Long Remorselessly Poems
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Is God a Woman?
Love.
Nothing is fair
in love and war.
Mother
carries the load
ripped open ripe torn
gives birth.
Who’s the better
stronger one
in this war?
Puts her child first.
Swallows all burning
stones thrown
ignores trolls, fights all...
Child first.
First born.
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
gvlm.
llb.
“God is Love God is War”
https://youtu.be/mhrSUE__oc8
“Mother is the name for God
in the lips and hearts of little children.”
William Makepeace Thackeray
“A Mother’s love for her child
is like nothing else in the world.
It knows no law, no pity, it dares all things
and crushes down remorselessly
all that stands in its path.”
Agatha Christie
"Now what to do?
I know your crew,
and each one got stripes
But I'm young see,
and one thing you not --
Hungry...
It's either or,
in the Game
from the door
Let's see
who'll be the first
to find the floor..."
"I sent my Soul through the Invisible,
Some letter of that After-life to spell:
And by and by my Soul return'd to me,
And answer'd "I Myself am Heav'n and Hell:"
The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
-- Re: Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, Rue de Fleurus #27, Paris --
What would Gertrude. What, Gertrude.What, Gertie?Have thought.Have thought what thought?Thought thought driving,forward,remorselessly.Remorseless Remorse? Forward.Never reverse;no reverse.No.No remorse.
Remorseless,spurning reverse,seated.High!Seated high in Auntie.Then in Godiva seated. Looming.Enormous.
Looming enormous.Unsinister presence. Certain presence.Definite.Definitely not sinister. Positively looming;enormous in brown. Brown,
in brown corduroy,driving Paris.
In Paris,through Paris.Looming high in Paris in Godiva.With Alice,
quiet beside her. Quiet; always, Alice. Alice always.
And zipping, about -- coming to Rue de Fleurus 27.
Zipping to Rue de Fleurus.To 27. And Alice so able.
Able Alice, each a.m. transcribing.Able Alice typing.Automatic Gertrude.
Typing Gertrude.Great Gertrude.GeniusGertrude.Talking Gertrude.
Genius talking.Great brown Gertrude; Gertie, to Alice.
Absorbing, talking, buying art --- buying Matisse.
Absorbing Matisse.Showing Matisse.Banishing Matisse.
Selling Matisse,collecting Picasso.Great Gertrude -- genius Gertrude
at court, holding court at Rue de Fleurus 27.
And Leo.Gone Leo.No Leo at Rue de Fleurus. Not at 27
After Leo, after Mr. Stein, after brother Leo. But there was Alice.
Alice was there Among Braques.And Cezanne.
(Not Matisse.)No longer Matisse, but Picasso.
And Picassos, Picassos, Picassos!
And Alice; alongside, was Alice.Next to, was Alice.
Alice next Gertrude,Gertie, G. --- Gertrude, Miss Stein.
Genius Gertrude Stein Quiet Alice always.
And a great Gertrude. A great brown Gertrude. A leviathan.
A passing ship; a great leviathan.Gertie, a genius.
A hugeness.A shibboleth.But to Alice,
just Gertie.
Dear Mr president
I seem to be in a spot of bother,
Would you please grant me a pardon
before you depart the oval room,
Seeking a change of reality
I ran away and joined the circus
well actually it was more a sideshow
Ringmaster said I’d fit in better with the midget contortionist,
however I was drawn towards the Siamese triplets,
joined together at their knees and elbows since birth
We got up to all sorts of hi jinx and Shenanigans life was great,
til the one in the middle decided to leave our troupe,
Me being their best friend they asked would I do the separation,
eager to help them I agreed to perform the operation
Not having a clue about surgery
I decided to knock them out with a sledgehammer
borrowed from the strongman,
and use the knife throwers sharpest blades,
I butchered them remorselessly for hours,
was a very difficult operation,
but wholly satisfying for me anyway,
Unfortunately but not unexpectedly,
the middle one suffered the most cuts and bled out pretty quick,
the other two died days later in multiple beds,
I was put in some hospital for the criminally insane,
and doped up to my eyeballs on potent medication,
actually settled in quite nicely here,
Worse part though is I had a fantastic combover like yours
now they shave my head every other day
Some say they’ll never let me out,
only occasionally do I think of going on killing rampages,
I’m not getting on to well with the parole board, “mostly democrats”
but hope to marry the midget contortionist, on our next imaginary visit,
The circus was disbanded, shortly after,
and they all live on welfare now,
bunch of really great guys.
