Moral confection
is like facial complexion
that changes
with exposure to weather
like it or not
we are our elements
sweetly pimpled
when saturated
dried and cracked
and pealing
for deprived of
right feeling
and creams and lotions
are only physical motions
getting us spiritually nowhere
Rumbles of boredom lead the mouth to eat
but then there are the unwashed,
the residue of the crumbling
and smeared. Greasy utensils
sneaking like sharks amongst the soaking dishes.
A need now to refresh this domestic pond
with chemical bubbles
yet hands are too dilatory
to be daubed by yesterday’s food.
One has to judge with perfect timing
whether to wash the plates or
leave them to poison the sink
for another hour or two.
The essential factors are smell
and guilt.
When the sludge of the once edible
blossoms rudely in an untidy kitchen
or the shredded rinds of a latent rigor mortis
coat themselves with the pimpled oils
of former slicks
only then is it time to reassess
just how peckish we are for leftovers.
Morning’s Broken Armor
by Sy Roth
Squeaky crawls the moon’s light
Falling briskly against the chinks in the window
Uneasy sleep
A voluble accompaniment to
An out-of-work cello.
Scooting, crawly insects beat against it
With a frenzy of scrawled brevity
Tattooed on its soft shell.
Horns bleat somewhere in the inky distance.
Town criers bellowing news to a somnolent brain.
Alternatives roll away from eyes
Cemented closed with a.m.’s dream glue
And the clinkety-clank of Sir Gawain’s armor
Makes its way into the room.
Declaring additional valid seconds
Feet flopping like pimpled pancakes ready for turning
To the cold floor
The morn ready to mourn another day.
Rumbles of boredom
lead me to eat
but then there are the unwashed,
the residue of the crumbling
and smeared. Greasy utensils
sneaking like sharks
amongst the soaking dishes.
We need to refresh this pond
with chemical bubbles
yet hands are too dilatory
to be daubed by yesterday’s food.
One has to judge with perfect timing
whether to wash the plates or
leave them to poison the sink
for another hour or two.
The essential factors are smell
and guilt.
When the sludge of the once edible
blossoms rudely in your sink,
or the shredded rinds
of a latent rigor mortis
coat themselves with the pimpled oils
of a nibbling fungus,
only then is it time to reassess
just how peckish
you are for leftovers.
The city of dead men.
Her neighbor is Repentance.
The father of the town was
Shot at his own front door
By a rival on horseback.
The horse bucked at the sound.
Her rider drowned in the well
Which he was thrown into.
A school was built on the site
Of a campfire.
The ghostly embers had never
Been extinguished from memory.
The school stood for a year before
She was burned by an angered pupil.
The library stands naked before
The middle of the town. Never dressed
With literature and unused in
Her goose pimpled body.
One street light: never lit.
The one man would could complete her
Wires was hung for theft
Before his job was done.
Wind beaten people live there.
Never in the past, never in the future, never
There. You can't find it
On a map.
The city of dead men.
Her neighbor is Repentance.
The road between two towns has yet to be walked.
Shall I dare think of him?
The darkest glistening eyes,inviting me to sin.
Profoundly lost, when soft sounds from his throat called.
Twas a full moon Spring midnight in Chicago.
My goose pimpled back caressed by warm brick walls.
Your hands on my hips,time carved,never erased.
A grin, wonderfully naughty, I will remember.
Closing my eyelids in a forever springtime night.
Yes, yes and yes...Then, no,no,and no.
His young butterfly, ever so softly moaned.
Enamored and lost in his twilight net.
Would that I could turn back the rigid times and be!
With you, your velvet-winged monarch butterfly.
Your most willing captive, most joyfully caught forever.
Come now...cast your net~my willing imprisonment.
February 9, 2020
Midnight PST
My blurry eyes are talkin
As I look at myself in the mirror.
Looks like my grandfather
Fallen
Facial views this over round sounds
teary eyes saddened by my brown hopeless import Flan's I marry myself then I'll
The sunken grin my visage tan
My hair resends like a sounding wave
Breath I breathe nostrils Serenade
Pump to pimpled up like a strawberry pitted
I look like rage
Somewhere between senior
And a teenager
Visages fallen
I VIEW myself swollen
Crooked lips pouch speaks out like a fish
Check textured skin rough stop like oatmeal flakes
Teary-eyed eyes swollen traffic jam
This is my early morning disguise
the face that I Witness in the bathroom mirror early morning guise
12/11/19
For The Metaphor of your Face Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: John lawless |
Well, here I am at Birthday’s door--
With happy wishes by the score.
While younger women look and feel
thinner, trimmer, with more zeal.
I’m happy to be where I’m at
with the weight of years under my hat.
No pimpled dates lurk at my door.
No smelly diapers on the floor.
So fifty, for an age is fine;
much better than for IQ or waistline.
