Long Precariously Poems
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If love were 'dark matter'
it would be the size
of a small kidney stone.
Hate is
an intestinal tapeworm
that gnaws at our vitals,
though most folks
remain unsure just what 'vitals' are.
The human brain
does not write poetry,
it merely crouches inside one ear,
while shouting into the other.
Poetry abides at the center
of an ever-expanding constellation
deep within the pineal gland -
that physical presence
manipulates, as many as
ten fingertips or toes
plus, a sloshed Calliope
swinging back and forth,
as she clings precariously
to chandelier-like Adam's apple.
Lips learn to think for themselves,
with the help of undocumented
angels.
Thus, naturally
organically produced poetry
can easily be manifest
while a nose dips deep
into a foaming glass of beer.
PERSIMMON
The Persimmon Tree stood right outside the window
Its fruit mostly round as it hung precariously on branches
Way above the Fall cooled ground going unnoticed by many
Even in the chilly wind waiting to be picked and quickly used
Walking through the zig sagging house to the end wondering
What there was to find I opened a door on the right then stepped
In to a room which was empty except for chairs I sat down then
Looked around and saw the tree along with the dark orange fruit
Thinking about all the cookies and pies that could be made
I got out of the chair then went outside to the tree with some bags
In my pocket and picked all the Persimmon that I could hoping
To carry it all home before any bags could break
With the fruit peeled and the pulp mashed like very hot potatoes
It was time to heat the oven and get started making some
goodies to kindly share
When I’ve gone
to the place
where my fathers’
have gone before me
and the last tribute
has been paid to my memory,
may my singing words
crack the silence with clanging echoes.
May the clanging echoes
excite starving eyes
and taut wrinkled eardrums—
both to awareness—
guiding them
to actions of liberation
yet to come.
May clanging echoes
wake-up sleeping souls suffering
uncertainties of tyrannical rule,
slobbering from political absurdities,
drooling from mouths of misguided evil
diagnostic odysseys—peddling false hope
to precariously lost wanderers.
May my clanging echoes echo ringing
bells of freedom that can’t be unrung:
“Oh death where is thy sting?”
“Oh grave, where is thy victory?”
Poets will die;
but the ringing chords
of their words will live long lives:
Echoing clanging echoes…
Do you like me for my form
And my cosmetic moments
With their conceits and affectations,
Bejewelled with glittering gewgaws,
Hinting at the scents of summer,
All show but no substance,
Holding back the acrid stench of death?
For you ,my beauty is but word deep.
Perhaps you see in me your soulmate,
Reflecting what you inwardly believe,
Allowing you to remain in your comfort zone,
Safe from all challenge
And the barbs of pointed criticism.
Secure your world stands
As long as you do not look behind
Or beyond horizons that hold you bound.
Or are you just a voyeur
Sailing on the seas of sensation
Living your life vicariously
To avoid precariously
What you dare not,
Rather like the lady of Shalott,
Reading life through someone else's mirror
To save your soul?
Maybe you do look deeper
To see where we differ.
Confident in your own skin
You are ready for new terrain,
Awkward and stumbling though that may be.
You look before you leap
But forge fearlessly forward,
Willing to face all that lies ahead.
Be all that as it may,
I am but a poor poem,
Taking my existence
from you, the reader.
That is my fate.
Begotten,not made,ugly by my creator,
Accepting myself for what I am,
Yet I am fully at your disposal or neglect.
What holds us together
has been torn, the unity
of a people split apart.
Both poles have lost
their grip and rupture
into division.
Categories now proliferate
and place each soul
into a labeled box governed
by the ideologue.
Word by word, language
has been commandeered by fear
and threatened with shame.
Good words are put on trial,
stripped of meaning and sentenced
to silence. They sleep in old books
sought out by the apparatchiks
for removal or to be replaced
by neutered covers.
Soon Macbeth will be lobotomized
to reduce the risk of upset.
The grand order has gone mad.
Long lines of citizenry queue
for entry into asylums
now spreading
like shopping malls.
Others won't leave home
and ossify in the safety
of their shuttered rooms.
Meanwhile, to the chants
of a sterilized song,
children skip towards
glittering castles hanging
precariously in thin air,
proud parents happily
clapping them along.
It is the rainy season.
a cataract of warm liquid nails
hammers upon the road surface.
The thin tin jitney is sliding through
the traffic jams
gliding precariously near
yellow poncho clad mopeds
being rode by two, three or more.
The little three wheeled taxi
is packed solid.
She is sitting on my lap
as the vehicle jigs and jerks.
I am heading for Suvarnabhumi airport,
going home
although 'home' is an empty place of exile,
a land that I can love no more.
Duty calls, even for lovers to part;
she to her village and a dying father,
I to the embrace of loneliness,
a solitude that still yet brings me
to long restless nights
in a cold bed I made for myself.
