Long Uncoiled Poems
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Redemption
She slowly uncoiled her gray streaked hair that fell to her waist. She removed her
spectacles to see more clearly the windswept icy snow clinging to the branches. A
pause, settling something deep within; then her gaze shifted to me.
I reached out, but found my reach was frozen, too stiff to touch her. For if I touched
her, the burden we shared would lapse and slide away, slinking off to be buried,
uncoiled under the ground.
A pinched, dour expression settled her features into a mask that would never
betray the inner darkness which created a shadow of an existence. A mask that I
must wear as well, to ward off the hopeless life within me, growing every moment of
the day, days upon days retreating into the too long nights, hopeless to survive in
the world we have created, together as “want” and “ruthlessness”.
“I carry no idolatries, no false hope.” A breath are these words as I receive them,
knowing they are too bold to give forth a safe humility.
The nurse, starched clothing as stiff as her countenance, paused, a look of
condemnation briefly shadowing her face, the sun passing in and out of the clouds.
She could not help herself. No matter the role we are chosen to play in this world,
we are not free of a deeply flawed human nature, ice softening dangerously on a
winter’s pond. I turned away.
I came to hours later, the rejected life in me gone, a searing through flesh never
immune to a free will taunting, tearing the fabric of life so fragile. I would not cling. A
passing briefly witnessed, a single brown leaf blown by the window in the darkened
room where we sit for tea, hopes slowly elapsing like the sea waters
receding.
Tomorrow we can only envision; today we must let go of a part of us we will never
again possess. A coursing through the veins of life no more, we push, and push, an
existence wishing to sink into the yawning chasm of what is unknown and coming
for us.
As I walked through a meadow singing a song,
I heard a hissing voice say, "Hello. Come along."
It came from beneath a patch of thorny weeds,
whispered, "Are you one of those good seeds?"
I feared the snake would strike from coiled position,
but it seemed to be waiting for my admission.
There was a fiery light burning in its beady eyes,
as distant thunder rumbled in graying skies.
I dared not let the reptile know the fear I felt within
so, I answered the snake, with gold glistening skin.
"I don't think of myself as a righteous good seed.
but I do my best to perform many a helpful deed."
"What of you, snake? What is it that you like to do?
Tell me why many people are always afraid of you."
He flicked his tongue to catch the scent of me,
took some time before replying, then he did decree:
"Snakes like me have always been misunderstood."
Then he rose up higher and the cobra fanned his hood.
"We're called "Lords of Evil," but we're merely snakes.
Some of us are poisonous, but for goodness sakes,
many of us do good things on the land of Mother Earth.
Shouldn't that mean that we have a measure of worth?"
He uncoiled and slithered under an apple tree's shade.
I should've walked away, but couldn't, so I stayed.
My mind was overflowing with things I wanted to query.
He beckoned me to come nearer, but I remained wary.
"Do not fear me for I'll not sink my fangs in you, child.
I'm sick and tired of snakes being slandered and reviled.
We're thought of as devils and demons from Satan's lair,
beheaded and killed for no reason, and that's not fair."
I listened to its complaints and with him I had to agree.
Snakes always get a bad rap. Not all of them are beastly.
Suddenly, he stopped talking, and I thought he was asleep
until he opened one eye, asking if his secret I would keep.
"I won't tell anyone about the conversation we just had,
and promise to spread the word that not all snakes are bad."
