The tallow guttering upon the stone,
Casts out a dark that swallows up the room,
We learn to walk the heavy void alone.
The shadow thickens to a gilded bone,
A crushing weight that stifles in the gloom,
The tallow guttering upon the stone.
We stumble through the night we call our own,
Where blackness weaves a tight and choking loom,
We learn to walk the heavy void alone.
Yet deep within the dark where grief is sown,
The sight adjusts inside the silent tomb,
The tallow guttering upon the stone.
The blackness yields to light that has outgrown
The blinding sun that withered flower and bloom,
We learn to walk the heavy void alone.
The shadow reveals what day has failed to own,
And burning pain dispels the final doom,
The tallow guttering upon the stone,
We learn to walk the heavy void alone.
On the occasion of Shakespeare's birth
Three words from the Bard illuminate more brightly than the sun
And standing in his shadow one is most likely there to fade
As a flickering candle placed beside the light of that bright one
And measuring one's own image thus will leave most all unmade
One wonders whence the ink was drawn that this Alchemist turned to gold
The moment that his sharpened quill touched down upon the page
As genius in sequential thought upon the parchment there unscrolled
Which lapped upon the shore of love where seas of passion rage
And yet the spark still licks the wick encompassed now in tallow
Not giving thought to where it might land one in history
Unlit 'twould render darkness cursed and all to wade there shallow
Should all stand cowed and trembling bowed without posterity
Surely mortals mere as me serve but to burnish what surrounds
The gilded steps up to the treasure, measuring there what still astounds
Damp —across the fulcrum of the
Wheel of this month —May;
It creaks the cog of
Time and the energy of age.
No reverence for the parvenu or the
Rope-climber.
It has often been bleak and cold. . .
Tallow from candles weeps in the vigil
Held between fractured hours and
Hatching days,
Burning slowly among the wax community,
And sparking off bashful flames of dry grief.
When April comes forth, the ground softens,
But when May peeks lustfully into the calendar,
With the cunning of the invading spider,
The ground sinks towards the dig of
The metallic hewers of the trembling earth.
May conveys silence and the rage of deep inquests
Into the hasty departure of a covey of youths —
Mere striplings with the flying courage of migrating terns.
A perfection of beauty and
Lovingness
How than are we same
That your technique is different
than mine
Seared the whole back strap
In olive oil onion powder, garlic powder
Mc Cormick cajin seasoning
And than into a large hotel tray
With 5 cups of lard
5 cups of tallow
4 halfed garlic heads
4 halved onions
10 jalapeno peppers
And 5 cups of sun dried tomato
Cover bake on low for
4 hours at 275 degrees.
Serve with a brown beef gravy
With beet marrow
Carmelized onions
Carmelized garlic
Carrots
Potatoes
Celery diced
And Red wine
It ah bouis-oh bouis kinda ooh!
Our hands are tied, Death
Since you dawned on us this New Year . . .
Shapely bottles of champagnes have shone
And have broken to fragments with the ululation
Of firecrackers that warmed cold and dark wintry skies.
Now, aphonia sets in from unending lamentations.
Headlines, buried by the chilly bones of winter,
Are barren of good tidings.
A chionophile besieges the rim of a sedulous Yuletide
Grieving by oneiric alleys . . .
I speak of the Friedhof of haunting grimness behind
The curtains of howling winds;
Chants that frequent the disease of frightened melodies, stained
With the aged banality of youthful death;
And the purlieu of cremated souls and consolidated ashes.
Daggers are drawn to paint skulls on canvas slit by the
Whispering tongues of fire
Candles burn their tallow gently on the skin of cancer,
A stinkaroo that stinks with rage.
We do not know how else to turn the calendar.
The edges brim with hostile, burning blood,
Frozen with bits of hate and servile penetralia.
New Year hangs the singed sigil of death
On the bosom of fattened scrolls.
This candle burns slowly —and with the severity of courage
We pick our way with utter caution down the bombarded stairway
One thing is certain: we must flee from this scoffing pillage.
Aided by fluttering tallow, our vision is haunted by the airway.
Disturbed by the interruptions
He would be disrupted by my
Skill
Thrill of collaboration
When ones partners are
Determined and real
In that self satisfaction
If achieving a goal
What's in it for me
Ain't gonna work cause
We are not in control
Tallow shall disguise the
Earthy taste of the ostrich
and garlic and onions
Shall compliment it's already
beefy taste
the mushrooms and wines shall
Subdue the gameness
and crumbled bacon shall
Enhance it's taste
Cerleies and salts
With sun-dried peppers and
Sun-dried tomato's shall
Crust the external show'd
Display
We shall cheer with wines that
are appropriate and garnish
Shall accompany the display!
An anchovies and lemon sweet
caper sauce was an alternative
To the cowboy gravy show
I adored them both
But wanted the
Wagyu burger
I longed and lusted for it
One of the lady body guards
Bought six burgers
Up to the room after
The ice cream and cake show
I knew her Friend from Canada
He had been a Bouncer at my
Club in lobster town Maine!
