Long Spitting image of Poems
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Pleased as punch this mother quite proud
Flips up her tail and neighing so loud
Her gait so lively, her head held high
A bright young mama, once a gleam in her eye
Unbridled spirit, feeling so grand
The spitting image of his dear old man
Romping through fields, free of reins
Thundering hoofs, flying mane
A frisky young colt like dad in his day
Who was quite a stud they were heard to say
Then back to the barn when day is done
This spirited young colt was born to run
Resting for a while batteries recharged
Chomping at the bit, a spirit so large
Such unbridled youth, exuberance defined
This pesky young colt, it's his time to shine
Aspiration
Antoine had crashed once again when tempting the desert
Freedom fighter laureate poet daredevil testing the call of
~ Poisonous Times ~
A mysterious man and rebellious philosopher with script on his
tongue ink on soft paper Rose in his heart and yearning for
~ Cleopatra’s Eyes ~
A snake of fertile creation and healing never far from his pen
Aesculapius in coil had mutated to SS wound around torches’
~ Venomous Bite ~
Aspides’s toxic fangs a spitting image of denial with thick scales
covering eyes of horned vipers hiding or shielding from attack
~ Dependent on Choice ~
The piloting scribe aspired towards kind compassionate words
As the elephant was swallowed by a boa constrictor clothed in a sad
~ Hatter’s Distortion ~
Antoine got killed on reconnaissance’s flight over France shot down or
by just letting go of throttle and misery but the Little Prince and his
~ Wisdom Remains ~
Avoiding slithering hisses in what remains of paradise an auspice
of sloughing what needs to be shed emerged from warrior’s asps in
~ Blossoming Hope ~
When threatened by serpent’s pitiless pits with no parachute attached
Peace can be found and acrimonious asperity relieved one small step in
~ Narration and Truth ~
29th April 2018
In the desert waste Chester Miller looked out,
saw the rest of the gang riding back slow,
fresh from the bank job in Copperstone Creek,
a place that Chester could dare not go.
He’d spent his teen years in that little ville,
caused much mischief of the criminal kind,
if he had rode in with the gang today
he would surely have been recognized.
So he’d drawn up a plan and then stepped back,
let the rest of the boys do the hard work,
given the sacks tied on to their saddles
they’d succeeded, and got away unhurt.
But on the horse of his right-hand man,
an old rebel who the boys called Bret,
rode a scared boy, his eyes wide with terror,
fighting not to sob with every breath.
He tossed the boy down in front of Chester,
who said,”Why did you bring a young kid here?”
Bret said,”Took a hostage, held back the marshall,
allowed us to escape with nothing to fear.”
Chester looked closely at the ten-year old,
seeing something familiar in his face.
“Besides,”said Bret,”now we’ll get a ransom,
his father looked the type who could pay!”
They bound the boy’s hand with a stretch of rope,
but made no other effort to restrain,
as they all drank, Chester watched the boy,
where had he seen him? He wracked his brain.
As night started to fall, the gang dropped off,
Chester suddenly saw truth before him:
the brow and the forehead, the sweep of the jaw,
a spitting image of his brother Tim!
Chester knelt down, look the kid in the eyes,
asked,”By what name are you usually called?”
The boy stammered,”R-R-Ronald Miller.”
Said Chester,”Named after your grandpa.”
He did not have to ask any further,
the boy was his nephew, without doubt,
and with not a moment’s hesitation
he pulled a long, dull Bowie knife out.
Ronald’s eyes bulged from his head in fear,
until Chester quickly slashed his bond,
took the confused boy, lead him by the hand,
said,”Now we have got to move quickly, come on.”
They picked their way over to his horse,
up on the saddle the small figure went.
Chester was about to clamber up to
when the night by a loud shout was rent.
Bret was awake, the others coming ’round,
they’d be drawing their irons before long,
said to the kid,”Tell Tim Chester helped you!”
Slapped the horses, and in a flash it was gone...
CONCLUDES IN PART II
She has jealous eyes that tend to look at each other,
She’s the spitting image of her dear old mother.
Her heals are all crusty and cracked,
And she has more hair covering her chest and her back.
With a body that looks like a half melted bar of lard,
Soft in some places, and others it’s hard.
She sat on mypoor dog Rover, and it took me two days to find,
He now walks around with an all seeing dog for the event made him blind.
She wears this hair piece a $1.50 e bay comb over,
That looks like the hair between her cheeks left by poor Rover.
There’s this fat she has that looks like semi digested jelly,
It takes ten minutes to stop wobbling, and that’s under her chin not her belly.
But this is the woman that I once carried,
Over the threshold when we were married.
A woman that can clear a five mile radius with a single fart,
The woman I refer to as my sweetheart.
A secondhand corner
Bookstore – I wonder what book will
Choose to make itself known to me today.
Dust or dialogue,
Extraction or echo,
Full-page or fiction? As I enter the
Gateway of the fixation of words – I wonder…
How many homes, people, miles you have been
Introduced to,
Jaunted, or come across? How your
Kindred-ness has inspired so many –
Living through pages, with your tree spirit still alive.
Mediator through human madness,
Navigation through understanding,
Openness through touch. With every
Page turned, how it nourishes a single soul –
Quantifying. Though each
Reader finds different meaning with a new word –
Side note. Though my trip
To the bookstore is coming an end – You are truly the spitting image of what
Universal unification exudes – of what humans allow, that is.
