Long Ricocheting Poems
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they chew each other’s names
like gristle,
spit stories into the air
that stink before they land.
every word a small knife
looking for a back.
gossip crawls on the floor,
licking old blood,
hungry for new.
they feed it faces,
they feed it mistakes,
they feed it anything that once tried
to live clean.
the noise
is blunt-force trauma—
no filter from the brain to the mouth,
just rot rolling downhill
into sound.
ears packed with cotton,
hearing nothing,
feeling everything.
the skull rings
like a cheap bell in a slaughterhouse.
they don’t speak—
they discharge.
sentences like misfires,
wild bullets ricocheting off
whoever’s closest.
you stand there
taking shrapnel politely,
nodding like a good citizen of hell,
until the pressure behind your eyes
starts to beg for a violent silence.
later, alone,
the room finally stops shouting.
your hands shake.
your drink tastes like survival.
and you understand:
the quiet isn’t peace—
it’s just the sound
of the knives being put away
for the night.
During the Second World War
A decision was made
If brothers were to be lost
The last would be saved
The story below
Is the truth in a way
For the search of a soldier
Before he becomes, theatre pray
The US Government declared
A mission is in plan
Sending a squad of Rangers
To save this solitary man
Capt. John H Miller
With his handful of men
Their dedication to search
For the last of them
For his brothers were lost
In the theatre of war
At Omaha and Utah
In the Pacific, so far
Into Europe they head
From cities through towns
Looking for Ryan
Before he's gunned down
He is eventually found
With Paratroopers, holding onto a key bridge
As a Panzer group advances
Will this be their last ridge
Bullets zipped, pinging
Ricocheting
The flesh of the living
In screaming sing
Their mission was, to
Save Private Ryan
But Capt. John H Miller
With others, died trying
My entry into Frank Herrera's contest
" Describe your favorite performance by Actor or Actress in a movie "
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/poetry-soup-7.php
Tom Hanks is my favourite actor, and his role as Capt, John H Miller to me
was one of his best, his hunger to complete his mission showed in his acting.
The film was based on a true story, about Fritz Niland who lost two brothers
in Normandy, and a brother M.I.A. in Burma. He was later found alive.
But the military rule about sole surviving son's being allowed out of combat is true.
It was enacted after the five Sullivan brothers were killed in 1942 when the U.S.S.
Juneau was sunk in the Pacific. The rule of the surviving son is common to many
armies, the American, the Canadian, the British and the Israeli.
Philosephers have asked the question
"What happens when an unstoppable object
is aimed at an unmoveable object?"
Many years I have looked at the intention
of content looking for answers what it meant
wondered what conflict
could bring such an event
where only gods could contend
and cause a decent
stretching the limits of possibility
to incomplete
But scense gods are involved
it's not physical but spiritual
Some look for the word Imperical
But the word I sudgest is Empirical
All this just to prove
it is Imperical after all
A moving object can move
at the command of god
Being like a bullet leaving a gun
or it can rotate like the
earth around the sun
Or it can ricochet
without loseing it's speed
Be the shape of infininty
the number eight with a lean
So what happens when the unstoppable
meets the unmoveable?
The answer is they merge
The unstoppable object goes
into the unmoveable continueing
at the same rate of speed
Either in a circle, ricocheting off the sides
or the image of infinity
To some this has occured
to others it is unavoidable
in the future
The unmoveable is what God has created
The thing He gave to Adam. Job and Moses
sent down by decree
But He also sent the unstoppable force
He is the Messiah
for both you and me
And he will live in the immovable
forever
The spiral staircase made her high heels sing, the metal tips on her heels dinged on the metal steps.
The sound reminded John of bullets ricocheting on a tin roof he had heard two weeks before.
She reached the stage and joined the other dancers and then one of the girls sang Brahms lullaby.
John was enjoying a day’s leave at the hotel, last week it was full of German soldiers, Paris was now liberated and the look of joy on the Parisians was evident on their faces.
Tomorrow his regiment was being deployed, to where he did not know, it was just after midnight when they got back to their camp; a couple of miles from the hotel.
At the briefing the next morning the orders were given to assist US forces at a town called St Louise, It was 04.00 as they drove up a steep hill and from here the city churches pierced the mist.
They arrived at the town and he could hear sporadic bursts of machine gun fire, an American captain signalled Johns regiment to keep their heads down.
