Long Shouldered Poems
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The sky drips fluorescent pink
as i cry from the lack of oxygen
My tears trickle down my cheek.
for no reason yet again
My pain is oozing from my mouth though my lips are tightly shut.
For I have built a world inside my mind and now i am stuck
I cannot calculate the peace I feel I'm owed. I can only hope that it comes to me.
I've worked so hard and lost so much,
though I've only happened to gain a halfhearted peace.
No full love, no real desire, never real free
Had I not cried and screamed.
Had I listened to myself.
had I acknowledged the indifference.
had I pleaded for help.
Though I didn't plead because I knew no one could help.
I knew no one Would release me from this hell.
So, I found it.
I found an escape.
I found a way to become one with myself.
I’ve built a world within my mind for no one but me.
I’ve tore away from my predetermined plight.
I’ve allowed myself to be free.
From my life and the responsibilities nailed onto me
For i shouldn't have to shoulder yesterday's stress
I shall never hope for tomorrow's peace, for I will use tomorrow to rest.
To rest MY mind MY hearts and MY eyes
I built a world where there is no rush.
a world where there is no need to disguise.
MY pain that I have shouldered because no more will arise.
For I have built a world that will rid me of pain and insecurities.
Tho I Will express MY pain proudly because my experiences are what allow me to breathe
But my world did in fact the opposite
My world sheltered me from the truth.
My world allowed me peace through my pain.
My world allowed me to settle.
For you and your callous spirit
Your ruthless words, and though my world bandaged my scars.
No amount of savior from my world
Can heal what you’ve done to my heart.
I’ve built a world for my desires and hopes.
I’ve built up walls to allow me to cope.
With yesterday's tears, fears and neglect
though the pain still flows from my heart to the mind with every breath
I built a world where oceans sing Melodies.
Where everything plays its part
where there is no pain, no insecurities.
Yet pain still remains in my heart.
I built a world, a damaged world within my dreams and I cannot wake up.
I built a world with hopes of peace.
but still lay heartbroken and stuck
for Alan Painter
I have put into many ports
labelled:
handle with care
stood on the wharfs, bare-shouldered
up to the knee, unloading
cashew and coconuts
and then set sail again
finding no substance to trade
with
I have seen the waters rising
and the walls submerge
the roofs converge
the children washed on
the battlements
I have heard the chasm cries
Stifled under jackboots
the whimpering against walls
lost somewhere
in the hoarse
Gött mit Uns !
Come home, she cried,
strappadoed
in the lap of jettisoning tribes
Come home, my weary ones
home to toil and die
labour and sigh
curse and cry
Did he not withdraw to that
holy backwater by Milan
and with the cup of his Confessions
bathe his horrent sins away
I listened to a story
that our first quarter
remembered to tell
but the waters of the Himavant
had long curdled
in the breast
of the suttee wife
I listened long
in the myopic light
disfigured in the white heat
of our Enlightenment
to the trapped voices of inquiry
before all the mania of demigods
trumped through the weaning years
in
the delirious lust of revenge
And then, and then I
did not care what happened
what could happen
there was life
it was worth having
So I went
labelled: handle with care
Who are those people
skimming past the mortal coast
torch untouched by hand
in the drowning mists
have they no work to do
And that rope of smoke
A troubling dizziness
rising out of the funnel
of the Black Forest
where professors they say
guide the race
in the aftermath
of charred marrow
tissue
brain
Yet
I see no mists, no ghosts
No coasts, only torches
and parades and blocks and blocks
of beering beef and munition mounds
and in the not too open days
froth in the lolling oceans
and bowelling brain-splattered skies
even like unmapped sunset glories
now the Krakatua lies spent
fished out of some Japanese isle
the false auroras of enchanting horizons
when soughing metallic dust
courses through skulls
lava in an epileptic fit
(...continued in Part Two)
Automobile prohibitive maintenance costs
pitches me pitifully begging for alms
lamenting dog forsaken
melon collie unpleasant circumstances
pleading with outstretched palms
disgraced to beg, perhaps donate
major organ and/or entire body
to ease vehicular qualms
aha... methinks the missus could pose
as ventriloquist after mortician embalms
these lovely bones, but, hmm...
even then post mortem
agitation most likely becalms...
Straitjacketed impasse finds
yours truly going for broke
to nurse our 2009 Hyundai Sonata,
which monetary outlay doth yoke
mine fate heading, née accelerating
at ever increasing speed
emitting plume of smoke
which thick noxious exhaust
would immediately choke
any innocent wheel chaired,
or ambulatory pedestrian,
bicyclist (think Chernobyl),
a nightmare that did woke.
