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for leather accrues
The miracle of the streets
The scents & smogs &
pollens of existence

Shiny blackness
so totally naked she was
Totally un-hung-up

We looked around
lights now on
Top see our fellow travellers
~~~

I am troubled
Immeasurably
By your eyes

I am struck
By the feather
of your soft
Reply

The sound of glass
Speaks quick
Disdain

And conceals
What your eyes fight
To explain
~~~

She looked so sad in sleep
Like a friendly hand
just out of reach
A candle stranded on
a beach
While the sun sinks low
an H-bomb in reverse
~~~

Everything human
is leaving
her face

Soon she will disappear
into the calm
vegetable
morass

Stay!

My Wild Love!
~~~

I get my best ideas when the
telephone rings & rings. It’s no fun
To feel like a fool-when your
baby’s gone. A new ax to my head:
Possession. I create my own sword
of Damascus. I’ve done nothing w/time.
A little tot prancing the boards playing
w/Revolution. When out there the
World awaits & abounds w/heavy gangs
of murderers & real madmen. Hanging
from windows as if to say: I’m bold-
do you love me? Just for tonight.
A One Night Stand. A dog howls & whines
at the glass sliding door (why can’t I
be in there?) A cat yowls. A car engine
revs & races against the grain- dry
rasping carbon protest. I put the book
down- & begin my own book.
Love for the fat girl.
When will SHE get here?
~~~

In the gloom
In the shady living room
where we lived & died
& laughed & cried
& the pride of our relationship
took hold that summer
What a trip
To hold your hand
& tell the cops
you’re not 16
no runaway
The wino left a little in
the old blue desert
bottle
Cattle skulls
the cliche of rats
who skim the trees
in search of fat
Hip children invade the grounds
& sleep in the wet grass
’til the dogs rush out
I’m going South!
he snaps his barbed jaws made of thin sticks— you know
the kind that
SNAP and CRACK ominously underfoot when the woods have grown too
quiet, too calm, for all to be well
teeth gnashing— this the sound of dead leaves skittering against pavement and river rocks at dusk (that time when you need to settle down and get a fire started, but you’re not quite sure of where you are)
              homeless
wandering the woods in search for something he will never find
hysterical, eternally lost his

eyes

are the dim, barely there glow of camp fires that go out too early
fingers the cold that creeps around the base of your sleeping bag and along your neck
cheek bones the sun-bleached sides of mountains
his voice is the unrecognizable call from some animal you cannot identify in the depths of the woods, but not so deep that you cannot imagine it coming towards you. not so deep that the sound doesn’t make your hair stand on end.

his feet are bound with the ghost skins of snakes that lurk under rocks, darting out only when you have one foot precariously balanced on its side.

he travels — howling and yowling like some hell cat out of deep
mountain lore— starved, half crazed, ravenous
fever hot and parched
his mouth a voracious, vacuous, vorpal cave
that leads down into his river stomach— that part of the river you thought was deep, but revealed its true nature with the electric sting of broken legs after jumping.
his howl is the pounding of the wind at your tent
angry hands running broken glass claws against your skin as you walk against it.

he is jealous of those who wonder the wood for he has no true home.
his ribs the skeletons of eerie, too thick mountain laurel trees and the hollow shells of long fallen oaks.
the light of the moon burns his moth-wing skin on nights when the forest is full of her radiance. so he yowls, furious and powerless
rattling and shaking his bones — the dead arms of trees that stretch out over too steep mountains, acid burnt and raw

his name could have been pestilence to the christians
but only the Natives know his name and only whisper it lowly
and on nights when the wind is calm and he cannot hear their summons—
Windigo.

his only purpose is that he has none.
his motivation is endless hunger
that is older than the mountain itself-
or maybe it was born with the mountain…
he in his rabid madness has long forgotten the origin of his emptiness.
he is hungry, and you are in his wood.
written at the Blue Ridge Parkway in North Carolina.
I'll tell you the story of Cloony the Clown
Who worked in a circus that came through town.
His shoes were too big and his hat was too small,
But he just wasn't, just wasn't funny at all.
He had a trombone to play loud silly tunes,
He had a green dog and a thousand balloons.
