Long Unseemly Poems
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Naked trees whose dilapidated bodies have outgrown the test of time
shoot unseemly into the unaccommodating sky flustering as they walk by
Nude trees laden with deceptive shadows waiting for the morrow
Echoing a somber tune with superficial topsoil eroding from the mad earth
I sat on the top of the exalted mount watching brittle trees swaying doubtfully in the motionless wind and one force would have done them in
Fragile branches stick delicately form their wounded side reaching out
and cracking slowly with a forceful smile while angels lament by their sides
I recall the good old days when there was laughter everywhere
smoke rushing out the chimneys and grandpa with his wooden axe
piling up woods on the side of the stream and dragging them into the fireplace
Drunken men sitting on the side of the street infuriated with exuberant laughter knocking dominoes and shouting at terrified girls parading the streets in short mini skirts.
strong women in tall long skirts knocking their tambourines as the minstrel marched around in circles and unruly men with loud music sticking out their feet in fancy jeeps shouting
Dry grass lay flat on the reproachable ground howling as if winter is still around
As far as the naked eyes could behold green trees are floating in the horizon way beyond me
but close beside me green leaves are barely sprouting on the topless trees
The earth is still casting doubts as it sinks deeper into its devouring throat
drenched by its painful self-inflicted wound spreading misery throughout
I kept sobbing at nature's frequent disruptions and mankind useless inventions
cars sliding and young men gallivanting and swearing under the dark bridge
Shameful faces hang in despair holding onto to a cloud that is not there
And Noah whom they say was a religious freak took one hundred and twenty years to build a ship that spared daylight out of darkness and give rise to a new moon
And what of the black plague that torment millions of bones in their sorrowful graves
And the Spanish flu had its impact too who knows what really brought it about
Nature has sucked the life out of the earth waiting for a miraculous rebirth
while death pounds heavily on fragile doors.
Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.
—William Shakespeare
Cupid Knocks
War waged with red ribbons and lights of white.
The lights pure, expansive, deep and wide;
and ribbons spaced upon a stone wall.
War waged, why you wonder; the holidays thunder.
Across the street since half past October, erected,
dastardly tall; couldn’t, hardly, have been borrowed
from a laboratory scientist or graphic teacher;
unless this could be a Goliath and his found head.
Engaged in warfare - serendipitous armor of the Christian;
the stiff-necked, serpentine, who fires eyes like darts.
(oh isn’t this delicious fodder, as I pass by and bypass all.)
Oh, just send a news crew to investigate; first the cold case.
Who is enjoying this more? Sure, he must look out his pane
and see this superstructure of bones with no skin, a cane -
not candy, but bait; a Christmas bow tie to hold severed neck.
(I jest! This seamless skeleton, this unseemly demon, kept.)
War waged since half past December. The holidays thunder.
I wonder who will fold. It’s a tick past February, and Cupid’s
in a quandary. Such a state, as he aims, but which way.
(Perhaps he can get them to obey the love your neighbor rule.)
Still, will Barry Bones be given a big red heart, a box
of chocolates, stationary to bother the kind old soul
across the way? How small the man, the skeleton, all
told, there is practically no skin in the game. Father Christmas
doesn’t mind his electric bill - it razzes the intemperate, raises
the heat, further hoses down the closet where the spectacle
came from. Perhaps this neighbor ran out of room to store
his aggravations; by moon he must endure a level starry night.
I’m tickled. I can see the sparkles down the street. Still there,
every night, night after night. I wonder what brews in the homes
of despair and enlightenment. I would love to interview the two.
What would I eschew? What fodder to chew? Cupid knocks.
This is going to be fun…
On my lap a book is laid
It’s black, its title gold
The binding’s worn, the edges frayed
It’s obviously old
And yet, to me this book is worth
Much more than treasures rare
And if I searched across the earth
There isn’t anywhere
A single thing that’s worth as much
As this unseemly book
I open it with reverent touch
And gladly take a look
Within the well-worn covers are
True tales of long ago
Of kings and slaves in lands so far
Who stood against the foe
I read about the King of all–
His immortality
I read of Adam’s sinful fall
And immorality
I learn His judgments and His ways
His justice, truth, and grace
I learn His glory and His praise
And how to seek His face
What great and wondrous mystery
Is wrapped within each word
Both what has been, and what shall be
Is written or inferred
I read the age-old wisdom and
The way to live my life
I read that He will hold my hand
Through any pain or strife
What miracles my King has done!
I know He’ll always win
I read that He sent down His Son
To rescue us from sin
I read about my Savior’s deeds
How He was wise and brave
I read of how He’ll fill my needs
What precious words He gave!
I hear of how He died for me
Then triumphed o’er the grave
Because of Him, from death I’m free
He came to seek and save
I read of love so passionate
Of hope and peace so free
Encouragement so infinite
My King has given me
I shall not trust in fleeting bliss
In hope or joy that dies
His timeless book of wonders is
My trust, my priceless prize
Enea's Pope! (2)
I suppose it’s common knowledge
(and not tedious, I hope!)
that two-thirds of the Sacred College
must concur to elect a pope.
With eighteen cardinals gathered,
twelve was the number to get.
They were nervous, preoccupied, lathered,
for there was no favourite yet.
Day One turned out quite indecisive,
Calindrini accomplishing five:
Enea’s vote, far from derisive –
his five kept his prospects alive.
D’Estouteville’s position was healthy,
and he lobbied for all he was worth.
It helped to be fabulously wealthy,
and promise the voters the earth.
“I don’t want to sound like a critic,”
(thus whispered d’Estouteville in private)
“but look at him – pauper, arthritic.
There’s something you need? I’ll contrive it.”
The gist of the cardinal’s sermon
was that Enea worshipped Apollo,
and was anyway almost a German,
dire consequences were certain follow.
A cardinals’ caucus at midnight
convoked by the frenchified faction
made it seem that the tertium quid might
take a piece of the Rouenais action.
D’Estouteville himself was a teller
when they voted the very next day:
they’d do better to pick Helen Keller –
one of Enea’s votes “went astray”.
Now Enea’s on nine votes, and leading:
a silence descends on the throng.
D’Estouteville is far from conceding:
this process could well be prolonged.
In silence they sit in the Sistine,
feckless, faineant, forlorn
(the chapel itself is still pristine:
Michelangelo hasn’t been born.)
A shout comes from Borgia (Rodrigo,
that’s Cesare’s father-to-be),
“I’m switching to you, mi amigo!”
That’s one of the necessary three!
And then speaks Tebaldi of Naples:
“I’ll go with Siena as well!”
It’s looking decidedly papal,
as friends of d’Estouteville can tell!
One vote is now all that is needed,
one vote and he’s pontifex max:
one vote and he’s finally succeeded:
one vote is the one thing he lacks!
Colonna gets up from his cushion:
d’Estouteville and chums know the score:
unseemly, the shovin’ and pushin’:
they bundle him out of the door.
The spectacle can’t be called splendid.
“Enea, I’m making you pope!”
The greasy pole’s now been ascended:
It’s time for the slippery slope!
Heading south and returning from an early morning run on a delivery route,
I came upon the top of a hill which was the route I always took. But that
morning was different, one that would be a treasured morning in my memory.
At the top of the hill as the morning sun came beaming upon my face, a
soothing song came softly across the radio waves speaking tones of melody
to my soul. No, it was not a Christian song but not unseemly in any way.
The beautiful song, one of my favorites, whispered a bit of romance between a woman and a man; about how they once "danced the night away until the morning became a brand-new day". But those lines and more are not the words that arrested and captured me forever and a day. There were but two soothing words that transfixed my ears and swept through every fiber of my being. SEPTEMBER MORNING.
I wish that I could have documented that moment, sealed and tucked it
away in a secret place where it could never be erased. Nevertheless, that September Morning, that treasured September Moment was locked into my memory, surfacing occasionally, to acknowledge the beauty of God's Fall Season. It's been 40 plus years since the creation of that momentous moment. That sacred sunlight scene, that beam of energy so serene,
captures me again and again; especially each September.
