Long Sourly Poems
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Daddy told us not too,
while Mom sourly warned.
Though they scolded,
loud and clear,
we devilishly disobeyed.
Up on that roof top,
at least 30 feet from ground,
carelessly balancing on the shingles,
one step,
two
we were so young,
so adventurous,
the nights lasted decades,
while the stars evaporated fear,
they smiled at our virgin eyes,
and when a gust of wind would catch our balance,
we'd lay under the ratty quilt grandma made.
The night sky was so full of life,
a serenity in a chaos of lights,
forever rotating
yet a fulfilling stillness,
the kind that cannot be broken
Until the day we got caught.
Daddy yelled while we ran threw the window,
preparing for the worst,
hearing Mom's fear in curses,
we both sat quietly,
reminiscing on that freedom,
that longing for serenity.
After taking in the fear-
we went up to our rooms,
and after one tapping on the wall between us,
we both met at the window once more.
I woke to you exploring my coastline
finger tracing every hidden, jutted stone
weathered wood
and whipping titanium grass
Your muffled voice in the dark
filling up the creaking tide pools
in india ink
careless and velvet
I find I can only proceed
when it is accidentally breathed in
By muttering into your mouth
words that feel full like marbles, such as:
'I don’t want to say I love you any more'
And so, You flitted in the dark, like a feathery moth
For one singular moment
until I was fairly sure that you were dead
You once told me that you used to fear
I would explode like a firecracker in your hand
Leave you stranded
in gas station bathrooms with leaky mirrors.
Forget to pack your lunch before bed
Slip you words into your pocket
That linger sourly all the day
I'll even forget to write the Christmas cards on time
Faithfully, I remind you
of the fast filling swimming lessons in turquoise green
The abrasive pad of your finger sending me drifting-
though I am tethered hundreds of thousand years beneath
You wake me instead from starry night dreams
the sound of coffee pots brewing
pushing open the airways in my lungs, taking hold
to root themselves in clay instead of dream.
Oh, Autumn, our beauty, our bridge. Most times, you are very good; but sometimes, your season brings the BAD*. Only on rare occasions do things turn ugly. Usually, when I think of you, I am GLAD. But right now, my thoughts of you are SAD. I am sorry to be the one speaking so SOURLY, but their are thousands being forced to FLEE their homes in PAIN, leaving everything BEHIND with very little TIME to escape the FLAMES. This Fall, you are not your BEST in the WEST; smoking, burning fast and furious like acres of beasts out of control and gone wild. In the meanwhile, our windows are closed; no inside night breezes; the sun and the moon are red, smoke has invaded the SKY, and everything is very DRY. Our town is still better than most for which we are grateful. Let's pray for fire fighters and their families; for residents in the line of fire; for low temperatures and wind breaks. Oh, Autumn, we are praying for rain.
090920PSCtest, Autumn-Fall Rhyme Challenge, Tania Kitchin
*Rhyme words are in CAPS
how long and sourly sobs the lonely heart
depends on how grave the weight which grieves the tears
pouring from the despondent spirit’s pores.—
a witness, too, will know the surly sort
of rain that beats down harshly on the court
called Sorrow Drive.—sure seems like nothing cheers
up the—nor nothing soothes the—nasty fears
nesting in somber nooks.—no, only art
comes close to curing spiritual sores.—
but even it leaves quite untouched the cause.—
able only to act as numbing gauze,
art is the first of many guarded doors,—
engraved on its threshold,—and colorfast—:
“seek you now to enter your wounded past?”
The Chef
As the Bourdain said a cook is nobody
he has no power no one cares what he has to say
some of them are gifted with a natural talent for food and its ingredient
and flashes of inspiration can fire the spark that is godlike.
I knew of a restaurant which was always full at lunch and dinner,
Where the chef? I asked a waiter. Oh, he is somewhere in the back.
Back of the food place an open door, the chef stood to smoke
a cigarette. I looked at me sourly, but when I expressed
interest and when an order came in of a bacon omelette
he made it with the flourish of a craftsman.
The manager of the establishment said the chef had worked here for
Six years but he- the chef- was impossible to work with.
The chef suddenly quit and drove a taxi. Less stress that way.
The restaurant faltered until the penny dropped, a chef is a star
In the firmament of catering without a flawed genius in the kitchen, it is better
to run a pizza parlour
JUXTAPOSED AWARENESS
On and within the fullness
of this beautiful sunshine day,
I peacefully sit here pondering
the present chaos of the world.
How awe confusing…it all is–
outside, flowers are blooming,
birds and butterflies are soaring,
and the quiet wind peacefully blows.
.
But within the physical and spiritual me,
there seems to be a battle for power control
over which system is the most in control when
it comes to sustaining me physically and spiritually.
Indeed–within–the heart seems to challenge
the brain, while expansion and restraint tease
the soul and spirit with respect to focus and divine
wisdom and guidance in oneness of mission purpose.
Here at home and around the rest of the world, atrocities
continue within its circumference: supporting inequality,
denying climatic change, ignoring human disasters,
and pimping war; all deemed…apt power aides.
