Long Saunters Poems
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It is the evening I have waited for,
stiletto heels three inches high adorned my feet,
real nylons hung from garters beneath a
skin tight, leather skirt of maraschino cherry-red.
A blouse of white silk, with a cascade of ruffles,
played peek-a-boo with my décolletage.
Outdoors, the rain pounded the asphalt
making the reality of his arrival even more bizarre.
A Harley barrels into the driveway.
Apparently, he thinks
he is Marlon Brando
and I am Stella?
I stand on the porch, a black umbrella
covering my new do, and watch as he
saunters through the puddles on the concrete walk.
The color of the umbrella my only
non-incongruent element in the frame, the scene made.
His smile was like a box of Chiclet's
on his clean shaven face.
He kisses me.
I lick the raindrop
from the tip of his Roman nose
and take hold of his Russian fingers.
He tosses my umbrella on the porch,
throws his black leather jacket over my shoulders,
lifts me off my feet, and carries me to the bike.
The sun breaks through the clouds and the rain stops,
just in time for the neighbors to glare at the sight of my legs
reflecting on the bikes chrome work.
Shake their respective heads
and donate a few wolf whistles.
More often, her soul widens
farther than breaths of a moon...
and through irreverent eyes,
she saunters into the ledge of woods
past time's curfew and nobility --
a wanton stroll by this sylph
daring the commoness of old rules--
Twirling along pebbles and sand,
kindling night's liniment glorious
like the flared climb of dusk,
her wildfire spews a wanton blaze ----
fearless like some insolent woman
rising from mediocrity, burning oil
while dragonflies sleep in a lull ;
her navel radiant in the flickering,
feathering night with such
stubborn will...a maverick defying
traditional anthems of her nun's school.
Yet, this flared essence turns into warmth
as she tenderly flushes my fears at night
to hold the moon soft blue
while her arms delight in classic tunes,
cleansing my tears with hums
of ardor...and wings spread on
hope's ride divinely beaming with grace:
Mother.
Mama- light tenderly cuddles me;
each sky, each ream of grass
healing my rough, young adult soul...
Everyone is podded off
Sipping, slipping into chill-consciousness
Blue Note-certified musings drip
From the tongues and lips
Busy, chewing the amplified air
The waitress saunters
Occasionally brushing up
Against the black-lacquered stallion
Resting quiet
Mums the word
It's ivory asleep
Begging to be woken
The 523p light
Provoked by a late Spring day
Zings this tacit creature
Who yearns to be struck and tickled
By the next master
Who may dive deep and wide
Or simply sing and sling their heart
Above the ivory sway and fray
Oh the pleasant possibilities
That lie among incorrigible strings
Pedals pumping soft and purposeful
When sunshine arrives to take a ride
But for now
It waits
Soaking in ambient sound
Under a blanket of muteness
And subtle anticipation
For the muse or drunk to arrive
And scratch it's belly
To bellow, explode
The aural incantations
Begging to ascend.
(5/11/17)
In the dark she is waiting, 200 kilos of velvet
separating one world from the other.
It was art to her, she was under no pretence,
she was an instrument, and she made the other instruments merge in a delicious unprecedented harmony.
A poet, a warrior, a lover, a sinner. She has tasted the divine and the melodramatic, to capture moments, photographs, for the use of summoning emotion and reality.
She had been hurt and she had hurt, she had walked towards hell and ran away from heaven. Beginning as a muse and then enslaving the musicians one by one with her whispy and sultry tones.
An electric keyboard breaks the mumbling, vibrato, a pause, a cheer. The drape rises and she peers from the darkness, masked by shadow to the floodlit mass in front.
The drums are brushed gently as the crowd softens to the figure emerging from the dark. Not knowing if they were permitted to break the spell or join it, the crowd pay their respect with silence.
