Deep beneath the twisted root,
Where silence wears a felt boot,
The mother curls in circles tight,
A ring of warmth against the night.
Her brush is draped like silken thread,
A pillow for each tiny head.
With silver tongue and patient grace,
She washes every fuzzy face;
A rhythmic stroke, a tender sweep,
To lull her restless kits to sleep.
She nicks the clay and clears the air,
The mistress of her earthen lair.
When hunger nips at bellies small,
She answers to their whimpering call.
She leaves the warmth of huddle and home,
Through silvered wilds and woods to roam.
She answers every hungry need,
And gives her waiting kits a feed.
But if the heavy foot should fall,
Or shadow loom against the wall,
The mother transforms—sharp and keen,
The fiercest flame that’s ever been.
With bared tooth and a warning low,
She stands between them and foe.
In golden coat and eyes of fire,
She is the shield, a mother’s desire.
Until the stars begin to pale,
And dawn unfolds its violet veil,
She keeps the watch, the sacred trust,
Amidst the roots and cooling dust.
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,
could never get a date with Stevie Nicks.
ICE agents are detectives (yes, they’re dicks!)
They murder citizens to get their kicks:
their bedroom windows shuttered-up with bricks.
Don’t even get me started on Hope Hicks!
Enough, ye noble folk, of politics.
Vacation thoughts – the River of the Styx,
which brings forgetfulness, among my picks –
to let my worries lie, submerged, deep six.
The Lyrics
This is for Pink Floyd
who reminds me
that there is always
a "dark side of the moon."
This is for Stevie Nicks
who reminds me
to "stand back"
and "you can go your own way"
even if it means
leaving love to become
something more for yourself.
This is for George Harrison
and his weeping guitar
who saw the world
"and I see the world is turning"
For The Rolling Stones
who remind me
that I won’t get everything I want
even if it’s what I think I need.
For Helen Jane Long
who plays the piano
and doesn’t sing
and says everything
without saying anything at all.
give me a guitar
teach me your favorite folk songs
call me Stevie Nicks
Wonder why dearly creatives are really gruff
Ponder artists fright...why they're in a right huff
As if their plight wasn’t nearly hard enough
Now AI picks alright clearly nicks natives stuff
Copyright blight.. tight AI guys fight with trite guff
Won’t share …it’s unfair…don’t care..life’s tough
Your ”off the cuff”.. they lazily buff.. crazily turn to fluff
Like a stranger getting your lover or wife up the duff
Red hot bot rot danger is rife but still they will just bluff
Strife..this lot don’t give a jot ..another blot we must rebuff
Muster the puff to bust their bluster..off they trot..play rough
Stand tall..together they’ll fall..grab by their neck’s scruff
As sagacity…loquacity.. bodacity & veracity techs nab & snuff
Authentic becomes drab identikit wrecks..cultures these vultures scuff
These AI fingers lingers in everyone else’s pies…Nuff is a Nuff
Yep and I can hear in my ear.. dear old.. Brian Clough chuff
“That’s Bloody rubbish”
AI guys lies..snaffling then raffling is baffling…but surprise surprise in the buff…it’s total shruff!
sunset sails on palettes of tangerine
I close my eyes to fondle this spectacle
in few nicks of brushstrokes; its glory done
my tears stumble , free falling...
asking for whys of its hues vanishing
Skinny in youth thick in later days
Champion for truth despite delays
As a late bloomer in thought process
Born to a baby boomer and so blessed
Believed in God but didn’t get much church
Felt so odd how the church clicks work
Rather open to explore other fuchsia faiths
Went to the mosque just couldn’t be great
And with Buddhism she felt all a glow
But she still identified as a Christian so
Perhaps it’s true train up a child
But her training was unique and mild
For she recalled Bootsy’s Rubber Band
And Stevie Nicks, Stevie Wonder on hand
Music was the church in her life
She was a cool nerd never a wife
A poet who sucked at math in her head
But like a mom stretched a penny till it’s dead
Had many jobs, but a mom and proud to be
Not afraid of death for it is purple peace
Grazing Trump’s ear gunshot when goes,
It nicks nation’s much-fancied nose,
World’s keen to know-- sharp ears,
Should things change in near years,
Republican romance,
Passion with pro-gun stance
Should slow, if ray of remorse shows.
_______________________________
Happenings |08.07.2024| USA, political
Poet’s note: This bullet might divide America more. For, four of the 46 presidents have been assassinated in office. More than half a dozen others have survived. Like Trump, democracy may survive, but will face some more fears. Violence can’t be vouchsafed, but if it causes the country’s love affair with gun a rethink, it will serve some purpose, if Trump be any wiser, any sober.