Mein kampf reduced between
a rock and hard place
analogous to trapped betwixt
Scylla and Charybdis
inadequate funds to purchase
newer preowned car,
nor paltry monies to erase
utter nightmare, yes
father did spring me
unexpected mullah, yet
the near future will menace
this dirt poor aging baby boomer,
and his moderately significant other,
she too needs more than solace
lacking gainful employment and
financial resources, maybe brazen
to broadcast such
amidst digital populace
such tsuris (Yiddish meaning
trouble or woe; aggravation)...
Just letting of figurative steam
emblematic of this easily
intimidated fellow with decent
original (long "e") meme
all throughout his life shouldered,
or voluntarily stationed to sidelines
courtesy crème de la crème
topnotch competitors within
human race attain the
supposed "American dream"
or similar facsimile thereof
finding one fool on the hill
gagging at extreme
pauperism, yes mainly linkedin
to series of unfortunate events
(Lemony Snicket would ogle,
envy chiefly hanker ring)
hashtagging me more supreme
regarding amassing adversity.
Thank you stranger near or afar
understanding how or why
Sylvia Plath crafted The Bell Jar
a cult classic, I would never
attempt to duplicate, my par
for the course literary contribution
might... humph earn me one lone star
if ever dabblings in scratching
out feeble efforts courtesy this word Tsar.
Atacama, Eden of winds,
flower of abandoned rocks and of sapleter,
homestead of flamingoes and geysers,
and above all ,
below an azure sky,
mountains are carrying on their tops
ice of the past.
Old villages tell us their stories,
Toconce, Toconao, Chiu-Chiu,
carry in their canons
life,
water from deep below
let flowers and vegetables grow.
Chiu-Chiu, oasis of the desert,
a green spot,
surrounded by fragments of history
with the colour of orange, red and brown,
embedded in fragile foam of salt and hope,
the history of the Atacama.
Still alive in their churches.
Fragments of an ancient culture
reflecting on the surface of Río Loa.
Like ants – far away,
dispersed in vibrant light
some Vicuñas are looking
for tranquility and forage.
The geysers of El Tatio
send their hot water into the cold and pure air.
How pacient the Atacama is with us,
slaves of modern times
with the desire for paradise
with the dual face of history and hope.
Salar de Atacama, show me your
cracked and wounded face,
your wrinkles of solitude.
Far in the distance the chain of volcanoes,
with towering Lincancabur,
and its shouldered knapsack of crystals and ice,
holding its splendour towards the sky
with the colours of lapis lazuli and light agate.
Toconao, the ruins of Quitor greet you,
dormant since ages
they narrate the history of the Inca,
of their last refuge and their last battle with
Pedro de Valdivia,
who came with his men
to break the bravery of Inca soldiers
with thunder and destruction.
The waterfalls of the hot spings of Puritama
shoot their water into the air with the colours of rainbows,
drawing delicate faces of life
on dry sand and charming stones.
The wind from the mountains carries songs,
flute music, ancient tunes,
stories of salt, gypsum and clay
to the Valle de la Luna,
to let it remain calm and unchanged
with its eyes filled with dust and stones
in the eternal canto of earth.
Atacama, heart of the North,
plant of wind
in the song of history,
you make the day sound
and rock to sleep the nights,
lonely between the arms of the mountains
and the Altiplano.
Small Summer Cabins for Rent on Lovegrove Lake
by Barbara C. Agarwal
I left my chance when
A chance I did not take
When I saw you long, long ago
At Lovegrove Lake.
Do you remember per chance also,
Me perched on the wee porch there?
Me, dangling my silver sandal?
And sipping my white wine with care?
The blue chiffon band of my straw hat
Blowing in the river-lake air?
Me, sitting on a pink-coral rocking chair?
Me, focused and scratching out a poem to share?
You stood tall and out on the river dock
Of the lake. You stood wide-shouldered, as I recall:
A happy stranger, fishing, leaning against
The railing of the driftwood-grey quay.
I could hear you whistling, though afar.
I can hear you whistling still, by the song
I was won: “once there were valleys,
Kissed by the sun....”
Then—after some secret bless-ed
Moments of wonderful watching
I saddened to hear The Four Brothers'
Notes and your whistling cease.
But then you drew yourself together
With a sigh, to return
To your cabin, near and yet far:
Up the hill from mine,
Drew near enough you did
On the brown graveled path,
Near enough that I could see
The smiling creases aside
Both your boyish brimming
Brown eyes, barely shaded by
Your beaten tan angler's hat,
And you were coming my way
In that plaid musky-looking fishing shirt,
(Your rod used like a shepherd's staff,
With the metal lure clanking --ting-tinging--
Against your pail) you were coming my way
Near enough to me that I
Might smell that primal scent
Some sensuous men emit
After their hard days' work.
