Long Unidentifiable Poems
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From a flick of a moment,
at the blink of my eyes,
the light was stolen straight from my eyes.
As a baby, they were big and hopeful.
As a child, they danced a joyous dance.
Making them unidentifiable to the human eye,
making them wonder, what color are your eyes?
From a flick of a moment,
at the blink of my eyes,
the light shined brightly straight from my eyes.
The eyes are the gateway to the soul,
my gateway was wide open,
open to all to see the performance,
of my soul dancing magnificently.
But at a flick of a moment,
at the blink of my eyes,
from the words that were said,
the light was stolen straight from my eyes.
The eyes are the gateway to the soul,
mine is now a prison,
locked up tightly,
to the soul of a person,
you can not find.
But if you so must,
want to try.
Just know that in the pupil of my eye,
there is a soul,
looking for the center of my eye.
Every doorway is well lit yet barred and locked.
This is my dream body, it is chasing its twilit shadow
down blind alleyways
pausing only to heave breathlessly
as it comes to a stop
in yet another walled-off cul-de-sac.
Daylight couples slyly with moonlight,
it forms a vaporous union that creeps under skin,
We are two hands and a mouth,
weak hands scratching upon a lid of fear.
We call such mind-hauntings: nightmares,
yet they seem so very real
as we fretfully slumber -
then they chase us remorselessly
through our daily lives.
Why record such fantasies,
these myriad variations of horror?
Why relive the frights, the needling frets
of these subconscious ghost trains - images
that fly through all our darkly hidden spaces.
Perhaps only to share an elusive puzzle-picture,
to reach into other sequestered minds
that may experience the same
other-worldly hinterlands, the same fear-threads,
and there know we are crisscrossing
the same unidentifiable landscapes
all of us have created for ourselves.
I took a hike in Bramble Bog,
and reveled in the croaking frogs;
the singing crickets and river song,
were lovely, so I whistled along.
By the river, on a great cypress branch,
upon which, I chanced to glance,
sat a bull and two young elves;
they were doing something swell!
Clearly, I’d walked into a peculiar land;
elves and bull behaved like man.
There they sat, painting away,
with brush and canvas, on a field day.
I’d never disrupt this cheery band,
for they had such talented hands;
and cloven hoof with paint-filled brush,
was painting a portrait of a tiny thrush.
I snapped a picture with my cell,
quietly so they’d never tell;
and slipped away into the wood,
believing I had something good.
Oh, my friends would all love this,
I went home in ecstatic bliss.
but, when I went to show my friends,
I noticed something on the lens.
The picture was a blotchy mess,
an unidentifiable, amorphousness.
There was nothing to show my friends
and I never saw that sight again.
A curious thing in my backpack,
was a canvas framed all in black.
A tiny note, there beside,
read, “Elvin magic, we’ve applied...
surprise!”
There, in the kitchen of this modest dwelling,
A cheerful room, in spite of its lack of grandness
Home to the little family
Who gathered together each evening
For string beans and mashed potatoes,
Eating with relish at the rectangle of oak
They recounted a day filled with stories
Of the playground mishap,
Of the clearance sale at the hardware store,
Significant things or things without matter
The scene reconstructed, each night of the week
With new accounts of a busy day
A ritual never lacking in importance.
This coming together at the end of the day,
While chomping away on an unidentifiable casserole,
Filling the belly, as well as the soul,
Consuming tidbits of noodles, and wisdom and the love of being together.
Until, one day it was time to retire
The humble piece of oak with the four wobbly legs
For something more presentable. Something more impressive,
That would serve the expanse of a family
Which had grown in numbers throughout the years.
How could anyone have known the significance
Of that aging old table with its warp in the middle?
The sag she had tried to hide with a checkered cloth.
Those who sat there day after day, hardly aware of it's meaning.
This old oak piece, having withstood crayon marks, spilled milk,
Even small holes from the time when father, while repairing a picture frame,
Had accidently hammered nails all the way through and into it's top.
Who knew that a weathered old piece of wood would be witness
To such love and importance
And in itself, was more worthy than
Anything this family could have ever imagined?