They sit around the table
and a few will shed a tear
Thinking about the kinfolk
who are no longer here.
The photos on the mantle
are fading quickly with time,
Just like all the memories
which become so hard to find.
The youth have become restless
as they are close to full grown;
Soon they'll be out in the world
finding places of their own.
For that the elders worry,
at the table now and then,
Because no one wants to say
if they will come back again.
There are nicks and cuts and dents
in the table top that's worn;
Its hosted funeral dinners,
held the food for babies born.
A leg or two can wobble,
its old feet can shrink or swell,
But if this table could talk
so much hist'ry would it tell.
And now it's there on its own
as the house's shell is gone;
The paint is cracked and faded,
its legs won't hold it for long.
Sadly, though, the end is near
for the hour's growing late;
There's no one left to return
to retrieve if from its fate.
“A wound gets worse when it’s treated with neglect.” – Stevie Nicks
My heart aches,
like the sun aches for the moon,
but stalling became my shackle,
knowing an evolution was never
on the horizon;
wandering stark habitats—
paradoxically, a devoted outcast
tangled in neglect;
I lay isolated soothing my soul,
mending the wounds
I didn’t leave behind.
Truth is, love is a foreign oasis—
thrust into silence—
spiritually battered and bruised,
consuming the deplorable ruins
of those with sinister stigmas
attached to their very core—
void of fading humanity.
Birthmarks,
unique identifying signs,
cover our walls.
Scuffs, scars, scribbles,
fingerprints, nicks.
Randomly appearing after
marking the birth of our son.
Would I trade those pocked surfaces
for pristine blank spaces?
No. The memories of that little boy
becoming a young man is the story
those walls tell.
A narrative in which “The End” came too soon.
Deathmarks? No one talks about them.
Maria hums to the tune of “Taps” as she scoops out the betta
One red, one blue, Wiggles got ick, now it’s just Padma blue
Doorbell rings, ding dong, Maria rushes to answer, Ahh, Greek feta
The delivery guy left as the maid pounded on the screen, birds flew
This is cheddar, Miss Sparks will be upset, hmmm. It’s okay!
Swooshing sounds from the toilet bowl, as Maria flushes
Tosses the salad, grabs her clanking keys, and drives away
Down the hill, exhales haa, then inhales huh, blood rushes
Nick The Greek’s, an order of the Greek feta salad, to go please
Exits Nicks, enters Finney’s Fish Store. I’ll take that one, that fish
As she points to the red betta splashing, wiggling, stops, in a freeze
Dear Maria, I’m home, bring my salad and a glass of iced tea swish
So, tell me, how was your day, clops off her shoes by her chair
Leaning, back crackling, with Wiggles her red betta nearby
Miss Sparks waits for her maid, then notices Padma’s stare
Maria, why is Padma staring at Wiggles with a glint in her eye?
Starry nights,
laying wide-awake;
lost in thoughts dark and deep.
No one sings lullabies
by your bedside
to ease you to sleep.
Cold nights,
curled up in woe;
starving to the core.
No one cares
if you need a repast
or sleep with an echoing stomach sore.
Thunderous nights,
yowling on your knees;
feeling hopeless in a pit.
No one holds you
while you break,
so you fall apart bit by bit.
Full moon nights,
numbing yourself with nicks and cuts;
hoping your hurt will wane.
No one cares
or tells you its going to be okay,
so you go insane.
Every morning you still get out of bed,
when all you want is to be dead;
after living through nights of hell.
No one applauds
or pats your back,
for the times you rose after you fell.
But it’s time old soul
to hum your pacific lullaby,
kill your anti-hero hunger
and stitch your own tatter.
It’s time to pat yourself from the back,
parade your self-love;
for you need no one
to tell you that you matter.
He’d just love to learn a few new tricks
~ but he fears bruises, cuts and nicks
The reflection of what you see
To me, it deflects the purities that my spectral lenses catch
Matching with every insecurity of
Impurities overflowing as water through a gutter
Cluttering me from seeing my self-worth
Birthed from times of weakness down the road most of us have treaded
Yet,
a worn path others have made it down.
The thing about a mirror
Is it’s easy to break
It’s the shattered pieces we’re afraid to pick up
Those individual shards made to make up what’s left of your reflection
Your identity
The sharp fractures of what’s left from the whole cheval
Though it now reflects a peculiar perspective.
The intricate things that were once overlooked.
Crafted and handpicked by your own hands and not of that of another constructor.
Cuts and nicks
Pains and pricks will cut deep as you assemble your speculum
A Curriculum self taught to teach you your worth
Birthed from pain to be made whole.
liberté retrouvée
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