He soon found out why as the whistling of artillery shells hit their target at the far edge of town.
Silence now, and then they began a sweep and search operation going from house to house.
Then he heard music, cautiously he entered and at the far end was a young girl of about ten
John approached her and she smiled, he picked her up and she was still clutching the music box.
He went outside and in case of snipers he closed it and now smiling crossed the square.
There was a field ambulance by the fountain and John handed her over to the medics there.
He started back to join his patrol and then the girl opened the music box which started playing, yes of course he had heard it before, the unmistakable sound of Brahms lullaby.
Written on Wednesday 6th June 2018
For one nine and sixteen poetry contest sponsored by Viv Wigley
Melancholic notes of a lone flute brush past my ears,
the night yet to settle but the sun long gone,
only a rosy pink glow shimmering behind depthless clouds.
A drizzle of rain falls gently,
ricocheting off of the wooden roofs,
running off its slanted edge,
thrumming harmonically on the stone slabs below.
How many springs has it been since you left,
I wonder as I think about us.
The rights and wrongs of our past have already begone,
yet how can I leave it all behind?
Your golden eyes, your radiant smile,
the starry love I once wished to be.
I gaze deep into my cup
watching it fill with rain,
drop by drop; inch by inch
mirroring the tears gathering in my eyes
and the growing pain.
Bittersweet memories circle me like a fire,
unable to escape.
Full of people is the world,
yet none like you will ever return.
I always tell myself that it is better to let you go,
maybe I pretend it was all a dream,
but I keep coming back,
Back to the place where we belong together.
I picture how you used to sit here,
the rays of sunlight diving through the pine trees,
picture them illuminating you as you played the flute so elegantly.
The laughs we shared, the tears we shed,
that's all gone now; memories are my everything.
So many evenings I have sat here,
losing myself in history,
reminiscing in the tunes you used to play
and in those melodies I find solace,
somewhere where the pain is not so great,
somewhere where the grief won't rip canyons in my heart.
So as I pick up your flute and begin to blow,
the first shaky notes of Dance of the Blessed Souls
rings across the countryside.
But wherever you are, I no longer want to be:
for you are thunderstruck moonlight,
and I am a scarred sunset ~ a secret in saffron,
melting into the myth that floats forever,
within silenced dunes of scorpion stones,
where the cryptic coldness of sand feels like~
Cupid’s daggers piercing through
my aching skin and bones.
Frost-kissed vines wrap around
my wintry heart,
screaming for a sacred release
from the tethered torment
of satanic sapphires,
breathing within the haunted caves
of unending nightmares ~
and the twilight that wanes
behind flatlined promises.
Tonight, I feel like arrows of angst,
ricocheting within these woeful walls
of my melancholic mausoleum,
mirroring the heat of a burning breeze ~
like an epitaph lost in the sweltering air.
The clover of golden green glimmers,
like fireflies around my wrists,
luring distant ravens,
croaking above paralyzed dreams,
to untangle the crooked lines of lies,
crawling within clouds of comfort,
oblivious to Lilith’s serpent slithering
around my fragile feet in slow cadence,
pushing me to the darker dusks
drawn above the prying
valley of putrid prunes,
where these wistful musings
will remain as mere voiceless ashes,
cremated in vain,
with flames of forgotten folktales
echoing as faded music within a glass urn.
So, if tomorrow I’m gone, remember me ~
I still breathe silver snippets of hope,
a frozen quiescence,
etched in seven arcs of stardust,
longing to be anywhere but here.
Perhaps as the last verse of your poem,
or could I be the lone rose,
forever thriving in the galactic gardens of love,
where hate and greed, tangled in
jinxed jewels,
dissolve into nothingness ~
like rusted ribbons of the crestfallen lunar.
I hope lilacs and lavenders will bloom
in hypnotic hues, to calm raging rivers flowing
within the arctic arteries of a dark poet,
longing for a home
away from hellish hands,
so I can serenade songs of survival
and rhapsodies of resilience,
while watching every tear I’ve shed
crystallize into pearls and diamonds,
like born-again stars in violet skies.
Will you dance with me?
a magnetic force in his laser gaze
tantalized her dizzying breath in adrenaline.
beats of heart, in songs of electrified music
beyond confines of milonga dance floor.
a spotlight opened a new heaven
and pranced a thrill of drunken vineyards.
