Long Substrate Poems
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A sultry summer heat hangs in the air;
July’s hot sun now takes her final bow.
Across the bar the sparks fly ‘tween the pair
as searching eyes are seeking to avow
the longing heat that burns so deep within
and causes summer passions to combust
with deep demands for taste of carnal sin
while seeking to dispel desires for lust.
Together leaving lost so deep in thought
while knowing well this tryst should never be
yet longing to fulfill what lust has wrought
and douse the burning flames of sin’s decree.
Illicit love leaves promises deplete
a substrate of the sultry summer heat.
June 2, 2020
- Summer rain is a passing moment ~
which will soon be pierced by sun rays -
quote by poet
Merry sound of happiness
a little rain satisfies the air
The clouds are the shadows,
after sunny days
Aquarius is wise,
nature painted in watercolor
Countless lyrical drops
crystals sprinkle in the flower bells
Nobody would care,
neither bird, flowers nor teasing bees
Can smell the wet substrate
and breathe pure thoughts everywhere
Collecting dripping drops in a jam jar
with an apostle spoon in silver
Summer rain in triumphant symphony
scattered through paradise
With frugality and a lot of profit
- until the soul is satisfied
I met her on a solemn Autumn night, many moons ago
A night I didn't remember- a night I thought nothing of
It's funny
People leave an impression as time passes
Time: with its sactions and laws- its passage is linear, unable to be bribed or coaxed
It lives purely as life's substrate.
Recently I had a dream
About a night I didn't remember- a night I thought nothing of
There I remembered an encounter
A smile that could lift a mood
Eyes that sparkled in the Autum twilight
And a gaze that, if stared into long enough, seemed to relfect every star and nebulae in the cosmos
A universe seemingly resided behind her eyes
Weary eyed- the recent dream faded
A smile that could once lift a mood had cracked
Eye's grew sullen and dull- adopting a grey complexion
And with the death of a dream
The Nebulae grew dark and the last star burnt out
A hollow stare resided
Time went on- paths diverged in slight
But still, I meet her every night
In a dream within a dream
In wake, I find myself looking at the stars hoping
for us to meet in time- for your eye's to adopt a lost stare
for your smile to ignite a spark previously snuffed out.
I hope, time permitting, I may one day see you again
the way I did on a night I didn't remember
on a night I thought nothing of.
A night I remember, to help me forget.
The stars don't align all that often.
For some- not even whilst dreaming
But until then, I wait
I hope to see you the way I used to
Even if only in a solemn night's dream.
5th Ave. was shoulder to shoulder with
hungry lunch-seeking business men
and women. Ricardo unpacked
his horn nervously and a foot cymbal.
Spring, early street season, too cold
for most musicians but he needed money.
His lips kissed the cold metal mouthpiece.
Carrying the saw and the pulaski.
Cutting brush for a fire line high up,
where raptors and ravens fly. No sound
but wind if you could subtract the crew
working and dirty, joking during lunch.
A good year it had been sitting in the soil
feeling Ricardo's body on the mountainside.
Mountains moving as good a feeling.
Alone in his town, most neighbors at work,
housecleaning done, Ricardo settled down
with pen to write and ate lunch.
People = chickadees.
Clutch size, substrate, territory, gestation period.
Mating rituals. Use of alcohol and hallucinogens.
Forms of cancer, heart disease. Burial rites, memories.
Creation myths, beliefs for which there is no evidence.
Range: tundra to tropics.