Hollywood thumped with disco
I danced to a
Slutty Opera Tune
I love my wife
Aria Concerto
She make love just
Likes she dances
The smell of incense was heavy
And guarded the dingy room well.
Time passed slowly like the stifling breath of Yuletide
They were hiding from — the two lovers of Venice —
A woman with dark, luxuriant hair
And a man with a runny nose.
Scent-leaf from Africa
Roasted over the fireplace with a tangible fragrance.
A lone candle burned and crackled,
Its tallow dripping profusely with crusts of romance —
Measuring sounds like the
Palpitations of the hearts of the man
And woman.
Walls breathe insistent hunger,
red as the inside of a split pomegranate,
richer still where the tallow has melted,
slick as the fat from a burnt offering.
Scarpia does not eat.
He savors—sounds of gristle
snapping in the next room—
—low, wet gasps—
body writhing beneath unseen hands,
a melody of muscle breaking.
Tosca stands, spine locked,
as he drinks from a goblet brimming with the color
of a mouth left too long in the sun.
He watches her throat move,
slow, careful, like a deer
scenting iron in the air.
A scream glissandos through the walls.
Scarpia wipes his lips.
His fingers, thick as butcher’s twine,
gesture toward the door—
an invitation, a demand—
a sermon delivered without breath.
Tosca does not kneel.
Not yet.
But the feast has begun,
and the host holds the fermata.
(note: this poem was inspired by a scene from the opera Tosca by Giacomo Puccini)
How dark the air that winter brings to bear
Its dampness crawls into my very soul
A sickly moon attempts some light to share
As through the mist a bell begins to toll
Against all odds, in saturated air
A moth flits round the incandescent glow
Of a candle flickering in despair
From witnessing that masochistic show
A fledermaus is beaten to its prey
By a widow descending on a thread
Vague shadowed forms of hounds are stood at bay
Watched over by an owl that turns her head
Two amber eyes now pierce this witching night
For tricks and treats that dwell beyond our sight ~
Deep in the earth’s bowels
We crawl through tight tunnels
Where it’s darker than night
But for glimmer of light
From small stub of tallow,
A feeble yellow glow.
Above our heads the rock
It often creaks and cracks.
We each have our own jobs.
Mine is collecting cobs.
Others sort slate and slack
From the hewn rock-face black.
Some haul full carts of coal
Up track to exit hole.
Crawling through tight tunnels,
Deep in the earth’s bowels.
You can see Shane its a callow,
Not for the Business of Tallow;
Some Brain to be lying fallow,
Nothing in Tallow yields Halo...
Better Shane challenged A Solo,
A lot of fans to him follow,
Preferably in 's polo,
Never in poverty wallow...
Yes, Sandy - haired Shane Wayne for Rap
And I suggest Distance from Cap
For more of on - the - shoulder tap
And bridge of Admirer's Gap.
I know a fellow,
Whose beard is yellow,
And does it hallow,
Always glimpsing its halo,
For it in the mirror “A Hello”
And at night readied Tallow:
A sight to still swallow.
And he was a curious one,
Having at another pointed a gun,
Because he had in their argument won
And to him this was no fun,
Like a deed that has been done.
In the house where I was born
We tied our laces in the dark
Then shuffled down the stairs without a lamp.
We breathed a foggy whisper
On a window webbed with frost
And we swore, and we swore,
And we swore the vows of knighthood every day.
In the house where I was born
We ate our breakfast standing up;
The better for to make the swill go down.
We dipped the dripping ladle,
Closed our eyes and swallowed hard
And we swore, and we swore,
And we swore the vows of knighthood every day.
Gravity, brevity, granite and lead,
War bread and horseflesh, a pillar of salt,
Tilt yard, curtain wall, tallow on slate,
Crossed swords with diamonds; Et monstro fides.
In the house where I was born
We swept the dirt beneath the rug,
Then nailed its ragged edges to the floor.
We strapped our monkish duties
Hemp and leather to our backs
And we swore...
CUM ET PIUS VIRTUTIS (With devout courage
ET SUPPLEX VIRES And humble strength
NOS PAREBIMUS DOMINUS We serve our lord
ET MONSTRO FIDES Faithfully)
Lost and seeking freedom from pain
Thoughts turn inward there's much to gain
Question of life and our endless quest
Weary tears fall as I attest.
News is horrendous how can I cope
Buried within me a sliver of hope
Held tight and fast through spiritual woe
Hoping and wishing it will surely grow.
Cluster of flowers called Aaron's rod
Epiphany: There is no separation from God
The stalk of the flower dipped in tallow
Lights the way brightly faith no longer fallow.
Tat Tvam Asi Poetry Contest
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Deadline August 1, 2021
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