It concertinas over my skin,
around my wrist it trundles
on those stumpy limb nubbins
neither veering left or right.
Sublimely unaware of distance,
even when it lifts its round
jaw-bound head,
the yellow and black larva
searches only for a green world
to clamp onto.
I pluck it up from its lonely trek,
place it onto a Mulberry bush -
the fuzzy slinky pauses,
then commences to chomp down
on one more world,
a place that in time,
will be converted
to a yellow and black
grubbiness.
Clad in Kevlar on some forest land leased,
big saw in his hand, engine idling,
gets put to the tree and shatters the peace,
works it just right, and the tree is falling.
Adjusts his visor, then lops off the limbs,
the yarder comes down, cables cinch up tight,
makes sure it is a good distance from him,
then yanks the logs up as if they’re in flight.
A claw grabs them there, loads them in the truck,
down rough road it trundles with its cargo,
off to the mill, so they can make a buck,
on to the next tree the lumberjack goes,
knows if he screws up there’s a chance he dies,
the risk you take working the mountainside.
Denying us a reply
Does many faults imply:
That you do wrong routes ply
And don’t knowledge supply…
Is it about bundles
He lazily trundles:
Appointments he had missed
But remorselessly hissed?
Was it that he had fought
And more Bloodletting sought
Or the way he chuckles
While watching Who Suckles?
Starve me you do response
And self in chair ensconce;
On words playing for puns…
Like Gone Simon Templar
You could things make simpler:
Why did you, at last, part
With Albert Bonaparte?
This fallen halo trundles on way down the road
Leaving in its wake, the ray of sparks bestowed
Had she even noticed the glow above her head
Now parted from her, no longer lit, its life shed
She's left running into the darkness on her own
Leaving behind everything she has ever known
I pocket the disregarded halo, as mine to claim
Until one day I find its owner to merit my name
So, I can replace the halo back above her head
Maybe tarry on her for a while and on her wed
Carry the burden of her shame; as I will not fail
With no one as to be the wiser of her sorry tale
Keep this once tarnished halo lit upon her head
The secret of its downfall, never ever to be said
Never ever be said . . .
Never ever be said . . .
All night unto dawn
a gentle sweetness – a soft rain
a comforting...
slow dreaming droplets
in a watery falling.
I overhear soccer moms backing-out of driveways,
the last moment rumpus of heel-dragging kids.
The mail van trundles-by
Trains merge with geese
in long slipstreams of sound.
then a solicitous quiet
as the land listens to itself
breathing.
The sky is wet but not drowning,
it floats on flowing wind-waves
that wash against my mind
as a tender caress.
All is well,
the world is a child again.
All night unto dawn, a gentle sadness,
a comforting...
a dreaming rain falling,
as the world recalls its ancient roots.
I listen to soccer moms backing-out of driveways,
the last moment rumpus of heel-dragging kids.
The mail van trundles-by,
sparrows bathe in warm puddles.
Trains merge with geese
in long slipstreams of sound.
All is well, all newly
washed
the world a child again.
The yellow and black caterpillar
concertina’s around my wrist.
Around and around my wrist it trundles
on those stumpy limb nubbins
neither veering left or right.
It’s a creature unaware of distance
and so must constantly search
for nearness.
Wherever its fuzzy head leads
that is its world, only the nearby
is myopically absorbed.
I pluck it up from its lonely trek,
place it onto a mulberry bush,
The slinky pauses,
then commences to chomp
through a dark green leaf –
another world to ingest
yet more nearness to convert
into yellow and black grubbiness.
One day, distance will call to its
tunnel vision,
it will burst apart,
as if it were a dark star
rent asunder.
The far flung will open
under a dizziness of wings -
both greeting and farewell
merging into one topsy-turvy
last flutter of glory.
All night unto dawn
a gentle sadness
a comforting...
there is a dreaming rain falling
it is younger than morning mist
it is the first and last teardrop
as the world recalls its ancient roots.
I rest in the backwash of my own ebbing waves.
My breath cleansed in the light-stepping rain.
Distantly I hear soccer moms backing-out of driveways,
the last moment rumpus of heel-dragging kids.
I listen as a mail van trundles-by,
hear it pushing messages into gawping spaces.
Trains merge with geese
in long slipstreams of sound.
Plants fold fronds and leaflets
while dripping blooms bathe.
All is well, all unspoiled.
The world is a child again.
It rains gently now within.
This cute little creature trundles along,
He cannot speak, nor sing a song,
He cannot run, for love nor dime,
Nor decipher day from the nighttime.
To labor the point, he can barely see,
He only wishes to be free.
He asks no money, nor food or drink,
For he cannot like us think.
