The bordello camp
Morning in Aruba, the cock has crowed three times
Men get out of beds that hundreds have slept in
of other men, they are silent, waiting for taxis
to take them back to their ship
Sad men, there is no jubilation here, cigarette smoke
A cold morning beer while waiting for the transport
A seaman, overcome by the tardiness, tries to run away
There is nowhere to run; the whore camp is in the desert
on a desert, sand, bushes, and snakes.
The madman, plied with alcohol, is sleeping.
The other carried him onboard.
In the courtyard, a woman swipes the dance
floor, doesn't bother to look up, when this day ends
They will be back again, or someone like them
will come, here, drink, dance, and pay for sex
Such throaty timbres – oboes and bassoons –
such gowns! My Lady, apricot and plum,
her sleeves ablaze with blue October moons –
for one short night, her villa had become
the very essence of elysium!
To “fortify” us, as My Lady said,
against the winter tedium to come,
to banish melancholy, drive out dread,
she threw an Autumn Ball. Delirium!
We met the equinox with pipe and drum.
The quality of Florence all attended,
and never were Their Graces better fed!
The sun was up before our revels ended –
and Isabella? Still no thought of bed!
Three further galliards she’d yet to tread.
It seems I hear those trumpets even yet,
and taste the sweetmeats of that epic spread
(she’d plied us with light moscatel to whet
the palate) – I believe my mortal head
will throb for ever more, autumnal red!
As the presented light peered to cross the meadows yawn
the timbre of the winds hollowness plied through the forest arches low to high as daring darts two squirrels did fly to here and there if only to dine upon the seeds of which they-had in mind. Against the grass she howled once more to twist the branches as they bore then sail this melody as she had before.
There above it all where trees not stretched the wind unbarred
lest the clouds which etched thick tumultuous breaths tween here and there unmet and unkept…
Allusions lead to absence?
Believe it, sir and ma'am.
Hold the door? Then get ye hence?
Why the constant slam?
Truth be told, the terror tells.
Tollbooth of the dead.
Nebula, will-o-the-wells.
Stray to look ahead...
Young the yellow yearling?
It's right there in his name.
Hornets, honeybees. Same sting?
Stake it on thy claim.
Frame of usual story?
O kindness, are you real?
Would if could, morning glory?
Flicker as ye feel!
Unity the ugly damn?
Indeed. That's been true.
Summertime, the crowds thin. Ham?
Blow away the blue.
Hated is the world outside!
Woe betide, landslide.
Pace of poet, poison plied.
How the cockerels chide...
RIGHTS & DUTIES
(t)o (u)nder
(b)e (f)uture
(a)plied. (o)bligations
only if duties
(a)re
(a)ctioned
(a)lso
An imp plied Guinness to a Banshee trick
The wraith in anger gave him chase right quick,
After her gold he did dig
The Leprechaun danced a jig
But lost her rich hoard in a Limerick.
Mojito Conjuring
When the bruja in the red dress
sends me out this time,
it is for the taste of
sour oranges and garlic.
Once, when I plied her
with a cigar called Hoyo de Montyerrey,
she coiled the smoke,
said that I was still feral and untamed,
sent me out for sugar so that
I could learn my true name.
Scythe-swinging, field-slave-singing,
I could not return to her coven of one
until I had learned that my “Suarez”
meant that I was the son of sugar itself –
the child of wild ingenious devouring
the rows of cane like a dragon.
Now, red-dress bruja breathes out
clouds of tobacco *****,
turns the cigar round and round,
tells me to gather garlic and aurantium oranges
so that the sour and the sucre may jibe
together in me,
and leave me properly christened
for when it is time for me to work,
time for me to sweat,
time for me to sing.
Hawking pillows and pea-shooters
a pied-piper his path to fame plied
Picking up a penny here, dropping a penny there
ever-poorer and poorer ~
the piper’s psychic sighed
I was a young girl from New York
And I plugged my hole with a cork
A young boy plied me with beer
The cork it did pop
My knickers did drop
And that is why you are here
(Thanks to my fondness for pork)
No screeching seagulls circled around
The dilapidated forlorn lighthouse.
