Long Whacks Poems
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iv.
By Thanksgiving, their machinations no longer discreet,
Voices from the walls and vents, betrayed their deceit.
My family revealed as demons in flesh-and-blood guise,
Christmas Day was the day they had plotted my demise.
My nightmares more horrific, as that curséd day drew near,
Every morning, drenched in sweat, consumed by my fears.
So, I wore the mask of loving dad, right up till the Eve,
One last dream of the woman offering my reprieve.
"Your family is wicked. They'll kill you while you sleep.
Take the axe from the shed—when you swing, bury it deep."
v.
Christmas Eve, bright and early, I quietly left the room,
My family still sound asleep, silent as a tomb.
They awoke to hot cocoa, crackling fire, freshly fallen snow,
The smell of gingerbread, apple cider, their faces all aglow.
We spent the day playing games, told 'em how much I loved them,
Then kissed my wife off to bed, grabbed my son and hugged him.
"I care for you and your mom and would only do what's best.
I'll come wake you when Santa's gone," his head against my chest.
"I can’t wait! Goodnight, dad!" He bounded off to bed.
As soon as his door had closed, I headed to the shed.
With gas can and axe in hand, I moved with hurried stride,
And kicked open wide the door, where the first demon I spied.
With the axe, forty whacks, when I saw what I'd done,
I kicked down the other door, then swung forty-one.
I moved from room to room, possessed with righteous purpose,
Made the sign of the cross as I doused every surface.
The last drop, the living room, tossed aside the can,
Where among the gifts, an envelope, signed with child’s hand.
I removed a card and read—To The World's Greatest Dad!
With a photo of our family and the happy life we had.
I slumped beside the Christmas Tree with lit match and tearful gaze,
Then screamed as it and my wretched soul went up in hellish blaze.
As the flames consumed the heavens, a woman cackled with delight,
Disembodied laughter, that faded with the night.
We raised our sights in the autumn season,
brilliant and vivacious shades, full of life.
Vivid crimson, scarlet, rust, and yellow rife,
The maple trees in the grove praised the region.
Getting a clear grasp of the near atmosphere,
hear the stones beneath our feet squish and shift.
Consider the dust piles that our shoes drift,
Feel the brisk breeze tickling our hair, yet each spear.
The autumn leaves on the trees had fallen,
During the seasons, I am lured by the radiant sight.
The harvest was plentiful, a summer delight,
Pumpkins, squash, and yams were then sullen.
Birds expecting winter fly over a deep blue sky,
For the rest of the fall, the butterfly urges you to stay.
Bonfires and ethereal smoke swamped the air
and piney fragrance with a dash of seasonal flair.
Pause, sight, the river flanked by a large stone,
toward green and withering vetch stalks.
Stay close to increasing beating whacks,
Azure Creek has a gentle, placid tone.
Squirrels brace for fall by saving nuts and seeds,
They relish crisp fall days but dread winters.
and spread an abundance of lusty splinters.
Come jog with me, which allows clean air to renew yields.
2nd Place Contest Winner
Written: December 09, 2022
Still-Life Autumn Scene Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Eve Roper
The nearer peace,more savage are the acts
Abhorrent to the atheist in us all.
History, undigested ,splits and cracks
As we whites did evil to the black
With little difference, hate for glory calls.
The nearer peace, the more savage the acts
All of us can disremember facts
Israeli hands have gripped and then appalled.
History, undigested ,splits and cracks
As ,with Bomber Harris, Dresden packed
Burned like grass the refugees to ghouls
The nearer peace, the more savage the acts
We deny the healing we have lacked
For Jesus' Jews we let be killed ,de-souled
History, undigested ,splits and sticks
Palestine’s own Arabs are ill ruled
And in return, explode like stubborn mules
The nearer love, the more the hatred whacks
History., inconceivable, directs
Who the hell is Gordon Bennett
Some think there’s insanity
In the fact we call his name
As though it were profanity
Not so famous nowadays
As once he used to be
But still I call his name out
When a doorframe whacks my knee
I put my hammer to one side
To take a tiny break
And then cry Gordon Bennett
Where’s it gone for goodness sake
Did poor George Armstrong Custer
At the massing injun nations
Cry out Gordon Bennett
We’ve made underestimations
Or is our Mr Bennett
Just a UK kinda guy
Who’s name is shouted loud
As one more bus goes speeding by
Well, frankly I don’t care
That English language travels on
Gordon Bennett is world famous
Back where I come from
This unknown hero all my life
My unpretentious tenet
Is by my side in times of strife
His name is Gordon Bennett
Behind the Veil of Friendship
Your friend, walks very slowly behind you.
Seeing the harm coming your way.
His sword out, he protects you back.
And you know nothing, you are not even
aware of the coming whacks!
You have innocent dreams, that people
really do like you.
He knows far better, how bitterly some do
despise your poetry, too.