He was floppy and sloppy and skinny and tall,
But he just wasn't, just wasn't funny at all.
And every time he did a trick,
Everyone felt a little sick.
And every time he told a joke,
Folks sighed as if their hearts were broke.
And every time he lost a shoe,
Everyone looked awfully blue.
And every time he stood on his head,
Everyone screamed, "Go back to bed!"
And every time he made a leap,
Everybody fell asleep.
And every time he ate his tie,
Everyone began to cry.
And Cloony could not make any money
Simply because he was not funny.
One day he said, "I'll tell this town
How it feels to be an unfunny clown."
And he told them all why he looked so sad,
And he told them all why he felt so bad.
He told of Pain and Rain and Cold,
He told of Darkness in his soul,
And after he finished his tale of woe,
Did everyone cry? Oh no, no, no,
They laughed until they shook the trees
With "Hah-Hah-Hahs" and "Hee-Hee-Hees."
They laughed with howls and yowls and shrieks,
They laughed all day, they laughed all week,
They laughed until they had a fit,
They laughed until their jackets split.
The laughter spread for miles around
To every city, every town,
Over mountains, 'cross the sea,
From Saint Tropez to Mun San Nee.
And soon the whole world rang with laughter,
Lasting till forever after,
While Cloony stood in the circus tent,
With his head drooped low and his shoulders bent.
And he said,"THAT IS NOT WHAT I MEANT -
I'M FUNNY JUST BY ACCIDENT."
And while the world laughed outside.
Cloony the Clown sat down and cried.
Donall Dempsey Jul 2018
I NEVER HAS SEEN SNOW

I lived my life as if
I had been written
into a Barbara Pym novel

so prim and proper lady I
my soul smoother'd in camphor
yet my life...wot the mot hath got

and here I be
curled upon the Persian rug
in the foetal position

being born
into my dying
as it were

me an elaborate motif
beside an exquisite phoenix
oh the warp and woof of me

so this is death
rather nice
as these things go

not too much( ouch )pain
more easeful and slow and
when ya gotta go...ya...gotta go

rather like that Manx man
was it Brown...or...something
"...if thou couldst empty..." oh what is it?

"...all thy self of self
to be a shell dishabited..."
bit like ha ha that...innit( agghh )

wonder what an anthropologist
from...say...Borneo
would make of me

I'd guess I'd be
so quaintly ever so English
so cue-cumber sandwich

settling down with a Pimms and a Pym
being one of those Excellent Women
**** this dying....haven't even read the book

only got as far as
p.15...how mean
the great unread

the words sticking in my brain
something being "...a welcoming
sort of place...

with a bright entrance..."
as if Mr. Death were saying
"Why...that's what I am!"

"Yeah, yeah...sure sure'"
I answer all Film Noir
another of life's little pleasures

the stuffed bird
stares at me sternly
deigns to speak

"Now that you are going to be
as dead as me...may I
have a word?"

it coughs unaccustomed
as it is
to public speech

"It's not so bad
being dead
it's being stuffed that hurts!"

the cat joins in
with its customary "I'm starving...
ya couldn't open this tin?"

now the cat howls
oh to have opposable thumbs
or a can opener at least

the stuffed bird and the cat and I
singing along to Beverly Kenny
smiling from the record sleeve

"Oh this used to be
my favourite as a girl
'I Never Has Seen Snow."

"Oh the girl I used to be
she ain't me no more!"
I could always carry a tune

the stuffed bird can't
sing for nuts but
the cat's got a good tenor voice

me...I'm letting go
the world is walking out on me
the world don't want to know me no more

I've even forget
can you Adam and Eve it
how to spell... fo'c's'le

my garden looks in
the window at me
well here's a howdy do

I never was '...a lovesome thing..."
even when young
"God wot!"

