Long Stock still Poems
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Laying in my cozy bed
And drifting off to dreams,
A sudden panic fills my head:
What if this isn't as it seems?
What if while I'm tucked in,
Slipping into sleep,
Giant monsters and their kin
Through the darkness creep?
I draw my hand back to me,
deep into my sheet,
Scared that if I leave it free
Something monstrous it'll meet!
It's not like this is new to me
When I'm alone in my abode.
Frightsome beasts I fear I'll see-
Is there one in the commode?
Sure, to you it's just a toilet
Standing stock-still in the loo.
But of my mind, when I fear and fret,
You haven't got a clue.
Yes, I know it's just machinery,
But maybe when I flush
Horrors will purvey the scenery,
Responding in a rush.
Eek! Stop talking! Wait, wait, wait!
What's that above our heads?
A rusty, musty AC grate,
Is that what you just said?
I know it's dust, I know it's shadow
Behind the grate's steel bars,
But looking up from down below
I see a face pockmarked with scars.
As I brush my pearly whites at night
I risk a glance up high,
And then I nearly die of fright
And soon begin to cry.
I see the face, still staring down,
Watching me brush my teeth.
Daddy runs in and looks around,
So I heave a sigh of relief.
He gets his tools, tells me to look,
And gently unscrews the grate.
I watch, see neither beast, nor crook,
Nor any evil trait.
After all this time, I've come to see
That I don't need to fear.
Creatures lurk not in shadows near me,
Nor every creak I hear.
I've come a long way, and I'll never go back
To how I was before,
When from every crevice, every crack
I feared beasties would pour.
What's that? It's time to go to bed?
Ok, I guess you're right.
But, um, well, before you go...
Would you please leave on the light?
A heart of dark sentiments!
What did my dark periscope see?
A misogynistic judge presiding over a case;
An interesting case of
A woman who reneged midway on a pact.
I was but a witness lest you be curious
Why I stood so still.
Prior, I saw her mixing the colours of abuse;
A sweetheart's leprous weapon of bitterness
Enshrined in a soul bequeathed to grave.
The jury conspired to lay waste of an innocent woman
On account of murder.
The evidence they held was red paint spilled on her white shirt.
She looked down to find a word,
Even one to utter in her defence.
I stood stock-still to witness and testify against
The life of a girl child on a crime I never saw.
It was just as poets wrote and painters drew,
A life of unsolicited hardships.
No-one shared her plight.
It was as though an artist who knew not what to write or paint
Made an image and brought it to life,
But cared neither to pray nor dared to fight
Until it became a historian's lost note,
The authenticity of which no-one dared to confirm.
Her only crime was being born a woman.
She could choose otherwise had she but a choice.
The 'guilty' verdict came crushing on the women's doormat.
They came with chains of oppression;
To oppress and control!
I shed my last tears for the ruined life.
She sighed and made her voice ready to wail.
She held her pride unshaken and uttered the very words:
Because I am a woman,
I plead guilty as charged.
I hate not sleeping
I sit here, horizontal.
And I just keep thinking,
My mind drowns in constant unheard prayers.
As I think, and think, and think.
And my thoughts are awful
Wordless memory,
The drawn blood from my wrists,
The way I pour that blood into my works,
The way I feel when even one person is happy to see me write.
Euphoria,
In darker places.
My mind wanders between optimism and pessimism
I keep seeing the light at the end of the tunnel,
And then I see the headlights,
Stock still I stand
Waiting to be hit.
To be isekai’ed into a better world.
For the train to crush my brittle weak bones.
Pendulum minded,
Back and forth
Left with the memory of bloody loss,
The noose squeezing my neck,
As I look to the future.
Euphoria.
In the worst places.
(cuz ma life iz such a drag...
this toke kin “FAKE” hemp
pyre aye roll out to you dear reader).
