Long Moan Poems
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I sit there on that wooden bench, simply sitting. I am not waiting for someone, not for anything. Sunlight peeks through the leaves of the two oak trees whose branches are mingling above my head. It is pleasant to feel its warmth. There is no reason for me to be outside other than the cigarette resting between my middle and index fingers. I walked down three flights of stairs to simply sit and smoke and be judged by the occasional passersby. I lift the cigarette to my lips and place it there gently. It sort of dangles there as I light the lighter in one hand and cup the other around the flame to protect it from a nonexistent breeze in the dry Southern heat. I suck in, trying to puff, which is hard to do without a hand to steady the cigarette, but it is lit and that is what matters. I take a deep drag, deep into my lungs, deep into my soul, and I can feel the calm wash over me. The nicotine is my oxygen; I can’t breathe without it sometimes. I blow the smoke out, admiring its delicious taste and scent. I like to hold the slowly smoldering cigarette in my right hand and then smoke out of the left side of my mouth. The way I hold it makes me look like a nineteen-forties gangster. I like that. Sitting there, on my wooden bench, I react. I don’t moan in ecstasy and I don’t close my eyes in pleasure. I don’t take it for granted and I don’t have a habit. I just enjoy my cigarette, no more and no less than it ever should have been. As it slowly converts itself into smoke and ashes I think to myself that most people probably wonder why an eighteen year old in this day and age would choose to take up smoking. At least I assume that is what the occasional passerby must be thinking when they see me sitting here on this wooden bench, for no other reason than to smoke the cigarette in my hand right now. I wonder what I would say if any one of them ever bothered to ask me. Because I want to, I would reply before standing, putting out my cigarette, and walking away. I look down and see that if I took another drag I would be smoking the filter. So I stand, put out my cigarette, and walk away. I walk away from the sunlight, from the two oak trees, and that wooden bench. I walk away with my fingers smelling like nicotine and that makes me smile because I know that I will sit at that wooden bench tomorrow to do the same exact thing. I know because that is what I did yesterday.
...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.
Descending,
I manipulate and manoeuvre for the updraft
Spluttering,
I spiral down, then briefly up again, to glimpse a glowing sky
Flapping,
I fall forever faster, flat-eagled
Plunging,
I watch the unwelcome gloom envelope my horizon
Tumbling,
I twist, turn and turbulate, ... then the thudding thump
Gasping,
I groan and exhale, a noiseless moan
Curling,
I recoil as innards become outward form
Emerging,
a base inside-out creature crawls and creeps
Tasting,
the tongue-tied intestines and the unseeing socket eyes
Groping,
a gruesome grub befriends the worm and slurps the slug-slime
Engorging,
as flaunted members flail blood and flick licky, sticky fluid
Reforming,
dim visions populate carnal shapes with awful movement
Gaping,
a fearful half-formed and startled face averts its gaze
Residing,
in deep gutter niches... these are my companion dwellers
Wallowing,
I sniff a redolent upswell of dank fissured earth
Disturbing,
I scrape, cleave and wipe away a smear of covering soil
Trembling,
I sense a warmth of body, a stretching of exotic wings
Enquiring,
I mutter clumsy overtures and crude enticements
Retreating,
I hear unmistaken rebuke and a sigh of disappointment
Imploring,
I elevate my utterances and seek a further hearing
Caressing,
I feel a welcoming and forgiving response
Pulsing,
the creature's cocoon gives way to nebulous female form
Ascending,
at first a cherub woman smiles playfully down on me
Transforming,
a stimulating and sensuous siren cavorts and teases
Uplifting,
wings gather me in for a swooping flight of fancy
Revealing,
from above, her intimate view of dwellers in the hinterland
Coaxing,
she fills me now with empathy and understanding
Alighting,
my body-mind lies prone beneath her
Tingling,
I feel her form and thoughts slowly enter and encompass me
Exploring,
I arouse and we gently probe between lips and sphincter
Delving,
I follow our rhythm of kiss, taste, touch and thrust
Wandering,
I experience our ambiguous male and female desire
Playing,
I laugh at how we tickle our innocence and sophistication
Loving,
I know for delirious moments what it is to be another
Consumed,
lost in coexistence with a like- but more extraordinary- mind
I hail thee ruins of Indus Vale!
With scented rhyme, with scented gale
Come on from world of mortal dead!
O come and lively wind inhale!
More ancient than the pyramids
That rule on ancient Egypt land
Thy wild wild eyes, with thy soft lids
They gazed on shimmering Indus sand
I will inhale thy breath in breath
O harken me from vale of death
(11)
I mount uphill, Thy citadel
And stood for hours Stony still
I saw minarets there in row
They fail and bow, all in thy woe
O stupa speak! from yonder peak!
