Long Mongrels Poems
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My face tells me nothing. Not nothing but nothing useful,
the complications of ageing humorously but not how to avoid
injury.
Permanent injury is a now popular cliché. At this age any injury
could result in pneumonia, pain in bitterness for your peers,
your jury.
What a headache I have! And never forget injury provokes
at best only pity. Friends are merely friendly, they belong to the
majority.
They forget your name and so should you, who are you? Even you
don't know for sure. In relation to community, no change was noted in
the
registry.
Still, man's mercy, economy's ecology, there's some joy in being small,
some joy in staying strong, and keeping death before you without
perjury.
Unsafe to run the wind. A big stick might hit your head. Then
the hip and heart and head will hurt, all three. Un-
fortunately.
I like a strong wind. Dangerous to go out in. As a fire or flood.
I like the way we are at risk, not a risk-averse weasel. A carnivore,
very hungry.
Pay money, take chances. Yo's an elegant contraction of you.
Cool. Message from street to board: mongrels rule. Democracy or
tyranny.
Scared to die? Why? Take appropriate measures, descend through
meditation. Be empty, rest. And to your friends and sons be as
gravity.
Tired of death. It's what it is. Let's play sports, have sex, kayak
to the huckleberries, fish for marvelous fish, live a wonderful life, give
generously.
Done blowing, O wild wind? Not yet? So be it. I lay my head
in your felt hands. The motion of the branches, evolutionary branches,
are my
guarantee.
That's all folks, 7:30. The sky is clear, the crows are out. The clouds
are with my mood commensurate. I should shout, having lived
prodigiously.
Assorted shades are walking down the street and it is not fashion week, the mongrels are walking around the town selling bake goods and delicate cookies to the people they meet, then they put a brochure in the people’s pockets and tell them that they look slick. I have seen these faces before loitering behind the parliament doors occupying places in the lobby and always pretend as if they are in a hurry.
Different shades are staring through the window, their faces are drenched in sorrows, the melanin is gone out of their skin and there is no pigment within, but the birds eyes are looking for a bligh to cross over the other side.
Look at the shades in the skies and map the image before you die, the rain has just gone out of the clouds but shades on top of the hill is still hanging around, it only appears after a shower and that is something from nature that you cannot change; it is a symbol of his promise that the earth will flourish when the shades lit up the sky,
Lovers and companion meets underneath the apple tree to talk about their dreams love and passion burns in the dark and shady words wrapped around his lips deny that he was anxious about her hair texture. She could hear the uneasiness in his voice and sometimes she wants to cry so she digs a little deeper to expose the matter.
“Do I look beautiful to you when I wear this new pair of shoe? What about my hair texture? Do you think that I am in deep despair when I keep the texture of my hair? I am comfortable with my looks and I am happy with my shoe, all I need is for you to accept me with or without heels, but if a new makeover is what you need, I will go ahead with the deal without the Botox if that will change the way how you feel.”
He stared at her for a while and then he began to smile, and the words she spoke settled his troubled soul and his midnight worries suddenly disappears and night turn into day but when the deal was done he could not recognize her as the same one but the love they had from the start never goes away.
T'was the day of Thanksgiving,
All was nice and set;
We never had a clue,
As to what we would get!
Clara soaked her dentures,
There, at our table;
Pete sat in the rocker,
And began to watch cable
The aroma of turkey,
Seeped through our door;
Stirring up bellies,
Like never before
Those who were family,
Invited their friends;
Our mother was gracious,
And kindly let them in
With elbows on the table,
No one cared to pray;
We were destined for trouble,
Upon that very day
The turkey was gobbled,
Cranberry stuffing too;
Pumpkin pies were missing,
What on earth did we do?!
Football on the flat screen,
They were packed in our den;
Where's the resemblence?
They don't look like my kin!
Grandpa's on the sofa,
Bless his weary heart;
GREAT GOSH ALMIGHTY!!
He just ripped a fart!