About to pass me by,
You slowed your step.
You paused.
Perhaps just for breath?
Or was it just long enough to wink
That well-and-wanting wink at me?
I smiled but put my eyes back to page.
You then continued up the way
To your cabin
More far away than hope.
It was then I think
That I stopped living
Or began dying from lost delights:
Reveries of what-might-have-beens,
There by Lovegrove Lake
On that Tuesday afternoon.
“Gone are the greenfields.../
Where rivers used to run.”
Cont…”Bill Jump in my car it’s closer!” Bill was just a step behind Brick as they hurdled
over the tape barrier and raced to Brick’s car.
“You got it pardner! Don’t stop or I’ll be in your hip pocket! Brick got
to the driver’s door first and Bill had all he could do to get in and slam the door as Brick
swerved into the traffic, got the siren blaring with the blue lights bubbling off the hard top.
The tires squealed hell bent for rubber for about three seconds down Walters Ave before
they pulled a u-turn and headed one eighty out. “Sorry ‘bout that, Brick hollered, “I caught
a glimpse of the perp jumping off the side rail and headed back in this direction!”
“Okay thanks for the warning!", Bill yelled back as he hoisted himself up the seat with
the strap handle while trying to scan for the outlaw.
About that time, Brick swerved around a trash truck, jumped a median and throttled it up
another street.
“Say Brick, I’ve been meaning to ask you..you got a driver’s license or a
facsimile thereof?!” “Huh? What the hell’s a license?! Hey I think he crossed over into that
alley behind Stogey’s”, Brick yelled as he spun the steering wheel hard
bobbing and crunching the car over another median and power skidding the swerving squad
car back on course. Bill had all he could do to keep his head from smashing into the
headliner above the visor.
“Smooth, Brick! Smooth! You been practicing eh?! Sorry about my head denting
Your roof!” he quipped while searching the streets for the fugitive.
“Hey no problem he yelled over the roaring engine and skidding tires, you can fix
It later!… I’m nice like that!”
“Is that the alley up ahead, Brick?”
“Yeah that’s it!” “Lemme off here and I’ll cover this end of it!”
“Right! I’ll spin around the other end and we”ll put the squeeze on him!” Brick
Screeched to an almost stop as Bill scrambled out, un shouldered his 9mm and
ducked inside a doorway. He peeked around the corner to see Brick already
veering around the corner all sirens and blinking lights…(to be cont…)
Celebrity Dreamscapes
Washington
Wall Street
Hollywood
Nashville
Where regurgitation overflows
And Barmecidal bait boxes
Morph their delights by the hour
All the while
Gluttony's promised feast
Ignorant of cyclic famine
Awaits the pernicious fate-agent
Scouting to burrow like a weevil
The new crop of innocence
Trusting destiny to the winds of chance
Confident redolent success smells
French perfume
Garlic enhanced delicacies
Fresh tanned leather of opulent travel
Are theirs to have
How fragrant the illusory air becomes
The temperature of anticipated fortune's shift
Where once a round-shouldered indigent freshman pounded doors
Now seemingly triumphant
Unknowingly erect as a naked rose stem
With yesterday's portent of rich reward
Rapidly sheds its petals
Mulch for tomorrow's next planting
How fleeting the enigmatic feast of notoriety
Time's incumbent qualification
For re-introducing innate principals
Cautioning today's attention
Is but a requisite for tomorrow's elusive truth
Yet
Fearful of fruitless coming years
Too few embrace cognizance over
Fading Klieg lightsParty snubs
Absent red carpet entrances
A maître d's forgetfulness
Yes
The harvesting of one's experience
Might suffer drought and winds
Scattering past efforts
To but memories of dust
Rather than priceless benchmarks
To reveal the authentic self
Yes
Such a disposition may well make "Being" difficult and distant
Where the "take a number and be seated" readout at DMV
May well become a feared test
Where waiting
Becomes a ticking-off-process
Asking if one can hold onto the simpler distant past
Those surprising coming-of-age sensations
The first time rewards of libations' survival
The generous thank you once felt by the first kiss
And yes...
One's elation upon receiving that first driver's license
We think
We review
We ponder "what price" aspiration
Ambition
So often blind to trickery
Frequently stumbles upon start marks
Not meant to be
Distant finishing lines
Not meant to be reached
Still
One can take a number
And eventually hear one's name called
To be who you are...
Or not
Beware ...
they are coming ...
I hear them as they tap their invariable
pulses on my spirit, like steel drums
in the Cruzan night, all at once frightening
and irresistibly intoxicating - the warm
blanket, doom ...
I find it unremarkable ...
that they match my heart's thrumming,
vying for a prominent consideration
like echos of a tragedy
or the warning of a bell buoy ...
