Long Unrelentingly Poems
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"Angel Wings, Amusement Park Mouth"
Dark horses
aren’t necessarily angels
wrung out poets more like
unblessed prodigals
soaking in their own tears
spin sugared fairy-floss unrelentingly out
their dark sap, "Lost Woods" words,
and the ink no longer necessary
bleeds invisible
from their tap-dancing fingers
instead of dripping like blood
or honey off their
well-armoured tongues
and their messages
like murders of crows
fly out of their amusement park
mind instead of their mouth;
it's a private affair,
nobody really knows;
we sing our way home
on some bent kind of angel wings;
Dark horses
aren't necessarily angels -
the mind, authentic
is another thing...
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Satan, the old serpent
A snake with blue eyes, won’t repent
Is the prince of the power of the air
To me there is no evil that can compare
I have usurped God authority on Earth
I tempted the Son of Man with an alternate birth
“You don’t need to go through the shame and degradation
Of the cross and all that humiliation”
“Do you really think God wants you to suffer this much?”
I have given lies their velvet touch
And I have taken a third with me
In my suzerainty
Every vassal and fief
I lead them to and through with my drum and fife
I conduct the confusion of the Middle Ages
I confuse the lords and the sages
(He maneuvers with his doubt
Those who move about
On his chessboard, (overall the board of the Lord)
He has bishops and kings fighting for the ring
The ring of sovereign authority over things
Over duchies and vassals who scowl
In the age-old dance of crown and cowl
I start the funeral pyres of all empires
And I delight in the aftermath of war’s destruction
And the smoldering of the ruins and all the corruption
And over the above ground open tombs I swoon
I laugh and unfurl my wings
Along with church and state I sing
(I am devoted to both sides
That’s how I ensure both sides collide)
I point the Lombards at the papal spire
And began the fall of the Hohenstaufen empire
I created the Investiture Controversy
To get to the bishops and abbots
To unrelentingly reveal all their bad habits
I’ve promoted the mote
By saying “the parchments are out of date wrote”
I have walked the holy stones in the garden of God
And where angels trod
And the Earth to and fro at any hour
Waiting for someone to devour
I honor the unholy trinity and the sinner in you and me
Another Senseless Killing...
IOWA CITY, Iowa
(killingly, jarringly inexplicable,
horribly, gruesomely, and forlornly),
the found exhumed decayed corpse
belonging to young
vibrant coed twenty year old
college student Mollie Tibbetts
perhaps a spurned, snubbed,
or scorned love seriously gone wrong,
she who disappeared
from her small hometown
in central Iowa sad swan song
now plays, where every
last drop of sorrow rung,
now weeping family, friends,
relatives, et cetera subjected wrack
with lifelong emotional pain,
which searing inescapable
grief twill unrelentingly track
ferociously, fiercely, and figuratively,
doth disallow recourse
to duck away
from heart wrenching quack
king unbearably, terribly, and scathingly
will fully bill leave ably
beak homing a folly,
mockery, and travesty,
sans time heals
all wounds (truly "FAKE"),
nonetheless psyche riving tragic
(irrevocable loss) doth pack,
a punch greater then any
all star olympic pugilist
straight to the ab
domain of opponent, where
rumor mongers mill and blab
how this, that, or
another potential suspect,...
whence tissues dab
corners of crying eyes,
an endless stream
of tears merge with gab
bulling utter dis belief
questioning the supposed all
mighty, or at a loss
to do nothing but bawl (at Baal)
into the fox sized rabbit hole
trying with futility
to block (even crawl
ling into every
rabbit hole) no bastion
against implacable
maddening crowded
house alive with murderous frenzy,
and a dialect (non
tickling) gentle Iowan drawl,
while once again this
affected soddenly wet soul
cannot process any (defying) logic,
asper the impossibly steep toll
the purposelessness killing,
a lovely gal (same age
as my youngest daughter),
whose missed presence,
(albeit her - slain
Mollie Tibbetts – permanent absence)
now created an expansive
infinite black sink hole.
