Long Right and left Poems
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I also feel blasé today February 19th, 2024
Linkedin to being lax,
and shirking house cleaning tasks,
which negligence cost us
(yours truly and the missus)
a golden opportunity
to relocate to Hillcrest Village
in Boyertown, Pennsylvania
another HUD subsidized property
under the aegis of Grosse and Quade,
one of the larger residential
property management firms
in the Delaware Valley.
Physical unwellness
(insync with racing heart) arose
because Kathleen Bergen
the new property manager
here at 2 Highland Manor
voiced absolute zero positive feedback,
upon taking lock, stock, and barrel
of appalling living conditions,
her blistering vocalization
(from wuthering heights)
translated as a foregone conclusion
against our hopes
pinned on moving into
two bedroom apartment
referenced above topmost lines.
Said plummeted disappointment
(courtesy blunt admission
out the mouth of
(humpty dumpty sat on a wall)
frumpty recent hire
identified in a previous poem
as new warden)
verbosely predicated upon
gross appearance of living space
immediately dashed cautious optimism
citing unkempt state
within no crater than
moonwalking unit b44,
whereby we wished to skadaddle
far away from obligation
to be mindful of rules and regulations
codified within a binding lease.
Unlikely home ownership
will ever come to pass,
nor the lesser prospect
to rent more spacious domicile
larger than a one bedroom apartment,
no bigger than a bread box
den me and the missus,
(a hen pecking spouse)
might befriend Bugs Bunny,
who might guarantee
adequate sized rabbit hole
constituting large enough wonderland
receiving stamp of approval
courtesy Alice in Chains
subsidized lodging money back
plus additional warren tee
granted by Mister Michael Fox,
who took me back to the future,
when the pace of life
plodded along at leisurely rhythm.
Only within outer limits
realm of twilight zone,
where dark shadows
inch along edge of night
(while two thumbs and index finger
belonging to separate good sports
grab hold the furcula
(or wishbone) structure
formed by the ventral fusion
of the right and left clavicles
and the median interclavicle
silently mouth invocation)
holds at bay, the inexplicable phenomena
moored, harbored, and docked
awaiting lucky recipient,
whose merrythought bestowed
upon he/she, they/them.
He watched his kite,her, snap
her tail rises
in the sky
in the deep blue sky
i keep imagining of her
my eyes don't rest and lie,
my mind's eye,
of her with a bird in hand,
the one she waved off …
that i dont imagine
i keep watching her tail
so majestic
and buoyant
... as if she were dancing,
dancing
with herself,
in the deep blue sky,
her carriage
model perfect
of blemishes
with the sun shining
off her inner beauty,
she would flutter
... flutter
to the right and left,
bounce, bounce
up and down
as i continue watching,
watching ...heartbroken
for the last time,
Of life passing by,
Her,
my eyes moisten
as she distances herself
away from me
the burdens of my life
Heartaches, heartaches that
always kept suppressed in me
i say, i wish i could have stopped her flight
and see her come alive
with me,
... me with
one fleeting chance
a chance
of a snowball of goodness for once
but hoping realistically
for just that one snowflake of a chance
one little snowflake that never dropped
... i keep watching
the once beautiful kite
so lifelike, vibrant
especially her tail and direction
up in the blue sky,
a small dot now
... sucking the air out of me
as it became smaller
• i reminiscence
of the past of how our love nosedived
into an avalanche
before it started
... nosediving into sorrow and regrets
the residual of a piece of string not tying
not tying a loop...
i keep looking up into the sky
my mind oscillating, correlating
i see, clearly
her inner beauty capturing me
even from a distance
and now how ... i'm resigned to watching
so sadden
life unravel,
how can this be
or is that the line ... unraveling
again, how can this be
... the kite kept
distancing itself
fluttering itself ...
further away ...
just like myself
... the wind howling
its sharp teeth of injustice, life
grabbing me
i guess
i guess i was bad, unworthy
For her
for i hear ...
voices in my head
the once little birds in her hand crying,
crying
for not finding warmth
i hear a snap
is that for real?
