Long Maws Poems
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...... Part 3 ......
The old wolf creeps, the old wolf leaps
on prey he’s been a’ trackin’ –
a deer adorned with branchin’ horns
is torn by beasts attackin’.
The morning quakes, a shadow shakes,
tined antlers left a’ lyin’,
and spattered spots and scarlet clots
repaint the point o’ dyin’.
A magpie flies with frightened eyes
(on ebon wings a’ wavin’),
spies wolfin’ jaws and sated maws
of wolves no longer cravin’.
The snowdrift clears, a cool wind veers,
a dying breath, moreover –
a wraith appears, with shaggy ears,
(one droopin’ down, hung over).
Dawn’s sunbeams crowd, ignite a cloud,
its threaded strands a’ weavin’.
The pack awakes and twists and shakes,
for soon it’s time for leavin’;
it’s bleak, it chills on shallow hills,
as she-wolfs come a’ nuzzlin’,
but north winds scold, the wolf lies cold,
the pack stands back a’ puzzlin’.
On crimson snows neath perchin’ crows,
the pack abides a’ guardin’;
while nights are tight with Harpy kites,
the she-wolves wait an’ harden,
until a groanin’ blizzard stones
the barren forest stowin’
his shaggy ears beneath the weirs,
with icy hails ’a blowin’.
The storm abates and terminates,
the glacial wind’s subsidin’;
the past is past or passin’ fast
and life goes on abidin’.
The herds, today, roam far away,
not thinkin’ of the dyin’;
the pack’ll stray from day to day,
’a stalkin’ hard and tryin’.
As spring sneaks forth upon the north,
they’re lean without their leader.
A she-wolf (bound with belly round)
strains neath a budding cedar.
Upon the morn a whelp is born
(the future forest drover)
in new frontiers, with shaggy ears
(one droopin’ down, hung over).
......End......
A Belated CCV Das Kapital event...
regarding birthday anniversary
wicked candle box event burns bright
for Karl Marx,
who amazingly graced,
and kindled pinterest
jumpstarting money fest destiny.
Born May 5, 1818, in Trier Germany
to Heinrich and Henrietta Marx,
sans the third of nine children
(and second oldest heir)
Karl Marx thinking begot incendiary sparks,
asper his two most controversial publications
titled The Communist Manifesto,
and Das Kapital,
which political philosophy
incubating seeds of life
of self destruction didst birth
doctrines of class struggle,
historical materialism, dearth
of equitable wealth, and inherent
contradictions of industrial capital
distributed unevenly
across avast swath of Earth
thus inviting his perspective
(conveniently exploited,
mined, and usurped) advocating
the working class (proletariat)
to expedite organized revolutionary action
to topple capitalism and bring about
socio-economic emancipation,
where wages of sin
exchanged for labor bled
fingers to the bone life source, viz proletariat
till slaving laborer nearly
became gratefully dead
despite being encased in 12 point
Times New Roman garb,
who incessantly fed
insatiably maws of production,
(no way to get a supportive talking head)
particularly highlighted
within schema of Capitalism),
a predominant paradigm
stratifying society led
to internal tensions engendered
between bourgeoisie red
dilly controlling means
of production codified as said
as die a critical approach Marx coined
as historical materialism,
where figurative landmines
forced one to tread
gingerly, thus above stated philosophy
would supposedly lead down the road
where self destruction wrought marriage
birthing Socialism offspring
from shotgun wedding,
thus coaxing eventual establishment
to house scholar and gent
of classless communist society meant
to establish free association
of Indie producers who spent
exchanging merchandise amidst classless
campy population hood pitched a tent.
The magnificent eagle grooms itself as a brilliant new day is born.
It flexes its mighty wings to prepare for its daily bourne.
Its beautiful plumage is gilded by the rays of the rising sun.
It will soar to dizzying heights before its adventurous day is done!
From atop a craggy tor where reposes its rustic aerie,
It surveys its domain - rugged mountain and verdant prairie.
From its lofty perch it views vistas mere mortals will never see,
Anon, to ride the vagabond winds, its earthly bonds to flee!