an old clock composed of several larger and smaller gearwheels
hung on the wall; some teeth are worn or missing therefore
the gears occlude poorly
they skid and roll unbalanced
no matter how long and how hard the clock chews ‘chronos/time’
with its mismatched jaws, its stomach upset with ‘chronos/time’ indigestion
keeps bothering him
even so, you must eat to survive, thus time occasionally goes out,
lying on the cane that became shorter by time and tide
and stretches his arm with open palm to ask alms from passersby;
he looks worn and tired but what else can he do, it’s the karma of
an isochronal pendulum alone to carry on dangling
when time is shoved in to the point of twenty-four it steps on
the delicate line between today and tomorrow, time must return
to home and tighten an uncoiled spring, which just barely pushes
time forward; then, time has to pull the lever to ring the bell relying
on a worn screw that won’t tighten any more from years of abuse
no matter whether the bell is ringing or not the man bruised from
all day long’s abuse and punishment, has no interest in the ring of
the bell but colors a picture with the colors of his choice pillowing
the pillow named uncertain tomorrow; the man seems so pathetic
the clock turns its face to avoid the miserable sight
and each time the clock turns its face
it gains a wrinkle that is deeper then the skin
it doesn’t matter whether the scene is pathetic or happy,
the matter is that i can count the time hanging on the wall,
and that i am still hanging on the wall
the wall though is partially fallen
it’s glad i am still hanging on it observing human lives
counting their times; the clock, with bit of embarrassment
caused from boasting, stays up tick-tacking all night through
Bullwhip Bob settled in the cafe
and ordered fried spuds and beef.
A railroad man in Bingham’s Town,
he came here each noon to eat.
He’d gotten his name not for his job,
but because each and every day,
he went about his job with a whip
coiled high up upon his waist.
Nobody had ever seen it used,
but the message it sent was clear,
luckily Bob was the amiable type
with little need to inspire fear.
But behind him there rose a ruckus
out in the town’s only street,
Geena was chasing Big Tom Roth,
accusing him of dastardly deeds.
“You stole my money for medicine!”
Geena cried out in despair.
“My sister’s sick, your heatless thug,
stop walking and give it here!”
Big Tom did stop, and hollered at her:
“Back off it you value your life!
I ain’t got nothing to give to you
except for this here knife!”
Bob frowned, stepped to the street
and uncoiled his long whip.
His heart pounded in his chest,
he said,”Bob, that’s enough of this!”
Tom had twenty pounds on Bob,
but fear came to his eyes.
He took one look at the long whip,
then dug a pocket on his side.
He removed a pouch of coins
and tossed it on the ground,
then he stormed off grumbling,
stomping his way out of town.
Geena picked up her coin-pouch,
and kissed Bob on the cheek,
Bob went red because on Geena
he had always been sweet.
She hurried off as Bob slowly
coiled the whip up on his belt,
hoping against greatest hopes
that she knew how he felt.
He’d put himself at risk for her,
he’d done what he felt right.
He didn’t want to image if Bob
had chosen to start a fight.
For though he carried the great whip,
to look all intimidating,
he didn’t have the slightest idea
how to use the gol-darn’d thing.
"The Oshen Family was a simple family. There was a father, a mother, a brother and a sister. The brother and sister were twins. Some people even said they could feel each other’s pain, but they were actually very different from each other. One day they were sent on a chore. It was their job to gather fire wood for evening supper. As the Oshen boy overturned a rock, a black adder uncoiled from behind it, and bit him. He lay on the ground shaking. His sister, Oshen girl tried to save her bitten brother and she too was bitten by the poisonous snake.
As the two siblings lay there dying Oshen boy asked his Sister, “Heaven (for that was Oshen girl‘s name), Are we going to Die?”
“Yes,” Oshen girl replied. “What will death be like?” Oshen boy asked.
“Well, my teacher told me you will see a tunnel of light.”
“And all your relatives will be there.”
“is that Nirvana?” Oshen boy asked.
“It could be, If you make it,” ” Oshen girl told him.
Oshen boy seemed confused. .
“What?” Oshen boy asked
“Death is consciousness nothingness,” Oshen girl replied, “Whatever you want it to be.”
The poison began to sink in, and the siblings suffered, but not for very long. As Oshen Girl’s spirit left her body she thought, “I am free this is wonderful, I am so happy. This is true freedom, I have no boundaries or limits. I AM GOING TO DO WHAT I’ve ALWAYS WANTED. I am going to be everything and nothing. Woo-hoo. Yippee. Wee.”