hee hee hee T.E. Brown
appears to invade the mind
when one is dying

and what would that Borneo
anthropologist make of that
or my love of Jazz

grabbing the music
by the tail as it shape-shifts
improvises world upon world and beyond

oh to be dying
in a smokey jazz club
thoughts climbing a spiral staircase of smoke

"All that is...is not!"
now I wonder where
I got ha ha that

would the man from Borneo know
that is Phil Woods on
the Quincey Jones arrangement

"Oh I love sax me!
never could say the same
for ***

well - enough of that
better get on with
my death

and what better way to go
than with Beverly singing low
always thought I looked a bit like her

she smiles that record sleeve smile
the one I tried to sculpt
upon my own features

"I saw a new horizon
and a road to take me
where I wanted to be...needed to be.... took"

"God! I'm only starving!" yowls the cat
"Ya couldn't feed me before ya go...no
**** those...**** those cans!"

"Oh ****...oh ****!" she purrs
the record's...the record's...the record's
stuck
INDWELLING

If thou couldst empty all thyself of self,
Like to a shell dishabited,
Then might He find thee on the Ocean shelf,
And say — "This is not dead," —
And fill thee with Himself instead.

But thou art all replete with very thou,
And hast such shrewd activity,
That, when He comes, He says — "This is enow
Unto itself — 'Twere better let it be:
It is so small and full, there is no room for Me."

T.E. BROWN

I Never Has Seen Snow Lyrics
I NEVER HAS SEEN SNOW

done lost my ugly spell
I am cheerful now
Got the warm all overs a-smoothin' my worried brow
Oh, the girl I used to be
She ain't me no more
I closed the door on the girl I was before
Feeling fine and full of bliss
What I really wants to say is this

I never has seen snow
All the same I know
Snow ain't so beautiful
Cain't be so beautiful
Like my love is
Like my love is

Nothing do compare
Nothing anywhere with my love
A hundred things I see
A twilight sky that's free
But none so beautiful
Not one so beautiful
Like my love is
Like my love is
Once you see his face
None can take the place of my love

A stone rolled off my heart
When I laid my eyes on
That near to me boy with that far away look
And right from the start
I saw a new horizon
And a road to take me where I wanted to be took
Needed to be took
And though
I never has seen snow
All the same I know
Nothing will ever be
Nothing can ever be
Beautiful as my love is
Like my love is to me

Harold Arlen/Truman Capote

from THE HOUSE OF FLOWERS musical

MY GARDEN

A GARDEN is a lovesome thing, God wot!
Rose plot,
Fringed pool,
Ferned grot—
The veriest school
Of peace ; and yet the fool
Contends that God is not—
Not God ! in gardens ! when the eve is cool?
Nay, but I have a sign;
‘Tis very sure God walks in mine.

T. E. BROWN

She used to sing along to the Quincey Jones arrangement with Phil Wood featuring....yea he of that famous alto sax solo on Billy Joel's JUST THE WAY YOU ARE.

Beverly Kenny is now more remembered for her I Hate Rock 'n' Roll but was a young  up and coming singer who died too early by her own hand.

My lady in the poem did indeed look very much like her and one was often disconcerted by a record sleeve looking back at one with my lady's young face. I never cared for her much except for her version of I Never Has Seen Snow. Curiously the Japanese to this day adore her. I was more of a Julie London man don't ya know.

The rather excellent Barbara Pym was another stand by or go to...EXCELLENT WOMEN was her second book and on p.15 there indeed occurs the line...

"A vicarage ought to be a welcoming sort of place with a bright entrance."

She was Philip Larkin's favourite novelist.

My lady was the very model of a modern curmudgeon and not everyone could stand her but I got on well with her seeing as I knew both Brown and Pym and could sing along to I NEVER HAS SEEN SNOW.

fo'c's'le was necessary to complete a crossword and she was getting very cross at not being able all of a sudden to spell it.

The forecastle (abbreviated fo'c'sle or fo'c's'le)is the upper deck of a sailing ship forward of the foremast, or the forward part of a ship with the sailors' living quarters. Related to the latter meaning is the phrase "before the mast" which denotes anything related to ordinary sailors, as opposed to a ship's officers
In that age of aged seasons
predating our own's four-square rhyme,
a reasonable jape was hatched
beaked but hairy to a guilt-free Hen
whose humors ran with jaw-slackening
creatures, foul and not at all bird-like.

Soon after its mixed-up cracking,
two prattle-prone Wrens hopped to spread
rumors of an un-chickity chick
and the ungodly origins
of fatherless yowls. Their tittered jeers
found welcome ears, and Mother Hen preened
her babe chased by merciless guffaws.

