Long Pencil thin Poems
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She's lived a lot of "almosts"
She almost drowned under the pulsing weight
of the river's temperamental waters when she was 12
Later on, she felt time itself suspend as she spent
her last few seconds wondering if death would
take her quickly, while her car spiraled down the I-50,
barreling off the ice-ridden road at a deadly 80 mph
into a ditch.
But it didn't
She could have died riding top speed into the back of
a jeep, but walked away from it, granted it took her memory
Deep into the sweltering heat of the desert,
she nearly escaped the strike of an infant rattlesnake,
and walked away, unharmed, after slipping off
the beautiful sandy red rockscape
In spite of all these "almosts"
the most dangerous time of her life
was when the escape of sleep continuously escaped her,
and her body could no longer regulate its own temperature,
among several other things,
including hunger, so she didn't eat a single thing for months
while the tube down her pencil-thin throat continuously
fed her, forever, it seemed, since none of the doctors
could tell her what was wrong.
That was the worst of all - not knowing -
and the most dangerous of all
because it left room for possibilities, probabilities
and contingencies that only proved to be mere fantasies
Over and over
Over and over
Over and overrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
And over
A cycle which holds space for only one capacity - insanity.
Indeed, the most dangerous "almost" of her life was when
hope not merely left her, but became her enemy,
and her dreams of not only finding relief, but of coming
to an understanding of the reality that was haunting her
slowly fermented into a continual round of "almosts"
and, finally, in the madness, one round almost hit her
when she almost took her life.
That was almost the last "almost" of her life
These days she continues to daydream of finding answers,
and reaching a full recovery
as she learns how to wrestle with the desperately fickle
personality of uncertainty and "almosts"
Well thank God they left. Nice local sports bar; I sat close to an elderly man, probably 80 years old, and a younger guy that was his son, as I gathered from their conversation. The old boy kept an even keel and decently good humor throughout; he was used to it; the allowances we make for close family; or no use to fight a battle now. Much of what the son said bounced off and ended up on the floor, like water off a duck's back, and thank God for that too. I was instantly irritated - the constant patter of vacuous suggestions from the son as to what the father should be doing in his life, what he should do differently.
Just look at him: the old guy is fine, you can tell just by seeing him. But the son, ah now this was worthy of a stage character, the slight build, the receding hairline, the pencil-thin mustache, a mousey look overall, even rat-like, with furtive eye movements and almost constant physical twitches, he must fear silence indeed to have the need to fill it with such drivel, if not telling his father how to improve his life, he was proclaiming his own shrewdness and ambition, such prowess we rarely see, to joke about it - ah, when the truth is that he's a 35 year old in a job that would be barely good enough for a 20 or 25 year old. When you have to go on about it so, we all know it's not the truth. I never once snorted, or caught the old guy's gaze and rolled my eyes; I stayed within myself.
Maybe it's just me. Really, how bad could it be? Well no, it's not just me - any sane person would be inwardly cringing, massively, fighting the urge to run screaming into the night before the younger man's words induced brain cancer in them. What a world....
But I suppose that at least a little bit it is just me.
Courtesy of Marx (albeit Zeppo,
Harpo, Groucho, and Chico), whose
acts (along Seuss iz Zacks Fifth
Avenue) brought generations of
laughter to Vaudeville, and then
the Silver Screen adlibbed, linkedin,
and ransacked skits zoid material
Bing very loosely based on his best
known writings (Oh Pee Yet Of The
Masses) by Karl Marx (no relation
to Bros Grin), and Friedrich Engels
whar they whiz instrumental qua
Cingular Capitalone political philosophy
paradigm as spit, and (shoe) shining,
seducing, and salivating players trans
formed Msn Netzero Linkedin Petsmart
Aleck outlook and pinterest, when their
collective insight did cents how masses
(i.e. bourgeois) took a rakish (otherwise)
up standing Norwegian bachelor farmer
for comic relief to break monotony of
agrarian obligations, and serve up one
heaping healthy portion per production,
sans whatever whims would crop
up by infusing thespian showdown
incorporating commune nic cache shun
(disproportionate) app peals studded terrain
with locked havens avast re shtetl ment.
