Emotions and images get lost in the meanders of my mind.
Quick, sit at your keyboard, the messages are impatient.
Lay down the ideas as one hangs a handkerchief on a clothesline.
Sentences crash onto the white of a page for a birth.
But before all that, weeks spent watching the world change.
But before all that, days and nights with opposing dreams.
Above all, writing lines of thought that will become tomorrow’s poems.
Above all, forcing the release of words trapped in a spider’s web.
A spark, a trigger will be the prelude to creation, its genesis.
Diving into the pantry — rest for ideas, for chimera, for every resonance.
Will you be a universe or an introspection, a flash or a revolution.
Despite this cerebral storm, visions collide: a mobilization.
Returning to origins, seeing oneself again as a child, sometimes a tree or an ocean.
Becoming a thinker or a moralist, finally not knowing, just searching oneself.
Feeling a kind of urgency to offer a message or a perception.
But before obtaining those epigrams that form a hymn,
Always — and above all — inspiration.
Joël Charvillat
The moralist woman
Morning, every morning, the silent streets of Budapest
We open the restaurant, one corner from the Váci street
I arranged and tidied the terrace, tables, and chairs, and set up
People walked in front of the restaurant. Going to work
Office buildings, hotels, shops, and restaurants in this amazing area
People were walking, and I watched them. Men and ladies.
A young lady every morning walked the square, she watched
Watched me, and me her. Bombastic legs, light brown skin, great shape
Short brown hear, feminine figure, not slim, not tall, great body and face
middle twenty age
Every morning she came and stand front of the building opposite
She watched the waiter. Me. For weeks. Days and days. Every morning
A morning she came. She came to me. She said in my face with a stern
chaste face
‘I don’t do "that"!' She shouted and turned and left in a hurry.
I never see her again.
It was a true story.
Tough as old boots, i'll betch'a coutts ' the barrage is just '
And you're due ' can you redress.? One can only guess?
On which foot is the proverbial shoe ? Err I mean boot !
I think your venture into social fields is not so benefical
Yet gorge psoriasis led, and no doubt advised on the bed.'
You have made, with deep discretion, when you play as
Moralist Take heed, on the worlds position.' De-fund the
Wars, and feed the poor, create some equality in your nation.'
Wipe out some debts, or maybe better yet, resolve your
Instigation.' Annonce to hell we serve you well' we fain
Attain more of your inclination, its such a strain' relive our
Pain apply positive imag-isation ' involve your press and
Solve this mess! Your currency in in bad de-flation.'
For you've bet'cha boots..And lost em coutts ' theres only
One true interpretation !
I can be a butterfly
Or a bird,
Or even a flower
If I so wish to be
For,
None can choose their paths
Other than they who walk
In their own shoes,
Blistering their feet as they go
And even endure the harshness
Of worn out soles!
I can be a doll,
Or even a Queen,
Why, I can be a sinner
Or even a moralist
Yes, I can be whatever I wish
Since
The rules of this world
Have been carved out
By those who are like me
Made of flesh and blood
And having upon their gaze,
Limited vision!
Yes,
Captain of my own ship,
I can choose to be happy,
And mighty
And glorious
And even powerful,
Confident that I can conquer life,
Rather than letting it conquer me!
How do I write of prettier things--
Roses, ribbons, and diamond rings--
While these angry thoughts persist
Loathing for the unclean masses
Lost in immoral debauched morasses,
What good ensues if I shall insist
Upon honor and truth the moralist brings,
While doing nothing until the skylark sings?
Written September 10, 2021
[This poem employs a variation
of the reverse rhyme scheme
I often use: aabccbaa.]
Russian rhythms warm
the crowd up
in the gloaming. Hairs
create golden
cascades on the street.
Even a moralist
doesn’t go home, enticed
by the beauties
in silk. Suppressed desires
leak through the
moral vents. Like blue
snakes, the dancers
sway on the Keralite culture
that always tends
to wrap feminine body in
saris and churidars.
The nude flesh fragments
in exotic white
enthrall the spectators.
What is artistic
there turns erotic here.
First published in The Literary Hatchet.
That oh so never ever ending, wondrous egotistical mystery!
With others pretending they have their lives oh, so together over thee?
Spare me, obnoxious perfection soul pounders.
Whose joy in life,is to pity, moralize and besmirch others.
There you are, on your fake, egomaniacal throne!
Moralist divine, whose insidious throne should be overthrown.
Walk in another man or woman's shoes.
Before you beat your chest with that phoney," I have it all together," blues.
2/8/2021
~1~
"Judge not, lest you be judged, also!"
I have never preached morality,
but followed strict and essential rules
taught by mother to prevent a tragedy;
aren't I happy to have listened to her words?
Preachers mention eloquent quotes from the Gospels,
and while preaching there's no proof of their honesty,
only honest folks do not sin, lie or shout threats'
he may have sinned and lied hiding his insincerity.
Open the pages of the Bible and read them carefully,
don't misread the holy words that offer guidance;
shouldn't a moralist lead a clean life and inspire?
Whoever thinks that they're vain is bound for calamity.
Forget about futuristic wars
between nations, race against race
country against country
tongue against tongue;
soon the populous will know no
borders, continents no boundaries.
“The New master”
Is awakening manoeuvring
stalking, his plan already activated
The twenty second century will
see his bidding become
formidable, the pocket, whims,
thoughts and desires
will be his to regulate, what
to eat, drink, lay on ride on, he
will control, no law will hold him,
he will be the law!
Politicians will become
his directors and producers
will guide his script, play his media
trouble shooters
his bounty hunters, seeking out
the moralist, the Salvationist,
no competition will be his aim,
manipulation of all things
one world
one God
one Board
one CHAIRMAN
“The ultimate ONE COMPANY”
© Harry J Horsman 2018
THE SMILE ON THE OTHER’S FACE
Money power money
Rest is all hoodwinking
Peace, love, respect all are bluff
I am a real man of reality
I had never been in whims and fancies
Riding or driving a BMW car
Is more enjoyable than reading a poem
The touch of a smooth skin
Is more of a thing to brag on the street than
To be proud of a moralist
Test a pious man today
And make him a king to rule us
Within the falling of a dew drop he will be your oppressor
Nowhere is there any gratitude
Test him now who is talking about piety
And give him few bucks,
The bucks he could not earn in his entire life
The piety of this gospel is he will return nothing
Last few days I moved with this negative mind
Then I turned few steps back
And found a burning lamp
It was in the dark
It was inside me
Right in my heart
I myself did not like the darkness but the light
And realised I was killing what used to give me delight
The smile on other’s face
Then came back again my writing
The fountain of joy
In writing i am more joyous than the king of the world.
Music roves forgotten recess.
Spectrum of colors lack comprehension.
Objects of undeciphered importance appear.
Landscapes with familiar distortions,
Capture dialogue of competing personas.
The decayed buildings of my past,
Meet the repainted canvases of the future.
We row the lake of dreams in ignorance,
Lost in erratic, impulsive winds.
Hurricanes look tame in comparison.
Sometimes I find delight,
Loving many,
Finding impossible pleasures,
Discovering new insights,
Solving complex problems.
I have conversed with deceased relatives,
Witnessed black horrors,
Screamed in unsolicited howls,
Awoke in unhealthy shivers,
Breached chaotic doors.
Murderer
Victim
Seducer
Hero
Moralist
Criminal
Who directs the movies of my mind?
I am an actor without knowledge of the script!
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