nearer:breath of my breath:take not they tingling
limbs from me:make my pain their crazy meal
letting they tigers of smooth sweetness steal
slowly in dumb blossoms of new mingling:
deeper:blood of my blood:with upwardcringing
swiftness plunge these leopards of white ream
this pith of darkness:carve an evilfringing
flower of madness on gritted lips
and on sprawled eyes squirming with light insane
chisel the killing flame that dizzily grips.

Querying greys between mouthed houses curl

thirstily.  Dead stars stink.  dawn.  Inane,

the poetic carcass of a girl

What She Look Like?
  
…Like one
tenderly hushing
water in her lap
Elemental peace
No place to go
No more to be
…Like the ocean
in the background
of a photo on a warm spring day
belying
rage
and the random possible
thrash--

out!

at all guilty ******* in her path
Toss in the next sentient soul
who should happen to pass
within range
who should have seen
who should have known
what a storm could do….

Moody in the aftermath
and sorrier than rain
With the tide in retreat
grumbling excuses
Hiding out waist-deep in dusk’s Merlot
Waiting for night to sleep it off

to heal the rifts
cleanse the shame

Rising
yellow, bright— and

“What the hell happened, here?!”

____


Her hair
a winter’s tragedy of trees
upside down—
No wait— the wind has put her right
to ragged random branches
swaying, wet with intermittent hues
of dark and silver
caught in collar, flying inelegant and free
at the shoulders of the levee
tossed and softening shyly
sagging jaw and nose a stump of tree
All perspective changes…

if you watch a while—

She’ll raise her eyes
into the sunset
to catch an eagle
entering
flight

…and then you might…

___

She looks like—
a pudgy robin
querying grass
mud soaked
that hides the fire of her breast
tugging at a worm
more than half her length
“I will feed them, **** you!
Give it up, you son of a snake!”
_____

...Don’t miss her hour of music though
for anything
Encroaching darkness
from the rooftops
she listens to the hearts she breaks

Remember this in winter
she can give but she will take
it out on February
when you’re longing
for her

perhaps if you have time,
take a moment to read the
predecessor poem in the notes below first,
in order to better understand this one


<>

the love poetry curfew so lately announced
misshapen, growing without respite, by hate extensions distended,
poet's sanity uncomprehending, for yet another! sabbath desecration,
debating internally, how long should this cessation be extended,
for the pockmarking of earth's face with fresh bloodshed,
continues unashamedly, swiftly apace, these unholy days of dread,
all haggard his mind, hazard his eyes, harden his heart
no muse could sway

but shocking himself,
poet's mirror image stares and dares
with a finger-pointing,
his own specter's absurd challenge of

"and yet, now more than ever "

when children are killed like bowling pins,
there can be no satisfaction in revenge
cannot expiate evil deeds with avenge
measure for measure add-on sins,

and yet,

poet thinks quietly, repeatedly, self-surprisingly,

and yet,
love poetry, now more than ever

asking confusedly, almost ashamedly, out loudly, yet secretly,
how can this be, for there will be again, more painful awakenings,
is it the end of days, of greeting sunrise, with a love for love poetry?
with madness come and confusion everywhere rampant,
'tis a doubtful thought, the carnage having wrought
an insoluble dissolution and can love poetry be any solution?

in poet's Adirondack safe place where life tributes were
birthed, bred and trials borne, a right writ place for unmasking,
a private soul in equal parts of joy and shame,
love and pain, loss and gain,
here the weighing scales bore equal measures
of old bereft, and life uplifting visions of,
what will come, what will be, the unforeseen,
the hopeful yet of

"and yet"

a dotted line of whitecaps  beckons the poet to tread upon,
the glassine bay's waters that lay before him, go, walk on water,
a path to point where and whence the quaking waves
have gathered, calmly begging, Oh poet!
provide  assurance, explanation, comprehension,
querying him as if all sanity, has flightly, unsightly, fled
from the home shores of human sailors, gently asking poet,

"your fellow walking earth-beasts have all sensibility killed,
these times so human terrible, we waters, cannot understand"

poet's rebellious soul all so confused, asking and answering the
waters in his head, the waters that address his eyes,
seeking wisdom words from a place where logic
has been whittled and willed away,

and yet,

love poetry, now more than ever

now is the time when a love poem beyond merely necessary,
poet's eyes cast downward in shame, his thinking, hesitant and wary,
time for prayer, not madness distraction of a love poetry commentary

the waters dissatisfied at his confusion,
part as if by Moses's staff, majesticly powerful rise up,
confronting poet with the sweetest tasking
as if they were the downtrodden and the hurting, asking...

