I arrived there in morning hours oh so very wee
And staked mine a place, from whence I wouldn’t flee
Savage winds blew cold against my frozen face
My vision blurred of sleet and snow as they interlace
And with their needled impact against my icy skin
My precarious situation was finally sinking in.
I knew my frozen fingers had turned a shade of blue
But I dared not look for confirmation of their hue.
For from that confirmation, were I to so engage,
My soul would fill with anger and mind be filled with rage.
Occasionally, shuffling sounds of cold impatient feet
Could be heard above the sounds of driving snow and sleet
And other souls about me, were just about to drop
When Walmart’s doors opened up and we could CHRISTMAS SHOP!
A
bed
session
where needles
conduct sleepy sounds
for a blanket tickled hedgehog’s
back spikes brushed off by tissue, tucked into tum by towel
drying up, with sleepy sounds, worries about boot spikes puncturing Hedgehog like they puncture hard ground.
The wave caught my eye—then broke, as if it couldn’t hold.
A single grey cloud lingered, swollen, refusing release.
Sand in the wind needled my skin—proof I was still exposed.
The howl of it leaned hard against the path I chose.
Blue bled downward, sky dissolving into shifting ground.
Nothing held its place.
Nothing seen.
Nothing heard.
And above it all, the sun—
fixed, distant—
indifferent
to the failing of my sight and sound.
How did I meet Alfred Glendening?
I was fascinated by his latest painting.
I stood mesmerized by the colours.
A painting of a summer outing.
It brought me some solace and warmth.
The painting was of three ladies arriving to the Surrey coast,
in a fast buggy filled with picnic baskets,
towards their favorite secluded beach away from it all.
Nurse Betty was strict as ordered by her master,
and would not allow Lady Elizabeth to bring her beau
to accompany them to the outing. The young lady was furious,
face red like Little Frances’ parasol. Oh was she mad.
To make things worse, Little Frances would not leave
her sister alone, and needled her by opening and shutting
the red parasol in her face. Angry, Lady Elizabeth moved away
and went for a walk along the shore of the beach,
fuming and cursing beneath her breath and kicking sand.
Nurse made the child sit down and gave her a-talking to.
This was not the Victorian way of behaving.
Idly, Little Frances twirled her red parasol.
The Royal Academy’s bell rang for closing time.
That’s when I stopped day-dreaming.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Poem based upon: "All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us." — J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring
He asked me to mend his grandfather's watch—
gears jammed with decades of pocket lint.
"All we have to decide," he said,
"is what to do with the time that is given us."
I scraped silt from the mainspring coil
like an archaeologist brushing bone.
Through my loupe, each scratched tooth
became a canyon. Outside, rain
needled the cobblestones.
When the balance wheel finally shuddered alive,
I handed back seconds he could now spend.
Think ink, permanently needled into flesh; tainT
Absolute with no quick absolution; twO
Together forever - will you be happy with your tattoO
As I lay on mounds of a shoreline,
weightless in eyes' astounded spirit
blending with angels, dirt, and crosses;
my soul bears this emptiness
in writhing streams omnipresent for day
and twilight's heavy float-- hours change
beyond primitive instincts--a landscape
of bittersweet cycles appear, and below it,
the fluidity from incandescent waters lap
on mouths of frozen stars requesting patience.
Here am i sprouting below, above and under
their flesh; fulfilling my need for deliverance
out of some needled pinch :
awash by whimper of rain , all senses
moored and fashioned so lamely
on brittle soil of life unlived ,
seeking a depth of quiet within myself
time rippling upon this decayed shell undersea...
yet nothing came except a leaf falling.
