The natives have
(since the seventh month peeped
through the lean crescent eye of the moon)
worn cloaks of festivities.
They dance the rites,
squelching proudly in mud and green pools
of water.
On their heads are smouldering fires of corns
And pears, and ingredients of a lush season.
Behold their mothers’ breasts!
Flopping tonelessly with life and ceremonial milk.
The engaging flesh of birth.
And their fathers’ ribs —bare and fractured—
Like splinters from bamboos of white; strong bows of
A fragmented hunting group.
Their daughters dance with frenzied gaits,
Insisting on frantic melodies.
Drums throb on with the vim of restlessness.
Flutes hasten with the speed of departing tunes.
Ogele* sounds with the rhythm of fraternal bliss . . . .
The village sons bend their torsos in tremulous dance steps,
reluming low-burning
ancestral fires.
Breathe in now the image of a raging ceremony,
Symbols of a rite,
which hang on the rafters of a community,
this seventh month of the yam calendar.
*Metal gong
Damp sound of squelching grass
beneath my feet
ushers bright dew soaked morn
on wild green plot
of tangled twigs, stalks, leafs
where young lambs bleat
and blather without rein
in frisky trot!
The natives have
(since the seventh month peeped
through the lean crescent eye of the moon)
worn cloaks of festivities.
They dance the rites,
squelching proudly in mud and green pools
of water.
On their heads are smouldering fires of corns
And pears, and ingredients of a lush season.
Behold their mothers’ breasts!
Flopping tonelessly with life and ceremonial milk.
The engaging flesh of birth.
And their fathers’ ribs —bare and fractured—
Like splinters from bamboos of white; strong bows of
A fragmented hunting group.
Their daughters dance with frenzied gaits,
Insisting on frantic melodies.
Drums throb on with the vim of restlessness.
Flutes hasten with the speed of departing tunes.
Ogele* sounds with the rhythm of fraternal bliss . . . .
The village sons bend their torsos in tremulous dance steps,
reluming low-burning
ancestral fires.
Breathe in now the image of a raging ceremony,
Symbols of a rite,
which hang on the rafters of a community,
this seventh month of the yam calendar.
*Metal gong
The driveway is now a swamp of wet muck,
I fear driving any car but the truck,
without four-wheel drive, you’re gonna get stuck;
oh mud season has arrived.
The snow is melting, half-flooding the ground,
to step on the sound brings a squelching sound,
all sorts of fallen branches have been found;
oh mud season has arrived.
The ski hill is empty, snow left in streaks,
with more brown every day, as the sun seeks
every hidden patch, it’s no longer weak;
oh mud season has arrived.
Streams run swollen that are most times sedate,
the waterfalls surge, their flows much too great,
stunning to look on as they plunge and race;
oh mud season has arrived.
I’d like to go out, but it is too soon,
the trails right now would be a muddy doom,
I can only dream of them from this room;
oh mud season has arrived.
But life is back, I see the wading brants,
and the new fawns by the field-edge do prance,
while tawny does look on, somewhat askance;
oh mud season has arrived.
It’s already spring way up in the air,
but as for the earth, it is not quiet there,
so on rural roads, I will drive with care;
oh mud season has arrived.
(Can’t wait ’till it says "goodbye!”)
some survivors attempt to annihilate their tragic past
squelching their worst memories
slaying glimpses of hurt as fiercely as they can
eradicating smells and sights that remind them of their abuse
others cannot recall their childhoods at all
having successfully erased it from their memories
so they can tolerate their life
Pen and paper in hand, words swirling in my head,
Working on my big essay, Sounds and Whispers, and planning.
Buzz, crash, drip, pop, whoosh, splash, bang!
Startling me, what are those sounds?
A phantom mouse, maybe, hiding under my desk.
I’m sure I heard a squeak.
Jumping up, I knock over my cup—splash, it crashes to the floor.
I gasp, arms flailing; my elbow hits a box perched on the shelf,
My eyes follow it, mid-air, SLAM—
The box hits the desk, BOOM.
I stifle a scream, peering at the phantom mouse scurrying around.
I sigh—my heart races.
Thump, thump! Like a jackhammer.
Wet shoes, making SQUELCHING sounds and slipping as I go.
Buzzing, like a tiny plane,
Just as I grab the handle,
A big, black horsefly lands on my hand,
I try to shoo it away—
But SMACK! SMACK! SQUISH!
Crossing the threshold to safety,
That squeak returns; the not-so-phantom mouse, is closing in on me.
Crack, crack and pop, pop, I run,
Chunky little legs carrying me
Out of this nightmare — fast.
In the hollows of power’s grip,
where shadows twist the heart’s cry,
there—mights build thrones on backs bent,
where abuse wears the mask of guidance,
control, a cloak woven with the thread of fear.
Power thrives in silence, feeding on the unspoken.
Manipulation, subtle as the serpent’s whisper,
curls around dreams, tightening,
threats drip, venomous, eroding hope,
indifference, a cold moon, shuns the warmth
of a shared sun, selfishness seizes, tight-fisted,
squelching the laughter of the young, the joy of the old.
The beauty of a soul, effaced,
a canvas scrubbed too raw,
bearing the brutal strokes of unkindness—
yet, beneath this, a pulse, a flicker:
resilience, a defiance against the night,
rising, always rising, despite the crush of the dark.
