Long Subterranean Poems
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Carpet patterns
and the swirlings of grain
in wooden floors were maps
to me of exotic worlds,
portal holes for a child
to enter and explore
places edged on the
furthest reaches
of the fabulous.
Even today, as an old man,
I saw a landscape
in miniature when morning sunlight
came through the window
and crept across
the room, illuminating a map
in the knots and welts of grain
rolled out on the pinewood floor.
I found myself off on tour
swept into the detail
along its ravines
and imagined trails,
into its wild inland,
the unfenced territories whose
vast subterranean caves
well far below what
can be seen, the dank
dormitories of dream.
And then,
above the underworld,
dry plains paused
by rocky outcrops
of doubt, the long silences
that stretch for miles
and curl up in corners
when evening falls.
The star pitted dark hung
with mystery, morse
for the mystic,
until a sober perspective
shrank the sublime
back into a smaller space
to fit ordinary sight
and became
the comforting familiarity
of a well trodden
wooden floor, aged, uneven,
basking in the morning's
honeyed light.
Withering breezes spill
along the fairytales of my piercing lies
Terracotta earthquakes unravel
an amber-flickering prevail against me
An ebony-surging massacre
disfiguring its ivory mental masquerade
And I am left truly naked
in the breath of the light I once was
Perhaps It's wrath, is my muse
It's sacred hymns, as belladonna blues
An immovable evil twirling in my veins
poisoning my heart into an eternity of silence
Alas, its destructive nature raised its symphonies
and my vile pavements shiver without fear
Scream at me again, cast me out
Beat me fiercely and I'll kiss my bruises
The mockingbirds will grow weary
and his angels will keep humming
And if I were to climb to my death,
your regrets would anoint my memorial
And I would be forgiven in blood
Swimming its gray ocean turned to stone
unraveling into its crimson shadows
Crawling into my mother's womb;
and only God would perceive me there
And if I could go, I'd surrender
Bleeding a wine-dark tune
of an exquisite exhaustion
Because the songbird has held its breath
and I am suffocating into its demise
So when I leaped, I leaped
in a subterranean heartbeat
Without a drizzling doubt
as the night bloomed violet
As the emerald sea sparkled loudly
As my faith prohibited me
No longer am I afraid..
I am unafraid.
Agency, apt was the day that they came.
Eyes of red flame; a waxpaper gabbaim.
Maintenance workers, how did the place run?
O subterranean lair, set to stun.
Gadfly, gawk well at the faces in crowds.
Blank like new life beneath burial shrouds.
Waiting for traffic to let out a yell?
Rating, chessmaster, is halfway to hell.
Sacrificed pawn, did the carrion crow fly?
Round the volcano thrice, winking awry?
Train station, travelers, widows in white.
Brace, belladonna, and grant visions bright.
Simian intellect, silver flame flecked?
Genuflect, priest, as a sign of respect?
Burning in heads of the mad, lily pad?
O humanity, as cogs you were had...
Yellow king, there in thy city, what lives?
Prisoners with shivs and undoubted missives.
Golem, shall we spend the night here? Let's not.
Jotoba staff in thy hand, thought-robot?
Lycanthrope, hope. At the end of a scope?
Henbane, to cope, steep three days and don't mope.
Flowers in fields blowing brisk in the breeze.
Terror, send a flare? At ease, trees. Trapeze...
O black abyss, do leviathans kiss?
Serpents, when you hiss, spit venom to miss?
Raccoon, thy claw in the mud of the creek.
Why were you digging? Quay, quahog, tale, teak.
Plight of palladium? Poor politesse?
Languid like legendary loves? Lined less.
Tyrant of the wasteland, turmoil. Turn tail?
Vampire, thy fangs. Angel, bottles of ale...
Daylight savings ends... Sunday
November 3, 2019
2:00 AM Eastern Standard Time.
