Long Outshone Poems
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Time To Shower...When Pervasive Odor Of Ureic Acid
Doth strongly waft, sting,
and nauseate about me
olfactory nose flying zone
bombarding cilia of
nasal passageway analogous
to displeasure wrought by
crashing, deafening, exploding,
ear splitting xylophone,
also synonymous isolated like
barenaked lady within
remote location of Lake Woebegone,
voluntarily forced to bathe
in brutally cold
mountain waters oxbow lake
vaguely resembling out
size topographical wishbone
rescue unlikely since
bajillion miles from radio tower,
thus state of the art
electronically sophisticated videophone
good as worthless resignation,
sans fate linkedin tubby
mother nature's cryogenic specimen
more'n murmuring undertone,
where huge Arctic glacier overshadows
infinitesimally microscopic human,
one speck kin zee ditched
*****sapien subsumed
under superfluous tombstone
as frozen fountain head,
where Atlas shrugged,
nonetheless incongruous yen
to purge mine offensive odor,
where civilization footprint
sole lee mine alone in wilderness
thus farcical reason (without rhyme),
atypical, farcical, and poetical title,
yours truly didst stirrup and spur
inexplicable search for soapstone,
yet prospect to don measly frame
without gay apparel
(beastie boy bit figurative bullet,
and buttressed body in buff)
immediately augmented primal scream
to trumpet heebeegeebees
(teeth chattering yodeling
rendition re: stayin alive)
from this Rhinestone
survivalist cowboy wannabe,
began feeling comfortably numb,
and immediately prone
to become human popsicle,
especially when sub zero temperature
immediately froze water splashed skin
(like glassy sheet of ice)
glancing viz albedo effect
as blindingly white
snow capped mountains outshone
albino crags, offering
absolute zero, yes none
reassurance with insulated moonstone
sleeping bag useful
as yolked with lodestone
around neck - slow death by
freezing this knucklebone,
who sought cleanliness,
(and panacea to immortality)
joining exclusive polar bear club
(Ursus Maritimus very selective,
and only chose me) even
at expense of more'n
just frozen jawbone
plus Jack frost bitten cockles turned
deep purple as inkstone
used to write re: scrawl epitaph
on icicle glommed headstone.
Stereo Man (It Takes Two?)
Stereo Man (It Takes Two?)
I’m a stereo man, and I carry two phones,
have two homes in two states (each sports car that awaits).
I’ve been married two times but find sin better match
for my partner’s been with me (a sign?) twice as long
as ‘pre’ marriages’ span. Was that somehow God’s plan?
Well, I feel twice as happy as ever before!
I’m a stereo man, with two billfolds, therefore
I don’t need a male purse and have less cause to curse
if one’s stolen or lost. I wear slacks (not sarong)
for two pockets behind (both have buttons to latch).
Got two mitts (and two feet), left one wipes, right to greet,
both born hooked to ‘dem’ shoulders or hips with ‘dry bones.’ (1)
I’ve two TVs at home, big screen’s shared with my friends,
small by bed (just in case I’ve an itch for some space).
There’re two friends (2) I love dearly, whose comments ‘are’ terse,
yet risk more than “I like it,” or “that one’s so great!”
But for many, this ask seems an unpleasant task!
What I’ve bared’s black and white! What friends take is my call?
Can a friend be too close? Those who take what transcends
all past warmth that they’ve known (don’t risk too), get outshone?
Or is taking what’s given a gift? (Not perverse)?
Must all friendships be work, dear? Why can’t they be fate?
Is a pleasure sought twice more my joy or a vice?
May one woman’s true love be sufficient, not all!
Long Tooth
January 22nd in 2022
Poet’s Notes:
(1) “Now hear the Word of the Lord!” - From an old ***** Spiritual Song.
(2) James Heaton is a friend I grew up with in Woodward, OK (who became
a chief technical writer for Bell Helicopter).
Mohammed Khan (who hails from India) is a great friend and poet I met on
PoemHunter.com. Poemhunter.com is also a free poetry website where those
who love to write poetry can post their poems and meet others who share
their passion. Mohammed’s passion is to give talented new poets exposure
in published books. ‘Author’s United’ is a small publishing house that he
founded to do this. It has released five anthologies that included several of
my poems pro bono. His dream is that book sales will make it self-sustaining.
