Long Metabolism Poems
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It wasn’t that she was the only woman
in the group, that mingled precariously
beneath the bronze figure, or her classic
stance, when placing immaculately the
newsprint covered bottle to lips willingly
breached, but more her opulent style, her
contrast of attire, her hair as yet unspoilt.
Although jewel less except for a wedding
ring in her recently pierce blood stained ear
lobe, (this bearing signs of some street wise ritual?)
she still wore a suave sophistication, eyes
that bred a wanton life, fingers more use to
the gentle stem of the crystal goblet, than
the demure grasp of the shapeless neck of
the common brown. But alas maybe the
corrosion has not as yet penetrated her
foreboding mind, a mind that in time will
be given to surrender, never to realize that
this volatile life will plunge her deeper, into
one shambolic life, whilst still trying to escape
from the previous. But! Who knows what ills she
was force to bear, what tribulations life brought
upon her, maybe her new found acquaintance
comfort her, listen to her sympathetically,
understanding her predicament, also a novelty
this sharing, this caring, respect and reverence
showered upon her, like solicitous petals
falling gracefully upon her shoulders,
removing the burdens of a lifetime.
Her head
began to lift higher and higher with every
mouthful of distant courage, every courteous act.
Then! A look of deep despair, as the bottle was
released from her reluctant deep red lips, a
senseless shake only proved her greatest fear.
Immediately to her aid, came one of her new found
companions, swiftly finishing his own endless gorge,
he commence to wipe the neck of his perpetual habit,
with his mucus soiled cuff less sleeve, before
passing it on to her veracious hand, his eyes eagerly
awaiting its return.
One can imagine when the long day
is over, the sun finally at rest, only the motley bench will be hers, only the best that fleet street can offer, will cover her chilled body, her metabolism soon accelerating, to become one with theirs, a license to enter their dissipation, only then will all options for her diminish, external metamorphosis soon to blend with inner corruption, life’s destruction almost completed!
© Harry J Horsman 1991
But the lover he knew this would not be enough
In such games as romance the going will get rough
And his youth had not abandoned him yet
Such failures monumental he would not so soon forget
And all had been less than this goddess on earth
No other had touched his heart so since birth
So amidst the glorious dreams of love in spring
The icy chill of doubt began to take its wing
The mirror told truths he’d never liked to hear
When faced with himself he’d rather disappear
Than bear witness to what he saw as a goon
A common ugly brute, spawned from a cartoon
With his disproportioned limbs and pessimistic hunch
Never had Ryan stood out from the bunch
His muscles had weakened from ailments past
And his metabolism sadly had deserted him too fast
His green eyes burned fiercely for his love had not gone
And sleep seldom reached him until long after dawn
Ruminating at length on the woman he desired
Wrecked his body and wracked his mind so tired
Could she ever love one as common as I?
He asked many times neath the midnight blue sky
His answer proved negative on most mornings young
And the tears had scarcely left him when the first sparrow sung
At last, the abused and depressed young pup
Decided he would go out on the town and drink up
Pounding beers with no regard for the consequences thus
Leaving him to stagger, cry, and flirt and cuss
And as sudden as the sun blooming on the skyline
The lovely Lyla was there, alone and looking quite fine
In an instant all sorrow was cleansed from his mind
And convinced him once more no greater love would he find
On that evening with conscious sobered by passion
My old friend took to speaking in a serious fashion
Only I was there to listen to his marvelous speech
Of the intensity he possessed, I know I cannot teach
With a storm gently rolling on a westward winter wind
The dark haired young man, chilled and quite pale skinned
Turned to me slowly with the look in his eye
That told I would recall this moment till I die
“Tonight,” he began, “I have chosen to wait
For this woman I love until some later date
And I shall stay to this, if months or years may pass
If that is the price of being worthy of the lass
If I must stand by and watch others lay
By her drunken side, while I have no say
And hundreds will flirt and many win a kiss
So I will remain in a life without bliss
Born Doris, named for our grandmother Doris Owens,
she is nothing much like grandma.
If anything, I am more like grandma
for my thrifty ways and down-to-earth practicality.
Doris, nicnamed Dorie, how we tease her when we hear
her name like the name of the spaced-out fish on “Finding Nemo.”
Dorie, who we teased as a child because she always dawdled,
always losing track of time; we never could guess why!
In that way, she never was like me, but was more like Dory
from “Finding Nemo.”
Dorie, who like me, is long-nosed and full-bosomed
and of all my sisters, has the most in common with myself.
Dorie, who got confused for me, particularly by our grandma,
the woman after whom Dorie had been named!
Dorie, who got to be the cheerleader I failed to be
but who majored in my field and never got to work as a teacher.