Seasonal affective disorder clinical woe,
albeit depression associated,
edge of nightfall
dark shadows grow
most pronounced late
autumn and winter
outer limits of twilight zone
impinge psyche status quo
said phenomena doth
not affect this bro,
who believe me
you relished mucho
more hours without sunlight
think allegory of cave courtesy Plato
Socratic dialogue titled "The Republic,"
inferences intimating occupants
housed inside grotto
to speculate external environment,
they can never know
conjectures predicated courtesy
shadows moving to and fro,
hither and yon across subterranean walls,
albeit exaggerated sinister show
shape shifting humongous,
monstrous, riotous... silhouettes hello
kickstarting, instagramming,
flickering... torches diabolical
phantasmagoria make cameo
forked flamed tongues
evoke towering inferno
superstitions defeat braggadaccio,
no matter atheistic, cynic, stoic...
atavistic fears including vertigo
nausea, adrenaline... analogous
psyche unstrung like mama's yoyo
thankfully yours truly no
well coward as outsize claws...
plucks me to daylight
courtesy steely mettle, viz Geronimo!
A thundering heartbeat
echoes from the garage to
the stadium.
An subterranean rumble ignites
the quiet arena floor,
As radioactive currents course
through the waiting veins,
Unleashing a fierce,
tempestuous wave of
symphonic thunder.
They transform the mundane
into the fiercely monumental,
Weaving unyielding, anthemic
battle cries from raw
vulnerability.
The percussion strikes like a
sudden, electric lightning bolt,
While the vocals soar into the
stratosphere, cloud- split sky,
Challenging the internal,
shadowy demons that haunt the
mind.
Believers rise from ashes of
their broken, fractured paths,
Bound together by a
triumphant, golden thread of
sonic gold.
This is the majestic,
unstoppable roar of modern
giants,
Stamping their timeless,
permanent footprint into
musical history.
Catacombs, slumbering dead
Slipped from life emotions shed
Blistering dark, insects creep
Dead will all their secrets keep.
Concrete world laden grey
Occupants have had their day
Guardian angel made of stone
Feelings nil for those old bones.
Silent wait 'til judgment day
Undertone of great dismay
Dust motes dance display macabre
Ghostly song from long-dead bard.
Tourists come they're not naive
'tis their fate they do perceive
Footsteps shuffle then they run
Eager for life, air, and sun
My apologies but I am taking a trip down memory lane with this poem . The piece was written after a visit to the Capuchin Crypts in Rome. I took poetic license with this piece it was not a typical subterranean catacomb. However, It made a lasting impression.
In your shadow, lady of the torn and moist light,
I tear myself as wounded pilgrim in the desert of cruel grace,
where the tearing sand becomes bitter, salty manna,
the stone – a spring of warm blood, dripping on cracked lips,
and my heart, a torn altar, howls for the eucharist,
with echoes of deaf bells resounding in hollow ribs,
until agony, wandering, the total loss of self,
where the air smells of myrrh smoke and divine sweat.
Your splendor is not a flower, but a torn falling star,
with tail of green, red flames, in the cup of black night,
burning and consuming me alive with smell of burnt flesh,
like Moses' burning bush, where God roars cursed names,
with roar of subterranean thunder in the depths of my chest,
and I, lost child, scream "Love" with mouth full of ash,
trembling with sweet pain that splits me into two blades,
down to bare bone, blood flowing like red wine of passion.
I tremble under your touch like the torn leaf in winds,
divine, savage, full of smell of rain on burnt earth,
joined hands know not prayer or claws driven deep,
into your pulsating chest, soft as velvet wet with dew,
my tears – red wine, hot on bleeding bread,
with taste of holy yeast and iron, mixing ancient pains,
life becomes a torn gate to the apses of heavy heaven,
where the air is scorched burnt, withered flowers screaming in silence.
Everything – the first time torn, everything – eternal and wounded deep,
with textures of torn silk and hot tar on skin,
in your thin veil, I melt into You as in fires,
paradisiacal hell, with smell of sweet sulfur and rotting roses,
sacred day dissolved in black night, viscous as pitch,
remains as a bitten kiss on the brow of bleeding sunrise,
with taste of copper and honey, echoes of heavy breathing,
resounding in the void of my chest emptied of all shadow.