Akin a tumbleweeds
aimlessly blowing in the wind
umlaut punctuation
courtesy of let herd Mother Nature
nsync with markie mark,
(or other faux nuke heads
on silent auction
ajudicating bidding chopping block)
or getting sparred
sum xtra mo' mints
before morphing into gamut
tuff height (against opposing
super cross currents)
bow willing head over heals
deftly thwarting encroaching
enfilade enhancing
invading army of deplorable
dust devilish debris
with full Stanley steamer ahead onslaught
opposing approaching phalanx
ta become a foo lush fighter
putting kibosh
across the infinitely open
and wide prairie land
(which wasteland fictitiously
epitomized and described by T.S. Elliot
with absolute zero relevancy here)
a barren vista ravages
metaphorical landscape
of one measly mortal malcontent male
bumping and scraping
along an accursed habiliment
just barely avoiding
and dodging diabolical demons
mercilessly unrelentingly ready
to seduce this somewhat sanguine Simian
who finds himself amidst pitfalls
of a tortured and twisted existence
racked with up pinions
(halving smartly put irons in the fire)
deployed incognito
tub hest describe demonic dungeons
damp, dark, demented domains -
a veritable no man's land
and one impossible to escape
from no matter how fast I flee
from the fearful, fiercesome
and phantasmagoric forms
figments of imagination
yet real and tangible as bone and flesh
haunt sacred house of slumber
and transmogrify me
into a loathsome madman
ranting and raving senseless
gibberish and gobbledygook
yet perceived as metaphysical
and philosophical
sane state farm mister soundcloud
syllabification stutterer
from one whoa man
World Wide Web wayfarer
(perchance yourself)
which virtual vagabond
venerates vowels...
Fear
It is a very small demon.
It is a tiny monster,
that never stops chewing on;
anything it can get.
It is the one that hides,
and comes home with you.
It hops on while you are;
at the market, the post office,
work, school and even and/or
at church.
Listening to gossip,
overthinking the unimportant,
and by being unfocused on the big...
picture!
God walks with all of us.
Right beside us in the storm.
Lien on Him.
Talk to Him.
He is listening.
Angels around you.
Angels around your family.
Stronger than all others,
soldiers for the King.
Love each other unrelentingly.
Hold each other high.
Give the names of all you love,
to God in the sky!
Rain down drops of hope,
eliminate all dispair.
Let the saints know,
in their hearts...
ever that You,
are THERE!
The idea of a living constitution
has the same forensic indeterminacy
as a committed dream.
I am content to trust this dream to the end
to have it fill my cup of hope all day and night.
I am content to receive its order
to hasten to obey without a pause.
But, the old voice sounds
unrelentingly in the chamber: Do not
compromise. Punish.
Crucify him.
The infirm musing of a perpetual dreamer
rising up with eyes wild for relief.
I am content with the terror and anticipation that
keeps turns by watching me:
Justice, once imagined, cannot be undone.
I have been left to think along these lines
to look for the abandonment of arcane unfairness
months after months.
The months
burn up as a fading lantern
homage to the majesty of the absurd:
A muse easy to bear, Camusian laughter to
suffering’s exalted well —
what single rule might break the dry spell?
Sometimes the unforeseen, the unpredictable
springs in the heart of justice
bending its way upward
again and yet again
towards a distant point
all unaccountably, into the strengthening clasp
of fresh now-born idea,
nearer to binding faith
than wild dismembering injustice.
When the far-distant element
of suffering humanity
looms out more clear;
the faint, far, complex notes of hope
its head moves near
and new flicks of justice’s well
unfolds beyond the known.
Is there any new depth to this well?
Say, what is its true nature?
Quietly nature covers over
the dying bird and the dead rover.
If justice’s dead, it is as though
a robin died beneath the snow
tucked away neatly, whose bright eyes
once stared with impudent surprise
at every tit-bit flung to her.
Now every season we must bear
to live without its whistled air,
for law lives beneath the Spring,
like a sequestered paradise
exiled from the steady hammer of faith,
a trackless rice field
ever trudging through groves of
crouching, unconquered territories.
Oh enchanted universe
conqueror of earth’s stadium
in your wild, singing glory
the faults you committed live.
Come hear my sharpened cries
surely, you can hear my note of crisis.
Ceaselessly I raise my cry.
My cry ascends and floats away
scattered by whirling winds afar.
