http://www.poetsphere.org/forum/index.php Fri, 03 Sep 2010 09:46:24 +0000 30 http://www.poetsphere.org/forum/index.php?showtopic=1921


I stood still on the skyline

and watched the air fill with flashing light and figures of blossoming flower bombs.

Out of breath you said this was it as you fell like a wounded soldier,

dramatically out of touch as i followed your lead.

We laid there together eyes across hands softly reaching to each other

but we smile as the ashes fall and the air gets torn away.

Here on the skyline the lights wont dim for the night.



av
]]> Fri, 03 Sep 2010 09:46:24 +0000 http://www.poetsphere.org/forum/index.php?showtopic=1921 http://www.poetsphere.org/forum/index.php?showtopic=1920
"It may not rhyme," she said, in all seriousness.
(This being my first day in her poetry class)
pretence to versed ambiance, is now a no, no
we have, moved on from such barbaric strass
traditional verse is verbal halitosis.
Free verse is its own gendered asepsis,
go wash your poeticule out, with some Joe mot.

First, we start with our famulus entr'acte,
anything will do if it gives attentions
and has a cerebral word like abstract.
Let us release our reserved retentions.

You must try to under stand about aesthetics!
she with her articulation now self-inflated.
It's the centre core to contemporary poetry
the philosophical pathways of emotional ethics
that leads us many directions, laudatory
and as she hastened to add, totally un-hated.

Hell, she is way out of stride already, I thought
as she did a fandango from a slow goose-step
Considering what this enthuse had so far brought
I'd better get some of this here new fancy pep.

No more measured tread in my metred verse.
Loose-jointed allusions jar collusions.
No single word does a minded thought, coerce
in obscurity to seemed solutions.

We must guess that angle of true repose
as humming birds, sip their sweet nectar lyte
Watch for lights refraction where ere it shows
and see through its arras, a spectra flight.

Words worth radiate cares own continuum
line breaks discontinue conceptual run.
Why is it, their words always seem to thrum
in such ways that spoil our much strummed fun.

Could this be where we release our Orra man?

Dressed up in an ither kind o clothes
Wi tattered bits o this an that frae prose
an' prance like jesters at the June hog fair
afore attempt, beard verse in its ain lair.

Nae mair can we allude tae Shaky's glare
Or Robbie Burns, his ain guid words tae share.

'Stead we will hae our sel's tae maker do
Whit strange ruminations that ramble too
Like as someone had left yon stable door
mair ajar than they who passed thro it afore?

Jimmy! I kna' ye ken too vary wiel
ye nae be one gie oot a rant an' spiel
yer man o few words, but whit dae ye say
how could we ere gie that free verse away?

Should we knock this Murphy's pig on the hied
an stay wi thae who seems lang time are deid.
An gan get oor sel's a wee dram or twa
there leave they fellas fine tae chew their craw.

We'll fill clear tass wi ambers wit it sel'
Til oor, words spill oot frae black rifts o Hell.

Whit say ye Orra man, tae our wee plan
Ferintosh ne'er ere spoilt a thread sotane
Or ere turn'd yin frae, a gleam'd copper pan.
Let us too stay wi' what it is we can
an share a bottle wi' our fine Orra man.

Mor.



]]> Thu, 02 Sep 2010 22:04:01 +0000 http://www.poetsphere.org/forum/index.php?showtopic=1920 http://www.poetsphere.org/forum/index.php?showtopic=1919 pointing to flowerbeds and ceramics
her tight blowse first

he twisted at geraniums
and seemed to care about pottery]]> Wed, 01 Sep 2010 17:33:49 +0000 http://www.poetsphere.org/forum/index.php?showtopic=1919 http://www.poetsphere.org/forum/index.php?showtopic=1918

I think you need another interest in life
she said almost casually.

Well, I was considering skydiving, I replied
wondering, where this was leading too.
But you know you get nosebleeds
if you climb more than two flights of stairs
was the death knell reply.

What do you suggest then, I said
leaving myself wide open for the bladed thrust
"My friend Mabel" goes 'dogging' and reckons
that it is great fun with lots of men watching
Watching what?, said I, trying to appear naive
You know! she shows her pussy off to them
and the men take turns at fucking her
She said that you could fuck her too.

It would appear the trap was well and truly sprung
Mabel was not bad looking at all
and had those long legs wet nights were made for.
Oh! that's nice of her, being careful not to mention
that this casual arrangement appeared well planned.

We could go this afternoon she said breathlessly;
I'll give Mabel a ring.
Where are we going I enquired? hardly caring for the answer
Mabel says that Delamere Forest is a great place
especially in the afternoons.
Mabel duly arrived in her Mazda open top sports car
her ultra short mini did little to hide the fact she was no blonde.

