Mr. Gnome G was a quilter from way back
His grandma taught him the craft in Hackensack
His clothing was amazing, he made his own stuff
If you made fun of him, he stomped off in a huff.
Other gnomes were sometimes jealous of Mr. Gnome G.
He was always invited to pretty ladies’ houses for tea
They quizzed him for sewing tips, a bit unmercifully.
An expert at quilting, the talented Mr. Gnome G.
My body hates you
Holding me near enough to your heartbeat
Tucking my hair behind my ear so I can hear your broken voice talk me through the war of your battlefield
Through unmercifully intimate actions you drew me in
Until you decided it was your turn to be cruel, like everyone had been to you
Before so forgirveful as grace followed you
Now written with dirty scars and the ongoing pain of the broken promises behind your eyes
With each stolen glance, follows a gulp of guilt.
Years of regret are to come, both of us know.
At least one of us fought.
My body hates you.
No longer repulsed by your lack of love or care
But instead purely emptied as you walk by
I forget myself sometimes, when I feel my arms reach for you
Hoping you’d catch them once more, carry me away from all the troubles that would soon catch up to us
It’s a longing feeling.
My body hates you but my arms forget
The wintry pall of cold Minneapolis,
two thirty-seven year olds,
shots thundered into an unexpected
eternity,
but youth promised to age,
to go on to another day.
A bleeding sacrifice,
suddenly the wintry pall of
cold Minneapolis,
became searingly bitter,
became unmercifully more frozen.
Sing of the lost peace,
in the candlelight and flowers
on the streets. ~
in 1966 the UFOs were so plentiful they chased us town to town
Back when our mothers vacuumed in pearls and an evening gown.
We were terrified we would be lifted up and probed unmercifully.
I think I feared UFOs and alien surgeries until about 1973.
Dancing with delusions, sparks of hellfire
Course through my lugubrious quill pen.
Distorted words igniting fear,
Anxiety fills crevices,
Encircling, silencing,
Asphyxiating.
Walls closing in,
Compressing.
Hope fades,
Doom.
Dread
Runs cold.
Veins poisoned,
Sanity slips
Unmercifully.
The angels are mimicked.
Light dimming, darkness descends
As demons mingle with the dead.
Apocalyptic skies crack open
To wash away all that you held sacred.
But Not The Mountains
There is no sound from the mountains
Unlike that of the Magpie
The kereru or the Bell birds
Or the tractors rumbling across the paddocks
There is no sound from the mountains
Like the Nor Wester racing through the trees
The bleating of the sheep, the lowing of the cattle
the bark of the working dog
There is no sound from the mountains
As the Southerly snow whips them unmercifully
Save the sound from the waterfalls
as they race towards some unknown destination
There is no sound from the mountains
As the braided rivers wend their way to the sea
As the big jet planes fly hither and yon
There is no sound from the mountains
Save that of peace and tranquillity
Blue-haired faerie Frisky had fallen into a land of weird.
An angry teapot was the one giant thing she feared.
He was irritated that the dress she wore, washed in Tide
Was the same exact color as his paint on the outside
He yelled at her unmercifully, wanting her to take it off
But she had no other clothes, so she merely scampered off.
His voice followed her all around the place, as did his magic cat.
She was thrilled when she finally woke up on her own bed mat.
"Reality" is a terrifying concept.
Unescapable,
It looms unmercifully.
They want us to live there,
Walking around in blind misery,
Breathing in their truths.
But we refuse to comply.
Instead, we dance beautifully,
In the rain of our delusions.
Rumbling earth offers it's own baseline
Bones of the underworld crackle thunderously
Concussive forces driving Gaia's ecstasy.
The man watches as her eyes crackle menacingly
Mortal flirtations lusting for battle
Stone and Crystal, immense and fragile.
Booming, resonating, radiating, alive,
Conjured rumblings otherworldly
Each threaten alternately
To burst his chest
Or to implode it.
With each pulse, each soul-searing challenge of her gaze,
Every aching breath
Yet he remains, agonizingly still
And there is nought but to wait for her to move first.
It is a reaper's die cast in darkness
Uncalculated gamble of unwitting fortune
So he must wait.
Her almar might yet give a wary soul rest
Hiraeth, and hope.
Or unmercifully rend him hapless.
So lingers his being, languishing in exquisite agony
Hoping desperately, and rumbling as eldritch runes 'neath horrors unknown.
