#napowrimo2016
I remember my mother's
black patent leather court shoes
so shiny as to be reflective of my soul
as I stared at them from the floor
of the church, laying between pews
memsmerised by hymns of god's glory
and shiny black shoes
I remember my mother's
black patent leather court shoes
with the crack across the sole
as she put them on to walk the mile
to work, caring for other peoples
sick children
I remember my mother's
black patent leather court shoes
as an adult I sat across from her
dozing form and stared at her feet
malformed by hours of standing
in heeled shoes in operating theatres
I remember, the year we got new shoes
and she had her's patched and repatched
I remember the sighs of relief
as she took off her shoes after a long day
and placed those weary feet into sheepskin slippers,
bought yearly at the mother's day sales..
I remember these sacrifices
and more as I help the old lady,
who is my mother with crooked back
and shuffling legs from chair to table
and back again..
I remember with gratitude
the quiet fierceness of her love
I remember my mother's
black patent leather court shoes
and all that they represent...
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 10:59 PM UTC
I remember Reaching for your hand before we first kissed.
I remember Enjoying the warmth of our hands touching as did our lips.
I remember Measuring my words whispered in your ear, to take you beyond bliss.
I remember Every tasted breath, before we kissed.
I remember Minutes spent together, the blood pounding in my state of light headed
bliss.
I remember Brown eyes drinking in my blue eyes, as we touched finger tips.
I remember Every tasted breath, before we kissed.
I remember Relishing the next time our hands would be closer than our lips.
I remember
the letter
you wrote
saying it was
better that
this was good-
bye, I was across
the country
and could
not test the
look in your
eyes, gone
cold. This
rememberance
is very old.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 1:01 AM UTC
✿ ✿ ✿
Haiku is not true
poetry by any means:
formulaic = dull
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 2:52 PM UTC
She kills things.
"Roses are red, the violets are dead.”
She stopped, looked at her toes as she spoke.
Moving at full speed, Her hair flowed from her head .
The door suddenly ****** open, against the vase, which She broke.
Quickly, running, fast up the steps, to find Her granddad
She knew she was is in trouble, forgetting her grandparents warning.
Where the violets had been, there was a shimmering, growing lake.
She saw the garden, in full sun, that she watered that morning.
Bored, across the yard She skipped to count, how many would it take?
Surely done, it was playtime, strawberry stained lips, and no one around.
They left Her there to tidy up, shut off the water, and pick strawberries.
They put Her to work in the flower garden full of colour, and a few bees.
Grandpa said to Grandma, “that girl has a lot of cheek."
She said,"Roses have thorns, violets are weak”
She was the garden tempest.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 1:25 AM UTC
#ክብረ ነገሥት
*Oh Sovereign of wisdom Solomonic,
forgive us. The wicked wax demonic.
Golden vessels fill with foulness
man is bankrupt, sold and soulless
Unsettling harbingers loom dystopian.
Sheba rises in dreams Ethiopian.*
Tested with questions, her spirit once gone,
occultic suggestions postponed her dawn.
(Six-hundred and sixty-six talents of gold
paid Nineveh’s rise as Messiah foretold.
Go read it in Matthew, obstinate sinner
You think He intends to have Satan the winner?)
Her ruins now surveyed by satellite
beheld on the screens of the Canaanite:
canals to expose, southern deserts to cross,
Eritrean legends of Prophet (and loss),
the Ark of King Menelik—Kebra Negast,
treasures of darkness presented, now past
have us checking those texts that worldlings despise
as we wait under dread Luciferian skies.
Break the sixth seal of the seventh scroll;
let the thirteenth angel spill the bowl !
(or smoke it up in the courts of Heaven
till ganja’s infinitude totals seven…)
Exhume Axum with the ****** of Marib.
decode the encryption on Adam’s rib
unearthed from some Antediluvian ravine—
Blast from the past: she explodes on our scene!
Seven oaths shall be sworn on her spectral beauty
(our Biblical transcendental duty).
The libation is mixed. Are we ready to swill it?
Beersheba? She brew ! Let us rise to fulfill it.
from sita to Saba fifth columns are ready:
Oh Sovereign — render their pillars unsteady.
For after explosions there’s mess to clean up,
and it’s worse than the horrors inside of her cup.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 9:47 AM UTC
Battle royal for a bottle of red.
