Written: September 17, for a contest sponsored by: John Lawless
***********
I flipped the book with a steady hand,
chapters etched as runes into the sand.
The tale was tangled, the lead crowned,
beyond, silence fell, no closing to be found.
The final leaf had vanished, sly and fleet,
perhaps devoured by some voracious beet.
Or maybe scribes, with quizzacious delight,
slipped it away to prank the sleepless night.
I searched the margins, parsed each crabbed line,
for clues the author left in sly design.
A smudge, a doodle, statice pressed in place—
but no denouement, no triumphant grace.
So now I tell the tale with aplomb:
the villain married, bought a stately home.
The hero tripped, repined, then took a nap—
the dragon joined a choir, and learned to rap.
And if you ask what moral can be spun,
I’ll say: beware a most distant sun.
For endings hide, as frenemy or ghost—
the last page missing always laughs the most.
We spoke in semaphore of smirks,
A dialect of sideways quirks—
Our mouths full up with mirage and pun,
Unconscious artists come undone.
She, a flower in a field of noise,
Parsed our pose as preening boys—
Not cruel, but tuned to frequencies
That echo long through apologies.
Our verbs wore vests too tight with charm,
Syntax stitched with latent harm.
We hadn’t meant to start a war—
Yet metaphors, once launched, implore.
Intent becomes the alibi
Of those who never learned to pry
Beneath the comfort of a jest—
A laugh can undress all the rest.
She read our pause, our sideways glance,
Not as a walk, but a strange dance
In which the lead was vague, and yet
Each footstep left a silhouette.
beneath the screen’s unwavering eye
it scans the words where truths may lie
each line dissected parsed and weighed
a judgment rendered coldly made
this poem is not yours it claims
patterns match familiar frames
even those penned in years before
ai knocked on the public’s door
it cannot see the midnight muse
the quiet hours you dared to use
nor hear the scratch of pen on page
long before machines could gauge
it brands as false what’s truly real
the heart the thought the human zeal
it cannot grasp the time or space
when words were shaped by hand with grace
a formula a rigid test
it cannot know a poet’s best
for sparks of art defy the lines
of data rules and coded signs
so let it judge let systems weigh
and claim your craft a copied play
but know the truth is in your hold
each line a gem of priceless gold
not every word by code is sown
some seeds were planted all your own
and though the tools may still misread
your voice is yours your soul the seed
Whence passed the verse of bitter love
The words of birds and trees that sing
To what age belongs the voice of muses sweet
How long since poet parsed a thing
A man could understand? a line that
Speaks emotions, curdles the blood of men
Or makes the blithe spirit soar upward
Moves a wounded heart to make a tear; then
Gently wipes the tear and make the grief complete?
Not long ago the sigh invoked by careful lines
Was heard, but alas is heard no more.
The passages set down in haste do not belie
That they are something of a dreadful bore,
And I have sought a piece with gentle tone
To find that published poems read like Webster's page
Laid out in patterns, yet are cold as stone.
L. Milton Hankins, 1968
Dawns Just Like This
Wake now, discover that you are the song the mornin’ brings . . .em>
-The Grateful Dead-
Dawn easing through
Needle-Eye The Organs once
clear-cut, parsed plain, it seems,
like the desert, flattening its curve
over bramble, pepperweed roughage,
just for us, on dawns just like this,
breath-fresh, not one woke soul sick.
Dawns Just Like This
Covid Summer 2020
Dawn easing through
Needle-Eye The Organs once
clear-cut, parsed plain, it seems,
like the desert, flattening its curve
over, bramble, pepperweed roughage,
just for us, on dawns just like this,
breath-fresh, not one woke soul sick.
I woke again to fight a war, the
same as yesterday. Plastic shield
met blood-stained boot in blistered
feet of tattered youth. Ideals ran
amok at dawn then parsed the
evening’s jagged light when night
shoes danced with tangoing flames
on buses, cars, the random truck.
Smoke choked every lung. I was the
field you plowed to sow your grains
of holy manna on. Step lightly through
my troubled doors, I’ll make you
whole, I’ll clone your form. Of known
and knowing, I’ll pretend the beast, in
dreams, was slain. To live here is to die,
well, then, redundant is this war.
full of emotion
pulsating
brooding
heaving
parsed
by desire
with
feelings
of the heart
a
voyage
of discovery
poignant
aglow
audacious
&
breathless
an intuitive
tableaux
with
gestures
explicit
&
visible
flooding
the moment
overflowing
frantic
!onging to
give
floating
in uncharted
seas
to a love
afire
...
to
savour
sensuous
burning
with fiery
passion
a consuming
flame
driven to despair
all
peace of mind
no more
wounded
deeply tortured
without
the semblance
of reality
mediocrity
a silent shadow
on
circumstance
suddenly
hope
in a sense of beauty
unforced earnestness
conceived
a state
of fermentation
vivacious
&
exciting
what bliss
what delight
free
unconcealed
to know love
&
stand amazed
my
heart
is stirring,
the vision
of you
awakens
everthing
within:
love
is bursting
forth,
passion
is parsed
by
desire
inspired by clip of Rossini's overture
Killin’ Time
Killin’ time...
Wasting time...
Whileing the
time away
postponing all til later
Best not to act in haste
see ya’ later alligator
I’ve all the time
In the world to waste
Til one day…’later’ arrived
contrite and with hat in it’s hand`
My cavalier attitude ceased to survive
Time had made me
a much different man
Grey hair...
White whiskers…
Deep creases
“Sweet Jesus!”
An old man I’d come to be
I’d always measured time
So free and easy
Spending much of my time
On poorly parsed rhyme
Til’ one day I could quite clearly see
With heartfelt surprise
“Oh no!...It’s time that is taking
...The measure of me!”...
my forte and my downfall
elegant thoughts, parsed perfection
effortlessly strung, priceless pearls
tailored, fitted, mitered, alliterated
craftmanship evident to Medieval guilds
perhaps too literal, haloed, overly sincere
but you, with your scantily clad jargon
middling maudlin untold descriptions
how can posies exist
needing both water and wine
to complete the sacrement
sun and rain, imperfection of perfection
ability that adds what's missng
ruminated thoughts sought, prayed
wished, the Holy Grail as yet unfounded
oh, my secret brothers, the map reads so easily
you who know the ingredients
in Merlin's bubbling kettle
a bouillabaisse for the chef's nose
while I eat cold potatoes
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