Long Pebbly Poems
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TRIP TO DREAMLAND
A vacation trip to calm salient suburb overwhelmed me in childhood. We stayed in in Grand Mom’s house covering large rea with huge garden to face hills, to embrace forest and to look at dancing stream as dream. I was enchanted with peerless pleasure finding tremendous treasures of Nature so close under wide sky.
I was charmed listening to giggles of bubbling brook. Me, Mom, my sister and brother crossed the slender stream by foot feeling the touch of little brittle ripples.
Enthusiastically I picked up pretty pebbles and collected shiny glistening gem-like stones from the river-bed and pebbly stream strand.
I climbed the peak of low hill experiencing the glory of victory of my first expedition. I was just startled to respond on echoes shouting in the valley.
Wood apples trees were overloaded with mellow fruits spreading all along the boundary of the garden. After lunch, I used to tear off fruits to relish sapid juicy pulp with small wooden spoon. I was too amused enjoying chirping and chattering of unfamiliar birds.
I met a maternal uncle as father-figure perfectly matching with the environment giving me first music lessons.
When child at seven,
Interaction with Nature
placed me in Heaven.
On seventy plus
Reminiscence still haunt me
wishing rendezvous.
08/12/17
Haibun Contest by Debbie Guzzi
Pebbly scree slides and crabwalks
inside a dim dunk of fog.
The cragsman should not have climbed,
should have waited for the sky to clear its eyes
but anxious to reach a height that day
he took the Arimathea way.
Beat and disorientated,
falling down while still upright,
the press of a remorseless momentum
marches stumbling feet
toward an unseen cliff face.
Only this vaporous fear
swirling out of an open mouth -
a chill wraith invading every thought.
Beyond the funk
numb ears dimly hear someone
following.
Boot heels wedged into the rocky scrabble,
sitting now on the cold stones,
the climber waits to be rescued
by a more clear-eyed self.
Dredged from the depths of a shaken Sennen seashell
she hears once more his voice, low, sonorous tones, sees the bones
of her past laid out, splayed out, another story
playing out, can feel it in her bones,
his voice burrowing in, deep beneath skin,
cold blade digging in, the tide coming in,
shrouds of sea mist closing in, the veil blowing thin,
membranes of memory breaking...She sees anew the drowning seas,
sees for the first time his strangling hands,
pebbly skulls, seaweed ropes, skeletal fingers of coral
forcing bone-white wrecking lights into her cove...
Bone-bleached semen strands, Sennen's strand stretching
soiled sand before her like life or fate, grains like pulverised bones.
His dark-dune lurking, water-window watching,
waiting for riptides; a ripping of fabric, ripping of hymen,
sea-hymns now silent on salt-sheened lips
plump-pouty with youth. It's sordid, uncouth,
the salt sprinkle of sea-sweat sheening his skin,
the breath and the fingers quickening,
the coral's rough rigidity piercing, ejaculation of sea foam...
Buried deeper than bones, the sudden rush of memory waves
rattling bones of the past, shaking Sennen seashells.
Gulls screaming into the guilty hush.
Secrets hidden by sea-silenced sand.
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.
A deep pit with a crumbling edge.
Far below,
is a muddy pool swarming with crocodilians.
There is someone with me, a boy.
I shouldn't have taken the child here.
I am slipping, taking him with me,
he won't let go of my hand.
We are sliding on pebbly scree.
A gun drags at my hip,
its weight pulls us down
to where green-scaled
and armored reptiles
thrash in a melee.
One mindscape devolves into another.
I’m a visitor to strange
and as yet unmapped streets.
I've lost my parked car
somewhere between many unfamiliar
city blocks.
Home is a door in the back of my mind,
I suspect that behind it
is a child who knows the way back.
A small boy appears,
he is holding a tin wind-up crocodile,
one his dad once bought him.
At his side a long-barreled revolver,
the same type of weapon
I purchased in Florida
in the event of an alligator attack.
RK: "smokey drifted through once like mountains sheered off like cotton candy colored clouds nipped at the purpose of the rootbound ridgeback dragons."
Lucifer: "They decant no, somber but ready for some gift of virtue, and where abundance and prosperity are so fulsome such a dream."
