Long Snaking Poems
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Creeping creepy creepers, the crawling trellis
jutting out of everywhere
snaking through country and metropolis
twisting turning in floral bliss
but more like snakes that hiss
But in quietude feign death for self-defense!
Weeping willows with an unreal surreal sorrow
weeping tears of dew onto the silted furrow.
Perhaps weeping for bretheren felled
in deforestations and land clearings in
my imaginations of the call to preservation.
Against ethnic cleansing of greenery for selfish building
As per man's construction for mere recreation
Velvety-green tear- stained faces or rather foliage
When dew is stuck on them as nature's trinkets of pearls.
And over there touch-me-nots swaying coyly
like prim and proper maidens
in the fantastic floral gardens.
And what in the world is this case?
Imitation flowery in place of imitation jewellery?
Yeah, thats poinsettia in a vase
Leaves in the disguise of flowers
Its actual flowers relegated to backstage.
And ethereal fairy-slippers await their never coming wearers
and Indian pipes to be admired by Red Indian sightseers.
Oh and here's another spectacle- but sniper tactics this time
Yikes! Let the naive insect world beware!
Whilst the bloodthirsty killers lie in ambush
Those camouflaged jungle guerrillas
or should we say the venus fly-traps!
Or a more harmless one yet mimicking the scary
A snap-dragon flora, its mouth opening and snapping shut.
Then watch that mega-sized jumbo giant flora
The world's largest flower
No stems, no leaves, plant-eater plant, rafflesia.
Is it too much for the faint-hearted ha ha.
And wow now watch that incredible costume, oh my!
A flower masked as some pesky fly!
None other than the remarkable fly orchid.
And yet another, the silent music of the fiddlenecks
Fiddles as if for the light-weight fairies.
And lastly not forgetting ofcourse
the sky-blue unforgettable forget-me-nots
A memorable bouquet but themselves devoid of memory.
Ah nature lover poets if you wish to view
more of flora in a fancy dress masquerade
Go ahead and flip through the pages of
a botanical, floral
horticultural
pictorial journal.
And see for yourself the fantastic flora's charade
or else imagine them dressed as a floral renegade!
And there are not enough cubicles and grey paneling that
sugar rock candy lights won’t cut
the sapling eye from its still decline into Abyss.
And there are not enough sad thoughts wars rapes to gratify inward hatreds which never walk the feather but mobilize the thousand marching whales across an entire worlds sandy interior.
across every turtle egg.
If there are secrets below us we are too many
too numerously traveling
a cacophonous tandem that secrets could survive our drumming lull.
Surely we have broken all our secrets with our song.
I hear only ever what anyone always forever has known.
I have no doubt anymore.
There is only sand below.
No. The saddest days are behind in mouths of our trekking bedded with pruned flowers who wilted passing along the snaking vine of history which coils and dies as mast and pointed finger at every moment we recall our saddest days.
But these days are not polished aged silvers of goals and just conquering, but like a sword waved through crowds at night where the tallest fell in heads and became mountainous cultures of sporadic hands where finally at this moment cresting backwards
we see our ladder in dawn
and it is blood.
Every possible minute from every now onwards.
Each point along stretches back marking the infinite fence of beginnings lamely ticked from the chain which links them. Such that as time leans in the depth of reflection, in the understanding of casual existence, of tragedy, everyday comedy — the noon will bite its appearance, and we will miss our lunch.
Dry and sour throats work along this real thing.
Where there was once water and loss
Is the leftward image of death in decline.
We are not so caring as to want for our lives.
For as long as we want others, and acquire others, and drift from others — who were once familiars — only to drift back and want again, and not be in haste of charging this social pattern with contempt of experience;
Of laughing at us,
Doubting our depths,
Then there is hope.
If not, then we shall continue.
But we will not have our sadness.
We will dry our tears from each other
And mask the body to wed from time.
This tomb is a forever we would not escape.
It is a death amidst the sand.
The river awaits.
A STORY OF TEENAGE THUGGERY, JEALOUSY, TEASING AND TAUNTING -
THE DESTRUCTION OF A PROMISING LIFE ................
Staggering down the rain-drenched street
I see you, reeling drunkenly
like a sailor trying to keep his balance
on a storm ravaged ship.
You stop only to vomit your intoxication,
falling to your knees, then wobbling back to
tottering unsteadiness as you roll
faltering, aiming for the safety of home.
Your friend tries to steady you, but
you push him away in a tirade of independence.
