Long Smolder Poems
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An email written to eldest daughter
December 28th, 2019,
which unwittingly, magically, accidentally...
resurfaced while scrolling
thru outdated emails
and OpenOffice documents of mine
thee evening of February 20th, 2022.
The remaining lines
comprising reasonable poetic rhyme
sent to said offspring
more than two plus years ago
and dada feels grief no more, cuz time
heals all wounds.
Papa unexpectedly overtaken with woe
flashback shook me complex edifice
head, shoulder, knees in to toe
quietly processing silent film status quo
shant upended jollity
between when a little girl no
matter mine nonconformist
mien unconditionally accepted,
ye dear daughter(s) don't know
sudden onset of anguish ho... ho... ho
holiday cavorting accentuated as
charade, facade, masquerade fueling ego
particularly Santa with the Misses,
and her sharp faux claws
keeping warm while
temperature five below.
No matter most every detail
I accurately gauge to attest
your life bustling
chock full o' zest
withheld, no doubt emotions
smolder within your chest
and kudos to thee lovely offspring
(both) packed bags
and headed out west
twas honorable duty, though now...
papa feels like
an unwanted guest
thee survived, albeit psyche bruised,
undergoing the electric
kool aid acid test
laughter when playing
Mancala, Uno, Sorry, et cetera,
how dada predictably did jest
when table turned,
I (spoiler Craigslist curb alert)
willingly, lovingly, and blithely
lost desire to win quest
to dispose cards, game
pieces, and/or glass beads
invariably other occasions
ye long since left (as thee must)
me and mother with an empty nest.
Nothing more doth
Matthew Scott ask or desire
then to delight and bask
as well educated hire
swimmingly how thee
learned to acquire
confidence and multitasking,
while I trod thru much
psychological muck mire
oft times (like now)
experiencing financial straits dire,
linkedin to when only youngster fire
within me belly to joie de vivre
peter out and prematurely expire
and yours truly reckons nothing
can change the past aghast being
deprived a marshmallow
at long ago time sharing campfire
with shortcomings scalding,
killing, crimping relationship,
courtesy lack of income
rendered paternal bond disastrously dire
doth now conclude another poetic wire.
Im Saven my freestyle rhymes so I got da proof n soon I'll be raising da mothaen roof, feeling bullet proof..with all my skills shining through..my competitors ain't know what to do.. when I grab da Mike ..they know they through... Spitting dope rhymes til they getting high from da dope fumes rising from my Microphone, now they leaving yo. They know they got no chance 2 win any battle against me. No competition for this oleschool rap musician making them disappear like im a en magician...they b running they b twichen n of course they b en n wishes they didn't motivate this freestyle main-e-ack now they all under attack.
I've been writing a lot lately, poetry. Comedy n freestyle raps, giving mothaers heart attacks. My compatision fallen fast, blasted n smoked. I ain't no joke. Everyone finishing last. Day taken snapshots at my sexy ass. I'm now standing alone at da Top of da class so all my haters can kiss my ass.. . Fast or slow.. it ain't matter yo..I am unstoppable, like an F5 Tornado, blowen my competitors apart ..morning, noon or after dark, sreadding MC's like im a great white shark!!
Tearing the mothaers slowly apart from every possible angle. Die-angle to a en triangle. I got every possible angel covered til them mothaers smothered n I'm so hot they starting to smolder n smoke. Take a nice long toke til u start 2 choke..now they know what dis freestyle rappers all about. Turn u out ..choke u out til you en passen out. While I'm passen out my demo.. that is gonna demolish anyone in my way yo. Either way ya wanna see it I'll be undefeated n I en mean it. Gotta gansta lean a gansta limp with a tight gansta grip on my .45 with an extra 50 shot clip. This is real n legit n I won't en quit with da.45 hangen off my right hip with that extra en clip..
Maken mothafukers limp like they a dope pimp...
Now I'm heading 4 my dope ride..
