Long Peculiar Poems
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Only Cats Have Nine Lives
Her child arrived in a secret way
Hiding him nine months a heavy chore
No daddy just some soldier home from war
Poor little girl, woke up sad every day
She found a cat in the cradle
with a silver spoon and a ladle
Her baby drowned in the tub
sometimes love can be fatal
Heavy sighs under the moon
Passion made a girl a mommy too soon
baby born she didn't know what to do
Little boy blue he cried a sad tune
No one seen the sad beneath her pretend
Her secret kept from family and friend
She saw no ending to sadness and pain
wanting to be a carefree girl again
She found a cat in the cradle
with a silver spoon and a ladle
Her baby drowned in the tub
sometimes love can be fatal
The baby cried all day and every night
Even soft blankets can be wrapped too tight
She placed him in a bath filled with her tears
Leaving him there she turned off the light
From Vietnam her soldier boy came home
The first thing he did was reach for the phone
There was no answer she'd been taken away
That really was a most peculiar day
He found a cat in the cradle
With a silver spoon and a ladle
Their baby drowned in the tub
Sometimes love can be fatal
He would have been two just the other day
But life was tragically taken away
He should have been protected from lifes harms
just a happy child in his mother's arms
Lullaby nightmare a young mommy so blue
Soldier cries for the child he never knew
His baby arrived in a secret way
Sadly there was nothing that he could do
Credit goes to Harry Chapin's song "Cat's in the Cradle" and my friend Freddie Robinson Jr. who joined me in this endeavour.
You never saw it
But the light...
It was always radiant
In the darkest corridors
In the loneliest corners
Where you'd sit and shiver
I'd bring you a coffee
And wrap you in a blanket
You always illuminated my world
But maybe, just maybe
I cast shadows on you
And you'd cry into my shoulder
We rarely spoke a word
But we were the duality
Of light and dark
Thriving in one place
I always wondered
The thing is...
We met at such a peculiar time
It was neither love
But neither was it hate
It was acceptance
Of our fate to walk together
It was neither opera
Nor was it nocturne
But we were inseparable
Even as we suffered
Our own uniquely private battles
Every day with new scars
Every day wondering how we'd do it again
To push through the pain
But we surely found a way
Maybe it was divinity
Honestly though...
I don't believe in a divine being
But you were an angel
And I was a demon
And I watched you suffer
Powerless to prevent it
I was the silence personified
That allowed you to be victimized
But you always thanked me
For the coffee I brought you
And the shoulder I lent you
And I was truly miserable
Wallowing in your misery
I would have done anything
Just to see you smile
You never felt it
But the truth...
I loved you from the start
And you sacrificed your own light
Just to help me shine
But it led to you descending
Into the depths of the shadows
And so after all this time
I'm finally reaching out
With tears streaming down my cheeks
No more confusion
And no more apologies
Just know if you take my hand
You can reach out for the light
I may not be an angel
But I'll guide you to a better place
Cookiecutter Shark
Deep in the ocean, where shadows reside,
A small, sleek hunter, with nowhere to hide.
The cookiecutter shark, a name so absurd,
For a creature whose bite is truly assured.
No great white's terror, no hammerhead's might,
But a circular cut, in the dark of the night.
With a mouth like a scoop, and teeth sharp and keen,
It carves out its meals, a remarkable scene.
From whales to tuna, no creature is safe,
From the alien mark, a peculiar chafe.
A perfect round wound, left on muscle and skin,
A testament to where the small hunter has been.
It lurks in the deep, a cryptic design,
A parasite predator, truly divine.
So next time you swim in the ocean so wide,
Remember the cookiecutter, and where it might hide.
Bring on the rain
I want to again
To wash out this burning Haze
I feel it a drift in my nights distance Seas
Pounding a flight through my heart
A Temple of soul
Pulsing tight to the back of my eyes
I think of that little face you know
The wood grain talking to me again
Or that shadowing whispering things
I do not like to know
Walking toward me in silent halls
It says things I don’t want to hear
I just want the pain again…
This brings out the things insane
I want to wash these ruined hands
Of theses peculiar stains
I want to scrub my face my mind
As my void expires
In nights a drift, hues of pure vermilion
I need it again
Bring on the rain
Bring on the insane
Watching it drift in crowded rooms
But I am silent
Alone feeling this pain
again & again
Feels like at home
A coming doom
So bring on the rain!
The air, thick with the promise of the coming downpour, held a peculiar aura.
Not the sharp, acrid tang of the approaching storm, but a subtle, almost ethereal perfume.
A dampness, a coolness, a hint of earth, of decaying leaves, of something ancient and comforting.
It clung to the air, a fine, invisible mist, a silent prelude.
The impression, not a smell, but a feeling, whispered through the leaves, rustling in the branches, sighing through the reeds.
A tremor of anticipation, a hushed expectancy.
The world held its breath.
A moment of suspended animation.
Then, a single drop, like a tear from the sky, traced a glistening path down a blade of grass.
Another. Another. Another. Another. Another!
The rhythm quickened, a drumming on the roof.
A deluge.
And the impression changed.
It deepened, becoming richer, more profound.
Not just the earth, but the washed-clean stone of the riverbed, the dampened petals of wilting jasmine.
The dampened asphalt had a peculiar, earthy sweetness.
A memory, fleeting and profound, of childhood afternoons spent in the garden, the relentless drip, drip, drip of the rain, the damp cool air against the skin.
A child's quiet joy.