Sober insecurity magically transformed
into inebriated confidence.
Then, there she is - the teenage focus
of your immature passion. She doesn't see you -
she never does - she ignores you
as she teeters on her too-high-heels
staggering, like you, over the rain-drenched cobbles,
taunting her hormone packed companion
with her pert breasts and pouting lips,
until she stops to kiss him in your view.
Sudden sobriety steadies you as you watch
them jealously - touching, kissing, exploring -
you call out angrily to distract them: you swear,
you name-call, a juvenile torrent of verbal abuse.
The reinforcements appear from the shadows:
his mates, jumping to his defence.
They grab broken bottles, discarded wood, one has a knife,
and they chase you, full-pelt, down the rain-soaked street.
You are easy meat: your reflexes and reactions
still laggard with drink. They floor you easily.
Blows raining down in a frenzied downpour
of merciless, unceasing violence......
kicking, beating, spitting, knifing, wild,
like a pride of lions decimating their prey.
You sink into unconsciousness, your lifeblood
draining, trickling with the rain down the pavement.
She watches, silent tears snaking from
mascara-laden eyes. She notices you now:
for the first time she acknowledges your existence
as your very existence is snuffed out ....
snuffed out like a near spent candle.
Seventeen years obliterated by youthful hatred.
Seventeen years annihilated by needless thuggery.
What a waste. What a bloody, bloody shame.
....did I say this was a 'story'? No, sorry, it's true......
Here on this brand new flight of day
On the grand stage of the world
I may but find a rare reason to smile,
Tho' my head springs merry in life's wilderness
My heart numb lays on a valiant pain
Somber among the public multitudes
I've felt the whips of envy on a still day
I've known the days without a bread
I've grasped the pulsing hands of a dying child
When all the streets and night is dead.
I've taste the public scourging of hate
By priest, by saints, by nobles, by poets,
By false friends
By men who lie with men, by prostitutes,
By wealthy creeps
By common fools, by thieves,
By nameless intellects,
By jealous men, by deceitful scamps,
By mere hypocrites
By men who stamp upon my youth
With sly murmuring, with boundless lies
With streams of prejudice, with vile contempt
I've watched their hands grew fat and bright
I've watched their wealth expand to a sky
From the poor strength of a man.
I've flown to a lightless sky of solitary
God is not there, he is distant and mute
I'm forgotten thro' the pages of his memory
I bare my sorrows upon a dead wind
In shackles against a dim wall colorless
No one hears the echoing sadness of my days
No hears, no one hears!
Even the light blue stars deserts me
Even the woods cry out in mockery
In the storming of my wretched days
And yet the moon crawls beneath a cloud
The last embers of hope flutters away
Like a streaming mist enskied
I die! I die! I die!
In love's martyrdom
From a spectre memory snaking thro'
The strangled regions of my mind
Thro' the fleeting hours of deep quietude
My heart lays desolate and cold
Darkness creeps like the silent waters
Yet still I'll find a rare reason to smile.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
It is through the darkest moments of our days that we see the light. Can one find a reason to smile when the darkness subdues the light. There is always a flicker of light at the end of the tunnel that can give one a rare reason to smile. Thanks for reading my humble verses.
Tiny misshapen meringues, puffs of cloud, float
Like lacework across the green and brown land
Far beneath. In the distance, they are a little
Bigger, yet still not the towering fortresses of home;
And the snaking roads, mostly dirt this far from city
Or town, can be followed from horizon to horizon.
At every intersection there is a cluster of houses
Tin roofs sparkling in the bright sunlight, with more
Strung along the roads, a twinkling necklace of homes.
The ochre earth is patch-worked into squares and
Rectangles, with seams of dark green; each bead
In the necklace of homes stands guard over
Enough for one family to manage, one generation
To another.
My imagination takes me down, down into that
Foreign land, into a world ruled by the rhythms
Of the seasons, planting, growing, harvesting; and a
Rare journey to a greater world to sell and buy.
I see the unrolling of years, with good harvests,
And bad. Children come and grow into the same
Rhythm, broken only to move further along the road.
Yet, inexorably, in the distance of my mind, the
Rhythm stops, a pause as a father takes his leave,
And a son begins the pattern of a new passage
Of seasons, each not unlike the one before.
It is the great breathing of the world; inhale,
Pause, exhale, Nature’s unconscious beat.
And I feel fear.