Hoi Polloi re: common folk in sore need
of distraction and belief in a brighter side
of life, than saliva dehydrating brute nose
to the grindstone pathetic existence, yoked
as oxen to plows, where plodding tattered
shod feet scraped a pencil thin line, whence,
seeds sprinkled into futile ruts forecast angry
birds to shutterfly, twittering like bada$$
beastie boys Dharma bumming while On
The Yellow Brick Road.
Inn ascent bystanders avian avatars initially
supposedly sprung from ergot, mushroom
and/or smut spores, whereas the myth of
one mortal idol (Matthew Scott Harris) did
rival Vladimir Ilich (frequently corrupted into...
I first met her on a holiday at Shuklaphanta Wildlife Reserve.
Love strikes me like lightning when I saw her,
so powerful and intense it can’t be denied.
It turns me inside out,
and there was no going back from it.
Once the thunderbolt hits, my life irrevocably changed.
With a carved stem-thin figure,
And sparkly appearance.
Her pencil-thin eyebrows,
eased down gently to her velvety,
Eyelashes.
Her beauty is the celebrity's cute wind-swept
twisting through
the late evening's darkening heavens.
Her smile shines stunningly
like the sun rising over the skyline,
her luminous, heavenly-white teeth flashed
as she pawed at me with her flick star nails.
Her gorgeousness is the stars
that is now quivering into view
as their star shine ends its life journey
as a whim I am.
Her enticing, constellation-blue eyes
gazed at me
over her syrup-sweet lips,
She had a springy character
and a syrupy voice, which I idolized.
She is like a candle's flickering flame,
radiating a soft warm light into me.
Her hair was ebony-black
and it tumbled over her shoulders.
Her beauty shines from the inside out,
It flows like a journey down a long route.
Those sugar candy-sweet lips,
her well-designed personality,
all awestruck me.
Her eyes sparkle like a bright star in the sky,
seek out the good in me.
Her body ornately furnished with typically girlish curves,
Her voguish garments still kept enslaved an odor evocative
of lemony fresh and floral-fresh mint.
It loitered in the apartment long after she had gone.
She jumped the cables of this earth and landed on their stratosphere
not much was interlocked inside that interstated space except a high
the coded silence telegraphed in tetrotonic voice was plugged in near
twas' all she heard... computer telepathic knots and sounds of nigh
She had been in an MRI machine and she was saturated in their vibercy
she was a conduit to their human questionaire and viaduct's enscry
pitching her a high pitch sound they pierced the quiet longtitude of chi
then rocked her world with their achromatic lense and telescopic pry
They asked for her binary code dumbfounded and in lack she kept to mute
for it was long ago and way back when the numbers of her match encode
imprinted on the fascmile of mind's extole. Adrift in the sky with no refute
she glided on and found that life is different when your not a metal node
She was sent back to earth with a mind erase and a pencil thin memory
and it was so that when they came to find her many years from then
the only thing that she recalled was the momentary freedom's history
twas' all she knew... that once upon a time she was coded in their glen.
The End.
October 20, 2018
She haunted me as a child,
Staring quietly from her watercolor world.
Her strange presence called me.
Powder-white skin and rouge cheeks,
Pencil-thin brow over
Dark-rimmed eyes
Shedding a single tear,
A pale rose between slender fingers,
Seeking its fragrance.
Quietly she slipped away,
I never asked after her.
Years later, her likeness appears.
Same raven cap,
Impossibly flagrant and frosty ruffles,
Porcelain cheeks without a hint of blush
Wide eyes tinged with sorrow,
Flowerless hands,
Her watercolor world mixed to black.
Then they came to me, together,
A dark evening in Paris.
Delicate in their lightness,
Impishly prancing in the streetlights
As if giddy with some tantalizing secret.
