Long Throttles Poems
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The motorcycle rooooooooared~~~~~
Like a ravenous lion
Over fresh kill, prancing, charging, pacing
It
Moved through the hoard
Of migrating tourists, frightening the tamer
More passive vagabonds
Lumbering
Forward
On cruise-control
The nameless helmeted driver
Melded with his machine,
Head down. Spine arched,
arms extended on the throttles~~
Blue-jeaned thighs embrace the chasse
A lovers grip..
His forward charge parted the air
A back draft peeled the Harley black T-shirt from
His winter-white skin.
Spring had arrived late to New England.
Better late than never,
The road hog squealed
Sex merely a throbbing growl away
As our lance less Lothario leaves
His own testosterone trail
In an asphalt hail
On the road north.
Lawn Mowers
Grandpa bought old junk,
and then he made it better.
He worked all day,
every day...
in the hot sun.
The man
never
complained.
I spent every summer,
just this side of Hades,
learning all about life.
There were lessons on gas tanks,
chocks and throttles.
There were exercises in
patience, tenacity, and forbearance.
My Grandfather,
was a tolerant man.
We fixed wires, changed plugs,
cleaned decks and sharpened blades.
These were all important points
to consider now,
and later,
as life present(s)(ed)
it's on questions.
Keeping busy helped Grandpa live long.
Showing me what was necessary
to achieve success...
was a value, immeasurable.
Shake a man's hand,
look him in the eye,
and never lie.
Do a job worth doing well,
and one that is not, better than expected.
The difference will shine,
in the light of day.
Thank you, Pa,
for believing...
in me.
The weightless float of morn throttles
like a softly-bathed woman: white, tangy and bubbling
with a sprig of mint and dew;
petals’ chests opening a gate of chastity, undressed.
A path of upturned twigs rips free and slides along veils
of bridal mist; misty in a way leaves become pastel
strands ; where footprints of grasses become delicate
as it is daring , calling forth my name,Eos...Eos.
Brocades of lace robe my wind—a breaking moment
for these flushed arms to sprinkle the pour of studded foliage
cradling morning's wake...soon,new lovers play
the choral flute bearing freshly-wed fruits: the smell
of earthy breeze drifts upon my mantle of humid, winged caves.
Gently daylight wakes, as I, Goddess of light and dawn
open the first rose shimmering ' neath my tapestry
weightlessly white, no one dares to speak.
Who Are You Contest
I Almost drowned,
which is to say,
I fell upwards into a darkness
that contained no earth or sky.
Ten years old and a strong swimmer,
but that lake only buoyed up
its own natatory denizens,
it allowed some to swim,
some to glide, dip or delve,
but it consumes skinny 10-year-old kids;
that being the cloud spawn of an alien shore,
must be dragged down and chewed,
like the pale moons reflection.
The muddy waters are one creature,
a sucking swirl, a single stomach,
it throttles, it snags with cuffing weeds,
clogs with the intestines
of convulsive ghosts.
I am drowning,
then they pierce that lusus naturae
with a long pole thrust from a skiff;
yank me out of its crushing press
like bait from a basilisks reeking maw.
Years later I still awake
from that heaving ‘lac sombre’,
an infection of the imagination
I’ve been harboring parasitically
inside the moil of engulfing dreams.
Perhaps incongruously,
it takes some time before I will enter rooms
with too high a ceiling.
The dark lake only buoys its own natatory denizens,
it allows some to swim, some to glide, dip or delve,
but those sombre waters pull down children
seeing them only as the cloud spawn of alien shores.
The waters are one unnatural creature, a sucking swirl;
a single stomach, that throttles, snags, and crushes,
it clogs the mind with the coiling swirls
of convulsive ghosts.
I am drowning, I fall upwards into a darkness
that contains no earth or sky.
The lake is a basilisk, it snakes into wide open eyes,
darkens the blood of small boys until they choke,
strangling on their own fear.
Decades later I awake, expelled once more
from the churn of its malignant maw,
still struggling inside a heartless embrace.
That cold lake remains within me to this day
It is a liquiform parasite that squirms in my dreams;
a submerged memory of my death - in waiting.
Shutters hang askew, redeeming guilt with two-way sighs,
Confessing what your forgotten vows and phantom memories deny.
Ivy throttles the porch in a desperate, strangling embrace,
hinting at peril in the wall's disheveled pale face.
