Long Sharps Poems
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Layers upon layers
Batter after batter
Larger than life creatures
live
Beneath my bed.
My pillow whispers lie.
There are times
when I flip it over.
I prefer my lies served cold
shaken and stirring...
foul breath smelly bedding.
Lies, like dust mites do bug.
Update 10.2 improves clarity.
Lies have an app for that.
Crystal clear connected lies.
Disconnected clouded lies.
And, of course
Lie
Lies Lies
Lies Lie. Lies
A pyramid of lies
Let us remember the periodic table of lies.
White lies
Colored lies.
Taste the rainbow of lies.
Infectious wasted lies.
Toxic waste is a buried alive lie.
As lies add up like hazardous garbage, lie's flounder.
A green sticker has a tongue in a divided circle.
A red bag has some more circular labels of lies.
And in the men's room, I see biohazard sharps containments.
It's typical when urine lies on toilet seats.
People recycle lies like buffoons that refuse to use the truth;
those are all lies too.
And they even sell lies for five dollars per balloon.
Toss it in the trash and watch it disappear every Wednesday.
How would you feel if you were thrown out like trash with your lies?
Better yet, just throw it all in the fire pit.
Burn rubber, burn gas, burn Mother Nature...burn.
Plead with your conscience about these lies.
Glorify lies . . .
Justify lies . . .
Then again
Glorify and justify more lies,
then romance your newfound ignorance.
Believe me,
it'll burn too . . .
Trust me.
2-18-17
Tunefully
notes cry out singing to me
melodiously haunting ringing crystal clear
perfect sharps resound semi-tones rend through the air
quavers hover in the air so very many sounds
join together mingling, blending
Joyfully
I sing along music carrying
me to paradise sounds so sweet
flutes playing high notes drums bang out the beat
harps, oh the harps angelic notes float
rift the air celestially majestic
Enchanting
written 08/10/2013
contest creative
layouts
Where have all the bison gone
shot by Sharps shooters nearly every one
where have all the shooters gone
done away by Indians more than some
the red man revered the buffalo
of Manitou's abundance living proof
to the white who sent them
to the not-so-happy-hunting grounds
a gold mine on the hoof
the paleface ways in olden days long gone
were somewhat less than perfect
and should be frowned upon
to soldiers bison were target practice
indigenous people to quell
while hunters killed for the hides
by 1884 the Black Hills buffalo death knell
lies were spoken treaties broken
but revenge was none too soon at hand
Sioux Cheyenne Arapaho attacked
and briefly turned the tide
on what was their rightful land
beside the Little Bighorn
one frightful day at Custer's last stand
Page 2
Then I heard a kind a music
And some distant clink and clatter
Some tapping on the floor
Then a burst of background chatter
Soon, the noise began to fade
I shook my head and blamed the heat
Grabbed a bottle from the bar
Then made my way back to my seat
I slouched back in that dusty chair
With my feet perched on the table
Tried to stay awake to drink
But at last, I wasn't able
It seemed that I, just closed my eyes
When suddenly I woke
The place was filled Dancehall girls
Card sharps and cowpokes
The piano seemed on fire
As the player smoked the keys
And I would be a lier
If I said I wasn't pleased
Then I saw The Singer lowered
She was hanging from the ceiling
Seated on a swing
With a voice, most appealing
With the whiskey flowing heavy
As dances filled the floor
I can't remember ever being
In a place like that before
To be continued Page 3
Like a sweet child in ballet
toe steps glide across the archway,
A graceful pirouette holding breath and heartbeat
balanced then suddenly rising like modern athletes.
A rhythmic cadence hustles across the days
when life is simple and living all game play,
Then the day waltzes methodic 3/4 weeks
sashaying manic tango pause then slips away piqued.
The merengue drags bodies closely touched
sweeping lags across the room in two quarters clutched,
bolero sharps and turns spinning like the fading years
lost in the frenzy of living fast and freely shed tears
A twisting stomp to slap the earth
quick tarantella wild winds giving birth,
a shuffle into polonaise gentle and lullaby eyes
slides to rest in minuet reprieves and haunting cries.
Too soon the days are months turned to years
and decades lost to the aging cheers,
gone is the youth of preset times
lost but not forgotten holding their prime.
Like the dance that stirred our spirits long ago
dream and memory holds steady in life's shows,
there is no end for life's pawn,
the dance lives forever a youthful swan.
01/28
Once in a great while the heart is simply struck
And rings out like a tuning fork to the nearby heart that struck it.
The two ring out together in discordant harmony
At first the noise is nothing but a brilliant symphony.
