Long Pulleys Poems
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The old stone gristmill stood like a monolith,
its massive wooden wheel creaking and turning
dipping into the swift waters of a dammed-up creek.
Inside, everything was covered in a fine white dust
amidst a cacophony of cogs, gears, and pulleys.
Most notably, there was a giant granite stone that turned,
crushing grain into powder.
It was a dangerous place for kids to be,
we weren't allowed to hang around the workings.
Pa and all of the neighboring farmers
brought bushels of wheat there to be milled,
keeping the miller busy filling white cotton sacks with flour.
A pond adjacent to the mill fueled its workings,
and we'd gather on its banks for picnic lunches.
As kids, we'd be allowed to swim or fish
while pa and the other men did all the work.
In my mind's eye, I see him dusted white as a ghost,
exchanging smiles while sharing a joke with the miller.
Today you can only imagine what it was like,
for it now only exists in dreams or picture shows.
It was a time that time will never repeat,
when farmers gathered at the gristmill
as both a necessity and a communal event.
I refuse to think of these days as melancholy.
The “s” has been missing on my keyboard for about a year now,
and in that year I have felt great pleasure, surmounted
great obstacles, and have wrangled
and tormented over false outcomes;
the delusory greener grass.
Yet these are the days I am to discover all of this.
I am to walk out of the cage and stand back, turning around to gaze
at the various compartments of my Blue Ribbon Wrangle Box:
The hinges, pulleys, ropes, splices,
bevels, strapping, horns, buzzers, clocks, and radios
that have encumbered and ran its chaotic push towards
A function built and conceived by man.
I am outside of it now
And I dare threaten to call these days
melancholy just because I miss all my meaningless gauges.
At yet I still stand at the doorstep,
in the silent light where Luminosity begins,
the saddest place of all. It's here
that I find attainment in one direction and attachment in the other.
My Blue Ribbon Wrangle Box haloes
from the white glow of a hidden crescent moon.
The sails snapped in the wind as the yacht changed tack
soon to refill as the yacht skimmed over the sea racing onwards
riding the large waves with adapt aplume slicing them apart.
Dolphins playfully following as they leapt for pure joy
spinning several times before diving down deep.
Ganging up on a lurking shark they soon send it away.
The screech of pulleys as we prepare to tack once more
as the boom crashes past to be brought up sharp
when it takes all of the free lines and sails puff up.
The ocean is sparkling in the sunlight with white crested waves
as we round the headland and now can sail with the wind
the yacht leaning far over as her gib sail speeds her on.
Now it is time to add more canvas as we flash by
the winning line now in sight and with a great cheer
from the yacht club Casaroba crosses the line in first.
Equations
Linear array of
life symbols,
If one could set forth
on left and to the right,
A mere balancing
of algebraic equation,
We swing to tunes
pulleys struggle a balance.
Unlike free birds
that fly limitless,
Confident cricket
that shrills constantly,
Bees humming
still their honey lost,
Flowers perishing
leave fragrance in air,
All celebrate life
no equations saught.
Man wasting
efforts and time,
Interfering into
laws of nature,
Killing and exploiting
in name of equations,
Nothing set right.
Let learnings
of physics, chemistry
and mathematics,
Apply to real living
Equations of love
and laughter,
Wisdom and speech
emotions and trust
Be congruent.
Written March 12th, 2016
For contest "Equations"
Sponsor- Anthony Slausen
Now entered for "101 in a row- 14- poetry contest" by PD A
The limestone cracked, and the timber turned to ghost,
Leaving only the St. James Tower behind—
A juggernaut monolith, a stone-ribbed host,
To the singular fire that the poets refined.
I watched from the rubble, a broken face,
While the bells within turned to cooling lead;
I was the witness to the city's ruined grace,
The heavy silence of the unhoused dead.
Then came the pulleys, the steam, and the rope,
The frantic rhythm of the Great Rebuild;
They hoisted me up on a ladder of hope,
To a height that the soot and the ashes had filled.
I am perched once more on a frame of new steel,
Watching the grid rise in brick and in glass,
But I know the heat that the stones can feel,
And the "cleansing" hours that the poets let pass.
