Long Vouchsafed Poems
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Screaming writhing violent
uncontrollable spasms of abandonment
immediately followed her (like Mary's lamb)
where e'er she went
verbal communication attempt didst rent
ear piercing outpouring
barrage heard clearly by vested gent,
a bajillion miles away e'en
stymying the likes of Lois Lane, Clark Kent
or special ABC letter writ agent,
when aforementioned younger daughter
raged day and night without abatement
soon after our baby's birth
agonizing distress self evident
when bundle of joy became a toddler,
which ordinary concomitent
expectant joyful milestones
hoop fully attendant
with hypothetical offspring
aurally learning oral rudiment
basis of language skill
with instructional accouterment
mastering native tongue
celebratory breakthru achievement
acquiring brisk command of lingua franca
easily excelling telly
tubby "FAKE" accent
gibberish with cogent
encoded development coaxed ability
regarding divine acknowledgement
pertaining to obvious delayed development,
when dada decried disabled
doc's "NON FAKE"
dupe forced mine abhorrent
realization upon crestfallen papa,
that our precious progeny
requisite remedial requirement
versed here, viz poetic abridgement
thee youngest of
(deux) daughters afflicted
at young age initial
general consensus genetic accident
engendered ambiguous diagnosis,
cuz forming words absent
purportedly linkedin with
high functioning autism
spurred self blame abutment,
sans cognitive fluke (most
likely inherited) malady immediate adherent
parental duty entailed, promoted
vouchsafed, et cetera
lifelong intervention convert,
a blessed webbed accompaniment
decades later nearly wrought total abolishment
whereat now grown year old lass
defied wildest predictions, adjustment
witnessed thee cherished apple of my eye
metamorphosed since early adolescent
to secure part time employment
attending Bend, Oregon Community College
and coordinating advancement,
where Shana Punim secured plane ticket
and took to friendly skies to my amazement!
Ever since mine boyhood
I experienced abhorrence
toward yours truly,
an extremely introverted kid,
whose parents nor siblings
(one younger and older sister) could
not arouse him out of his emotional torpor
akin being on par with
Peter Peter pumpkin eater...
whereby he (meaning
author who wrote this poem)
kept himself isolated, quarantined, and xed out
within self made shell.
Me mum mollycoddled her only son
bathed him in maternal love
omnipotent motherliness
figuratively guillotined
(unwittingly) healthy maturation,
thus development sabotaged
courtesy figurative apron strings.
No matter his filial relationship woeful
(to thee woman who birthed him),
he registered sentimental value
regarding keepsakes bequeathed,
he still keeps cherished mementoes
redolent when she lived.
Call him a mama's happy go lucky boy
whose later ambivalent feelings
tarnished, undermined and vitiated
short lived tender loving care,
which brief vouchsafed cocooned wellbeing
regarding idyllic rapport between parents,
got staind, suppurated, sundered, sullied...
in later years by incrimination
against being gainfully unemployed.
February twenty eighth ninety sixty eight
marked a tectonic seismic shift as moving vans
transported our household freight
to (at that time) R(ural) D(elivery) 2,
Level Road Collegeville, Pennsylvania 19426,
a ramshackle (summer) mansion named Glen Elm
plus whittled down fraction
of original Hundred Acre plus wood.
Relocation with Lower Providence School District,
approximately half dozen mile distance
between former and latter home(s),
nevertheless psyche of mine
property of extremely introverted kid
severely hi-jacked.
Mother would patschke
early that day in the kitchen,
and recruit any guest, who
blindly ambled thru front door
suddenly trapped unwittingly
squarely (triangulated) into kitchen
forcibly impressed to help
set up buffet tables
and/or given carte blanche to prepare
some mysterious dish,
(a hodgepodge of ingredients),
that suffered no shortages of compliments
unfortunately could never be duplicated.
Guests harkened far and wide
word of mouth boastful rantings and ravings
superseded culinary Michelin Guides
to dole out seven stars,
which wordsworth meant "exceptional cuisine
promised hungry visitor
a special satisfactory journey."
"Time to eat" (usually bellowed courtesy father)
generated an orderly stampede to jostle in line
and commence maximizing capacity
testing sturdiness disposable plates could hold
scouting, shoe horning, staking...
place to become comfortably numb with satiation.
