Long Raving mad Poems
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Two Moons
‘I am the Goddess of Hellfire in spitting disguise when I travel alone and
need all support I can enlist to water my flames lest it gets out of hand’
proclaims the sun all rays shine and glory scorching the poor souls below
grills leathering skin deceives and strokes brains before mid and after glow
‘My parchment cannot be inscribed in solar solitude quite simply reverse
the orbit would gravely go out of sink kilter descend lower as I traverse’
scare the living daylight with radiant blindness imbalance’s solitary pursuit
thus convenes the basking star in solemn dialogue with moonlight’s tribute
The lovers eloped therefore together full steam under cover of darkness
left critics and envious rival dissenters behind because and regardless
of convention moronic norms social etiquette when passion erupted
with lunar pleasure in hearts body mind and soul never once obstructed
They made love and spooned their moons in wax and in wain they melted
pushed into each other pulled mingled as composite thoughts fusing and felt it
decided one sun is never enough and that light needs shelter and darkness
to contrast and heighten the elevation coronate union luminous sharpness
All previous heartfelt damnations the voices of doom slowly evaporated
once universal bonding moons sun and earth and their essence conjugated
they seem raving mad to embellish the sun with interplanetary spheres
but relish new horizons the soothing of hellfire admonish wisdom from tears
16th September
A Time to Know
A Time to Guess
But Never a Time
To Falsely Profess
A Time to be Happy
A Time to be Sad
But Never a Time
To be Raving Mad
A Time for This
And Even for THIS
~But Never a Time
for That
A Time to Disclose
A Time to Suppress
But Never a Time
To Cruelly Oppress
A Time to Attack
A Time to Defend
But Never a Time
To Try to Offend
A Time for This
And Even for THIS
~But Never a Time
for That
A Time to Accept
A Time to Refuse
But Never a Time
To Resort to Abuse
A Time to Think
A Time To Do
~And Always a Time
For "I Love You"
Creative Writing was my love,
a passion I thought highly of.
A freshman, I felt I could shove
one course in my school year.
Assignment 1 - simple indeed:
"Who broke your heart and made it bleed?"
I felt I nailed it; Prof agreed
(or so it would appear)...
I think I wrote convincingly -
"Winter is not my cup of tea,
it casts its bread upon the sea,
my saddest time of year.
I call a halt, enough's enough!
I clench my fist and call her bluff,
and frankly, speaking off the cuff
I wished summer were here.
"Dog days of summer make me smile
when, grinning like a crocodile,
my smiles are wider than the Nile -
Elysian Days with you.
With bated breath, I'd greet the moon
and croon you some soft summer tune
until that wretched day in June
when you dealt me a blow.
"My love, you had me on cloud nine,
now casting pearls before the swine,
you ran into his arms, not mine;
my baptism by fire.
You left me there sadder than sad;
there may be balm in Gilead,
but you left me stark, raving mad,
about to go haywire.
"To add insult to injury
you said I barked up the wrong tree
and so I sailed on glassy sea
I hope I'm not too vague,
or should I spell it out for you?
In light of your foul witch's brew
I should do as the Romans do:
avoid you like the plague!"
Thus it went on, emotions raw.
I hoped my prof would be in awe -
My last line was the coup de grace:
I know this, too, shall pass.
My gentle prof, he had his ways
of pointing out my bland clichés:
"You do enjoy a well-worn phrase!"
I learned a lot that class.
// Reminiscing on my patient Creative Writing professor indicating my over-reliance on tired phrases //
written 16 Aug 2020
Morality and self-fulfillment
attainable without belief in God
similarly yours truly
would figuratively crane
his credulity to ascertain Ichabod
mentioned in first Book of Samuel
as purported son of Phinehas,
I reject entire Biblical text,
and prefer to remain sacrilegious
eschewing faith no more,
(cuz doctrinaire versus
epistemological paradigm)
disagreeable, thus essentially
resigning yours truly
as token scapegoat gussied
up as heretical nimrod
metaphorically winkin blinkin
nonverbally giving nod
even if deaf mute blatherskite
reduced in one sentence as an odd
ditty, I spout gibberish
while travelling finite orbitz,
whereby one metrical foot
in front of thee other hide doth plod
me along tried and
true value schlemiel totally slipshod
thru and through,
though no po' tightwad!
Growing up amidst paternal
skeptical and cynical dad
in retrospect, I feel moral less glad
to avoid orthodox precepts
foisted when juiced a wee lad,
who peculiarly enough
resembled Alfred E. Neuman
if only yours truly
a figment of imagination,
rather than experiencing being sad
sack these days purposelessly
shuffling within ma rented pad
i.e. one bedroom apartment
listening to spouse more'n tad
annoying if oft times
knows exactly what childlike behavior
finds me getting stark raving mad.
Familiarity breeds contempt,
and the missus (unlike other gals)
unconditionally accepts her sir
vile counterpart (me) unkempt,
where neither of us
once upon a time dreamt
that each the other
would survive foreign attempt
to pledge troth (courtesy
justice of the peace
also known as
Magisterial District Judge:
Henry Schireson of Lower Merion
nsync with fame of Kobe Bryant
The water-well
There is near the houses a deep well
you can´t stick a bucket on a rope, much ropes were needed.