You can almost see the phantoms she has witnessed being beckoned into her. Short linear smoky essences, touching her then being pulled inside. She saunters slowly towards the mic, eyes closed, and with both hands it becomes a sceptre. This will be a heartfelt song again.
She inhales, her belly fills, and she breathes life into the mic. Her tones slice through the thick air, soft yet with such projection and feel. The crowd can not contain themselves and let out a cheer as their eyes fill. She masterfully picks up her bass, as if resurrecting a lost love, and it sings for her.
Her hair is gone now, most of the crowd know why and they want to cry. But she holds them, captivated, and hypnotises a smile into them. They sway to her, some hold their chests as if covering some hole for fear of their hearts falling out.
This will be the last time we will feel her grace. But she will be summoned herself. The band know this. She sits, the treatment has taken it out of her. But her voice never falters. That chair will be kept alongside the drummer that loved her. Her bass will be his kryptonite. But he will keep it close anyway.
The curtain will not fall tonight, it shall remain at half mast. She will bow and we will fall at her mercy one last time. In homage, and respect. She will leave but she will never be forgot. She has trained herself into them, and she will always be singing.
The northern wind sweeps away with the arctic gale
the swathing grandeur of my mesmerizing garden.
The pallid patina of the distressed florid petals
freezes beneath the withering frost of discontent.
Seraphic spring saunters in the air with ripples of rapture
from the garden of Eden up above the veil of blue.
The spectrum of hues cascades in splendored shower,
as the latent beauty blooms in a rose of my listless garden.
From its verdant vibrancy flows with scented fervor
the musical resonance of the serenading breeze.
Its captivating cadence set in harmonic congruence
hinges the enticing fragrance of rose in dulcet dawn.
The self-obsessed free will dormant in floral exuberance
envelopes the blooming mind with an unreal veil transient,
obscures the ordained pathway God’s benevolence paves,
that l need to travel for it’s designed for me at His will.
The unseen glow of the omnipresent light
floods my possessed essence, but I don’t discern,
for I formulate life’s tenets encompassing the ego
in the ignorant realm of fantasized self-deception.
After the ill-conceived venture the errant mind
finds the gloomy path of introspection lightened,
as the secret door of the inner sanctum opens,
where suffused with divine light the lotus blooms.
Unshackled out of the dark abyss of despair,
I take the inward journey through consciousness layers,
perceive the radiant fulcrum of divine beacon in the soul
illumine the corridor, leading to the abode of bliss.
It is the small things that matter most
Your heart sings fresh buttered toast
Family brings together a Sunday roast
Smitten a handwritten letter in the post
Jaunts or saunters down Britain’s coast
Snow balls glisten child’s mitten the host
Don’t be a Scrooge listen to every ghost
Best bet to forget regret but don’t boast
Entranced by happenstance engrossed
In the hub of a pub toast with mein host
Your flotilla through strife of life will coast
If don’t let get pushed from pillar to post
As God damn it our planet will soon roast
Foremost and utmost remember to toast
Little treasures that every day does boast
Teeny weeny pleasures our own outpost
Just make sure you are regularly dosed
With those small things that matter most
It is up to me to choose
Who I wish to be
It is up to me
To choose what I think
Is best for me
It is up to me
To choose whether
I prefer the fragrance of flowers
Or the tranquillity of calm lagoons
It is up to me
To be that which I fit in best!
It is up to me
To shut off the loud din
Of society's harsh glare upon me
As it saunters along to what is imposed upon it
While I can only care to dance upon the beats
Of my poetic whims!
It is up to me
To smile with my heart
At the poison that is hurled upon me
With the hope that it scorches me
To such an extent
That I come to a point where I fear it
And use it
To be that which I am not!
It is up to me
To stand up with my flag brandished high
Upon the mountains and the lowlands of
Our puzzling world
As
Everything about us all
Has not been given due explanations!