This Hen was not one to lay
down meekly, and a never stony
tongue rolled out its antidote myth
to a pair of gabby Gulls: "My child
may look not-much, but he's divine
engendered and miraculous born.
Sure he's messy, ah, but you'll see
he'll grow to be, much-much-more than
any feathery tykes your like did bear."

She clucked it so seriously,
who were they to doubt her? The plumed
sniggering ceased. But before another
grateful day could dawn in a hallelujah
glare of right angles, out pecking
up a snack, Mother made eye
contact with an unfortunate Fate
brandishing his lucky-gripped ax.

What of her wonder-why, joke of a boy?
Left alone at straw-pocket home,
waiting for his Hen to return,
he starved then decayed to hollow bones,
and was never thought of again.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.
Waverly Apr 2012
There's this cat
that moans and moans
like it's going to hell.

It starts up
crying around 4 a.m.,
this ugly, pronounced
violent and deeply intonated
yowl.

It wakes me and Heather up,
it just comes into my dreams
and pulls me so hard
that I stumble back into this world
against this wall of sound
so ugly
that I'm tip-toeing insanity.

I want go out there
and strangle the ******* thing,
I want to find it where it yowls
and silence it.

heather says I'm the meanest person in the world
for wanting to strangle an animal
to
peices.

But the thing I hate is when an animal
lets the whole world
know
that
it's dying,
it won't let anybody get any sleep
until everybody in the vicinity
is standing around it
in pjs, boxers, doo rags, scarves
slippers,
gowns,
that pink thing Heather
got from
Walmart
watching the light of life being reduced
until this dying thing
begins burning
precious oxygen,
oxygen that we all need,
and it just becomes a waste
and a nuisance.
Olivia Kent Jan 2015
Alley ways and alley cats all allies in the darkest nights.
Unsleeping children call to their mother's closest hand.
The alley cats are chorusing, looking for a lover.
Their kittens come their kittens go, in and out their pussycat minds.
The infant in the cradle cries out for mother's love.
A life long attachment borne.
Forever days and never nights, the lights go out the queen cat cries.
Another litter of kittens wanted so that queen cat yowls.
The husband laying in his bed, gets angry as he lays his head, calling cats and screaming kids, prevent the closing of his lids.
The child calls out as only he can, mother moved to sort him out, as only mother can.
(C) LIVVI
Paige Hatcher Jan 2012
It’s beautiful the way they dance
Swaying with cheeks brushing together
A gentle caress here and there.
It’s calming, really.
Then they rally against the other,
Batting away, like drunken batterers.
Then the biting, the clawing
The yowls.
Eventually you get tired of
Watching them spat.
But what I wouldn’t give to see a video
Or still shots of what those little monsters
Do when no one is watching.
When you finally brave the living room,
They’re passed out, cuddled around each other
Purring in their sleep,
As if dreaming of pleasures
We didn’t get to witness.
My cats … are lesbians.
betterdays May 2014
3:39 in the a.m.
                   bats call,
cat yowls,
          dogs bark,
                                 partner,
                     snorts,
            snores,
                 ...  . farts......
grandma shuffles to toilet.... .... flushes.
             baby whimpers......
..... or was that me,
         a glass of warm milk to.......................helpmesleep
a dribble.... of scotch to help        .....me sleep
                         a mix of both to help me cope
              no just breath
partner,
             snorts
                      snores
                                 farts
...............must make......
Drs appt for him.
    
  sleep
that knits the
                  ravelled sleeve?
not tonight
           for me
                I do believe.

4.19 in the a.m.
                         To thelazyboy
                 I go to doze.....
perchance ....
                   40winks more
80winks before
          dayshift specialbeautifulcrazy               ....        .....   dayshift begins..  
      DOUBLE SHOT LATTE           .                   PLEASE.               .
...already it is a long day...
When the world ends and the skies clash,
When the tide grows and the fires crash,
I promise, I won't tremble.
Till the last hour I will stand strong,
Till the last breath defend right from wrong.
Till the dawn, I won't stumble.
When you die young, when your eyes close,
When your hand slips and your heart slows,
I promise I will not cry.
