Long Snakes Poems
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I have seen them stand outside my door,
pleading mother to help stage their show,
on our verandah with stony floor,
tattered clothes, hungry child, wife on tow!
dusty robes speak of miles he walked,
two woven baskets on wooden yoke,
usual wares with which he embarked,
a venomous trade to feed his folks!
with widened eyes I saw him sit down,
his sweat pouring down in summer heat,
mopping face and brow with long sleeved gown,
asks favour of water, food to eat!
rested and nourished his show is on,
a crowd of urchins get a free peep,
melody like from an old car horn,
he blows sharp and sweet but yet so deep.
speckled cobra nearly five feet long,
rocks in anger with an open hood,
heat of summer is no time for song,
disturbed from slumber, how very rude!
As child was overawed by his skills,
such deadly snakes controlled by his Been*,
there is tragedy behind each thrill,
truth of life, often hidden unseen!
snake charmer’s life is twin tragedy,
education denied from a child,
for snake it is to be in custody,
to lose their freedom to rule the wild!
let’s solve this tale with education,
help their children go to a good school,
use their skills to help conservation,
so the snakes roam free, the wild to rule!
*Been a musical flute made from a coconut shell used by snake charmers to distract the snake
Premier contest winner (3)
Written 4/01/2021
9 syllables each line except one that has 10 syllables
‘The Snake Charmers’ poetry contest
Kai Michael Neumann sponsored
My Life is a song sung in a
series of repetitive inferior notes.
I’m unable to record mellow melodies,
as my violin strings continually play
with reckless violet villains.
As I sit and replay recitals of
bleeding love harmonies.
My soul is shattered and sunken
in silent sonnets.
I'm flickering through the tears of
tainted years of hexagon heartbreaks.
Unable to trust poetic phrases from a
cedar conductor whose musical agility
makes my saxophone eyes sing.
I conceal my sunrise hope in a
chaotic chorus of anguish;
which I play to my sympathetic
amber anxiety, to justify the
lonesome path I’ve chosen to hike.
I fail to embrace the serenity
of their light rap rhymes
in my erratic brain.
Instead, I reminisce
about my sorrowful pity puddle spells,
when countless deceptive trumpets
stole my musical directives
destined for classical charts.
I am forsaken in operas of
maroon misery serenaded by
these weeping, wailing windpipes.
I desire to awaken my
ancient pop culture life.
The sangria sunrise era
when only rainbow hits escaped my pen.
I recall I wrote reams of rhythmic sheets;
filled with halo heroes,
painting electrical euphoria
upon Harvard's crisp horizons.
A time when youthful bands sang of
everlasting devotion,
glowing glee upon my ebony core.
My fuschia feet are wounded and
depleted from my frequent falls in
my ballet of ruby romances.
I aspire to dance to all the Jazz
freedom beats and not break-dance
with soprano snakes.
As I’ve detected, they are thirsty for my
rhythmic rays for their
applause and accolades to reign.
Now is the time for my piano to
recreate my platinum diamond hits.
For my lyrical pieces to thrive,
I must retire my historical woes to the
rear of my Broadway sympathy show.
I accept this is the only way
to win my desired Tony prize.
Lying halfway across the path,
there was nothing
to alert the eye or hint
it was anything but a discarded
length of rope.
Then, approaching closer,
I saw it move.
A sudden bend gave form
to a body, a blunt head
flicking out a tongue,
the unmistakable profile of a snake.
At first it seemed sluggish, slow
to move from my way
as if the overnight cool
still thickened its blood.
It did not budge but kept
to its space, tightening
into itself as if compressing
an internal spring. I felt the focus
of its unblinking eyes,
being sized and measured
somewhere in the targeting
sights of its brain.
I kept still, the distance between us
charged with tension, paired
to every muscle and tingling
sense. I waited,
diving deep into the imagined
intent gripping the mind
of the other, until it turned
and slithered away
into the long grass and memory.
