Long Slobbering Poems
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A radio aired an awful auld aria,
Astounding all my aged aural edifices
In eerie aura of araucaria trees
Aching angrily in a loud typhonic breeze.
My brain wanted to burrow to escape the pain
Of sounds as a warren of rabid jackrabbits
Digging to escape mangy slobbering coyotes
Howling hungrily in panting pursuit of prey.
Such a scratchy song, if played in the briny deep,
Would chase crazy-eyed kraken to the mountain tops.
Callas, Verdi and Puccini would flee their graves
For a screechy symphony of barbed wire sitars.
Praise be! The off button my shaking hands did find;
I woke up, pressing on my belly button hard.
A wet slobbering mess, looking more dead than alive.
Nobody knew where it came from, nor if it had a prayer.
Does this bird have what it takes to thrive.
“Don’t touch it, said the soothsayer.
Birds like this tend to take more than they give in pleasure.
Often sucking the life from its handlers.
Both here and in the afterlife, for good measure”.
Oh, proud one, what have you done?
That Bird was never meant to be caged.!
Its song and lively chatter now gone.
The world has now become a stage
For bad actors to perform their ritual.
The caged bird is like a rare silvery pigeon
Its presence and sighting were once spiritual.
Now caged, it has become a delight to no one.
In silence it sat, watching the seasons go by.
Mimicking the sounds of happy birds as they took flight.
Soaring,swaying with the wind, high up as they fly.
Daylight slowly melting into velvety night.
And as time went by,that caged bird remembered its song.
Old and sweet melody,nostalgic, a reminder of home.
Suddenly, it became clear why it’s chirping felt wrong.
It's song was never meant to be sung in a cage.
This bird was meant to fly and fall free.
If life is a story, written page by page.
Then, the next chapters we would see.
Would feature this once caged bird as the hero.
A hero in its own story,come what may.
So,the next time, the locks turned in that old hollow.
Those beautiful wings flapped high and away!
Being pulled under.
Like a lily pad going ‘boop.’
Bobbing around, then nothing.
No amount of clearing my mind will undo it.
A spider whisper.
He likes me.
Prickling like his legs.
As if I’m in a dome.
Pulled under.
There are other people who have the slobbering feeling under their hair.
Faded out.
Like a pinecone with its edges shaved.
Fingers focusing.
With gripping finger pads that do nothing.
And the kitchen is always a mess of weird things.
Bugs and things.
My edges shaved down and caved in a little.
Grappling under the ice, but there’s no water, just feet of ice.
Someone else used to live here.
He was like a centipede to me.
Everyone is like a centipede to me.
Climbing the walls.
So am I.
Always around in the basement.
Depression.
Is when you are a spider, centipede, lily pad, or pinecone.
And could get crushed any moment.
But you don’t.
What can we tell you?
We are all here, green, and fruitful,
even the wrecked and rabid
all our budding devils and gods
slobbering delightedly
over words,
pictures we put together
with fingers sticky with sap
childing each other,
completing one jigsaw at a time
problem solving,
problems we manufactured
in the root factories of a soft labor,
a work to keep us tightly wrapped up
in a sense of self exploration,
keep us rambunctious enough
to think we are creating something
when in fact, that ‘something’
is actually ‘us’,
and we do ‘us’ well
but when we don’t we call that spillage
and over ripeness -
a poem.
Lascivious Friends Amends
Coincidence, simultaneity, with a pinch of merriment
And convergence of moments, opened up this gate to hell
(I had to open the door…didn't I ?…)
It was at their convenience, not mine
Cursed by fate, unwanted visitors, (I forget their names.)
I only knew them as fornicators
The lascivious friends, (Not mine. I inherited them.)
Converged on me, a wild pack of hungry hyenas
Yelping, laughing, “Where’s the food!”
Kissing and slobbering all over themselves
Antique furniture and glass began to shatter from their antics
We were all mutual friends of Jack
I wish he’d take them back
They originated, I suspected, speculated
From unknown depths, bottom feeders, society leaches
The underbelly of low life
As synchronicity would have it, in its awful syn-chronic manner
I had to face them, entertain them, could not escape them
Had to be a proper host
A host in the true sense of the word
The parasites took hold of me
Bled me dry of all my food and drink
Did I mention that they stink…or is it stank?
Nearly bending me in half down to their lowly level
They implored me, no, they insisted on more and more
There were four of them who strained my will
Two men, two woman, as they proclaimed aristocracy
I drove off to the store to get them more
When I returned with beer and snacks
They asked me for a favor
To stay forever as they unpacked
I said, is doomsday a good starting date?