While you dream of the goodness of man.
He goes sleepless, in your defense, doing
all that he can.
Nobody will listen to him, in their expensive
pajamas.
But then, they are soulless, possessing
no trained nashama.(soul)
Thank God, for a friend so abundantly blessed.
Who far surpasses any meagre, friendship test!
Both evil and good, exist in man’s veritable soul.
My friend, is one, so courageous, hardly a gross,
self-seeking, popularity mole!
12/5/2021
Above my head, foliage, and feathers clatter
as a hawk tangles with a squirrel.
Above my head, Russian tanks pop their tops
in boggling bubbles.
Just above a bald patch, shaggy clouds squat to piddle.
I am heads above those below,
the silver slick worms hardly notice as I thread through
the less grassy and bare.
Mind-hairs are a real thing, mine wave their thin tentacles
like fishing sea anemones, they snack upon
the overheard overhead; ripple gently
in the whisking winds.
A highbrow gets above itself, stutters as it utters.
I wear the headgear of long dead heroes, they ride
my scalp, baseball bats wave there whacks,
ultra-maga veterans of foreign wars
salute my stiff necked, heads-up pose.
There's a world of wonders down under,
but just above my head, that's where dandruff
ponders its flaky notions,
and all high-flown conundrums learn to fly.
The wind off the cold North Atlantic ocean
smells of piquant seawater on its breath,
agreeably pungent, brackish and moist.
The legendary Nor'easter off Newfoundland,
the bane of so, so many ships at sea,
is not a breeze with a soft, caressing hand.
It kicks and knocks and slaps and whacks and thwacks,
pummels and punches, pinches and pushes.
The stolid, sturdy imperturbable island
sits there and puts up with the abuses.
The northeasterly wind is very resentful
of its odiferous reputation.
At night, it simmers and seethes and smolders,
writhes and trembles, weeps and whines, stirs and sulks.
But, like the song says, the wind and sea smells
are "perfume to my soul". I stand alone on shore
and listen to the ocean's roar, wind's woosh,
and my mind decompresses, destresses;
this is my peace, my serenity.
I am home.
"You'll find more peace in your life if you refuse to listen to idle chatter."
~ by poet
When a squirrel does it, he sounds like the Madd Hatter
But when doves coo it, it's more like romantic chatter
Chickens cluck pecking for grain that makes them fatter
and Meerkats jabber as a warning signal to "SCATTER!"
Often defined as the noises made by monkeys and birds
but I've heard such gibberish spoken by humans in words
and clinical conversations of dialogue by high-tech nerds.
I wonder if baaing and neighing is chatter among herds.
Chatter can also be considered as gossip or tittle-tattle
or as irrelevant talking, which is idle or foolish prattle.
Perhaps used in bovine circles as mooing among cattle
and the goo goo sound of a baby when shaking a rattle.
I've known a talker or two who I'd label chatter bugs
who can become more annoying then crawling slugs
That's not the kind of people I'd want to give big hugs
for their chatter might persist until I'd need ear plugs.
There's muttering and piffling, cackling and yammers
who'd talk day and night til you put on your jammers.
With nonstop chit chat, they blabber in noisy clamours
until you can make it stop with whacks from hammers!
February 4, 2023
Writing Challenge - C Words Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
One two three and then many
Clean crisp quack quack quack
You have to see them all not any
Quiet peace in quack no whacks
Making ripples in the cool water
Faint wavy sound from the swim
In the bushes small birds chatter
In the air blue and white hymn
As I offer a crumb on the water
Beaks bend down there and then
Eyes gleam to indicate you matter
Quack quack they call again
Water kisses my bare feet
Trigger to proffer more crumbs
To see how cute the ducklings eat
And in thrill are off their chump
The waves breaking at the ledge
In harmony the happy ducklings
Dark and glow in fleeting cleavage
Sort of heaven on watery nothing
The sky descends and blends in water
Splashes in the nimble feet
Love,-- the great bond creator
Making a poem charmingly neat
------------------------------------------------------------------
May 8, 2016
Submission for Feeding the Ducklings – Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Eve Roper
She took off her witch hat and stomped all over it.
It mashed down miserably on one side, distorted a bit.
The wire obviously bent at an awkward angle.
Even more than an ordinary witch hat.
She took off her coat, by ripping all the buttons off
Using the buttonholes. They popped in a variety of
Directions. One hit Old Aunt Mable in the glasses, but
They were so thick she barely noticed.
I watched her run up the stairs to my room. On her
way she smacked both my brother and sister in the
back of the head with big long satisfying whacks.
I was grinning like a Cheshire Cat when I went up
there to laugh and giggle with her about it.
I love little witch. She comes at night, and sneaks into my
room, and we sing silly songs until I fall asleep. The best
part? I do not have to share her with anyone. I am the
only one in the family who can see her.