2 get da away from dis homicide...
The seen was messy, the seen was sick..
Mothaers learning arithmetic..
5 glock 9 rounds will kill ya quick!!!
Or it will kill ya slow..
Either ing way your gonna die Yo!!!
ing with me n keeping yo life..
Don't ing mix, n I'm not gonna tell ya 2wice...
Once is enough n s gonna get rough..
U gonna get roughed up ..stuck up ..n hit up..Your body on da back of da pick-up..
Not anymore able to hick-cup..!!
We dream of rain...
And the mystery of the gun
We bold hold and driven apart
Kill the king when lovers depart
We dream of rain and the dark arts
Upon an endless sea, across an infinite A’merican waste…
A White House in the middle of Prussia a red square, fifty-two sons of the revolution, hundred of souls of the damned, we gather together to war on finite sands. We dream of rain under the desert sun, we hold the past, behold the last, one of these, we are the past, we look through to you. We are the last, we bold hold during the setting sun. We are the last.
We drive engines of mechanical wyrms, steam demons that burrow through. Deep inside sand on the infinite sea. We are the first, last, and always, nine while nine hold the throne. Bitter are the ones of your enemy’s cast. We sing this song of corruption, we sing empire down. Kill the king while lovers watch. The empire is in throws, the Mericans are bold and hold the line in the sand. A black house of a distant earth.
A white dress, the Empress of Nothing, nothing to hold. We are the last and always. We watch the red planet rise over your shoulder, we see the embers smolder. We are the kindred of the Last. Sing empire down. When lovers depart. They kill the beast in the sands where the steam of its heart bleeds. The Leviathan and of the sand and sea. Sing out our hearts, demand! Eurasia in turmoil the Blades of the One.
The Land of the Gun. Hangs heaven in the hands of the killers, as lovers depart. Law of the Land, the rule of the Gun. The law of man. We dream of rain in a righteous land. One with the Gun. Under a righteous Son. Someday, someday, someday, Dominion! I'm living in films for the sake of Prussia.
A Kino-Runner for the Dre-Karr, And the fifty-two daughters of the revolution is bound for treason, Turn the gold to chrome, a Gift... with nothing to lose, Stuck this side of Memphis with you in a mobile home, sing:
Mother Prussia, Mother Prussia. The Way of the Gun. The Rights of the West. We dream of rain. And the mystery of the gun. We bold hold and driven apart
Kill the king when lovers depart.
We dream of rain and the setting sun. Flood lands and driven apart…
Reprise III
An ode to the sisters who show mercy…
I
I am disinfected, sanitised from touch and eyes
Do not hold me. I am Bakelite and you smolder
Sat solid, the wall cold against my spine. A back-rest
To concrete electrocution.
I am distilled from Suburbia and Bohemian at Brandenberg
Rigid and saturnine. Heavy lidded Lichtenstein moons
And ruby lip and cheek.
Dumb-flustered and silent rictus
Nothing changes.
II
She edges closer with ostentatious mute steps. Like a bride
And thrice as white with crimson orb flowing underneath
Her caped wings and paper hat. Tiny dragging movements
As though her legs could snap
This marionette matchstick girl unfurls her bouquet of fingers intertwined
And ruffles from her drapes fragments of paper and a tiny plastic cup
I do not notice her. The bleach sticks heavy to the throat and
She envenoms me to the core stomach
She speaks. It is static heavy and foriegn, black-lipped vowels and dull
Continuations of barely literate sounds.
My words are daggered brutes, any poetry the less of my expectations
Is instantly meaningless, crass, common, nauseous and disgusting
Her flowing prose was illegible on those lips. Sounding almost spat
I could have silenced nine decades to my two and circled her in criticism
She would never understand with her barely-English cold translations of her
Own English mother-tongue.