"we storm, drown and take, for such is nature's angry periodic way,
something beyond our control no matter what we say,
to another's dictate and momentum, we must bow and obey,
but you human, have choice, and we have none -
choose love poetry and let it comfort like no other"

and the poet sighed and wrote

this poem

this poem of love,
realized and conjectured,
with inserted verses of

"and yet,"

for though the poet possessed no well of well words
more than these few saddened and impoverished,
wearied, hard scrabbled ones

and yet,

gasping and grasping a potent notion, a portent of what if,
of a world with no love poetry,
a planet that could not ever-overcome hate, dooming itself,
for love poetry and all its cousins and associates,
the only method to confiscate
these grill blackened marking silent barbell weights
so let this be ,
this is a love poem,
and now,
this is the time,
to let

"and yet"

vindicate...


<>
6:20am
Saturday July 16, 2016
and yet

If you drive down route 235,
the lonely parallel line of route 5,
running through St. Mary's County, Maryland,

between the intersection of Old Three Notch road
and St. Andrew's Church road,
and the liquor store at the corner of Mattapany--
you must do so with a fat wallet,
and a growling stomach,

who barks at the flashing signs
of the sparkling chain restaurants--
wafting their familiar scents out the windows
and onto the busy street.

Utterly beleaguered every which way by these olfactory factories,
your mouth waters and your wallet lightens
as the tantalizing sensations
permeate your vehicle.

So you cave;
another lost soul vacates the street at Restaurant Alley,
under the prowling searchlights
and the intoxicating smells lingering like a dense fog;

You linger in your purgatory with glee.

You exit satisfied, patting your abdominous belly
and lifting your smiling face to the sky
in thanks to the gluttonous gods
who rain down these chain restaurants
from the heavens.

A satisfied sigh seeps out of loose lips,
barely hanging on to your fleshy face,
so ruddy and fat.

You act like your stop was something novel,
like it wasn't routine to acquiesce to these temptations;
you return to your car to continue your roamings
down restaurant alley.

Sadly, a full stomach won't stifle a querying nose,
and your senses are soon at it again;
just as the waiters and waitresses,
cooks and busboys--
are back at the window, leaning outside
with their clamorings and bustlings and cookings--

You pretend to entertain willpower as your copilot,
but even if that were so,
your senses would still be at the wheel,
with your mind bound and gagged in the trunk.

Restaurant Alley goes on for miles and miles and miles,
seemingly endless in the permeating fog of
burgers and pancakes and pasta and chicken and fries and burgers and soda and ice cream and beer and pasta and wine and America and pancakes and steak and appetizers and desserts and entrees and specials and kids menus and burgers and chicken and pasta and fries and burgers and ice cream and salad and burgers and soda and eat and eat and eat and eat and eat!

There's nothing to eat;
there's nothing to do but eat in Restaurant Alley,
on route 235 in St. Mary's County, Maryland.

So fasten your seat belt,
and loosen your waist belt,
and take a doomed trip down the endless roadway--

where you are dragged, shackled to food chains
that haul you from the perdition that is the lobby's waiting room
to be seated with loved ones at the mercy seat of Ambrosia.

The Process

There is the notion, the urging.
The first spilling, the self-congratulatory
Commencement ceremony for
The process.

Then there is the first short-pause,
a quick-freeze hibernation. Then,
The bubbling,
The querying, the special fear,
What have I started?
Where is it taking me,
Am I properly undressed for doing
T  he process?

A new vocabulary,
an arm extended, but distended,
Words are all angled puzzled,
Capable of unity, but first,
Unshaped but swollen,
By the process.

Hatching, head-aching,
words arrive rushed, but disordered,
Confused by the process.