She seemed to know exactly were she was going
as we followed her into a secluded car park
then up a single-track road apparently going nowhere.
Suddenly, we came upon a clearing full of cars
whereon Mabel immediately became the centre of attention.
As she sat wide spread surveying the number of erections
that appeared before her. I thought blimey, she's spoiled for choice.

Suddenly a tap at the window brought into full view a very large
one-eyed monster just begging for attention.
Look at the size of this! my dearest said; I can't get my hand around it.
You'll never take all of that I said, a bit jealously. You watch me!
was the invite, and she did too, all the way to the bus stop.

I best go and see how Mabel's getting on I ventured
suddenly feeling quite randy. Mabel true to her word
offered everything she had, and she had a lot to offer
I felt like a super stud with all those men watching,
it was some performance, with two very good encores.
I'm certainly glad I took that little blue tablet.



Mor.



]]> Tue, 31 Aug 2010 18:30:46 +0000 http://www.poetsphere.org/forum/index.php?showtopic=1918 http://www.poetsphere.org/forum/index.php?showtopic=1917

Floating it seemed through a tunnel
of strange red translucent light
I emerged naked in a grey room.

Shadowy figures hovered around me
was I really in Hell, it certainly seemed so
as I drifted in and out of consciousness.

Why was I back in the Congo again?
dead bodies were piling upon me
holding me down, so I could not move
I tried to cry out, no sound was heard.

Yet I heard voices- muted and strange
many hands appeared to be lifting me
only to me put down again
on a bed that appeared to move on its own.

Someone took my hand, can you hear me
I heard a voice say "Yes" I tried to reply
no sound came out only a croak
from a traumatised larynx.

Do you know where you are the voice asked?
No!, I shaking my head weakly,
as if too frightened to hear the truth.

You're in intensive care, you have been very ill
but we're going to get you well again
Soon we will have you back in your own ward.

Would you like a cup of tea?
Here! you can suck it through a straw
until you are able to sit up.

I then realising I could not move
only my arms seemed to belong to me
everything else appeared quite dead.
I have never known a cup of tea so welcome.

Above me, a machine bleeped endless messages
as nurses took blood, and bags dripped fluid
through various tubes
suddenly the bleeps changed
what's happening I thought!

The doctor looked concerned; we need a fresh line in
he said- "his blood pressured has dropped"
six attempts to insert a needle failed
in veins that were now as flat as pancakes
and were hurting like hell at each attempt
slowly I drifted back into oblivion.

Days and nights had little difference
as the routine continued
gradually I became aware of others
some lying deathly silent
others making strange noises
through tubes and masks
as life hung by a thread
on a journey of no return.

Slowly my vision returned
as the morphine effects wore off.

Now I could even read the names on the badges
as nurses went about their duties
I can wriggle my toes I exclaimed!
excited as a toddler taking his first steps
Little did I know how mine would turn out.

Soon, though it seemed like eternity
the great day arrived
and I was to be trundled back
down corridors, into lifts
'till finally we arrived at C3
straight into the isolation room
apparently, I was still highly infectious.

A familiar face greeted me
Oh! I am so glad you're back
she said kissing me
I really thought we had lost you.
She had great fun emptying my stoma bag.

Which just goes to show
I always seem to miss the exciting parts.

Though learning to walk again
was not easy, who would have believed it
six months in a hospital bed
and I had to learn all over again.

Nobody looking me now
could ever have thought
that I once was a marathon runner.



Mor.]]> Mon, 30 Aug 2010 17:28:08 +0000 http://www.poetsphere.org/forum/index.php?showtopic=1917 http://www.poetsphere.org/forum/index.php?showtopic=1916 Dead Beryl Eye and the Dogs of War.

No story told has greater tale
than the one of griever’s succour
when youth gave forth of its avail
moirai gliff- a mother’s euchre.

Marauding moloch's distant east
hell lights way too many perils
where dogs of war, indulge a feast
dead eyes blasé half-closed beryls.

What tears are cried when youth it die
in a muss of man’s own making
when God him self’s own lies apply
and earth’s turbid state is shaking.

So bring them home our blood-drained sons
that we mourn epochal passing
in distant land yang’s yearn, still sones
its un-questioned gores of asking.

Mor.]]> Sun, 29 Aug 2010 09:01:30 +0000 http://www.poetsphere.org/forum/index.php?showtopic=1916 http://www.poetsphere.org/forum/index.php?showtopic=1914 When the Morrow Comes

The security of her prison
Is stronger
Than her desire to escape.

Hell is not out there
Somewhere
Hell is within us.

The old woman knows
What the young woman
Refused to believe
She was always
Free to leave.

Her inability to forgive
Is robbing her
Of her will to live.

Mama honored her marriage vows
For better
She escaped her step-father
For worse
She married my father.

Father said,
"I don't remember the bad times."

What is kept under lock and key
When drunk,
Is set free.

When the morrow comes
Hidden behind walls of
Shame and blame
The darkness is locked away again.]]> Sat, 28 Aug 2010 00:16:06 +0000 http://www.poetsphere.org/forum/index.php?showtopic=1914 http://www.poetsphere.org/forum/index.php?showtopic=1913 Now that Jim has posted some of his rhyming verse, I feel quite at home, not being one ready to warm ones arse on the burning bush of contemporary poetry, I will plod on with the old versed stuff and see what happens.

The Noli-me tangere of Poetry.

I took a path, I thought I knew
how strange was my discovery
along its sides were things that grew
from minds and madnesses furore.

Each step I took caused care it pain
minded ways before so counted
how could I ere think it to gain
Noli-me-tangere so vaunted.

Its signs grew they like tendril crest
and faced in each ways perfusion
how strange the garb that it was dressed
paid little heed to its precisian.

So now my steps be numb and slow
still my path be spread before me
where can I now with words it show
abjuration's abject journey.

For those who speak a poet's word
and place all their thoughts afore them
Would they be of its sememe heard
or claim fear of fleam's own contemn.

We recherché our chosen track
in those ways of our recital
and yet if truth should turn its back
and seek not of our acquittal.

Those simple words their ex parte
of eremite's his exclusion
drinks he before his own bacchae
hears ripienos woes he's written.

So lest those few and staggered steps
seem more like a journey's ending
What sadness now be voiceless keps
on pathways that saw no turning.

Mor.

]]> Fri, 27 Aug 2010 18:31:08 +0000 http://www.poetsphere.org/forum/index.php?showtopic=1913 http://www.poetsphere.org/forum/index.php?showtopic=1912 Or take back what I told to you
It's merely as an afterthought
That I should practice what you taught
And though I am a gentle guy
With baleful and expressive eyes
Profound beyond your mortal sin
Dumbfounded by your saccharin
But here's a poem just for you
Though not one that I wrote for you
Intended as an antidote
With clever lines for us to quote
It's bouncy in a snappy way
And hides just what I want to say
So clasp it tender to your heart
And then cut out the broken part
Forgive me when I'm cold to you
And forsake what I told to you
It's simply just an afterthought
That I should forget what you taught]]> Fri, 27 Aug 2010 15:48:17 +0000 http://www.poetsphere.org/forum/index.php?showtopic=1912 http://www.poetsphere.org/forum/index.php?showtopic=1911 Venturing into that exclusive territory so vigorously defended by the contemporary brigade, one of course is met with distained silence, not even the normal jeers of derision that one encounters on some of the more militant contemporary sites of the IBPC group seemed to have reared their creative heads regarding this solitary exercise. One of course could take great solace from the fact it is so well written that little comment is necessary, however such aspirations to greatness are seldom long-lived in that clandestine environment populated by that ever wordy group of people know by their lesser name as poetry judges.

Of course, it does not have that intrinsic quality of Ezra Pound's sometimes-rhythmic verse but there again I was not trying to follow in his now well faded footsteps.

The Hot Chestnut Man. A rare inversion into Free Verse.

Through spoken end of a needle
size eighteen I believe
no sigh emerged
as fat lady sang L'italiano
and nights fresh painted youth
gathered for their souk of hiring.

'Se tu vo' moglie dillo!'
lips a wet whispered invite
as heavy made up eyes
mirrored their false intent.
New rent boy looks nervous
it seems Fat Desmond's in town.

Crickets no longer chirp maleness
night's obduration stills their temporal sound
to a recurrent and dispassionate beat
in their Chinese cages of ambiant passion.

As Yesterdays, breathe over red Oinos
sprawled on a bare yin épuisé
his empty flacket of cheap dago red
waits forlornly for 'morrows refill
the dead-man bottle fills a lifetime
of regrets with another days needs.

With stealth of a world wise woman
cheeky garlic Arabs rifle his pockets
for lucky dimes, as his Chi-town Tribune
litotes like a proprietors dream.
How little comfort its evanescence affords.
in the dollar-stained obituaries of the dead.

Trade now slacker-than old fluffer Alice
a twenty-dollar hooker pisses in an alley
watched by covert eyes
The hot chestnut man douses his charcoal
as another Jew marries outside a religion.
and the rent boy silently agrees with Nixon.

Mor.]]> Thu, 26 Aug 2010 21:50:13 +0000 http://www.poetsphere.org/forum/index.php?showtopic=1911