Short Butchers Poems

heartless clarity
thrust upon a Mother's eyes
the butchers clothes burn...

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we start with a willing cow
maybe not willing
butchers take the beast apart
section by section
she’s warm on my plate
barbequed
beef...

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There once was a pig from New York 
Who wasn’t the cleverest of pork 
Worked at a butchers shop 
Until he got the chop
Now Will someone please pass me a fork!...

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BUTCHER’S PAPER

population growth, wrapped in butcher’s paper, blossoming beautifully

eyes dot the vainglorious poppies — bloodshot with remembrance

6/1/2018
Silent One’s When one line is not enough
33 syllables...

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Saturdays child learns
to tie his shoe laces
one fugit of time cascades
Butchers tales lasting longer
the sound of trees to a blind man
out of fashions glare
I do declare,
Uptight seasons with a ransom to care
Merriments timing celebrating
second gear





...

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Gears turn my thoughts
Perhaps it's not that bad
But my mouth butchers the words
A strange alien language I speak 
Those closest to me barely understand

A twisted poet, I am
Circumstances have led me to this
I cannot speak how I used to 
My writing stayed the same...

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Soil,
Don't be fertile more,
Don't be a mother;
Child-traffickers, like mad dogs,
are moving everywhere.

Don't conceive any green more,
Don't conceive any forest;
The blue-eyed woodcutters, like butchers,
are sharpening their axes.

O Soil,
Rather become a desolate graveyard,
Rather become a melancholic desert....

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Not Alexander, not Caesar, not Napoleon
None of the warring butchers
Can measure up to him
Who could have been but didn't want to be a king
Who didn't allow himself to be a god
Who running far ahead of all humankind 
Grabbed the future 
And brought it back
Like an ordinary apple 
To put on the table of a new nation...

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Soil,
Don't be fertile more,
Don't be a mother;
Child-traffickers, like mad dogs,
are moving everywhere.

Don't conceive any green more,
Don't conceive any forest;
The blue-eyed woodcutters, like butchers,
are sharpening their axes.

O Soil,
Rather become a desolate graveyard,
Rather become a melancholic desert....

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Beyond the measure and mead
of circadian rhythm and habitual rhyme
beyond the frequencies and amplitudes
of perambulating waves and recalcitrant lines
Beyond the clamor and din of nutmeg and time
cleavers and butchers and earthmen who climb
Atop the weathered brow of
life's grand conflagration
an old man disembarked at the final destination...

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eye-GASMS are artful things of flesh left out by the woods /
she went were-wolves once ate meringue pie before acquiring
a human fedora and impressed all the women at the outdoor
market where butchers smoke meat and flay cigars with white
whiskered smiles.  Where were the yokes when sadness crept
over the clouds and a comedian choked on a badly baked joke?

:: 08042019 ::...

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Irreverent arsenic of lake bottom 
was seeping in me
I was riding on waves, moon-stuck.

The nude shot 
of anemone, blindfolded
after the criminal assault.
Why they were throwing the lewed comments ?

A raw cave 
of white pain, drags the deity out
and dances on hawthorns.
The butchers become sick,
sick to the bones.

O democracy, king was not wise,
wise was not king.



Satish Verma...

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Corruption.

It is cruel,
to poverty it is a fuel,
and to the devil it is a jewel.

Corruption kills the hopes of the unborn,
it corrupts the life of the one yet to be born,
and make the land decay to the bone,
as all people needs in order to live will be gone.

A corrupt person is a thief,
a corrupt person is a murderer,
yes, a corrupt person butchers all dreams.

Corruption corrupts the corrupt first....

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Curbside romance


Picture in a magazine
Leering at a beauty queen
Short shirts and dirty mack’s
Waiting for red light perhaps
A furtive glance
Curbside romance

Fake smiles through
Red violent lips
Faded faces worn
By times constant grip

High heeled whores
Strut like flamingos
On their way
To another nights work

Woman in a window 
Peering down the street and
Meat in a butchers shop
Waiting to be eaten

Internal musing...

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"Polka will never die" - Jim Butcher, Dead Beat


Polka, I think, will never cease.
I am watching the Palladium today.
The dancers will enjoy the fun,
And butchers will put aprons away.

They love lively dancing.
It helps them disconnect
From fevered hours of mincing.
They really hoped their Madams
Wanted meat today!

That was this morning...
Now they 'moon' at polka,
Trying to avoid the meaty smell
Around the communal (why?) T.V....

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As a child I would place my closed eyes
in them
while she hummed Gaelic melodies.

Her smock, it was brown
like a butchers apron
but without a speck of blood,
just daubs of fruit dumplings
and the savor of elderberry flowers.

Grandmother had large hands
working hands,
when they closed
it was as if her story book
had closed
at the end of every day,

and that is how she goes away
always very quietly
at the end of every day.
© 2 days ago...

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Brittle bones crackle through the hall,
as I slowly trudge to an empty bed.
Outside my window dies a barren Fall,
and what survives but my Winter dread?

Slipping into the bitter-chilled covers?
shrinking beneath ‘til I’m cloaked blind.?
Despising the demons who steal our lovers?
like feckless butchers of the conscious mind.??

Death stares me in my jealous eyes,
withholds from me his seductive knife.
Does he not hear my bitter cries?
Why plague me with abandoned life??...

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You showed us our children
in action.
Who exactly did you kill?
Kind of like Hitler
on the hill at the dacha
while his butchers gassed the innocent.
But, who did he kill?
But then Big Boys
never get their hands dirty,
they just send out the troops.

You showed us our children.
Now you rot in a cell
for you are a threat
to what, I can't tell
but it must be awful
cause you'll die there
as you go through years
of parole sham
and the children
head for Iran....

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Mamma says
this life's not free,
the whole damn world
as accosted me.

Mamma says
don't give a hoot,
they are gun free happy,
they want to shoot.

Mamma says
I've lived my life,
slings and arrows,
the butchers knife.

But mamma says
take care of you,
be aware of the damage
this world can do.

Mamma's love,
the purest known,
for without her words,
would I have grown?

Mamma sleeps now
but her words ring true,
God bless you mamma
till I'm home again,
with you....

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