Amidst various and sundry masticating jaws
(with each respective mouthful
of food glorious food -
cue said Oliver Twist song title)
followed by draught of spirits
ejaculations of delight issued,
and punctuated the sound of silence
when not additionally interrupted
courtesy sibilant crackling
popping, and snapping
wood burning stove,
which aforementioned heat source
lulled well fed tummies
whereby heavy eyelids drooped
while heads sank into chest.
No matter hunger pangs quieted
evidenced by casserole, glass, pyrex...
scraped clean rumors heralding dessert
quickly awoke wine weary souls
analogous to sluggish animals
awakening out their hibernation,
when self anointed maître d'
showcased good n plenti desserts
(pies, ice cream, cookies and cakes galore)
she made house special
comprising secret ingredients.
Upon being stuffed to the hilt
(dear kith and kin mother
all counted as family
think taxidermist specimen
readied for mounting)
all pledged a unanimous
New year's resolution
vouchsafed to start on diet
come January first.
I treated this strange creature with great care
I knew she was not human, so unfair
She looked like my old cat before it died
Someone give her food, make sure it’s fried
She could not mew nor bark nor did she speak
I did not tell her that she was a freak
She liked to use her hair as a defence
Peering out as if in recompense
But if I’d cut it off, she would have screamed
As she watched the music fly in streams
She saw her visions and she talked to Lights
Noone human is vouchsafed such sights
But still I liked to gorge on her cheese flan
She might not act quite human but who can?
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Wanting to get Away...
Needing to get Home.
Are they all dead?
Fantasticals, Fantasy, Phantasms?
Fantastic Rascals.
Masters. Hmmpphhh.
Tin-roofed.
Straw-sided.
Dirt-floored.
Mundane.
Arcane.
Insane?
(Them. Or, I?)
I’m on a meadow
lark.
I’m on a mountain
pass.
I’m at a crossroads;
one lone road stretched out ahead -
stretched out behind -
, if I care to look,
into and through each and every
Eternity.
The tea is thin.
The ember, black.
The robe unment.
The cane unsupporting.
The larder full...
of rot;
vouchsafed against the coming
nothing-more-coming.
The inkquill dry, the pages full.
The air silent and gifted me some
somberity.
The birds nest now in
as well as out.
The rains quiet and pool now in
as well as out.
The empty deepens now in
as well as in
me.
The Master, oh so great, is
Gone.
Now.
The Master, her formative ages forming formless, is
Gone.
Now.
The Master, let his name sweeten my lips, is
Gone.
Again.
Empty, Silent.
Voidhome.
The peak, a valley.
Songbirds sing.
Leaves rustle.
Breezes whisper.
Geese squonk.
Empty; perhaps though
never emptied.
Silent; perhaps though
never silenced.
The Master, the Indubitable Inscrutable, is
Gone.
and or maybe if perhaps could likely or somehow somewhat say
was was never was.
Is, still, somehow or of course,
Gone.
Echoes dwell.
Lessons linger.
Songbirds sing.
The tea is weak;
mine (nay, ours) to
sip.
Dear Heart,
You are the great fulcrum of the human machine
So integral to keep us alive and leave us healthy
I know you work incessantly day and night
Neither taking rest nor seeking respite
By defiance, on any day, if you go on strike
Alas! All our body functions will come to a halt
Though a sinewy piece not bigger than a man’s closed fist
You are the seat of umpteen thoughts and emotions
A wondrous magic casket holding love and hate
A pouch that can contain so much of treasure
A sponge that can absorb any amount of pain
A hidden cave to stash away so many secrets
So deep and vast as a fathomless sea
You are so full of spiraling eddies and currents
Who can fathom your horrendous depths?
Who can explore your hidden recesses and crevices?
At times you stay still like a placid lake
Silent and unperturbed without even a ripple
At times boil and spill with emotions and feelings
Pounding like lashing waves of a stupendous sea
Sometimes like a swift bird in flight
You take off on wings to alarming heights
Or like a gambler’s horse on the race track
You keep galloping in lightning speed
Sometimes you are hard and resistant as a rock
But don’t be insensitive and unfeeling as a clump of wood
That’s my only prayer to you, my bosom friend
Store as much love as you can and lavish it as a millionaire
Do you know how much I love and value you
I feel there is nothing greater vouchsafed to man
Than the gift of an ever loving palpable heart
I relish you and wish to hug and caress you dear!