III
People are fascinating
Occassionally
I find I look at them and linger, I study them and calculate their complex algebras
Undoubtedly we are products of our parents and the less of us by-products
We are strings and apples and figs
The woman with her ghost-white face and dress. Her parents were too strict
You can see it in her face, how if you even turn away her eyes circle with bags
And she feels lost, she could cry a thousand summers and undoubtedly should trade my place.
As of my own parents they probably loved me too much. Sheltered me and then
Stopped abrupt as death and cyanide fizzing
Suddenly trading my lineage into friendship and smiles and no, do silence yourselves
I am a maypole and the strings circle about me
Life and ambition they feed upon me, draining me in complex nervous disorder
I am a living question mark
I can feel it
Eating below my skin.
The soldiers winter is the Winter Soldier.
Reality shows the totality of evils depravity. Some see it as a formality when evil begins rioting. It is a catastrophe when the pirating of evil destroys tranquility. To ignore evil summer is a tragedy. Heretofore it is time for those who possess Truths gallantry to stand in solidarity against evils brutality. Explaining Truths tapestry is not a chore. Learning to explore the gravity of Truths morality is the canopy for the heart's capacity to overcome the duality of Good and Evil, to destroy all apathy. I implore understand blasphemy at its core. Hate create carnality with angers lore. Hate is stifling and leads to Agony within the heart of vanity. Hate begins silencing Loves exposure. Stop the ignorance of Hate by resting upon the shoulder of Yeshua's enlightening closure. Yeshua is the Heavenly Father's Humidor. Gallantly overcoming Calvary to restore the opening for salvation to soar in forgiveness and spirituality. Yeshua's Loving veracity is evils fatality. The family is the purpose for the creation of every Galaxy. Evil loves Calamity. Evil wants you to believe that Love is a fantasy. Please don't be hates casualty. The strategy of Yeshua's majesty is more than inspiring, knowing Yeshua will soon stand upon the shore with a Roar and evil will know what is truly frightening. Those who understand Yeshua's composure will place the Truth of Love in their holster. Tactfully that Love begins deepening in the hearts of those who deplored Truths sanity. Evils heart will smolder as Truth starts brightening the door, then hate will feel loves foreclosure. Are you inquiring about Truths boulder? Truths faculty are those who loves Truths acquiring. Younger, older it does not matter if you have Truths controller. Wrathfully evil will fight against the one who is solar. The Lion of Zion with Truth created the Winter Soldier to explain evils score with agility, hoping to pour out the Truth to protect everyone from the coming calamity. Hate is a splinter. Thankfully we are made bolder because Yeshua is Truths Center. With that Truth evil has felt every ounce of the soldiers winter, it does not matter if you are rich or poor, Yeshua has already won the war.
and I feel awakened
from this dream...
7 am, I feel startled, alone, inhibited -
I want to scream !!
&
Shout to Zeus and Hera
"this heir we no longer share"
a bloodclot of feelings through
these veins, this heart which
still wants You
my
Kinshala Blue...
but please don't get me wrong
for I'll keep singing yr song
inside my daisied head
where black sparrows now have fed...
for
I sense impending ending
before there was beginning
and question my own ability
to govern love to thee
my Kinshala, Blue, I'll be...
almost better to not have seen
yr eyes and ears between
those dimples 'round yr face
your memory never to erase...
but recall as someone true
whom I've loved but under-grew
with bitter barbs to regret
till some uncertain future's set...
which I still hope for
(but am now crying)
I can't stop the world
(or stop trying)
for at least I've finally met
My Kinshala dream - a Gift
(most don't even get):
to touch their Other hand
till we return once more
to sand....
-------------------------------------------
Can't stop writing
(and won't)...
cause I've spun a final tear
to this sad life I've wrote
for now on In,
Kinshala - who
I hoped to join
in love so true
Kinshala Blue:
can't pine for You
Can't burn or smolder
till we get older...
cause from what I've learned
from this harsh world
is that the sun don't rise and set
for just one girl...
and I hate to be so blunt
but I might just end this hunt
for Love and I just seem to miss
like cupid's arrow inside a kiss...
and one last verse
I'll add, in hope to reverse
my seemingly
unending curse:
please remember me
as one who was gentle, with truth to see
and please Kinshala, please lend to me
the answer of the Master Key
so that I might One Day
attempt to free
the One True Love
that has eluded Me...