Aurora: "Likewise the sorely wrong believe themselves wronged as sure as the swallows that hum soft cadences for bees which splint the flower's pollen for spreading."
Kate: "I've held the oceanic waters so nimbly let pour the caught rhythms of deliquescent moored stalwarts."
Helel: "The fife has enruined the walkway so esplanade does explaining this cause arouse such pomp?"
PW1: *disavows that he is stronger now and progresses*
The forbidden one: *cooly saunters towards a more comfortable position in the shade*
Uraeal: "I ask they do, I move they aim for a moonshot, is not the billowing cloudshares like those enroute to pebbly shores?"
DR dragon: "Pervasive this shifting moon which changes like wire frames sent into the hues."
arophc varuag: "I fed the farms such broken dreams but here they so replete, and should I ask the moon to share, another captured strike to snare."
Zeus: "The gambling is all but done, but here we save the swollen stumps that brick-by-brick were truly wood but means not that to cooped up fools."
---End of act IV---
It was thought the young whale was pregnant
confused as she was and out of her depth.
They waded into the river to help,
floated rubber rafts to buoy her up.
Marine experts posited ways
to keep her breathing in shallow waters.
In dockyard pubs
hard men openly spoke of her plight,
voices low and humorless
as they test-drove new technical jargon.
When she died;
rolling in the pebbly shallows
we threw a tarpaulin over her
as if she were a human cadaver.
We had televised everything,
implemented elaborate plans,
recorded last moments with ripples of hope.
Later we watched the sluggish waves
wash away her long drowning.
~~~~~
https://www.ctvnews.ca/world/young-whale-trapped-in-london-s-river-thames-euthanized-1.5421060
Cottage by whistling river beautiful, cozy and warm
Wreathed by Mother Earth in her seasons’ natural charm
Drenched in rain or covered in blanket of snow
Disappeared in fog or shimmering in morning glow
Bursting with bubbly stream’s harmonious melodies
Worshiped in mysticism of surrounding shrubs and trees
Through Damp curvy roads of mountains and valleys,
Woodlands of evergreen firs and pines
Through veils of fog drawn by shivering rains,
Misty clouds lingering on mountain range
While enjoying views of icy snow patches
And sprinkles of waterfalls’ dancing droplets
While admiring loveliness of graceful pebbly river
Through traffic flow of several big and small vehicles
Come to cottage spiraling through serpentine pathway
Bowing to tall, robust guarding firs on the way
Captivated by elegance of snow covered land
Hypnotized by incessantly flowing brook’s symphonic band
By forgetting all five senses, be one with nature
Like tranquil rocks in river…
Written: October 19, 2023
Poem in the Fragmented Form Created by Poetess: Constance la France
The good work is done by people with jagged, broken edges because those edges cut things and leave an imprint, a design. By Harry Crews
_______________________________________
Love's blades tear within as a dull scalpel with teeth
Leaving merely a crushed, dead chunk of flesh
It shreds, gouges, and weeps till the heart bequeaths
Offering its heart gambles will be accepted fresh,
Being hugged frowns as it gulps the vile reality
The dagger sinks further, piercing the frailty of sanity
A heart still bleeds while succumbing to sociality
Pathetic, petrous parcel with pebbly peaks
Jagged-toothed dome rising into bespeaks,
Each is engraved, erose, and has surface breaks.
Swallowed by a murky quagmire of an abyss beneath,
Snapping at heels all life, laden with vessel mensch,
Unfathomable evil clings to grief and jagged vitality
Vow to thrive with every word your soul speaks.
Mary Jo
Mary Jo, where are you now? Dusty bones in a cemetery?
A dashing man drove you through the night, over a bridge
that wasn’t there, into the water, and then you were alone
breathing, through pockets of air in the car, waiting for
him to rescue you. Did you hear steps on the pebbly road
as he was running away? And your tears became the sea`s
Mary Jo, I have not forgotten you; the man who betrayed
you., is dead too; they gave him a send-off, and the famous
came to his wake; did they think of you?
Your parents were paid off not to talk of you in public.
Yet I do remember and think of you now the charmer and
his brothers have gone