Thy all worshippers where they go
In fog , in sun, while needles run
Thou standing lone in midst of woe!
I haven't seen a single soul
They faded all in mist and snow
Oh lonesome temple don't be sad
They will come and I vow they will
In evening smiles , my heart beguiles
Thy silver meads lay several miles
Thy rich forests of days of yore
Thy ancient seals and gods and kings
O life stop thou, O time come back
In courts I hear the bell that rings
Oh let me breathe, let me for while
Oh fortune for once for me smile
(111)
O lower town, Why thou breakdown
Thy aging speed , may thou slow down
Thy tourists standing by thy sides
All talking of the Times and tides
Thy rooms and wards, o nature yard
All tied devotees thine with cord
They want to dwell in heart of thine
They come and stand and for thee pine
O may phantoms of bygone time
Tell stories them in tune and rhyme
With help and love of Eden Lord
Whose seraphs are thy meadows guard
( ...)
O whistling toys, of girls and boys
In graves of stone why heave thou sighs
O happy ruins with face so fair
From thousand centuries slept thou there
Forgotten by the madding race
Then thou begot a heart sincere
Who wake thee from thy beauty sleep?
From fathoms deep wherest thou live
Wherest thou sob and moan and weep!
I pay homage to Cunningham
Who found thee there in seven three
Then came thy lover Daya Ram
Who thee from heaps of mud set free
Thy lips of ice, why not rejoice
Thou gaze this world with wild wild eyes
(...)
Thy fowls thy sheep, lie half asleep
In meadow green in forest deep
Thousands and thousands years passed by
My far off sky , he smiled he weep
When from thy beauteous Indus plains
The robbers carried thy remains
Thy ancient bricks, all gems of past
Continued
...So why do we keep ghosts in here
when by the day many folks die?
Well, you see, it’s technology,
it tears them apart from the inside.
Since they are merely energy
all the fields from our gadgets and toys
scatter their essence all about,
it’s a fate free ghosts can’t avoid.
These ones here we were lucky to save,
and we need to find more all the time,
some go to heaven, others to hell,
each morn we know not what we’ll find!
Nearby is the mummy’s lair,
and it causes controversy,
some say that they shouldn’t be here,
that they are just dressed-up zombies.
Others claim it’s a magic thing,
which makes them a whole other clade,
I honestly don’t’ care that much,
the people come see them in spades.
Some were even Egyptian pharaohs,
though which, we’re not really sure,
professors have tried to talk to them,
to see what history they can learn.
Hollywood has rented them out
for their movies, and they pay so well,
sometimes they seem to try to speak,
though what they say, no one can tell.
Most people like to hear them moan,
like they did in the films of old,
did you know mummies really do that?
And if they catch you they’ll grab hold?
Sadly, they do not do much more.
We don’t see them often these days,
not many folks still mummify,
and the old ones have been grave-robbed,
in the wild they don’t survive.
Keeping them stocked up with linen
makes all the zookeeper’s tired,
but let’s down to the big show,
the place where we keep the vampires.
Now these guys are a unique case,
since they’re not critters, but our guests,
they’re sentient like human beings,
to lock them would be to oppress.
We build them big apartments here,
with a back-room facing the zoo,
we pay them to visit with folks,
and tell lots of stories to you.
Since vampires are immortal
so many great tales can they share,
want to know how Jesus Christ died?
Well our guy Julius was there!
They can leave any time of course,
some of them even punch the clock.
Wilhelm is a security guard,
walks the night shift like any cop.
Some thing, but won’t he feed on folks?
It hasn’t been that was for years,
since transfusions and blood banks came
there has been no reason to fear.
They no longer had to kill people,
staying alive didn’t mean murder,
they’d get their pints, go on their way,
no reason to bite folks or disturb...
CONCLUDES IN PART IV.
Many a poet I know a fool
acting like they know-it-all
many a poet I know a tool
acting like "Mr Poet-all"
unknowingly showing me
their knowledge of poetry
has boundaries surrounding
ideas rebounding around
their impounded grounds
only seeing the same repeatedly
nothing new unfortunately
forever under lock and key
belittling anything new they see.
As a poet I'm not especially traditional
more so "special" writing additional
my raw and new to poetry style
unlike those into poetry awhile
so can I now pick the thoughts
of a traditional poet know-it-all
I believe to be caught in restriction walls
appearing to parrot what taught in schools
see if I perceive conviction in their cause
or robotic perspective their memory stores
too Inspect credentials for signs set in stone
content or unambitious toward the unknown
should I see respect or a moody moan
for new styles outside their own zone
Seemingly their priority is to teach all to try to be
writing unoriginally prevent the mind think free
in a strictly stricken view I see crippling you
never trying new or seeking something else to do
you have regulations on how creativity is written
preventing inspiration thus so negatively driven
speculating with unchallenged repetition
as though been tutored to a limit
you're now failing to ascend merited
having starved all but within it.
