'Halfway Down' - a poem by Chard Deniord**




Halfway down: the sight of a doe
through the trees in the meadow.
I stopped to stare at her staring at me.
The silence arced between us like a wire
in a current that equaled strangeness
over time, and since her stare was wild —
so charged with fear the moment froze
on the line of sky and field, man
and deer — she broke our stillness
in her flight from me. I stood alone
but double then as the man on the path
and the memory of the man she carried
with her beyond the meadow into
the next meadow and the meadow after
that where she returned my image
to the field of her forgetting in which
I roamed like a deer myself, remembering.

Doc, I've been trying to deal with these issues for quite sometime to no avail;
A good friend of mine (you may know him, Elmer Fudd) recommended you.

I fear I will never be able to eat, let alone catch this turbo inspired example of flightless foul;
Stuck in this celluloid world vividly inspired by an Emmy award winning colorist.

I am a proud animal from generations of fine breeding, born in the pristine coyote valley;
I am not stupid, not a fool or buffoon, and so I thought contractually, not one to be laughed at.

And I, always the bad guy, constantly daunted in pursuit by haphazard ACME products;
Expensive, bulky, time consuming, they characteristically fail right before they almost work.

Rocket powered skates, unfortunately, only allow me to kiss the cliff-side really really hard;
Very heavy anvils serve no other purpose than to be dropped on my head repeatedly.

The incredulous manipulations of the impossible by the so clever writers of this farce;
From trains appearing out of nowhere to run me over, to fierce lightning storms in an instant.

Laying there in the release of my own bowels as the uncontrollable result of
500 Megajoules of energy traveling through my body yet again.

I am the twice electrified mass of dribbling spastic protoplasm
Personified proverbially in that lightning does indeed strike twice in the same place!

As the smoke arises from my chard hairy frame and I sweep up my ashes to reassemble later;
I realize Doc, I'm losing my grasp on the reality of ever succeeding, I need your help!

I'm still hungry;

And still I have not caught that **** Road Runner,

******* Warner Brothers!

-----ChawzzyScript

All day I do nothing.
My waving arms and pulsing brain
keep me empty.
What uselessness, me.

Before dark, when cool air rushes
from the bay, I water my garden.

Monday I covered chard seeds
in a dark prayer blanket.
What can tiny stone-like
objects do in the sea
of black fertility, but hide
cold, invalid, and scornful.
Maybe they can dream and
forget this earthly destiny.

All night I toss covers,
as if African hills have twisted
and lifted the
valleys between them.
Is anything worth my awakening?

At dawn I see marvelous unfurlings
conquered darkness
while I slept!

The dog.

How I miss him,

the snuggle parties, when WE lived together.

Black Hole puppy eyes,

howling to share those skeletons,

If dogs could talk,

---huh.

Midnight velvet coat,

chard's of glass when brushed the wrong way.

Would loose this phone number...

but it's that dog...ya know?

The dog I miss,

grocery store trips,

welcome home kiss,

and good night pets.

The way, my daughter loved him too.

Proud to play mommy to your four legged son,

no smile greater, than her smile those days, caused by purpose and warmth.

The simple joy of a child giving a dog a treat.

The simple joy.

This feeling. Can't beat.

That dog ain't going to make it,

just             like              us.

Just the dog. I miss.

His ground shaking roar,

-he sure is the best guard dog, even if the size of a mouse-

mixed with laughter in the morning.

The way he almost made you look human, when he got sick and you'd cry.

At the next party, stories pour out of their round happy faces,

of their Chihuahuas, Pit-bulls, Dachshunds.

Staring into the Coriolis of my beer, lost like these months,

look up and say "I had a dog once.."

Heaven's tears washing us away
I anticipate the blows
Ash plummeting from
The lights sparkle, twinkling in silence
The crash, the burn
My heart melted against the iron, the wood
Sparks grip, clings to my chard lungs
Hope is a bridge
I cross over quickly
Into the blackened hands of humanity

whatever we speak, it's hardly going to
be spoken of.

which means two                   kettles...
mind you: target practise
                    or as i mind
the 2.4
                of said: superman
in Iowa...
do i care to mind?
well, **** me!
   they verse in acronym
i.n.d.i.a. & c.h.i.n.a.
akin to a billion...
i'm tongue tied and heaving,
       *das bōt...
this doesn't help the aesthetic...
with prolonging dies
the excess o...
                  kaiser schweizer min took!
      whatever that means,
they say funny accents in ****
to **** a thought of a zeppelin...
yhwh: or the hollowing-out,
awaiting the god to lift us out...
           Pythagorean umlaut
into a macron joinery...
            depending on your aesthetic...
Kreisler schisser...
                          twins anti avid,
interchange s and z...
                                  Charlotte
and sharpening, shearing and cheering,
and so many excuses...
         the chard and the sh and the charcoal
and the shattering of, of the chatter:
                  cheap and sharp
or the acute variations of śarp & ćeap...
or what the first H represents:
an upper punctuation marking,
above the letter,
              Y or gamma γ vs. Υ (upsilon)
            in latter phrasing comma...
   or what's pinpointed with Y
and what's later replicated in trigonometric W
of sine and cosine, as is Y the tan divergence...
excesses bound to later and latter...
how to differentiate? the lay'ter
from the latté of not mopping up the surd
h and the vocalised h that's asphyxiating
within catching breath asthmatic?
                      people forgot punctuation
in the same way they forgot diacritical markings
but at least they got a pretty picture
and dyslexia, and iconoclasm, and
modern illiteracy;
as said modern conspiracy theory:
far **** away from 1990s cartoon network...
        everything you just said: doesn't
prop a need for me to buy things;
which is why, i guess, you need
a drugs trade that's the alternative
of consumerism.

My love
My soul
She's a dove
Her beauty it stole
Attention
Her soul brang
Compassion
Understanding me would be hard
Cause my souls felt so chard
Her eyes opened my mind
Something I truly couldn't find
It's hard to believe
That's she would retrieve
My broken heart
So torn apart
With fear of the darkness
You brought the light
The light princess
Sent to make things right
It's funny you see
Cause that's only to me
She sees herself quite dark
But the truth is what I see
What she holds on the outside is only bark
When our souls meet I feel the fire
Truly this is how love would conspire
From broken souls mended
Souls no longer pretended
Our hearts and souls
Now ours to grow
Our garden of flow

I.
I held a match
To my hands today.
Matrimony made
Between man and flame;
Incensed skin and molten ash
Show hot displays of
Love ablaze.

II.
Oh bright, blushing,
burning bride;
I walk wounded
For all my days.
Chard hands bare
Witness to
Love of flames.

III.
Oh spreading fire
And torrid pain and
Oceans of passions
In engulfing flames.
A charcoal soul and
Black burnt skin shows
Love's touch, again.

IV.
A monument
To fiery lips
For each hot kiss
Scars my visage with
Inflammatory bliss

In pain your name,
Melted to my lips
Can love, be not, but this?