I'll take it all, I will ask no whys
Live through every fall
Live through every try
But here, I will not die.
...
If you were there, to watch me burn,
Spilling metal heart in broken yearn,
You would not turn away.
But as it is, I stand alone,
The hands are cold, the bow is drawn,
And for the end I pray.
If you were here, to watch me die,
(please, stay close...)
I could have said the last goodbye.
(i wanna see you just once again)
But now, my hopes are naught.
We get no answers while we live.
Life teaches us to just believe.
Just be, no matter what.
(are you there?)

...

so, when  all's gone,
and the wind howls,
when the dead rise
and the earth yowls –
Kat Apr 2018
Lost fur flies through the air
Off the backs of black cats
There innocents yowls echoing with sorrow and pain
The traumatized cats have been dumped into the streets

Why? Is there a reason? YES, It’s their fur.
After hundreds of years, people are still scared of the black cats.
For reasons of magic,
For reasons of evil,
For reasons I don't understand because they are normal.

It doesn’t matter the color of their fur
Cats should all be equal because they are good.
Cats shouldn’t be like humans
Who has their segregation?
They make colored people feel bad because of past descriptions.

I don't understand why people just can’t move on?
Why don't they see that all humans are equal?
No life matters more.
People should learn to see and understand that instead of making them fall to their knees and have tears dripping off the floor.

Humans can scream
Humans can yell.
They make signs and protest until the segregation stops.

But imagine how black cats feel.
They experience the same brutality but they can’t
DO ANYTHING
Because they are cats.

They can’t make signs, they can’t protest.
All they can do is endure the pain or avoid it.
They feel the same thing that the colored people feel.
They are hurt and abused by people who don't care about their life
Humans are cruel and should value the lives of black cats.
Black cat equality and equal rights for all.
Fun Fact: Did you know that black cats are tortured on Halloween night because of people and their superstitions.
Makayla Jan 2021
It’s always in a second but every time I keep track of a second it yowls in whine

It’s always in a minute but how long do I need to keep counting for a minute to pass?

It’s always in a year but the excuses that float around you remain timeless

It’s always someday with enough strength in your words

(granted it’s not much)

to make me believe you

every
Time.
RA Jan 2014
The yowls of stray cats are
lonesome and the rush of cars out
on the road remind me
of a far-off sea. Cool night air
comes through the screen of
my window and freezes
the tear-tracks lining
my cheeks. When you have
an over-abundance of feelings, even
the mournful song of
a filthy stray cat can
make you cry.
it may just be
because I'm hurt
and drunk, though.

January 17, 2014
8:32 PM
edited January 22, 2014
wordvango Jul 2015
Will you give me some
     puddy Tat?

Make me mark my territory *******
    as I love to hear your meowing, purring
so, I hiss away all competition,

display, both my pleasure and anger
     flicking my tail tip
deposit my pheromones with my cheeks

our yowls together a treasure resolving
     throughout the neighborhood under
a full moon backlight, Your soft neck in my teeth

awaking the witches and innocence gone
     with vocalizations: starting low pitched rising coming
back down. We always land on our feet.

We may be feral, wild prodigiously mate
         I done let go of your neck,
you retract your claws, we go our ways,

high from the catnip(ing) nap then.
       The queen struts away.
I tom the night , a stray, puppy cat.
Elizabeth Reeves Oct 2016
She yowls again from a distant room.
Her cry taking on different sounds
Depending the time of day

Sometime scolding then mournful
She is at once incessantly loud
Then alarmingly quiet in her own way

It used to annoy me
This constant complaint
aging cat angst and regret

Who for years was seductive and sleek
Now stubbornly hangs and howls all day
Crouched on basement stairs protesting


the bleak prospect of advanced being
just a pain in the *** pet.
Ateri Aug 2016
Up, down, round and round
With sweet smiles and crescent eyes
Heads swaying, arms waving
It's what they'd call a good time
We're just trying to have fun
Up, down, round and round
Careless footsteps and delightful shrieks
Muscles tensing than relax
It's loud and proud
We don't care what they think
Up, down, round and round
Hair whipping frantically
Fists pounding excitedly
It's alright as long as they're entertained
We don't need a reason
Up, down, round and round
Tears gliding down a broken face
Rough hands pull up, push down, then kick around
Scrunched up minute body accented by shallow breaths and muffled yowls
Up, down, round and round
It might be a little cruel
But they all say life's unfair
*We're just trying to have fun
Slur pee Jul 2016
The moon roars, and the wolves howl.