Papa was fuming,
He began to shed a tear;
One of those mongrels,
Drank up his beer!
Kissin' and huggin',
Beyond the bathroom door;
Folks were gettin' busy,
On the tile of our floor!
Continued in Part II...
I’s got six kids
Six mongrel dogs
Living in one bed broken down shack
From six whisky drinkin’ hogs
And a v8, v8 Cadillac parked out back
Yes I have six children
Nine months apart
Gots to buy six dozen nappies
From the second had counter at Wallmart
Once for experience
And I did it twice
Because it was nice
I saw my new woman
Walking down the road
She was walkin funny
The way she strolled
I thought it was through all my lovin’
But she had a bun in the oven
Once for experience
And I did it thrice
Because twice was nice
Now I have seven kids
Seven dog gone mongrels
Living in one bed broken down shack
From seven whisky drinkin’ hogs
And a v8, Cadillac with a box caravan parked out back
Mixed Messages
One last ticket.
One last seat on the train.
Running fast,
to make it, before there is
no chance to escape,
the fate of the ages.
Stone statues,
frozen in time...
put up, taken down,
pulled apart and destroyed.
Toys to the elites,
making sweeping decisions...
that effect us all.
Shooting rays at the sun,
that warms our world.
There... there is life bleeding out,
in torrents of colors,
red, gold, blue, and even green.
Soon there will be
no living thing...
left.
The rich man buys up acres,
and lets the land go fallow.
The homeless starve in their tents
downtown.
Food lines, and riots by pirates,
a caravan of the starving
mongrels, zombies,
and the lost.
The journey coming to an end,
the roller skates stopped on the concrete...
signs that say go home,
but there is nowhere to go.
She is a sop to insanity, a foreign minister that sounds off like a gong.' With such alien love
She is imbued, of all things strange.' And imported shoes..' all the time she's been around, we've watched living Aussies driven into the ground' hope assailed and
Men denigrated, women disenfranchised
My nerves; are by now raw grated, i've known cross-eyed mongrels, with a better view; of
Aussie values, ya-know? just things true blue..Like safe streets. And parks' like beaches and lakes, instead its
The chop-suey
Only; menu..Or an empty plate, I'll swear she trading noodles, for spaghetti sticks
As albo, creams of millions..
Its sick sick sick.' And things really won't
get better.' All the time this
Wong one, keeps.' Sending off; all
those loaded red letters.'
Continued from Part 1
“Upon your knees in golden naves, while peeking through the slots,
You horded thirty silver pieces, downed a whiskey shot,
Then crossed yourself and wrapped yourself in furs of ocelots,
And danced on cleated cloven hoofs in purple polka-dots,
Then drank His blood from chalice cups with pious afterthoughts.
“You’ve treated men like mongrels chained, like little flies to swat,
By doing what you wanted to, instead of what you aught;
You’ve wiped your nose with dollar bills and paid your serfs with snot,
But when you’ve paused to preen your pride, you’ve scrubbed a scarlet blot.
“In ashes of our victories: the diamonds that you sought,
The crock of gold, the Golden fleece of bogus Argonauts -
In mirrors of your lifelessness, the evils you begot.
“The haunted winds strew leaves of time across a shallow plot
Where now, beneath the frozen stones blanched bodies bathe in rot,
Disintegrate, return to dust to feed Forget-Me-Nots
Amidst the bane and pits of pain where broken bones lie caught.
“In fields above the catacombs and tombs of Camelot
The black and withered tree of Death arises from the spot
Where oft beneath a bleeding moon you hid your gold in pots
Embedding doubts neath barren bogs where roots of wormwood squat.
“While waiting at the river Styx, in twisted time untaught,
From branches of the gallows tree, in recollections wrought,
Your soul, a beggar’s blanket, hangs in crazy quilted knots,
With dangling pearls and diamond studs mid dripping crimson clots
And gaping wounds with bulging eyes like fouling apricots,
For wrapped in chains around your throat, the Reaper’s grim garrote.”