AS Oshen Boy’s spirit left his body he thought, “I am Free this is terrible, I am so scared, I have no boundaries or limits. THE FEAR OF WHAT IS OUT THERE IS SO TERRIFYING, IT HAS GIVEN MY SOUL PARALYSIS. Oh-no. Ugh. Ouch."
Excerpt from The 4 Hundred and 20 Assassins: Green Mourning
By: Joe DeMarco
The Dilettante Diaries: "Open Door Barefoot"
Open door to closed room
Ceiling smashed
Stars in a very clear sky
Fresh air
taken into lungs
Risen
from
the
Lake of None
Arrival of White Doves
Broken glass, careful where you step
Barefoot Bleeds Love
(Lovejoy-Burton/October 2018)
for my daughter, Georgia
"THAT crazed girl improvising her music. Her poetry, dancing upon the shore, Her soul in division from itself Climbing, falling She knew not where, Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship, Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing Heroically lost, heroically found."
The Poet Pleads with the Elementals
THE Powers whose name and shape no living creature knows
Have pulled the Immortal Rose;
And though the Seven Lights bowed in their dance and wept,
The Polar Dragon slept,
His heavy rings uncoiled from glimmering deep to deep:
When will he wake from sleep?
Great Powers of falling wave and wind and windy fire,
With your harmonious choir
Encircle her I love and sing her into peace,
That my old care may cease;
Unfold your flaming wings and cover out of sight
The nets of day and night.
Dim powers of drowsy thought, let her no longer be
Like the pale cup of the sea,
When winds have gathered and sun and moon burned dim
Above its cloudy rim;
But let a gentle silence wrought with music flow
Whither her footsteps go.
(William Butler Yeats)
"Fly On" /Coldplay
https://youtu.be/qtooMN9QZKw
In loving memory of a legend deeply missed
Taken 2 soon which gets me pi##ed
The best musician in lifes childhood
Highly misunderstood by ignorant do goods
Wrongly accused of so many crimes
Punished for speakin up so many times
The envy of so many wannabes
My inspiration to write with ease
I grew up with your music and screen shows
Feels like I knew you well although
We never met it frustrates me so
That I cannot tell you your my hero
I honestly think biggee was a true friend
And he had nothing 2 do with your first assassination atempt
But puffy on the other hand is sly
And I think he'd do anythin 2 get by
So many rumours that you didn't die
But I know different and I'll explain why
On that fateful september night in vegas
You seen your shooter as he passed
And you wouldn't go and hide away my friend
You'd write a song explaining revenge
No-one could silence the legend of 2pac
The only way in life is 2 hit back
Suge was the problem in the wars
A selfish manipulator lower than the floor
Should have left with dre when you had the chance
You could still be here making everyone dance
I think the rivalry was between suge and puff
You and biggee was dragged into that fuss
It was puffy that instigated that vegas night
The target suge was in the sights
You should have stayed with iron mike
That was the chance 2 put everything right
Biggee should have laid low for a while
Or until suge was put in jail
Coz when he set foot on westside soil
Suge's revenge plan uncoiled
A small handful of artist started an epic genre called rap
Most influential is the 1 and only 2pac
We miss you makaveli the don
In your music you live on
A breath of fresh air, after the table was cleared
we had poured ourselves, one last sip of wine
We marveled a bit over the dip of the sun
An interlude, before the tint had resigned
to the gun-metal gray, and a time to reside
Our solitude broken and it changed on a dime
Unprepared for the guest, which came in a flash
A gash cut by lightning lit up through the dust
without even hinting, as flint hit the stone
A grumbling sky, turned the blush trembling cold
A roar of the wind, where a beast could be heard
all that was peaceful, became quite disturbed
Over rolls of the hills, it stalked like a cat
a monster, of clouds, on gray bobcat feet
with lynx-like eyes, and with billowing fur
that spurned tranquil eyes, on the softer retreat
A fierce witch's brew, uncoiled with wrath
with wind from the breast of sage and the dunes
Gliding in from the fields, to rage and to seize
where pillars and posts would snap, just to please
Eerie sounds whistled through the long window sills
The peace no longer held calm or a still
Angry whips with each breath, cracking fearsome with sound
Pounding with rain, gnashing teeth, with each round
Shingles turned loose to mingle with limbs
The thunder, was plundering, and peeling the plains
Rain gushing down, forging new creeks
pushing fast rivulets and forging new steel
We wait until the wrath has spent all it's worth
With gusto, and grit, .... until a last final vent
A tantrum with wiles, till the cat takes a bow
The monster has gone, to climb to the hills
_____________________________________________
For P.D.'s Contest: "Epic Sightings"
Picture #2
With flaming pen
The beast inside me scratches to remove,
Fingers pulsing with my heartbeat growing
What will prove
To quit and quiet or sparkle softly,
In the distant night.