{The exception has it own character.

One kingly, run-on sentence birthed,
After silent labor, a full poem, fully dilated,
A shocking head of hair, full developed,
So fast does "it" fall onto the paper
The obstetrician arrives too late
To process.}

The exception, exceptional.

The normal, normative.

Twenty four hours of labor,
False starts, much screaming,
Painful joys, hardly seamless,
This process.

Distractions the enemy,
Compulsion the master,
As you choreograph the work,
In loving servitude to
The process.

You the doctor, insert probes,
Looking for the tumors, the out of ordinary,
For normal flesh is not of interest as part of
The process.

Finally, you do exhale,
With unique the pleasure, of the longest sweetest
Female ******.
The breathing less labored,
Tho whole, sensing a diminish-meant to convey
That completion is the end of part of you,
The near-end of the continuum, lessened but continuing
The process.

I grieve for you in the cold quiet of winter
My absent child, my long lost son
Warming my hands over dying flames, frost covered smouldering clinker,
By the wood where icy streams run
Through the shrunken sedge, and barren fields
Stretching for miles, empty of meaning.
The landscape like a worn photograph yields
Your tremulous smile, then nothing.

Here, you ran with startled steps
Through the yielding sheaves, yelling with surprise,
Chasing indifferent spiders, and discomfited birds
With hatred in their pebble pool-dark eyes.
Querying awkwardly spoken words, small
Tenacious fingers that caress and clutch
Every passing object, loudly chuckling, wisely playing me for a fool
A silly father who loved too much.

On the anniversary of your leaving I required solitude
Partnered only by memory
Away from familiar crowds, the booming, barking fusillade
Of the present day commonplace urban itinerary,
Where only the crackle of snow
And the fleeting trajectory of birds
Distracts my slow
Marshalling of comforting thoughts.

The cottage where we lived haunts the shallow glade,
A shrouded ghost swaddled by the half-light,
Positioned squarely like an old man, its cladding beginning to fade,
White branches like dead-fingers that gleam in the night.
In the closet are your dust-sprinkled toys, a yellow plastic duck,
A cheap skateboard, ancient video games,
A guitar you never learnt to pluck
A chess board on which you pulverised my endgames.

In the preserved furnishings of your bedroom
Your school work gathered into stacks
Barely visible in the gloom,
Our life together in disorganised packs
Denoting year and level
Development and academic achievement,
If any, (but I mustn’t once again cavil)
Indicating, even in your earliest years, a specific bent.

Standing on the mantelpiece, propped up against the wall,
Are brightly coloured, polished pictures
Of you. Plump, blonde, agreeably small
Dancing, standing, jumping, grinning, absurdly wistful mixtures.
A bitter echo resonating from the shadows
A cold thought darkening into memory
The spectre of your voice disappearing in the meadows
Having left all of us! Having left me!

A pure mind
Discerning and dissecting
Living in a world of forms and shapes
Still revels in the true essence
Beauty in truth

When beyond mere looks
Your presence enlivens
Brings meaning to my life
A feeling  unexplained
Beauty in love

A child at play
Looking, touching, querying
Lost
In wonder
Beauty in innocence

The artist looks at his canvas
And it becomes his world
Everything else turns to nought
A flourish of colours and strokes
Lost in creation
Beauty in work

This universe infinite
Defying all imagination
All we can do is surrender
In awe, In admiration
Praying for inspiration
Beauty in devotion

© copyright skm

A curtain of impatience
Descends upon your day
An urgency for completion
Comes intensely into play


Emotional Intensity
Is largely in the frame
But your judgements equilibrium
Holds the dominance of blame.


Stability is vulnerable
Through a three dimensional fan
And a questionable tangent
Will have them querying your plan.


This belligerence is natural
When integrity is crossed,
When intentions are criticized
And cohesiveness is lost.


But a rational track of history
Goes far towards your cause
And a creditable performance
Will surely open doors?


So swallow your urgency,
Ease passion’s twitching arm,
Put a hold on your aggression
And show the scrutineer’s your charm.