For most, snakes belong
to nightmare with death loaded
fangs that wait in ambush
or are readied to strike
the careless foot or heel
of some unsuspecting hiker.
They dribble their potent brew
into the arteries of our sleep.
They are the stuff of myth,
dark inhabitants of our unconscious
carrying what we fear,
the primitive, unfathomable parts
of ourselves. This morning
I saw mine come alive and stare
at me before crawling off,
back inside.
In My New Year’s Resolution I Vow
I solemnly declare under oats on the libel to walk
N aked with only a bellow with fellow utopians
M istletoe tattoos on my fingers criss-crossing in
Y onder to shepherd ‘blue sheep’ congregations
N oel novel nobility flying pigs dressed in purple
E merge from a smoke screen of incense sandal
W ood scandals on their quest to capture the moon
Y ou’ll have to bear with my golly batik on grizzly
E nchanted magic spills hailed comet drizzle and rain blows
A biding by enlightened dark chocolate scripture
R ock solid marsh mellows on twelve tables of sand
S unk quick in fluffy cuddles once dogma eats pie
R econfigured lolly popped pious conscription I resolve to
E nshrine on altar egos chapels custard apples
S weet sin of saviour and savages prophets and whiz
O n privets hedging bets on riveting cross bows in
L ucid delusions of light hearted senses’ scent
U surping snakes in the garden’s modest seduction in
T ransit transgression staking boundaries sake
I lluminated I will fly from chandeliers promise to
O bey only mocking jesters fooling the fools
N ever more will Nirvana shout at the Buddha
I n hearse verse and chapter closed by conscious
V irtue vilified by voracious villains vying for
O ms rosaries dumb bells from myriad towers
W hen my Weltschmerz and Zeitgeist tickle my treacle
22nd December 2016
Words are incantations that dance on the cold night wind,
Striking deep into the heart of my world, shattering the light beneath my eyelids,
They slither like venomous snakes in the garden of tranquility, poisoning the air,
Drowning in silence the hope that flickers like a candle in the storm.
My bones may heal slowly under the spell of eternal time,
But the wounds of words remain like runes carved in stone,
Etching into the flesh a cold and endless pain, a hurricane of shadows,
That no heart can tame or drive away.
Some say "it's just a word," but they don't know the depth,
Where echoes resound like crushing thunder, shattering the silence,
The power of words spoken carelessly, lightning that slashes the sky,
Turning warm hearts into stone sculptures, cold and unmoving.
I carry invisible scars, chains of smoke that hold me captive in silence,
I smile like an actor on life's stage, but inside I am torn apart,
A betrayed soul, enveloped in the mist of loneliness and lost time,
Speak your words like poisoned arrows, and watch me lose my fragrance.
Sticks and stones may bruise the skin, but words crush the being,
Shattering the silence of dreams, leaving only echoes of deep pain,
I wander through thoughts like a forest of shadows and memories,
Seeking the light to show me the way to a long-lost peace.
I wonder when the morning will come that asks for nothing, just offers,
Silence in the quiet, gentle steps of a sunrise that does not judge,
A world where words are no longer swords, but flowers that embrace,
Bringing the peace of a clear summer sky to wandering souls.
The wind is now a soughing sigh,
Smoke is slowly drifting.
Devastation meets the eye.
Home burned down,
Chimney standing.
Possums gone, fate unknown,
Snakes are dead, birds have flown.
Bush destroyed, and trees, devoid
of green leaves, bare.
While all around, the empty sound
of nothing living there.
Within the heat of raging flame
gumnut shells have broken.
The fire did its worst, yet best,
the nuts will grow and so attest
that nature's voice has spoken.
Beneath the layer of fertile ash
Those hardy seeds remain.
Until one day they surge and push
and green once more will clothe the bush,
as growth begins again.
Remembering Mrs. Sully always makes my face break out into smiling mode.
Her face was as craggy as a grave, there was an aluminum tooth on the left.
