethink.
I saw hundreds of monuments and tombs,
After entering in that preserved cemetery,
Some were telling the story,
Of the grandeurs of its dwellers,
While others were there,
Standing without a crown or a story.
The grave on which, I saw those flowers,
Was not showing an appealing face,
Age had withered its luster and charms,
And time had left its marks on its face.
Being in the last line of that cemetery
It was waiting in the long queue,
For some kith and kin of Sophia Ress,
May come some day and
The face of that noble soul’s grave,
May once again obtain its lost glory and grace.
There I found those lonely wild tiny flowers,
Still blooming and smiling and dancing,
With every gush of wind,
Telling silently a beautiful story of its dweller,
As if, they were paying their homage,
While remembering her lost songs and images.
In the morning hours of the Autumn,
The tree leaves were falling,
Everywhere on the ground,
And some were even falling on me,
Either to tell the universal truth,
Of the inevitable departure of everyone’s one day
Or perhaps to accompany me,
In that graveyard of all those,
Who were totally strangers for me.
After watching that grave and
Appreciating those tiny flowers,
I explored each and every tomb and monuments,
Standing in the memory of those British,
Who had lived a royal life during those days,
When they lived here and ruled my country,
For a very long time.
Ravindra
Kanpur India 18th Feb. 2012 concluded in Part 2
Text of the Stone on Sophia Rees Owen
"Text of the Stone on Sophia Rees Owen
In the memory of Sophia Rees Owen
The beloved wife of H T Owen Esqr.
Of the H C Civil Service, who died on the 27th
Nov.1834 aged 31 years 11months and 18days.
Leaving her husband and Six children to lament
Her loss. She was a sincere friend, a truly
Attached wife and a devoted Mother.......
Why me father/daughter relationship
important to this papa
Fourteen and a half years
since death of mother (mine),
nary one iota of communication
in general and compassion
in particular while
she lived, now wears
heavy and yokes
mantle fostering tears
indirectly sabotaging rapport
with eldest daughter
futility doth arise uttering
feeble secular prayers,
cuz interaction with mother,
whose vehemence more
deafening than banshee killdeers
exceeding threshold of
decibels tolerable these ears.
Now comeuppance came
full family circle, yes
that's her within picture frame,
when young, innocent, and beautiful,
decades before terminal
illness rendered her
incapacitated and lame.
Her second of
three born offspring,
and yours truly
that singular boy
figuratively tethered himself
to her apron strings,
which near omnipotent
biochemical bond her
rancor would destroy,
when lonesome son
failed to employ
purported adult responsibilities
solitary without any
even one homeboy
never knowing how
to maximize potential
rather totally tubular at loss
advantageously to deploy
supposed ducks in a row
always imp pond
durable feeling cast ahoy
shore lee within alien nation,
whereby village people
observe an exceptionally
unresponsive immovable
lad - qua zee decoy
analogous to stonewall,
albeit socially withdrawn
emotionally, physically,
and socially retracting
exhibiting no joy,
nor any audible,
tactile or visible life
stockstill like an
abandoned broken toy.
Silence spoke volumes mainly
I don't wanna be alive
antithetical to that basic
instinct to survive
protestations arose deliberately
minus figurative parachute,
I took kamikaze nosedive
a couple years after two times five
orbitz astride planet Earth
ne'er did amity, comity,
fraternity ever jive,
nope not even pleasant hello
would fake deaf/mute contrive
interaction between kith and kin
affection toward parents
and siblings (two sisters,
not twisted) I did deprive,
whence fast forward decades later,
a metaphorical wedge would drive
roughshod o'er kinship,
when fatherhood did arrive
though "star student" did connive
him (me) to test discomfort zones,
yet more often than not inclusive
integration abandoned among
linkedin with kindling explosive
smoldering volcano found
wicked volatility expressive.
Today I had a strange experience,
Not in this group but in another group.
‘Poetry and Lit'rature' it is not,
In ‘Written or Revealed Poetry' thread.
Asked, have I written poems in my life?
I found it fit to answer it this way:
I'm writing this in reply to a miss,
I have never written poems in my life.
Have wondered where these poems all come from,
From human intellect or nature's store,
To be picked up at moments of revelation;
Or synthesized in rotten human brain!
I was inspired to write these wicked lines,
By those whose verses written were in sand:
Let us debate poetry in poems,
I hope she'll someday answer me in kind.
I 'am not doing anything again,
But asking questions all have answers for.
I have my answers, you can have yours,
This not an illiterate arena,
Where someone asks questions and another from,
Some academic circle answers them.
Some anxious are, to questions throw around,
Some eagerly waits there to answer them;
This not such school or college where one can,
En'tertain answers not from others too.
I know I'm Alexander Pope's close kin,
I stop here, to read Temple of Fame again.
I regularly take part in discussions in a famous social site of experts and writes in two special groups Poetry and Literature and Language, Literature & Criticism. A discussion on ‘Whether Poetry Has To Keep Form' became heated and I had to remain at the receiving end of severe but very polished criticism for some of my view points insisting on form for poetry.
At last I was asked, ‘You do not seem to have understood the mechanics of poetry like many of us; have you ever read a poem or at least try to write one'? I decided to write my reply in the poetical form and invited the others to respond in the like manner and continue the discussion on poetry. In my native land, in Malayalam literature, there has been a long history of poets writing letters to each other in the poetical form, creating a rich branch of literature in itself. In truth, almost all Indian languages had this kind of a branch of literature, and it had become an interesting and rich feature of Indian literature. I replied as shown here.
A Poem By P.S.Remesh Chandran. Editor, Sahyadri Books & Bloom Books. Trivandrum.
Read more about our views on poetry and about our various poetry editorial services in http://poetryeditservice.blogspot.in/