Long Whited Poems
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Silly wisps of her raven hair flutter
In the winds of the long-short corridor of summer;
They snivel with the whims of cosseted sots,
Sinking in the futile harmony of winking beasts.
Pretty whiskers, soft with the ague of age, and lean
From frazzled grey.
A halo of white cotton crowns her fine dome, revealing little.
She paints the inky images of Al Hirschfeld —
Among whited, slit, black smuts needed for art’s emphases.
The greens of the season, lush and dreamy,
Stand witness before us two —I, limping hard
From the roasting east; she, from the broad
Corners of a lean north.
We meet at the navel of the earth.
She posts a reflection of a travelling zealot, dragged
By rains and heated sods.
She must have been weary with prayers and demented,
Silent laments, for her eyes bored into the fragile
Energy sifting itself from the raw power of NOW.
I follow her silent drama —less words and impaling stares.
Time stands still in all rural dumbness, with the checking hush of
The sacristy on wartimes.
Quiet reigns with the immortal grace of planarians.
A pound of silence sells with strident gavel-sound,
Hammered thickly on the floating beam of an unstinting market.
“Be healed”, she clamours,
Her long, bony fingers running up to her sinciput,
And quickly down to her chest.
Her voice is frozen —embalmed for life.
As she trudges on, words of the paternoster grease her tight
Lips, streaming with ease, like digitized lyrics, to my listening ears.
Amen!
I wish I had David’s lyre!
The faces of the tom-toms were sallow,
So was the face of the sun, dark-visaged,
Red, and starved through a pogrom
That assaulted the peace of the beasts.
Darkness spelt the names of diseases,
Each pronounced through stiffened tongues,
Whited by the scourge of hate – a common
Figure, cadaverous and laconic, but incestuous.
Grieving rivers sought ways to be rechristened
Or rebaptized by holy rills with less fetor, as
Long as riparian languages were still spoken on
Breaths of brooks, broken, but gathered in bits
By hands that leaned on fermented soot only.
And darkness persisted, perspiring from hostile
Beats of hollow drums when fire reaches them
From tormented skies.
One truth loomed: the truth of a disvirgined
Destiny, clothed in serrated raiment of grief.
On its crown, shredded petals of holocausts
Form toothless thorns shaped like lightning.
Death was prominent, dispirited, and hung loose
On strings smelted on anvils raging from heinous
Rape of a blooded land. Shores wept with humour
When our frightened coasts sneezed with mirth.
I speak of Biafra where the land still bleeds
I recall that vision, of a crowded city,
Where signs were hung in heaven,
Where voices were muted by the colour of bold words.
Love is in air, as sparkle eyes cherish their meet
He sat at the beach leisurely painting the bay
Blues and purples he mixes with touches of gray
With melody of music, he dances his brushes along
Up out of story book tiptoes a beautiful lady in a tong
His heart skips a beat at the triple treat
She shaped her red fabric as she took a seat
It was a beautiful sunny day on her face
Everything about her was perfectly in place
What are you painting over there mister
Her voice, lying on a pillow, soft as a whisper
Oh, I'm a painting a beautiful picture of us
As he whited out his canvas with his brush
She smiled and liked his confidence and desire
He painted two hearts intertwined and on fire
She grabbed his hand for every rhyme and reason
Cupids arrow touches them both this valentine season
Angel dust replaces the sand at their feet
Love is in air, as sparkle eyes cherish their meet
The last line the couple joked, on their play on words
Off into the sunset they flew, like two lovebirds
connie pachecho
1/7/16
non contest entry
42 Mirrors
By Lucien Quincy Senna
Mirror, mirror
tell me all,
Who I am
Who I was,
painted seagreen with vanity
or socketed modesty.
Pride and pain
my old pretenders.
I am full of dead men's bones,
their advance over me.
I trashed and trotted
other people's causes,
statecraft of the most
sinister skull-duggery.
Mirror, mirror
see me now,
my strawberry leaves
for I am no longer twenty-four.
Pinking the raw edge of silk,
trusting it all.
Then that Ramshackle Empire
came clattering for me
a penal code
institutions for troubled women
"Pull your bellies between your knees!" said the nurse.
The hours pass upon the eastern turn
my faith anew while I was interred there,
until I somersaulted
out of the deep waters.
An ocean greyhound
who was simply considered
a whited sepulchre.
A mask for women over forty.
Day-248 “Winter’s Wrath”
From out of the north
The cold winds blew
Hell’s inferno turned blistery cold
The Devil himself all
Bundled in ice coated steel;
His snarly, crackling laughter
Piercing the barren air.
His staff, a brazened fork,
Pierced all who ventured out
Searing holes in sockless shoes.
His razor sharp eyes
Turned pathways glazed
To monstrous graves.
Eternity could not be worse
This inferno from the north.
From out of the south
The warm winds came.
Across the Heavens,
In a chariot of golden sun rays
Pulled by a hundred whited steeds
Apollo took aim.
Over the plains they clashed;
Spears and swords took many a soul
White sheets covered the deadly fields.
The north wind hissed.
The south wind kissed.
Apollo cried out
“My blood runs hot
Forsake me not.”
From his scabbard a diamond blade flew
Cutting the breath of that mighty
South bound wind.
He ripped the armor
From the Devil’s redden skin
And turned it to dust; then
Took that angry man’s staff and threw
It to the sea.
With that the skies began to calm
And the wind turned warm.
Above the plains
In the setting sun
Selene stood proud.
As she glazed the sea
With an orangish glow
A smile on her face
For Apollo her man,
Boreas he tamed.
Lon 2/16/2021 #351