Statuary Poems

Dashboard Statuary

I can’t help but chuckle when I see
dashboards cluttered with statuary –
the virgin Mary, Jesus, St. Christopher,
and dangling from the rearview mirror
(no doubt as backup for real harm),
a rosary, a rabbit’s foot, a scarab charm.
Yet the car’s banged up beyond recognition
when drivers rely on superstition.
What assurance can a driver have for hope
if he drives with no insurance, the dope?
Put more bluntly, what peace of mind
when statues are deaf, dumb and blind?

Orwell of Sagittarius

On the Eve of St Orwell's Day
The squaw woman brought truth to bare
In scripted pose and statuary dish
A recipe changed from Bollusk to bisque

And the night crept up like Jupiter
A false Eden in the sky way main
To porridge or to bed
The urchin s running unkempt and bold

With prophetic dreams untold
Except in murmuring drag
Their nightly secrets keep
The recipe will in the morning come

Or porridge be damned with my spoon
I'll spoon your sugar until you sweet
Come nether or come neat

Statuary

“Le poëte est ciseleur, le ciseleur est poëte.” - Hugo

Poets, they are sculptors
Who wield their sharpened tools,
Who chisel not in stone,
But rather work to write…
Wordsmithing skills to hone.

Poets, they are sculptors
Who carve not into wood.
With imagery they play…
In grammar etching mood,
Emotions on display.

Poets, they are sculptors
Who fashion not in clay.
They mold in metaphor,
Using rhyme and rhythm,
With less, aiming for more.

Poets, they are sculptors
Who work with ink on page.
On paper trying to
Create in stanzas, lines
Something completely new.

Figurehead

Riding a thermal, without a flap of wings,
hot air billowing his black cloth canvas,
a crow sails the gray ocean of a foggy afternoon.

No flap of the wings, no readjustment
of rope and sail, it seems as though he is
not moving at all; a figurehead
as the Earth skims the cosmic ocean.

He breaks his statuary, shedding the current
like a coat of dust, the crow banks down beneath
the cresting green waves of pine trees, resurfacing
with a gasp for air so loud the foghorn trembles
in embarrassment, and assumes his place as the 
figurehead of the world once more.

Waiting To Be Headless

In ancient cities and times,
kings, rulers and their often-faceless consorts,
were exalted in marble statuary,
yet
so much of those effigies
now remain headless.

Those bygone exalted figures
have lost their heads,
(or occasionally the odd arm).
I ask myself,
where did all their heads go?

Were they deemed to be sculptured flowers,
doomed to be dead headed like roses,
by stone-faced gardeners?

The beheaded, the headless,
litter history,
it makes me want to check my own neck,
to confirm my often weak-headed state.

Heads are easy targets,
you strike a light in the dark
then some petty tyrant takes offence
and poof,
there goes your head.

Genghis Khan played polo
with human heads.
If we were born
with a dotted line around our necks
we might put two and two together,
we might be better prepared,
for being booted around
like footballs.

If I had been clearly told
to always keep my head up my ass,
I might not have had this death wish,
to write weird poetry.

Unburdened

Clicking latch
of the evening door
boot tracks through
fallen feathers,
crows adorn the eaves
little ebon stomachs
growling.
“I don’t have any seeds
on me right now”
Bird’s beady eyes
cut through camouflage–
now crows adorn 
my shoulders
pecking at my ears,
my eyes, my heavy heart.
With outstretched arms
still as statuary
I stand like a                             scarecrow
in fallow fields
and am stripped bare.
The murder flies
away with strips 
of my fear,
chunks of grief,
little worms of loss
and I pull my collar
back up and walk inside
unburdened.

Poolside Vision

I was walking through Woodruff Park
again today, although it felt a little
bit more like swimming; I had to backstroke
my way through viscous Summer air. 
As I stopped to catch my breath
and towel off, I saw him.

Lying at the bottom of this swimming pool of a park
among the 2 o’clock trees and rugged,
rebellious weeds was a middle-aged man,
face creased and folded like fresh-pressed 
dry cleaning before your first big interview

He was on his back, still as statuary,
in unlaced jet-black dress shoes,
polished so each one winked in the sunlight.
Arms buffeted at the elbows by quickly cuffed
sleeves as they lay heavy on the ground like unsuspecting
roadkill on that new on-ramp off of Boulevard.

The spotlight was on him: golden rays upon
fragile eyelids. Cruel beams focused like a bored
eight-year-old with a magnifying glass.
He looked dead.
Just when I began to dive back in and play
lifeguard, he pulled that naked forearm
up over his eyes and took a deep, wet breath.

Thoughts At the Gallery

His shop is filled with the finest treasures
The artist walks ‘midst his imposing creations,
By the marvelous statuary, and original pictures.

Artifacts collected from myriads of nations
Featuring tapestries and folk art unparalleled,
The artist walks ‘midst his imposing creations

And those of other masters who’ve excelled
In the finest of arts, from both here and abroad,
Featuring tapestries and folk art unparalleled.

Any person of the finer tastes will be awed
By the lovely oils and large mixed media
In the finest of arts, from both here and abroad.

The artist is clearly a legendary encyclopedia 
My appreciation for his knowledge enhanced
By the lovely oils and large mixed media.

As I ambled through, I became entranced
His shop is filled with the finest treasures
My appreciation for his knowledge enhanced
By the marvelous statuary and original pictures.