Do you hear the footfalls?
Do you hear the sound?
Do you feel the shudder of
The furnace in the ground?
They bring sight ...
or so you would think ...
a translated vision, raw, to a creator
with no eyes - floating, blinking,
pulsing for self, for id - that bleak landscape
screams to be real ... to be heard,
felt, imagined ...
The barren womb ...
between the stars and oblivion,
a frontier unreachable ...
yet standing stark, within my grasp,
bleeding on my blade, precise ...
Do you hear the footfalls?
Do you hear them come?
Do you feel the measure of
The darkness that they plumb?
Approach ...
I will know you ...
no hood or shouldered blade to dispatch,
no gaping pit or sparkling wash of sky,
no bright tunnel or flame, only a timid bite ...
a nibble on the crimped edges
of thought ...
That perhaps creation
is not just the stuff of gods,
but for any beast with the twisted acumen,
or any blind fool with the luck, and two
shiny pints of amniotic fluid ...
Do you hear the footfalls?
Do you know their weight?
Do you feel the tremble of
Their auspices and fate?
In the hop ...
of a toe slipper ...
or the brash stomping of a boot,
they come for all of us ...
they come for one singular, inescapable truth,
in the breath of a newborn baby,
or the shiver of a spine ...
They come ... for us all.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Warning" Poetry Contest, Richard Lamoureux, Judge & Sponsor.
beware ...
they are coming
I hear them as they tap their invariable
pulses on my spirit
like steel drums in the Cruzan night
all at once frightening
and irresistibly intoxicating -
the warm blanket,
doom ...
I find it unremarkable that
they match my heart's thrumming
vying for a truly prominent consideration
like echos of a tragedy
or the warning of a
bell buoy …
do you hear the footfalls?
do you hear the sound?
do you feel the shudder of
a furnace in the ground?
they bring sight
or so you would think …
a translated vision, raw
to a creator with no eyes -
floating, blinking, pulsing for self … for id
that bleak landscape screams to
be real - to be heard, felt
imagined …
the barren womb between the stars
and abject oblivion -
a frontier unreachable,
yet standing stark within my grasp
bleeding on my blade,
precise ...
do you hear the footfalls?
do you hear them come?
do you feel the measure of
the darkness that they plumb?
approach ...
I will know you
no hood or shouldered blade to dispatch
no gaping pit or sparkling wash of sky
no bright tunnel or flame
only a timid bite -
a nibble on the crimped edges
of thought,
that perhaps creation is not
just the stuff of gods,
but for any beast with the twisted acumen
or any blind fool with the luck
and two shiny pints of
amniotic fluid ...
do you hear the footfalls?
do you know their weight?
do you feel the tremble of
their auspices and fate?
in the hop ...
of a toe slipper
or the brash stomping of a boot
they come for all of us -
they come for one singular, inescapable truth
in the breath of a newborn
the losing of tender innocence
or the shiver of a spine
they come ...
for us all.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, February 28, 2020, rewrite March 3, 2024
EATING OUT
Seated uneasily at the edge tables, café males alone, silent -
Focused on eating, heads moving, looking around to defend,
Guarding their plates against enemies and, finished, quickly leaving.
Am I feeling different from these? Or not really believing?
This man, round-shouldered predator over a fresh kill,
Shoveling in untidy dangling heaps on a fork, devours his fill,
Bare arms laid either side of plate, his shaggy hair a lion-mane.
Salty meaty-stuff in great hunks : it’s feeding time at the zoo again.
Elbows-off-table, not for manners, but for speed,
That man’s cutting with edge of fork and filling his need,
Stabbing the meat like it was alive and needed subduing,
Levering huge pieces into his mouth and rapidly chewing.
In rapid action their jaw muscles ripple :
It’s a job of work to be completed as quickly as possible.
The chewing muscles in sync with moving ears :
Must finish it all off - before any enemy appears.
Café-females are nested in the central tables - to chat, to think.
In table-groups of two or three, discussing the food and drink ,
Sweet cakes’ crumbs carefully swept with back of finger,
They eat only incidentally, no purpose for them, they linger -
It is a process, not a product, an experience, an exchange of souls.
Select one from a plate of small sweet rolls,
With small bites chewed slowly, elegantly, with thought,
Sitting up straight the way mother taught.
Hands occasionally touching for spoken emphasis in speech,
Unhurried, they pause over coffee and talk intently each to each.
Heads move neither up nor down nor away to the side.
Over each other’s faces, appraising, their eyes roam wide.
I assess these people closely, and rub my chin-stubble in thought:
With the eyes of a poet I mentally note their features as I ought.
Drink up my coffee quick, and move to the counter for more meat pies
Before any enemy arrives.