Long Mildewed Poems
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The holiday cabin smelled of wet pigeons
but it was lakeside and cheap.
The lake was not popular,
too deep and weedy for swimming,
too shallow for docking boats,
yet it suited our make-do mindsets.
Of course,
we were romantically attached at the hips,
feet glided upon air
as we wandered upon the pebbly beach
fingers entwined in a dank mist.
Graham crackers and marshmallows
were unpacked
alas the firepit was soaked
with too much leafy fog.
A desultory fire was sparked
in a damp bed beneath a mildewed roof.
We had only tomato soup, tough bagels
and a pack of Marlborough.
We had not planned for chills and hunger.
Inevitably the vacation
grew lukewarm.
Runny noses and sneezes,
the cheesy smell of wet footwear
all seeped deeply into our gestalt,
philosophically
we bailed on the quickly drenched dream,
and each other.
The scent of your soul
A caramelised breeze of fruit odours
reverberating softly through my memory
Throwing me right back in ninth grade
where we sat side by side
Your right arm reaching slightly for my back.
Thoughts of you dwell in my mind
and your name resonates gently with my spirit
carrying me back to the shade
of purple orchids in evergreen woods.
Our first kiss perched upon last autumn's twig
still lingers in early morn's bone-china cup
wafting its pungent aroma of dark roast coffee-beans
and so the smell of rubber tyres against the wind.
Such revoked moments of unknown danger
Of fearless dreams , and defiant fun.
Other moments of beauty and snow angels
Of freedom and moonlights ,sunrise and life.
I can still recall those weeks ,months ,years
till footprints marked separate paths
and our shared candles became the past.
Ah those lazy siestas, those days...those nights...
Sweet as frosty vanilla and chocolate chips of an ice -cream parlour
Melting as spongy marshmallows and honey syrup
Fresh as the linen of your shirt which haunts me
like an alluring glance of almond - shaped eyes.
This afternoon, like other afternoons, I walk to the library
that knows the musky sweat of your palm upon my own.
That fragrance 's gone now . All that is left is a fading perfume
of forgotten petals, between old books and dusty shelves.
Nobody here, except my silence and a rotten sliced apple ,
Vacuum- packed ,lacking both cinnamon and spice.
Back home, the mildewed strings of a guitar await my fingertips
to play once more ,upon the worn out chords of my heart
What willI play , What will I sing , a song that isn't ours ?
Fermented wine I pour into an empty glass
Yearning to taste the grape for what it was
before all it was turned bitter, acidic and sour.
Alone , I wonder where you might be
So far or not so distant ,listening to the mood in my voice
on once upon a record player, Wishing on a star ?
She pulls the past together, gathering weeds,
squeezing minnows of memory through shrinking nets.
My ex-wife phones from a former home,
a village by the sea now sinking
on a shelving shore.
‘Brian the pub-crawler took another tumble
he now gets rat-arsed on his crutches.
They closed the post-office.
the new Indian store don’t sell stamps.’
I see them again through a sludge of low tide.
Some have declined in mildewed cottages,
feet potted and planted,
moving sideways through time.
Some ankles have developed cankles.
The once young dangle baby toes from stout arms.
The elderly then are elderly now.
‘Jack Brown got married again,
his polyps hang like dewlaps.
Elsie Maynard divorced Ken at last,
he’s with a fat woman
that’s got studs in her eyebrows.’
I feel her need to update,
to cover sea walls with new growth or decay.
‘Albert Didcott and his wife Dotty
moved to the new estate.
Their kid – the second youngest,
was knifed on a Saturday night
outside the Kings Head, it was in the papers.’
She fills in features until images floats upward.
The forgotten and remembered
bob between us as bubbles
faces I must push
out of a glass of muddy water.
She pulls the past together,
gathering weeds, twisting kelp,
squeezing minnows of memory
through shrinking nets.
My ex-wife phones
from a former home,
a village by the sea
now sinking
on a shelving shore.
"Brian the pub-crawler
took another tumble
he now gets rat-arsed on his crutches.
They closed the post-office.
the new Indian store don’t sell stamps."
I see them again
through a sludge of low tide.
Some have declined in mildewed cottages,
feet potted and planted,
moving sideways through time.
Some ankles have developed cankles.
The once young
dangle baby toes from stout arms.
The elderly then are elderly now.
"Jack Brown got married again,
his polyps hang like dewlaps.
Elsie Maynard divorced Ken at last,
he’s with a fat woman
that’s got studs in her eyebrows."
I feel her need to update,
to cover sea walls
with new growth or decay.
"Albert Didcott and his wife Dotty
moved to the new estate.
Their kid – the second youngest,
was knifed on a Saturday night
outside the Kings Head.
it was in the papers."
She fills in features
until an image floats upward.
The forgotten and remembered
bob between us as bubbles
faces we push to the center
of a clear glass of muddy water.
We carry small talk above our heads, ceilings drip clouds.
Nothing is put away. Coats dangle over chairs in layers.
Drugged by spate and mizzle, denim droops,
snagged over rummage
and the outstretched arms of impedimenta.
The house awakes to a soft toed patter.
Around us, cuffs pull the roof closer to damp collars,
hangers weep in wardrobes,
while the unhung sink in muddy shallows.
Before the light paddles away, calico, cotton, and shirttails
are rescued, bundled into higher heaps;
the soggy separated from the merely mildewed.
The muddled and fusty raised above an imagined tide.
Tomorrow, front steps will be scoured;
the washed-out made to flap.
Squirrels may walk the earth again,
and if a blotting wind returns, we will wave
from dry bathtubs.
Peace. A sword left covered with its sharpness in a sheath.
The serene wind blows through the mind of a child—
calm, tranquil, forgiving.