Verso, ending where another can begin again. To find new meaning
Worldwide to create their own place.
Xeric plant from the seed planted – Foundation. As I walk outside,
Yellow birds flying together, and how
Zen harmonizes the day.
She gazed at the looking glass, but the mirror refused to grant her a preview of what might happen, a clear picture of where she had been and if she existed at all, the spectre of the moment seemed to be disguised from inspection. Coming to terms with having absorbed and condensed too many of society’s norms and demands had seemingly been her duty and the prism of requests on her image of beauty had failed her inner Self. She drooled onto the spitting image of nothingness and the slobber ran down to the frame that upheld phlegm and contempt before it trickled down onto the baseless floor founded on hardcore delusion. Diet pills and dark shades had not relieved her from a succession of errors of reason and emotion and when she had blindfolded herself, the blinkers tore deep into her misrepresentation of surrender and cosmetic denial.
scanned in revulsion
vacant echoes burst the sight –
shards of glass splintered
So many fragments pierced into her eyes, that dry tears covered the pulverized viewing and heart-blood sprayed all over her soul. A point of no return, because if she failed to stem the flow and bandage the wounds, gangrene would set it soon and salving the lacerations would only speed up infection and purulent grime. The wall in front of her blurred out of proportion and there was nothing she could do about it other than retrieving bristles and paint from the storeroom and gloss over the shiny remnants of disrepair. And therefore, she entered into a journey of the unknown, drew rose petals and thorns onto broken canvas. Before she knew it, she decoupaged disintegration and fractures, glued a mosaic of imagination to mirror what should have been there in the first place. Sweat dripped from her forehead and smudged aquarelle shades which reassembled self-worth and confronted demons and abuse. An inner voice shouted, ‘all you need is a mantra to caption the artwork which you truly are.’ That is when she wrote her first poem and became free of doubts, oppression and cynical critique.
blame discredit reproach
failed to appease me in vain –
reflections can change
26th March 2021
Five Beginnings
“I don’t know what we’re supposed to do next.”
Loveless, we sat down together to our evening meal.
It wasn’t until I collect by bag at the airport that I realised I didn’t love him anymore.
The fridge started to gurgle.
He let me stroke his hair, unlike my daughter who enjoyed my attention and touch.
with one of these Five Middles
He knew it as well as I did that we hadn’t laughed in a long, long time.
I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I just can’t wake to another day of the mundane.
“You really are the spitting image of him” I said, whilst straightening his tie and top button.
Bang.
Five years ago, I never would have predicted that this would have been my life.
could lead up to which of these Fives Endings?
I mean, the obituary in the newspaper didn’t even get the date that she died correct.
All was well now.
In hindsight, I just should not have said that I would.
He faltered, like a new born calf taking its first slippy steps.
“This is what it’s all been leading up to.”
MIRRORING SELF IN THE GLORY OF GOD
In every mirror,
You should see
God’s beautiful creature
Looking back at you…
Look into a mirror, and doubt not yourself!
That mirror reflection cannot ever match,
The beauty and warmth from within you:-
For within you is the spitting image of God’s will,
Of the true beauty He created for you to be; thus,
Never ever doubt who and whose you are:-
Know that you are a child of God who can’t be doubted.
Though you may not yet have become the child of your will,
Remember, the time of all things to be is in the will of God:-
Know that in time immemorial, His will has always triumphed!
Thus, be not dismayed, disillusioned, or in disbelief of God and self:-
Refuel your spirit, and give God the glory, for your coming, divine destiny!
Help me break bread at this table
Songs of my captivity
And in those four lines you’re learning to set me free
Where did you put the rope and muzzle
Where is it now?
Should I count it all with you?
Should I give up the stamp I’ve left on your memory?
But you know me
And that’s the impact
A rare understanding
that I couldn’t find the words to give them
But you knew, my captor read me
And I find these things in old words
Written in digital poetry
The void is no longer a mystery
I’m missing the essence of you
The understanding of our knowing laughter
Our observations that gave us air
To puff up our own thrones
And I, the spitting image of my disappointment
am left here empty
Bewildered, because it’s been made so that I need you
How would I love after you?
It was with you that I felt the ricochets of my affection
The heaviness of wanted blessings on your behalf
And I saw your faith waiver
And now they see me crack
Because from where I’m running
is where I need to go back
Have I ever told you that …
“I don’t know what we’re supposed to do next.”
Loveless, we sat down together to our evening meal.
It wasn’t until I collected by bag at the airport that I realised I didn’t love him anymore.
The fridge started to gurgle.
He merely let me stroke his hair, unlike my daughter who enjoyed my attention and touch.
… conversations meld and mould and melt …
He knew it as well as I did that we hadn’t laughed in a long, long time.
I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I just can’t wake to another day of the mundane.
“You really are the spitting image of him” I said, whilst straightening his tie and top button.
Bang.
Five years ago, I never would have predicted that this would have been my life.
… and develop into what could be or should be or will be …
I mean, the obituary in the newspaper didn’t even get the date that she died correct.
All was well now.
In hindsight, I just should not have said that I would.
He faltered, like a new born calf taking its first slippery steps.
“This is what it’s all been leading up to.”