Roll back the clock to Josef Locke
(and not before or after),
in climes where shrines have names like Knock
without provoking laughter.
My father was an army man
(and yet me to beget),
all spit-and-polish, spick-and-span,
and quite the martinet.
Those soldier boys were short on poise
in those benighted days:
the Murphys, Martins and Molloys
were raised in rustic ways.
But Duty Sergeant Kevin Coy,
vesuviously vocal,
was out to drum-head or destroy
each vermin-ridden yokel.
His boots could pass for lacquered glass,
his gloves would shame a surgeon:
his dignitas at morning Mass
outshone the Blessed Virgin.
Imagine, then, when Cousin Ben
(all NCOs were family)
provided gen beyond all ken
(with palms perspiring clammily):
“They’re on a charge. I told them, Sarge.
I threatened savage slaughters.
Le nettoyage. A smell at large
in Ballykelly Quarters.”
They hunted high, they hunted low,
they bled the radiators,
more ebb and flow could offer no
Projection of Mercator’s.
Just how to quell that awful smell
preoccupied them greatly:
hard to dispel, suspicion fell
on Houlihan, then Hateley.
Catch as catch can, they caught their man
(not Higgins, or O`Hara):
who’s down the pan? None other than
your man from Connemara.
What Ryan knew was equal to
a peat-bog sown with barley:
he’d not a clue – “What? Put on new
bejeezers, regularly?”
His first long-johns remained the ones
adorning regions nether:
six months now gone, he still had on
the same ones, altogether.
“Wear other pairs? These stink – who cares?”
What’s harder to believe
is, unawares, his thighs’ black hairs
had grown quite through the weave!
“He’s now cashiered for being weird –
why then, we’ll depilate him.”
His locks were sheared, and then his beard,
and pubis, seriatim.
Thus Ryan, Sean, of Shirley born,
his gonads wholly hairless,
is there to warn, so sheerly shorn:
a lesson to the careless.
Whatever sins the Pope rescinds,
or parish priests connive at,
sloth never wins. Redress begins
with Shaving Ryan’s Privates.
you pull my heart strings as I walk away, inadvertently.
I know that I will fade from your conscious, forgotten inevitably.
But a piece of each fades with our friendship, traits become memory,
Although…
this may sound bitter, there is sweetness in the undertone,
because with loss you find yourself, each time slightly less alone,
the love you feel for who that is, will reflect on the world that surrounds,
blasting through the bittersweet, leaving you to live without bounds,
So love ardently, with all of your soul,
and when it’s over you reconstruct the goal,
or make a goal to be able to love and let go as the opportunity allows,
No one says that show of emotion has to end in eternal vows,
Due to the fact that for-nowers, are often disguised in forevers, promises to remain,
to settle down when you are young and restless is an application to clinically insane,
Don’t let these retard your essence of being, you weren’t meant to be contained,
But then...
There is nothing worse than the impending bending, just know it comes with growth,
If you never outgrew relationships, in turn you’d begin to loathe,
The connection that your potential could have outshone, and instead you chose to stay,
You live like that and you will experience grief in a most unbeneficial way,
This is where jealousy, paranoia and even playing fields exist,
Within the confines of “could have done better” or “opportunities missed”,
You cannot grow together, if you never grow apart,
If memories bound in the strings of life, intertwine with those of each heart,
Inevitably their pull will influx in strength leading each to his own end,
So to fall in love all over again is to allow your past to mend,
Inadvertently binding them together until death doth tear them in two,
Only to repeat the process, connect, grown, connect, fall all the way through.
I spent my day shopping for rubies,
And what a day it was I swear,
A rollercoaster you could say,
For a ruby that I could flaunt and wear!
It all started with an invite,
A tiny little card which read
"Cordial invitation to you dear friend",
And to attend the same I would be very glad.
My thoughts then suddenly pondered ,
To the new red gown I had bought
It would match very well with a Ruby brooch
Aaah ! and that's what triggered my thought!
I drove out to the market next morning,
Starting from the highland mall
Hopping from one shop to another,
No, I wasn't having a ball!