Up the ante, we're going for Chianti!
Grant me kindness, pour a splash on my fettered tongue.
Up the ante, we're going for a thousand cases of Chianti!
Hoist the mains'l, sea dogs, raise the anchor, or you be hung!
Up the ante, the Cap'n is in a wanton need of Chianti!
Another wine won't do?
Up the ante, we know where they harbour the Chianti-shhhh
Wind be fast, my thirst is deep, as the desert is dry!
Up the ante, we're not paying' for the Chianti we're takin"
The ship from stem to stern, you get to clean, when we return, alive!
Up the ante, it is worth all the cases of Chianti, below decks we can hold!
Up the ante, we're putting' out to sea, we have a nose for good Chianti!
For when the Cap'n retires he will drink and
sing this Chianti Chanty at a seaside shanty, all day!
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 9:12 PM UTC
This will land like focaccia,
Like the careless 'forgot ya'!
And a man will stand while staring in, through the coffee shop window, going off glossolalia.
The ebullient cashier trainee
remembers every name and mixes up almost all the orders
for coffee,
Cars are lined up for the drive-
through, their voices sound like
didjeridoos, in the ears covered
by single cyborg clip-ons
headset taking orders.
The ****** iconoclast, Street person, bows to the ground, hat off his head, as he prays to the cigarette holes he made in the EXIT sign outside,
his hat remains empty, as each car that whips up the wind that tumbles the receipts tossed egregiously at him, like leaves in the Fall,
While the cruciverbalist sits in the corner in the only soft seat, finger pecking her keyboard while stares at the line and sips her chai tea,
lagniappe of chocolate stashed,
away in her voluptuous bag, the beleaguered barista has cups lined up over the transcendental horizon,
and she can't wait for her break
so she can eat with Olio Nuovo
olive oil, and Selection Artisan
ged balsamic vinegar, she brought
to dip, her focaccia bread in,
which she forgot almost,
on the counter at home.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 11:09 PM UTC
Will it always only be a safe dream
like wandering in a bare wilderness,
game to robust predators, and wildness
clear choices call across the primal stream.
It was late Spring when we first did daydream
the fragrant flowers were dusting progress
Winter's meagre offer, a cold caress
the wildlife, sedate upon the grounds glean
of Fall's gathered rare jewelled leaf mountains,
among the valley's musk we would linger
peak with sounds, echoes loud voiced joy bringer
beyond Summer's pleasured column fountains,
wayward wine red chances, seasoned drinker
deep red and bottled up, loose danger pains.
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 6:55 PM UTC
Is this thing on...?
A blue planet walks up to a
microphone, to tell a joke
or read a spoken word poem.
But no one hears,
for IT is coughing and choking...
i am a steward,
so
stewards are, we all,
every breathing human
has this duty to, the Sphere
with at most, one atmosphere,
no replacement part, no spares
get filled with awe at the beauty
if it is the inspiration to do the duty,
save your woe, save the fear,
use your eyes to share with your soul,
the toll, that bidpedal greed heads have
charged the future wee ones, you tell them "this is
not the planet you are looking for"
but it is the Living, that this Planet is dying for.
This Earth-toned marble and this garbled poetry
is as much responsibility that this Steward can
handle responsibly, alone,
I don't want to be alone in this,
go see the sights, walk in bliss that...
the contract for cleaning the whole
Planet, is up for tender,
and we know, it will go to the lowest bidder,
and not the lowest
common denominator,
in this case one,
we have one Sun, one Moon,
it starts with One,...
my soap box broke
it is recycled stuff,
we have all heard or read this by now,
...sure this is a rant, not magical mystical poetry,
woefully thrown together, like climate change
and weather, and global warming,
what is the harm in
...that, we live in a volatile and dangerous place,
the peace we find,
always has a layer of manufactured dirt,
or made from plastic, and as for air, it needs
a 'do over', where most of you are sitting,
reading this, please care,
I am not able to do much alone.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 7:14 PM UTC
Wife-beater, drum player
blower of holy pan-pipes
Plumed, bejeweled in ****** plastic
Inca priest, mestizo beast
multi-kulti prophet
(who chooses to live in the USA)
where liberals kow-tow
while you show them how
to adulate indigenous
crypto misogynous
eager to pay eager to please
diversity’s devotees buy your CDs
a perfect idiot from the mythic Sierra
naming your brood after Andean peaks
pre-Columbian pachamama freaks
eat it up: your Inca schtick
(but ask the battered gringa-chick
about your unsustainable ways:
who hits who smiles who beats who pays ?)