Yes,
It is up to me
To acknowledge of the rights
That pave themselves towards the glory
Of existing as I do
As if I don't
I would be a mere paper
Yearning for when a pen
Would write upon my lines
A poem of human emancipation!
4th December 2021
RK: "smokey drifted through once like mountains sheered off like cotton candy colored clouds nipped at the purpose of the rootbound ridgeback dragons."
Lucifer: "They decant no, somber but ready for some gift of virtue, and where abundance and prosperity are so fulsome such a dream."
Aurora: "Likewise the sorely wrong believe themselves wronged as sure as the swallows that hum soft cadences for bees which splint the flower's pollen for spreading."
Kate: "I've held the oceanic waters so nimbly let pour the caught rhythms of deliquescent moored stalwarts."
Helel: "The fife has enruined the walkway so esplanade does explaining this cause arouse such pomp?"
PW1: *disavows that he is stronger now and progresses*
The forbidden one: *cooly saunters towards a more comfortable position in the shade*
Uraeal: "I ask they do, I move they aim for a moonshot, is not the billowing cloudshares like those enroute to pebbly shores?"
DR dragon: "Pervasive this shifting moon which changes like wire frames sent into the hues."
arophc varuag: "I fed the farms such broken dreams but here they so replete, and should I ask the moon to share, another captured strike to snare."
Zeus: "The gambling is all but done, but here we save the swollen stumps that brick-by-brick were truly wood but means not that to cooped up fools."
---End of act IV---
The Playbill for the 9/8/01 show at Godspeed Opera House falls from my palm to the floor. Here I sit, with a drugged hangover but alive. The last thing I remember is a suicide note in the Underwood typewriter on my desk, beside an ashtray of Blanche's lipstick smeared butts. Putting back on, the bifocals that had been dangling from one ear; I frown. I can't remember arriving? A phone's ringing; I stumble toward the tone. Odd looking thing, I think, as I bend over. The note taped to it says; it's a cell phone? "What the hell?" As I flip it open, I'm tackled. My heel slips on a broken pencil; I'm down. "What did you do? You bastard," he bawls, waving an airline ticket in my face. Looking toward him, I notice the stage still lit. He grabs the cell phone, "What the hell is this? You a commie spy?"- The 'phone? screen?' says 'Fred go to the opera house by midnight or you're both dead.' The curtain parts revealing a pool of blood: a chord is struck.
It's midnight accordin' to the ticker. I have a moment's relief before my arm's wrenched behind me. I'm cuffed. There's a shout from the lobby and the sound of sirens. Lifting me, he shoves me to the wall; locks me to the door pull. The theater hall appears empty except for us. Through a door, he charges. "Back here guys." The SWAT team arrives. "Smells like the dead in here Marco's, where's the body?"
"Ask him. Take him out and open some damned windows will ya." Two of the gorillas toss me on the porch under the moth laden lights. Just when the cop was about to kick me in the head; a woman screams. The coppers run inside. I hear a crash and a half dozen clod hoppers trompin', then through the door rolls a single gold earring. I scream "Blanche!!!!!!"
The crew hollers CUT-PRINT-It's a WRAP. I smile as Blanche saunters out.
As the guests arrive, I share a pew with myself.
this wedding is a pain.
A group of boys come, students of both groom and bride;
my squinting eyes complain.
Taking their spots assigned, each conscious of his cues,
boys make me uneasy
Each wears white roses on a jacket of chartreuse;
my stomach feels queasy.
My daughter stands watch, waiting for music to start;
six voices harmonize.
She spots her groom, I sense the racing of her heart,
I see tears in her eyes.
Escorted by two teens, behind the youngest lad,
(I don’t cry at weddings.)
she saunters down the long aisle to her son’s new dad,
my Benjy has their rings.
Vows are said; rings exchanged, the final song begun,
boys with flags form an arch.
The couple, then guests tramp beneath it one by one;
this grandma does not march.
written March 27, 2017
long form - free verse; short form - rhymed