There is no natural rhythm in my life, no
Ritual of harvest home to count out the
Compass of my days. Here is where I am,
Not a place of dirt with familiar smell after
Rain; or tree that grows with me, each ring
Sounding the passing parade of years.
My world has not the sameness and comforting
Familiarity of a few rectangles of fertile land.
My horizon is the other side of the world, not
The line of distant hills, that I have been to but once.
I look down from my swift journey, continent to
Continent, and in my imaginings, I see that I too
Am one breathing of the world, as the farmer below.
And my fear is not of death, but of not living.
Lust's Sickness throws off the yoke, of cure?
Defiant in-body, pleasures obscure.
A mask, of pride, a lost soul-in vogue capture, a hell-ride in the belly of a beastly whore.
The salt crystal shines your thirst back to you in a drowning mirror that blinds you.
It's image, in-retrograde.
Worship of false idol,
self, made, self that binds you.
You are tapewormed, pinned at the head,
eating the loop of tale.
A process processing by lassoing,
the masochism of sin.
The Harlot, riding an illusion abiding,
of perverted grandeur, aboding the Vale,
in a warped game of intelivision in the City Dell.
Rally the standard, flags, censors,
sensor a game, of shell, of humanity being played,
like a fiddle, rung like a bell.
Their humanity wanes,
from defiant song in the harmonic scale, of fever.
Their body a signet, of times despoil.
The occulus hourglass abacus mirror waxing cold,
fusion spirit, ether, spell for sale, sold.
Doors closing double
folding into the dimension of troubles.
Shopkeepers of the gates of Hell,
and souls falling onto the other.
Neon is in the blood, signed, *** - 666,
enter, the veil.
Apocalypservices,
the last vomiting throes of Society's-former Dale.
BDSM by Hollywood (wand not for display),
at the demonic re education menagerie.
Self's gallery for sale, while burning,
nativity to ashes,
carbon to polish our looking glasses.
Sold-out to the oil of midnite.
Snaking, on a torch lit by the way
of political prophet-eering incite.
Insight of conscience swayed
by field communications, too near.
Of Olympus-apothecarried by the scales in motion,
weighed by fears'-musings-fear.
By Reptilian, Orwellian, modern, progressive notions caught doing.
Explosive, fiery things.
Burn us to death, in house arrest,
in-deed to fuel one's own un, manifest.
Doing, one's undoing at the behest of the WEF
Takotsubo
My grief would overtake me.
There was nothing that could shake me.
I could not get out of bed. I had nothing but bedhead.
Hygiene was lacking, and I was constantly snaking.
I could not move at times, maybe as far as the floor and maybe as far as my door.
I was dead inside, and I wanted to hide.
My mind was jumbled, and I constantly stumbled.
I didn't see any way out. I just was missing out.
I couldn't think straight, and I said to myself, " God, is this my fate?".
This pain inside hurt worse, but my pride prevented me from gaining momentum.
It was all so tempting, enchanting, and easy to stay in stagnation.
It was so easy not to acknowledge all my feelings that I pushed them aside.
The sensitivities in me were full of impulsive extremities. One day was calm, one day good, and one day bad. Folks thought they knew but never really understood.
I was lying, denying that this tug was dug deep in my seat. I was paralyzed and couldn't see the explicit constraints I placed upon me.
How could I face such an awful feeling?
Toxic shame was my haven, but I knew I couldn't stay there.
I knew I had to figure things out to remove the fog and clear my mind.
Delusions were upon me, not seeing the truth.
I thought I had all the answers, and I honestly thought I knew.
I failed to see the actual reality of the situation. I was chasing a dream and giving in to foolish temptations.
I need to pull myself out and see this for what they are.
My situation is the severe effect of an actual broken heart.
Love, Temptations, Illusions, Clarity. Relationships challenge us to evolve into the people we need to become. Some stay stuck, and then some become awakened. Have no fear
, God will always be there with the unconditional love one has never felt. Many run from it, thinking it's terrible, but it's all to get us to our highest truth here at Earth School.
Take Care ????
Exorcist -
i need an exorcist...
for Lord, i am possessed -
there are two souls trapped inside my chest,
entwined like duelling snakes...
their conjoined clamor drums in my ears,
shaking me from the pit of my
belly to my aching skull,
they struggle against each other
like squabbling Siamese twins -
beleaguered inmates they are, prisoners in my body's jail
they are rivals for my heart -
that never give up the fight.