Yes, fifty years IS simply great.
But, I of course, am thirty-eight.
Salted kisses
The ferocious rolling waves
Were broken by the shoreline
Into gentle caressing streams
Wet, fine, white sand grains
Gently scouring and washing with each new step
Left our feet spick-and-span
Glassy specks of sea salt crystals
Trapped in your jet black hair
Reflected the distant lights
In the glory of the full moon’s light;
A hundred tiny stars twinkling in your hair
The sparkle in your eyes; yet, unsurpassed
A black halo formed around your face
By your long hair, blown by the cold sea breeze
The longer tendrils gently brushing against my face
Your sweet fragrance gently wafted into my face
In my goose pimpled skin, I tingled
As our lips merged in a warm salty embrace
Tongues, moist and probing
In search of each other's sensual treasures
My desired eternity, glimpsed in an instant
Such long walks on the beach
A lifetime in a pleasant beach house
Fill my dreams of you and I
March 4, 2017
I was banged!
Five stars in the night of scars,
Were like flies in my eyes.
I was wrong,
I was slogged,
My pimpled Apple fell on his Granny's Nipples!
REGRETTING CAKE
My life in crumbles, vanilla-chocolate,
I lick my wounded fingers, tastes so good.
To stay in shape, I frost my lips… de-lish,
Cut corners on the square, I really should.
Regretting cake, from my head down to my feet…
Such a shame it is so sweet, I repeat…
Regretting cake, from my head down to my feet…
Deciding whether a half or quarter,
Will satisfy my broken heart - a gift.
Don’t want to invite friends over…all mine.
Generous frosting, gives those pounds a lift.
Regretting cake, from my head down to my feet…
Such a shame it is so sweet, I repeat…
Regretting cake, from my head down to my feet…
I’ve weighed my cake, it’s atrociously slim,
Though you can find its slices upon me.
My pimpled countenance hazards applause,
My broken heart - he'd not even know me.
Regretting cake, from my head down to my feet…
Such a shame it is so sweet, I repeat…
Regretting cake, from my head down to my feet…
9th Place Winner
8/9/2016
Contest by Julia Ward
We drank cheap beer in a rusted-out shed.
Buzzing before our 8:00 AM English class.
Trying to be cool- to fit in with the "Ins."
Instead, we're becoming the wobbling outcasts.
Spinning further out from the golden Ins.
Ah, the golden center.
Filled with jocks, cheerleaders.
A chorus line of silver thighs and golden pom poms.
Smirking at my pimpled insecurities?
But your long bomb popularity didn't stop that tree.
From slamming into your popularity.
It didn't move aside as you passed by.
Like I used to move aside as you passed by me.
You were popular in that narrow hallway of slow death called adolescence.
Now your football helmet is yellow and cracked.
Destined for a garage sale. Bottom shelf existence.
At the very center of long forgotten.
You with the pom poms and patented dimples.
Nowhere near that cocky cute kitten anymore.
Turned plump, pregnant, abandoned, aborted.
What happened to that sweet cotton tail and golden lips?
That used to pip "you'll never be with me".
Finally, after forty-plus years.
You're lying with me...figuratively.
Spread eagle atop pom pom mountain.
An outcast on the periphery of everything.
A creature awakens
intangible in the haze;
a fleeting idea by faint, phantomlike, light.
Silver bars on charcoal clay
scarce, and inadequate
haunting, but in a soothing way.
Rustling bones chatter
a murmured chant just within earshot
lullabies for dream weavers
hushed and eerie.
Goose-pimpled skin bites back at the breeze
effortlessly gliding through
catching faint glimpses
which slip away just before taking form.
Somewhere a lantern burns
a glass walled prison.
Inmates dressed in dancing orange jumpsuits
convicted killers of predawn blues.
Light for light.
Gold for silver.
A creature retreats
intangible still
on the edge of a dream
to be forgotten by day.
Frigid hard worked
Hands
Shoulders
Goose pimpled cold
Give me texture
Steely seldom blinked
Poker eyes
Wrinkled straight mouth
Smile
Give me chills
Voiceless response
Touch
Less embrace
Romantic impressionism
Give me love
I tuned in WEAA
Static blocked out
The true sounds
Of Gladys Knight and the Pips
Singing "On and On"...
My date two hours late.
My acne goes into a frenzy and
I've had too much wine
For the prescribed medication.
Static on WEAA FM
And
My pimpled face screaming...
My date two hours late.
So
I trade my wine for sleep
But it won't come...
So
I stay tuned to WEAA FM,
Static fading as I adjust the knob
But not the throb in my heart and
My date is two hours late!
cYNTHIA
A Poet Who Loves To Sing
from my series: "If Butterflies Are Free"
1984
WEAA FM was a college music station in Baltimore, Maryland 88.9
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