Its searchlight had long been broken,
A useless artifice for safety
Of ships that plied the ocean near.
The absence of seagulls indicated
A severe storm was brewing fast.
The sky all around was sepulchral and dark.
All heavy with rain that began to fall
Slowly at first, then gaining fierce force.
A wanton wind rose in a wayward way,
Wailing as if in the throes of death.
Or perhaps these were more deadly echoes
Of drowned sailors that died near the shore.
One can only pray for the loved ones
Gone forever ne’er to return.
How cruel of man not to repair the lighthouse.
The wails of drowned sailors lay heavily on them
Their lack of interest in the common good was dreadful.
Poor sailors died in vain but they were heroes.
They suffered but will not be forgotten.
The lighthouse became a poignant symbol
Of their unwavering bravery and courage.
Placed 1
As we harness Fate’s wild winds to our lee
While navigating Life’s troublesome sea,
We become flanked by Scylla and Charybdis
With only our life experience to guide us.
Yet try we do, and we sail on through,
Life’s rocky straits where others can't save us.
Before muddling on through Atropos swirling brew,
Knowing we’ll lose many close friends around us.
As we sail homeward like the hero Odysseus
Who plied forward through Life’s trials and mess,
We yearn for gentler and glassier seas,
While trying to remain Life's protagonist.
The eleventh month, November, the month that takes a breath,
As it's waiting. Waiting for a fickle sun to decide.
Though sun's decision ever is to skim the sky with stealth,
As if a painter's hand the vibrant stars of night has 'plied.
The short days of muted light unwrap autumn's cold beauty,
While thick blankets on a bed ensure an even slumber.
This month of regimented hours calls us to our duty---
The great preparation for December's Holy number
Oiled and preened
Plucked and tucked
Everything as it should, no
As they see it should be
Plied with cloths of gold
Piled high with gems and stones
Their shroud of protection being more like a weight of confinement.
Taking all your strength to place a single foot in front of the other.
None left to flee
None left to even turn away.
As they force me to take those last few steps
I now know what this was all for
Its not a lavish wedding, filled with drink and high spirits.
Its my wake as I am to be traded for lands and titles.
Why would they lie?
Did they not know I would sacrifice all, if just asked?
Then I see them, the one I am to be traded to.
Hollow eyes.
Stiff back.
Not a sign of a smile.
Yet gilded in gold and encrusted in jewels.
What thing did they sell me to?
Will I be tormented?
What must I do to be free?
I must be weak, I heard them say.
So weak that I’m looking for escape before it even begins.
But didn’t they know, the torment started the second they lied.
The mellow western sky darkened,
The sea was calm that night,
Yachts tacking across the bay
Towards their appointed piers.
Luminous moon rays shimmer
Over wavelets that bathed
The coloured pebbles
Strewn all over the long shore.
As night slowly fell
I began my walk along the promenade.
A soft breeze was a welcome to all
Especially to the sailors that plied the bay
In their sleek sailing boats
Now tinged in red by the dying sun.
Along the promenade, I met with friends
A few words of salutation
But I hurried on toward an ancient tower
That once stood guard against pirates
That invades the surroundings.
Plundering and taking slaves with them.
The Tower was now a restaurant,
And there sat my love waiting for me.
The breeze-blown brightness of her hair
Seem to invite me to our destined tryst.
She stood up and we embraced,
A soft kiss on her wet lips.
It was a promising beginning
Of our night of love.
Mirror broken, shard's outspoken
Piercing, rupturing, into her heart
No prisoners taken, her life token
Devoured his latest thirst fulfilled
Appetite quenched, now plied art
As sly innuendoes, master skilled
A journeyman of no consequence
Thoughts brims, he can only blart
Ill poised, insecure, inconsequent
Others taken in by this false farce
So he waits on others info to part
As his truth found, is more sparse
What life, left inside of her, awaits
Her wounds heal, new life to start
Takes note of his narcissistic traits
Waits her turn, given no objection
A fury unfurled onto this dim clart
Fulfils a dream, of pure perfection
Related Poems