The presence of rain.
It was more than an impression.
It was a sigh of the earth, a whisper of the universe, a testament to life's relentless cycle of renewal.
The crescent moon and sunlight consumed by the moon’s fullness.
The violin violates the quiet and quaint acquaintance of an eyeful.
The cow, with its rudimentary cuds, could only curse the night.
The bull will not croon its lullaby; he & his Bessy will not take flight.
It’s a circus, peculiar, not meant for sleeping babes in arms.
Infants blink black and white; Chagall’s kaleidoscope alarms.
The angels halt their silent night chorus to weigh in on Bach.
The strum of strings stuck to the ooey-gooey moon ad hoc.
A strange night, indeed, with flying fish - I thrice had that dream.
Marc and Bella sail over the circus-clouds with weathered extreme.
I shall fix upon a romance, most of us stay grounded, perhaps
One leg lifts the skirt, and perhaps the armored chap in lapse
Of selfishness, shows his shining sword, promises to protect
His girlfriend, his bride forevermore with a diamond affect.
Marc and Bella don’t look down to see who’s looking up.
While couples fight for a win, they won’t give up their loving cup.
Exploration of intensity and quadrants, amused in edenic perennial.
Chagall’s, are the canvases I would inhabit. It’ll take a millennial.
It’s peculiar, how the sky is crying masks.
Odd how the sand drips and it leaves behind the past.
For if names were built in years, set in stones to cast,
a breeze can rise so high, then crash.
Know a forest will grow for years, and tears they know, one breath to ash,
the sight will leave in awe,
for it can flaw, though the thought it blooms to last.
Shadows will often stay, when the sun has come to pass,
and laughter all so loud, when the devil comes to dance.
But know that some things will last you forever,
and blind ones can’t find their way into heaven.
So I cry for all whom masks have come to melt.
The ones who hid behind, are not the ones we held.
So truly, how I felt, was lied to, robbed, a theft.
Too sad for them I feel, it’s all just come to end.
Their loss it was, for all through outer space,
a star will pass just once in place.
For as their masks, now falls so high from grace,
they still now dream of us, a ghost to chase.
Anniversaries are peculiar things
our memories are brought to task
rolling back over the years
makes you take off your mask
But seriously Francine's a great gal
a great encourager indeed to us all
does inspires us to greater heights
lifts us up always when we fall
Amazing to think it's been that long
having her pension and all that!
one thinks it was far longer
not thinking that was her stat
That profile pic on her page
really encouraging always to look
see them all smiling as family
question is which one's the cook?
Well have great happy anniversary
Francine don't let ink go dry
keep penning such wonderful gems
we love you even make us cry!
(writing for a friends anniversary of writing poetry recently)
A fair pile of graded kindling and fresh limbs.
Wooden spring, deep brooding in each fiber, the damp air won't help.
White fire, a searing brain, a taxing task, omni-repetitive, still
remains at one hand.
Weakling losing life to the vain ones' trash-talk.
Destroy nothing is what they did, flickering out in the same degrees they claim to cling in.
A generation of defeat, the last one's shadow losing to mind
creases, a folded reality to claim them by late afternoon.
Choose—no time for two. Soon you needn't think the weaker... the seeker.
Go now, or this all can be taken faster than you can react.
Try it—know you think accomplishment compliments the brave.
The hills will pass, and a valley collapsed and caved; all redacts the same.
Take lessons that I had taught you.
Are what you are just to be the same? Shame.
Your life in life, death, and in debt howled at the thought when that parasite finally sung in the cerebral mind walkway.
The Gong is struck when you start to continue on without commands.
It will drive, dive, and when invited inside, sink.
First signs showed themselves from a sunken pool deep and became entrenched, irremovable inside incredible things.
In irreversible time, you fall behind the lines of your very own eyes, sidelined, sliding horizon behind the glassed iris.
Looking out at a child to continue and thrive would be a slightly happier cry.
The Swan, at the moment, swaps a wasps' for the beetle's task.
Tasked with a peculiar torture devised, violent arches stretch in the middle remained in vicious spasms for the remaining nights.
Up until the dreadful last palpitations in an infernal happening expunging the heart from clotting, culminating in a violent expulsion.
My heart will gladly express gratitude for yielding.
The day's fulfilments grasp an epilogue wielding.
At the point when my eyesight would rest placidly.
Distress is being waged elsewhere so abjectly.
Through the ambiguity, a sparkle of spirits is seen.
A tangle of a precious and scarce moment in sheen,
Dreams utterly become a strain whirl as they came.
Provide yourself the bestowal to snag first to blame!
At the staggering giddiness sequestered edge.
Guilt is the comeliness created in camouflage.
In a restrained tone, virtually similar to a mumbled way.
Who is still on the earth? On the suppleness quay.
He is cloaked in its utterly obvious vividness.
In other words, a resentful yearning to assess.
A regret outline abides an odd incredible sight.
Shards of ambiguous stone turn over the blight,
On a slender, silky thread, stashed above.
A spider spots out for a cursory meal to serve.
They mete their lives as not grasping one another.
Brief of jolting ascendancy in a peculiar picture,
Floating in lushness, short of cutouts, or broker insight.
As all worry fades, to propel and fulfill my gist plight.
In the loneliness of my spirit, I hunt the looming dawn.
All worldliness has been transcended, so it has drawn.
First place contest winner
Written: January 06, 2022
This or That, Vol 9 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
A Strand (1065) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand