Thrum of a heart,
Rush of the river,
Lapping of waves upon the shore,
Rustling of leaves.
Calls of nestlings,
Pitter-Patter of the rain,
Footsteps in the dead of night,
Yowls from the woods.
Draw me in deep,
Pull me close,
To whisper sweet nothings,
Lull me to sleep’s realm.
This earth’s song shivers through,
Every inch of her being,
The melody that runs beneath,
Purest spirit of music.
Mother Earth
is due for her hysterectomy.
Soon she will lap dance
in a crystal-clear sterility
far from her blood-soaked fields.
She is done with nurturing,
done with death and destruction.
She gave her all,
but that was then,
now the soil is blistering
for want of her winnowing,
her threshing.
Her attention
is upon herself alone.
There is a place
a lit-up stardust dive
where all fertility deities
eventually arrive -
there they
gyrate and twerk
for those
who,
quite by chance,
have dug their way out
of their own graves,
yet even they must pass away,
as she strips down
to her last scant garments
then yowls with glee
knowing
she is free.
Written: April 05, 2024
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Perched delicately on the shiny cobalt.
The brumal sky is where it lies.
A sight that truly captures the heart.
With such beauty, there is no disguise.
Pearly salver shines with a radiant glow.
Amber and pearliness, as a full moon show
Surrounded by a mist of ashen hue.
A wolf, feeling glum and bleak blue.
Solitary and desolate it stood.
Amid night depths In a gloomy mood.
A bluesy dirge, yowls in the night.
Oh, the woeful wails of leaden plight.
Echoing through the depths of sorrow's reef.
Watery paint that runs under the leaf.
A mournful melody, heavy and deep.
In the heart's chamber, it does seep.
A melody dances, in mild waves cascades.
A rippling composed refrain.
The heart sings its sweet serenades.
Whispers of golden yearning strain.
Pussy cat pussy cat
Your growls and your yowls
Your calls and your mauls
Patting me down
Making me into a nest
Your jaws and your claws
Ouch pussy cat!
My days are dogged
by ankle-panthers,
my nights cursed
by the thwarted yowls
of sexual athletes.
I try to negotiate a way
into their affections
yet they scorn
chin tickles,
my hesitant ear petting.
They all strut away
tails stiff in the air
flashing me that old pink
one eye.
I’m a modern poet.
Pyromaniac.
Psychotic.
And schizophrenic.
Living in emptiness,
I walk in the convolutions of absurdity.
Idiocy spreads over me like the sky.
My poetry storms between cozy shelters and rocky waves,
while the world rushes toward suicide.
Suffocated, I lift my head
but I’m dragged down by viscous triviality.
My tongue is burned
with the acid of loathing
I gawk at the world.
Crawling through the madness,
I welcome the garb of another day.
My life measured by pale, gray days.
A stray dog at a butcher’s shop
that stays all the day without chains,
and yowls others for leftovers.
I learned to worship agony.
I’m a commodity made in a cheap factory,
an item in a grocery list.
My heart a broken shell.
I don’t write; I vomit poems.
Cancer has no answer
Death leaves a shaky breath
Left feeling so bereft
Dark thoughts create a mark
Spent in life's wary dent
Saddened, feeling maddened
Cries of pain pierce the eyes
Languish in deep anguish
Seeping blackness creeping
Cancer, gloom enhancer
Prowls as pained patient yowls
Tears cut short hurtful years
06.04.2021
For Chantelle Anne Cooke's "Cancer Ivy" contest
enter the wood, end of the day
deep deep reverb, everywhere
eerie sound from between the trees
from bowels of earth, around the sky
then chilling stillness, flee or stay?
thump thump! disturb the very air
flurried dance, the following breeze
as yowls of mirth personify
monsters lurk and skulk, hide away
blink blink, acerbic scary stare
belly scales grow knobbly knees
fat jowls of girth, the fleshy eye
children scamper, fierce games they play
beat beat, why curb their merry dare ?
carefree clamber through ill-at-ease
with howls of worth they yelp and cry
fungi feast while dank leaves decay
sleep sleep superb in fairy lair
life poking head, no guarantees
where scowls give birth, when dreams do die
look up beyond where branches sway
squeak squeak perturb the glary glare
past hazy stars, the " Pleiades "
night ghouls of dearth by radar fly
CATS
The house is a rumble with cat yowls and howls.
They sharpen their claws, and duel with their paws.
They roll and tumble and make the dog grumble.
Steal what they shouldn't,
try high jumps they couldn't.
Use grapple hooks to climb my legs,
leaving bloody trails behind their tails.
Then they sleep and look so sweet,
Until they wake; more stuff to break.