I’m a republican
PARDON GRANTED
By David Kavanagh
I remember when Alexander of Macaedon
approached me in Siwa as a supplicant soldier,
he was so young yet so wet with war blood
32 years old and the most powerful king on the planet,
Alex entered my chamber unarmed and unassuming
he was rather like a boy unbruised by fear,
everything in the world was at his command
but there were questions that he alone could not conquer,
he did indeed ask me, about his family tree
whether he descended rightly, from godly seed,
I arose from my seer's seat
my silken green and gold gown
hugging my body thickly off the shoulders,
stepping down deftly to meet his rare eyes,
we stood face to face
like two fires fuelled by eachother's breaths,
I told him to give me his hand
to which he did
because he knew to trust me,
I unsheathed a tiny dagger
that I kept against my stomach
and sliced his fingertip remorselessly
we smiled at one another,
gripping his hand tightly
I brang his finger to my mouth
as the blood dribbled quickly down to both our hands,
the taste made me close my eyes
I was in instant ecstasy,
I knew now what he thought he knew,
and I told him he was not the first nor the last
that another king shall come in the future
whom will complete the Holy Kingdom...
J.A.B.
Mute
but immutable.
Unmoving, unmoveable;
timeless, yet tireless.
Solitary stalwart sentinel
surveils undulating horizon.
Aberrant, achromatic clouds
pock-mark the skies, as distant
rumblings herald his adversary's
latest gambit in their age-old conflict.
The wrath of a thousand crashing,
clashing, thrashing fists batter
against the beleaguered sentry.
Ceaselessly, remorselessly,
the maelstrom assails him.
But the foundations are firm and
noble gatekeeper stands steadfast.
Single-minded of purpose, placid
custodian morphs into combatant as
his luminous, voluminous blade carves
luminescent arcs through chthonic cloak.
Tenebrous tendrils wither and dissipate,
impotent under intense lambent onslaught.
His victory is only fleeting, as vanquished
foes are summarily supplanted by more of
their ilk in a seemingly continual surge.
Again and again, over and over, tormentor
presses the attack, exploiting any weakness.
Over and over, again and again, valiant warden
repels the barrage and despatches his enemies.
And so the pattern repeats endlessly, unabated,
as these eternal opponents jostle for position
in a perpetual cycle of aggression and defence.
Until eventually, finally, ultimately, the stale-mate
is broken; when Tempest's tantrum is tamed and
Blizzard's battalions have been banished, all is calm.
Tranquillity is able to reassert herself and order has
finally been restored; at least for the foreseeable future.
Obligations fulfilled, the triumphant Guardian can now rest.
Until the need arises again, until he's called upon once more,
he will wait patiently, watch diligently, in unflagging vigilance.
Forever resolute, a beacon of sanctuary, a symbol of hope, his is a
thankless task, but the Protector of Mariners will always be needed.
-----------------------------------
(C) John C Michaels, 27 July 2017
For Eve Roper's "Lighthouse" Contest.
(1st Place)
In England’s pleasant pastures amid the free wild flowers
Lie pagan ways the wise ones do not mock
And one adept at harnessing these ancient rural powers
Was Oggwool Fleece, the black sheep of the flock
Oggwool was old, much older than the old oak it was said
Beneath whose boughs the dark sheep’s plans are sealed
‘Twas said the sheep had come back from the other side of dead
With the darkness in that corner of the field.
The farm hands better knew to venture in the oak’s strange shade
Or to the long grass that the darkness gripped
Where Oggwool lurked amid the spells and potions he had made
A sheep unshorn and magically undipped.
Not limited by four hooves in working his deft skill
Unhindered in ambitious sheepish plans
Harnessing the dark elves to do his dark sheep will
Dexterously with little dark elf hands.
From that darkened corner of that English country field
His influence extends itself outside
His arcane woolly web through which his mystic powers wield
Reaching parts and persons spread worldwide
He has extensive vineyards in Italy and Spain,
He has mining operations in Peru
He owns a flock of ostriches down in the Ukraine
(Although he never quite intended to)
He’s engineering world events on scales beyond the ken
He has his hooves in business of all kinds
He interferes remorselessly in world affairs of men
With night-time thoughts drip-fed to human minds
Little green men fly through space in saucers flat and round
On interstellar missions without cease
But on their furthest journey yet, their enterprise is bound
To the ever growing plans of Oggwool Fleece
The politicians spin their words and armies shoulder arms
And yet do not beyond their small acts see
But Oggwool Fleece with thistle skills and other sheepwise charms
Is planning how to rule a galaxy!