Hither and thither I was roaming ,
In search of that one little jewel ,
But couldn't find that one special piece,
That would make my heart with pride swell !
My feet were tired and limping,
I knew I had to put a stop
For I tripped and hurt my toe in this sojourn,
Yet I was determined not to give up.
Suddenly then, did I realise,
That the sun was going down
But that precious Ruby brooch I wanted,
Was no where in the town.
Much exhausted and weary,
I was almost heading back
The feeling was not very good I say,
Even though I bought a Ruby for my neck.
Amidst the flickering city lights,
A glow sign caught my sight,
"Precious rubies sold here" it read,
All shining and bright!
At once I screamed with delight,
Startling the driver of the cab,
He was so bewildered and confused,
That he stopped the car with a drag.
Crossing my fingers I stepped in,
To this brand new Jewellery shop ,
The glitz and glitter was dazzling,
I knew it was my one last stop.
And among those dazzling beauties,
One ruby outshone the rest,
I knew, that was the one I was wanting,
To adorn my beautiful chest.
All's well that ends well
I hear the people say,
So it's a day spent well at last,
And I returned home happy and gay!
The moon looks lonely tonight.
Or maybe it always was.
I don’t know.
I never really noticed before.
it always seemed so bright,
so surrounded, so admired.
How could something so full of light
feel so alone, right?
But tonight it feels different.
Tonight, I see it.
Or am i projecting?
Maybe it’s not the moon that changed.
Maybe it’s just me.
You remember when I told you
I talk to the moon about you?
I still do.
Every night.
Not because I think it’ll answer,
but because it stays.
Because it listens.
Because saying your name out loud
still feels like breathing.
Like letting the stars know
you existed in me.
And the stars get nosy,
they blush and twinkle away
every time i say your name.
And I laugh,
that stupid kind of laugh
that sounds like crying if you close your eyes.
You used to say
if we ever laid under the stars together,
my eyes would dim them.
That I hold galaxies in my eyes.
That I shine brighter than the moon itself.
God, I didn’t believe you.
But I wanted to.
Because when you said it,
for a second,
I almost did.
You made me feel like maybe I was something
And I hate that,
I still remember every word
you have ever said
like they got carved into my ribs.
You made me feel like magic,
but you,
you are the spell.
That I just cant break through.
Honestly, maybe i don't want to.
I wish we had that night on the grass.
I wish I could’ve seen you
beneath the same stars you said I outshone.
While you whisper sweet nothings in my ear
like you always do.
And the moon looks lonely tonight,
or maybe I'm just projecting again.
Maybe the moon is the mirror
I keep trying to find myself in.
And still,
I whisper to the night
hoping It'd carry a piece of me
to you.
This seems to be my Poetry Soup way of life:
"Thank you for your wonderful poems. We only
allow 10 poems posted per 24hr period so that
more poems are read. Thanks again for your
wonderful poety. In the meantime, please
comment of the poetry of others." Look at
this Poetry Soup Comment and tell me what
is wrong with it? How about poety and of
which should be on for starters? Don't
get me wrong. I am just trying to be a nice
guy. They didn't put any of my recent poems
on their recent email either. My jinx has
just been broken so here goes:
An Early Holiday Poem Part 1
I certainly must make a confession
She sure seems to have such an obsession
About a glorious new star and it siting
Inviting an occasion for poem to be writing.
Compared to other ones, this star outshone
Appearing like it was standing there all alone
Way up high in a completely dark sky
While we on earth were wondering why.
Some people were making and declaring an edict
About somewhere in Bible were people predict
A great, huge star someday will soon appear
Signifying the Christ Child was close and near.
Yet, they didn't have a recorder called a cam
But I believe it was in beloved Bethlehem
Cute Christ Child was cuddled in a big barn
So everyone could start spreading a yarn.
Three wise men met Jesus with their presence
With all of their real, actual pleasing presents
Which created quite a stir with their demure
With some perfume, frankincense and Mir.
After perfectly planned party was finally done
Christ Child's glorious life had now begun
Outside many people started to toil and tarry
And rebuilt barn into a Romanesque Monastery.
Why did they pick a Romanesque style of all things?