Written July 25, 2022

With Careful Spoons

With Careful Spoons

Your perfume essence speaks of lazy afternoons under sage trees.
You kissed my bent neck with a pointed snake of sweet saliva eyes.
Now we are twisting inside my slow tilted bedroom with creep shoes.
Your gray short skirt shows slender legs flashing firm nylon divots.
Panties white and tight beckon my touch amidst the soft furniture.
Lips gesticulating now with puckered tentacles made of sugared spit.
Taloned fingers with pink polished probings find the noble charge.
Music-playing minestrone tasters come to dance with careful spoons.
Why have you lead me into this frothing dream web of lilac spume?
We kiss now with mind-rushing lip lashings glued to the secret night.
We delve now with our bending statuary into the new morning light.

They Closed the Brothel

Last Friday they closed down the brothel up the street 
Gothic beauties standing despite negative propaganda 
I hated seeing them go...it was a real fine place to meet 
With its beckoning red light and wide welcoming veranda. 
 
Gothic beauties standing despite negative propaganda 
Those exotic ladies in high fashion heels boldly posing 
With its beckoning red light and wide welcoming veranda 
They were statuary beauties, architecturally quite imposing. 

Those exotic ladies in high fashion heels boldly posing 
I hated seeing them go...it was a real fine place to meet 
They were statuary beauties, architecturally quite imposing 
Last Friday they closed down the brothel up the street. 


A Pantoum written February 12, 2021 
For “They Closed the Brothel” Contest 
Sponsored by Kai Michael Neumann

Devti

I've climbed the monkey-sided mountains
overlooking Rishikesh;
a spill of Rishis in the granite bowl below,
each with callous, with incense, with their
various beggaries...each sweet-tongued with 
prasad.

I've bent to kiss a broken man;
my lips on his toes, his laugh in my ear.
Antarayaami statuary all around.
Japa mala japa mala japa mala;
Namostute.

I've tucked my frame under
a stories-filled and stories high
Hanuman; folded myself into
a Room of Song.  Chalisa after 
Chalisa for hundreds of years.
The pilgrims and flowers, the 
ghee candles and Sri Ram Sri Ram
Jai Jai
Rams.

I've sought myself.  I've sought the selfless.
I've made friends with both.
I've come home dusty only to
be Lost.
I've come home refreshed only to
be Lost.

The Names, the mantras.
The Bhajan, the Ganges.
None had Answers for me.
Each had answers for me.
None had Questions for me.
Each had nothing for me.

And so I bow.
I thank.
Each.
Every.
One.

I thank One.

A Garden In Paradise By John Lars Zwerenz

A GARDEN IN PARADISE

I took her hand beneath the quivering diamond trees
Which shook their hymns upon us in the warm, October sun.
We found paradise in the glades beneath our knees
As flute and horn, wistful and fantastic
Swept through the redolent, scarlet breeze,
Near azure brooks which forever run
Through valley and dale, mellifluous and majestic,
Gracing reeds with currents that shine in gilded rays.
(I love my bride, and her angelic ways.)
The ocean nearby, beyond the alabaster statuary,
Rises with the tide and caresses the purple rocks,
As she reclines on a marble bench with gracility,
Dreaming in her mystic trances, caressing her raven locks.
And the sunset sighs as the fountains rise
To the nascent stars which languishing, hover,
Over the vast and silent courtyard,
As she speaks of things with her sanctified eyes,
To her handsome, young lover,
To her passionate bard.
And our kisses are of ivory nights,
When moonlight sobs, when candle lights
Illuminate the astonishing bower.
Come walk with me, my love, it is the hour
When all seraphs sing their hymns from above.
Come walk with me, my lover, my love!

John Lars Zwerenz

Born Yesterday

It was the first trip to Europe for Miss Hews
who was terribly shocked by statuary views.
She thought it a sin
to show so much skin.
Some of which apparently struck her as news.

Rejoinder To Kpm and Cgr

It only takes a few years gone
for everyone to forget that song;
though often later generations
will not keep their venerations
of cherished family now long past,
faint memories die off real fast!
Faces lost, even distant laugh,
if not captured in photograph;
portraits peel and fade away
unless in museum they do stay,
and even when on wall they bask,
most future viewers often ask
“Who is that person? Who were they?
Were they important in their day?”
Statuary might be concrete,
memoirs can be indiscreet,
tombstones often wear away,
nothing on Earth can long stay;
we return to dust, one in the same
while only few win lasting fame.

Statuary Grey

Winter whitewashes Autumn's decay,
and yet, you know that Spring will soon show.
But, as snowflakes bury Fall's array,
depression deepens with each fresh snow.

Snow-laden trees, like sculptures of clay;
stand exposed, chiseled by a sharp breeze.
And stenciled in statuary grey;
like outstretched fingers, bare branches freeze.

A brisk breeze wrestles your breath away,
in the grip of an unyielding cold.
And muting the sound of children's play;
melancholy thoughts start to take hold.

A stormy day causes nerves to fray,
for doldrums brood within shadows cast.
And folks speculate on Spring's delay,
damping hopes that this weather won't last.

Purple and scarlet ink the sun's rays,
and yet, sunset chills you to the bone.
For as twilight dims on dreary days,
you feel depressed, shut in, and alone.

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