Asleep before the head hits the pillow
Head filled with vivid colors swirling, amassing, mixing outside the lines
Transgressions grow skyward like a bean stalk becoming a giant
Worries wander aimlessly like a cat in the night looking for a spoon
Hurts pound again, and again, first a drumstick then a sledge hammer
The kaleidoscope of confusion rotates ever faster, bed spins counter
Places cannot be escaped
Faces stare as if clothes have been robbed
Running, Flying, Drowning, Suffocating, Garbling Words, Can’t Breath,
Slow Motion, Falling, Insatiable Hunger, Unquenchable Thirst, Blood Stained, Shouting
Loaded Down, Frantically Searching Pockets, Hidden Underneath, Forgotten
Fear. All fears. Nothing but fear. Afraid. Regret. Worry. I didn’t. I really did!
Each day we pack our pockets. Cram our purses. Load our backpacks
Hang needless objects and things around our necks, over our shoulders, in the crux of our elbows, on our belts
Grip suitcases. Carry stuffed plastic grocery bags on each knuckle. Waddling to the side of the bed before crashing head on
Unknowingly still pinching the key between our left thumb and pointer finger
Hitting the bed with a massive crash
every part of the day strewn around the room like a devastating mid air explosion of a 747 littering debris, miles and miles of destruction, charred remnants, unidentifiable and randomly placed objects, out of place, disfigured, often never found
Before your head hits the pillow
Drop the things you picked up today
Take a load off
Free yourself of your burdens
Neatly set everything aside
On second thought, just pile it and let it lay where it falls
Drop your yoke
Sit down on the foot of the bed with God
Hand Him the things you still cling within sweating red fists
Briefly Examen your day
Fall asleep on His shoulder
He will gently lay your head on the pillow, loft your feet off the floor, and tuck you in.
Let Him carry your burdens, lighten your load, unpack, empty your pockets, wash your laundry, even sort and match the socks.
Travel to sleep lightly and peacefully dreaming of a new day
carrying nothing but what is truly needed.
“Oh, not in my town,” you doth so loudly protest.
But I tell you, they are even in your governments!
The first sign is~ suppression of your free speech.
We let them, outlaw words, while leaders sun at the beach?
You will find that your country,is really no longer your own,
All your taxes go to others from other countries, unknown.
Your country’s flag is burnt in the streets with livid hate and glee?
By masked protestors, filling the streets with grand superiority.
The USA policemen and women are killed with joy and glee?
And people run for President, supporting this inhumane tragedy?
When, in your country, your rights are out the patriotic window.
Be afraid, be very afraid……of this Communistic horror show.
You will be jailed for words that you wrote a friend online?
In free countiries, you write as you choose, and all is fine…
I watch, news from international servers and stations.
Powerful nations are stealing your rights, its citizens,given a ration.
The Nazis march in your streets, to destroy another nation.
Their hate so obvious and ill, that it is a cause for celebration?
These same people, would have gladly cheered on…the Holocaust?
Today, wear masks and scream for death~indeed their souls are lost!
Their heroes killed babies, youngsters, parents in their own homes.
And butchered the young at a dance..as the daybreak’s sun has shown.
A butcher shop of dead, young people unidentifiable, they were in parts.
These monsters then killed their families, and destroyed homes and farms.
So the friends of this bloody mayhem, do march in your “free”streets.
Supported by the UN and all of them, Satan’s souls, a most delicious treats.
Most nations want this nation,wiped off the face of this now maliciciuos earth.
Satan will welcome them, that Fallen Angel, with his evil smile of dirth.
God bless the thousands of innocents murdered a year ago today..
I have grieved for them all, each day nonstop without allay.
The media has largely ignored this most tragic event of my life.
I hope I awaken some souls to this horror and world strife.
Bless and release the starving, lonely, abused and dead hostages!
The 10/7/2024
In Honor of the fallen during the Nova Massacre.
November 7th, 2023! I will never forget!
How to describe the color of love? Might you frown in surprise if I spoke of brown? Dull, pockmarked, ocherous brown.
