Nineseventeenpm
Deep sleep at nine seventeen pm
A misbegotten dream that jarred my rest
To wrest my soul from and enter the past
The time of my youth when I was just NINE
My grade school of woe with no friends in sight
At SEVENTEEN years less demons to dwarf
To wake up in age my sadness in time
But stirred up at nine seventeen am
And squinted to rub the rheum from my eyes
And stretch out my arms to see the bright sun
A P rivate M essage has been sent to me
That offers me hope and my thoughts are free
My muse is alive till it’s time to sleep
Nineseventeenpm Contest
Sponsored by John Lawless
July 4, 2018
It's quiet now, too quiet for Spring:
Sere-brown matted grasses huddle close,
Clinging tightly to patches of congealed Earth,
Nature's chill bosom flinty and unyielding.
No wind yet whips up tremble in bush or tree--
Branches too-long barren of bud or twig--
Or ruffles gentle water's surface in the brook or stream
Of wild woods and forests, yet napping darkly...
...'Til warm breezes whisper, stirring souls and spirits:
Then do wondering necks snap to attention, nostrils flare,
Eyes widen, ears like antennae, twitch on high-alert.
Then do voices emerge, as waving grasses secrete their dew,
As tree buds burst forth, tiny gnarled knobs rubbing rheum drops
From their orbs, freeing visions from winter's howl.
Spring newly resurgent, resplendent, glorious, Inviting!
--As lovers loll the sandy beach, mingling with the moonbeams.
Lame sunrises and midday sunsets
Fangs in words and perils in laughters
Sweet archs of smiling fires and silky shouts in talking forests
I come from the bitter of cobstones paved down the coalfield
Broken lutes and snoring cork oaks
Freckles of lipstick and suckles of martinis
A bosom of pounds, a pavilion of dangling beryls and a breech of honeycombs
I come from the lust of the chaste lass
White moths and black mushrooms
Coffins of treasures amid covens of night mayors
Whispers of thunders and creaks of ant-steps
I come from the stones in the chicken's gizzard
Shards of fate and vials of morphine
Ponds of rheum and fogs of cold incense
A stew of scimitars, a brandise of stone and the heathenry of whitesmiths
I come from the furs in the abattoir
Sonnets in pools of ink and grace in quills of peacocks
Sequels of black weresheep and bugles of lean shepards
A wit of one accord and a grit of a myriad taut
I come from furnace that boils the molten poetry soup
The thinness of skin
parchments across
blue veins and brittle stick bones
dreaming of budding branches—it lays loose
you've matched my desire
with phrases of burning leaves
flames—flaring gold, yellow and red
rheum fills my once clear eyes
but echoed memory guides me
through forests of fall
descending with feathered down
from empty nests
dulled and lifeless fodder for fire
ungathered leafless—
forlorn as stalks of dry corn
still, I eye beauty—
voice symphonies of words
and build bonfires from
each passing
night
I think feel a breeze
A breeze and a touch of horror
Something makes my breath seize
The stings of inner torture
The beast of the dark just passes
I hear the pings of its awfulness
Horrible snuffs complementing terrible masses
Something grip me here – oh fearfulness!
Now what – silence…
The quietness of the graveyard
I sense trouble in disguise
Only that worse turns bad
Oh wait, I can see
Slow approaches of eye balls
The burning eyes of the black beast
Monster, you, coming for me or my pulse
This is it my adventure fiasco
In the ever-dark ghost room
I would rather die like a hero
Behind this locked door with my rheum
As I’ll lay my back on this door
Oh beast feast, on me feast
I can hear quacks as I fall
…the door open at least
Massacre! Oh massacre of the beast
Sun ray-the enemy of the dark monster
Came in for its burnt feast
Because the door opened
Small of stature, big of heart
born RIPE, full of meaning, mystery,
his twinkling eyes beguile, yet, continually seek…
Often looking down, ear cocked to garner as much as possible
mindful, this man shining in a majesty of kindness…
Gray of hair now, weak of eye,
yet, a power to be reckoned with, should his flock need.
Shaker of hands with shaking hands, palsy does not impede
luminous is the rheum of his elderly eyes.
Mischievous, his banter charms, cajoling the recalcitrant.
This baby cuddling father, this patron of the universal one.
May this life keep him long for the after life has no need, we do…
He stretches his wondering heart toward Wordsworth,
wandering toward Walden
savoring.
*Dedicated to my minister Frank
an Iridescent Man
It is her words at the center of it
I only print this as a tribute to it.
Here is the poem Deborah Guzzi wrote
Here is passion etched
On the edge of a note
Here is the sum of all our knowledge:
"Words are the balm of age
the gift of sage
when all flees and even the white of eye reddens with rheum
words fair words dispell the gloom
when hands are mapped with age and knarled still they transform the page
the eye
the cage
Words flow and mind goes to pristine smiles
and the smooth curves which once were thy
thy cheek
thy neck
thy hip
Deny me anything but the word for its magic will soon
be all that remains of fresh and new."
And here I am poor Sisyphus
With this eternal burden
Only from hell we dream of heaven
(The words of this poem are not mine alone, that of DG is encapsulated in quotation marks,
speaking to their centrality in my admiration).
Swiftly swallowing resentment of play
Acting and dancing to music
Shallow beats and tambourines
There are wild hills full of echo
Mindless ghouls and children skipping through fog
Thick and wet - pouring through my hair
Clever retort from beleaguered little men and women
Rheum, flowing mind, draining into a styrofoam cup
Hot with pulp and grit, my body purges
Life's collar-key broken by bone and rock
I am left alone to wander the plains
Of my self-consciousness.
I search.
Something is always missing, always running
Away from hands that will not catch
My eyes are not quick enough to see.
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