Quietly waiting
at the table
legs swinging…
Then, Aunty Jean
brings in
green soup.
Mother-glares at me,
sister-stares with me
at the cold green soup.
Is it medicine,
pond slime,
mushed frogs?
...at least twenty
spoonfuls long.
Silently I say, “Ugh!”
Quietly waiting
at the table…
Aunty Jean brings in
passionfruit cheese-cake,
cream dessert.
Is it more slime,
frog spawn,
tadpole eyes...?
Oh no, it’s a giant slice.
I take one bite…
“Oh,” says Uncle Ron,
“Don’t you like it?”
“Not really,” I murmur.
“All the more for me,”
He smiles,
turns goggle-eyes,
leans across,
adds my slice to his.
Cauldron bubbling,
mixture squelching
sauces oozing
gases belching…
“A glass of milk?”
“Yes please, I’d like
a glass of milk.”
“...and a chocolate frog?”
“No,
No thank-you,
Aunty Green.”
All night long
rain bucketed down
When going out this morn
Water ‘twas almost everywhere
Squishing
and
Squelching
As
Seagulls swam without a care
though not a fish in sight
My feet in giant wellies
were damp and cold
as well they might
Squishing
and
Squelching
without a care
Too much water everywhere
So swam back home
to my nice comfy chair
breakfasting
on kippers
with a pot
of Earl Grey tea
No more
Squishing
nor
Squelching
in the rain
for me…
NO 1246 NEW POEM ONLY
Sponsor Brian Strand
Often
the rain has something to say to me,
but this rainy day
it is hyperactively neurotic.
Each of my shoes are waterlogged
by a squelching sky-fall.
Then again there is the soggy dribble
when the flood falters
and it plugs the dripping air
only to burst out in hysterical torrents.
It is not mute,
it mutters and sprays wet words;
a babble of bellicose blather.
I am drenched in my own sweat,
as weepy warm sweepings
wash over me.
I was hoping that the last spatter
and squall of the day
would have something to say
but it only seemed to hint at:
'Coming back again."
Airliner in the storm is not doing well
Pilot is having difficulty keeping it in the air
Tossing and turning, careering with each stormy swell
Stewardess do not tip us off, issuing us all kinds of care
Each one squelching their own internal light for our sake
My eyes are fixated on the dark clouds that appear with a glare
747 gives a quiver, a drop, and at last a shiver and shake.
Sky marshal holds onto the seat until his knuckles are white
There is a loud boom that sounds like an earthquake.
I wonder if we will make it safely or be a plane crash sight.
Others are praying, phones put away, rosary beads on their laps
I swear I see a halo around an old lady’s head and it is bright.
Suddenly there is a clap, no a series of loud angry claps.
In succession, bam, bang, bam, bang, bam, bang, bam.
The plane begins a descent and we all hear familiar flaps.
Thunder envelops us in series of freezing cold wraps
Airliner in the storm is not doing well
Others are praying, phones put away, rosary beads on their laps
Tossing and turning, careering with each stormy swell
Inklings Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
Play hard,
the toothless bandits are at it again.
they have no teeth,
yet bite the hardest.
serial larcenists,
squelching through town,
robbing the honey,
subverting the hives.
at gunpoint,
they silence us.
we play hard,
they play even harder.
in the tripod of power,
they're revered highly.
'distinguished' and 'honourable,'
titles that enable them.
they excavate,
the remains of our land,
stripping us of all,
leaving us bereft of hope.
this toothless bandits,
in this rocky shores,
have hearts dead to pity.
Mud cracks its teeth.
Roots crunch and seep
a stored sunlight.
There are open veins
under wet sods.
We are conveyed above the melt
on guttering rapids
through the narrows
of squelching hedgerows
toward the drumming
of new-sprouted stems.
Winter thaws in hollows,
pushes heat into slick droplets
for the sip and swallow
of greening throats.
He took my hand gently
his skin soft velveteen
i think he smiled
or at least the corner of his mouth arched
in synchronicity with his perfectly lined eyebrow
as his fingers entwined them selves in mine
and he pulled me slowly closer
his aftershave dying apples and caramel past its point
a trace of his fingernail
as his hand rested
in the nape of my back
Behind tables and friends
disappeared in snarling mists
the music warping squelching
into a single pounding beat
spinning me
as my feet
broke it promise to earth
No bead of sweat
no catch of breath
waiting for some benevolencey-i know this is wrong but i like the sound
to try to cut in
Jesus i can't breathe in hear
but still keep the beat that i here
feel his heat
from his burning chest
Now pins of light peer from the darkness
Tendrilled horny shadow beast
that beg to watch our wanting
wrapped like a slithering
denrut around
he draws his hands through my hair
tucking strands behind my ear
his breath singe skin
eyes refuse to close
lips pursed in forever increasing lines
that splint of light that spits and spills
across lips of ruby named.
He whisper are you mine
nope but soon
A stored ripening sunlight,
opens veins under wet sods.
We are conveyed on the thaw,
upon the guttering soil
through the squelching narrows
of wayside hedgerows.
Spring mops and sops,
breezes furbish,
unlock a pearly dew
to melt the frosted prints
of paws and claws.
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