Marshalg
@theGate
Mangere Bridge
8 April 2009

Allow me to hold your breath for just a moment
whilst I kiss on your neck
longing for replacing it something mellow.

Where are the songs of You?
dare to look into me
To bend the fruitiness over,
drip all over me
Why are you so bright?
Where all those juicy vines is for?
What do i breathe for?

How a soul hold so much;
Sentiment controls little talks
triggered not to impress myself
Will it last or
Hurt, dashing out.

One
Of those nights, when the Sun lifts her up
The City is revolting
over her, and this Knight is so young
That sees through my eyes.

Braid your soft hair and marks on your torso.
Racing my heart on vacant this long,
querying on your presence at the right time again, again,
and over again

The explosions
for those of who let you go

Lay with me, the cuckoo's calling

Heart pounding nonstop 

Feeling I ran sixteen miles

Can't seem to decifrate 

Where your affection lies



Querying who am I 

Long term silence prevails

Things are better off left unsaid



We used to share friendship

Now there's nothing left

Wondering where will you travel

After all this ravel



Observe along your space

Recall your whereabouts

Back when you were just 

A young teenager



You had company,

Someone who cared


That feminine corpse,

Would outsource every fiber of her soul 

To see you whole

Sadly you saw her as

Another to add list of friends role


Meanwhile her heart beat off adrenaline 

And nothing more



Retaining secrecy,

Devoted to destiny,

I'll exit knowing there's nothing else to do,

But to patiently wait for a propitious finale.

Classy J going array, with such sassy display to you’re overbearing dismay. Blasting off today, I’m as cool as sorbet, but yet as hot as soufflé. Everlasting eternities as the cycle goes on for humanity, where some live for the moment and others search for divinity. ****** prey wanting me on their tray, the only thing I’ll give you is the direction to the doorway. Rick Ashley stray’s, I’ll throw yawl back out in the alleyway. Future class, never ever low on gas, if you mess with me, I’ll shatter you like glass. I’ll use a computer bypass, to shove a virus up your ***, not to be played with, bro don’t you know that I’m bats. I don’t butcher the masses, or overburden you like taxes, I’m just your average Joe trying to make good of all this blackness.

Not a sore loser, nor a party pooper dear querying lass, I stand my ground; yeah you bet I got ***** of brass. While some of yawl puff the grass, this creature is trying to cure the world’s tumor created by us jack assess. Don’t run on flats, tackling my demons to the mat, yeah I have gotten through life by crawling down its crevasse! Don’t listen to rumors, some call me a trooper, you have to learn how to maneuver all haters and accusers. Living life by focusing on the hourglass, I’m not one to sit idle peeping out the looking glass. But forget all of that because life is nuts, and I’m just an outlet that slams the hard truth to your guts. Enough with your meaningless chitchat, I’m done with all yawl fretting and *******, time to buck up pussycats. Your listening to a lyrical architect, don’t have time for rats or insects, this is just apart of the classy effect.

I don’t make threats, don’t you forget I make promises that will eventually be met. I’m just a twisted afflicted un-constricted gifted individual who tries his best not to be too cynical. It’s so inconceivable but yet so believable, not your typical rapper, yeah I got principal. I am always original, I am a mystical miracle; yeah I’ll be making sure you know I’m no longer going to be invisible. Beat the odds, unlike all these frauds, I know my place, I’m definitely not a God. Heated rods of critics who keep on trying to burn me, but it just feels like a thorn to me. Street with needs to meet, used to the odds, so don’t think we’ll grovel at your feet. We are not mincemeat, we are not just going to take a backseat, we stubborn as concrete, yeah we are not going to retreat.

Privileged trying to turn us neat and tidy, without them they say we incomplete, that even though we coloured we should strive to be just another ignorant whitey. Don’t you know it’s all about image? We are savages, yet they are the one’s who diseased and burned down our villages. No I don’t seek forgiveness from wily coyotes, we are not a showpiece, like some kind of conquest trophy. No I’m not finished, is there something wrong with your psyche, naughty sly feisty vermin that itch like poison ivy. I politely tell you to ****, love the irony of your fear and hate of aliens, when you yourselves came to this land from a ship, which to us was a UFO. Anyways like I said, I may go off on different tangents or phases, because there are places one needs to tread. I like to educate airheads, I like to make em red; yeah I don’t leave things unsaid.
I want to unthread this sideways planet, if you’re looking for someone who doesn’t mince words; well I’m your prime candidate.