How does a dream survive
When pierced of every needled prick
and bled from every pore
When tossed about and left for sick
and crashed down to the floor
How does a dream survive
When hidden, lost and out of sight
forgotten and alone
Or trampled by the dark of night
and every wind that’s blown
A dream will live because it can
with just it’s very will
And even for the weakest man
and for the very ill
Oh dream, just dream, the mind is free
for everything that’s sought
To realize and come to be
it takes but just a thought
the birds in heaven
weeping still for your lost soul
peace cannot survive
in this needled cage
where desires rot like trash
singing, ringing noise
trumpets loud ablaze
sins of pleasure well erased
gardens have returned
but what flower knows
the warmth of the shining sun?
wherefore can we sleep?
wherefore is this peace?
let it dwell within us all
those who go too soon.
EVERY TUNIC’S TUCKED
squeamish that every tunic’s tucked
on one side, lopsided, uncouth
on the page, in the book - why is
every model told to tuck her hand
inside her pocket, jam her socket
into her pants, plunge me into distress.
If they want us to buy online, can’t
we size it up ourselves. I laugh
like crazy…going crazy…the lazy
love to push buttons and tuck.
well i’m out of luck, looking through
glaring pages, glossing over, needled.
insensitive to my plight? perhaps
you have your own quirk. don’t
laugh behind my back…hit me
on the chin. just don’t tuck your tunic
with your hand in one pocket. i panic
at the unprofessional modelling. i turn
away, i scorn, i feel sick. the lazy
like to set up every one the same.
their camera should be ashamed…
how lame. let me speak…let me shout.
i was kidding about the chin -
keep it to yourself…
Freshly awake from feeling trapped in a dream
I drink Sleepytime tea in the dark and
Read an article perfectly summarizing the modern world of
Cluster B personality disorders - the underlying psychopathology
Now overtly on display in a world gone mad
It hits the proverbial nail on the head
But maybe that's the problem
I don't want to be a nail, nor even a needle
I want to be just fingers tying
Knots on a loom
Like in the old days around the fire
As stories and tall tales of Gods and Giants swirl
And so like everyone else
Stick my hammered, needled, knotted head
Deep in the proverbial sand
(10/25/23
When looking for a quack with spiked rates
Some try the Windowed Office of Bill Gates
Coz right on the spot
He’ll give you a shot
But be prepared to accept his dictates
His business, Microshot, you may know
Needled itself ahead of every foe
With billions of bucks
To create deluxe
Vaccine versions 2, 3, and 4.0
Yet there are many who’ve come to razz him
And treat him with deserved sarcasm
Like those who’ve found
Themselves wheelchair bound
Though Gates claims it’s just a back spasm
Now Gates wants to vaccinate the planet
With help in tow this is how they’ll plan it
By changing genes
With secret means
Which to me sounds more or less satanic
Yet there are those who want to be first in line
To get their shot with a chaser of wine
Well here’s to their health
Or rather Gates’s wealth
Which must be baked in his evil design
But when at Bill’s door you hear the death knell
That is your vaccination alarm bell
For more than malware
Coz once in his lair
You’ll know why they call his shop ‘Gates of Hell’
The rain drops, drip-drops from the eaves
Wind creates a sighing in the amber needled pine trees
Moonless night puts all in this fall's deep night sleep
Even howling from coyotes slowly slows and cease
There's a ghoulish feeling to the damp air's flight
As the mist swirls on this coal black night
Invited inside where a small fire in the fireplace is aglow
Where a comforting warmth from the hearth does flow
The silvery hair upon his old head
As memories of years gone by have suddenly fled
They left on Alzheimer's tangles last call
This most dreaded Halloween of all
Written: October 31, 2022
In sleep,
the clear hose is a needled razors eye and it is draining!
In my dream,
it is ten feet long, black polish, it is the start of our song.
Emo steps out from, his mirror, the two alone, smiling
together, waxed hard,
out of sight, inside the darkest part of the mirror.
Millennium Park
a reclaimed landfill
once succumbed
to the deafening shriek
of sea gulls and bulldozers.
Now a rolling hill
gazing down on the skyline
of The City of Boston.
A blanket of greenery
laid over a once open sore
inviting the weary
to sit, to succumb
to the blissful stillness
as the wind sings
in the long-needled pines.
John G. Lawless
©2/22/2022
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