Long Stringing Poems
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two brass asses clash in blades of glass
as we stare looking sadly at each other
two donkeys in a lea, under a tree of hate
we bray at each other at all hours of the day
we stand in the branching shadow of mounting darkness
two donkeys in a lea, under a tree of hate
our eyes show contempt in the face of stringing sorrow
we stand in the branching shadow of mounting darkness
we break bread to live to hate upon being sated
two donkeys in a lea, under a tree of hate
we bray at each other at all hours of the day
we break bread to live to hate upon being sated
as we stare looking sadly at each other
connie pachecho
2/11/17
After: Harlequin’s Carnival by Joan Miro, 1925.PD
After: Bing Crosby - Swinging On A Star (1944)
I try to apply colors like words that shape poems,
like notes that shape music. - Joan Miro
Listen to the mockingbird rings from ear to ear driven in a
frenzy of delight, naysaying the evil torts of Hieronymus
Bosch’s gardens. Feasting on nature’s foreplay, stringing
leaps of fancy, parading to an oompah-pah, lured by a rendez-
vous with Dali and melted timepieces.
to fly
to soar
soar unconfined
soar scored
scored notes
scored lines
The bliss of true tones, winged squirmings,
dancing snakes, acrobatic merfolk swinging on stars,
the ensemble gestates.
Cues coil, ping, the clocks tick; let your
wired heart purr. Jack-in-the Box to Jack outside,
take a spoonful of sugar with your medicine, & twirl
your partner round and round.
First published by illumen 2016
Blemishes
My body’s mistakes
My wounds of disgrace
Injected by faith
In science and progress
Flogging myself with second-guesses
I have given myself away.
to uncaring men, pressed jackets
white jackets, packets of sympathy
baskets of fruit set upon the writing desk
in solitary confinement, padded walls.
haunted halls, bathroom stalls with locked doors.
Linoleum floors
Poor, poor pitiful me
Cherry pick my favourite reasons,
depending on the season
Why do the patterns keep repeating?
serve them up on a platter!
for delicate devouring
and just desserts
some things are generational.
inherited
bestowed
I cradle my worth.
In my own wretched hands
Once delicate
Here I stand.
Not stolid
Nor stoic
I am not put together.
Not sorted
I am apart.
Electrical currents running through the pieces,
stringing them together
Making a woman out of angst and energy
The sheer will of being.
I have nothing to live for
Only these words
Hospital gown flowing in my rage.
Windswept, like a mage
In the middle of casting a spell
A sorceress in distress, in peril
Fighting to remain
In the moment, present and tame
But wild fear presents itself at my feet.
The wolf is ready to eat.
I stay indoors to hide from the chase.
But at the end of the day
When night falls to the ground
I heard the call.
I wish to respond.
To howl back at the crack of dawn
Rolling in the sun with my wild baying, panting, praying
But I stay put.
I hold it back.
Inside my skin that cannot contain
My ancestral blood
This is the flood.
The flood
I drowned in the flood.
The wolf is not only animal.
But avatar
for gods too abstract to see
with the naked eye
It growls it snarls.
It bites my legs.
It promises peace.
as it gnaws on my pride
the alure of freedom,
teasing me to leave my comfort zones
knowing it will crunch my bones.
the first chance it gets.
when I trip over my intentions
into mud
face first
ruining my escape
I do not outrun the wolf.
I do not outsmart the gods.
I do not escape the flood.
I fall—
not like a heroine,
but like a relic dropped mid-ritual
mud in my mouth,
bones in the wolf’s grin
the spell unfinished
The door still locked.
the howl still inside me
rotting sweetly
like fruit on the desk
Angel, so gentle a messenger a rescuer,
comfort to Men and Woman and our children,
you have their eye, you have always had our
attention, intentions in the back of our minds.
Working behind the scenes in dutiful love, honoring humanity.
Archangel, humble and mighty specialist,
do you not know the reward to come
for your dedicate theme.
The Holy Spirit shall train you in loves battle
at the true heart of things, in the end you will see,
you are mighty in deed.