i look,
in the deep blue sky
turning over, turning shades of red
she's gone
and the voice of cruelty just laughing
just laughing at me
for there is an absence, now
of that little tail fluttering
with goodness,
with unattainable borders
that i missed and missed
connie pachecho
3/3/17
The klaxon sounds and off we do scurry
Up to the gun house we head in a hurry
Through narrow p-ways and up noisy stairs
We pass each other with far away glares
What threat to meet, all do wonder
We’re well trained and there’ll be no blunder
Hatches closed and scuttles secured
Drive motors humming, we speak not a word
Ammo to the hoist, battle dress in place
Flash hoods cover all but our face
“Mt 51 manned and ready!”
Gas eject air pressure is holding steady
“Air action port!” our circuits align
Gun slews, the target to find
“On target aircraft!” the checksight declares
Our peril confirmed, no drill, all just a deep inhale
“Right and left guns load!” first powder then shot
To the mad dance, cast we all our lot
Guns loaded, we track knowing not when
Waiting the salvo alarm, the dance soon to begin
Fourteen men poised, ready for the show
Bound to each other, not for their own glory they do go
Gong! Gong! Fire! The first stanza a roar
Then rapid and continuous we feed each bore
“Bore clear!” signals to load the next round
As hot-case men pitch spent brass to the ground
Practiced harmony, each motion robotic
Load!, Ram!, Fire!, Eject! the cadence hypnotic
Smoke and flareback, gases choking
Onward we whirl, and curse the foe attacking
“Foul bore left gun!”
A stuck case has us undone
Pry bar in hand, the Gunner appears
The extractors are broken, confirming worst fears
Casing removed and the gun finally clear
Up all night we’ll be, fixing this gear
“Cease fire!” all safely emerge
Realize we now, our fears to purge
Destruction averted, another hour to draw breath
Till the enemy returns, seeking our death
“Police up that brass and swab out those barrels!”
The chief keeps us all intent on the peril
They will come again, or we will seek them out
So little rest we take, while the issue is in doubt
***************************************
This describes a live shoot from the prospective of
the men manning a twin 5 inch gun aboard a destroyer.
These ships were common in our Navy from 1944 through
about 1980. The "old salts" out there will find this very familiar.
This is a spinoff from my "Tin Can Sailors" write even though
the ships in that story were single mounts. Same gun, but
with just one barrel. Those were before my time.
You have been walking on that ground since you were a child and you still have not examined the broken lines, you have been playing on that field since you start crawling on your knees and still you have not figured out how to mix lemon with honey.
You have been playing on the middle ground since you were three and you should know the turns like ABC. If I bend my back and cross my knees you will receive a letter from me; some mountains are hard to climb but strategy will save you just in time.
I lit a candle and wander around in the dark searching for that spot where I will meet with the lark, it is that little section around the bend where the crucifix meet with the troublesome heavens, and the clouds keeps turning about and the elements in the sky start to run and shout.
The universe with its ultimate proportion finds the exotic rhythm and starts sing, and I stretched my ears beyond the plane to block out the terrible shame and align myself with the ground for that is where the mystery is found.
The stars and the planets are sealed up with the Gods and the Indus Valley lay bear waiting for something dynamic to share; the Bronze Age of civilization is welled up in the northwestern regions of Southern Asia, cruising from corner to corner and from three thousand three hundred BCE to thirteen hundred BCE, they have been baking a giant cake for you and me,.
The ancient Egyptian and Mesopotamia family have been searching diligently for me they are one of three early civilizations of the Near East and South Asia and they have built an empire out of the diamond and gold and place it in the center of my soul.
The ancestors have paid the sacrifice a million times and when the time is right you will break through the gate and collect the golden plate.
The center ground keeps moving around and the birds keep flying from town to town, the side bars are easy to slide and a miracle is waiting by your side, study the field once more before you walks through the miracle door.It was built specially for you, just to make your dream come through.