I walk into my room every day
seeing that closet. I wake up
and I think in my mind "there's
that sin."
It's a eternal evil, it's clawing at
the door, gnawing at my skin,
growing and groaning more and
more.
It's big and ferocious, my past
life it is. It's mean and scary
and I can never win.
My broken past met with my
brain and made memories, I
can't let go of this pain that is
forever chasing me.
I tried chaining it up, I try
holding it down, but it's no use!
My strength is no match for its
conviction and blood-shot
reproof.
I can't take this anymore, this
isn't fair! I'm not even that
person anymore and yet there
are scars I bare.
Manipulating, hideous,
tormenting, dangerous.
This present evil is tied at my
doorstep, tied at my post.
I want to burn it at the stake,
and leave the ashes to rot. I
want to forsake it so bad, but I
know it will forsake me not.
This terrible folly can go on no
longer, I've made no deals with
the devil and this is too much.
I need something, or someone
to take this animal away so it
will stop hurting me.
I need an exerting of a pain-
free peace, I need an excreting
of this soul-eating disease, I
want to be free!
God***
Daughter, Daughter! I'm right
here. I'm right by your side.
I've never left you, all through
your lows and even through
your highs!
You see that evil that gets at
you, you see that pain that
won't escape you, I can take
that off your shoulders.
Ill make it to where that
burning flame of evil is nothing
but a dying smolder.
I can take that evil away but
you must give me your past.
I can take that pain away but
this battle must be your last.
Give me the reins and ill drive
it away,
Give me your darkness and ill
give you another way.
Gods cares about your pain,
He cares about your struggles.
He has no fear in anything and
there's nothing too big for him to
battle.
He will take your sin down,
pumbled to the ground.
He'll make it look simple, like
popping a small pimple on the
face of your destiny,
Because he's got everything,
under control.
So give him full custody to your
past, and he'll give you a
limitless future.
-Elizabeth Cary
The soul behind the mind
The thoughts gain entrance
Tick, tick, tick…
All wound up
Tick, tick.
Just a matter of time.
Pre-released dreams coming into being
Tick, tick
We never retaliated
We’ve always waited.
The redundant fear grows
Inside where hope hides
Locked in doom
loomed in stitches
Patiently waiting
The busy work, we throw ourselves
Into, not thinking of outcomes
Nor the finality of a phase.
Tick.
Came into this world
On borrowed time.
In the middle of someone’s madness;
Some dead persons unfinished plans
lands in my time zones territory.
Whose century old thoughts, be these?
Bandits, guilty of mind control.
Left in our vibrational stream
Continuing to ripple
on my particular frequency.
ticking...
invading our original mindsets.
invaders of generations...
time released tomfoolery from past centuries…
We are exploding and ticking;
While unstitching and undoing the threads
Of their intricate and untimely designs.
These Bogglers of our once sound minds, keep us
ticking like time bombs.
Kaboom, boom, boom we explode,
detonations, erupting, blowing up;
blasting bunkers, as you hunker.
We finally feel something"
We are sending out new patterns,
new waves, we are the code changers.
Locking out the old patterns
Those preconceived notions
No longer received.
As I am…
Impenetrable nothing you do,
say or set a trap for, will capture me.
My soul belongs to me and my creator;
Great wisdom has he blown into my being and it
is growing in me, profoundly.
I will render you helpless as I burn your books.
Diminish your importance and make you impotent.
You shall crumble and smolder back into the dust...
And when the oceans demand my return.
I shall ride on the new waves of time
I am the soul behind my own thoughts.