When she smiled, it gleamed with pure happiness, making her stories even better.
When I first met her, her ferocious stories kept my gentle side terrified, for hours.
I thought she was the Hansel and Gretel witch, because she looked like my vision of her.
There was a unique smell around Mrs. Sully, an earthy, vegetable-type smell.
She was always in her garden, killing snakes, big black ones, with large mouths.
She relished showing us how she whacked them with her hoe, hacking them to pieces.
Although short, stooped over and old, she was a force no snake wanted to encounter.
Her stories were full of spit and vim, anger, and devilishly mean murders and such.
If you decided to share a story, she did not hear it, she did not pause if you wanted to talk.
You had to walk along beside her, acting like wearing two or three house dresses
over each other under a pair of overalls was normal, seeing the bibs and lace stick out like crazy.
Her expertise was incessant talking, not waiting for social cues or societal nonsense like that.
She knew about all the hangings that had ever happened in the county, and relished telling
About them in full-force detail, hoping to keep us on our toes, ripe with worry.
All you have to do is mention the words Mrs. Sully, and the old-timers smile, remembering
Those awful hangings, and what happened after the rope was yanked, because we all knew.
Sometimes I swear I see her in her old black hat, pulled down nearly to her eyes,
Stooped carriage, pushing a rusty brown wheelbarrow full of produce, from one farm to another.
We were lucky, our house was smack in the middle, so we would run out and hear the tale of the day.
She owned two properties, a block and a half from each other, one of them had goats.
If we were really lucky, she would have one of her mean goats on a little leash and we could walk our block with it, as it butted us with its angry head.
Rumors said the goats slept in the house with her. It did not matter to me, she was a character
I will never forget her, sometimes picturing that amazing aluminum tooth, which told excellent
Stories. Stories I do not dare tell my own sweet grandchildren, as they stay up too late already.
Labouring like ants and bees, humans of goodwill gather
Being sloth-filled like sloths, does one have the right to scatter?
With nobleness, each being should acknowledge the other
If one fails to hail the other, will the other bother?
Those who help others in the accomplishment of mission
Those who join their neighbours in their battle against Satan
Such as these would follow you, carrying daily crosses.
Sharing each of your gains, they would also share your losses.
Humans, in their conspiracy to mar others, blasphemed
Forgiving these, towards them, your forgiveness unfastened
As scorpions and snakes venom those who try to save them
Their abhorrence towards those who saved them was at its helm.
Why should one oppose the truth and chock another's graces?
To be saved, should one roam holy places after places?
Reverse Engineering a Surreal Eden.
To grow a mountain, - - - - - right!
In, an old jam jar, yeh right!
Of clean soil, Soil! Isn’t that soiled?
Such a seed could be, soiled and would be exclusive;
Perhaps part time growing in window box?
May save the roof? No rain mind, just a tarry dim sun,
Breezed by a filthy wind ; alone!
in its eroded scraggy day, while
expanding, a different slice of the colour green.
Pushed skywards, it all looks the same!
What about Apples and Snakes?
and our engineered countryside,
of plastic and glass, filling allotments,
with mirrors for the gods! And soured bogs.
Eyes only open at jar breaking time
Its stop tap, but no tap to stop, too late,
And – the mountain? We shall keep it
Under the bed, so it can’t be seen.
Strong
You are my rock,
the stone I stand upon.
I married you,
because you knew the Lord,
and felt that we,
were made to be
together.
I believed you.
I still do.
You could build anything,
and you did.
You could make anything,
and you did.
You could farm...
and garden,
and take care of animals.
You picked up snakes,
that rattled,
like toys to let them go,
elsewhere free,
and alive.
You did it all, all the time,
because that is who...
you are.
I see the evil of the sickness,
try to hold you.
Like a monster with tentacles,
and claws.
Prayer was spoken,
and is spoken still daily,
from this day to our last.
God answered and answers...
We have been heard.
He gave us hope,
and more time,
than we deserved.
I love you.