E-town is what I represent, legacy I will cement, rap game I came to resurrect. Let’s rundown the extent of these frequent fallacious formalities, those auto-tuned drugged up wangsters that are the definition of distasteful unoriginality. I frown upon the dissent of where rap ended up, it sure need a classy clean up. I know music is subjective that it is all in perspective, but to me this garbage kids listen to is far from impressive. I find trap music ineffective and unreflective, I don’t respect something so obstructive. That’s just my two cents, and though to me it makes no sense, others may not agree and still listen to that senseless content. What I’m trying say is opinions are like *******, everyone got one, but that’s what makes us unique souls. This is just a part of the classy effect, can’t wait for what happens next, can’t wait for changes to manifest.

You keep running ahead
I fall on my knees
Leeches ******* my peace
Keeping me here
Feeling tiny blades
Sticking into me

You keep running ahead
I sink in a swamp
Devoured by self pity
By countless failings
Scratches cuts bumps
Infected by mud

You stare back
Querying me
Tears drip down
As I wade towards you
The pain unbearable
I’ll never be with you

“Whilst smiling to my face thou
Hast plucked the ****** from thy boneless gums”
Thus spake the venomous she,
When querying the quandary
Of “The Milk of Human Kindness.”

That altruism,
Proffered by many as sincerity
In a charity bequeathed
To the disposessed and less fortunate.
Is an act which may be, in fact,
Obliquely or brazenly,
A lure to enhancement
Of personal nobility sought.

“But the quality of mercy is not strained
It droppeth as the gentle rain from Heaven.
Twice blest… It blesses he that gives and he that takes.”

Thus so, is ****** upon the truly altruistic…
An interminable questioning
Of the Impetus Behind the Act ??
In order to mitigate
THE JUSTICE OF THE PLEA.

How stands Thee?

Marshalg
25 July 2015

Seb's young fertile face beamed African royalty
even in the penury of this Nigerian refugee camp.
Her mother's downcast eyes shunned the camera's querying lens,
while Seb's, "I-love-you", eyes were welcoming.

Seb's eyes were as blossom-petaled obsidian pools,
each pierced by the light of a distant star.
Her blackness did not succumb to woeful displacement,
but shone with the promise of an overcoming spirit;
for a Mother's prayers were writ in the marrow of her bones.

Born with a tenacity to love,
her young heart leaped out through trusting inquisitive eyes.
Her tongue, budding out of rich dark faced soil, seemed eager
to taste the sweet juices that her spirited-eyes promised;
smiling, "l love you", behind barbed wired love-me-nots.

Seb was a child . . . full of joyful expectations.
A child who did not choose this world;
'tho born of a Spirit conceived to love . . .
to love the . . . hell . . . out from her world.