They laughed
I called the girls, Jane and Jane
The boys I called Bob and Bob since I did not know their names
And they did not care what I called them
As long as they could stay
Jack, my roommate, was out of town
He would not return
His parents didn't raise a dummy
They trained him well
I was stuck with a couple of nameless Jane’s
And Bob and Bob. Let’s call them double Bob’s
The lascivious ones were here to stay
Debauchery all the way
They will have to live on beer and pretzels
As I await doomsday and pray it comes today
9/23/14 Poems or new magazine please - Poetry Contest
Dictionary describes the word “dactylion”
As the tip of your middle finger
So if someone gives you the dactylion
They're giving you a zinger!
Have you ever been subjected to “gargalesis”
It's described as heavy tickling
Love being gargalesis in certain areas
Might even involve some licking
Do you know a word that accurately describes
Incessant or idiotic laughter
The dictionary describes it as “abderian”
Shaking the room to the rafters
When someone's eyes start to “oculoplania”
They're assessing someone's charms
I've always called it just plain old ogling
Not meant to cause any harm
The dictionary describes “slubberdegullion”
As a filthy slobbering individual
Known a few of these guys in my time
They leave a quite nasty residual
A person who hates smelling tobacco smoke
Is called a “misocapnist”
That's me for sure I'm surely a misocapnist
Probably number one on the list
And now to end with something distasteful
It's the word “krukolibidinous”
It's the act of staring at someone's crotch
What say you, had enough?
© Jack Ellison 2013
What can we tell you?
We are all here, green, and fruitful,
even the wrecked and rabid
all our budding devils and gods
slobbering delightedly
over words,
pictures we put together
with fingers sticky with sap
childing each other,
completing one jigsaw at a time
problem solving,
problems we manufactured
in the root factories of a soft labor,
a work to keep us tightly wrapped up
in a sense of self exploration
to keep us rambunctious enough
to think we are creating something
when in fact, that ‘something’
is actually ‘us’,
and we do ‘us’ well
but when we don’t, we call that spillage
and over ripeness -
a poem.
I wait for no other days
so I pinch this one
I haunt rocks and trees
to caress
with each ebb and flow
I celebrate a minute
and dedicate it to hours
honouring a moment
just one,
this,
as I breathe from the
firmament of life,
my exhalation
fogs the soul of time
scattering all sense
I suck what my mistress desires
I steal her nourishment
sipping it like a fine wine
time is unquenchable,
forever devouring life
down to the gritty bits
and this day stands like no other
she saunters in her finery
greeting all with a cool breeze,
but as the other side of her face
turned into view,
a ghoul of time slobbering
and champing at the bit
revealed her true self
slavering to eat me alive
drool pools on my window sill
but I am thieving again
I inhale
breath by breath
looking for the cracks
to sneak back to thievery
Recently I’ve been thinking about that 8 foot
plot of land outside of Heathers that my parents
buried my grandfather in. It’s amazing how many
tulips and roses can fit in an 8 foot plot of land.
At his funeral my father gave the eulogy and he said
beautiful things about him; painted him a saint.
And it’s all true, he was a saint in his own way.
My father said he never once yelled at the dog
for slobbering all over his recently shined dress shoes
and he gave the mailman lemonade and granola bars.
He said that my sweet grandfather even listened to every
solicitor that came to knock upon the dark red front door.
That story in particular drew a laugh of admiration
and looks of awe. I’ve never met a man who would listen
to any solicitor at the front door, much less every one.
If I had been old enough at the time to really know
how to give a speech about the dead to a room full
of living people without crying I would have said
that my grandfather was a shepherd, with flocks of
children in his herd that he would lead to ice cream
parlors and apple orchards with the gentle nudge of
a seasoned guide. And God, was he good at it. I bet
that’s what he’s doing right now: Guiding the children
taken too early to the heavenly ice cream parlor for their
first taste of divine buttered pecan in a fresh-baked waffle cone.
Writing Challenge - E Words' Poetry Contest sponsored by Constance La France 2/11/2023
A laugh
can be more terrifying
than a roar or a scream
in the wrong light,
In the long night,
Lunatic giggles
Idiot he-haws
Obscene chuckles
When the quiet hour, the full moon time,
Spreads its leathery wings
Jaw aching, teeth chattering,
Cruel cold
Spits sleet at your window
The monster slobbering down the glass
That sound...
That ugly, witless noise
Turns your knees to rotten fruit
Your emotions become demons toys
a sweating statue
Only your eyes able to move, jittering
Hyper awareness
Night vision and your hearing acute
You can almost count the stitches
of your shirt through the skin of your back
Every minùte tick, Every quiet whoosh of air
Noticed like a stripper on stage
Ancient supernatural powers,
animal instincts
Awaken to the thrumming of your over active heart
Short blips, images, stutter brightly
In your mind
A painted clown face with evil teeth
Wall-eyed stare no where near funny
A corpse with skull decomposing before your eyes
The blue- black face that haunts you
Arms aching to feel the weight of him
Time to shut the doors, bar the windows, lock the box in your mind…
Time to tell the whisper man enough is enough
Remind yourself of the words of truth…
“Philippians 4:7-8
And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep d your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus. Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.”
Rinse and repeat