Marking the start of their midnight prowl.
The moon shines, and the ocean dances,
Rhythmically. Deep in their moonlit trance.
The moon fades, revealing all things foul.

The sun brands earth with it's fire scowl,
In hell, we wait for night's shadowed cowl.
Relieving our tragic circumstance,
The moon roars.

At night you hear the animal's yowls,
Red eyes and drool dripping from jowls.
Creeping, waiting for the perfect chance,
When you are caught- trapped in their glance,
The moon roars.

-SLuR
Kayotic Tragedy May 2017
At first I did love you, your actions so queer
Your tail had been chopped and same with your ear
It was love at first bite, and with me you belonged
But now you won't stop, and we don't get along
Your constant meowing, your yowls hurt my head
Why don't you go take a cat nap instead?
You **** up my work, please leave alone
Or soon enough it will be you that is thrown.
Annoying new family member
Donall Dempsey Jul 2019
I NEVER HAS SEEN SNOW

I lived my life as if
I had been written
into a Barbara Pym novel

so prim and proper lady I
my soul smoother'd in camphor
yet my life...wot the mot hath got

and here I be
curled upon the Persian rug
in the foetal position

being born
into my dying
as it were

me an elaborate motif
beside an exquisite phoenix
oh the warp and woof of me

so this is death
rather nice
as these things go

not too much( ouch )pain
more easeful and slow and
when ya gotta go...ya...gotta go

rather like that Manx man
was it Brown...or...something
"...if thou couldst empty..." oh what is it?

"...all thy self of self
to be a shell dishabited..."
bit like ha ha that...innit( agghh )

wonder what an anthropologist
from...say...Borneo
would make of me

I'd guess I'd be
so quaintly ever so English
so cue-cumber sandwich

settling down with a Pimms and a Pym
being one of those Excellent Women
**** this dying....haven't even read the book

only got as far as
p.15...how mean
the great unread

the words sticking in my brain
something being "...a welcoming
sort of place...

with a bright entrance..."
as if Mr. Death were saying
"Why...that's what I am!"

"Yeah, yeah...sure sure'"
I answer all Film Noir
another of life's little pleasures

the stuffed bird
stares at me sternly
deigns to speak

"Now that you are going to be
as dead as me...may I
have a word?"

it coughs unaccustomed
as it is
to public speech

"It's not so bad
being dead
it's being stuffed that hurts!"

the cat joins in
with its customary "I'm starving...
ya couldn't open this tin?"

now the cat howls
oh to have opposable thumbs
or a can opener at least

the stuffed bird and the cat and I
singing along to Beverly Kenny
smiling from the record sleeve

"Oh this used to be
my favourite as a girl
'I Never Has Seen Snow."

"Oh the girl I used to be
she ain't me no more!"
I could always carry a tune

the stuffed bird can't
sing for nuts but
the cat's got a good tenor voice

me...I'm letting go
the world is walking out on me
the world don't want to know me no more

I've even forget
can you Adam and Eve it
how to spell... fo'c's'le

my garden looks in
the window at me
well here's a howdy do

I never was '...a lovesome thing..."
even when young
"God wot!"

hee hee hee T.E. Brown
appears to invade the mind
when one is dying

and what would that Borneo
anthropologist make of that
or my love of Jazz

grabbing the music
by the tail as it shape-shifts
improvises world upon world and beyond

oh to be dying
in a smokey jazz club
thoughts climbing a spiral staircase of smoke

"All that is...is not!"
now I wonder where
I got ha ha that

would the man from Borneo know
that is Phil Woods on
the Quincey Jones arrangement

"Oh I love sax me!