In time the notes come clearer, but this is when you hear
The sharps and flats and missed half-steps which at first endeared
How I wish that I could sing a song you would believe
But I’d not disguise the cracking sound of notes I can’t sustain.
The songs we sing into the world are bright and clear and true,
But you are right, I am afraid, I cannot sing like you.
How I hope that I might somehow match
The soaring high soprano that will surely be your path.
I must be a tenor, not that either is the lesser,
You’ve said the difference means that parting might be better.
I would miss you and I will mourn if no arrangement can be made,
But I think you’ll always strike me from your side of the stage.
Quirks
Lennon and McCartney
Composed a song for harps,
But neither one was very good
At reading flats and sharps.
DaVinci was a total whiz
at graphic arts and science,
but could he run a marathon,
or wrestle with the giants?
Transformers bring us light,
As Tesla had some genius.
Yet, he had no business sense,
Thus perished impecunious.
Descartes declared, "I am,"
And Marx united workers,
But when it came to music,
Both of them were shirkers.
Socrates taught others
By making pointed queries.
Although he was illiterate,
We understand his theories.
Lincoln, Ford, and Edison
Are considered rather legend'ry.
But for all of their accomplishments,
They never finished second'ry.
The moral of the story is,
If your marks are wanting,
Do not be dismayed,
It's really not that daunting.
Each soul has its genius.
Each soul has its quirk.
If you follow both of those,
Then your dream can work.
Faberette
is the name of my wild
and incorrigible cat...
down the stairs she scurries
to keep intruders off my door;
and she, with her sharps claws,
challenges the most vicious dogs,
who would like a match
on my newly carpeted floor...
without letting me breaking up the fight!
Faberette,
eat your food and grow strong,
they will be back with their groan,
but your meows won't do much;
let me teach you how to win a fight
and keep them off for good...
more faith you must have in me!
Faberette...
come here and jump in my lap;
Faberette...there's no need for fright!
They haven't bothered you for a week now,
they must have sensed a change indeed;
and like friendly dogs they play and crawl,
instead of pulling off your spotted fur!
And cautiously you mingle with them with minimal fear...
can cats and dogs in friendship suceed?
But a word of caution I should make you aware of,
not all of them can change
and remain tame for long...
Faberette, be slicker than they are!
Faberette,
on my leather couch lies
under a warm blanket...
I pat her, and her feline eyes
flash the warmest glow; and I couldn't be
more proud of this wonderful pet,
keeping me company and share moments of joy!
And on her birthday, I even buy her a kitten toy!
O Faberette,
my adorable cat!
1.
A red helium balloon
I float above myself,
Watch the ritual unfold:
Gather the sharps
Lay them out
Roll up the sleeves
Enfold the world in silence.
Then, with infinite concentration,
The Not-Me begins:
Draw the lines
Open the flesh
Let out the hot red
Pain and Poison;
Inscribe another testament
To survival.
Then the balloon drifts down
Sleeves roll down
The Not-Me steps into the balloon
And floats away,
And I become myself again,
Purged and Whole
Until the next time.
2.
A wraith,
I live on air
Insubstantial as the Winter's mists.
I am colorless
Blank as perfect ice, as cloudless sky
Yet I command all appetites,
Control my ghostly shape
Against all outside assault.
My Will is wind,
Invisible and Absolute.
A reed,
I bend but never break.
I may be fading, fading...
But the steel rod within the mist
Shines true and will not yield.
3.
Peel back the flesh
The flowing flesh,
And see the Void within.
I am large but I am empty,
Hollow as a gourd, a husk.
Tear me and the taut surface
Will collapse upon itself.
I hunger, ever hunger
For the things that fill others up
To keep them satisfied.
And so I eat.
I eat Love, Acceptance, Self-Confidence.
I eat Hate, Loneliness, Rejection.
Ultimately,
I consume myself.
After all,
Who else could stomach
The taste of me?
I've met myself
many times coming and going...
generally a quick smile
and respectful nod – seldom
pausing to chat, both of us
longing for more together
company
I (me/myself) have met so many
other pairs...traveling together/alone,
the double nature of a
human journey...half inclined
to linger and experience, nurture
and service
while the other, at a manic
pace, seeking one's self, yet
expanding the divide
I guess, would us multitudes
of separations ever join
together, it would mean the end of
warring...but of music, and poetry
as well, as we know it
no need to fire canons-of-being
if no one to report their twang
and echos....sing of and chronicle
triumphs and failures ("dreaming
the impossible dream...")
the flats and sharps
of a lyrical soul....