Indeed, as I sit here looking out into the Godly beauty
of nature’s canvassing in the springtime, all is painfully
sighted and sourly tasted by the awareness of the chilling
wind of change murderous war is bleeding onto peaceful life.
Once more and again–we hued–wherever we may be
in our sojourn, are caused to detour round-about-focus of
empathy to drop off aspiration, inspirations, hope, faith, and
collective actions, to physically and spiritually aid victims of war-
mongering power-viral infected oppressors we all battle in common.
As I sit here gazing out/into this beautiful canvassing of nature,
hell flaming fires are wreaking devilish havoc not too far away and
at the same time, bombs shred life and spread their collateral pains;
all leaving peace to be realized in the spirituality of the actions of love.
As the “round-about of nature leads us back to the sojourn pathway
our ancestors left and foot-printed for us, let’s move on past syndrome
roadblocks and continue to cover miles of awareness–honking honks–echoing
to all the world that “...our equanimity too, is essential to world harmony.”
the cultivators
taught how to walk and talk
they approached as a group
each with a bowl of bread
given unto them by a lord
trying to speak and be strong
i said, "time moves along,
it, can't stand here all day
in contest.....i say...you say"
then they all talked at once
in different directions
throwing corrections
at everything i'd pronounce
my resources mustered
as their actions grew flustered
as my patience waned
at their reactions
their creations grew louder,
i said, "just cut the chowder,
leave now please, and don't come back"
the storm eased and mine was the final thunder clap
long since when
i've not seen them again
i can tell you they are much less
than sourly missed
in fact they've dropped off
their radar somewhere else,
excepting, of course
for their last recourse
(every once in a while)
a pamphlet at the door
Death – Remember me Tomorrow
Votre amour est tout ce que j'implore
Angels took us from France's shores
To the promised land of lady liberty
Hollywood glitter enticing us lovers with mystery
Living the past in a cinematic telling
Ironic that love was sourly spurned
By Bogart’s charming quilted misgivings
Madeline, later would sadly sing
La Marseillaise, while lovers embrace
Paris after dark, they disappear with no trace
Trains to death and boats to freedom
As Casablanca tells of romantic tales
Je suis vieux, est je suis seul
The beautiful one misses the past and you
All the ships have sailed and gone
It’s the cemetery now where I rest under lawn
The way to a girls heart
seems to be sour candy?
She loves the way it puckers her lips.
She get's talkative, "as if", a Sleeping Beauty.
Awakened by gumdrop of her seize kiss.
She is a slave to the sassy
kicked up notch of flavor rainbow hyper-twitch.
You are a slave to having treats on hand
and obey her every bossy command.
Her eyes light up, ignited in an electric glee,
Unleashing her inner child with a key.
With every tangy explosion,
comes a remembered idea or notion.
It's as if the world around her fades,
and all that's left is the zesty escapade.
The way to her heart may be simple and sweet,
though the power to move her
cannot be beat.
For true happiness lies in the simplest of things,
Like rewards and laughter and all the joy
that they bring.
So don't underestimate the power of a treat,
it can awaken a heart and make it seat next to you,
in solidarity.
Although, when she crashes, she may get grumpy, then go to sleep.
But just look at that lil candy dream !
For in her mind, she'll roam free,
a girl again in a world of candy and sugary glee, safety and family things of memory.
In that moment, you'll see her soul,
Unencumbered by worry,
a rare sight to behold, let alone coury.
So when you give her a piece of candy,
you're not just giving her something bland, savvy?
You're giving her a moment to escape,
and yourself too,
vicariously.
To find joy and happiness,
and reshape that spirit,
as she salivates upon it,
intraveneously?
Like a Viking Maiden, or Dragon
protecting a treasure in a cave.
A cat guarding it's dish with claws entrenched,
growling, stay away.
"You shall not pass" and "Eye Of Sauron" mixed in a frightening way.
"Taste the rainbow of my fruity fu****wrath",
she might say.
Though skittles may be small and sourly-sweet,
an insignificality.
A token holds the power to make a heart
skip a portaled beat.
For in that moment, she feels alive and free,
all thanks to that simple little treat,
given lovingly, in a cheer to her memories.
Reminders, hopeful omens
and thoughtfulness's zing.
Doorways to the finer things.
One minute you say you love me..
The next minute your griping and yelling.
Within an hour we start talking and stop bickering.
Then at the end of the day you come home and start your clamoring.
A week goes on and we don't speak.
I ponder to myself quietly that this marriage is looking very bleak.
The weekend is here and you seem placid.
I start the conversation and we begin chatting.
The weekend went wonderfully as we stepped out for the night.
Then the date ended sourly, I got lost and that starts a fight.
Several weeks go by and I barely see or spend time with you.
When you do come home from work, why do we always argue?
Our anniversary comes and, we celebrate sixteen up and down years.
Though through it all, our love will endeavor even through the tears.
Marriage is an everyday work in progress..
But, if we work together we will get through the rest.