082622PS
Awake oh my soul and sing
Awake oh my soul and dance
Awake oh my soul and live
Morning broke in great despair
Murmuring filtering the atmosphere
Cars and trucks litter the street
While everyone is sound asleep
I prowl the street just before dawn
seeking solace for my exhausted soul
But the noisy traffic kept pounding
on the bridge and forced me to escape
to the top of the hill
I sat between the thick shrubs
waiting for the masters words
but the cars kept going around the bend
and the sound thump louder in my head
Nature whimpers and sigh in the dark
Expelling an unseemly tantrum in the air
My strangled breath choked with anxiety
Nothing I do could make me feel happy
I sat there for more than an hour
But not one single word could I utter
The trucks and cars kept racing about
Maddening the cold bare earth
with boisterous words
I manage to forced out an old hymn
and alas the savior enters in
A sudden breeze swept over me
and a few rain drops covered me
He silently utter these ambiguous words
They are awake when you are awake
They are asleep when you are asleep
cowards hanging out in the parking lot
Watching my shadow unlocking the door.
meddling in my dreams and unnerving my soul.
squeeze in here baby girl
I’ll mold that tummy fat
[I’m a churning urn] I'll grab that behind, hold it tight
sculpt those stretch marks, just right
come here lad, I'll turn those marbles blue
turn those knuckles white [no that’s not a rocket]
they'll chew a strategic hole
through that shredded cotton cord
bend over, your fertile galley
and climb on board
yeah, I'll show off your rear entry
let them see [the crack of dawn]
what we can see unseemly, yet
even the poor are marked by my geas
let me squeeze you lads and ladies
naw, it's not disgusting
please
* jeans which are too tight are annoying ;)
to those in them and those looking at them!
One may see puffins and parrots
any hour of the week
both birds bear a big colourful beak
the former pelagic feed on fish
and live in large colonies on coastal cliffs
tho' monogamous collectively breed as a bunch
but with renown as the Atlantic sea clown
in Iceland several are served as lunch
the latter arboreal primarily frugivorous
toco being by far the largest
are opportunistic and occasionally omnivorous
to a few prudes it may seem unseemly or rude
and yet if they stick around they'll later get down
as their chicks are seen to hatch in the nude
these avians may fly high in the sky
have the same such things as two wings and legs
and of each species the female lays eggs
but that's where similarity does stop
one puffin can do more than toucan do
in more or less of a day
after mating its pecker turns grey
and without waiting its bill it will drop
Rigors of weary battle long abated
The haze and smoke linger; the
fallen obfuscated
Ignominiously deposited; in death's
unseemly clutches graded
Gradually emanating from the
debacles' debris taut, ghastly forms
emaciated
Battle's residual fodder on spent
ground masqueraded
With the accoutrement's of nature
and nurture now attenuated
Unrequited carcases posthumously
paraded
Only the malingering sun palls the
hulls now jaded
At dusk, dark shadows girdle the
remnants of slaughter dated
Anon, with the eery sounds of
bewitching night serenaded
Death's awning a patchwork of
gleaming stars cascaded
By bleary, mortal shadows in
quilted tents shaded
Waiting for morn's truce, their valor
with honor to be equated
In my remote village a long time ago
From town came a man of twenty or so
Set up a smart machine called gristmill
Times have changed but it’s there still.
Every weekend I had to go there to share
A duty that for me became a routine affair
Take a bagful of fresh wheat grain to grind
In the mill that produced flour so refined.
The sound of the crusher was harsh incessant
The attitude of the man was equally indecent
For he made me wait a long while for my turn
The unseemly reason I could never discern.
Despite this touch of forced discomfort
My weekly tryst with the gristmill was of worth
For the floating aroma of freshly ground wheat
Dipped me in cool scent of corn field in summer heat.
When I’m crumbled now under the time’s wheel
I see me standing before the village gristmill
In the midst of cacophony and grinding strife
I can still smell the scent of the crushed life.
Posted : June 3, 2018
June 18, 2020
Contest : Crushed
Sponsor : Anthony Biaanco