As a double jointed mathematical abbot
and amateur chemist
specializing in cannabinoids
my favorite delta-9-tetra
hydrocannabinol (THC),
isolated and synthesized in 1964
weeding thru bathroom rag
while athwart the potty
i.e. measuring adequate perforated
square roto root er, sans
regular toilet tissue paper
prior to completing important
private business matter
on the sacred porcelain chamber pot
Mary Jane made a token appearance,
and boy she looked smoke kin hot
asking if I wanna marry (Jane) her attired
in drag at a joint where Billy Bong
banged on by the hands of
a phenomenal drummer
taut as a hemp knot
with music in his blood
while blowing fractal rings – holy Scott
the immediate utterance,
and rather creative bon mot
found me stock still like stone wall Jackson,
who unfortunately got deprived a hit,
nonetheless got shot
unwittingly by his own (confederate troops),
whose demise an awful blot
per southern cause during
the Civil War and if anachronism
to receive medicinal aide available
instead of primitive treatment he got
(as well other wounded soldiers
of misfortune on the battlefield),
whose faith the any almighty power
could do little to save their roach invested lot
yet availing my imagination
to twist time like that Mobius strip
mortally wounded rebels and Yankees
free from facing death on a cot
might be successful hemp
entrepreneurs cultivating a little spot
of land hemp would outstrip cotton
as king as export to trot
orange you glad I avoided
the analogy with a kumquat?
I hate it when it’s cold outside
I hate it when its chilly
In wintertime it’s hard to find
My precious little Willy
He slinks away to somewhere warm
And finds some place to hide
So long as it is cosy
He will snuggle up inside
Most mornings when we have a walk
He’ll shudder and he’ll shake
But should he spot a puddle
Then his little legs will quake
He stands stock still and will not move
The silly little pup
He will not budge a single inch
I have to pick him up
I love my little Willy and
It’s nice when he’s around
But, whenever it is cold out
He is nowhere to be found
Sometimes I think of getting
A dog that’s big and hairy
Until I do it’s sad but true
I’m lumbered with this fairy
A splatter of random color,
literally thrown on the canvas,
sold for two million dollars,
has it really come to this?
Somebody would shell out cash
for what is really a paint spill?
Perhaps they really ‘get it,’
I’m thankful that I don’t.
A naked man with a bear
painted upon his chest,
stands stock-still as he
blends in with all the rest.
They say that it’s ‘conceptual,’
the only concept I see
is that there’s always a fool
who’ll do anything for money.
A literal pile of human dung
decorated with three tooth-picks,
people stand and admire…
who can admire the smell of it?
They say that it’s a ‘vision,’
a ‘take that’ to the middle class.
If that's true I think I’d better
find those ‘middle’ folk fast!
A proud artist stands by
a rock with a green streak.
“Neo-naturocubist deconstruction,”
are the nonsense words he speaks.
Should I envy or hate him,
this pretentious Hipster man,
depends on if he believes it,
or knows it’s just a scam.
A canvas covered in black,
the centerpiece of the scene,
the thing they all came for,
this squarish, darkened screen.
I stare for a second,
hoping for something more,
I did better with black paint
on my old basement door.
I head home to my place,
and there up on the wall,
is a framed movie poster from
the greatest space opera of all.
They’d say it’s ‘crass’ and ‘commercial,’
and they may even be right,
but I’d pay more for this ‘hack-work’
then any of the crap I saw tonight.
"Fata Morgana"
feet hardly touch the ocean
when silent stars of no voice
transmit words to pay the ferryman
on the water no reflection
gently the sun waves smiling as if to say
feel that, the warmth of waking sleep
no fear of what remains hidden
it will unravel from inside that which is all too deep
walking towards you across the briny mist
from ancient stories forgotten
a halo of St Elmo’s Fire surrounds
it stands still for a short while before you
watching
you,
walking water with your bare feet
faith in dreams consistent in their constancy
that visit you when you are complete yet incomplete
holds out its hand to lead the way across
sharp burning rocks, now a desert, climbing mountains that are steep
a small life crumbles to powdered sand
more than 40 days silent gone astray
years the turning of untimed tides pretence
meets a haunting vision beckoning, new horizon, odd unclear
safe harbour left long ago,
lost in that ornery time, cursed by flying monkeys' bellows
of bloodletting and betrayal, stock still, standing amidst the shallows
somewhere along the way dark narcissus followed
what breaks over the bow
washes all stern fear away
sacred wings of albatross
ne’er to be sacrificed, no more night nor day
souls of ancient mariners
forever follow me, even when I stray
the rich baritone of bedtime stories
messages in code conveyed, I hear them still today
now swallows spooning spinnakers
running directly before wind and sea
the water turns to wine, much stranger the belief,
all manna of trust it feeds
bells tolling
no man’s an island entire of itself
in unusual reckonings
observing swimming hearts, that hear and see
the eyes that melt, this more curiously
in truth, the dream defends
messages eternal
life it never ends
tides move in and out
never alone when we begin
fata morgana
softly the moon ascends
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
VCB
Lux Vitae
5.5.10
"Under a splintered mast,
torn from ship and cast
near her hull,
a stumbling shepherd found
embedded in the ground,
a sea-gull
of lapis lazuli,
a scarab of the sea,
with wings spread—
curling its coral feet,
parting its beak to greet
men long dead."
