The Rebel
The rain drums
splattering rhyming melodies
Lightning flickers
dancing delightfully
as thunder renders
a resounding applause
Amidst the rumbling rankle
a man is silent
Baffled by the fleeting beauty
as the heavenlies
seemingly sits dim
The sun peeps
cracking open
the blackened clouds
birthing hopes in trickles
fostering attempts
to remove the shackles
strapping us to yesterday
O, dear poetry, how old are you?
give me a glimpse, The Story of Sinuhe
the art just might predate literacy,
before the birth of the written word, BCE
Tale of the Shipwrecked Sailor the eldest fictious
the Epic of Gilgamesh on papyrus
the world’s oldest love poems, verselets
Homer’s ancient epics
Compositions made for spoken word
I finally found out from all I’ve heard
what my dear poetry means to me
the love of artistic lyrical spontaneity
learning of words using them expressively
or impressively, excessively, whatever it takes
with poetic license, there are no mistakes
Works that lead to electric elucidation
with rhythmic flow, meter and alliteration
my primo priority is; my poem pieces make sense,
with rhyme and my love for classic cadence
having the quality of amatory ambiguity,
steered adrift with ominous obscurity
strapping images of suggestive metaphors
I’ll write to inspire as do the troubadours…..
When you think of places that are sad,
you might think of the Germans in Stalingrad,
or you may consider, too,
Napolean, leading the French, at Waterloo,
but, by far, the saddest place around,
for a hundred years, is Mudville town,
the place where Casey at the bat
failed, as his mighty swing fell flat.
Casey made excuses. Folks said, "Save your breath",
and mighty Casey drank himself to death.
Flowers in Mudville, they say, never bloom.
Children grow up in misery and gloom.
Yet, as all hope is disappearing,
lately, I have been hearing,
about a strapping young prospect,
the one standing there on deck.
Do you think he can make Mudville smile?
Will he strike out or hit the ball a mile?
In avoidance of pain & turmoil
I free myself from stubborn resistance
if Zeno of Citium were my guide
I’d fly, I’d glide, I’d know,
the natural order of the universe
instead I tumble where perception
lacks & tiers collide, I ride its waves
through chambers of vibrance,
scaled up or down, heaping hues,
strapping shapes & piercing patterns
of visual vignettes, graffiti graphics
toward tangency, I roam
rows of layered loops sorted
clarity rings forward, there is
a center piece lotus flower,
its wafting pollen stands still
as its petals protect me from falling
Electrolytes spark spasmodically
oscillate, bursting braincells
designs designate higher plains
I thirst for more euphoric phantasmagoria
& chase this balm through twisted tangles
& wiry webs of rebirth, a new existence calms
where soul separate from flesh explore
near death’s domain, a non-existence
free from outside influence
from stubborn resistance
fatigue & fallacy is painless
& in this immortal matrix,
I am faceless
i am wielder of chaos
bearer of cozy poison
hidden son of jupiter
gestated from his thigh
supple strapping boy
follow the crooked
steps of spontaneous
capering i will soothe
your terrified gaze
summon frantic defiant
nymphs to slake
your thumping skull
with tender anarchy
my fierce priestesses
in robes of moonlight
diaphanous cobweb
will sing lilting implacable
spells to wreck
planets in their courses
wine and feral milk spouting
from tap of hyssop branch
i will swaddle you
in mother night caress
you with snake tongue
drizzle silky
secret language
of the rapacious
in your ear nudge
succulent fissure
yearning for arc
of scalding bliss
lightning bone
sap of brief
delectable death
there was a anxious young lass from Darry
who thought the world around her is scary
everything she trembled and shook
even pages from a picture book
it`s so funny how her name is Merry
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there was an Irish duck called Taffy
was a second cousin to Daffy
tried to impress other ducks
but become fresh out of luck
rejected by lady duck, Daisy
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there was a pretty young las from Portrush
with a strapping lad she had a big crush
he gave her a bright red rose
with words he then did propose
the colour of the rose, became her blush
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there was an old man from Dublin
too much guiness, started stublin`
falling on his skinny bum
after slippin` on some gum
he went home, all sore and babblin`
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the irish lass from county kildare
when out ice skating, told to take care
tried a twirl and jump
but fell on her rump
and broke the part that sits on a chair
Strawberry blond curls bouncing as she dances
Quickly stealing hearts country music romances
Universal love for music maroon mood enhances
A little tip of his hat he winks a tall strapping lad
Red flannel shirt blue jeans work charming fad
Emerald eyes full of delight the barn is a glow
Denim jackets boots matching as we Do-Si-do
Amber moon hangs this June like pearl earring
New music swells cowboy yells playing tambourine
Come one come all let’s dance till fall a happy hour
Energetic night a bluegrass night blooms like flower
She passed to her the urn;
it was the second time
the mother had gifted the girl
her son;
the pain clearly showed in her eyes.
