Terminology:
Crystal booths in a nocturnal snow.
significant downpours of shedding stars.
This said, feel free to scatter, scrabble or mash.
Words are fungible,
many still believe that poetics
do indeed belong to the fungi family,
though some have been classified
as many-limbed Triffids
of the squishy kind.
Now throw moondust at the reader's eyes:
Obscurity is essential, however, first create a window
that opens to reflect the thrower.
Rain down upon the moondust until mud takes shape.
There are no words for this process,
so, make some up.
Flourish:
Without a final flourish the poet is left with a turgid puddle
avoid turgidity at all costs, especially puddles.
Sprays of celebratory tinsel
or globs of gore are always effective.
Reaching for the stars with a palsied hand
will jerk tears out of a slab of concrete
eventually.
Swiftly leave the space you are now occupying,
other's will be impatiently waiting to craft their next masterpiece.
Pomposity
Arrogance and ego are hazards that lead us astray.
Jealousy will tarnish your blessings when allowed to stay.
Center your pain, adapt and overcome for relief.
Passing judgement is deplorable, that’s just my belief.
A smug puritan will point their finger and berate.
We should never blame others for the reality we create.
Discretion is for all, understand and learn.
When frolicking in the flame, beware of the burn.
We can write whatever we choose, ramifications abound.
Sanctions, however, can be bequeathed when blasphemy is found.
Some will praise God, seeking attention for their glass shelves.
Unfortunately, the self-righteous just seek praise for themselves.
I think every poet on this site has talent with their words that glisten.
Insults and palsied stones are understood by many, just read and listen.
Embitterment will ensue when foul scents become thick.
Karma can strike with a vengeance, it’s time to put down the stick.
Last night
I slept
or tried to
despite sharp elbows and knees
and hopelessly dark intrusive shoulders
In concerted effort
to squash me
into a round flat stanley
gingerbread manface
Squarely soft
like a just-right nutritious blanket
of good ginger smells
nurturing his palsied elbows
and lumpy knees,
bumpy shoulders
and frumpy mind
Sleeping peaceful innocence
unvowed
No nightmare seizures allowed.
The Crumb
The Grand Old Dame sat at the table
With cream on the corner of her mouth
From a donut she ate
And a coffee in her shaking hand
A white visor donned her head
And red sprinkled with white
Was the color of her hair
Reflecting from a foggy light
From the ceiling of a dirty bar
At one time she was the elite
The meat
Of notoriety of a mysterious group of society
Where decisions were made
By a select few
Whom the masses never knew
That shaped the way the world would turn
The hand that shook once kissed by royalty
Now wizened and palsied
Picked up a crumb and stared at it
As if it were a gem
The jewels amassed as she recalled
in times of wealth
she placed the crumb in her mouth
and conjured up tastes
when her palate was young
the delicate meats, the caviar
her suite in Paris
her gentleman friends
But all is gone now
Oh dear, she laments, oh dear
Then she rises from the table and stands erect
Befitting her character
And leaves the contents on the table
And the past behind
The Creative Collective Anthology Series
Sponsored by Geraldine Taylor July 18. 2017
In a place faraway, your eyes hold a bejeweled, luminous sky,
Each a sphere divine in which stars are birthed and swim.
Envied are these heavenly dwellers for their place on high,
Privileged are they, privy to your every fancy and whim.
In a land beyond, your laughter peals honeyed through air
Palsied by melancholy words and stillborn dreams,
Trills a cadence that soars ever higher like a diva’s dare,
With each seraphic note, inspires ballads in endless reams.
In a world apart, your smile curls lips with a sinuous grace
Nary a painter’s palette nor sculptor’s chisel can capture,
Lines flow eternal to make every calloused heart race,
Kindle threadbare minds with untold shades of rapture.
In a distant dream, your hand sprinkles a fine dust of bliss,
Thus is this city of paltry charm a blessed place anointed.
Oh how many eternities must I endure till our fateful tryst,
When my weary soul, at last, is by your beauty transported?
The Crumb
The Grand Old Dame sat at the table
With cream on the corner of her mouth
From a donut she ate
And a coffee in her shaking hand
A white visor donned her head
And red sprinkled with white
Was the color of her hair
Reflecting from a foggy light
From the ceiling in a dirty diner
At one time she was the elite
The meat
Of notoriety of a select group of society
Where decisions were made
By a select few
Whom the masses never knew
That shaped the way the world would turn
The hand that shook once kissed by royalty
Now wizened and palsied
Picked up a crumb and stared at it
As if it were a gem
The jewels amassed as she recalled
in times of wealth
she placed the crumb in her mouth
and conjured up tastes
when her palate was young
the delicate meats, the caviar
her suite in Paris
her gentleman friends
But all is gone now
Oh dear, she laments, oh dear
Then she rises from the table and stands erect
Befitting her character
And leaves the contents on the table
And the past behind
June 23, 2003 (Movin’ to Florida)
© Ralph Sergi
Sixties Secret Agent
In black and orange inks
some wag had stenciled,
"no need for tests -
for use on dinks".
Gung-ho. Can-do.
Make war, not love.
You hit puberty, and find
you're the biggest kid on the block.
Time to throw some weight around.
Buy yourself a Glock.
Damn this forest.
They don't play fair.