A whole world of grief was left behind
as dreams germinated in her satin eyes.
holding his arms, face close to face
their eyes locked in each other.
time ricocheting fluid steps, a fast turn...
spinning a tango around his vertical axis
she could feel the tangy connection
rooted strong in curves of alignment
twirling in his machista, an alchemic mix
resonated as they leaned in abrazo.
joyous feet hooked in circles of promise.
silver shoes swayed in magic tango
Will you marry me ?
Cinderella waited for a fairytale end.
Dated 20th March 2020
I d r
e a
m away
from the golden-laced drapes,
tracing smoke-veiled cloudscapes,
reminiscing rainbow reveries,
raining with musical laughter,
mirroring the sun within
my maternal spirit,
drawing cerulean smiles
across the kaleidoscopic sky
with initials of my
beloved June child.
As in acrylics, I find happiness,
and in palettes of pastels
I feel the twilight twinkles of time,
revealing rosemary reasons to rhyme
in rhinestone radiance,
releasing runes ~
ricocheting colors
of my hibiscus heartbeat…
O kismet constellations,
I breathe glitters of gratitude
to the sapphire stars
and swirling sparks
drifting through shifting monsoons,
cradled in the
blissful sighs of my son.
For in his presence,
murky mists of melancholy
fade into neon nothingness;
in his words,
a thousand gardens glisten and glow;
in his eyes,
I see hues of hope ~
ballad of a seraphic summer.
Perhaps, the voice of this
unconditional love remains
the synonym of happiness,
the syllables of zen,
and the metaphors of euphoria,
bound to the skin ~
of rooted truth,
truth of a mother
dressed in the dulcet dews
seized from the dawn
when he learned the light of life…
So let me rephrase,
in redundant dialects,
to write in coherent cadence,
of the warmth I weave,
of the peace I paint,
within jeweled lines of lavender…
I smile not because I see no sorrow,
but because my existence
is a mere iron-arched
gateway to guide astral rays
above the island shores
where his footprints echo,
porcelain patterns,
erasing fringes from
the blemished blurs
of grieving moonlight
caressing the sanguine sea
rippling with turquoise tranquility ~
a tale of teal tomorrow...
“The Refugee”
She stood naked
as the soft sprinkling of
water cascaded down
her war torn body.
The scent of concrete dust
still in her veins.
The sound of bullets still
ricocheting through her brain.
Black powder on her skin.
The long frozen road.
The nights without sleep.
Her baby in tow.
The raping of her soul.
Running for life,
Away from the fight.
Leaving footprints in the snow.
Bloodied glass on her domicile floor.
Her tears poured
as the water caressed
her tried body
washing away those sins.
A bar of soap
will never erase.
A fountain of warmth
will never reclaim.
She somehow survived
those evil men.
Reflecting the life she led
before they came.
The warm water
streams down
her naked body.
3/12/2022
if flowers write about love storms
and the moon obeys the heart’s blaze
would you, O Dawn’s King
become my forever flame ~
the wild-blue fire,
finger-locking our besotted souls…
aching obsessively to taste
the sacred warmth
from the Asclepius arms
of Cephisesus’ spring river
ricocheting and reflecting
the burning desire we breathe…
and I listen ~ in amatory silence,
to your voiced whispers
the slow, soft velour laughter
as you caress my sky
with poetic phrases ~
igniting this ink to release
blooms spooned with fervent sighs
lines linear against
the hysterical history
of hurt without healing…
but if only the petals
floating and
frolicking in the wind
could empathize
with how my lips thirst
with flares of jealous heat ~
wanting desperately
to be the trembling skin
the only zephyr
that touches your smooth silk fever…
O pursuer of pressed passion
my reason to remain alive
relinquish into the orchard
of rooted, clandestine utopia,
where I savor the luscious liqueur
spilling from the titillating tips
of scribbled Shizuka ~
kiss me when the sun sleeps
feel me when the Venus stars awake
dress me in dancing darkness.
I will be the violet spark
to your electromagnetic light…
take me beyond time
eviscerate the
evil threads of illusion
unchain the steel of
our imprisoned pages,
let the words flow as one..
for my heartbeat now
is the sober mirror to your pulse
nevermore remembering
the final glimpse
of an irreversible ending…
** inspired by the artwork The birth of Venus, Sandro Botticelli ~