Pat Broadbent: Favorites

Dec 2017 Pat Broadbent

r

I kneel in a field of wheat grass
catching grasshoppers.

I scoop underhand into my jar, another
at the height of its jump, a third.

I put my jar by the stream, pull one
out and I grab it, force my barbed steel
hook through the belly still trembling.

I cast long loops of line into the drift
below rocks where current
froths and whirls.

I stand mechanically slightly ashamed, uncomfortable on that shaded bank
where trout strike hard.

I let them swim, then hold fast, reeling one, exhausting him, wrenching him
into air, his tail drumming against the sky.

Hanging from the line
his fat belly flinches.

All his life of riding rapids, hiding
in flats embraced by waters’ fast flow,
by red rainbows in his scales.

I didn’t expect that open mouth,
that whiteness, the gills stop twitching,
the eyes caught in that open stare.

Dec 2017 Pat Broadbent

Winter's white sheet

Dec 2017 Pat Broadbent

r

Winter's white sheet

Cold days, dark nights,
yield memories left
like headless corpses
on some ancient field;
seasons and years,
blood, sweat and tears,
the chains and links,
those things that bind;
blinding sharp beak,
black murderous bird,
winging over peaks,
leaving these worldly
lows below behind me;
my dying wish is for
restful bliss in winter's
white sheet stiffly lying.

Dec 2017 Pat Broadbent

Separate but together

Dec 2017 Pat Broadbent

r

Separate but together

Two people are sitting at a table
in the afternoon, it is winter
and cold outside, dark in the room

She is dizzy and sad
from sipping the flat beer
of her own voice

He is like a stranger
who just blew in
she knows, if a man is sand
those who walk through
the desert are men

He is thinking of a stone
that flies in the dew
of the moonlight, an easy
thing for a sad man to do

I wonder if it was night
and they left together for separate
beds in different rooms

Would he think of her dress
falling down her waist,
or would she be in the jungle
making plans from the enemy's sleep

In a place like this, together,
looking into a table
wet from its own darkness,

What do they need,
what can they say?

Dec 2017 Pat Broadbent

it's a big ocean, little fish

Dec 2017 Pat Broadbent

elizabeth

it's a big ocean, little fish

words dance across
the pages of that
worn, old paper

my eyes dart
back and forth
like small fish
hoping to find
some morsel of nourishment

but all i have found
is bitter hate and despise-
things that are inedible

but i gobble them up-
desperate for anything
your hand provides

they say do not bite
the hand that feeds you

but what if that is the
same hand that
stabs and bruises your heart?
what then, little fish?

do you continue to
**** yourself by consuming
their poisoned love?

or do you simply choose
to live and swim away?

August 3, 2017.

#abuse #pain #death #love #hate #fish #heart #father #relationships

Dec 2017 Pat Broadbent

The Nakedness of Execution

Dec 2017 Pat Broadbent

Poetoftheway

The Nakedness of Execution

The Nakedness of Execution*

~for Balanchine~*

the empty page possesses the perfect clarity of nothingness,
making it perfectly clear nothingness has no business here

come, execute,
clothe thy nakedness,
be a carpenter and build
a shelter for your cover

be a carpenter

construct the art that dresses thy body
yet, undresses the glowing glory spirited nakedness
we desire,
let us see the visibility of your naked invisibility

execute
unmasked unadulterated unasked unmodulated

pick the wood, select the tools, carve the words
on your forehead, Carpenter Cain
that we may copy them onto our eyes

ask then what can I make of my perfect clarity
and execute
disclose yourself, clothe ourselves

Dec 2017 Pat Broadbent

Ode to a Genius

Dec 2017 Pat Broadbent

Pagan Paul

Ode to a Genius

.
Wine, enchilada and pickle sauce,
corks and safeties,
just like The Penguin In *******
in Ronnie and Kenny's shed.

The Idiot ******* Son
sits eating the deadly Yellow Snow,
whilst Joe hums Zombie Woof
at the Poodle in his Garage.

Dinah-Moe Humm finally gets off;
in the Dangerous Kitchen,
with the Muffin Man's ***** Love,
and the Illinois Enema Bandit.

The Fine Girl and the Latex Solar Beef
bathed in The Blue Light,
shout 'Pick Me, I'm Clean',
along Inca Roads, to Find Her Finer.

Cosmik Debris exclaims Zoot Allures!
From the fat, floating, maroonish Sofa
because the Bow Tie Daddy
sings Nasal Retentive Calliope Music.

Yo Mama! there's the Disco Boy
who gets in More Trouble Every Day,
so The Torture Never Stops,
with Damp Ankles, Peaches & Regalia.

Sam With The Showing Scalp Flat Top
dances with Camarillo Brillo upstairs,
catching Stink-Foot once again,
like In France from the Valley Girl.

And so the Watermelon In Easter Hay
rides off with the Duke Of Prunes
to the Carolina ******* Ecstasy,
visiting Billy The Mountain, and Montana.

© Pagan Paul (2016/2017)

Frank Zappa
(21st December 1940 - 4th December 1993).
Musician, Diplomat and Lyricist.

.
A tribute to a genius for the anniversary
of his death, and birthday (both in December).

There are a lot of Zappa song titles
and references in this write.
.

#zappa #poetry #tribute #genius

Dec 2017 Pat Broadbent

In A Station Of The Metro

Dec 2017 Pat Broadbent

Ezra Pound

In A Station Of The Metro

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

Dec 2017 Pat Broadbent

The Bath Tub

Dec 2017 Pat Broadbent

Ezra Pound

The Bath Tub

As a bathtub lined with white porcelain,
When the hot water gives out or goes tepid,
So is the slow cooling of our chivalrous passion,
O my much praised but-not-altogether-satisfactory lady.

Dec 2017 Pat Broadbent

A Memory of the Players in a Mirror at Midnight

Dec 2017 Pat Broadbent

James Joyce

A Memory of the Players in a Mirror at Midnight

They mouth love's language. Gnash
The thirteen teeth
Your lean jaws grin with. Lash
Your itch and quailing, **** greed of the flesh.
Love's breath in you is stale, worded or sung,
As sour as cat's breath,
Harsh of tongue.

This grey that stares
Lies not, stark skin and bone.
Leave greasy lips their kissing. None
Will choose her what you see to mouth upon.
Dire hunger holds his hour.
Pluck forth your heart, saltblood, a fruit of tears.
Pluck and devour!