Long Sleekly Poems
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So slick and sexy. Purred past Temple Bar.
That throaty engine advertising punch.
All legal London, strolling out for lunch,
with turning heads declared, “Now that’s a car!”
So many barristers are – if not losers,
low earners and slow learners. I was one.
I, plodding back from Penge, felt put upon:
a plea, a pittance. Now for Holborn’s boozers.
That mean machine was not for saps like me.
I turned my face towards the threatening rain,
and started wearily up Chancery Lane.
A cup of tea and, hopefully, a fee
awaited me in Chambers. Alloy wheels
slid sleekly, silently – stopped at my side.
That car again! I watched the window glide
wide open. And I almost had to kneel
to see the driver. Handsome. Tall and thin.
The shirt was pastel pink, the tie was silk.
The suit was Savile Row, or of that ilk.
His words astonished me. “Well, clamber in!”
And then the penny dropped. It’s Alex R!
Agility has never been my thing,
so Reaney waited, engine idling,
as I shoe-horned myself into his car.
We’d known each other at the School of Law,
but then our paths had radically diverged.
Me, in pleas and poverty submerged,
and he, the wide blue skies of Libel to explore.
“I’ll run you back to Chambers – beat the rain.”
He asked me what had occupied my morning.
For him, the King’s Bench judges were adjourning.
I’d copped a plea in Penge – how to explain?
The major stars had Alex at the helm
when they unleashed their lawsuits on the press.
Defending thefts of bicycles – and less –
was my domain. He ruled a regal realm.
His clients of the moment, man and wife,
were household names. They’d sold their wedding day
to paparazzi, who refused to pay.
The plaint was something weird, like “Stolen Life”.
The man, from Delaware, big hair, and Jewish.
They crank out movies like there’s no tomorrow
(Chicago, Basic Instinct, Traffic, Zorro):
the girl, from Aberdare – think Cher, and shrewish.
To talk of money is a vulgar thing,
but I was desperate to know his fee.
The forty quid I’d earned, I wouldn’t see
for months to come. His wrists were dripping bling.
We’d be at Chambers in another minute.
“So, Alex,” (best to blurt the damn thing out),
“a case like that. You’re looking at … about …?”
He grinned at me and said, “you’re sitting in it.”
Xmas tide,
a time for familial gatherings,
The golden chain of friendship
…and companions
Sweet on each other,
parading arm in arm
Together to share a feast and gift giving
...Nativity scenes, red, gold, green
bells ringing
Garlands, wreaths, and holly
Holiday romance rekindles and
swindles kisses under a mistletoe
Lovers making love!
…A lonely time for others
She arrives solo, one link’s absence sears
her heart yet another year
Smiles seem forced they’ll think
…Cry out the hosts,
Drink up, plenty of champaign !
Chums come and go quickly
Good to flatter one in a funk or ho-hum
The dinner is served, everyone rejoices
Mingles and reacquaint
Toasts and jingles can’t take her gaze away
True feelings are hidden
Like a disconsolate widow,
mournfully she yearns for him
Not a soul to tell, nor a cherished confidant
to share a secret or a private matter
Of the sensuality of karma sutra wooing her gently
Mesmerizing thoughts of a distant lover
have taken her far from the celebration
…His sultry eyes, savory lips
Sleekly sinewed neck, and bulging biceps
Quite an exquisite exhibition
Into his warm embrace and into subservience
Draped in satin, his fingertips tracing her curves
duplicating guitar intonation on his
gears, depressing down fretted notes
Making sultry harmonic tunes
Counting down at the twelfth fretboard
Lusty lullabies erogenous, with more alibies,
Keeps silent not to arouse suspicions of
an affair's existence that shouldn’t be
She counts down the twelve days of Xmas tide
her yearning entails
love is starved at Xmas tide~
he plays keep away
In an unreal pre-dawn half-light
I gazed with much surprise
Across the darkly flowing Rhine
With newly-wakened eyes.
The vista on the river bank
Was as within a dream.
A vision wonderful, surreal,
Exquisite it did seem.
These were not mountains, lochs and glens,
Or misty forest scenes,
These were as nothing Nature formed,
No waterfalls or streams
Or castles in the sky.
So what amazing sight was this,
So slowly passing by?
This was concrete, steel and glass,
Fired in imagination.
Modern art, space-age design,
The ultimate Man's creation.
Soaring, swooping, sleekly blending
Each shapely angle with its neighbour.
Whose vision brought these things to pass ?
What divine and perfect labour ?
In awe I watched the passing scene
And then, a moment's retrospection,
This splendid affluence had been
Forged in devastation,
As from a hostile sky
Came terror and destruction.
Seven hundred tons of bombs
Rained down in just one fiery night,
The city was ablaze, and come the dawn,
Still smouldering, a sorry sight.
Gaunt remnants, stark, skeletal, charred,
The fruits of war, forever scarred,
But from the ashes, undeterred,
Came inspiration to rebuild
And heal the all but fatal wound.
Faith in the future was instilled
And esoteric dreams fulfilled.
A phoenix rising, quite sublime,
In Dusseldorf, on the River Rhine.
Entered for contest "Foreign Travel"
Fee-On-Her Joy
The peril of the real epitome of African goddess,
Her gift packed neatness pouted love in her,
That has been brewed from Luo love pot,
Her lips lithe in the coat of spicy charm,
As she slough, the hot, sharp, and pleasant heart beating echoed voice,
In a mouth full of jibes from the blessed blossom balmed lips,
Arousing their loins at the joint of thigh,
As if it was fee-on-her, that gives birth to their joy,
She is real artistry of long lost African goddess,
Don’t ask me fee-on-her, because Fiona is she that joy.