I look down on streets that are paved with the past,
Where the Laureate walks with his polished refrain;
He thinks that the beauty is destined to last,
That the "rising" has washed out the blood and the stain.
But from my new seat on the skyscraper’s brow,
I see the serrated edge of the sky;
I was the gargoyle then, I am the gargoyle now—
The only one left who refuses to lie.
My fellows are cold and of unfeeling bone,
Rigid steel beams that ignore the wind's cry;
They do not breathe like the mortar and stone,
But pierce through the clouds with a silver-gray eye.
The city has hardened, its heartbeat is fast,
Wrapped in a skeleton, hollow and bright;
The companions of old were too fragile to last,
But these new giants thrive in the electric night.
Enrolling as a pirate is much harder than it seems,
You’ll need to speak in present tense and chase your wildest dreams.
Well, once you’ve trained a parrot and been measured for your hook,
You have to plough through pages of the health and safety book.
The pointed end’s the bow, whilst your rudder’s near the aft,
Our crow’s nest has no greenery - that struck me as pretty daft.
We share the seas with submarines, with shipwrecks and blue whales
An’ there be umpteen ropes and pulleys with which to hoist our sails.
If we earn a jug of rum, we treat that as a gift.
The winds are strong and variable, I hopes you get my drift,
You’ll need to bring some cutlery and a deep enamel dish
If you want to get your ration of vegetables and fish.
You’ll have to learn to tolerate some rough-and-ready chaps,
Forget those childhood stories about chests and treasure maps,
You need to wield a cutlass to acquire the upper-hand,
So there ain’t much time for paddling, or playin’ on the sand.
You have to act as look-out when you’re sailing through the mist
But once you’re down the gangplank there are lassies to be kissed,
So be somewhat suspicious when they tries to hold your hand
They might be agents for The Revenue and want your contraband.
We hate the swarthy merchantmen, the Spaniards and the Danes,
We hate them water companies spillin’ sewage from their drains,
The noise of heavy cannon-fire plays havoc with our ears,
But that’s a strong tradition amongst us buccaneers.
Every job has downsides - it’s always been that way
But we get to see the sun go down almost every day,
And when you leave your hammock you may catch the sun a-rising
So sign-on as a pirate and your life will be surprising!
Germany, 1964
In barracks bare of beauty
I lay restlessly in bed. Around, a rife
of lifeless characters
from some Saturday charade
sullenly invite me to their ghastly parade.
I merely pull my blanket higher up
and blatantly yell out "Shaddup!"
A spot of flesh unknown to sun itches
so I scratch. Musty curtains run
in dusty ripples on their pulleys.
The room overflows with bullies
but I turn over in my bunk
and choose to spurn,
scratching a spot that doesn't itch.
I glance up. The light bulb top is dirty.
I reach up, unscrew the bulb,
lay silent in my patch of dark
and try, vainly, to extinguish
a more persistent spark.
The air around me reeks of smoke and beer,
is heavy with the weight of discontent.
I lie still darkly fomenting
an impotent dislike
for atmospheres like this one.
I writhe upon my squeaky cot and dun
and growl like some ancient,
burly, and barbaric Hun.
Vehemently, I vocalize my intense tension
with interjections "nice people" would never mention.
Joseph Robinette Biden
now commander in chief yay
manning ship of state
tossing anchors aweigh
heavily pierced tattooed
donning sheepish pirate(s)
at heady roiling waterway
fending off trolling rapscallion
much more thrilling
than watching cabaret
January twenty first two thousand
twenty one marks his first full day
wherein Oval Office finally
flushed, ousted, and zapped,
whose paternal ancestry
begat genealogical linkedin émigré
name unknown, nevertheless
one Johann Trump born within
Bobenheim am Berg, a village
in Palatinate, Germany circa 1789
moved to nearby village of Kallstadt
where his grandson, Friedrich Trump,
the grandfather of Donald Trump,
born in 1869 gamboled
upon grassy fairway
whereby grandson notorious
to grandstand and gainsay,
but especially renowned
windblown coiffure
kept intact courtesy "fake" hairspray
said product he did fulminate
against and inveigh,
cuz he envied (as does yours truly)
the trademark thatch sported by J.F.K.
