Long Stench Poems
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A ty Place
I remember a novel by Graham Greene, “The Consul,” I think.
It was a hard time for the little man under the regime of Doc Duvalier
I was in Port-au-Prince, its capital, and it was a ty place, helped by the USA.
I was a chief steward on a liner, but was too scared by the routine brutality
that hung over the city like a cloud of a toilet not flushed. It was totally corrupt,
agents, guards, and the dreaded Tonton Macute demanding
whisky and cigarettes. I had an intense dislike of the people in power.
It was a hole then, kept like that by the USA, who feared that a socialist
party could take power, bring peace and equality; well, Duvalier
has gone, but the stench from that time still hangs over the country
and will continue to do so as long as it suits the USA.
Sergeant!
SIR.
As you were.
We must take hill 43.
Air strike,
First.
Then the worst.
You'll lose half your company.
Cooper, Johnson,
O'Riely, Smith.
Another Mission;
This is OUR fifth.
Charge! said Sarge.
And charge We did.
Into a living HELL.
Death the only smell.
Should Company B forget this place.
There lies O'Riely, without a face.
Coopers' leg still on the hill.
He feels the pain in that leg; still.
The Bravest one of all.
Sergeant Farhnom, Five foot tall.
Carrying wounded to a safety trench.
Back and forth, through a deadly stench.
Dedicated to Sergeant Stephen Farhnom and Viet Nam Vets.
Inspired by Amy Green's Contest " Choose One, Have Fun " Subject " The Vietnam War "
Circling above on a sun shiny day
The raven twirls within his dreams
Of horrors soon to be inflicted
Soaring in the skies
The Preacher reads from the holy book
Collections duly collected on chanted psalms
The raven above with a sinister smile
He knew god’s plate was not full enough
Dark clouds from the east flew with the wind
Under the ravens command
As lightening struck the village steeple
Fire and brimstone, hell on earth
Humans who once lived by their daily bread
Became the bread of crows
Telegraph poles free to weep the news
As the crows feasted on the burnt flesh of our sins
The ravens’ heart pleased to share his torment
Amongst the brethren of feathered dark angels
The greed of humans shall be ridden of this earth
Crooned the raven under the spotlight of the devils moon
All were dead, the children too
All but one lone poet, so it seemed
Arms outstretched, clasping at pen and ink
Dying, dying to tell this black tale
Now, in tranquility, lies the village graveyard
Somber, quiet, flowers cover the horrors
Of that unholy day, of the ravens sins
His laughter echoes, echoes the pain
It is said, in the heat of summer nights
Crows sing and dance
As they feast on the remains
Of us, all of us, poets and all
Beside the village in the swamp
On that a very somber twisted day
An alligator lazed upon the shores
She, the only witness, to this feathered fiendish crime
In stealth she watched, scales of justice
A billion years of Gods creation
She slithered towards the stench of death
Teeth primed for an easy meal
A baby, oh so small, shivering in a fog of illusions
Looked into the eyes of the raven above
She saw that hell may very well come from above, not below
She resigned her baby cries to eternity, momma dead and gone
The alligator, teeth sharpened by natures instinct
Darted forth, and jaws stretched, swallows the baby whole
Slithering back towards the swamps shadows
The raven provided this nights’ meals gratuit
She spit out the baby, and licked her cheeks
Providing both substance and loving warmth
Hell may live above
Mercy and compassion may come from the swamp
High in the sky
The Raven
Lost this little one
The Butterfly smiled
A new day, a new world, a new tomorrow
Shades of painted corners
face these inward fears
Now drenched in today’s worries,
as flat as the cornerstone of suffering
caught within boundaries along wasting moments,
crying blanket feelings,
pounding on the walls of despair
“leaving fist prints like so many discarded roses”
Calling out to the endless deafness
“Time it does not heal,
scars merely cut deeper”,
in echoes among the tapered distance
Fog engulfs the melody, slowly chasing
after poetic symphonies
playing from a southern direction
“vertical compass points from there to here”
Your weary hand trembles
violently as it reaches, pleads
where a monochrome sun sets,
beyond the chosen horizon
in heart shaped vistas and sweet tea landscapes
Trust grows in amber glowing beacons
waving banners of solitude
“free flowing fabric beckoning in longed for motions”
You force the stoic front door open,
creaking hinges scream, fears cup beneath your chest
Breathing in the stench of the past
but lured by the fragrance of the future
Where sorrow drowns in cascade pools,
pain hides where it can not be found
and he waits to lift you beyond the darkness
“and you find you have wings, safely within his opened arms”
Now floating towards a white picket gate,
swinging freely beneath the arbor,
once a collection of lattice work shadows, dark lines
on a desolate earth, now a tapestry
of blooms, woven among long dreamt dreams and
clover leaf wishes revealing a pathway
to the beginning of
“a new day, a new world, a new tomorrow”
3/22/17
Written for the New Day poetry contest
Sponsored by Nayda Ivette Negron
Its thirty mp's and rising justin.' Theres foam uoon them
Waves.' Theres cracks deep in the planking justin I guess its
Time to pray.? But you arn't one for prayer; i reckon.?
