Long Snaky Poems
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Letters congeal, to words.
Words anneal to sentences,
which tell a story,
painted as images,
imagined in the mind's eye,
trying to emulate what
the eye sees briefly,
on the see-saw.
A glint of sunlight,
caught slanted and sharp
on windowpane reflected,
stabbed in pain
with shad of glass.
The edges of a leaf
curl up, roll inward.
Rust-red throws of dying,
shriveling in sun, drying.
A flash of white
a bird's wing,
cutting the sky blue,
with knife
slash streak.
A thin line of snaky smoke
curls up from the lakeside,
as syrupy ripples
caress the still water,
the breeze dozes momentarily,
distracted, quelled asleep
by calmness and quietude.
Leaves shiver,
as dawn wind awakens
with a yawn, cough and sigh.
The leaf's veins and blade
tremble, dew silvered
readying for the vane fight ahead.
A cat, frozen mid-step,
paws paused, on hold,
its yellow eyes
locked frozen with yours,
neither dares to move.
Raindrops one and all,
fall, spit, splat on windowpane
painting tiny sparkling reflections,
before the scene is overdubbed
with rivulets descending
gathering drops in flows
of colorless lymph leaching.
The eyes and mind catch it all:
snap-shot fragments,
images and thoughts,
scenery and words,
held for a moment,
in a blink or two
in the mind's eye,
for perception,
contemplation,
then gone.
Tongues of solar flare writhe in combat kiss
—flame-throwers unleashed
iron words h a m m e r e d in fire
ferrous words melt-morph into heart-welts
once under skin
hear the fevered air burn with cheers;
c a c k l e s of c r a c k l e s and h -i -s -s -s
bellies of tears full of fire; fire feeds on gasoline tears
fire-eaters’ —bellies full of flames
turn inside-out; fire-breathers shape-shift
from love doves to squawk hawks
bonfire of marital bliss consumed by wildfire
desolation burns holes in lacy i n* t i* m a* c y
ashes
fall
from
s o l o
cigarettes
. . . nuclear winter in summer
t h r o a t s of songbirds c h a r r e d
. . . silence
follows blaring —w h o o s h— of serpent fire
purification in cremation of all OratiOn sound
liability and liberation
animate to dissipate in snaky smoke of HeLL-wraiths
apathy clouds form they rain on red heat
smother a smolder mother a cease fire
ember-ice; scalds freezes t–h–a–w–s
whets flesh — and wets fire extinguished flower bed
ashes laid down
—passion’s quiet confetti paves a path—
w. a. i. t. s
— s l e e p w a l k s
… d r e a m s
I walked down the alleyways of London
Early one edgy Friday evening.
I am a touring, curious resident, mind you.
The sun was shy and was sinking breathlessly and
With the hushed melody of frazzled fog.
I headed towards a snaky road, cobbled to fractured
Heels and hills, and stumbled upon
Oxford Street, famous for all manner of glitz
And devoted heartbreaks.
It was nearing winter, but not yet wintertime.
Autumn, hoar with age, and damp,
Was about to swallow her pride and go away —
And go the way of all flesh—
Leaving nothing behind but her gathered and swept-up
Wreaths of browned, aged, haggard leaves.
Oxford Street, the world's loudest bazaar,
A fattening roofless museum of couture
That runs on a long, broad and sinfully perfumed hall,
Peopled by men and women, ancient and modern,
Fogeys and hipsters,
Held fast to its deafening sound and picture of glossy, sexy lipsticks,
Redder than deer blood,
And assembled pieces of mascara,
So charming, so flimsy, on glass trays and wooden hooks,
Each selling much more than a fragile penny.
I inhaled and exhaled, culture dragging my feet, cloyed by
Sensations strongly adhered to by hissing smells of now and then.
I was shocked by the magic of flitting lights and fleeting senses.
Shoulders rubbed each other with shuffling, dragging gaits,
The rush needless and lacking in manners.
Should there be a fall from the height of Stevie Nicks' platform
Shoes, the grounds would rumble, ankles would dislocate, ‘HELP! '
Would be screamed beyond Beatles' decibels.
On Oxford Street, it's go your own way—beyond Fleetwood Mac.
I followed in the footsteps of only those who walked with caution.
Litters of shredded London Evening Standard smelled differently, rolled and
Spread out, reminding everyone, resident and tourist, of the
Elegance of the English alphabet, the fine fonts of printed almanacs.
The next man I stumbled upon his shoulder, a reserved newspaper
Vendor, the age of an embryo, yelled, Blimey!
Hosting my bent thorax upon his bale of hanging papers,
He asked, pulling me up with his one unfettered hand,
His breath on torture,
‘First time on Oxford Street, mate? '
‘Last, ' I mumbled.
Night's silent shadows softly fall
from moonlight's muted, mellow glow,
that shroud the land with sunless shawls
on cold ground glazed with glinting snow.
Tree branches, seen with broader breadths
by shadows that bestow their form,
splayed stark atop the snowy depths;
by wind, they swirl like snaky swarms.
Small bushes sway between the trees
to shadow snow like ghastly ghosts
that dance deceptively to tease
and harrow wary human hosts.
Pure, peaceful pageantry at night;
such lovely landscapes, to be viewed.
But, sometimes shadows strain our sight-
with varied visions misconstrued.