At long last, a stalwart adept candidate
unwittingly saddled
with onerous figurative freight
COVID-19, homelessness, joblessness
sober statistics impossible mission to inflate,
whose physique slender and lightweight
boot pulleys and levers of power
he quite savvily can operate
personable and suave demeanor doth resonate
allowing, enabling, and providing
law and order to materialize,
and accomplishments downplayed
(unlike previous commander in chief)
whose braggadocio would never underrate.
Concern still prevails
regarding that woman user
egging fascistic paramilitary
white supremacist ilk
twittering as a digital schmoozer
hell bent on sowing anarchy,
cuz other Democratic contestant
did not defeat
soured at prospect their man beat
(him - who shall not be named again
ranks as a sore loser)
nevertheless, an oafish shill bruiser.
If prognostications allowed me,
at bedtime, when a supine American,
one garden variety and generic
sleepy Joe among madding crowd
will experience glee
at prospective buoyancy, decency,
fraternity, harmony, jollity, levity,
nobility, prosperity, serenity, tranquility...
wishing no ill will toward
former forty sixth president.
Chinese trollers
Cranes and pulleys motor oil saliva
Fishhook cockroach antennas dipped to the oceans
Thousands of sailing creepy crawlers
Bandits with razors
Cross the boundless seas
Devours crumbs of every kind of confiscated fish
Left to crawl or swim on the ocean floor
The hulls share their creaking space
With bunks for 20-year-old sailor slaves
Signed on
Then denied Port for up to three years
“Mama mama rescue me.” Messages from tossed beer bottles
If these young men get sick or hurt
Sometimes over the side they go
Fish guts
Transfer the catch to larger Chinese factory ships
Shadows slinking under the middle-ocean moons
That spoon the salt from emptied seas
Every Treaty and Border violated
Back to China
On ice
The raped slave girls in blue uniforms
Sold from North Korea for two years a piece
Slice and dice with knives
Fish heads and sucker arms
Sliding along the bloody Chinese assembly lines
18 hours a day with an evening beating
Seven days a week
Packaged tagged
Up sold again
North Korea’s skin in the game?
Meat to fund their nuclear missiles
Oh
Don’t bother blaming the CCP Biden Trump
Moon or Corporate America
It is we
The religious consumer
Who have been sufficiently and recently
Re-trained
To have an insatiable appetite
To woof down Calamari
Thought you’d like to know
Though
The long modern journey of re-branded squid.
BELOW AND ABOVE THE SEAS SURF FACE
Gone are the fishers pulling Lugs; the Gull its gizzard rusty hooked;
and barbed, limit its shelled Limpet supply as blown sand creeps;
smart gulls dunk and dip, clean away dry sand grit, clear their voices;
some gulls with salted eyes sing in the briny choir, in the sea salted air.
Cackle is not birdsong ! Choked thirst, on this new digital barren beach.
Crabs below do not sleep, scuttle quickly to pincer cuttle fish inside out.
Lurking above swirls a leaden sky, pressing heavy on a mirage horizon line;
Its distantly trapped! Sunk in long lost rigging, discarded twine tangled nets,
buoyant on the flotsam and jetsam of a weeded bed, stalked by big Congers.
The tide rattled brittle bleached bones, of well anchored nameless smugglers;
who had the timeless tide current wrong, unsaved by oilskin clothed priests.
Breathing smugglers, long shipwrecked in the “ale house” of sin staggering;
his mind baptises their lifeless sinning smiles; many bound drowned.
While plying their trade, in a tirade coined and jewelled, greedy and needy;
there are many hemp baskets, nets twisted around boney blooded fingers,
torn sails billow caught in brackets, and pulleys, long ropes snake about.
Chains with stains of rust, crush filleted bones eaten by black cats and rats;
old Teachers wander the shore of wave words, they fall over, their own hands.
Long gone are the fishers families; they are food now, for long stretched lugs,
Bubbling below !