Instead she works today in a place for special needs adults,
working many hours now that she is divorced.
Dedicated, hard-working, studious and conscientious -
in those ways Dorie is the most like me
of all my other sisters.
Who else but Dorie would write me back 40 to 50-page letters
back in the day when all we had was snail mail!
My letters to Dorie I copied off each month as a record
of my hectic life when I was young in college and
also when I was dealing with my new role as a mother.
Dorie, my writing soul mate sister, who probably
does not write much any more and I doubt that she writes poetry!
She is busy working up to 60 hours a week!
But when she writes, her emails are long and detailed
just like mine.
Dorie, in whom I gradually saw differences from me.
More emotional, more hormonal, more maternal -
this is Dorie. More religious and in politics,
the opposite of me.
Despite all that, we love to chat.
We laugh and laugh, as I do with all my other sisters.
Dorie, who like our youngest sister Theadora,
shares with me a fascination for things such as nutrition,
all three of us sharing with each other our recipes
fitness hints, and special ways to boost metabolism!
Dorie, the sister who Mom says "leapt with joy"
inside our mother’s womb right before Mom went into labor
just for hearing the voice of me, her oldest sister.
I love all my sisters equally, but for many reasons,
Dorie is the sister most like me!
March 6, 2019 for the "What's In a Name" Contest of Kim Rodrigues
It is now too late for you to
Straighten up and
Fly right!
You have failed to pass
The test of time.
It is too late to love your neighbor
There is nothing left to do now
But go back into the nothingness
From whence you come.
Day and night will no longer
Be separated by the sun
And the moon.
The sun will no longer co-operate
With your demand for light.
The children are suffering
My elders are unhappy-
And do not - want to live
Upon this planet again.
All the worms have turned;
Every punched has been pulled;
You have failed to pass
The test of time.
No more shall you remember
the promise of eternity.
The moon is blood red
The rivers are bleeding,
Mother Earth’s blood.
She has been savagely raped
And abused.
I will not restore knowledge that has been
Lost or misused.
You had the law and
you did not use it.
To those of you who have been
so unkind an untoward my creations.
You have failed to pass...
The test of time throughout the ages.
Fire rages
I am speaking from
my God-mind.
I am fed up
Finally.
When the grid
Breaks; And the earthquakes,
"Too late to remedy the plunder."
The senseless murders and destruction.
No way to balance the metabolism
No way to love your brothers
Of different colors.
Back to the void--Back to the nothingness,
that you were before
I imagined you.
I am now rescinding my breath
Revoking the stewardship.
I will in one million years recreate
a new species.
They will decipher your written words;
And they will create laws that ban the ways
Of you new primitive men.
My new species will not
invent ways to ignore me,
I will pattern them after the Amish;
They will be good stewards of
"Mother Earth".
and...Will become at one with the
With the universe and Its Laws.
But as for you, your time is done;
Back you go into the dark hole.
And you will become undone.
No-one on my new planet
Will discover you.
You have failed to pass
The test of time;
There’s no way now to keep time.
Now there are no righteous left, to
Make things
Right.
Blessed are the ones that have
Already transcended
Before times words were rescinded.
And I who created you:
Decided to end it.
Message to the masses
Concerning the madness...
Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2018
No ... there would be no happy end to this story ...
No shining horizon or shimmering visions of tomorrow,
No joyous rhapsody of angels to greet us at the end of THIS tunnel.
The Big Apple was behind us now, fallen to the horrors of the epidemic ...
A gestation period of merely thirty seconds,
Which meant half the globe - half of humanity -
Could be firmly in its grip within 48 hours ...
Just two days! (And that was an optimistic estimate).
I worked for the CDC, but was on vacation with my family ...
My wife, two daughters, one son,
In Manhattan to see "Hamilton" on Broadway.
We were headed back to The Plaza when it happened -
When the first infected folks started to turn.
Whatever it was, it increased metabolism in the host,
As though giving people super powers,
Making them faster, stronger, more erratic, more deadly ...
One bite to the skin, and within half a minute, the person would change ...
Transform, into these ... monsters, crazy eyes and gnashing teeth,
With only one drive and purpose - to bite flesh and spread contagion,
(And the possibilities of mutations were nearly fathomless).
Nature always protects itself ... always finds a way,
And diseases and microorganisms are PART of nature.
Like good bacteria, viruses seek out highly beneficial environments,
And this one had selected the most deadly and formidable of hosts - humans.
On the other end of this long tunnel under the Hudson, was New Jersey ...
We were headed south to Atlanta and CDC headquarters,
But that was an eternity from where we were,
With untold dangers and obstacles ahead,
And in the midst of this horrifying and virulent plague.
