Long Thickening Poems
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It smells like pickles green in Autumn
Aromas arise like Frankenstein in formaldehyde
Tubular, somewhat spiny, objects plump
Ready to be plucked at midnight
Be not pickled in perpetuity
Be not afraid of the moon in gravity
Be not drowned in your own juices
Harvest arrives on time within the margins
Gardeners gather up the treasures in the fields
On gentle breezes in their mysteries
Command attention to details
Wherein the Earth gives up its riches
Auras of famished women come with hunger
Peculiar are the agencies of pickles
Beyond our comprehension of pregnancy
Textures and substance stand there implied
More than compromised, more than desired
Commingling in the thickening brine
There comes a time for pickles to arrive
Baptized in juices cloudy
In favorable conditions facing south
Towards flavors drenched in dill savory
Splendor is found in jars kept from light
From tidal forces and moons influence
And sun’s petty jealousies
With lids turned right, twisted tight
Held by forces anesthetized
Pregnant with possibilities
Pickles scream at insatiable women
In pain with a blossoming womb
As plump as their cries in child birth allow
And a hunger for life itself consumed
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At first, it was the small things~
a button loose on his coat,
the way the kettle whistled
but no one came.
Then the clock stopped,
not abruptly, but slow,
as if time itself had grown tired
of counting.
The wallpaper remembered
patterns they’d long forgotten,
peeling itself back
to reveal older bruises~
yellowed glue, pencil marks
where someone once measured
a child against the doorframe.
One evening, the sofa exhaled,
sagging into the shape of absence.
The windows fogged with breath
that wasn’t theirs.
And when the last light bulb dimmed,
they didn’t replace it.
They sat in the thickening dark,
listening to the house
unbuild itself around them.
*You may read the companion memoir vignette at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/ill_be_seeing_you_13598
Under a trellis of vines, quite evergreen
This elegant, old lady sits on a wooden porch,
Her veined fingers twist in graceful motion
Kneading hued threads from silken yarn;
As weaves of cross-stitch unfurl through dusk :
How in gentle calm, a floral pattern expands
Thickening its pattern through intricate craftwork ...
I watch grandmother extend those elbows
To connect the dots while loops of artistry
Begin to take shape, her eyes glimmering
Upon moonlit wind: I cuddle this kerchief, now
A prized token of her bridal gift...my heirloom.
.....................
~ New Poem ~ 2/28/2019
Cross Contest of Carolyn Devonshire
Nestled upon the comfort of its owner's lap,
Wakes up from a nap with teeth bearing yawn,
Stretching its arms, extending its claws.
Looking up with bright emerald eyes,
Jumps down for a stroll in the dark.
Out of the darkness it moves unseen,
Midnight black, except for its luminous eyes,
And its feline silhouette against the full moon.
It raises its nose and looks up to the lit night sky,
Switching its tail left to right, on silent paws.
It stealth across the fence not shy,
Prowling into the thickening night.
3/28/2022
Black Cat Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
The moonlit path in the chill of October
is transformed by the thickness
of shadows rising and not dissipating
the creepy fog that induces fear.
Everything disappears from sight...
while the whitest full moon
glides and shines brilliantly,
and its brightness reaches
the depths of a magnificent universe.
All the feeble firs and birches
seem gigantic fathoms taking on
a human form and begin
to oscillate blown hard
by the ocean's hissing wind,
which stirs up foamy waves
battering against the huge
rocks that protect the sandy shore.
Owls and crickets have flown
to a safer grove less than a mile away,
and whirring their wings faster,
they too vanish trough the thickening
fog hoping to find calm there,
unless a hurricane is coming soon.
The moonlit path in the chill of October
illuminates a wilderness succumbed
to fog and tempestuous winds
coming from the doomed bay
that hours ago was frequented
by herons and ivory gulls.
In each room, the walls were thickening
with a silence, so harsh and sickening
once there were smiles and heartfelt hope
that soon faded, with promises they broke.
No one could fight, no one was right
except for those still in the light.
It fell away, out of their sight
quick as the day turned into night.
Once a host, he became a ghost
no message was sent in the post
just months long silence became his science
until he returned to find that it was too late.
Too late to repair what once was there
when they were drowning, he did not care.
Lies and betrayal, to him were not crimes
he lied with such ease, a thousand different times.