So please respect my detected inclination at play
but poetry is a creative artform not set in its ways
and those paved paths you pace and wear thin
were once unpaved before their now adored placing
so shouldn't a creative artform progress and not stay there
wouldn't it go on new quests paving unpaved or
invent realise and find in amaze ways new spaces
not be assigned a confined station like railways
instead seek to new roads or train to fly the skies
cus a closed off mind concealed in a cocoon
denies the butterfly wings the room
like a inverted narrow mind blinds clues
let's preserve and branch from the lay of the track
if poetry stays then poetry slacks but if adapts
poetry won't wear weak crumble and crack
recycling the same will only sink in to the black
I don't want to conform to the common or normal
because I see it as a creative short fall.
So why refuse new styles when you could embrace all poetry?
are you a poet or are you a phoney?
Warning - Mature.
Sweet night, a blanket made from scented space - holds this would-be poet in its arms.
Tightly - yet with care. Caring - yet with passion. Smiles her heart. Trembles her dreams. Hides them silverine in moments indescribable. Night caresses her spirit with unspoken thoughts, echoing from places foreign to her understanding.
From time taken by liberties, he waits, stubbled chin resting in broad cupped palm. He longs for her. Needs in the flame of passion's roar to fly that time long laid in stone.
Clouds drift. Days flee. Eons wreak weather to endless confusion. Creatures fall within time. Fossils lie crushed in their past. Ocean drowns land. Land erupts from water. Breathing rents the air. One step. A second. Knees buckle. She waits in her wondering why and what.
Hidden within cloud where the highest mountains touch the sky, the man sits. Alone, he is, wrapped in silence. He groans, wanting. Weeps. Prays to the gods, calls to the elements. Weeps more.
A sound, gentle, soft said, drifts space. Man hears. Wonders. Frowns. Understands. Wanting becomes pain. He groans. He moans. He laughs! Somewhere, she sleeps!
A rippled breath gasps my palm,
floats 'tween fingers flexed,
darts space behind my ear, laughs my neck
caressing thoughts I've not yet dreamed..
what language now,
what meanings, what delight,
pray tell?
you touch me with a hint of
honeyed power -
oh sybarite -
wrap me in heat so high I sizzle in my sleep..
look me.. sheet rushed aside I wait,
I moan, I sigh
to float 'tween fingers formed too much,
intentions still unsure but now.. oh now..
you lean forward
closer..
closer..
inhaling deeply..
sensing my gender
sighing -
sighing yet more
until..
temptation dared
and passion flared
I soar, I fly,
thereby -
thereby
however perceived
evol becomes reality
turned inside out upon its cap of what you will
emotions motion..
tumble in
turn and
turnabout,
spinning words, knitting language into shape..
explorers of such subjects
binding heart to hope and - yes
exotic inamorati all,
lie bed or floor or chair or shore
let loose that secret word
that spell - that lost civility
from A past where and when
when
one word
once found
once felt
once shared
was is forever..
love
I chuckle soft when people fume,
And blame the lot in suits and gloom.
“You see those leaders? All a scam!”
But who’s still selling free yarn?
Was it not your own cousin’s name,
On that campaign with matching frame?
The nurse who sighs, “This ward’s a zoo,”
Still checks her brows in selfie view.
She posts, “On duty, Lord be praised,”
While someone’s gasping, soul half-raised.
Yet when they moan the state’s unwell,
She nods, “It’s true,” then rings the bell.
The lecturer, with paunch and tie,
Reads ancient notes with weary sigh.
He shares some grades with knowing nod,
Then says, “This country’s truly flawed.”
He blames the youth for lack of grit—
While half his class just pays to sit.
The copper parked on potholed street,
Asks, “Where’s your licence? Papers neat?”
He grins, “Let’s talk,” with greasy grin,
While tucking morning bribes within.
By noon he’s shouting on the news—
“Society’s gone down the loos!”
We roast the system every day,
With memes and gifs in strong array.
Yet scroll past queues to dodge the vote,
Then mourn when goats are running boats.
We ask for change, yet shift no ground—
Just echo tweets that spin around.
The tailor swears, “Your cloth’s near done,”
But dances at his niece’s fun.
The mechanic says your car’s in queue,
But joyrides round like Fast & Few.
Then tells his mates, “This land’s a mess!”
While wearing shoes you just redressed.
