Long Unsmiling Poems
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Coal hearted caretaker
never could accept or give love
has a collection of wounded women
placed them in his half-dead heart museum.
He painted over one with his oil-colored tongue.
Stuffed her into a silent taxidermy bird.
He turned some into paper mâché mobiles.
Fingered them into a sad sort of yellowing.
They, void of any hope, were left for dead.
Forever spinning in the end of his selfish head.
Others sit hollow-eyed, clay pot women.
Left on a dusty shelf, chipped and rotting.
Mostly from disrespect and neglect.
Another is in the foyer for the unsmiling,
Colossal bronze busts, monuments to this volcanic prick of destruction.
The final conquest was glass blown.
He melted her spirit into a glowing poem.
A masterpiece born from a seed of sadism.
Hung it in a forgotten corner of his mind.
Framed it in his blood and karmic dust...
Someday he'll have to pay back these endless debts.
And become a forgotten etching in a derelict museum.
Even when she laughs, she’s sad
her smile does not reach her tired eyes
deep within her heart, pain spreads, she feels so bad
life was never her friend, it betrayed her, she cries
She has completely forgotten her fieriness
gone is her smile, her happy mask, her frank cheeriness
look around, death surrounds her, she’s lost in soul weariness
Lonely, she saunters mid trees to find a way out
birds give her company, the grave’s her hideout
here, her unheard tears can shout
She weeps, she cries behind smiles, but she’s not mad
it is not her fault that whoever she loves, dies
her desolate life’s filled with dreariness
she’s broken, yet strong…penning away all doubt.
07.19.2021
For Constance La France's "Writing Prompt - Fragmented Spaces" contest
The Fantasy of Childhood
There was a tiny house near the main house built I think to house the elderly, but ended up being a place for old furniture, bits, and bobs.
There was a loft where we kids sat, made grand plans
of great daring, mostly in Africa.
Sometimes with the help of a few crates, we made a ship and set sail, Naturally, my friend whose mother worked in a cake shop and brought us day-old cakes, was the ship's captain.
The engineer, whose father had a shop that sold second
thing like shoes, trousers, and whatever, he, the father,
also sold bottles which resold the the brewery.
Alas, the man drank and when he slept we stole bottles and sold them back to him when he was sober.
I, aware of my status, my mother worked in a factory putting sardines in tins, was the cook, and made toast
using candlelight.
It was all so very real when there was a storm and the ship moved, Thor, the engineer became seasick and the captain had to find safer water usually behind a big island.
And I, the cook could prepare toast in peace without the ship pitching and rolling.
The thing was our plays were deadly serious as when we were private detectives, we picked out a perfectly innocent person decided he was a mass-murderer and followed him (always a man) until he became aware of us got nervous and shouted
which for us was prove enough, he was guilty of something bad and that made us happy.
We grew up, playtime over, the captain went to school and became a navigator, the engineer got a job welding things and became a Jehovah's Witness and unsmiling about it.
I did so many things, that didn't fit and drifted about trying to find something I like, like dabbling in poetry, but my inner cynic mocks my effort.
When visiting my aunt,
We always bring a special treat.
It's halva made from sesame,
A Middle Eastern sweet.
But very often it gets flagged
'Cause agents have no clue
Exactly what this item is;
Our bags do not go through.
They took my husband's backpack
And removed things, one by one,
As if they thought they'd find a knife
Of liquids or a gun.
Instead, the female TA
Reached inside and she did seize
Our wrapped up treasure and she asked
"What is this? Looks like cheese."
My husband nodded, yes it is
'Cause if he did explain
It's candy from the Middle East -
What could we really gain?
They placed it on the X-ray belt
In their unsmiling mode
To double-check this piece of "cheese"
Would somehow not explode.
At last they waved us on, but when
We pack our next surprise,
We'll pick a treat my aunt will love
And agents recognize!
I found an old photograph by the lake-
A young woman with dark hair, gray face,
leaning against a painted wall.
Unsmiling, beautiful. In full white,
with nothing exposed beneath delicate layers
of lace.
I wondered if she'd lived near, or if somewhere else,
how many miles?
I wondered how she'd laughed,
who she'd loved,
how she'd died.
Why didn't they smile often for pictures back then?
I wondered, if it'd been the custom,
would she've had a reason to smile?
I wonder if she ever felt the hard pang of regret.
How loud it screams,
how noticeable the most useless things get.
And did she ever think to blame herself?
Or was she wiser, her face a mask
for knowledge, that indifference is sometimes best.
If she were alive, and walking past me on the street,
this would all mean nothing.
But her gray nothing arouses something in me.
I can't help but wonder,
If she ever felt lost, did she find her way?
And afraid, did she face her fear in the end?
I imagine if she could witness me,
there holding her picture,
she might herself, feel something of wonder.
And maybe at some place in time where she waits,
her mountains would've grown smaller.
The times she cried,
closer to nothing than something.
I imagine if she could tell me anything,
she might not tell me anything at all,
Herself knowing the light
at the end of every dark road,
the length that gives it meaning,
the darkness that intensifies the light.
Unsmiling gray wisp fingers drift and bore
A helical ridge around the vast sky;
Down abutting poignant horizon floor.
Alga blooms a huffy infectious cry.
A tree hollow bears nestling hanging high.
Lively songbird-swallows touched by the stir
Swift cry, swell and disappear till late by-
Passing hours of summer ruffling shower.
In a warm sleeping bag in a small tent,
Newlyweds lounge engaged with sweet hush sound
And lambent flame. Could not be better spent,
To wake with the morning dawn bodies wound.