I wish I could write a Father’s Day poem
Telling about my father’s great love for me,
Maybe sharing a story about his dedication,
His making a loving home for our family.
A poem that would suffice if it were true
But, alas, it would simply be make-believe
No kind, loving, fatherly things can be said
Of the kind of father my mind can conceive.
I cannot recall a single happy time I spent
With my father when I was growing up a lad
He never gave to me a loving gesture, or
Said, “I love you, Son” or acted like a dad.
I remember many times he made me cry
Times when he threatened and bullied me
Times when he was deliberately abusive
And, forced me to do things unmercifully.
When I observe a happy father and son
I feel incredible surges of pride and joy
For their beautiful, coveted relationship
I never experienced growing up as a boy.
Written June 18, 2021
Somewhere in the wilderness,
Among the barren deserts,
And under the swarthy clouds
Lie the dilapidated destination
Of a poor homeless rebel,
Victimized unmercifully to fall
Like a drop of rain waited long!
There is a burning sand,
Perforating his bootless heels
With each prick eat up and engulf
The rest of blood from his dry veins
And does challenge his undanted will
Not to subdue and fall in subjugation
Before the sway of mighty domination.
He stays unabated in his determination,
With every sigh sobbed and blubbered,
Every sweat evaporated from his flesh
And every voice raised like Rustum's war cry
That shall crumble down powerfull states
And teaches the lessons of sufference to the foe.
In my next life I plan to be a hydrozoan.
Living in the water, floating aimlessly.
No thoughts, no feelings.
No muse bugging me with new poetry ideas.
No muse annoying me unmercifully
Screaming in my dreams,
Begging me to get up at 3:21 a.m. to write poems!
Just floating away,
A happy little hydrozoan,
Carefree and silent.
No dreams.
Just floating…..
The hairiest arm came out of the pot and slapped me.
I slapped it back, angry now, for without a head,
How could the arm do that?
My husband jumped out of his recliner.
What are you making? He asked.
His voice was shaky.
It is always shaky when I am inventing food.
Don’t worry about it, I told him.
A foot came out and kicked me in the head.
Damn Neanderthal soup!
“What IS THAT?” my nosy husband asked, running toward the hallway
Where he hid like a yellow belly.
His voice was soprano.
“It is supper,” I informed him.
“Go away.”
The hairy arm came out and I whacked it hard with my soup spoon.
“I am not eating that!” He whined.
The pot laughed.
“It is Neanderthal Soup,” I informed him, and you will eat it in droves.
Neither of us could eat it actually
As it slapped us unmercifully
knocking the soup spoons out of our hands.
Here she comes again,
That clip-happy, snippy crone who fancies herself a gardener.
What?
She is doing such a horrible job of it.
She clipped two of us unmercifully yesterday,
And we both had potential, talent, and gloriousness
These other buds can never hope to achieve.
Duck, my friends, hide.
The thorns are not doing a good job of snatching at her.
We need her cut up, and bleeding
So she will return to the house.
Love it that she has on a new straw hat with a gay ribbon.
Leopard spots; makes sense for her.
She is a leopard, leaping and crushing us, under her
Silly garden shoes with the decorative owls.
She is snipping and singing.
Hey!
Watch what you are doing you old hag.
Uh-oh. She is cutting this way.
Dhramn!
She got me!
Madness has come to get me today.
She whisked me out of the food line, and told me
I did not have a chance. I am a loser, a dupe, a pawn.
She put nails in my head, and drew blood from my teeth.
She kicked me unmercifully in my tenderest parts.
I was shrieking and screaming, trying to get away
But Madness had me pinned, and terrified.
She revered my shrieks, she encouraged me to thrash and scream
"You are noting!" she told me. "No one. A non-thing."
Frightened, I began shrieking more loudly,
Within myself, despising myself more than ever
Hating my inability to boot her out of my life.
"You can do better than that!" she coaxed me.
She tore my skin off, and punctured me with unhappiness.
It was painful, but not the worst I have endured.
A terrifying wolf's howl rushed out of the bowels of myself.
I expected to see madness turn tail and run.
Instead, she laughed, pleased.
No one came running.
I looked around the cafeteria.
No one had stopped talking.
No one had heard my silent shrieking or my wolf plea.
I am alone again, not one of the pack at all.
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