A beau clamoured with joy to charm-hypnotized eyes,
Your enchantment leaves,
The mind free to ride,
An up and down undulating waves of dreams,
As a thin sleekly silver, chain adorns your tender neck,
And disappears into the deep ‘V’ cut,
Between, the budding bust thrust of your breast,
For those who do not know you,
Awes the bog of jealousy to your African knotted body,
Don’t ask me fee-on-her, because Fiona is she that joy.
Short Snort of Scotch
We will be going on trip week from tomorrow
And a bright idea I recently tried to borrow
Must be careful making sure I don't botch
By forgetting to bring along a bottle of Scotch.
Finally the ship so sleekly away had sailed
Everyone had to pass test after they exhaled
To see if any Scotch on their breath had been
And later would they want to drink more again.
Top of ship deck was marked for hop-scotching
Which is where we would always enjoy watching
After too much Scotch all over were jumping
With much anxiety their hearts were pumping.
After hopping and hoping were over and done
Each hopper and drinker became the only one
Who ended up without any secrets to hid
Now are members of crew and there they abide.
Ship hasn't sailed since in straight line anymore
Soon as it finally could near complacent shore
Had one more Scotch which was a short snort
And looks like they landed in the wrong port.
James Thomas Horn, Retired Veteran
Come and climb these
Broad bony branches and
Have tea on this tree
with me,
Let's talk our hearts out
Into the poems unsung.
Sleep silently singing in my sizzly eyes,
Sleep might snap with some pumpkin chai,
The sun is seeping in my sulky bones,
Soon the milky moon will mysteriously be alone,
Here, have some squishy scone
While the sun is setting sleekly,
I reckon we should have tea weekly.
Sandalwoody sultry summer,
Hyacinth, hibiscus and hummers,
Poppies, primroses and periwinkles,
The night in esoteric eyes twinkle,
Starling singing on a starless night,
No gloom, a moon , no light,
In this sordid slumber silence,
I can hear your eyes speak.
Let's tell each other
All our hearts hanker
To say,
Drink tea and recite
The poems and make
No delay,
I'll have chamomile tea,
I'm not Mrs. Bennet
But it'll calm my nerves,
You like your tea with herbs,
Spearmint, rosemary and thyme,
And make sure the poem rhymes.
You may talk of submarines
And of other war machines
As you sip your beer and talk of yesteryear.
You may even look with awe
At the ships that roll and yaw,
And the carriers as steady as a rock.
And what’s prettier to see
Than a ‘can’ while out at sea
With her bow that’s dancing through the brine.
A destroyer, tough as nails
Boarding seas bury her rails
Staying vertical is truly an ordeal.
To the frigates plaudits go
They put on a graceful show
As they sleekly speed along at sea.
But there is a far-famed ship
And to her our caps we tip
To the Sweeper who was where we’re heading now.
See their sweeps when they outreach
Clearing paths from deep to beach
For landing craft to bring the soldiers through.
Knowing mines unswept ahead,
Resolutely then they thread
And their sweep gear clears a channel for the fleet.
So we give them our salute
Every mine-sweeping galoot.
And raise a toast to them when they’re ashore.
Gently strum my heartstrings,
So I can produce the melody.
The kind that softens the heart,
The melody that awakens the soul,
That which sets us on fire,
A tingly fire that makes the heart race calmly.
Gently strum my heartstrings,
So I can produce the melody.
As you sweep the plectrum sleekly,
In motions that appease the strings,
With an ardent frequency sweep,
We shall brew a lovely crescendo.
Gently strum my heartstrings,
So I can produce the melody.
Just like the ocean tides rise and fall,
So shall be our intervals tempo,
Each time producing acoustic harmony,
That triggers the explosive expression of humanity.
Gently strum my heartstrings,
So I can produce the melody.
THE EURIDITE MONK
(Apropos Thelonious)
The misunderstood rhapsody
of the ebony-ivory union
reflects a oneness of time
and space fathomed
but to the freed ears
picking up the syncopation
of mind body and soul
of the sellers and the sold;
While gyrating auction block
crescendos split crazy melodies
shoveling shattered shackles sliding
sliding between the mosaic beauty
of the whining keys echoing echoes of echoes.
Let your ears blink
and it all slips sleekly by
and the uninformed cannot comprehend
the beat of rhythmic thoughts meandering
a melodious mind leaving mental footprints
tap dancing on seasoned tympanums
vibrating blue notes between bebop bars:
harmonious inertia movements
challenging a decrescendo fading
of the monk’s mosaic mastery.
The lake is surrounded
by burnt-orange grass that bends.
The sparse light rain drops
make perfect circles
on the glassy dark water.
They widen until
they sleekly, slyly
disappear. The lake mirrors
the late afternoon:
dried-apricot clouds
from which peek a chilled soft blue,
a worn trodden campsite;
evergreen pine
needles soft as worn spandex
next to a shiny house.
And the sun-light shifts
the early Autumn sky, steeped
in the still-reaching
fingers of Summer.
This civil landscape is a captive
of a watercolor,
from a nomadic
palette. The varnished brown house..
a lumberjack..his ax,
a bronze age tool
for civilization. A stormy,
ancient wilderness.