What would it prove to cater to
Such shallowness as one’s delight.
When beasts burst forth exploring every pore.
Scattered scallions
Relinquish the air to moan.
Even the box
Is outside the box
At Heaven’s gate deluxe;
To remove the pitied eye and stand forth naked.
I do hate, I am human, After all.
Who was it again that witnessed the fall?
Well, we all sag weary against the ropes
When each rose uncoiled clings,
The jaded blackbird sings, and
Pie-in-the-sky magpies flap their useless wings.
Look in the mirror at the naked scourge behind you.
Listen to the pounding of the drums of your doom.
There isn’t any room.
Not the slightest wiggling inch
Of breath or sound or excluded pinch;
When we shout Holy Hell,
Holy Haunted Hell, After all.
The messenger in all of us
That wakens a sleeping sickness of liquid pus,
Of bruised and startled semen-egg to mark its choice.
Heavenly Father where the hell is your voice?
Aloud, Aloud, After all.
Meekness protruding from some dark and brooding
Corner of misunderstanding.
Comes the Death; Comes the Light;
Comes the Commanding Voice.
Return once more to the core of all confusion.
Take back the shelter and reign in the smelter
Of Christ’s own blend of defiance.
Be in Death or Life or Hell
On Faith be our reliance.
And in the end of all, after alls,
We find yet another broken appliance.
What they saw, that seminal liberation day,
Defied, at first, all comprehension;
The winding dirt road uncoiled to a clearing,
Snaked to primal ordinariness, a camp, militia deserted.
Static gates, fences of rust stained barbed wire,
Ramshackle huts in the near distance,
Flanking sentry towers and water towers attentive only to silence,
For the birds were not singing.
And in that silence seethed the heavy earthen burden
Of graveyards after rainstorms,
Of fear that gnaws in the gut,
Trickles of icy blood from intestine to bowel,
A silence that lies dead against the trunks of hanging trees,
That dominates above the frozen fields of battle done,
That rules in funerary deserts at night,
That defines itself in the airless vacuum of space.
What they saw, creeping-crawling dawning of envisioning,
Burned branding iron snapshots on each cortical cell,
As there they stood with slackened jaws,
And gaping eyes, weeping denial,
Conversely knowing the dread damning truth.
As hands grew taut, bloodlessly white yet hot
About the walnut sheen of cold carbines
Gripped in fright and mourning at humanity’s supreme debase.
Swaying, gentle tilt, lined behind the creaking cables,
Skeleton people in malodorous pyjamas,
Their own hands tapering like pale rags,
Grasping the nettles of cold steel wire,
Rotting mirror images of their liberators,
Staring back at them with saucer eyes in skull faces,
Eyes electric with black reflections, vision haunted,
Of unfathomable despair, near-death dominion, inexpressible torment.