Princes, shall you govern the Earth in it's regions as regents, agents in charge of this place, of God's plan, be his Pontificate hand.
Powers, Congregation and Priest,
see you not whisper of gossips, discord or jealousy
but purity in the knowledge of ceremony of greater
things, but be not erred in Hell's matrimony.
But the divine worship of what is that should be.
Virtues, you are the wizards of God's court,
the facilitator of the art working in on creation in it's consciousness and at it's heart.
Dominations, you hold the works of Heavens
and of Earth.
The processes of stringing in the cosmic ring
of your stewardship of overseeing being.
Thrones, you are the ones who send the judgments,
the vials, aid and dispose, impose the Kings.
Expose the age in Captained line by line
vanguard of High decree"d rloyal t hinges.
Cherubim, your tasks, intellect and secret office direct the plans of God and Men. Of miracle and prayers arked embarked to Tabernacle out again.
Seraphim, burning love thou art insemminate,
pregnant and in delivery of love, for the Most High.
Your song is a burning flame kindled and birthed by
more fires, for His Holy Name.
Your intimate knowledge of Creation in His Way
led none of you to fall, none to stray.
The Four Living Creatures love to watch you swoon, tirelessly, pulsing in your inner knowledge
of the workings of meaning.
Dedicate predicates in love, one and all eternally,
present past the end of days.
"Heeling Mephistopheles"
murdering crows
flies in on the bow
of a Stradivarius
strange webs cleared
from the mind of
Machiavellian insolence
insisting life written
by dancing fingers
pressing monochrome
due diligence for justice
wrapped in blankets of
cloudy deliverance
tack a piercing
bittersweet
entendre
all the ebony wiles
imprinting jewels
for stringing
persuasive
shiny
stratagems
become ivory pearls
tingling vanilla dalliances
crisp and clean cut
new teeth
for gripping
dark contra
bones from corsets
broken and scattered
for ancient tomes
maestro buttons
for plucking
songs home
sharp pleats
skirting over
what’s buried beneath
floorboards
fathoms deep
waiting for its feed
words slip through
eye of needle, the threads
flowing cursives
through the cracks
osseous matter for a black dog
composed humming Bach
impromptu strokes
for hidden angles
offering tongue out
for words, to speak
angel notes
like legs running
across fresh sheets
bars raised ropes
concerto chords
like sails billowing
helm held hard
fast forward en route
encore
dark Mephistopheles
jibed
heeling
dark Mephistopheles
en route
encore
heeling
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
homonyms.
jibe
heeling
homophone.
bach
Mephistopheles.
Stradivarius.
Bach.
Machiavellian.
Poison ivy’s ruby kiss
Strip all the ink away
Do away with her kiss; ivy.
Ivy’s kiss still stings
clings to a heart that’s inked deep
deeply rooted ivy- spicy leaves…
leaves her mark on a trifling bum.
A bum brim full of hot air teases
kisses out of icy ivy, earns a rash.
A rush of Ivy’s ruby kisses stings
clings to his heart, inked deep
weep away her kiss, ivy, he tries!
denies he still cares: eyes stinging
Stringing her along- rather coyly
another oily tongue that love bombs Ivy
envy not it’s frolics in ivy seas.
See, Ivy wears her poison like an armour
Dour ego: Ivy seized its crown.
down in the dumps it stays
bays all day long, tongue wrung out
strung out, just deserts he gets
he regrets spitting at ivy seas.
See, Ivy wears her poison like an armour…
sour lour is a ruby kissed clown
Down in the dumps lives the clown.
Form:
In the vast field of beings, some are stars that cast kindness,
Somehow born with a mirage that drips mercy from within.
They traverse valleys and deserts, spreading, unwavering, their pure essence,
While others, with kindness veiled under the leaves of the heart, offer hesitantly.
They are generosity incarnate, with palms open to the sky,
Even when the heavens are empty, asking nothing in return.
They do not pretend we understand, breathing streaks of color into us,
That penetrate the veins of life, turning macadam into a silk path.
They are luminous beacons; in turbulent times, they are our anchor,
And perhaps we are, too, shelter for a moment in this ballet of fate.