They used to hire a man usually the village idiot
to spend his life hauling up buckets of water.
Villagers believed the water came from the Yanjing river in China.
A man who had gone to school disagreed; it is a deep
underground river, he said. For this, he was disliked.
One day he fell down the well, but since it was not
man made and smooth a big stone sticking out saved him
from falling all the way down.
Broke his leg in the fall, he did.
With a dangling leg he had to claw himself up, however
they gave him water to drink, his struggle made him thirsty.
When he got out, he spoke a strange language
the villagers, thought was Chines, it never struck them
he was stark raving mad.
Now, an electric pump was installed, they saw him limping
out of the village talking gibberish.
My sheep go “Baa, Baa, Baa”
My sheep go “Baa, Baa, Baa”
My sheep go “Baa, Baa, Baa, Baa, Baa”
Farm country’s quite a place
Greener space and friendly smiles
My sheepdog likes to chase
Grazing flocks out here for miles
You know without sheep,
Don’t ya know I would be sad
Yeah without sheep,
I would go stark raving mad
My sheep go “Baa, Baa, Baa”
My sheep go “Baa, Baa, Baa”
And with a woolly friend, your life is never bad
They call me Miss BoPeep
I guess it’s sorta fair
Because my spoiled sheep
Get tender loving care
You know without sheep,
Don’t ya know I would be sad
Yeah without sheep,
I would go stark raving mad, ooh!
My sheep go “Baa, Baa, Baa”
My sheep go “Baa, Baa, Baa”
And with a woolly friend, your life is never bad
So you can spread the word
My stock stick waives with pride
Noisy faithful herds
Are always by my side
You know without sheep,
Don’t ya know I would be sad
Yeah without sheep,
I would go stark raving mad, ooh!
My sheep go “Baa, Baa, Baa”
My sheep go “Baa, Baa, Baa”
And with a woolly friend, your life is never bad
With a woolly friend, your life is never bad
With a woolly friend, your life is never...
Bad!
"Baa, Baa, Baa"
"Baa, Baa, Baa, Baaaaaa"
Feeling like I can’t and you can
Cease to steady, my own hands
Trying to please, for affirmation
Seeing no potential in my creations
Knowing the result before beginning
Only finding pleasure, when, sinning
A sense of guilt, when raving mad
Imagining emotions, you may have had
Wearing your shoes, neglecting my own
Only escaping, when completely alone
Loving my neighbors and despising them too
Never quite catching, up to you
Beginning every day, with the same goal
Do something that matters, become, whole
Ending each night, at war with myself
Replaying my failures and emotions, felt
I told that guy in the trilby hat
that when we create something in our mind
and push it out into the universe willing it to manifest,
it will, in some way, manifest,
though maybe not in the way we expected.
It may appear in the small print of creation
perhaps as a footnote or an addendum.
Trilby hat man gawps at me
as if I'd gone raving mad.
I blithely continue:
“if a cowbird comes to nest in your garden
then goats or cattle will visit your cabbage patch.
not now maybe, maybe never,
but the possibility hovers.”
I notice his trilby is trembling now,
he’s backing away from me
spluttering in outraged disbelief.
As I watch him depart, I have a vision:
The trilby catching fire while on his head;
naturally this will not do.
I imagine a rain cloud drenching him
then LO
It rained.
Not much is known about the man named Anton Mogart.
His history is cloaked in darkness -
a darkness like his deeds.
He stole jewels and works of art.
Despite all this, his motives were not about his needs,
but more about a blackened heart.
Going by the name of the Midnight Man,
he lived with splendid wealth
until he met up with Moon Knight
and saw a great deterioration of his health.
Caught by Moon Knight as he stole a rare Monet,
he fell into the river, landing in a sewer
on that fateful day.
Hiding three days in that awful place,
he got deformed by sewage melting on his face!
He lost all that he had.
So then, stark raving mad,
he lived again in sewers
where trash became his treasure.
I suppose that hoarding stuff
was his greatest pleasure!
Not surprisingly, the Midnight Man
got cancer, but before
he met his death, he first tried to restore
the secrets of his trade to a son he’d never known.
He begged this son to still avoid crime.
So strange this was after all the things to his son he’d shown
In the end, the Midnight Man had his final fight.
He lost his life for that,
challenging Moon Knight!
Nov. 13, 2022
for Robert James Liguori's Moon Knight Friend Or Foe 2 Poetry Contest
HER MOM’S AN ANGRY CLEANER
I’ve gone stark raving mad. That’s what we ladies do. Cleaning rag in hand, vacuuming the crumbs, tossing dishes like flying saucers. She says, I’m an angry cleaner. Perhaps she’s right. Do not be within the proximity, the border, the one I draw around myself. Do not come into the room saying, “What’cha doin’?” Because chap, it’s quite obvious and the winds of war are going to blow. Do you see that gray cloud...hear the booming thunder? The anvil’s about to fall. You, sir, are on the chopping block. Do you see my feet kick back, Pig-Pen’s dust and dirt swirling around my head. Do you know a Brownie must never be caught? If you knew these things, why’d you step out of line? Go back inside your “doggie container” Later, I’ll clean that out too...when you fly to third world countries. For now you see a witch upon her broom, cackling out “shoo!”
10/18/2018
Pig-Pen - character from Peanuts comic