The rank dark garden pond’s gaze reflects no pulse of sky,
it's a black, unblinking pupil that won't blink or die.
Window curtains quiver and sway where no breeze dares.
Echoes of stalking footsteps persist when climbing stairs.
Shadows crouch and slither beneath each creaking beam,
they shift when you look away — they're not what they seem.
This house harbors the twilight between dream and waking,
where spooky creaks unravel the curse in its undertaking.
I listen to whimpers as duskfall nears
Finding a gangly waif rile from burnt skin;
My feet throttles along…his grin appears
With palm half-filled with dimes circling therein.
We talk warmly about this waif's despair
Of how prayers- heal abating such plight--
As he shares moist wheat-bread in hours that bear
A street child’s gentle spirit… on etch of night
Gazing far I see the boy wave his arm
As if to echo our words that console :
But from heart’s pit, he enkindles a charm
Restoring my sense of kindness… now whole.
*
3rd place
NA- Re-run 7 Contest of John Hamilton
Originally Written 6/9/2020
Judged 6/9/2020 Re-submitted 6/14/2020
My body tenses.
The soft padding of footy pajamas
approach
tiny fingers grip my eyelid
lift it....
Bright eyes gaze into
the freshly opened eye.
A voice shouts....DA!!!
The other eye opens.
Yes I'm in here.
......And he knows it.
His PJ's had that
"potato in a pocket" hang.
I close my eyes...
reopen them...
he's still there...
he shouts again....DA!
Milk dribbles from his chin
as he struggles
to master the spoon
Cheerios dot his forehead
as he throttles a banana.
The "eye" sips coffee
tries not to laugh.
The dog laps up
his portion of sharing.
It was a good morning.. until
he pried my eye open
then....it became
.......A GREAT MORNING
John G. Lawless
2/15/2021
The calamity on the leaders of the dynasty was very heavy.
Drona, Bhishma, Arjuna, all faded, all getting sad,
A Suyodhana rose, speaking, 'Veer! Well done!'
He again challenged Parth (Arjun) for a duel,
The Guru hinted at Arjun to remain silent.
Kripacharya said- 'Listen, heroic unknown young man'
Arjuna is the child of Bharata-dynasty-Avatans Pandu.
'It is a Kshatriya, it is a Rajput, who will not fight like this,
How would one jump into the melee?
If you want to fight with Arjun, do not go silent in the gathering
Say something, tell me who are you? '
'Caste! Oh caste! Karna's heart throttles,
Looking at the enraged Sun, he spoke with heroic anger
'Caste-caste rites, whose capital is only heresy,
What should I know? These are my arms.
'Kanak-chhatra on the head above, black-within-black,
Don't be shy about asking people in the world.
I am a sutraputra, but who was father Parth?
Say courage, do not remain silent in guilt.
'You raise the head, you take the name of the caste,
But, with the power of unrighteous exploitation, you thrive in happiness.
Your soul trembled with the half-castes,
You ask for the donation of thumb by deception.
I stand in the raging river in flood,
brown water flushes the sand grains
that seem like the cells of dry blood.
I feel the pangs of your hidden pains
when your broken heart bleeds pale,
hear the moan of the wounded bird
the nest ravaged by the summer gale.
Vaporized sorrow makes eyes blurred,
I see in the distant niche of your face
the frozen eyes melt uncontrolled
like snow crystals under the sun’s rays.
The eyes strained red and anguished
liquefy in tear as a river in flood brown
for me to swim away or to drown.
I stand in the raging river in flood,
the water compresses my chest a lot,
doesn’t touch my heart of cold blood.
The gloomy water throttles my throat,
I don’t stretch my hands to reach you
for I live my own life, I needed to float.
Have I let my inflated mind to brew
an ego nesting hollow negligence in rot
or weave motive of conscious rejection?
Have you sunk your mind in the thought
of groundless and fragile expectation?
Hope doesn’t float on a flooded river
sympathy doesn’t know how to swim,
you don’t grasp the idea called life ever.
I step out of the river, your melted dream,
I wait in patience for the right time to start
to make the river flow back to your eyes.
Let it gather shards of your broken heart,
let pieces of sunk dream from depth rise,
let the river lay fertile silt on the wasteland
spread the seeds of green hope all over.
Saplings would sprout in the desert sand
your mind would turn into a valley of flower.
Love would again blossom in your heart
I would leave my dream with you and depart.
November 12, 2017.
Contest : Choose a Topic.
Topic : Hope.