That’s not the light you're seeking.
Words cannot live
with your brain all lit up like that.
Let those dark parts of your body,
those body-prayers mostly ignored,
gift to you a poem.
Most of your better images
are born in that low-grade radiance
of flesh and bone.
After the glow
you can fill in the gaps
but not too much
or you’ll cover up
what you should have revealed.
In light industrial units, sheet-metal roofs
ping under the rising heat of the sun.
Sounds of tin stretched into rhythm.
He tumbles out of a fuzzy dream
tramples over himself, sucks in
half-digested thoughts.
Morning on the edge
of a medium-sized mid-west city,
Mourning doves throttle a coo or two.
This late chiming morn,
he shares a first-rate breakfast tea
with the chug and chur
of a de-frosting fridge
wallows awhile in flabby abstractions.
Minor keys ding aluminum sidings,
gradually low-grade whispers
stutter into words, a kind of poem
he can almost hear.
The super low-grade low-brow, low-born guy
Is not at all a low life, but we don’t know why.
Possibly it is the resolve of is sainted mother
She made most of her parenting mistakes on his low-brow brother.
Space
between
stars is not
empty at all.
But vast quantities
of neutrinos, atoms,
molecules and dark matter
with photons from radiation
ranging wide from highest energy
to low grade cosmic microwave background.
Bubbling plasma in interstellar space
contains charged particles all over
embowered by soft cosmic glow.
Space between stars increasing
as stars receding far
from one another .
Universe on
expansion
to run
on.
Politiker niedrig carbon auß
Low grade carbon Politicans go!
Ihr seid nicht nuztfoll kein wert
Kein ahnûnug
You are of no use, you are mindless
Cronies.'
Der zukunft ist heir im Berlin heute
2024, die leüte sind rau! sie whërte
Du bist auß-pieste' die bauer
Im friedens laßen.!
The future is here, in Berlin today in
2024, the people are angry.' They are
Defending, you have gone off-track.'
Leave the farners in peace.'
Du bist niedrig carbon mensch
You are low value carbon people.!
If not this, then that,
arguments fall flat,
our ire
grows as we contract,
with love and light lacked,
cold fire
forms with fears a pact;
being ego backed,
we tire.
Objects we aspire
and seek to acquire,
they fade
because thoughts we hire
around dark desire
don’t aid
soul to fly higher.
Ego’s a liar,
low grade.
With fears to rest laid,
pure joy readymade
does act
and kindness repaid,
resting in love’s glade,
shows tact,
blunting karmic blade,
that we in bliss wade,
love tracked.
Words cannot appear
with your brain all lit up like that.
Most of your better images
are born in that low-grade radiance
of flesh and bone.
After the low glow
you can fill in the mind-gaps
with moonshine and lighter fluid.
Now you can switch
the blinding glare of reason
back on again, but never fully
or you may cover up
what you have just revealed.
Leaves, like reprobate angels, fall
Trees, nude gods (?), welcome the winter
Rainbow colors on sky-linter...?
Birds, their hatchlings, to go home, call
Days, like shade of low-grade jade, fade
Nights slow-down, of their dusk, afraid
Frenzy fog tries to spread its shawl
Dewdrops fill the lips of fresh blooms
Humble grass plume, mesmerized, zooms
Sun, on sea-front, performs cool-crawl
Moon marches toward the sky-height
Do stars, to shine, among them fight?
Within me there's an unknown squall
Like desert dune-frock-frills, heart grills
Thrill of nature in each cell fills
Leaves, like reprobate angels, fall
Birds, their hatchlings, to go home, call
Frenzy fog tries to spread its shawl
Sun, on sea-front, performs cool-crawl
Within me there's an unknown squall
22 September 2022
In Remembrance of Connie -Autumn Theme Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Suzanne Delaney
Their March
So, you dropped by to learn where the Future soon will be
And what the fascist’s creed will ultimately decree.