When you are in the middle, they attack you from both sides so girt your waist with extra pride and extend your right and left elbow on both sides to scrape up all the prize. The middle ground is hard to find; the middle ground is where destiny abideS.
remember when recent-psycho-in-the
brief-spotlight, Texas Gov. Ricky Perry,
smiled at the camera in the debate o’
repuglicans & couldn’t remember the
3rd branch of government that he told
the nation watching that he would eliminate
once he became president?
remember that this ******* had nothing to
say but “oops,” after admitting to wanting to
get rid of Education & Commerce---because
he couldn’t think of another valuable thing
to get rid of & Ron Paul sarcastically offered
up, “the EPA?”---
this same man also told the nation that he
had no regrets, that he “never struggled to
sleep at night” with the thought that any of the
over 200 more people executed in his
state (than the others in the US)
had been innocent---
after all, he is a proud representative of the
cowboy state that had to be forced by 2,000
federal troops to finally free their slaves in
1865 & one might not be surprised to find
him wearing a “don’t mess with Texas”
belt buckle, when he parts his suit coat.
a few nights ago, another man,
Mr. Marvin Wilson, age 54, whose IQ of
61 (9 points below Texas’ own cut off of 70
which determines one is mentally retarded) did
not even make a bit of difference to Mr. Perry &
the bloodthirsty behind him, was executed
without forensic proof or eyewitness accounts of
the murder of which he was convicted of in
1992---
Marvin was a grown man who sucked his thumb,
bearing many intellectual inabilities, from “telling
the difference between right and left” to “handling
money,”
still, disregarding Atkins v. Virginia (2002),
in which the Supreme Court posited that people
with mental disabilities rendering them incapable of
understanding their own actions, should not be
executed,
TEXAS DID IT ANYWAY.
one wonders if conclusive DNA evidence was
discovered years from now, exonerating him
from the crime of which he was convicted,
beyond the shadow of a doubt,
would Mr. Ricky & all the repugs still sleep
soundly?---
need we even take a vote?
7 are already dead in 2012 Texas, campers:
3 African-American men,
3 Hispanic men &
one white guy…
AND MORE ARE SCHEDULED
FOR THE REMAINING MONTHS OF
2012,
SO GET YOUR TICKETS NOW!!!
COME ON DOWN TO TEXAS,
BRING YER’ WIFE, BRING YER’
RUGRATS & PULL UP THE BACK OF
A TRUCK.
“gawd” bless this “democratic”
&
“civilized”
country of ours.
On one night,
is it because of a bewitched full moon?
while driving my rusty shaking junk car
I became Don Quixote de la Mancha
mounted on Rozinante holding a lance under the arm aslant,
and with a full gallop, dashing into the battle field, through the street where
the full moon was hanging thirty degree above the sky between forests eastward.
The trees standing both sides on the street
dyed by reddish-yellowish gray moonbeam in silhouette
were the windmill sails whirling their gigantic arms in air to assail me.
The red and green one-eyed giants
often met on the way eastward were the fat and ugly
demon-possessed skins of red wine that must have slain.
Flourishing lance to the right and left
while giving spurs to Rozinante again and again
to advance rapidly, I found myself in the middle
of enemy territory before becoming aware of it,
detouring annoying barricades, I was running through
the path between ramparts while ducking a shower of arrows,
came to the endless water front where disabled Rozinante fell.
When raging waves come and hit the breakwater
for the water cannot advance any further or is able to return,
the waves break up the hundreds and thousands of beads and
return to the bottomless water while flushing its silvery blue scales.
And when sprays of water that dived into the deepest sea
gush out from its bottom belching fire, it rises to the sky
and becomes a gigantic dragon and swallows the moon.
In the darkness where the dragon gathering dark clouds
after swallowing the moon the rain falls, the torrential rain
hits Mambrino’s helmet mercilessly.
Then, Don Quixote kneels to make the sign of the cross
while patting a breathless Rozinante lying on this desolated waterfront.
The cross he made falls on the sands,
the cross he made mourns while washing away in the water.
[Someday,
some may sing Don Quixote with the finest lute in hand.