In the open, they lie there, on their camp site,
Beneath the infinite clear twilight night.
written on 4/7/2020
Ambient Music N/A Serenity- In Scenes Of Mother Nature -Chantelle Anne Cooke Yes 4/9/2020 4:12:00 PM
N/A , Judged on 5/6/2020 for the contest
"Serenity In Scenes Of Mother Nature"
N-A Re-Run 8 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: John Hamilton
My scaled lips have a story, repelling
enough to well up tears in the telling.
My heart is rocked at its place of dwelling
Expect not a merry word from a face unsmiling
Toppling of troughs in the shrine brought anguish
Suffocating under unhappiness and darkness
Of disregarded rites, now gods are come to punish
A mortal with sandy throat devoid of life freshness
Cup of my diet since I joined the beings of earth
Like a lamb, was pushed in to a manger of boiling barrel
and inhaled the yellow of all that was not life but death
that early I embraced the cup of bev that was sterile
advocates say my kin suffered a deal, anytime I cut a drink
abdicated duties, has my scions grafted abroad, pollen
a field has sprouted at my feet, kingdom on the brink
Smoking barrels here come to dry a sullen wet woolen
The city throbs in my forehead but I hear it not
My spine thinner than ever from the trembling
Of week long dearth of my cherished cup
Lodging in the loo timing the next bowel move
twitching jawbone gives yet a crisp performance
Coming in tune with the abdominal rumble
I cough and serve nothing to the white bowl
Because all I ever had was a sterile drink
Ten days gone.
Sighs, and the unsmiling scarred summer skies,
Stealthily, behind the invisible window
Broken into particles,a soul uneasily dies
In that familiar place. Be away. Oh go!
Anticipating that no one is there
But those moments that again I see
The surprised, longing eyes, the smile so fair,
You cheated me..You cheated me.
New watchpersons year by year are employed
But your footprints here I still see
Because some things cannot be destroyed
You cheated me..You cheated me.
Within the unobstrusive silence I am found,
In familiar inertia the escape is neat,
The weary feet again homeward bound
I cheat. I cheat. I cheat.
June 1, 2018
Form:
Gold! Gold! Dassel screamed: he had found gold! And so what we were told, he stuffed his pockets and told the fellas to pull him up.They had straddled a well rig used to clean shallow wells to lower him down into the hand dug tunnel.
"On the eastside: yeah the eastside, he began singing dancing around full of joy and happiness! "Yee Haw"! "Yep, Yep Yep dippity dew" he'd holla with seven of the eleven smiling along with him. Then one of the unsmiling fellas said: "well get back in the hole and get us some more"; ah-hell we can lower ya'll down and stand in watch of the gold; by then Dipper and Tinsel will be back with the midday supper for us to grub on." Fassel jumped up with glee and said thre of us can fit in the bucket, ya'll just lower us down! Well they did and lowered the remaining four in two more sessions: the second time the bucket came up the heaviest two men were concerned with the condition of the floor of the bucket, they took some time to make sure there weigh would be supported while they were being lowered.
After the remaining men were lowered: one guy yelled up to the fellas " above the snakes" ( a cowboy term used to say every things okay, or that they were still alive). No one answered, the fellas had takin the gold and scrammed." Ding Dang them hoodwinking scoundrels done told the gold and ran off!" "Barearolle done got us ah-gain! Ding Dang Scoundrels!" He took off his hat and whip the fella next to him until he fell on his shoulder and cried. They started looking around while they waited for the fellas to return with the midday supper: and behold, they found ten times more gold then they had before!" one guy was to have said: we gonna need action for the woman now Paw: aint no fiddle glad enough to sing this song! "We gonna needa huntin horn for them dang bushwacking scoudrel Paw!" "We hear Paw say: nah we gonna leave be: we just gonna leave them be, we gonna get outta here take our gold, in a hushing manner and just leave them be!" "Something about beleiving makes me think the Lord will serve the best revenge!"
From The Book
"THe Passive Mister Gangue"
( The WheelBarrel Man)
Written by Shoofly Muckmen
and Bolero Etude
From the Sounds of Music
Recording and Publishing
Company.
The Ottawa and New York Connection LLC
Through tinted glass, I see cars have lined up outside, like a java-thirsty snake who waits to strike at the employee working the drive-through window.
I take a last dreg of coffee, then vacate the table for another caffeine addict to indulge in some dark-roast creation, while reaching into my purse for keys. Someone touches my shoulder and I turn.
Out of aromatic filled haze, her soft voice speaks into my ear, using my maiden name, which seems foreign to my own ears. It comes as a riddle, with question mark at the end, as if it were floating inside a bubble.
dust motes mingle with
the steam of French roast coffee....
someone drops a spoon
She slips into the empty place across from me, and I see familiar, but strikingly older, hazelnut eyes. They hold something unsettling, sad and seem peppered with weight. But she shows me a wan smile buried in a sea of nerves. She was an old friend, a good chum. How long has it been?
Just as I am about suggest a plan, a date to meet for lunch, she's running late, and must hurry, and has started closing the gate again.
espresso ripples
with element of surprise ....
an old acquaintance
We walk out together, ... I open the door for her, while she carries two capped coffees, and starts to head across the lot. We say a quick goodbye, I take care not to spill her load, as I gently hug her goodbye. She walks away in a rush, climbing into faded red truck. An unsmiling tight-lipped man , reaches over to the inside latch to open the door, that seems to be missing a handle on the outside. I hear a harsh, husky voice ask "What took so long?",.. loud enough that a few people glance their way. She smiles weakly, and doesn't look back to say goodbye.
under old tires
leaves are crushed into small bits...
a whirlwind of dust
my cell phone vibrates
someone misses me from home ....
sun breaks through the clouds
_________________
11/2/15 For Contest: Creative Haibuns
Sponsor Charlotte Jade Puddifoot