Constructed oh so steadily by Republican traitor calls
The fascist acid seeping through our legislative halls
Broadcast destructively by media incompetent,
Misinformation besets the right-wing ignorant
Low-grade intelligence collects the rotted theme
So, votes are banned, Rights are canned to complete the fetid scheme.
While the Democrats administer the distractions fascists breed
Democracy’s chipped away - Constitution’s left to bleed
Can’t see the forest through fascist planted trees
But only on distractions do left-wingers work to please.
Our foundation’s being eaten while our building’s being cleaned
Fascist erosion’s fed while Democracy’s demeaned
Next time you “drop by” I think I’ll hear you say:
Why didn’t we divert our fight … go on to Save the Day?
But … by then, it’ll be way too late.
Medgar Fallon Roe
That’s not the light you are looking for.
Words cannot live
with your brain all lit up like that.
Let those dark parts of your body,
those body-prayers mostly ignored,
gift to you a few poems.
Most of your better images
are born in that low-grade radiance
of flesh and bone.
After the glow
you can fill in the gaps
but not too much
or you’ll cover up
what you should have revealed.
It's getting late-time to leave for work,
where we've lost our first to the red Wuhan curse.
I'll be strolling the halls with his freshly minted ghost.
Hopefully it won't loathe me, I pray it leaves me alone-
Everyone's masked and macabre tinged.
Management is working remotely from home
but giving us free soda and chips.
With a side of ham and corona on rye
all this for risking our insignificant lives-
I'm starting to make more mistakes.
Taking days off for the most trivial things.
I'm getting old and soft-I'm suffocating.
Every day is just another bluish Monday.
but we plow on-there's loved ones to feed...
My psyche is quickly thinning.
The mind swirling like a 70's mood ring.
With pinches of low-grade hashish.
My faith sure could use a good cleaning,,,
to rid its prayer wheel of debris,
so, it can start spinning freely again.
I'm already beat and have a headache,
lunchtime is still two and a half hours away.
In light industrial units, sheet-metal roofs
ting under the rising flames of sunlight,
sounds of tin are stretched into rhythm.
He arises, rolls off the edge of comfort
tramples on himself as if he had
a baggy skin.
Morning on the edge of a medium-sized mid-west city,
“This summer
I will inflate or die”, he thinks,
“this late chiming morn,
I will behead habitual pretensions”.
“First-rate breakfast tea”, he thinks.
sucking his lips.
Minor keys ping as a tin roof warms up,
gradually low-grade whispers
splutter into tuneful rattles.
‘Those sounds’, he thinks,
‘I can use somewhere,
after all I am a poet
of sorts’.
Steely conceit,
low-grade manufactured lies
Stolen property:
iron crowbar kiss the tinted window glass
before the face paint dries
Idol chassis things
rolling off the conveyor belt
Humble beginnings —
discarded memories ... slag from the smelt
Silver dross assembled self,
triple A ego batteries required
Love in tow:
another vow insurance scam liar
You may now kiss the pride,
lift the veil of the scarred innocent heart
The black widow is once again a bride,
wiping those silken teary eyes
Can’t shatter the glass ceiling web
that ensnares your soul
Upon further arrogant inspection,
shutdown emotional quality control
Reinforced vanity —
upgrade the annealed haughtiness
Trophy buck showcase
the taxidermic truth reinvented self
The Bus Trip
We are driving to Cascais on Sunday my wife wants to take
the bus she thinks we are too old to drive 300 miles.
On the bus, you might risk sitting by someone who can`t afford
water or soap that is a low grade working person on his way to
use a spade and whatever to build a trench that keeps the water
away when it is raining
I`m a tonic water socialist and read the Guardian, crystal glasses
and a sneaky *** on the loo. To meet a proper working class person
would shatter my illusion and bring back a memory of my father last time
I saw him it was on a bus and he was drunk.
I will drive- anyway- not long from now I will not be able to they are
putting up obstacles to stop us old ones driving