James Thomas Horn
Retired Veteran
The countryside was silent as midnight was approaching
On the porch I sat content with a Brandy a toasting
The calmness around me on this moonlit tranquil night
Whilst drifting clouds curtained, and blanketed her from sight
So I arose from my chair intending to retire for the day
When a light in the distance outshone the moons display
One became two as they disappeared into the black
My mind so in overdrive as my thoughts now never lacked
Inquisitive as I am, I headed out to investigate
It's about an hour from my house, I hope I'm not too late
Many miles walking, trudging in the pitch black dark
With just a paltry torch, up ahead I see an arc
It appears to be connecting, to the two lights I had earlier seen
Once again my minds in wander, these lights are actually machines
They started glowing brighter as the arc increased in size
Then from the light two beings appeared, right before my eyes
Initially they were of ashen colour, skeletal empty shapes
They now appear to be shape shifting, like me in skin clad drape
Into the light they turn, revealing their look to me
Human form they certainly are, but hideous they appear to be
Before me stands a male and female, with looks you'll never see
Where have these beings come from that parade in front of thee
He who looks like cyclops with teeth that fills his face
She resembles a Masai woman, not really out of place
The arc now changes direction, shooting beams into the darkened sky
Now other lights appear from the black, it's time to wonder why
With care I head off home, witnessing many more lights a falling
If they carry what I have just seen, theres more to come a calling
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/fantasy-17.php
I met her in the city's silent veins,
Where neon flickers like forgotten flames.
It was Christmas — a holy night,
Yet her smile outshone every light.
Nicole Jackson — a name etched in song,
A melody where nothing felt wrong.
She lived on 7th, behind the old café,
But where I slept, she’d never say.
We met where the world stood still,
Hands entwined, hearts warm and real.
Parks heard our laughter, streets knew our kiss,
Each moment with her, an eternal bliss.
We spoke of stars and ancient skies,
Of futures drawn in lovers’ eyes.
I kissed her beneath a winter moon,
Whispered, “I’ll make you mine soon.”
Then Easter came with sacred grace,
I saw the sun rise in her face.
After church, in the soft spring air,
I took her hand with gentle care.
I reached inside my coat, heart racing fast,
Pulled out a ring, sealed to last.
Her eyes lit like dawn on quiet seas,
She nodded once — her soul said “please.”
I kissed her deep, her breath was mine,
The world around us ceased to shine.
In secret hours we made love slow,
Like rivers to oceans, steady they flow.
Then night returned, I went alone,
To call her once I reached my home.
But silence answered — just a ring,
Three times I tried, felt everything.
The next day’s dusk, I went again,
Her house was locked — like time in chain.
No trace, no word, no echo found,
Just wind that wept without a sound.
Five days turned into endless years,
Still I search through hope and tears.
Nicole, oh Nicole, where did you go?
What truth lies beneath this snow?
Some say angels love and leave,
That beauty is too bright to grieve.
But I still walk 7th street at night,
Looking for your vanished light.
"Bright Star Rose"
Bright Star shone on the bright side far beyond the dark side
Bright Star let the dark slide between and underneath
the cracks burning in the road well travelled under the Others' soles
and Bright Star’s soul levitated much higher above the ground
from the base of those Other empire state stories' eyes
steadfast in their lofty realms hived in all those lost bodies
united in a bad bad dream
and Bright Star soft falling mask of eremite melting
rose higher and brighter than bright
and kissed the highest hidden brightest star
blazing in the darkest night's dark indigo blue sky
and Bright Star riding the waked forever in a sweet unrest
outshone the singularity of the eclipsed
enraptured and embraced as Love is
in the Hidden's timeless breast
Candide Diderot. ‘24
"In all configurations
The curve is the thing that can go back on itself
Over and over
As the stars turn around each other
And light the way for travelers
Who come along through time
Looking for that one that could bend the path just so
To take us home
And light shines
And light shines
Around the table, where they all sit smiling
Hands with fingers moving as they tell their stories of being lost
Then found
No matter what the place, they saw the face
Of one who showed the way along the road well-traveled..."
"Bright Star, would I were steadfast as thou art"/John Keats, 1819
"And Light Shines"/David Lynch
"Meditative Rose"/Salvador Dali, 1958
"The Road not Taken"/Robert Frost, 1915.