Praise the gentleman Don Quixote de la Mancha
with silvery voice in one accord, with unforgettably kind remarks:
the one who lived true life of knight is
Don Quixote de la Mancha
the knight of knights, the hero of heroes.]
NOTE: The Golf Road runs from east to west on north suburb of Chicago, and east (ends or starts) at Lake Michigan.
his human name was Albert Francis Simmons
he was born in Detroit
his mom was a devil worshipper ... his dad was in sales
Albert was intelligent
he became a decorated Marine Officer
and joins the Secret Service
later, part of Central Intelligence Agency
the NSA, NSG and a skilled assassin
Albert was married to Wanda Blake for many years
very happy but with no children ... just a dog
and they accepted that
however, their destiny would take a dark turn
on a secret mission Albert is murdered
he is set on fire and is burnt to death
and is sent to Hell
where he makes a deal with the Devil
he agrees to become the creature Hell Spawn
and returns to earth after five years
he wanders confused and haunted by flashbacks
his body covered in scars
he finds out that Wanda has remarried
his friend Terry, he visits their home in disguise
and becomes their protector
only because of Wanda ... who later gives birth to twins
Spawn becomes a cruel, sadistic anti-hero
and has battles with Heaven, Hell, and Earth
his suit is made of Necroplasm from the fires of Hell
and his massive flowing red cape ... his protective wings
his huge right and left legs are heavily armored
a mask covers his burnt deformed face
he is a dark force with superhuman strength
immortal, skilled fighter, demonic, healer, mind controller
Spawn helps Terry when he is trouble with the CIA
he finds their daughter Cyan when she goes missing
he donates money anonymously to the hospital
where Wanda is creating a children's wing
he has battles on Earth, Heaven and Hell
those battles far to numerous to be retold here or
to list in this poem but they are many, many
oh, beware for Hell Spawn dwells here on earth
when God informs Spawn that Wanda is dead
and in Hell ... he goes back to Hell to save her
and her unborn child who are being held by Satan
their only chance is if he trades his protective suit
does he ?
his earthly grave is empty .. his wife terrified of him
for he is truly a dark spawn of the Devil
but, somewhere in his fragmented memories is love
for his wife Wanda
_________________
March 28, 2023
Written for the contest, Spawn
sponsor, Robert James Liguori
Thine distorted reflection rippled
within rain maker's pool
upon a midnight clear
full moonlight sonata
flooded shallow abyss,
cleaved fractal structures of silence
reverberating deathly hallow from 'ere
to infinity, whence magic wand
whipped out from
whereabouts unknown
wove disenchanting spell
atop me shaded noggin more'n
fifty ruffle lake suns
Dorian Gray pictured here
to fore, awakened
from drunken stupor,
whence sober self
saw repulsive trouper
fluid dynamic image jeer
at pot bellied, dead panned,
and ad libbed the mere
ore image lam bent,
mutilated spindled
various horrid aspects of
myself nine inch
rusty nails impaired
which, aghast at such
creepy distortion i didst rear
like a bucking bronco unclear
how this horrid, jagged,
limned paragon did wear
a grotesque disfigured Joeseph Conrad
lost within heart of darkness – maybe Zaire
or Zulu-land, this
soaked silhouette half bare
from waist to head showed unmanly
sagging overly engorged breasts
plus right and left elephant sized ear
egad, THAT CANNOT BE ME,
yet upon performing
self exam a glare
ring outburst ensued,
cuz thy once
bronzed handsome physique
now grist for a Joker to jeer
and fodder made
for television series created,
directed, and executed by Norman Lear
which role might be
temporary for Halloween, but near
lee every SINGLE day and night,
thy aged dusk fraught hominid jerked,
leaped, pooh poohed I ham ill prepared
to accept, roistering, rollicking,
rueing this Frankenstein scarred
complex deplorable edifice able,
ready, and willing to be tarred
rather than evince flabbiness,
gruesome homeliness, instance
when no objection would arise
to live out the remaining days of this life
as the world wide web turns, spins, rattles...
and voluntarily sign myself into a stew ward
with (at minimum ), a ghoulish, gnarly,
gummy self activated door
leading to privet hedge row trimmed
topiary resplendent yard
cuz every cotton pickin, friggin,
fingerhut lickin portal iz barred
dated Friday the thirteenth
with **** face on that card!