A worm or two is all he seeks,
He’ll forage alone, he’ll forage for weeks,
And yet we poke him, just for fun,
Laugh and joke once the deed is done.
His spikes intrigue, we cannot help,
The sad thing is he cannot yelp.
He cannot cross the road in time,
For we see the evidence of our crime.
What has he done? He does not deserve,
This precious creature, we must preserve.
He cannot ask to let him be,
But if not, the hedgehog, we may not see!
Handle bundles and trundles of amity with dignity
Despatch patches and batches of blues and queues of odium
Welcome pockets and sockets of hope and humility
Above all, fertilize fields of favour and faith on God’s podium.
Despatch patches and batches of blues and queues of odium
Break mistakes and stakes of the past
Above all, fertilize fields of favour and faith on God’s podium
Flake brakes and cakes of conundrum on a malice mast.
Break mistakes and stakes of the past
Catalyze cannons of conscience and confidence
Flake brakes and cakes of conundrum on a malice mast
Cremate mates and pates of divergence and diffidence.
Catalyze cannons of conscience and confidence
Welcome pockets and sockets of hope and humility
Cremate mates and pates of divergence and diffidence.
Handle bundles and trundles of amity with dignity.
[starboard port]
the ocean—an onyx plate predawn—
somnambulant ships preen with a swag of
warning lights
massive hulls: cargo ships, flotillas, tankers,
passenger liners loll; red lights buss
the somber slate of sky—spangled strings of
bawdy bulbs on the riggings—pole dance
beside the quay—ridged, behemoth smokestacks
toy with the flames of gold and white
[cabin’s lav—occupied]
waiting, my mind trundles to funeral pyres
Viking ships, then returns to marvel at
on-coming airport pot lights which
upstage the walled gasps
[very occupied]
the exodus to Singapore crescendos
we land—manned the plane performs
a ritual slide—ash and steam spew from
stacks of the other perpendicular
members
Touch down.
[the door opens]
First Published by Shooter Literary Magazine Spring of 2017
Waterfalls of colourful lights
pour from your heart into mine
as a read across the page.
I long for the feeling of your
hand in mine while I sit alone.
The world stops turning
as the lights start to dim
and I wonder what kind of place
this would have to be for
the lights to completely disappear.
The realization of reality sets
and I let the light shine from
my own waterfall of color into yours.
These colors paint the sky with
intense luminosity of light.
Until the sun starts to die down
the sky obfuscates until the twilight.
The stars shine with anticipation
and the planets align at the
site of our first confontation.
The way the moon trundles across the sky
going along on its course of operation.
Traveling love, from one side of the earth
to another, it's pulled.
Electromagnetic activity starts
with the touch of your lips to mine
and the static electricity forms
raising the hairs on the back of our necks.
The clouds start rolling in and the
friction causes a storm to start forming.
This storm quickly erupts from the
depths of my heart to say
"I love you, with every thing I have
to offer you, more than anything"
I love my rusty dusty car,
the most entrusted car, by far;
a sort of hey! Come out and play,
both here at home and far away,
a last hurrah, a real star,
my mighty, flighty, motor car.
I’ve had it now for quite a time,
I bought it new and in its prime.
It rumbles, crumbles, trundles on,
through life’s eternal marathon.
It is my friend, the best by far.
Just me - and my old motor car.
~
For Suzanne's 'Synathroesmic Cat' Competition.
How busy, busy is the life
Fat-arsed but Oh so humble Bumble Bee
He has no worries. What a simple life
Unhappy. How can he be?
He trundles round my garden where my roses grow
He is so gentle and slow
He always checks each blossom missing none
He drinks the nectar. Even stops to hum
Not like his cousin the Honey Bee
Which dashes here and there Shaped like a wasp
and therefore most carefully watched
Is safe in his hive and lasts the winter through. From cold he is free
The temperature tumbles
Alas the Bumbles
No hive as such
The Queen her Workers and the independent Drones
Will die
Mind you, the drones live high wide and handsome
Once hatched they leave the nest in mid summer
Their only function is to fertilise the Queen who bids them welcome
The baby Queens live with their mother
Only the newly mated Queens will live
And start the cycle off again
Palm trees line a pathway to an alcove of cool mists and ocean spray
Where golden sand and craggy boulders display
Their ageless beauty so well defined
Where tide trundles infinitely with no decline
Rehearsing with passion its eternal song
Performing dances with the wind, as it waltzes along
Imagine stories it’d tell if it could, of life
Long before scripted words, and endless strife
Imagine plain truth not intersperse with subtle lies
No hidden agendas to beguile, no alibis
Imagine it would tell of these essential things
Of God, of life and lessons we’re still missing
~*~
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