Long Sublimes Poems
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I've used up nearly all the primes of my life,
Heard all the whistles, bells, and chimes of my life,
And traced the seasons and the times of my life
Through the ambiances and climes of my life.
The squandered nickels and the dimes of my life,
The acts of goodness and the crimes of my life,
The dark despairs and bright sublimes of my life,
The loves, the laughs, the grimes, and slimes of my life,
The noisy words and pantomimes of my life
Make up the reasons and the rhymes of my life.
Author's note: This piece, dear readers, is, if you will, a sort of sequel to "The Seasons of My Life"
Speaking to the clock
"tick-tock..tick-tock..."
The Cold breeze whispered in her ears:
"Kill and I will clot..
Like a cherry on top,
Thou shall suck the ruptured spleen
Taste of blood, thine eyes shall gleam.."
She grinned in mockery of their fears:
"yes Master! I read your chimes,
In my alleys, wisdom sublimes
Into the smoke, of a stale corpse
My rhymes are written in ruby drops.."
Night has fled beneath her eyes
And there, she stood by her prey:
Thorough, and her hair was dark
Conscience seldom would embark
Her psyche, she had no doubt
Loved the redness on her pout..
The glee that death had given her
Made her fly into the azure,
Choice of knives,
Choice of lives,
Or raw, she liked her meal
Broken bones,
With fleshy robes
Alive! It made her feel:
Fingers dripping blood,
She licked the floor..
For more,
Poor prey! she kept it still
As she devoured to the heart..
The Cold Air embraced her in a passionate kiss..
Esctatic shiver in the icy trance,
She had her dessert:
Eyes that lolled on the couch,
She plucked, as per her divine vouch,
Time had passed, without a glance..
She leaves the night for the damned
Until hungry again.
A stripe of blue in an ocean of black
Three hundred miles below
At the still time before a thunderstorm
There lies the dazzling beauty
A miniscule of infinity in a blue ribbon glistening in night sky
On the black crescent earth
Dumb, we feel dumb, in the tempest of mirth
From three hundred miles up a tiny blue speckle
A sense of pity in our entity
As we sometimes feel
Looking at a vast ocean from its shore
How poor our reality is
Our home and hearth
Just a speck in space
So was the mercury across the sun
Here in Kolkata yesterday
A dot, a fleck, almost of no worth
Yet we can yearn and earn many sublimes
Your beautiful face in starlit chimes
The world of our thoughts is mighty complex
As we reflect
On the myriad emotions
And the associated countless notions
Flooding over our perception
As we look back dazed from so high up
At the majestic blue ribbon
That is our earth
Environed by black night space
A moment ideal
Real blending in the surreal
___________________________________________
May 10, 2016/30 Lines
Submission for “Just a Thin Blue Ribbon” – Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Rita A. Simmonds
Stilled again across the canals broadening
Girth;
Mesh cages of rock-filled Gabions
Reinforcing patches of exposed and arid earth,
Reflecting the glints that gleefully
Twist and dance in the hot glare of the sun...
Provoking images and stirring indefinable feelings
That begin to irrevocably up and run;
Pictures and voices crowding into my mind:
Immersing me in the flooding moments
To which i am briefly resigned.
Now momentarily staid by the shimmering
Instance
In which i find myself inextricably caught,
Perplexed by something rather intangible,
Seeming almost to tease and laugh
Whilst confounding upon my evasive and
Fleeting thoughts;
As glancing across at the opposite bank
Where drawn up a line of densely packed trees..
I swore...I heard the reel of a high squealing
Fiddle -
Playing ever so briefly alongside a tricky little
Breeze.
For stood there I, wondering,
On a grey painted swing-bridge:
Of brightly painted Steamers, dirty Trampers
And of double masted white canvassed Brigs.
Oh! The everlasting glory of a New World order
Redefined:
Entrusted to those instructed in her Majesties
Construction of sprawling Victorian sublimes!
The men who heroically dug, picked, blasted and
Strove:
To securely fasten an Iron cast girdle around
An ever diminishing blue globe.
Dreaming of long ago, dutiful, Golden-Age days
Rigorously pursued down, what are now,
Weed strewn, abandoned byways.
Faustian clothing and a Velveteens cap;
The thick buckled leather gaiters held about
By the strap.
Many the word spoken in a soft southern brogue:
All hail the glorious navigators -
The navvies of old!
Staunch and desperate men forced to resign
Their native Gaelic shores
And burden unto themselves with
Mattocks, shovels and garishly painted-up whores.
Under the high flaming beacons
And over the obscure little brow -
They carved out the new waterways
To float the laden down prow.
Yes! Men of the Emerald Isles
I salute you and your kinsfolk
From lands cast westwards afar:
The magnificent "Paddies" from the verdant island -
Of Erin-Go-Bragh!
You want for the crawls and climbs,
sublimes and lemons.
Let the kid run, helplessly,
so he or she strives
for the unreachable star.
“Stop growing!” a mother hollers.
A father has their bags packed.
Shikata Ga Nai, the wise say.
Mother must cry when separated
by the wibble-wabble of time.
Dad must harumph over remnants,
tricycles and toys in garage and attics,
shed tears behind dry eyes.
Most children fall
into another’s arms
and mother must cry.
Shikata Ga Nai cannot be denied.
The silence of empty nest and eventual death.
The middle years of hugs from kids of kids.
Kids calling through the ether,
wondering why their kid must keep growing taller.
You want to tell the secret, but must hint
at the eventuality -
reality it seems,
Shikata Ga Nai -
don’t deny the truth.
Shikata Ga Nai - It cannot be helped.
I writ a poem
of broken lines
in muddled thoughts
where nothing rhymes
considered throwing in some chimes
from reminiscent olden times
reached into the “poignant” pail
dug out the sadness of “sublimes”.
I dipped the pen in barren well
denied of stories it could tell
pictured how the empires fell
beneath the hate of brimstone’s smell
wondered how I came to dwell
in poetry’s rekindled hell.
I clawed the crimson charcoal crust
bore the pain of writing’s thrust
became the fire of its lust
engulfed in flame the pages trust
then sprinkled it with living’s dust.
John G. Lawless
©7/4/2021