The air was eerie with the fairy-tale hush of late nights.
I saw him—his face devoid of emotion.
When he laughed, many teeth were missing,
save two extra-long canines.
He stood in that scary air—
a lone balloon in hot wind.
He whispered faintly, “Time’s up.”
I whimpered back, “Time up for what?”
And he said, “It’s time for you to die.”
My feet turned cold.
My bed was drenched with gallons of dread.
I was soaked to my underpants
by the fear in his eyes.
Then I remembered my debts—
the unpaid love of those who loved me.
I once had time
to repay that onerous love—
but I hesitated, believing life lasts forever.
Even just before the car veered off the road,
I dreamt in what's now my last sleep to pay back all the love I owed.
How will my soul leave for the black horizon
without repaying the love my parents gave?
Is it their unalloyed sacrifice I’ll leave unpaid,
or the care they unconditionally showed?
And my soul cannot forsake the belief
my wife and children have invested in me.
No key to heaven’s gate will be found,
though death pricked precariously at my thoughts.
But death, before you strike,
wait—let me say goodbye
to my parents, my friends, my loved ones.
Just a minute to rush my last words,
enough to write a book—
but your breath burned through my plea.
I dragged my thoughts into the realm of longevity,
though all I owned was packed in ephemerality.
My calendar showed only the past,
not a single word about the future.
I float, my body forgotten below.
The people I see are angels—
the journey to heaven is so short.
When I look down,
many well-wishers have gathered, spilling tears.
Oh, my mother’s cry was the loudest.
In Pushkar a ride in a camel cart
Is an experience quite apart
From all other animal rides
That neither glides nor slides
The rusty brown coat of the camel
Ne’er shines like a vase of enamel
It carries a big hump on its back
A convenient place for a whack
With its head raised high
It looks upward to the sky
Draws inspiration to pull the cart
The ride is now about to start
The roller-coaster ride begins
Bumpy road jerks hit like pins
The camel plods with long strides
Oblivious of our terrible plights
We hold on precariously at the sides
The ship of the desert ploughs through the tides
Exhausted and disheveled we come to a stop
We alight from the cart needing a prop
END
Alabaster annoyance
Blatantly breathes bulbous brightness
Cadaverous comedy caring
Daintily during delicate delivery
Exciting elderly enigma.
Furious fiery feeler
Gregariously greets
High-handed hustler
Ignoring imaginative immediates
Jauntily jeering judiciously.
Kangaroo kisses kibitzes
Leaving luxurious loners
Merrily masticating mincemeat.
Never-do-wells needing knowledge
Ostentatiously officiate on orange orangutans.
Precariously polite Pomeranians
Quietly quiz querulous quoters
Reposing rapidly ruining
Still sassy strenuous strikers
Turning toward Tuesday tournaments.
Understandably unprecedented underlings
Vindicate vicious vagrants
While wishing waxy widows would
‘xpect ‘xciting ‘xacting ‘xtras.
Youngish yellow yowls yipping
Zipping zany zebras’ zealous zero zone.
Consider the (Dreaming) Birds
By Mark D. Stucky
Jesus told us to consider the birds of the air.
I have pondered parakeets (budgies) in a cage
routinely performing what seems impossible.
No, not flying. (They fly rather poorly.)
It’s the posture they keep as they sleep.
Usually before closing their eyes,
they puff out their colorful feathers,
precariously balance on just one slender leg,
twist their heads halfway around,
and nestle their beaks under the backs of their wings.
How can they do that? Why would they want to?
No human could hold such an improbable pose,
not even in yoga, let alone while dreaming.
I’ve puzzled over those tiny amazing acts
that birds do daily with little thought
and no explanation of their motives to me.
Although I can’t replicate their strange stance,
to those tiny birds, I am godlike.
They periodically chirp loud petitionary prayers
for me to give them this day their daily birdseed.
But omnipotent and omniscient I’m clearly not.
Those winged unlikely wonders mystify me.
Perhaps if I could enter their caged existence
and take on the feathered form of a fellow bird,
they would softly warble their secrets to me,
and I to them.
I treasure miniature miracles in implausible places.
And if a fluff of feathers can perform such wonders,
surely the God of the universe
can go bigger and better,
can fling a star-like light across Bethlehem’s sky,
can create conception in a virgin by divine in vitro,
can take on flesh in our own featherless form,
and can croon to us heavenly dreams.
(First published in Small Town Anthology VI: Entries from the Sixth Annual Tournament of Writers, Vicksburg Cultural Arts Center, 2020, pp. 38-39. See also my poems “Quantum Theology” and “Journey of a Contemporary Joseph.”)
(Photo by garten-gg on Pixabay.)