The market lady shifts her scale,
And bags your rice with hidden shale.
The youth who screams, “We must rebel!”
Still ghosts his friend to chase one belle.
We all want justice, loud and bold—
But sow deceit like coins of old.
The pastor thunders, “Give and live!”
Then buys a Benz you helped to give.
He claims the Lord approves his flight,
While dodging tax in holy light.
He’s not alone—we’re in this stew,
From deacon’s pew to bus queue too.
So when next time you curse “the throne,”
Recall—it doesn’t stand alone.
That golden seat’s not self-assigned,
It’s built from all we’ve undermined.
To mend the roof, don’t shout and frown—
Pick up a spade, rebuild your town.
You want clear roads? Then drive with sense.
You want fair rules? Then stop the fence.
It’s not by screaming, “God will run it!”
While jumping queues with cheek and sonnet.
The mirror’s clear, it doesn’t bluff—
We are the system. That’s enough.
A Song With no Name
From my grandfather and my dad and performed by their son and grandson, me.
It was an old melody with no name of a ballad my grandfather wrote a long time ago.
The melody was soft and mesmerizing creating a feeling of melancholy. One couldn’t help but feel the love, though the sadness was the melody itself with ambiguous, bluesy sounds that contrasted with our emotions.
As a child, I recalled how my father had gone off to war under the guise of killing commies, but had died there in a muddy hole in Vietnam; souring the celebration of his sacrifice.
But this was a beautifully written melody.
Blue notes written in the right places left us feeling the absence of love. I played it on my trumpet muted with a Harmon mute giving the piece a sorrowfulness ala Miles Davis playing in his Blue in Green record.
Later, I came upon a lyric written by my father stuffed in an old satchel, I took it and merged it with the music and got a singer to sing it and when the people heard it there was not a dry eye to be seen.
When you heard the lyric your heart jumped out of your chest.Though the only word LOVE that was mentioned came at the end but with the bass playing low Tibetan-like notes being held to the end; one felt it soul deep.
I whispered into the mike, “To my dad and granddad, I love you and miss you.That ended the ballad, but the bass sounds of the diminuendo were haunting coming to a final moan slowly vanishing to a soft triple pianissimo.
The crowd remained silent for a few minutes
then erupted in a five minute standing “O”.
I simply told the audience, “I never knew my grandfather, in fact, I barely knew my father, and any musical talents I may have were gifts from them. I found the sheet music among my grandfather’s things and later I found the lyric was written by my father.
“My performance tonight was my tribute of love to them. I’m grateful to have performed their song for you from them with great gratitude I accept your applause on their behalf.
And to paraphrase the great Lou Gehrig, the New York Yankees Hall of Fame first baseman, who retired in Yankee Stadium overfilled with his fans, in his speech he said,
‘Today, I am the luckiest man in the world. Well, ladies and gentlemen tonight, I am the luckiest son and grandson in the world, thank you for acknowledging their sensitive hearts.”
Mince Meat Pie No Lie
Oh great! Found that some guy forgot to stipulate
How he knows people hate to wait or set a date
Important enough and already been accentuated
And, would you believe, destroyed, defecated and then defalcated.
Then you had arrived at the problem that could possibly be
While she really scarred the heck out of you as well as me
It happened to be Hillary wearing a wise old owl disguise
Found in boxes bond for Bombay much to my surprise.
She had a not only great idea but one which was ingenious
Like and old oscillating owl had a face being the meanest
And after be shown and while looking at it day by day
Someone started to toot and trump song saying stay away (Not no way Jose'.)
Next thing we found was owls only fly in a single formidable formation
Not knowing if it was done out of inspiration or desolate desperation
After having been found flying over Flint looking for water to be drinking
That is when this itty bitty troubled owl really started to thinking.
Water color seemed so cruddy and glass stood singular and all alone
On shelf while many makeshift people would moan and groan
Which is when Hillary had come up with another idea being so wild
What if we were to begin conducting an experiment of each child.
On their each table several glasses of water they would start to place
To see that when each one would drink who made strangest, oddest face
Then again oddly enough researchers data they did determine to decipher
Answers to questions and observations children had handed over to offer.
Now why would any maniac or moron ever try to seem and become so mean
Who had abused their own bodies and no longer were a health food fiend
Then with their own selves, education and experience became entranced
At abundance of cruddy urine color running down each poor baby's pants.
Franticly and finally many ill-advised answers they had come across
What was decided is that all of it and whole thing had created a lost cause
And after many words were thought of, brought together and they would mince
Those who have minds mixing with their water will meet with lower intelligence.
James Thesarious Hilarious Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
Like everything else of course there always has to be a catch
Prerequisite for reading this is imagination being able to stretch.