Just what iv'e heard say.' I also hear of waverers justin?
Another twenty seats." A backlash now of fifty justin; whoh! It
Would knock you off your feet.' It could loosen up your
Bowels now justin..And that would really stink.' Although
Theres such stench, in the big house justin
Maybe they just won't blink? There are human sharks right
Left and centre..Their lifstyles under threat, they have also
Become hated justin.' True Canadians don't forget.' Also
They're true law see' justin..All rests in the ridings. All power
And strength.'reside.! Yet you waved it all good-bye
From davos justin..When you had clausie on your side.!
Goodbye my loves
as my senses dim
I’ve had good innings
so don’t be grim
Like a frozen frame
your shadows hold still
You reassured
as my body did chill
As darkness falls
here enters the night
distant I see
a much welcomed light
I am still right here
you’ll feel me around
So look for my signs
listen for my sounds
The stench
of life's odour passes by
I see your tears
and I hear you cry
For I’ll see over you
as life goes on
Remember the good things
that we have done
Upon me falls
the sweetest perfume
It’s not so bad
as deaths toll consumes
For I’ll welcome new life
as I’m revived
and I’ll wait for you
as my spirit strives
All of life's goodness
comes back to me
As transported
to eternity
Hold on to the happiness
through the years
We’ll meet again someday
so smile my dears
I sat in the high chair with my legs crossed grasping for fresh air, perspiration is running down my dry face and my back is soaked with grace. The musky smell of the closet room backed me up into a corner and choking the dignity out of me. I look upon the roof to seek solace for my soul but the one hundred degree heat around me is scorching the hell out of me. It sends smoke up to the roof and engulfs the entire village smoke billows near and far chopping down every tree in its path and in second the ashes moves swiftly with the wind.
It’s my fire and it’s running hot, it’s my fire and I will give you all that I’ve got. When I see your face my heart is set ablaze, when I see your face, I am compelled to run the race. From I set eyes on you, it’s like a dream is about to come through, a dream that has long been forgotten and seem impossible to materialize but when I see your face I know you will come knocking at my gate.
I know nothing much about you but my heart is aching for you, how and when will the chapter ends, destiny is waiting for us around the bend. We have so much in common and I can feel you from a distance, the fire and the rain make no bones I will be there, but you must find me if you care.
I have been sitting in this place for so long composing different types of song, songs that will never be heard; songs whose rhythm can only be heard from the instrument of my heart beat.
It is the natural beauty that accentuate the elegance in you and the childlike spirit that’s surrounds you, and the feverish smile upon your lips looking at me from a distance and making your final wish. Oh if I could only touch the innocence in you.
I have been sitting in this space for more than three years with finger moving up and down the key board and a cantankerous old woman screaming at my door. The stench from the sewage perfumes the air saturating the sound of laughter far and near. The drilling sound of the machine penetrate the woodwork shop and land gracefully on the roof top .I sits quietly on the roof top giving you all that I have got.
The temperature is winding down and we will walk hand in hand wearing that golden crown. We will open all the doors of the prison cell and fly to Las Vagas and there we will wed. The fire is blazing and my heart is racing and my spirit is content.