24/7 they disrupt my life, rattling their sabers against my ribs...
nameless, faceless, nonetheless i know -
one of these souls is mine - i think - but the other...
the other soul is yours.
oh ho yes! i didn't escape you darling;
that day at the airport, when our romance crashed and burned,
when i turned on my heel and walked away (without a backward glance)
i may have left your body behind, your corroded spine
and weak-willed heart;
but your soul tagged along for the ride.
interloper...
you slipped in through my lips and lodged yourself
in that little space between my diaphragm and my heart.
now there you sit, hunched like a goblin,
with streaming black hair...
and out here in the waking world, i can feel your influence
overwhelming me...drowning my feeble reality.
my soul isn't strong enough to fight...
and now I'm turning into you.
your long unkempt hair is mine, snaking in blonde tendrils
down my ramrod spine...
your rock tees and tatts decorate my milky flesh,
your music pounds in my head, subverting the focus of my life
to the darker side, where the cookies are hash and the milk
is laced with Russia's finest...
worst of all, the image of you is no longer just a harsh memory,
but a painful presence permeating every fibre of
my aching heart.
i wish i could forget you, i wish i could be free...
but with this parasite soul of yours buried inside,
freedom is just a hopeless dream...
a flimsy fantasy...
“…know what son, this here trains 'bout to derail, I think I'll be gettin' off real soon. Ya feel this car rackin' from side to side? We're up on two wheels as this here box jumps from one rail to another! I'm tellin' ya, don go holdin' on ta anythin', I don know which way she's gonna go, so when I say jump, ya git yer behind o'er that door there like a hound 'bout ta sink his teeth in ya! Ya hear?!”
As the western bound tracks head into a sweeping arc the right embankment drops away several thousand feet to a verdant green valley below. The engine strains to hold the tracks, but the weight she's hauling is too much and she’s yanked abruptly backward. The sound of metal on metal screams down the mountainside as the first boxcar jumps the track pulling thirty-three others in straight succession into hapless flight, as one man jumps into oblivion.
The other, his mouth the shape of a huge “O” stands frozen at the gaping boxcar door, as he and the stream of loaded cars are suspended, weightless and silent for an eternal moment. In the next moment the cars continue on their downward trajectory and the first car explodes into the rocky earth, followed by five others that plunge and disappear into the first. The remaining line of cars is stacked up, end to end, as a child playing with building blocks that tries to build too tall. The snaking ribbon buckles and the last several cars whip forward, spitting their loads of timber, scrap steel and coal high into the air. The entire screeching stack is crushed together and moves as one in a slow arcing descent as if it were a felled giant ancient tree.
There’s a twelve foot wide, fifteen hundred foot long depression left in the valley floor that runs halfway up the mountainside where that train came to rest. Nothing ever grows in that scar. Only thing living from that wreck is the one telling the tale.
I ain't gonna brag, boast, blab...,
lest yours truly suffers demise from backstab,
resignedly taking wheel of our automobile
donning, (but NOT trumpeting)
role as taxi cab
shuttling the missus, (she effusively glad)
to medical appointment
me, the obliging husband
in order for this mister former cad,
debt, now an ordinary dude dad,
who upon snaking, crab
like sighing, shimmying, scooching...
thru bumper to (rubber
baby buggy) bumper drab
morning commute, which
snail's pace spurred shoutout, via ab
dom men null controlled app
designed by A. Habb,
which homonym identical
sound of descendent, sans faint jab,
asper fictitious Capt'n of Pequod
at sea vis a vis
if forced to snatch macadam landgrab
all the while aye spent gab
bing maintaining mindful outlook
for aggressive drivers,
whose cold icy stare
felt akin to painful jab
methought best not to "flip the bird"
subsequently get rushed
to emergency medical lab
avoided, cuz aye hapt tubby vigilant
for brazen drivers, plus additionally
keeping keen eye for police ready to nab
speed demons (mailer or female) even nawab
receiving citation for traffic infraction
and if repeat offender sent to rehab
with license revoked,
nonetheless a slight stab
of anxiety as appointment time elapsed
indicated by built in digital clock
no matter arriving after 7:45 am time
my de facto role as chauffeur,
the wife would disfrock,
but fortunately excuse, sans gridlock
did not necessitate need
us to return at later date, thus no knock
kin wind out figurative sails, hence
circumstance did not
find me laughingstock,
thus any consideration, asper myself
resorting to quaffing hemlock
unnecessary honorable sacrifice,
that versus engaging in lethal warlock
additionally compromising private uber
to give spouse coveted lyft.