gv 4.2015  Word Hobo

~~~~~~

(Note: This piece came out of seeing this fascinating photograph
by Sebastian Rich,  of Seb clinging to her Mother in a camp for displaced Nigerians.)

Link to this Photo of Seb and her Mother:

http://www.abc.net.au/news/2016-04-26/infectious-and-innocent-smiles-from-war-zones/7355958

Scroll down to Ninth Photo
Caption  :  A Nigerian child in a UNICEF clinic, who was finally on the road to a full recovery after suffering from severe acute malnutrition. Her unprompted smile filled my lens.


I would encourage all to visit the website of Sebastian Rich.  His heart-gripping photography is incredibly moving and meaningful.

sabastianrichphotography.com.

The night caught me
When the day left my ***
It embraced me
Called me its child
I fought its querying zeitgeist
I whispered
It was trying to help

Brought to its kingdom
I was forced to observe
I saw the king
What a *****
The queen tried to trick me
Saying she wanted to help

Signs of the snake in the grass
Made me run with the group
I don’t want to be last

We laboured long
Pulling the truth up
From the root of its weave
Seeing lies and trick
Our mind could not conceive

Obedience
The ***** whispered to me
That is all ask for
You will get a tall glass or ****
In the canteen of my mind
I bartered for some
Shut the **** up soda
A red roti
Dripping the blood of my ancestors

I used the benediction
Saluted the moon
And prepared to write fiction

this Overwhelming Reality
consistently returns
It's tied me to the stake
forcing me to question my fatality
coaxing
then scolding
I let It dictate
the voice in my head never learns
like a broken record-relentless never on break
querying my morality
why do I find comfort in these Chains?
pertinaciously handing me the lighter
dousing me in oil I gaze with no concerns
I've clogged up all the drains
content on no longer being a fighter
it's too late
the demons are infesting me
my mental is drenched in propane
swindling they claim to "make my future brighter'
cut down my ferns
only a piece of me remains
so I devour the lit match out of pure desire
oh I'll gain a light alright
in and out of frames
I'm losing sight
my eyes-the first to feel the burns
imaginary tears smother the flames
the demons run and take flight
won't be long for they'll return on another night
this Overwhelming Reality
consistently returns

I've re-written it.  When i read it over this evening I hated it.  The sequences needed adjusting, the whole thing made more sense of.  it was too abstruse, downright vague the way it stood.  Crap.  Here it is:  I hope it's better, clearer, stronger.

       Vanity Or What?  Or Not?

Will they miss me when I’m gone?

Would they miss me if I went?

Is the Facebook thing, this Instagram,

Snapchat, this and Snapchat that  -

Is only just to reassure, insure and all the -sures

An immortality that’s hardly possible

With such as these?

A question and a statement.



If you should land upon an isle,

No phone, no clothing, just a smile,

Who’d care that you’re not there or where?

The ego takes a jolt when true result is that

A lively world’s been going on

In the short while you’ve been isle borne.



When you take up, upon waking,

Cell phone, laptop out and working,

Think about your motive deep, some path new chosen.

Leap into the seasons, steeping self in new horizons.

Public profiles pass from sight, from mind, from heart

Once they depart.



Querying the motives that define,

I’m off to take out, open mine,

The whole controlling

‘Spite the knowing.

Vanity or not?


Vanity Or What?  Or Not? 3.18.2018 Circling Round Vanities II; Circling Round Egos; A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; Arlene Corwin

six trees gathered, a single stand,
looking for a gathering, standing of four more,
a prayer circle to make, branch to branch
holding onto each other, to have their bark better
heard, the question on the table, today’s agenda:

why must trees die?

overheard their human querying same, the proud trees
too, puzzled, sending their inquiry to the heavens that
feed them never failing, water to quench a rooted deep
thirst, their role, job description well understood, purposed
to shade the world, give off fruit, so tasked, so asked:

why must trees die?

Caught the busy Lord unawares, dealing with seasonal pandemics,
endemic hatred from the frailings of  human weakness, who honor
pretense by their mouth moving, but don’t believe their enunciation,
oh! tiresome battlefront, millions of casualties inflicted on each other,
Lord could not countenance another self-interested questioning of his earthly architecture

why must trees die?

on a beautiful paradisal day, cumulus whites decorating a blue coloratura that never be quite replicated, quieting, five-sense waters at ease, minimal moving, lunching noon hour,the birds, insects, rabbits all retired to cooling reservoirs, munch, gnaw, pollinate, yet the trees misjudge the sun dial iris quietude in the manger, the grove, as the Lord’s good graceful forgiving demeanor, therefore shocking, disbelieving the unforgiving ruthlessness of a deity of love, so the

cracking of a single bolt of punishing, purposed lighting, that knocked all the trees down, single blow, roots embruing, ember glowed, a “sounding” the world hears unoften, unremitting, not understanding its other-worldliness, so rare appearing when an actualized answer is returned, declarative, tangible, glorious words:

because I am who I am, The Eternal, alone, who keeps the imperfect balance of all my creations, without oversight, asking only from them
acceptance of things beyond earthly comprehension...

'tracking stream,
querying lords,
its rounds are near,
eager to play with the sounds,
it swims off shore's meditation,
inside puppet's ocean,
best illustration.'