We'll catch 'em in the open
with our phosphorescent flares.
We invented cocaine drinks,
electric chairs, chop suey -
let's have us a little think:
claymores, napalm, hueys.
If only we could find a way
to murder all these trees:
if all this life were scalded, flayed,
and shriveled till it dropped away,
poisoned, sickly, palsied, grey,
then Charlie, skulking somewhere
out there
would show up in our lenses' stare
and we could bring our guns
to bear.
So. Get it done.
Palsied son of prodigal love,
Do your crippled legs dream in swimming strong?
Do your strong arms and back and chest
dream flying across Earth's inviting nest?
Does your mute voice
dream in full orchestral operatic voice
flowing out through mouthed choice
and back in your polyphonic ears
and resonant mind
and resilient body?
Becoming well-felt flight
of harmonic trust
in prodigious you
with all your prodigal love.
Trump On A Funny Farm
Trump's lips do look like Donald Duck
Sad imitating palsied person when he does cluck
Like a cruddy chicken carries on and on
Sure hope pretty soon he will be gone.
Down people he will cut and criticize
Has short stubby hands and sleazy eyes
Then he really tries to put you to the test
When he starts a head-butting contest.
To keep up with Trump we simply refuse
Way people does mishandle and will misuse
Thought of him as President surely alarms
He belongs on either an animal or funny farm.
James Thesarious Hilarious Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
Hillary and Trump Are Methodist
Trump tries to think he is hot to trotting
But like a fool all his history has forgotten
To Blue Star Mom was moron and adversed
Possible thing to do in world is the worst.
Another real bad as usual he has just done
Of cerebral-palsied person Trump made fun
Mentioned where a woman's blood came from
Did abuse someone who was deaf and dumb.
Low of all low life's Trump he likes being
Took advantage of blind no longer seeing
Knowing he is great seeming so stellar
What would he say about Helen Keller?
What he should do is cease and desist
But probably my points he has missed
Lastly to write find this hard to resist
Both Hillary and Trump are Methodist.
James Thesarious Hilarious Horn
Retired Veteran and Prominent Poet
Trump Economy Is Sure To Wreck
Said this to myself again and again
Trump surely is not supposed to win
With Hillary we will never be cursed
Her competition is one that is worst.
Palsied reporter Trump of made fun
Just got started and was not done
Again he took his greedy, sexist lead
Mentioned bosoms and women who bleed.
Not only is Trump a cannon very loose
For all his bigotry has perfect excuse
Saw his record and if I stand correct
Whole economy Trump is sure to wreck.
James Thesarious Hilarious Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
Our Autumn Love
How many ages past as I recall
An image of my brawny self to quell
The ominous fear of growing old soon
What, Pray, intervenes to recast that spell
Voluminous love of feeling and touch
Render to me your body with lust
Crushing embraces and wet kisses on
your soft and flaccid skin, your oily shine
Give impetus to move my palsied hands
Across your bare exterior to soothe
and utter sweet expletives in your ear
Our eighty plus years have not bound our souls
Just a brief sojourn to the climax of love
©Ralph Sergi April 21,2016
*This poem is not necessarely meant to be sensual
but as a message to seniors that love whether
physical or spiritual should be the last thing you enjoy
until your dying day.
Their lawn chairs in the sun
Outside a standard door--
They are considered nonproductive.
They passed their buying power
For the next to last measured lot.
The old man putters about the yard.
Turning earth for flowers that she wants
Beside the fence of hedge and vine;
And to a reel gone out of style,
He dances with his dog.
She feeds all birds and stops to watch
A squirrel glide like a leaf
Among the thoughts of friends
Whose deaths predict their own;
The papers tell them so.
She brings him tea and stories,
Retelling all that made them glad,
And love for children who had fled in fear
Of palsied hands to faster places
Where an hour can wear no dust.
Forgive me please and don't berate
My dismal voice when I narrate,
The many poems I've written well,
To bring to you my tale to tell.
I like to write my thoughts in rhyme
And find I have an easy time,
To form each stanza with a flow;
My words go smoothly to and fro.
Then comes the time to say aloud,
The words composed to a small crowd.
My voice will crack with croaks and gasps:
A rusty gate, it swings and rasps.
New England twang with words that clip,
Come squirming through my palsied lips.
I envy Brits posh english speech.
Their phonics cannot be impeached.
I practice lines a hundred times,
Until they sound just barely fine.
Then try and try and try again,
But still I reach that faltered end.
So bare with me in my attempt,
To narrate words in voice unkempt.
I'll forge ahead and not give up,
To spout my spiel and fill your cup.
In penning this, yet speaking that;
It's better left where it was at.
On pages written to be read
And not aloud with angst and dread.
In your river;
My heart, like a ruined waterwheel;
Whatever it turns, in any direction ,
there is water flowing all over.
And even if I leaned my back against the wall,
In front of me the water flows
Before your sun;
My heart like a palsied shadow
Wherever my face turned; stung from the eyes of sun
How shall I, while I am a palsied shadow,
to flee from these eyes!
Oh Lord..
From ragged clay you created me
Don't distract my heart with waterwheel,not your river
Don't blinds my wretched shadow from your sun
Oh Lord..
My heart quivering like the heart of quicksilver
Show me the road.
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