Yes, that’s the fate of all your kind, disclosed by Wise Men taught.
But that was, oh, so long ago, by now you have forgot…
End
On the wall standing
Amidst the danger encroaching
Mirrors the alligator’s razors
Securely entrenched in mud waiting
A boa slides into the deep...
The seconds tick amicably.
A table for two served yet again
Another tango about to be untangled
Periodic busts of water
Jet from the sighing sea...
A canoe capsizes
In this noonday medley
A suckling amidst the troubled current
Heads gaily for the sea’s bed...
Another scene, the serene sea
Running a sapid gold hue
Allows a fluttering dove above admiringly
To the nonchalant glare
In the distant horizon
Of the setting sun.
Afar the mongrels howl
At grotesque elements from hade...
Suddenly Andromeda hurtles through the sky
In search of her Medusa-defeated lover
Provoking Hercules into a riotous laughter
As its echoes furious might does Atlantis in...
"The Goodbye Road"
Glass slippers
cut roads clean
like diamonds
they dance through the storm
and Yellow is just a colour
ribbon tied around a tree
never Gold
Monkeys fly
flattering mongrels
who walk the lonely roads
always on their own
with soft feathered 'friends',
soap sudded soupy vowels
and horny (backed) toads
Christmas
comes and goes
Unicorns are ridden
until their jewels 'n horns 'n hearts are torn
Everything in a suspended world
glows sunset in mystical rose
The last poem you wrote
is always the last ode
Poems drip off a tongue
whispering
to the vast global empty zone
like blood slides
down a sword
like dropping crumbs
to the silent
dog whistles
and absent jingle bells
baptised slowly by
too much brandy
egg nog whiskered
licking Life's
luscious lips
mistletoe led
snookered
ray bans on
8 ball holy holed
Road Home
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
Christmas/New Years
gvlm
“Goodbye Yellow Brick Road – Sara Bareilles”
https://youtu.be/5vtguBvC-zk
"’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe."
Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There.
"Permanently on the "Naughty" List"/Anonymous
....and I haven't even started making the Rum Balls yet...
regards,
somewhere,
lost in OZ.
yeah, I know, you ALL love me. Hard not to. x
LYRICS/ Goodbye Yellowbrick Road/Elton John
https://genius.com/Elton-john-goodbye-yellow-brick-road-lyrics
I told my boss this was a job I didn’t relish
Reports so far deemed this Elfin war rather hellish.
Troops had crossed the border and entered the valley.
So far we didn’t have a death or injury tally.
I entered the tavern, only a mile from the enemy line.
The locals seemed relaxed and all seemed fine.
I sat at a table with three burly men drinking beer.
They didn't seem to mind me being here.
Introduced myself as a war correspondent.
After I ordered them all another beer they were very respondent.
Eager to tell me what they knew of the Elfin war.
At that time, I didn’t realize what I had in store.
I urged them to go on and tell me much more
Soon others in the pub, heard the tales and began to chip in.
First hand accounts of fighting they saw, I hardly knew where to begin.
Seems the fighting was very tactical. The rebels would advance to attack,
The allied Army was ready and their weapons would force them back.
Evidentially a local man, a sergeant of note, was injured by a blast.
He wandered in the way of a hand grenade, on his patrol as he passed.
Most stories were of artillery fire being heard in the morning hours.
Patrons of the tavern didn't seem too perturbed about the rebels powers.
Confidence reined in the army from what they could see.
The publican joined us with a round of beer saying these are free.
”Laddy, I am sure you’ll want to mention this home spun brew.
The best brewed beer and everyone loves it, your readers will too.
It’s called Ellery Tavern Lager. We make it right here in town.”
“He’ll only be interested if the mongrels burn the factory down”
I was feeling light headed, lost count of the number of beers I had.
Went to stand up and realized I was feeling rather shaky and quite bad.
My trusty tape recorder, had some good stories for me to write.
Wandering out to get some fresh air I took some photos before night.