Then the storm passes, and every one hoists sails to catch another wind,
New paths on the horizon, while desires flicker behind like light on waves.
They are the ones who ignite light in unknown depths,
Awakening in the soul what it forgot it could shine:
Hope, joy, the thin, magical thread of an unreal connection,
Silent proofs that souls can communicate more than the spoken word.
Beside them, we find peace, stringing thoughts like beads on a thread,
And the heart, like a calm ocean, forgets to ripple in the tumult.
These people, whom we discover not with eyes, but with the whole being,
Though we strive, we cannot forget them, for their imprint has shaped us.
With very few we resonate in the absolute, in perfect harmony,
And the ones found must be kept, not to let them slip away
For they are our solace, the bitter balm of our days,
We are the clay of the same soul and the hearth of the same inner flame.
(Mary Custis was the wife of Robert E. Lee.
Union forces captured her ante-bellum
mansion in what is now Arlington Cemetery
and defiled it, because it was the only thing
of Lee's they could get their hands on.)
Suppose you kill Gaddafi and Hussein,
or sad old Nazis, huddled in the dock.
So what exactly do you think you gain?
Your own humanity is what you mock,
not them. The winners stringing-up the losers
can not be right. You heap your fury on
the halt and helpless. Beggars can’t be choosers,
but winners can. (Why not Ben-Gurion?)
Put Karadzic before a firing-squad
for spite, or just to entertain the flock,
but don’t disguise the ugly thing your lust is.
Don’t talk of Law, or Liberty, or God.
Go rape the home of absent Mary Custis,
if rape you must. Don’t dress it up as Justice.
No longer stuck in nightfall
I drove the road that led me
To a place of hope
A realm of memories and fascination
Under the light of a cloudy sun
No longer dark and shining
I see it for what it truly
Represents in this world
A tiny town that's left forgotten
Hiding from sight
No longer imprisoned with you
I can finally light a match and
Burn a purer thought
Cover over all the tattoos
That you scored in my gray matter
Drowning on a metal beach
Universes away, I'm safe and
Changing it all to
An uncanny town that time's forgotten
And left to float away with all the corpses
No longer stuck in twilight
Or stringing memories to you
This quiet country road
Can breathe again without my ghost now
An oppressive specter that left me searching eastward
"You go to sleep," I said
"And I will be there when you wake up."
It's time,
For you to stand in line,
And take a stand this time,
While there is still time,
For human rights to define.
It is all to easy to define,
The rights of those who think they deserve to shine,
Brighter than those others who are in a different line,
For all time.
But I say that makes us all less fine,
And being human will be in decline,
As those who see an imaginary sign,
That says it is their time,
To hate, take revenge, spread fear and make a dollar while there is still time,
If the majority fail to understand we are are running out of time,
To keep humans from decline.
It won't be easy but now is the only time,
We can prevent bandwagons appearing each side of the line,
In every country, every street corner, set up by those who define,
Rights for others, as something they want to redefine,
In favor of something they can control for all time.
If you want to call yourself a woman or a man, for me that is fine,
But only in a world that is free of imposters stringing a line,
Who work for criminals or think being a predator is fine,
Should you have automatic right to take away the rights for all time,
Of those who think their birth is what for them can define,
What side of the line,
They feel comfortable with for all time.
Rest assured if you are genuine, and you give us time,
And you too stand in line for Human rights this time,
So those who seek to make life for all less fine,
Can not be given a sign that, now is the time,
To hate, to spread fear, and make a dollar while there is time,
Because the many both sides of the line decline to stand in line,
Then and only then will fear be stopped from reaching the line,
And then, and only then will you and I in time,
See peace both sides of the line,
And give us as humans a chance to come out of decline,
Before the doomsday clock strikes twelve and we run out of time,
And how we define ourselves will appear on page nine
In the galactic news "once upon a time',
There were humans who could not themselves define,
Which resulted in their rapid decline.
There is still time,
For human rights to define,
And not give any sign, on or off line,
To those who don't seek peace either side of the line,
Before we have to put more lives on the line,
To prevent the decline of us all in a very short time.