He loved you more than me, she said;
she wanted to answer; this was not true
but the gesture had been made
no need to make it harder.
They met one summer, long ago
he a handsome, strapping chap
she, a country rose.
One day among the purple clover
a cherry rivulet ran down her thigh
and they were one.
They never knew such love
his soothing voice
his soft touch
and in the deepest state of passion
the gentlest most delicate caress.
They lived high among the dales
where morning mists
obscured them from the world.
And in the winter, her warm breath
would freeze upon his beard.
One morn he did not wake
and that was that.
For months, she wondered
should she follow?
But
she had memories enough
to fill another lifetime yet.
Opal was a fine young woman,
Woke up with the sun,
Everywhere she walked were rainbows,
So, she held a gun.
She was tall and she was strict,
And we did all that she said--
Not because we feared her--
But feared that’d make us rebels, instead.
She was free and she was brave,
And she fought for liberty;
Strapping on her rebel boots,
“Are you ready?” She asked me.
She marched down at Times Square,
All alone-- “...Wait, where--?”
As she carried through,
Oxisol raised his dark revolver,
And shot Opal at 5th avenue.
Thor did not live up to his name
He was skinny, weak a petite Fontaine
Wren, his brother was a Herculean guy
Brawny and strapping, he caught many an eye
How did you get their names so wrong?
I asked their mother, Mrs. Wong.
Thor weighed ten at birth, Wren weighed three.
A cruel joke God played on me.
“I may
just now stray
where the shadows flit
yet still I hope for light.” It
was written on a Rome tomb. She seemed to me
to be
while on earth
too young. Giving birth
when she was overwhelmed? Crass
it strikes me that such a healthy strapping lass
gave life
licked death’s knife.
Who looked from above
on this ultimate act of
self-surrender, better known to us as love?
Past the white horse
the high Road to take
Horse traders strapping
and preening for the day
A harem to conquer
ITs Babylon also bored
Cinderella for the day
shes a Queen in white lance
Impasses sealed in Gold
They cripple a course
Internal Mixtures
The Posh acylates
languish for the day
He would walk into the room
Shoulders held high
Pinnacled to touch the sky
In my eyes a giant of a man
My Grandfather wore a face
Of a blue-eyed Irish sage
With wondrous stories and rousing song
In every breath and heartbeat
Belonging to his Celtic tradition
Some might call him strapping
To me he was a brilliant smile
We would hold hands to dance and sing
In the light of him loving me
So simply, almost magically
He would pull me from my shyness
Into a world of extraneous joy
As he twirled me up onto his shoulders
Then crashing to the floor, feet on the ground
To dance with fire and delight
With every step while singing
Loud and clear of the happiness he knew
My life was a river, and I was a willow twig,
Bobbing on a creek toward the sea.
Strong, fast, lively children tried to catch me and failed.
The greatest sports hero, I dreamed I'd be.
A boy and a lovely girl held hands and gazed on
A river that once was a brook,
And I wished I'd have the most beautiful girl
Whereupon the bright sun did look.
Floating along, I came upon a charming cottage
With a window-box filled with flowers.
I dreamed I'd have the grandest mansion ever built
With balconies, turrets and towers.
As the water grew wider, and the sea grew nearer,
I saw young willows, healthy, and green.
I wished I would have all of the health and vigor
Of a strapping boy of fifteen.
At last, the grand river emptied into the sea,
Where beachgoers could hear the sound
Of surf. I heard it too, and I was still dreaming,
As a wave crashed and I drowned.
His wrinkled hands, the texture of sand
creases and grooves line the space of his face
You notice his gait, a trifle unsteady
but at 5:00 a.m., he's prayed, for work he's ready
He's a man of the Torah, in the Land of Israel
scion of pioneers who drained the swamps,
made the desert flower
Born on the land, a Jew through and through
with his loving wife, raised five 'olive shoots'
tho' only two will work the land in their mud-stained boots
But that's ok. His strapping saplings will all toil in Torah's well
A rich man, he: lived a Torah life on the land, the Land of Israel
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