The tunnel was empty, thankfully, and dark,
But with a tension-filled quietus that seemed ready to explode.
Our one blessing? It was very early Sunday morning,
And there was little traffic on the highway.
Still, there would be surprises coming, we knew not what ...
Surprises and trials, at the end of this long underpass AND beyond.
We could see the light of the entrance as it drew closer,
We could envision the stress and danger, and feel the cold breath ...
Of doom approaching.
~ 4th Place ~ in the "Tunnel Vision" Poetry Contest, Kai Michael Neumann, Sponsor.
Anticlimactic mood after February 18th, 2021 snow storm subsided
I hate spoiler alert
regarding weather forecasters prediction,
especially when meteorologist
wannabe spouse doth blurt
out impending blizzard
which never materializes.
Yours truly humbled and enamored
when Mother Nature
singly and/or nsync with old man winter
looses propensity to wreak havoc
and/or blankets landscape
I fondly think back
remembering '96 storm of the century.
At that time January 1996
me and the missus timesharing
Shawnee on the Delaware
ardently striving, yet
unsuccessful conceiving Blizzard Baby.
Now far beyond procreative age,
(though I wistfully envisage
begetting another progeny -
simultaneously stretching credulity
to breaking point)
all things considered
exhaustion would peter out
after capitulation of divining rod
necessitating lifetime to recoup energy.
Bound within figurative four walls
of Schwenksville, Pennsylvania domicile
courtesy appreciable snowfall,
I direct energy crafting poem.
Yours truly will actually
refrain comestibles despite feeling hungry -
lest metabolism to digest food
decreases potential alertness,
and full belly finds me
ready able and willing
to doze immediately into deep slumber.
Hungry stomach in tandem
with eventful weather
sends surge of giddiness
coursing thru body electric
crackling, popping, and snapping
(while O Captain My Captain)
came to witty man (me) suddenly
enervating with poignant pregnant expectancy
papa pondering his empty nest syndrome
analogously attempting to offset void
coaxing poem into existence
unsure how literary endeavor
(mine) will thrive
amidst well suited
panoply of prolific writers,
whose unseen fingers
hop lightly and gracefully
across qwerty computer keyboard
akin to heavy armed soldiers
with fearlessness and deliberation
heading off to war to acquire poetic license.
Meanwhile chafed knuckles
of one garden variety primate
previously scraping along tundra
(methinks I espy frozen Mastodon)
(before twenty first century caveman
learned to stand erect)
endeavors to strike letter combinations
eliciting, facilitating, and generating
enticing curb appeal.
In the beginning was the word
Before that, no noun, no thing
Then no sound was ever heard
And no passing bell would ring
So therefore no adjective was needed to describe it or deplore it
No preposition required to be positioned right before it
No verb to do something to it or say what act it was pursuing
No need for an adverb to describe how well or badly it was doing
Since not even one noun existed, conjunctions would have been redundant
There were no things to act on and to move across the face of the fundament
So the first word there had to be - was BE, and that was the very first in existence
And from Genesis and Eden to Elsinore, it has had a remarkable degree of persistence
Now, in the Oxford English Dictionary which is venerable institution
There are 171476 full entries of words (2nd edition) all capable of elocution
Of these, about one seventh are verbs, therefore there must be around 24497 give or take, to enumerate all action
And that should be enough for even the most garrulous to get some satisfaction
This is a limited calculation and I wouldn't want to be tied down to it
We can be more free in our estimates so while we are about it, we might as well do it
It seems that once BE had been exercised, the dam broke and words poured out as from a cornucopia.
And verbs would soon exist in an abundance enough to carry you from here to Ethiopia
Except in the culture of youth where it appears this multitude has been reduced to the deplorable "was like"
To them I am tempted to say: "Learn some real verbs"; OR I would employ a phrasal such as
'On-your-bike!'