The elevator shudders -
then a muted ping as narrow doors slide open,
the conveyance only lifts one person at a time,
when it descends it is always empty.
I've been here before,
the stairs are always urine stained
condoms lay like squashed snails
on the cracked concrete.
It is a place for secretive degradations
a covert whereabouts
where shame wears thin its painted grin.
Nobody climbs this stairwell
it winds and ascends - a hollow intestine
wrapped around an echoing tower.
I'm on the wrong floor,
a small sign on the bare grey wall
reads, "wrong floor."
I recall too late that there is no 'right' floor
just living-spaces cut into damp breeze blocks
Stagnant light pools in neon-lit halls,
and the still air hums with a low electric buzz.
Key in hand I search for an address
that is a denominator
of my personal blood type.
We came here as refugees gladly,
the city had grown remorselessly alien
but now we are exiled,
lost in this space that rises upward
beyond any high of hope,
it reaches into a darkness,
a murk we suspect is a buried basement
and not a rise at all.
Far, far below, on the other side
of a smeared, tightly-shut window
shadow people hide from themselves
where as usual a ‘seek and find’ rages on.
There at ground floor level
the elevator doors do not open,
not for anyone.
The people of the tower are most grateful to be
sequestered inside their own hollowed-out hive
free from the streets
and the always perilous threat
of their own collective dreams.
“The Lost Daughter”
Thursday walked through the doors on a Tuesday
She sat in the Waiting Room,
the place smelled too sterile,
Antiseptic wash,
rank clean with soaps of fine lyes
no rugs to sweep bulldust under
such shiny spotless floors,
All open doors
Effective, efficient,
cold and distant
No blow flies
Time ticking raw.
Saturday was far away
Learning about "policy"
and how to "fairly" play,
walking down bustling University Halls
shining bright sun,
traversing all manners of shade
The Lost Daughter
looked in the bathroom mirror
Hazel Green eyes double take
she did gaze
Occasionally she heard Thursday calling her name
She turned on the faucets,
washed her hands,
singing a song about
"A Brand New Day"
turned her back to better things, and
swiftly walked out the swinging door
into the fray.
The Lost Daughter
left on a Saturday
She watched 3
dreams slip away
How to communicate
all that she wanted to say
Love was all she possessed
THE biggest gift,
to leave on their pillows
She blew them her kiss
an imprint on small brains
Like "Wind in the Willows"
“Take my hand”, He said,
“no need to worry, although it's too soon,
we will work out a way”.
“You’re up next,” the matron relayed, “let’s get you ready”.
The Lost Daughter sucked in the Aether and breathed. She replied,
“Bring it on, I’m game”.
(Lovejoy-Burton/April 2018)
For K, M, & G x
"A mother's love for her child is like nothing else in the world. It knows no law, no pity, it dares all things and crushes down remorselessly all that stands in its path." Agatha Christie
"Mother is the name for God in the lips and hearts of little children."
William Makepeace Thackeray
"Sonnet III", William Shakespeare
The African night goes robust with
silence and attentiveness.
Darkness, grave, deep and merciless,
hisses remorselessly but soundlessly.
The moon is on a visit to her grandmother
Fireflies on bulrushes give blinking light, like exhausted
Twinkling stars expelled from heaven.
Post-suppertime, belching stomachs recline on
Whims of a slow-travelling night with faithful
Silhouettes walking ahead of stalking shadows.
Orchestral insects keep the night company
Folktales steal into this power of darkness —
A breathing nocturnal art with the pulse of
Communal growth . . .
The town crier is abroad
He needs no other identity but his voice,
A foghorn in the entrenched darkness.
Next is his wooden gong,
An instrument of life.
His voice rides smoothly through the night —
At times with punch, some other times
With the sound of glory . . .
And when there’s gloom,
With the sonorous flow of woe.
We may see
Mirrorlessly
That the fear of death
Approaching in stealth
Is a dark, devastating fear
That remorselessly spears
The innermost core of our being
For, we would like to go on living
Endowed with power of discernment and reason
Why then caged in self created delusional prison
We do recognise that mind body is perishable
As opposed to our loving spirit within eternal
Yet we choose to be glued to illusion
There lies root cause of our confusion
Hypnotised: we dwell in stress
Nonchalant: divine love caress
We are as we choose to be
Choose oh hermit, to be free
Shift the fulcrum
To our sensorium
Within
11-January-2021