March 27, 2018
Premiere Contest: 2022 Poetry Marathon
Mile 6 Poetry Contest
I don't ask anyone for much
no more than I'm willing to give myself
I learned to temper my expectations a long time ago
the consequence of constant disappointment
disillusioned down to the deepest depths of my soul
after all I’ve been told that has proven untrue
people pretending to think and feel differently than they do
their mask melting away to reveal their real visage
brandishing blades they thrust into my back
gutted as by a Samurai committing Seppuku
run through by swords of insincerity
my screams rendered silent
I bear the blame and shame they refuse to claim
upon my own broad shoulders
my snaky spine bowing under the weight like Quasimodo
A simple salutation would be a start to heal my harrowed heart
some sort of abstract acknowledgement
assurance that I’m more than a collection of cells
consuming resources with no productive purpose
that my words aren’t wasted on this apathetic world
where it seems everyone strives only to feed their own ego
How can one catch another’s attention
without coming across as crazy?
I’ve never seen the inside of a prison or a psychiatric facility
aside from a couple that had been converted into museums
A weary woman embarking on an expedition
searching for any shred of evidence of the elusive "nice guy'
unpretentious people who aren’t afraid to prove they care
others attest are out there, not merely mythical creatures
but then some say the same about Bigfoot
Maybe the existence of an eight foot ape is more believable
I meandered up the snaky path
winding sinuous to summit.
Climbing was an easy course
when the grade ascended
in baby-steps, on and on, gradual.
Once I started to climb,
the summit was never in view.
Ahead, only the next bend.
A script of twists and turns
around the slope of scenes
on way to culmination.
Having made it to the lookout
the valley lay spread out before me.
There I saw the river snaking
across its flood plain,
meandering.
No slope to climb.
No need to wind.
Yet the mighty river chose
the gradual snaky path,
meandering
to realization,
of destination
out of view.
After three decades and a kicking more,
I deem it glaring waste and blatant loss
To play sad part of second servile fiddle
In elite cadres agleam with ersatz gloss.
Whatever charged scrolls attuned to pelt
With loaded deterrents deft souls that try,
I now must with age's ever-tightening belt
Stand to trite spites and their swipes defy.
Despite your puffed plots sick to the brim,
Those smiling streaks quite honed to trim
Purest dreams spruced by endless hopes;
I must pull down your fog’s fettering ropes.
Your lusts-spitting spikes I'll at last shame,
And sink them beneath your gloomy mast;
None of your snaky snares again shall trap,
Nor any of your foiling fangs soil this name.
All your trussing tentacles I must bid adieu,
Now that I am at last wholly done with you!
The foggy snow hats the mount peaks,
The chilly wind frosts all snaky creeks.
The shelter covered by creamy layer;
Face of a pane of the wistful thinker.
The clear icicles cling from the gutter,
Like the tearing of a sadden perceiver;
The thousand drops flood within:
Reviving my mother's teaching.
Once a spoiled teen in mother's arms;
Had poetical talent with full charms.
Then flew to adore distant flowers,
Received pitiful consequences later.
The obstacles shadowed the daily life,
Just a few of them have been rectified.
The foggy days repeat over and over?
Only self-confident man can endeavor.
Even powerful mind soaked in tears,
Let the body move on without fear,
Hopefully the snow fog will cease;
The strong heart could stay at peace!
Tomorrow the weather could be fine,
Keep moving on the tough, nasty line,
Even the fuzzy way lessens the vision,
Try hard to find the right destination.
Go on to reach out the ideal flowers
That bloom in the beautiful weather;
Leave the foggy days, obstacles of life,
To pass over the foggy day and smile!
I linger, to pause for a while,
between the ladder rungs of what's been done below,
and what is yet to become above.
Below me stretches a dizzying array of tiers.
Each step is a relic of a decision,
I've made to take the next rung up or down—
Some firm, some sure, some splintered, and weathered.
Each step was risky, presuming the footing was safe
and there were no snakes.
How readily and willingly I gave my trust
to old wooden rungs—
eroded, grooved, and split by time.
How quickly I mistook,
their quiver and shake when stepped upon,
for the uncertain pulse of my own anticipation,
believing it was a promise of firmness yet to come.
Above, clouds veil the climb,
with no shape to follow, no handholds there are certain.
They're shrouded in the thick blur of not knowing.
The next rung may be the last,
and beyond it — where does the path lead?
Behind me, the descent rungs,
are slippery with snaky mist,
hard to make out, when suspended like this.
Still, my hand thrusts upwards through the mist,
fingers closing on whatever hides there—
a beam, a rope, a door, a ledge, a serpent,
or only empty air.
Will it bear me? How can I say?
I push up quivering on the rung beneath,
letting the weight of what has been,
thrust me up to what can become.
Ladders are great for self-reflection.
Awakened, I returned. A stream in Spring
to flow and grow on nature’s snow-melt milk.
I came to be of earth and sky; a fling.
My sire, a winter storm. Like liquid silk
emerging, I was born; a water child.
Between two banks I nestled with my dreams
and bloomed a gangly creek ‘til solstice. Wild
I played, not meek but sleek. I crested seams,
a juvenile with snaky curves and speed.
Mid June rebellion, ripples bared, I’d run
as sweet as rum and swelled with rain, (a)greed;
the gasoline with which my wish was spun.
By August dusk, a river woman reigned!
Oh, stars—those studs—did rise, as if ordained.