* “Endure what you suffer as being a father’s punishment.” (Heb. 12:5b-7)
Author's note: written on the anniversary of Harvard's abuse of my human rights
On Grandpa’s farm we rose to summer’s light,
then stayed outside – sometimes till dark of night.
There was a gated big front yard and tree
and hollyhocks, so pretty, growing free.
Behind the house there was a tool shed and
some old machines with which to till the land.
Unused were they, and I recall one day
we sat on one of them while at our play.
A swarm of bees rose up. I swear they chased
us unrelentingly as home we raced!
Except for that one incident, our days
were wonderful! On soft grass we would laze.
There was a lane that we’d go walking down.
It led to an old road, which led to town.
We picked soft pussywillows on that lane.
Raspberries too – which gave our grins a stain!
Long gone is Grandpa’s farm where we once stayed
and Grandpa too. . . but feelings never fade.
An oldie for Janice Canerdy's Rhyming Couplets Poetry Contest
There's a westerly wind that sweeps down the shore
Riding roughshod, through the furrowed maze
Plowing the seas with a lofty oar
To justify each thrashing wave
Unwilling to pulse with calmer mood
Her temperament bodes malcontent
Unrelentingly, earnest, she herds her brood
And prods them along with grave torment
Rendering helpless, behind the spray
The sun watches with solemn round
While quivering waters define dismay
She holds long the seasonal sound
From the sphere of the dawn, into bold afternoon
She is schooled by the whims of the moon
____________________________________________________
9/15/13 For Poetess Darkly's Contest: "Sonnets of the Wind"
President of Freedom
The last man in a long line,
voted to save the future...
for us.
Not all of us,
but some.
Those that live on others,
standing on the backs of oxen,
will get all that is theirs.
Unrelentingly working,
for a better tomorrow...
only to find some have been,
tied to a circle,
a pole in the ground.
Spending their days...
toiling and pulling,
pallets of overloaded,
waste products,
produced by the elected elite,
shoveled and force-fed
to the Deplorables...
all,
in an effort to make them...
choke and die.
Termites...
to eat the very nutrients...
from our trees.
Ants,
to consume...
what is not just leftover,
but all there is too eat.
Foul swine,
talked about in the bible,
and sent to drown.
The best man for the job,
was not the one
any would have picked,
first from the tree.
The apples of freedom
have been scarce.
Yet, one that loves America,
more than all the rest.
Clear and exactly what you see,
Our President is there to fight,
for you and me.
Higher wages,
safer homes,
better lives,
one legitimate vote away.
America is alive.
We are here to stay,
because we pray!
I have always been curious about people from Kurdistan
I wonder why they are called kurds
I wonder when the kurds would become keese
Just like curd becomes cheese
I wonder if birds are called “birds” because they come from “Birdistan”…..
Okay, that kurd-bird joke one time never went down well
One audience I entertained transitioned from swelling to swearing
The agitated audience looked at each other, left and right
The bird joke got me pelted and unhired, now I'm a fly-by-night comic
The joke was inspired by a 12 year kid I once knew, nicknamed “Talk shop”
He used to hang around the market stands and chatted nonstop
The lad knew almost all of the countries with syllables ending with “–stan”
He bragged about Kazakhstan, Tajikstan, Uzbekistan, with the “stans” he was never done
The smart-****’s Turkistan questions hit me like a slap
Unrelentingly he tested me to spot Manhattan on the map
I totally lost my geography to the kids embarrassing pressure
The kid burst into a belly laugh when my finger hovered over Asia
In trying to change the subject, I asked him about the story of Tristan
I was zipped into silence when he told me stick to geography and not romance
I asked the kid what his real name was, and how he got an extra memory chip
He said if he taught me how, the conversation would flip
And then he revealed what his real name was with a “My name is Stan, duh!”
A felt relieved, as adult dumbness left my shoulder
I bet you would know every country and its geographical location
If it was made up of some weird syllables sneaking up on your name
The cocky kid asked me to test him on anything
I went spiritual, a subject the kid probably had no grip on
I asked him why we confess to a priest, if God can directly hear us pray
He said “so that we can have an eye witness on judgment day”
I tried to get rid of the boy by pretending to be bored
But I let the boy stay, when he told me that I would miss him one day when I get old