Long Mouthfuls Poems
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Timmy Jimmy O'Blimey was a boy who loved Christmas and joyful happy faces
So when he saw an old man living on the street with nothing to eat, he felt sad
Though small of frame his carousel mind was gigantically full of good thoughts for his next of kin. He had to do something to help Dippity Do man with sticky hands find a home for the Holidays and he knew, just what to do.
Inside the pantry he found oodles of bags of peppermint chocolates from mom's private stash. He filled his back pack and returned to the street to find his Project.
Leaving a trail of chocolates behind he kept walking "there is more where that came from" The old man frail and boney started walking behind the young boy.
Into a shower he was shoved while Tim ran to his fathers room and picked
an old suit that had been discarded in the back of the closet.
Holding hands they came into the dining room spiffed up. One had a toothy smile and the other was a toothless vision of grace under fire.
"Meet Uncle Bob," Timmy said, then sat him down at the head of the table.
Dad scratched his head thinking "who the hell is this" mom knitted her brows
" dam I forgot the mashed potatoes "
Diner was sweet, Uncle Bob's eyes were like two bright copper pennies of tinseled light. Between mouthfuls of food Uncle Bob leaned over to Tim and whispered, " By the way son, its Uncle Steve." but then he realized his name was of no concern to this nice family. Dad picked up the carving knife and quietly began to cleave the turkey.
Breathe laden islands rise and fall beneath the lap
of crystalline water, a steam graced surface breached,
rosettes crest, their gently risings peaks to cap
mouthfuls of desire whose lower gate's lie unbreached.
Submerged beneath chest's hollow lies a navel fine
the round perfection of its form longs, for pointed tongue.
A sweeter base can't be found 'bove the water line
yet, men would gladly drown to go below hips clung.
Below, down deep, nectar bathes the pristine pearl,
and petals, rose-red gently part in delight.
The heat, the steam the bath, and the lovely girl
perhaps, perhaps, he thinks, we'll make of this a night.
Date: 3/6/13
Dearest Prof –
I did not title them:
These ever-ready logs
Ready to assemble ants of cowries;
They dance from sea to land
Wishing to be titled by exigent gods
Who watch over their lonely coronations
Lavished with sacrificial songs!
I did not title them:
Pot-bellied officees of faculties
Chewing mouthfuls of the land’s laws
Their neighbours:
Half-truthful goblins of tax-collectors
The smiling kick-backers
And officees of admissions –
Who titled these men?
Dearest Prof –
Many are these titled men of today
Are they found everywhere?
Do they mount uniformed road-blocks
As we pass safety-roads without eyes?
Head-strong: are their skulls also fragile?
Could the husk of a tax-collectors mouth
Eat the husks of his pot’s bottom?
Who titled these men?
Matching boldly with wrong titles?
Of course, the red-caps of the under world
Visited the newly world-renowned ref
(Prof, a roused lad heard it told!)
Did they leave the corpse by the ref?
Sadistic: are they also shrewdly fraternal?
I cannot lavish the sacred lines.
Form:
The chirr of parched insect wings –
bible dust preaching
from long abandoned boots.
Baked into the sky
homesteads linger on the burnt stumps
of exhausted summers.
Dander creaks on dry porches,
wardrobes and rooms open
in a denim haze.
Homesteaders planted a light here
then at days end
dug it up
in earthen mouthfuls.
Aprons were filled, table-tops charged.
Out of the back of a model T
a dapper man sells brushes,
he speaks of things unfarmed
the Brylcreem shine of city sights
until she is swept away.
Such moments go unrecorded
unless by chance you find
a strand of long hair
whipping astray on a skewed field gate.
~~~~
edit
They would ripen all at once
under a hot sun and hang
in a sugary glut only for a day
or two before starting to spoil.
I had to be quick and when
the time came,
I hurried home
from school to clamber up
the tree and seize
the fruit. Each was a warm,
engorged globe of flesh
with just a hint of give
when a finger was pressed
into skin.
No command,
not even from God,
could have held back a bite.
Mouthfuls of sweet peach
sent every pleasure bud
on the tongue into a spasm
and spilt the overload
oozing out of the corners
of stretched lips.
Great gulps
were hurried down the throat
to make room for another bite.
No savoring restraint held
me back, this was volume.