never could say the same
for ***

well - enough of that
better get on with
my death

and what better way to go
than with Beverly singing low
always thought I looked a bit like her

she smiles that record sleeve smile
the one I tried to sculpt
upon my own features

"I saw a new horizon
and a road to take me
where I wanted to be...needed to be.... took"

"God! I'm only starving!" yowls the cat
"Ya couldn't feed me before ya go...no
**** those...**** those cans!"

"Oh ****...oh ****!" she purrs
the record's...the record's...the record's
stuck
betterdays Jul 2018
god it's so cold
heart impoverished
by grief
beggar at this feast
toes like ice
head full of mice
running  the race
of larger bretheren
while chattering
glory hallelujah
my joint cry fowl
my heart yowls
at an indifferent moon
salt water slurry
cascades down my cheeks
first day of the week
already i have wandered
too, too far off the track
down the valley of bleak
beaten down, weary
blue and black
cold weather blues
blacking my brain
like foul smelling soot
from a fire with no heat
need to find  warmth
for my heart to beat
need to switch songs
not rinse lather and repeat
spare a kindness, maybe a smile
my mendicant heart
so needs a boon...
god it's so cold
alone in this room
filled with others
all just the same
all are players in
this gam of life and loss
bereft....be it's name
mk Apr 2020
the dogs bark
you tell me to silence them

the birds sing
you tell me to silence them

the wind yowls
you tell me to silence it

the earth cries
you tell me to silence it
Hex Oct 2020
The Night sets in,
with stretched out sins,
and daylight starts to thin.
Time yet to be paid,
Night's song is played,
and so your climb begins.

The songs are howls,
grave wails and growls,
quavering in your core.
But alas the yowls,
are now your score,
they'll play forevermore.

Your eyes spot nothing,
as the sky is bluffing,
shadow cloaking light.
But now the darkness,
your adverse catharsis,
will coat you through the Night.

You mount the wall,
Night's idle thrall,
as screeching leaves you stunned.
But as you climb,
a rock slips high,
and now you know you're done.

You put up a fight, saw the light,
but now the time is nigh.
The Night has won,
the songs are done,
and you never spotted the sun.
For an October project of one writing project every day.
10/1 Theme: Dark
Joseph Sinclair Feb 2019
I wake still and far too often
with the all-too-slowly
but oh so evanescently
fading memory of her voice.

Ever since that odious event,
that heinous malevolent and
deafeningly persistent
drumming in my head

that disturbs my sleep
distracts my thoughts
and haunts the daymares
of my diminishing life.

The blaring, blasting bluster,
the eruption of molten viscous sound
that barks, yaps, yelps and yowls,
that sounds, resounds and reverberates.

How can I escape the cacophany
that threatens to enmesh me?
How can I return to the
tranquillity of a serene silence?
Ron Apr 2022
What dank dark alley
have you abandoned this night,
crazy yowling trash can cat
to include to me in your song?
why beneath my open window
do you disturb my peaceful sleep?

Not through Spring’s eternal moon
Nor at lighted front of store,
Do you sing your crazy love-sick song,
With lonely yowls forlorn
Do you know I wonder
Where go sleeping souls to slumber?

Be gone your piercing lonely tune
Before I screech my angry song
Before I chuck my shoes at you,
Before you bring the dawn.
Begone, lonely trash can cat,
Allow my dreams reborn,
Jennifer Beetz Jan 2019
You hear the high-pitch yowls of strays
fighting for scraps thrown from the kitchen window.
They sound like children you might have had.
Had you wanted children. Had you a maternal bone,
you would wrench it from your belly and fling it
from your fire escape. As if it were the stubborn
shard now lodged in your wrist. No, you would hide it.
Yes, you would hide it inside a barren nesting doll
you've had since you were a child. Its smile
remind you of your father, who does not smile.
Nor does he believe you are his. "You look just like
your mother,"  he says, "who looks just like a fire
of suspicious origin." A body, I've read, can sustain
its own sick burning, its own hell, for hours.
It's the mind. It's the mind that cannot.

Nicole Sealey
H McDonald May 2020
There is a cave inside my eye.
Hollow, damp, moss-grown.
Secrets echo in its depths
Against wet walls of stone.

Where ancient waves have smoothed the rock
And in the darkest deep
Sits a sage, a toothless crone
With cloistered tongue she yowls and moans
And through her immortal groans
I sometimes hear her speak.

