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island poet May 2018
“Moby ****,”  Herman Melville


~for the lost at sea~

after a year of saltwater absence and abstinence,
return to the island caught between two land forks
surrounded by river-heading flows
bound for the ocean great joining

the Atlantic welcomes the fresh water fools,
bringing with them hopefully, but hopeless gifts of obeisances,
peace-offerings endeavoring to keep their infinite souls

sea accepts them then drowns the
warm newcomers in the unaccustomed
deep cold salinity, which
sometimes erodes
sometimes preserving
their former freshwater cold originality

I’m called to depart my beach shoreline  unarmed,
no kayak, sunfish or glass bottomed boat needed,
walk on water and my toes, ten eyes to see the bottom,
no depth perception limitation,
reading the floor’s topography,
millions of minion’s stories infinite,
many Munch screaming

god’s foot, heavy upon my shoulders,
a daytime travel guide, hired for me,
not a friendly travel companion,  nope,
God a pusher showing off a drug called deep water salvation,
designated for the masses, can handle large parties

my in-camera brain  eyes,
record everything for playback -
the lost and unburied, bone crossword puzzles

walk shore to ship, on soles to souls,
is this my new-summer nature welcome back greeting?

puzzled at the awesomeness of vastness,
conclude this clarification for me of the occluded-deep,
is a stern reminder of my insignificant existence,
my requirement to walk humbly, spare my sin of vanity, and
forgive my trespasses upon the lives of others

perhaps then the infinite of my soul perchance restored,
older visions clarified and future poems
will write themselves
and sea to it my predecessors
be better remembered

Memorial Day 2018
CH Gorrie Sep 2012
Their bars are bars there.
It’s just that the taps
have all run dry.
Behind a wall
computers clank, buzz,

Behind thickened glass
clerical workers
patter like hail
on shingled roofs.
Beyond walls and glass,
sallow-white leaks.

I sit rough somewhere.
Cold, unfeeling stone
A payphone stares
jeeringly at me.
I curl up tight.

Mother and father
surely spite me now.
Brother won’t know,
no, he won’t know.
Others never will.
Don’t comfort me.

I’m in pajamas.
I’m grasping at straws.
I’m falling fast.
I’d like to know
how much is the bail.

My fingers are pressed
on a copier
like those old, dear
library books.
Copied and copied.
Next I’ll be shelved.
Aŧül  May 2017
Daring Darling?
Aŧül May 2017
The English Miss,
She was teaching tenses,
And suddenly my benchpartner,
He stood up and went out of the door!

"Such a daring darling!"
She exclaimed while looking at the door,
She made no attempts to prevent him,
"Was getting bored & walked away!"

I shook my head in negation,
Clicked my tongue crisply,
And I had her attention,
So I added jeeringly...

*"Miss English -,"
"- He did not get bored,"
"He wasn't even listening!"
"He was just sleepwalking!"
My HP Poem #1546
©Atul Kaushal
Neroxes Zephyrus  Jun 2019
Neroxes Zephyrus Jun 2019
we need some space,
some time alone.
But yet,
everytime I ask,
they laugh,
and laugh,
and jeeringly ask,
'What's wrong?'
Maybe I don't want to talk,
Maybe I don't need to talk;
we just need space.
Within the common (all purpose room)
     at highland manor apartments aye
daily encounter, one bewitchingly dreaded
     fiendishly horrible, jeeringly loopy,

     nap noopy, pugnaciously ravenous, talon
     viciously wizened, xenophobic yeti, zapping
     zeroing zillion zippers,
     zoned Zuckerman alley bye

barred doors fate helplessly jury-rigged
     sealed with with plaintive cry
no escape known to this man caught
     in a deadly voodoo clutch,

     thus doomed to die
ugly cannibalistic, frightful,
     heathen rumors myopic eyes espy
alarmed at feeling trapped

     akin to a wingless fly
tapping reserves of scape goat
     coping techniques ingenuity,
     which earned me moniker "fall guy"

where accursed cruel destined exit
     from getting husked, issued
     jagged lance like mandibles "hi
there unknown weekly reader", I

pray for super leftist
     write hand man/woman to extricate
     (via whipping up literary poetic fabrication),
     then joining me to sing jai

(let victory prevail against killer odds)
     perhaps summoning division
     of British shiver rights phalanx,
     hood reply with Hackneyed "oh kai"

springing surprise rescue,
     sans swooping inside
     this hermetically faux prison,
     where Matthew Scott Harris doth lie,

yet realistic to accept my
demise without putting up
     a good fight well nigh
but... if luck finds

     thee plucking this bard
     (out maws of death) be treated to custom
     ye will be rewarded with pie
ala mode enjoying a Quai
yet moment...yeah...fading hope...sigh!

— The End —