The possibilities are now endless particularly if you include the phrasal
Giving us enough elan vital to at least maintain a metabolism basal
So to whoever first said BE, whether God or someone with similar propensities
though another name or description:
I say Well done! I couldn't in my wildest dreams with a wish to create a rich life and culture,
have produced a better prescription
we all have our ups and downs
enjoyed in lesser detail on the upswing
and greater granularity on the corresponding
and subsequent regress to various terrors
the trick is to not obsess and get conned
into the notion of a salvation delivered
by the hand of some Babylonian phantom
all you gotta do is put 2 and 2 together
though finding a 2 that is worth a nickel
could take you an entire youth and middle age
just to get the broken pieces lined up
into a mosaic resembling tomorrow
minus the short circuit spitting sparks
and the usual fluidity of meaning
which will blind-curse your attention
until all air has leaked from the safari tire
until a burst of ketchup feeds the dingo chorus
with a mustard happy face smiling bright
down upon the tree stumps and gravestones
and we all light our farts around the camp fire
to keep our metabolism from turning to Jell-O
allowing the completion of our assignment
to exceed every limit and come back alive
in my case they recovered a hand and an eye
after an encounter with an interstate hauler
freighting a load of maniacal rodents
destined for the blasphemous inventory
at mad Dr. Belknap's zoological mystery garden
Belknap perpetually mourned the loss of spring
funneled his urge for diemortality as he termed it
into a series of undecorous vocal exercises
that often and here found their way into print
but his laboratory marginalia were in tatters
contents time after time eroded away by betrayal
a price placed by lot upon the head of justice
pegged to the free fall of every banker's dollar
making the shadows thick with ignorance
and the tapping telegraph's tremorous alert
arch culprit hopping the Cannonball Express
a Wall St. carte blanche under one arm
and a refrigerated carton of celestial telepathy
under the other in an act of subtle befuddlement
me and the banshee boys waylaid him
in the struggle from birth to now
and I wear his watch around my neck
so he commemorates every swallow
while figuratively hunting
and pecking around me noggin
force hum theme to write about
lo and behold, the solution
stared me right in front
of my little knob nub nose with gentle clout
cuz, as an avid bookworm, the dictionary,
I enjoy expending hours
to drink up etymological history
relating to the origin and
historical development of words
and their meanings.
with no shadow of a doubt
and most times, this animatronic,
the technique of making and operating
lifelike robots, typically for use
in film or other entertainment
dogmatic, enigmatic fugee dooby
brother beastie boy
(actually a mwm) dislikes to flout
his abilities, hobbies, interests,
as aches hike kant imagine being treated for gout
a disease in which defective metabolism
of uric acid causes arthritis, especially
in smaller bones of the feet, deposition
of chalkstones, and episodes of acute pain.
Boot lemme return full circle
to thematic core curriculum aye started to aim
and express gratitude
to the ghost of Noah Webster,
who gets credit yet also blame
if some snide haughty guttersnipe,
some slovenly individual feels snubbed,
and hence, living personage, said descendent(s)
of oblivion, whatever unknown
man or woman to living persons
stake a valid claim
that his/her many generations removed
heir (Harris), and or heiress ancestor (proven
with tangible researched reportage,
then cited with countless
prestigious explorers of English language),
that a daunting scrivener perhaps
even a courtesan or rich dame
rightfully ought to receive the fame,
thus such living relative might
upend the huck cult personality be game
to dare challenge secure historical niche
ambitiously held by Mark Roget (1779–1869),
British physician, natural theologian
and lexicographer. It was released
to the public on 29 April 1852.
The original edition had 15,000 words,
and each new matured edition
of the Thesaurus grew larger.
Last night I met an old boxer in an alley of cardboard; he seemed glad to see me,
shouted me over for a fight, I told him ‘Hey mate, I’m not in your league’
‘Young man.’ He said with glint of victory in his solid brown eyes. ‘That’s alright,
I suppose you’re going to leave cos the forecast is for rain, you in your fine mansion, mine here, just a bloody pain. But then I guess, that’s okay for a foolish old tramp.’
lonesome sadness blues
through the lips of the city…
the eyes are windows
He told me ‘What’s the price of glory if one is shackled to the past. Even my wife left me, took my purse in pursuit of another man. To think I really loved her, gave her all that I could, the witch hankered for the final count, then left me where I stood’ He rambles on discursively ‘One day I’ll roam within my native Devon, where I’ll chase those illusive dreams back into heaven. Its years of abusing whisky years of perpetual hoar frosts that hones this savage beast.’
this fight on its knees
many blind eyes a mismatch…
all have a story
‘How do you think I feel in these chains of formal sorrow, replaying each vintage year each round like no tomorrow, each morning still, I count the homeless, watch the van collect the corpse. Man, I need a second chance to come out gamely fighting, repay life’s referee, society the uninviting.’
incompatible
metabolism a stray…
unfriendly advice
His bottle runs dry, his words begin to wound. Here, In God’s own country left high wide and marooned. Yet like the mortal flame he submits to the desolate night, the municipal van empowered to administer the ultimate rite. No dawn able to invigorate leaves this empty feeling in me, only the morning dew edulcorates while a soul in hell is set free.
careful where you tread
mats to wipe one’s feet upon…
look down you may see
Entered sponsor Mark Toney's 2022 Marathon 19
poem converted from free verse to haibun 2022
3/11/2022