Rana's Legion Defends
Barbarians had won the city and slain all there
burned it down after stripping it completely bare
From the Holy city of Rome orders quickly flew
destroy these invaders now, your legion and you
Ten days hard march with never a long or great rest
no complaints for Rana's legion were always the best
Two weeks out chasing the savage barbarian horde
led by its barbaric , tall and savage murdering Lord
Time was very near because the trail was so very hot
Rana knew the enemy would pick their very best spot
Five more days racing forward at steady, deadly paces
soon legionnaires would see their enemy's wicked faces
Following day the huge enemy camp was found
across vast plains at base of a rocky mound
Rana rested his legionnaires just before the big fight
weapons ready , his brave men without any fright
Sun burst forth with a wicked gleam in it's light
legion ever so ready and looking so very bright
Rana checked each and every eager fighting man
reminding all of his clever winning battle plan
Spearmen six deep center of the advancing van
splitting right and left upon his first command
Archers firing quick volleys from fifty yards behind
raining down destruction upon enemy's failing line
Sounding horn sending in central reserves eager to slay
enemy routed by the power legion sent into the deadly fray
As Rana commanded his swordsmen to hack the enemy apart
find the tall leader and cut out his wickedly, black heart
Savage brutes tossed away their weapons and began to run
legionnaires raced forward cutting them down having fun
Rana came upon the savage Lord fighting upon the mound
rushed upon him so very quickly without making a sound
A cut to his left leg just below his unprotected knee
a jab into his chest as the brute turned to flee
Off with his hairy head as blood so freely flowed
victory won, the pride of the legion so fairly glowed
Rana's legion finished off the barbaric wounded where they lay
stripping all the bodies of weapons and spoils the very next day
Marching back to the garrison proudly to be richly rewarded there
each and every man to receive the bloody war booty, his fair share!
No dear
Make the date for the tea
Friday at three
For the moon will be
At the windows
At the wee hours
And it will be the full moons
We will pick up as much as we choose
With the scarlet spoon
Monday the sun is hot
No room to look at the blooms
Right and left a lot of the knots
No freedom to consume
The aroma of the kettle and teapot
And ample warmth
Fruitless will be the perfume
So hungrily sought
Make it on Friday, dear
I will have the bouquet
Wet with the dew
Under the shade of the brown cashew
Waiting Haikus
Under the moons
The globes of love
We will bring it down from above
Blend it with the doors to the stories
Of the blue breeze and white cheese
This Friday way
We two
The unbuttoned blue
Tuesdays we stay too much buttoned
Questioning and questioned
The ears of rice and wheat flattened
All the almonds dampened
No point to meet
With all the oceans discreet
Nice will be the bay
No bridle on Friday
We will make the crochet
As the full moons sway
Opening the dizzy doorway
To the interplay
Into the next day too
The lovely lingering blue
No other work to attend to
No socks no shoe
All brakes broken
In the Garden of Eden
Both Wednesday and Thursday
Too much to pay and repay
So busy with our purse
It is a rank commerce
No eyes to see the dove
Let alone the circle of love
That will shine far above
Beyond our reach
Far off from the beach
No stories to stitch together
Just the toxic work
The shoulder into the jerk
No time
My pen and your rhyme
Won’t chime
The Friday will come and open
The gates of the jasmine garden
No concern for the absolute tick tock
In the mirror the exposed peacock
Fulfillment of the golden wildfire
The hillocks loving the playing lyre
The next day is a holiday too
Followed by the Sunday hue
Here is a time of planting the tree
In the festival of the artery
On the happy Friday in the jasmine garden
The day of moons and green lemons
No full-stop
Just comma and colon
For the hundreds of flying herons
With the pink crayon
______________________________________
February 26, 2018
Friday feeling - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One