Yet quakes swallow its tremors,
and earth refuses to regurgitate its bitterness.
Even when voices are raised,
they end drowned in reason.
Surely, fire must burn with smoke even when quenched by waters,
eyes blazing crimson to show truth’s flared tempers.
But the soil would rather drink raindrops
than the scarlet ink of lost victims.
Yet weapons must ensure the superiority of powers,
and strengthen the tap roots of mighty oaks.
Not even doves that forsook their white
as emblem of no bloodshed
escape the slaughter instinct of men.
So, roundtables may need reshaping to square,
for afflictions to stop going round.
I dreamed of silence without smothered bones…
When ammunition expires in the armory of great armies,
when soldiers’ boots gather cobwebs,
their noses filled with mildewed breath exhaled in glum trenches,
when stale gunpowder fills the barrels of jammed weapons begging reuse.
But guns boom, and their sound blooms.
Silence is louder than the voices against them.
Powers must be flexed.
Peace is filled with the virtue of waiting—
only that patience is already impatient of waiting.
Viola Fuller
1879 – 1909
For it is written in solemn Chinese ideography,
That two women under one roof spells trouble.
For indeed my life found trouble
And death quite early due to influenza.
I spent my leisure hours in China Town
16 miles to the west in old Los Angeles.
Spent hours in the mildewed shops and the seedy cafes.
Finding culture, romance and ruin in the moody moonlight!
Finding spontaneous spasms in the back musty rooms.
It is true Roscoe Settle found my inner source.
He probed for the truth of my deep hidden springs.
Riveting moist springs of passion and sexual majesty.
Together, as like intertwining tied ribbons,
We embraced the spectral fireworks of a multitude of shooting stars!
Embraced the soaring glissandos of life and love!
But in the end
I decided to kill him dead.
I could not bear for one more minute, the other woman,
That other thing named Lottie Gordon.
But it all backfired on me.
For instead, I killed his father,
One Marcus Settle: late of Whittier Town.
Forgive me Providence, for I have sinned.
But in my sin,
I have found eternal rest from my nagging jealousies.
Found eternal peace from the tortuous kisses
Of one Roscoe Settle!
She had many sad stories,
they were filed away, labeled,
color coded;
tales presented as apocryphal bibles.
He would listen as she pulled them out
of her droning breast,
intoned then as if reciting
poetry to an acolyte sponge.
Her stories festered the air
with pitiful sorrows,
scratched yet more stigmata
upon hide-bound woes.
White paper moths would fly up to his eyes
as if to illustrate her narratives;
tissue thin, he would see within them
the many skeletons of her living ghosts,
bones free now of all minerality,
fish-wet and wriggling
in the gel of a long preserved plasma.
He often closed his ears
to make his lips numb. The nasal gnarl
of her broken voice
coated his tongue with sticky commiserations,
a jejune sympathy
that had the texture of mildewed goatskin.
Her words mechanically ticked off
every injustice and persecution
ever heaped upon a martyred mind.
Eventually though, her deep well of mopes
dried to a blubber of sighs.
Then all those emaciated moths
would flutter around her
anointing her echoing skull
with a seeping urine-like substance
she called love.
Lofty oracle did with ceremonious rite fealty ordain
Two eagles soared on fecund mountain terrain
As twin peaks, sipped frothy dew from Venus's fountain
For a fortnight, rapturous clouds danced o'er my satin mane
But euphoric heights could not our platonic bond sustain
Anon, gilded valley below did your wandering eye retrain
Your cresting ego did my cherubic halo disdain
In wanderlust, you sifted greener pastures; drifting swain
Silting the tender lillies with a blighting stain
While from my spent pollen your nimble legs did abstain
As strapping lad, your insatiable mind rippling brooks did drain
Your **** desires drove you to climb the rockiest domain
And with intemperate senses the wildest herbs strain
My domesticated coattails could not stride your brackish train
My sallowing rose did a mildewed ring attain
Yet wilting stalk did in your fluttering shadow remain
Hoping for the cleansing tides of a penitent rain
The scent of your soul
a caramalized breeze of fruit odours
reverbrating softly through my memory
Throwing me right back in ninth grade
where we sat side by side
Your right arm reaching slightly for my back
Your name resonates gently with my spirit
as thoughts of you dwell in my mind
Carrying me back to the shade
of purple grape orchids in evergreen woods
Our first kiss perched upon last autumn's twig
still lingers in early morn's bone-china cup
wafting its pungent aroma of dark roast coffee beans
and so the smell of rubber tyres against the wind
Such revoked moments of unknown danger and defiant fun
Other moments of beauty and snow angels
Of freedom and moonlights,sunrise and life
I can still recall the days,months,and years
till our footprints marked seperate paths
Ah,those days,those last hours,How can I forget?
Sweet as frosty vanilla and chocolate chips of an ice-cream parlour
Melting as spongy marshmallows and honey syrup
Fresh as the colour of every new dream which haunts me
llike an alluring glance of almond-shaped eyes
This afternoon,like other afternoons I walk to the library
which knows the musky sweat of your palm upon my own
That fragrance 's gone now,all that is left is the fading perfume
of forgotten petals between old books and dust
No one here except my silence ,and a rotten sliced apple
vacuum packed,lacking its cinnamon and even its spice.
Back home the mildewed strings of a guitar
await my fingertips to play once more
upon the worn out chords of my vacant heart
What will I play,what will I sing,a song which isn't ours?
Fermented wine I poured into a glass
Yearning to taste its purple grape for what it was
before all it was turned out bitter,acidic and sour
I wondered about where you might be,distant or not as far
Listening to my voice on once upon a record player
Or Wishing on a star ?
A repost (written : 10/15/2014