All afternoon
my face and hands
dripped a sticky syrup,
coating my shirt.
Finally I would have my fill
and sit bloated beneath
the tree surrounded
by peachstones some still
encased in leftovers
of pinkish flesh. Sorry evidence
to convict. Afterwards,
a terrible remorse always
took hold. Next day
I thought my stomach ache
was punishment from above.
Every year of my childhood,
in the heat of late summer,
I repeated the same sin,
suffered the same consequence,
hoped for forgiveness
from a wrathful God.
I was born all innocent
I was taught about truth and lies at church
and nuns at school-
they would say, confess your lies (so I made some up)
I would bow my head repeating, lie, lie, lie
and would tell the priest some real good ones
I had imagination . . .
but I was a child-
I learned about truth later
and about people with mouthfuls of lies
lies, (hiding beneath)
I love you, is the worse one and hurts the most
oh, hurt me with truth
I am worth honesty
I will survive truth but a lie never (ever fades away) . . .
Unspoken lies- I hold within me, yes, I lie to me
making excuses and looking away
trying to protect
to not hurt those I love and care about
but would they think my truth a lie-
so, I tell lies, lies, lies (and even more lies)
I learned that at church
I told mother a lie . . .
when death loomed I took her hand
and told her that she would be alright (I lied)
beneath my lie- a dagger plunged
deep into my heart and it is still there bleeding
oh yes, I know how to lie
but it is me, myself and I, who suffers beneath all
the (lies and truth) with a soul
forever scarred . . .
_______________________
February 10, 2017
Poetry/Free Verse/Beneath The Lies
Copyright Protected, ID 17- 874-072-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
What Lies Beneath The Lies Contest
sponsor, John Lawless
Second Place
picked food is complex
hard to grow, with goodness sparse
slow to chew, digest
native creatures evolved
balancing, yield, taste, and toil
mouthfuls interlaced
fiber, protein, starch, cells, grit
a feast in wholemeal
hunger sated, kept at bay
with low-density nurture
then came processing
oils distilled to easy fare,
grains stripped to white ghost
sugar added to boost taste
complexity was erased
Sweetness in a flash
fat that melts before the tongue
salt sharpening crave
a banquet turned to quick hits
food factories replaced fields
food calorie dense
drove people to gorge too much
with same portion size
so they all became obese
as their bodies begged for more
evidence is clear
just see how fast, how sudden
Polynesians who
adopted Western diets
became fat and unhealthy
rich over-processed
food mutes satiety's bell
body asks for more
calorie-dense concoctions
devoid of complexity
The chirr of parched insect wings –
bible dust preaching
from long abandoned boots.
Baked into the sky,
homesteads linger on the burnt stumps
of exhausted summers.
Dander creaks on dry porches.
Fallow rooms open wardrobes
in a denim haze.
Homesteaders planted a light here,
then at days end,
dug it up
in earthen mouthfuls.
Aprons were filled,
table-tops charged.
Out of the back of a model T
a dapper man sells brushes,
he speaks of things unfarmed,
the Brylcream shine of city sights
until she is swept away.
Such moments go unrecorded
unless by chance you find
a strand of long hair
whipping astray
on a skewed field gate.
True and trusted octave colors
of and for HerStoried Earth
unfold again
for those who listen
with new eyes
for over-filled mouthfuls
of Indigenous Systematic Theology
With sensory experience roots
in sacred ecological relationship trees
remembering our left/right cooperative Time
before Wealth was capitalized,
suppressing EarthMother's interweaving health investments
Where
and when
and why
health is Earth's only sacred sign of wealth,
resilient theological systems
feed and water human nature's
robust right enspirited networks
signifying sacraments of co-operative wealth,
ecosystemic nutrition networks
True and trusted history
retelling psyche passion cultures
of and for HerStoried Earth.
It seems with time and age we all grow free,
trading wants away; no need for desire.
I accept what is; what was meant to be,
only ties the tongue and leaves us drier.
With mouthfuls of regret, shaking voices
paint beautiful truths, all smothered with lies.
Out of habit, we defend our choices
with words and actions meant to hide our eyes.
Awake, I sit before brick and fire
yearning for a heart finally at peace.
A wake. I sit before brick and fire.
This chest, an urn, for heartbreak without cease.
How surreal to feel; this heartless me.
Peer to peer, within my eyes; come and see…