As the thought waves of the All-Knowing
regain entrance into my new mind.
And the ticking stops…
Time continues infinitely.
Let the herbs, “and the words be my food ...
and my medicine.
“HUE-mans no longer an endangered
Species ... And for God:
We have replenished this earthly sod
As it was in the beginning”.
The song of my love is heard
It travels over Seas and mountains
Bearing cadences that make the fishes dance
It frolics over hills and oceans
With rhythms that adorn the eyes of the sun
Sniffing the scented air that enflames the smouldering harmattan ash
Dancing with the guileless glee of a soul at ease
My love wakes
Glowing with the shimmers of sunrise
As it emerges with the pleasure of a shy bride
Rising in slow degrees from the east coast of India
Glimmering as the mirror of the stream flows with easy glide
Shining like the smiles of the unbridled sun as it beams with pride
Gliding with lazy grandeur like the procession of a Royal entourage
My love breathes
It inhales the sharp scent of burning wood
And savours the sweet smell of the lilacs that bloom
The breath of my love gives life to hyacinths
Shrunken and withered and makes them blossom anew
It is warm like the caress of wool on a night of chilly cuddle
It's journey down the spine generates shudders of flurry relish
My love sees
It stares with eyes that sparkle
Like the flash of lightening on a sultry night
Piercing the flesh as it comes in contact with the soul
The eyes of my love are sharp
Swifter than the swoop of an eagle on a chick guarded by the hen
It is strong like the hammer of Thor
And it makes mountains crash like an avalanche
It is hotter than the smite of the sun at its peak
And it melts the heart frozen like ice
My love grows
It feeds on smiles that clouds tears
Subsumed by the tapestry of the sun's golden gaze
It thrives on the rhapsody of gleesome hearts
Dancing as they laugh in unrestricted boisterousness
My love is a story
Told on nights of twilight beauty
As lasses blush before flames that smolder
And lads boast of valiant feats unachieved
It is that song sang as the arms of the wind spread over herbages
Clothing them with perfumes that issue from dancing hibiscuses
It is the hidden hymn of covenant
Sang beneath the lustrous peek of sleeping stars
When the transient sneer of the sun hide behind the moon's smile
The day would pass in blissful brightness, with our brains on auto-pilot. The stories we'd tell and the memories we'd conjure up from years past, one couldn't help but think we were all running on about four pots of coffee each with the energy that was pumping through our veins. From jokes about serial killers in the woods, wondering if we were ever gonna find the lake, to the constant face-palms of: Why-didn't-we-do-this-sooner? and We-should-do-this-more-often! It was an indefinable mix of regret at having not done this earlier, and joy at the prospect of more to come.
To this day I can still recall the feeling of sitting by the shore of Hidden Lake, watching the sun set behind the tall mountain peaks that threatened to shatter the sky, knowing full well what would happen if I didn't gather wood for the fire soon. The darkness would encroach, and the temperature would drop to such that even the leaves themselves might shiver. The sun took his role once more as the proverbial clock, and the moon, his mistress, would instill within us that feeling of yearning long buried beneath decade's worth of city distractions.
Joel would be chopping sticks and logs, and Monica would prepare the sausages for the fire, while the rest of the gang (Jonathan, Brandon and I) struggled with setting up tents. Deeply knit eyebrows, tongue stuck out in deep concentration, as if anticipating future interstellar flight. It came to me shortly after, once the pegs were pegged, flaps were zipped, that if by some miracle Buzz Aldrin stepped into the woods on that fine snowy evening, he'd happily affirm my suspicions: it's not rocket science, folks.
The mirror of the lake would turn into molasses when the sun finally set. The flashlights would be drawn, cutting into the night like light-sabers or futuristic cyclops if headlamp is more your style. The rest of the crew were all huddled around a crackling fire, and I'd be changing into my skivvies not 10 feet away. Why?
Because I could.
coals smolder
a spark cleaves
to the sky