Stretching its powerful wings ready to begin the day,
It sets about its never-ending quest to seek its daily prey.
Aerobatic savvy it will use and hunting skills it will test,
To fill its needs and the gaping maws of eaglets in the nest!
Other creatures flee when its clarion scream is heard.
'Tis perilous to invade the territory of this raptorial bird!
The majestic eagle displays a most imposing aerial ballet,
As it swiftly and silently descends upon its hapless prey!
'Tis apt that the eagle is the symbol of these United States.
There are so many venerable traits that in each equates.
Cleared-eyed vision, firm resolve and regal nobility,
Meeting all challenges and dangers with stalwart versatility!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Tied for 2d Place in John Freeman's "Pure Thoughts In Nature" Contest - Aug 2011
Within the common (all purpose room)
at highland manor apartments aye
daily encounter, one bewitchingly dreaded
fiendishly horrible, jeeringly loopy,
nap noopy, pugnaciously ravenous, talon
viciously wizened, xenophobic yeti, zapping
zeroing zillion zippers,
zoned Zuckerman alley bye
barred doors fate helplessly jury-rigged
sealed with with plaintive cry
no escape known to this man caught
in a deadly voodoo clutch,
thus doomed to die
ugly cannibalistic, frightful,
heathen rumors myopic eyes espy
alarmed at feeling trapped
akin to a wingless fly
tapping reserves of scape goat
coping techniques ingenuity,
which earned me moniker "fall guy"
where accursed cruel destined exit
from getting husked, issued
jagged lance like mandibles "hi
there unknown weekly reader", I
pray for super leftist
write hand man/woman to extricate
(via whipping up literary poetic fabrication),
then joining me to sing jai
(let victory prevail against killer odds)
perhaps summoning division
of British shiver rights phalanx,
hood reply with Hackneyed "oh kai"
springing surprise rescue,
sans swooping inside
this hermetically faux prison,
where Matthew Scott Harris doth lie,
yet realistic to accept my
demise without putting up
a good fight well nigh
but... if luck finds thee plucking this bard
(out maws of death) be treated to custom
ye will be rewarded with pie
ala mode enjoying a Quai
yet moment...yeah...fading hope...sigh!
.
Locked
Yes locked
her tumescent
to mine
I felt her rapid breathe
As
Mine dukes latched to her fundament
pulling her vibrate
'gainst mine wild
Ourn torsos locked
Her bulging eyne
brimming with love's wet
whilst mine
reaches hern depth
Ourn bodies yaw
loving each's sweat
Ourn maws exclamating
Vehemently
"yesss"
As mine lurch retreats
Ourn together watches
as the ebb from hern
glisters
The dead they are burned not by heat or cold.
Their spears did not grow heavy,
blooms do not sprout from their ribbed barrels.
They chew now on spent bullets;
they have captured themselves.
In dark allies a switchblade blindness enters hearts,
rage sprouts red flowers.
Everything is a memory even the future.
The living kill randomly, sometimes with a great kindness,
a sweetness that fattens the maggot. The earth rages on.
Rage buries you alive, yet you still survive.
Rumi said: ‘you must dance in your own blood.'
That kind of killer instinct leads you out of the fire
into an oblivion that polishes eyes, makes them shine
in the darkest dark.
Mad man are their own wolf pack.
Embrace the fang, bleed into their yawping maws.
If you have a ghost in your heart make love to it
In the tramp of the throng.
The dead have slaughtered themselves,
pity them not, they rage not,
they are mad with love now,
long manacled to greater lusts,
passions only those
beyond the horizon of themselves may see.
Those who have come through are set apart
as sacred scarecrows in a field of sleeping dogs.
Light candles, scorch the wax until the smoke
gutters into absence.
Do not pray for the gone,
they are all inside you now, quenching
your own rage that licks and flames.
.