And complain about sentience. Tell a joke. Make—
Us sad or depressed, less afraid
Earth into homes, earth into mud
Their peace
Me a fossil of society
Our own decisions, the universe having reversed its decision on us
A sound or noise
Echo make
The body healthy I do
The feelings in the mind play music
A space in a line of people climbing a trail in the mountains
Us brothers and sisters with the animals
Death more noble for us all
A mosque of the rocks
You cry out for the genius occurring now and in our past
The tools and do the math to colonize the planets
Things worse by guessing
Others want to live
Plans
The man weep for himself
A difference in their communities
Music, mindful of our extreme limits
1/10 inch of annual topsoil
The atmosphere as seen from outer space
Of it more than it is
The bed
This formulation useful
The technology possible to live long and well, with personality
Grandma’s sauce
This observation: the purpose of sitting’s not to be satisfied
War on Iraqis
Pharisees grovel
Black holes whole
Prediction and intuition fortunately hopeless
A list of prospective donors
A moral and rational adjustment of life to life
Dying people cry
Nothing happen, which is something, magic
Improvements
History interesting for Johnny
The subject separate from the substrate
The sun stand still, yet run
Consciousness persevere
Informed medical decisions going forward
It so
Sense on the trumpet
Correct mistakes
Jack ill
A repertoire for dealing with the challenges we’ll confront as a species
in millennia to come
Every day a good day to die
Millions
The present immutable as the past
Up, perfume, soap
Him kill you right there in the street
Way for a future that’s irresistible
Poetry from losing the argument with themselves
Often after the fallen snow is swept, glory
Is found when the treading surface is clear.
A light dusting is a breeze to remove. For heavy slush I trade
My broom for a shovel. It is foolhardy to pretend
That things with bristles can glide
Between and expand the substrate/snow interface.
Between the air and my skin there is no interface
Even my coon skin cap only provides small glory
Reminding me that menthol shaving cream enhances the glide
Of my razor and the sting of the cold air, but also makes clear
My ambition to clear the snow away and not pretend
To scatter dandruff from the icy landscape. It seems I must trade
My alter ego of a cosmetologist for that of a cosmologist. Such a trade
Will enable me to outgrow this climate. Then my interface
Communication skills will improve so I won’t use silence to pretend
I am a solid, deep thinking woodsman and I can just enjoy the glory
Of making small talk about the weather, thus allowing me to clear
My conscience about past regrets and glide
Through interpersonal interactions moment by moment. Ah! To glide
Like snow from the blade of a shovel, I wouldn’t trade
That social grace for 10,000 driveways clear
Of snow or ice or volcanic ash. Interface--
That common boundary, the transition from disgrace to glory
As I become a cosmologist and no longer pretend
That people are stupid zoo animals and hopefully not pretend
That I am a stupid zoo animal. Seasons of the year glide
Together and glide apart. Midwinter ice in all its glory
Is dangerous and fun. Will you trade
Your cramp-ons for ice skates? The seasonal interface
From spring to summer is never clear.
The same is true for the other seasons, let’s be clear
About that. I have stressed this before and will again; to pretend
Is to deny. Everything solitary has an interface
With something else and therefore is not solitary. To glide
Is to not experience friction. At some point you may want to trade
Slip for grip. Never bask in glory
Unearned. The web interface has clear
Flaws, don’t be ignorant. Glory may never pretend
To glide toward despair, but neither of those would I be willing to trade.
As air and leaf litter are substrate for the bird.
And what makes a human. Separation from the substrate.
Believing the substrate and the subject are separately defined.
Whatever gives the poem form - three lines - is the substrate.
Things will be said. The signer and the seer must supply the words
Which are the substrate of the mind. A beautiful week ahead.
No hundred year storms, normal summer warming.
Your bones are white as lightning and strong as sticks and stones.
At Pat's 80th b'day party most of us are old and jolly.
250,000 port-o-potties. There's a way to wash one out
And a way not to. Arctic ice melt. Slushies. One can count
Past one or nine by inserting zero to keep the rows.
Implied is an order beyond the small order we impose.
Goes to greatness human and divine. The two white wines
Death brings to the garden are the love between good friends -
Abstract. Suppose there is no afterlife, to understand the end
Imagine the beginning - no brain, no mind, no name, no I. Zero
Had already been inflated and the rose was in the garden.