But it wasn’t just him who knew how to betray
even the righteous could be led astray
as she watched them all struggle to reach the next day
it took her four months, it was almost May.
But she was so busy, it would’ve wasted her time
something so precious, she still had her shine
and all of her plans she could’ve stacked to the ceiling
no, her concern was not how they were feeling.
It is not true that they wore the halos
mistakes get made when happiness fades
but was that the fate they deserved?
To be lied to and ghosted, discarded and broken
left with no choice but to restart
a life that they’d made, in one they could’ve stayed
had it not been for such a cold, soulless depart.
From the house that still lives in each of their minds
a house that still lives, although it has died.
The local folk now hear a plane,
quite low and circling round.
In thickening fog and driving rain,
can it not see the ground?
It surely has wandered off course.
For where was this plane bound?
Maybe landmarks it’s looking for
but hidden in the grey.
Then engine roar suddenly heard.
Now seems it’s on its way
and is returning to true course.
But then with some dismay
there comes an ominous silence,
followed by amber glow
up there on a nearby hilltop.
It is then that folk know
the reason for sudden silence.
No further will it go.
Some locals go to the rescue,
heading for amber light,
expecting carnage all around
from people on the flight.
With speed they must find the remains
for soon it will be night.
Then searching through the burning wreck
they find the crew alive.
The plane’s structure is torn apart
but all on board survive.
Seems it had flown into thick fog
with just a crew of five.
On the top of a Pennine hill
there crashed a bomber plane.
Lost in the mist it had no chance
in this hilly terrain.
The plane had left permitted course
and the crew were to blame.
(USAAF Boeing B17G, crashed
in Pennines in 1945. All five crew
survived. Bomber Plane, Barbara Jane.)
Without the families, the balloons,
the printed animal T-shirts
the walkways grow pensive and narrow
into unknown places.
Occasional security lights create
small pools of certainty.
The darkness in-between the glow
balloons and smothers,
wipes away the memory of laughter
and the excited screams of running children.
Nocturnal eyes hover over perch and branch,
peer from under rocks, watch each other’s lamps,
waiting for tell-tale blinks.
Big cats stir, smell prey. They see through walls
an instinctual stalk and stealthy hunt.
If you are alone in that imprisoned jungle
you will keep on the far side of the enclosures,
try to slip away from the low growls, the panting
and paw padding.
but then the moon comes out from a cloud,
strangely, you seek more of that pacing fear,
more of the thickening air
draw it deeper into your nose,
a snout now muzzling this way and that -
you commence to howl.
Soosa plans to go on a cycle ride,
to a distant place, misty and wild
where nature’s beauty could be seen
the fog that could ensnare the eye.
The teen girl was blissfully alone,
rides through the chill in the air
a strange sound made her groan,
Turning around, she saw a boy there.
Was shivering, with no woollen cloth,
Soosa stopped and offered him a ride
he said, “my home is not too far Soosa”
she rides merrily, with him by her side.
No words between them passed,
until he quietly said,”Take a turn.”
the mist around was thickening fast
Soosa felt afraid and wanted to return.
Breaking the lock, she started to drive,
when she looked behind, he was gone
sees, the two ends of the road decline,
submerges to form a mountain pass.
Scares, for the width was narrowing,
was about to become a frozen girl.
then a trembling sound was heard,
Boris was there, with two fireballs.
Soosa followed his instructions,
the orange lights pierced the mist
thinks, Boris is a divine intervention
he helped her escape a life of twists.
The light was dimming, her hope too,
Boris whispered, “Open your eyes.”
she was back home, joins her family
blessed by Boris, her inner guide!
*The shadow of a being always follows. It never overtakes.
Here Boris is depicted as the shadow of Soosa. Her rescuer
was she herself!
At the enthralled hour of All Hallow's Eve,
the night in frenzy clangour turns ghostly gray.
Billowing clouds slowly swirl in anger
round the formidable, full mysterious blood-red moon.
The eternal night ebbs with growling sounds,
prowling into thickening hours of darkness.
Chill damp dense fog lazily wavers low,
stalking above the autumn trees turned red and gold.
Tenebrous gloominess brought brooding shadows,
idle and dank, adjoined by broken down fencing
and gnarl skeletal tree boughs, silhouettes weaving
like marionettes against the full Halloween moon.
9/24/2019