("Talisman", Marianne Moore)
Just another Sunday on the Sunset Strip
Where a country concert had taken a grip
People had flocked from all around
To listen to their favourite sound
Josh and his buddies were up on stage
Their twangling guitars did the audience engage
Many in the crowd were singing along
With every plaintive and pert song
No happier scene in any mind's eye
Would,later recalled,fetch a contented sigh
This was the show they had saved to attend
This was sadly where for many it would all end.
High overhead in his hotel room
A tortured mind had prepared their doom
His road trip to Mandalay
Was filled with intent to slay
A plan that had long festered in his brain
To contemplate inflicting untold pain
All around him lay guns and ammo
Ready to put an end to this happy show
He coldly and cruelly bided his time
Before choosing the moment to commit his crime
Once he had them in his sights
Then began their panic stricken flight.
His staccato typewriter spelled out fear,pain and death
In vain many scattered,stood stock still and held their breath
Down they went,falling under his relentless fire
Stunned,shaken and shot in their country attire
Glee must have been dancing in his twisted head
At seeing so many of his targets lying dead.
What was it that flipped this quiet man's switch within
To trigger the damnable flaw of original sin?
Did Stephen Paddock yearn to go out in a blaze of glory?
Was it that which fuelled this so tragic story?
Before he turned his weapon against his own life,
Did he then regret causing such avoidable strife?
Sibylline in their veracity
Were the words of the prophecy
That the crowd would perish that very night
Before the speaker was hustled out of sight
If a shiver went through those who heard
They dismissed her as being just weird
Predictably ignoring her rambling warning
The report echoing in the headlines next morning
i am accompanied by my polar opposite
i do not know why, but she is meant for me
if my smile was in the middle of a forest
a maze would be erased immediately
if my self esteem was in a cooking pot
not one bubble could expose the steam or the heat created
if my worth was on a cliff
it would stay stock still and forget the meaning of 'jump' or 'how high'
if my completeness was voyage to the end of the rainbow
the radiant aura of her presence would be God's Blessing In Diamond Studded
i am accompanied by my polar opposite
i will never try to comprehend, for it is my pleasure to lover her without question
Dam you bastards with water; I think you all are coots
While I watch the weather everyday and plead for rain filled fronts
I’m not some greedy bastard, which wants to grow more grass
I need my stock to have a drink, and save their thirsty ****
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some greenie, with an axe to grind
In many areas our futures, are unbelievably intertwined
But for god sake, sit back and think, just how lucky that you are
Because all that water that you waste, well some comes from my jar.
I can’t but help, smile a wry grin, when the irrigation stops
As the whinging starts, about the loss in cash, as profit production drops
Your stock still have water, to pour straight down their throats
Water troughs filled to the brim, not erectile dysfunction floats
I see your places from the hill, circles of dark green crops and grass
Metal robots, pissing water, creatures born of greed; I have to sigh alas
There’s more to farming than factory farms and copious quantities of water
Deciding on paper, which animals must go, on the truck to slaughter.
So please forgive me when I wish on you, pestilence and misery
May your cereals wilt, stock get the shits, and your profits become history
I’m not some greedy bastard, of extra dry matter I have no need
If my stock just had clean water to drink, from my anxiety I’d be freed