Wales 980 BC, Sierra Leone, Congo,Niger, Peru, India, Pakistan, Russia, China & Philippines
Chapped scabbed skin, dirt encrusted, blue-pallid in the moonlight;
stars glow radiant light, wolf howl midnight.
Insects stir, skin scratch, tangled hair amass
naked ,as born, rise; the bore hole calls, days task.
Cracked like a seagulls eggs, the cave’s opening calls.
The gold-red-green copper metal's worth all,
child moles, mother moles, dwarfs small, crawl;
between the crevasse in the knocker's wall.
Three hand spans wide, a mere two foot tall;
oil burns in claywells, soot coats on dirty faces,
through rankness they squirm, hands on bone awls;
naked children, and women mine in these places
for raw metal to make the weapons of man.
In before dawn, baskets full, haul, out at dusk, no sun at all....
melt the metal, make, maul,
for the warriors, our defense, hunger gnaws, this makes no sense….
Grease fills the air beyond despair, stench fills each venous vein;
contorted forms, of those small, helpless, born, fills the shunt with continual pain.
From the dawn of time, this drama's had play,
one hundred and fifty eight million children; slaves today.
Women and children sacrificed so men can get paid.
*sorry topic deserves more than 16 lines
KEEP CALM AND CARRY THE CORPSE
Britain bleeds through cracked red bricks,
Rain on windows, cold that sticks.
Bills climb high, wages crawl,
We’re taxed to the teeth — can’t breathe at all.
“Keep calm and carry the corpse,” they say.
Drag it through life, day after day.
Smile for the cameras, wave the flag,
Ignore the stench in the body bag.
Politicians promise — lies on repeat,
Champagne toasts while we scrape for heat.
Immigration headlines scream in red,
But the landlords win and the rich get fed.
“Keep calm and carry the corpse,” on the news.
Britain’s being sold in tailor-made shoes.
Blame the stranger, hide the theft,
Pick the bones of what’s still left.
Borders closed, then borders wide,
Policies flip like a turning tide.
We point at strangers, curse the crowd,
While thieves in suits just laugh out loud.
Hospitals full, trains don’t run,
Knife-edge living — no place to run.
Kids go hungry, rents insane,
Everyone’s tired, numb with pain.
Britain’s “Great”? Just ask the street,
Where dreams and diesel always meet.
We’ve got flags on coffins, flags on cans,
But no plan left for working hands.
“Keep calm and carry the corpse,” they chant.
Pray for hope we’ll never grant.
But no calm, no crown, no quiet prayer —
Just tired voices shouting: We were there.
We won’t keep calm, we won’t comply,
We’ve buried too much, we’ve watched too many die.
No silence now, no bow to kings —
This is the roar that history brings.
The corpse is heavy, the stench is deep —
But we’ve woken up from Britain’s sleep.
No calm. No corpse. No chains. No fear.
We rise. We shout. We’re still here.
Someone smells like smoke. I can barely stand to sit here.
Clenching my teeth, I have a headache, everywhere near.
A friendly smoker has sat next to me, oh, dear.
I jump up, because her smell is killing me, so clear.
I am an asthmatic, and I cannot breathe next to a smoker, I think.
In the nicest way I have to say, politely, if you smoke, you stink.
Your breath stinks, and stench comes out of your pores that are no longer pink.
If you do not agree, you are a smoker, and no offense, but you stink.
The only thing more smelly and more dangerous to me is Patty Perfume.
Patty wears so much perfume that an asthmatic like me has to leave the room.
I jump up and move an aisle or two over so my breathing can resume,
But Patty Perfume follows me, triggering a cough that blows me to the moon.
If I am lucky, I will merely throw up, after my cough will not quit.
There is often a cup that I can use to do a small dainty spit.
But when Smoker Sherry and Perfumed Patty both come sit next to me,
I cannot breathe, and I choke, my eyes water, I fall down on my knees.
They are both my worst nightmare, individually, and together.
I cannot attend church now, I pretend I am under the weather.
Should I put my life in danger, go to church, and pretend all is okay?
And hope Smoker Sherry and Perfumed Patty do not attend that day?
I might sound picky, set in my ways, and such, but need I remind you?
When you make your choices, you could be sealing other people’s fates too.