I saw her's at the
distance
I tried the whistle
It flew out like
tweety bird's
caught by sylvester
featherz and
all
hern soon
oke
choked
Hitherto
i whistle not
at fine
hers'
her's
lets lips
mine
not
*i ofttimes spill the nouns (the)hers
:>shemales; i meant, females..(did so ')
(the)shes
therefore I explicate and may the poetic astute
accept mine artistic license :) hers: females... 'period'
shes: the feminine plural ;) oh stop ,)
edvard'z lisp and *sensitive feel> (fem~i~nine)
^:uh wight guy ') her's: possessive
* oke^ hern: belongs to her e.g. her's, in the broader sence; 'twuz her decision I.e; the poet, can say "her breast were in mine maws", yet, wus it her decision that her breast were there(the 'terse' poet would need to explicate, cramming hiz lisp with unnecessary werdz)..but, if the poet (i exspecially)exclaimed; "hern" breast were in mine maws", hiz readerz intuitively would know, that 'she gave' her breast up willingly(her decide). If the poet exclaimed; "hern pussie wuz pink"
^('she' lets poet see it's
pink
etc.)
i pray there be shes reserving sum hern for mine
indulge....words...that's what i well i tried to meant ')
Of all the world this century I see
What shimmers – artifice devoid of soul.
Pneumatic truncheons burying dreams of She,
The Mother, under satin sheets of coal.
If would mine eyes deceive me not I’d think
It just a putrid fantasy, from which
The shadows formed by tortured lids could blink
Awake into the rays from which no niche
Could cling like pincers holding darkness gripped.
Inverted it would seem the very Laws,
When God can’t stop in poison water dipped,
The baptism of Earth in fossil maws.
I pray that life – eternal Hope so fair,
Can snatch redemption from morose Despair.
A turning point with
advantage of 20/20 hindsight
identifies severe dislocation
birthing emotional plight
intervening years since psyche wrenched
by rather innocuous event at first sight
exaggerated haunting shadows
sparred illuminated by dim backlight,
now conviction hammered home startdate
coffin unwittingly nailed airtight
death of spontaneous bright
eyed bushy tailed
spunkiness extinguished
gored me lifeless,
asper bloodless bullfight
all entrails left intact,
and no obvious insight
fledgling, negligible, tentative...
flickering soon snuffed out light
describing nascent ability to delight
no longer extant within my
then young featherlight
undersized physical height
complemented with familiarity of shyness,
no recall red flagged
a lad in capable to smite
an unmanageable all consuming debacle
in retrospect unable
to coax forthright
severe retrogression, retribution, retraction...
unleashed nefarious sprite
occasioned when father and mother
aloft in their prime topflight
ages buying dreamhouse did excite
unaware psychological convulsions
would forever roil sole son
darkened to midnight
impetus to live defeated
with abandoned might
nonverbal communication,
would soon reveal, how expert playwright
stymied to comprehend
tote toll impact, and mortality craved,
nee stole perky me overnight
linkedin to poorly acclimating
moving away from familiar digs right
into the waiting maws of shipwreck
forever stranded, where no searchlight
rescued malicious conjurer's wicked sleight
of hand prestidigitation rocketing me
into infinitely far orbital spaceflight
an untethered ball of skintight
grateful dead lovely bones.
The moon hovers there, shining aloft,
its form the infamous crescent,
its glow so luminous as to reveal the rest of the orb,
oft-hidden when its time in the sky is not nigh.
Underneath, a fog coats the cold ground.
It floats eerily around everything in its path,
twisting here and there, suffusing the darkened morning
with a fell feel, secrets behind every bush and tree.
As my fellows and I trudge past a field to our left,
the mist reveals the obstacles we placed there afore;
in the sun, just part of training, procedure -
in these cruel environs, an ominous vision.
Barbed wire raises from a fence line
like the hackles of an angry beast;
threatening even we who emplaced it with its edges,
taunting our easily pierced flesh to embrace it.
Bunkers hunker down by the edge of the wood,
barely glimpsed openings once promising solace -
in this haunting setting they appear more as gaping maws,
showing to the world only a presence and visage of hunger.
Meant to hamper the enemy, defend those who built them,
on this macabre morn they serve more to menace their own.
Our bristling band hurries to pass that brooding breadth,
the horned moon vanishing at last from our unsettled sight.