Long Unfurnished Poems
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You left me Ha!
Off you go
You think I need you
Hit the road
I can find someone else
To walk on my chest
You weren’t that good
You’re certainly not the best
I’ve seen a manikin wearing thong
But on you girl it looked all wrong
Just to let you know your underarms had a serious pong
And I’d rather kiss the likes of King Kong
As for your bra size
I could rent them out as two unfurnished flats
Don’t forget when you leave
To take your witch’s hats
Your brooms ahead of you girl
With my shoes up the ass of your black cat
When you were young you must have been a scary child
buy the way is that hair real makes you look all wild
You call that a weave or was it a perm
Either way it made me squirm
I always knew that I was too good for you
Consider this note expressing that we through
Around the corner
from where I live alone,
in an unfurnished studio apartment,
there’s a shabby restaurant where
I often sit nursing a cup of coffee.
I asked Life one day, “Why me?”
Sitting across from her and
looking directly into her eyes,
“Why did you come to be with me?
I never wanted this. Now I’m distraught,
You have given me nothing but
heart-ache and pain,
broken dreams and empty promises.”
“I was a contented spirit,
Roaming the realms of the heavens
immortal and eternal;
But now, thanks to you, I am
besieged with mortal maladies and
haunted by your old nemesis, death!”
~Contest: Chapter 1 Poetry Narrative
~Sponsor: Matt Caliri.
Mental Illness.
Just too much of too much.
Carrying a huge wooden box containing a single apple.
Rotting, burning core.
Saying I would never beg for forgiveness again.
Then tipping the doll house over.
Mental illness.
You would think the “too much” would implode one day.
Never.
Just weaves rotting roots to grow higher.
Creaking sounds like memories if they could swallow.
Destiny is always around the corner for no reason.
And my destiny is helpless too.
Mental illness.
Creates.
Weird, unfurnished feelings.
Just too much of too much.
Mental illness.
I know where it comes from.
Maybe they’ll know someday.
And I let the world to its pass
Letting it pass by unnoticed
The never moments never asked
A time only if left unfurnished
I have not a care
I am not to bother the change
Not for moments I’ll like share
Only to have a time I remember remain
Unfettered, unwanting, undone
Rules to a game yet unknown
A perfect seed unsoiled and unplant
A place in the world without a home
And I saw the world to its toll
The truth of humanities with life never lived
To each and all be fitted with roles
For the finality when an eventual age will deceive
Having forgotten to live the day
I remember the life I have forgotten so well
A mind taught beyond words to say
Perhaps the world is just forgetting us to tell
A solitary kernel for lack of succoring nurture aggrieved
From sun's warm caresses seasonally bereaved
With wind's chilling strides constantly plucked, heaved
Lying on fallowed ground whose cloak now desleaved
With frigid mantle over frostbitten spine weaved
Nutrient-rich pores of their cultivating provender relieved
As brittle husk to its fibrous moorings tightly cleaved
So coarse grains to earthen crevices, pockets sheathed
Dormant, but from bludgeoned shell will not secede
Nor Summer's bountiful harvest deed
A sparse, unfurnished bed temporarily bequeathed
Until providentially-rendered elements have new life breathed
Still yet, creator hath numbered all and due rations perceived
Until Spring's availing tides have Winter's corroded channels reprieved
And life's, generating tenants from their frozen prisons freed
3. At the Cabin
("Noh" is an ancient Japanese style of
drama, broadly similar to Elizabethan
tragedy. "The Wind in the Pines" is
my version of a well-known Noh play.)
(The Chokugan = a shinto prayer.
The priest is protecting himself from
the ghosts.)
BUDDHIST PRIEST
Do you live here?
MURASAME
Why do you ask? Who are you?
BUDDHIST PRIEST
Just a traveler, benighted on my journey to ...
MATSUKAZE
What you request is little enough.
But our cabin is sparse, unfurnished, rough.
We are ashamed. It's far too humble. See?
We cannot offer hospitality.
BUDDHIST PRIEST
I am not looking for feathers or feast.
I am a simple, unassuming priest.
A fog is gathering swiftly around:
Please don't ask me to sleep on the ground.
MURASAME:
I am sorry. You cannot stay ...
MATSUKAZE
Wait!
The fog is freezing, and the hour is late.
The moon sails out from the refuge of a cloud,
and I see the form of a man who has vowed
to abandon all license. That, I admire.
Approach, holy man, our wretched fire.
BUDDHIST PRIEST
I am grateful, ladies. Yukihira,
the much-lamented young poet,
put it thus: "If anyone
should ever ask for me,
say I'm in paradise, and I know it:
in Kobe, enfolded by green sea,
and fine women, to dote upon:
no place could possibly be dearer".
MATSUKAZE
Aieee!
BUDDHIST PRIEST
What's wrong, young woman? See,
I prayed this morning, by the tall tree,
two-trunked and handsome. Nothing bad
can come this way. You look so sad!
MATSUKAZE
You have mentioned the name of our dead lover.
BUDDHIST PRIEST
A peasant told me of two women from here,
who both loved a Kyoto nobleman.
He composed exquisite poetry,
but sickness took him, in the prime of youth.
MURASAME
Aiee!
BUDDHIST PRIEST
I think I have stumbled into the truth!
You are the girls who live in the tree!
You gave your hearts to Yukihira,
and now you're ghosts! The Chokugan!