Summary calendar from mimicked leaves yellow excuses dead alive unceasing,
The fogs all of loves' fate from a wasteland of living dead blue-gray collapsed,
With crows white parrot colorful the moments from palms like sand of time elapsed,
On your neck's mane an I a he a green dove that flies buried releasing.
That left behind in heavens this inept planet wise with meadows of kind,
Leaving you those who will understand like stars drowned in luminous mud,
A two a you plural like the madman from us whole torn who painted yesterday icons,
Fine ladies on empty bottles of champagne full and comets from cosmic terrestrial sand.
Nudes faceless with hidden faces replacing any withered absent leaf present,
Of eyelids unique eye inexistent that sees blindness with a debauched muse chaste,
The mimicked real leaves fall climbing toward the sky of earth where death revives,
The yellow green excuses of eternal ephemeral autumn extinguish lighting forever.
The white fogs all of loves unfulfilled fulfilled in void full empty,
The wasteland of living dead with green oases growing in desert full of sterile life,
Crows white black parrots silent speaking in colors mute noisy multicolored,
The moments from palms escape caught in fingers open clenched of time arrested.
On the mane of your neck without mane an I stranger familiar a he unknown intimate,
A green dove red with blood that left remaining in the subterranean heavens,
The planet inept savant with meadows of kind ordinary extraordinary of sterile grass,
Leaving us stars drowned floating in the transparent mud of infinity bounded.
A two alone a you plural I like the madman healthy from us absent present,
Who painted yesterday tomorrow icons destroyed preserved fine ladies holy profane on bottles,
Empty full of champagne of tears and comets from stellar sand cosmic terrestrial,
Nudes dressed faceless with all the faces replacing the leaf withered fresh.
Of eyelids open closed unique eye inexistent real that sees unseeing seeing,
With a debauched muse chaste modest that inspires the empty full of absurd logical serene,
The summary detailed calendar from false true leaves counts our immortal days,
In the wasteland full of living dead where we all are the drowned stars shining in mud.
Drag along the prophet?
Oracle, break the grip.
Tools of iron and Tophet!
Let the heavens rip!
Flippered horrors on the crawl?
Subterranean tour.
High hells? Hand in overhaul.
Liquid has its lure.
Dour the towers in late spring?
Rim of crater wide.
Drench the world, O undying!
Ocean, loose thy tide!
Grim the gambrel gangrel?
Volcano, downward run.
Belladonna, bell and spell!
Young and yellow dun.
Coals a-glow, infernal life?
Dance upon my knife!
Demon-sultan, play thy fife.
Rampant round and rife...
Strife, goals. Remotest controls?
Lost as ancient souls.
Broken, are ye, golden bowls?
Doldrums, dole and tolls.
Holes producing matter?
Apogee, twist with pain...
Night upon the latter?
Floodwater, course from main...
THE WORM
The worm that tugs at leaf
inverts the blade of grass,
lengthens its coil, enriches the soil.
The earth’s weight bears upon it
like the gravity of its blind world.
Its wefting ways warp the velour of lawn.
Long-drawn bluntness gaining ground
in low-geared, segmented progress.
Indispensable, deliberate, tardy work:
aerating oceans of soil over aeons of time.
THE BLACKBIRD
On the lawn, the tar-feathered blackbird
surveys its territory with springy hops;
pauses spasmodically, listens to
its feather-brained instincts.
Swift as thought (a leap, a bound, a rush)
the thrush jabs its amber beak,
like a brimstone pointed arrow,
pecking and gashing at subterranean stirrings.
It pulls and reels, wrenching the worm
from its obscure socket with electric energy.
THE CAT
On the wall, mesmerised by the hubbub,
by the bobbing beak of the blackbird,
flattening its feline form, cat’s eyes
regard the scene with lethal patience.
In perfect poise, shifting its body weight,
padded paws set the mechanics of a spring
and with split-second timing, the mortal fell
stained with red the perfect blackness of a wing.
Later, the cat will saunter to the wall
and perch where the blackbird used to sing.