There is a cave, that much is true
But the more I think it through,
I realize that my eye can’t see
Inside this cave inside of me.  
And though I strain with heart and mind
This cave will always leave me blind.
Butch Decatoria Jul 2020
How do the blind among us seeing
Stoic eyes wide mimicking awakenings

How can poetry be greatly felt
With words to shape more words don’t help.

How water is the shape of love
That we drown in its deeps, a hollow rain.

Hence fire is the shape of pain
It’s roaring loudly inside, outwardly howling

Heartbreak, explosions—concerning yowls!
The sounds of our emblazoned lives.

Thoughts : the shape of thunder, time.
Emotions we made to blame, then shades of

How, we only but admire,
With words to shape the soul’s attire.

We howling creatures brief,
What is the shape of words, belief —in

The End?
Fire On Fire!
Donall Dempsey Jul 2020
I NEVER HAS SEEN SNOW

I lived my life as if
I had been written
into a Barbara Pym novel

so prim and proper lady I
my soul smoother'd in camphor
yet my life...wot the mot hath got

and here I be
curled upon the Persian rug
in the foetal position

being born
into my dying
as it were

me an elaborate motif
beside an exquisite phoenix
oh the warp and woof of me

so this is death
rather nice
as these things go

not too much( ouch )pain
more easeful and slow and
when ya gotta go...ya...gotta go

rather like that Manx man
was it Brown...or...something
"...if thou couldst empty..." oh what is it?

"...all thy self of self
to be a shell dishabited..."
bit like ha ha that...innit( agghh )

wonder what an anthropologist
from...say...Borneo
would make of me

I'd guess I'd be
so quaintly ever so English
so cue-cumber sandwich

settling down with a Pimms and a Pym
being one of those Excellent Women
**** this dying....haven't even read the book

only got as far as
p.15...how mean
the great unread

the words sticking in my brain
something being "...a welcoming
sort of place...

with a bright entrance..."
as if Mr. Death were saying
"Why...that's what I am!"

"Yeah, yeah...sure sure'"
I answer all Film Noir
another of life's little pleasures

the stuffed bird
stares at me sternly
deigns to speak

"Now that you are going to be
as dead as me...may I
have a word?"

it coughs unaccustomed
as it is
to public speech

"It's not so bad
being dead
it's being stuffed that hurts!"

the cat joins in
with its customary "I'm starving...
ya couldn't open this tin?"

now the cat howls
oh to have opposable thumbs
or a can opener at least

the stuffed bird and the cat and I
singing along to Beverly Kenny
smiling from the record sleeve

"Oh this used to be
my favourite as a girl
'I Never Has Seen Snow."

"Oh the girl I used to be
she ain't me no more!"
I could always carry a tune

the stuffed bird can't
sing for nuts but
the cat's got a good tenor voice

me...I'm letting go
the world is walking out on me
the world don't want to know me no more

I've even forget
can you Adam and Eve it
how to spell... fo'c's'le

my garden looks in
the window at me
well here's a howdy do

I never was '...a lovesome thing..."
even when young
"God wot!"

hee hee hee T.E. Brown
appears to invade the mind
when one is dying

and what would that Borneo
anthropologist make of that
or my love of Jazz

grabbing the music
by the tail as it shape-shifts
improvises world upon world and beyond

oh to be dying
in a smokey jazz club
thoughts climbing a spiral staircase of smoke

"All that is...is not!"
now I wonder where
I got ha ha that

would the man from Borneo know
that is Phil Woods on
the Quincey Jones arrangement

"Oh I love sax me!
never could say the same
for ***

well - enough of that
better get on with
my death

and what better way to go
than with Beverly singing low
always thought I looked a bit like her

she smiles that record sleeve smile
the one I tried to sculpt
upon my own features

"I saw a new horizon
and a road to take me
where I wanted to be...needed to be.... took"

"God! I'm only starving!" yowls the cat
"Ya couldn't feed me before ya go...no
**** those...**** those cans!"

"Oh ****...oh ****!" she purrs
the record's...the record's...the record's
stuck

— The End —