The majority of mine lxiii years
expended delving deep into imagination,
yours truly escaped, loosed, thwarted...
reality courtesy bookland
roaming cerebral cortex terra firmae
did not amp pulley satiate
seemingly depression found me
(an uncompetitive, oversensitive,
intuitive, contemplative bookworm)
with scrunched pate,
a day short and a dollar late
one dime a dozen lad
hood scrimp and scrape,
a familiar pattern typified fate
viz - hand to mouth bleak
how zing existence aye equate
extant throughout three score
plus three years date
journeys round el sol,
this varsity schlepper, procrastinator,
malingerer did create
current emotional state
mottled with sea henna tint
financial, emotional and
psychosocial characteristics stint
aye serum eyes while
in utero the blueprint
indelibly etched analogous
brand York Peppermint
also analogous to musician
recording tracks upon primed glint
ting digitized compact disc
clear polycarbonate plastic substrate,
a reflective metallic layer,
and a clear protective coating
of acrylic plastic
breakable as flint.
LXII+ years old and he still carries a security blanket
Move over Linus
Van Pelt of Peanuts fame,
cuz yours truly
also psychologically lame
since prepubescence
mine noticeably long hair
delivered inner comfort,
yet found some classmates
calling me "hippy" by name
though other tormentors among them
hurled expletive laced offensive insults
even ethnic slurs much less tame.
Absolute zero
anti-bullying laws prevailed ahoy
when reasonably rhyming poet
just a little beastie boy
"mean kids" hurtful tactics
they did deploy,
though one bookish lad named Donald Hoy,
he rode the same bus as me,
and most likely practiced magic ploy
to ward off nemesis.
Impossible mission
to detangle mane reason why
I experienced omnipotent
hair reed bond neither thy
father, mother nor therapist
could understand or qualify
outsize (obsessive/compulsive)
significance well nigh
much more (hyperbolically writing)
blatantly mystifying and unsettling
versus comprehending meaning
regarding the bridge on the River Kwai,
whereat these long strands
emanating from scalp, I
imagined them extending
out into space into no fly
zone, and if adored locks threatened
with someone brandishing scissors
one puny lad would cry.
Parents did not berate,
when early within mein kampf,
no matter my mother did execrate
obsessive compulsive thoughts did instigate
long necked pencil geek son
did unwittingly irritate
analogous to Samson
(though Delilah not my mate),
I imbue power courtesy each golden lock
atop me addled sub tracked pate,
where fifty plus shades of gray matter
houses ticky tacky psyche substrate,
which doth bubble, gurgle and percolate.
Only upon taking me last breath of air
viz, when grim reaper delivers death,
I will unroll welcome me
Scottish Harris tweed mat without fanfare
(for this common man),
and just maybe allow, enable, and provide
thee opportunity for scissors
to lop off longish straggly hair
subsequently repurposed into a
security blanket ideally suited
to create creature comfort within lair
for garden variety and generic caveman,
who truth be told lives very near
yours truly in Schwenksville.
On a grassy verge above the surging rill
she stood fair haired and proud,
three leaf clover substrate at her toes.
Clutching saline bouquets I had plucked
from my neighbours walk-in green house.
Woman of resplendent peerage cast a
pearlescent glance among the swirl-frond
waves that prey on fractured fjords.
At a distance, in her mind.
But not for long before we fled like butterfly
escapees over marshes, mounds and meads.
Shriek from sun-dried swallow as we stumble
awkwardly upon their woodbine nest.
Noonday train fire iron to the fossil
fuel bled caterpillar plain,
rural muzak for a pinpoint tip toe dash
through barren fodder,
spiny thistle scald on insect bitten arch,
splashes are a symbol on our craft
stitch needle knitwear.
Yet I struggled to keep pace on
raw earth sand stone,
crab apple briar tangles by the dozen
hung like plastic refuse obstacle,
but nothing now could halt this headlong
sprint to who knows where.
Date written; 23rd Of December 2020
Date posted to contest ; First Of October 2022
Contest name ; 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 15
Sponsor ; Mark Toney
A 26 line poem