The first hands me her rose
As she cups my face,
“Dear one.”
They move to either side,
Taking my hands
And we run.
We run until we reach a dimly lit park
Where we sit cross-legged in the damp grass
Silent except for the panting of labored breaths
Returning to their natural rhythm.
“Tears bring fullness to life.”
They wandered off into the night
As suddenly as they had come.
Leaving me to deliver their rose
And share my tears with the people.
I had hoped to pen a poem today
Before laying myself down to sleep,
But I have to admit with some dismay
That my emotions were not so deep.
The pencil-thin line of flaming red
Drawn so lightly in the morning sky
Announced the sun’s rising overhead
Yet left no impression upon my eye.
The crisp morning air that greeted me -
Rich with the scent of apple wood smoke –
Must have left no mark on my memory,
Nor knew the language my spirit spoke.
My children’s laughter at games and play
Fell on my ears like notes from a bell,
Though I heard those notes so clear and gay
My heart, I fear, did not listen well.
The aromas from the kitchen stove
Promised a meal for which I must wait,
But the smell of cornbread, ham and clove
Soon departed with my empty plate.
The evening stars that gently twinkled
Against the dark of heavenly height
Sent a warm glow that lightly sprinkled
On my too insensate soul tonight.
I had hoped to pen a poem today
Before laying myself down to sleep,
But I have to admit with some dismay
I had no sense of what to keep.
A slip of a girl, button-cute, pigtails flying
her first figure-eights traced on roller blades
Effortlessly following the crude colored chalk lines
Emily aced the whole field her very first time
Number eight was magic, no matter where it appeared
In hop-scotch, in jump rope, or even in school
She traced it flee-flowing, vibrant with joy
Little Emily, the envy of even the boys...
She began to understand where all this might take her
to nationals, world capitals, and always the Olympics
in the back of her mind every four years, thinking that
the gold would be hers, no nervousness, no fears
At sweet sixteen she ruled the world, a pencil-thin body
with soft hair and curls, racking up 10's on those figure eights
Emily was a kewpie-doll sensation on skates
Sure that top honors awaited, she circled the dates
Now, of course, you are waiting for Emily to fail,
to fall, to prove that she's human
But forgive me, dear reader, you see
there's a wee bit of Emily,
in every leaf of my family tree
An actor returns to his Beverly Hills mansion –
blows his brains out with a 38 special.
I must have dozed off,
cops at my door,
a line of chain-smoking flashbulbs
in baggy turn-ups.
I watch myself being taken away in a body bag.
The movie is badly spliced.
Black Packard’s keep morphing into flying saucers.
We are all wearing hats,
even the writers in the backroom
are wearing wide-brimmed hats.
The women are wearing hats.
They wear pencil thin skirts,
and talk out of the side of their mouths.
A screen flickers;
a skinny man behind an obscuring microphone
apologizes for the delay.
Meanwhile, space aliens have landed in Brooklyn,
and are exterminating people in hats.
It’s a radio show hoax,
but I don’t know that –
until I wake-up
into a world filled with terror and chaos,
but there are no aliens and few brimmed hats.
I check that my Glock is loaded.
I can’t sleep.
An actor returns to his Beverly Hills mansion –
blows his brains out with a 38 special.
I must have dozed off,
cops at my door,
a line of chain-smoking flashbulbs
in baggy turn-ups.
I watch myself being taken away in a body bag.
The movie is badly spliced.
Black Packard’s keep morphing into flying saucers.
We are all wearing hats,
even the writers in the backroom
are wearing wide-brimmed hats.
The women are wearing hats.
They wear pencil thin skirts,
and talk out of the side of their mouths.
A screen flickers;
a skinny man behind an obscuring microphone
apologizes for the delay.
Meanwhile, space aliens have landed in Brooklyn,
and are exterminating people in hats.
It’s a radio show hoax,
but I don’t know that –
until I wake-up
into a world filled with terror and chaos,
there are no aliens and few brimmed hats.
I can’t sleep.