A tarmac of grain, stained the color of earth, that never saw rain.
One humble old table, from an oak that would fall. Who could have known the
moments recalled?
Just a scarred weathered plank, with a warp in the middle. Blight she would hide with a bright checkered cloth. Those who would sit, night after night, greeting with eyes, meeting with ears,... filling the gaps with laughter and tears
Decades were spent, over string beans, and potatoes, bridging the gap of a mid-day mishap, a chat after school, or a new family rule.
Resurrecting a family, at the end of the day, while chomping away on unidentifiable casseroles, that filled the belly, as well as the soul.
Consuming wisdom and noodles, in the comfort of home.
Who would have noticed this shabby antique, wearing wax from Crayolas, white coffee cup rings. Ink spots, and dings. And three winking holes made by father's misdeed!
(His picture-frame project, misjudging the nails! Three slender digits pierced in without fail! Hammered tight, to the top. While mother's shot through the roof!
Who could have ever guessed that a well-worn, weathered old piece of grainy brown oak could be the glorious color of love?
____________________________________
7/16/17
Reliable
And viable
Among familiar objects or those that are unidentifiable
And unrecognizable
Items rigid or pliable
It's just undeniable
It won't always be justifiable
If the odds are good or considered unsurvivable
It'll be despised or likable
Recommended or inadvisable
Down to the very last minute
Consistent
And efficient
Following through on commitments
While using similar and different equipment
We might feel the same or different
Lifeforms that stand their ground or scurry
Realize there won't always be mercy
Surely
Nearly endless controversy
Whether it is or isn't unearthly
I'm still feeling hungry and thirsty
During this journey
They say the early bird gets the worm, which I why I hurry
To get my hands dirty
While staying sturdy
In order to earn some turkey
Near and far from waters that are murky
Underneath skies that are clear or blurry
fine lines sketched into my mirror
how did they get there? weathering
the decades, furrowed brow, creased
eyes with bags am i an old bag -
nonsense.
the mirror crack'd with an angry
whiplash i had to take a look
at my life, evaluate, extenuate
my outlook. hope for this old hag -
that kind of self talk for the birds.
bright city lights, broadway trimmed
my mirror looking extravagant, even
with its pits, spots, wrinkles of time
better lived than alone
am i a crackpot? If i am
i’m sipping from a loving cup
grateful for the full ride
i abide in the faithful arms
of Jesus Christ
his mirror was treacherous, scarred
his countenance was cracked
so much so that he was unidentifiable
except for the blood that loved
that exuded pure love
if i’m proud, my self is humbled
i’ll take those tracks - there is
traction in suffering and giving back
to my fellow man
lightly i cover up those wrinkles
only to blend this well-lived face
i face my reflection, satisfied
without indiscretion’s distraction
3/10/2023
Sponsor: Anthony Biaanco
Core of ancient planets where the outback grows a-wild;
Wind atop the atoll high, hearken to thy child!
Desert flower, where is love? Where is grace for me?
Someone get me God above! Fate and fancy-free!
Railing tyrant, city old, absinthe in a glass.
Green fluid, ignited cube, sugar, sassafras.
Vision sacred, mystery. Harvest season: when?
Weathervane, thy melody! Here and now, I ken!
Yellow eyes, meat eater face. Bottom of ravine
Dreams upset in carapace! Meltdown in machine!
Snapping turtle empire old, what ought we deter?
Clutching fingers, fear the cold! Ornithopters, whir!
End Times, play thy bitter chimes? Twilight of the gods?
O gold doubloon! Commit crimes! Nuclear wrath, rods!
Better still to live than die? What a bother bad!
Barbarian, loose thy cry! That will make them mad!
Volcano in crater form? Not since time began.
O hot lava, keep them warm! Flow and outward fan!
Eagle o'er battalions fly! Safeguard, noble birds!
Gods of death are looking sly! Quarter them in thirds!
Unidentifiable? Alphabet a-last?
Hail, Zeta Reticuli! Hang the foe from mast!
O singularities, smile! North and South, free break!
Think on this a little while: vampires dread the stake...