A lone wolf yowls lachrymose,
At a lowly weeping full moon,
A hyperborean chill blows,
To quake the trees snow-clad festoon.
Reverent icy waters stand still,
Solid as old placid cold stone,
And crystallize its surface frill,
Webbing fractures as cracking bone.
The moonlight shimmers lupine pelage,
Luminous white, silver, and grey,
Scintillating eyes peer a ledge,
To skulk the skirted night away.
A carmen matricale of night,
In some strange darkened equipoise,
Vapored vacuous of breath and bite,
Winter bares its fanged alveolus.
The ethereal moon looked on,
With frigid distant nocturn eyes,
When soon bedims her view by dawn,
The wolf muffles in subdued cries.
Snow blankets the barren land white,
A place time seems to have forgot,
Away with the sounds of the night,
And the melancholy it brought.
They're polishing their broomsticks
and sharpening their hats
Catching little spiders
and feeding them to bats
Howling at their cauldrons
and cackling to cats
Cradling wooden stir sticks
and babbling for spats
Mixing up their potions
and yelling out their spells
Rebelling that they're no good
and relishing their Hells
Rising up to bubbles
and thinning out to steam
Cautious of the vapors
and crazy as a meme'
Holding out for new moon
and precious as it seems
Coddling for the season
A Thresh's Halloween!
I wrote this poem based on one I found
on the internet by Lillian Moore.
Here is her version of the poem from
the book Spooky Rhymes and Riddles
Poem about THEM
THEY
polish their broomsticks,
sharpen their hats,
catch some spiders,
feed the bats,
try out some yowls
with all the cats.
THEN
witches are ready for
YOU
KNOW
WHEN!
-by Lillian Moore
They polish their broomsticks
and sharpen their hats
Catch black little spiders
that turn into sacs
Howl just like the kittens
that turn into cats
And Spit at the moonlight
that Halloween's spat
While crying for supper
of your little kids
And stirring their cauldrons
for flavor and dids
I wrote this poem based on one I found
on the internet by Lillian Moore.
Here is her version of the poem from
the book Spooky Rhymes and Riddles
Poem about THEM
THEY
polish their broomsticks,
sharpen their hats,
catch some spiders,
feed the bats,
try out some yowls
with all the cats.
THEN
witches are ready for
YOU
KNOW
WHEN!
-by Lillian Moore
They're polishing their broomsticks
and sharpening their hats
Catching little spiders
and feeding them to bats
Howling like the kittens
that sit around their vat
and coming to us shortly
when Halloween's scared at
They're coming!
I wrote this poem based on one I found
on the internet by Lillian Moore.
Here is her version of the poem from
the book Spooky Rhymes and Riddles
Poem about THEM
THEY
polish their broomsticks,
sharpen their hats,
catch some spiders,
feed the bats,
try out some yowls
with all the cats.
THEN
witches are ready for
YOU
KNOW
WHEN!
-by Lillian Moore
They're gathering their broomsticks
and sharpening their hats
Found catching little spiders
and feeding them to rats
Down pesty little fruit flies
and swiftly soaring bats
All mixing in a cauldron
for temptous gloary vat
And tasty to the forked tongue
of glecious gloried glum
While mixing to the tastebuds
of racious roary grumb
And taking home our vest lines
of ivy, flora, spum
when making it their best fun
of Halloween has come
I wrote this poem based on one I found
on the internet by Lillian Moore.
Here is her version of the poem from
the book Spooky Rhymes and Riddles
Poem about THEM
THEY
polish their broomsticks,
sharpen their hats,
catch some spiders,
feed the bats,
try out some yowls
with all the cats.
THEN
witches are ready for
YOU
KNOW
WHEN!
-by Lillian Moore
They're gathering their broomsticks
and clastic lunar hats
Sohrgetting all their toads and frogs
for what we've known as spats
And delving down a one way crete
for wicked tracious acts
Of Spider eggs and treppled legs
on what we've known as facts
And carrying their craddled soup
for roshes precious time
all marinee'd their gracious way
for taking on the climb
Of sacred age and clasdid cage
ruined placious over time
While serenade and promenade
grow grecious over blime
And all our fears amount to WITCH
where tracious frairs align
And all our lost who helped their way
Soah Halloween combine
I wrote this poem based on one I found
on the internet by Lillian Moore.
Here is her version of the poem from
the book Spooky Rhymes and Riddles
Poem about THEM
THEY
polish their broomsticks,
sharpen their hats,
catch some spiders,
feed the bats,
try out some yowls
with all the cats.
THEN
witches are ready for
YOU
KNOW
WHEN!
-by Lillian Moore
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