Much Love,
Jan.30.2023
~ Placed Nineth~
Dear Heart Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Mystic Rose Rose
Before the first tongue
suffered the burden of naming,
the garden possessed
its own onomasticon:
Leaf,
Lumen,
Lark,
and one white rose—
an inviolate effulgence
ensphered in dew.
No creature
contested its quietude.
The bee
Received.
The wind,
that elder philologer,
declined dominion.
Only the hand,
catechised by appetite,
confounded wonder
with warrant.
Then
the stem vouchsafed
its green apostrophes.
One thorn
solicited blood
before blood
solicited speech.
Yet the blossom
Withdrew
no redolence.
Its whiteness,
anamnetic of snowfall,
absolved the very air
that coveted it.
Only at vespers
did the ordinance
become legible:
the thorn
was never
the flower's severity,
but sanctity
Assuming
the grammar of sap—
Creation's final rubric,
lest beatitude,
Misparsed
as possession,
translate Eden
into rubble.
This one’s a castle, that’s a customs-house.
They’re stolid, listless, just a little dull.
The sky supports an arbitrary gull.
The languidness of Lizst, the style of Strauss
are wholly absent. Colours are metallic.
The eye sweeps over cornice, turret, steeple,
and then it dawns on us – there are no people.
Clock towers, mountains, minarets, all phallic,
are void of human life. Stark, empty chairs
adorn each arid, motionless interior.
As we apprise, eyes sneeringly superior,
we note acerbically his love of stairs –
a Will to Power, ever pushing up.
One daub there is, however, gives us pause:
it dates from long before Enabling Laws,
before he dreamed of Kesselring or Krupp:
a bridge that’s quite impossible to cross,
that goes nowhere, has never carried traffic,
bears one boy sitting on it. Startling, graphic,
without a hint of Schadenfreud or Schloss:
self-portrait, this. What features might we trace?
What’s here vouchsafed? Incipient racist brute?
Well, hardly. An endearing, awful suit,
and – most revealingly of all – he has no face.
Grazing Trump’s ear gunshot when goes,
It nicks nation’s much-fancied nose,
World’s keen to know-- sharp ears,
Should things change in near years,
Republican romance,
Passion with pro-gun stance
Should slow, if ray of remorse shows.
_______________________________
Happenings |08.07.2024| USA, political
Poet’s note: This bullet might divide America more. For, four of the 46 presidents have been assassinated in office. More than half a dozen others have survived. Like Trump, democracy may survive, but will face some more fears. Violence can’t be vouchsafed, but if it causes the country’s love affair with gun a rethink, it will serve some purpose, if Trump be any wiser, any sober.
15 of them begin the emotional ritual attired in silk & sequens,
they maneuver miraculously one after another on burning coals glowing violet,
the dance steps are heartbeats, curved & compassionate, their majesty is inviolate,
their Art is to suffer for Hope wrought from the ribbon of Reality's casualties,
fifteen to infinity the ladies become shooting stars
lazered through a constellation collapsing into a single sphere of suspense,
the crowd claps, cymbals chyme and a sorcerer's symbols
rain in a fury of subconscious superstorm, confusing chaos
and charming candor as relics vouchsafed in this cosmic cavern,
the Eye of Providence appears annonymously, winking with Blessings
on the forehead of a girl crooning for Roman gifts of iron roses & opium doses
as she poses prettily on top of the Arch of the Covenant
where angels scorch alms and demons dine on delirium,
a flame spitter and sword swallower run to the forefront
as the music deepens within the skulls of saints,
they confront each other with pride, mortal misgivings alight in their eyes,
a contest between Altruism & Misanthropy,
which will prevail, fire or steel, which to survive, love or hate,
one gets stabbed, the other burned, wagers wave through the theater,
lots of chatter, banter & bravado, the wounded continue with character,
Innocence tries to exit but is not allowed by Wherewithal
as the two forces seem to be fatally struck
a curtain closes ceremoniously and all that remains,
endangered enlightenment echoes, and echoes like thunder
while a beautiful candle glows, not yet bent or spent
and everyone in attendance calms and knows,
in absence of love, nothing but misery can be achieved -
J.A.B.