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 11:58 AM UTC
☪ ☮ ☪ ☮ ☪ ☮ ☪ ☮
Bearded and furious, quoting some prophet
they rage in the streets of their failed nation-states
exporting dysfunction, subversion and violence
the hordes are empowered—they’re now at your gates.
They fume as they gesture, in ***** pajamas
and brood over battles from centuries past.
they **** for their Caliph in murderous dramas;
the next ****** tantrum will not be their last.
Republicrat/Democan? Satan to them…
They care not an angel what party you vote.
Your well-meaning efforts are lost in translation—
they’ll just as soon slit your good liberal throat.
Scandinavia’s day-dream, once Nordic, once bright
is consumed in the chaos and vanished as smoke.
Santa Lucia receives violent darkness for light
as statistics play dead to her national joke.
The Ishmaelite deity (Arabic sin)
is a vicious excuse for extreme misbehavior;
a wind of aggression, demonic conception
enraging dead souls against Jesus, Our Savior
Let destruction descend upon Mecca/Medina.
The angels rejoice—may the righteous side win;
for the judgement of God on an evil religion
proclaims that earth’s joy is about to begin.
While the minarets topple, midst filth and manure
in a cleansing display of immaculate hope,
the muezzins are silenced, the pilgrims are stalled
and the muftis are starting to mope.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 11:34 AM UTC
moon beams read all the stories to the children at night as they
went to bed, not sleepy
the Underjordiske were everywhere they could cause a fray, always
acting out and creepy
and lost people from far away have stories to tell
but eyes, echo against safe canyon walls, they are lost too,
And the Earth gives a beautiful sigh out my window, and the branches and leaves say "again, do it again, do"
I let my self drift on the Columbia River, an inner tube swollen with the air from the smelter on the steep banks of that place called home
and here the clear and cold night snaps me out of my reverie
for just a moment, I see the gloaming
the dream, I had as a child climbing mountains all,
ones that scratched the belly of the sky
from there I would see all the longboats there that ever floated
on any ocean or any bay with sails on mast high, flags to fly
and the bright lit ones would be the funeral pyres
lighting the way to the Rainbow Bridge,
"Odin, Ve, can you hear me?"
big dreams that don't fit in small houses and needles
from the street won't pick locks but pierce lives, lost souls of the sea
and my past is a lover that lets me sleep at the foot
of her bed, curled up on a cushion of Dogwood flowers,
every morning to wake up in a different alley and walk just long
enough to see that I am lost, powerless
but i fear that this is savagely wrong
and there is no music in here to sooth the beast
standing so close to border of reality that I
hear all the illegal crossings scream, West to East
and Belugas gently drop
into the deep part of the
of the River Fraser where I wait, they leave
me her letter and take the bait
and she said "she didn't think
I would mind if she found someone
else, as the distance and time was further
than she first thought", and the tears...
filled that flow since, and through time
Empty
at my feet helmets, two, both an ancient one, a new
one, i light the letter divided in half light the paper on fire
and
my great great great grandfather says as he
turns away saying "there is no shade in the shadow of the cross"
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 2:44 AM UTC
☪ ☠ ☮ ☪ ☠ ☮ ☪ ☠ ☮ ☪ ☠ ☮
Exporting democracy, whorelets and song
You dwell in the center of endless supply
as customer-king you can never be wrong.
Your choice is the answer—now shut up and BUY.
Gadgets with touchscreens and upgrades to boot –
Distractions and playthings to dazzle the eye;
Your choices are regal, your credit assured;
Your country is closing soon. Shut up and buy.
The Ishmaelite hordes are released from the dam
the sluice-gates are opened, the waters descend.
Our Empire, ignorant, closes its eyes
Babylonian currencies bank on the trend
Mohammedans know that the West is a Beast
and the least of their worries—their Caliph is nigh.
We shop as they’re chopping; expanding their brand.
The muezzin is wailing now: shut up and buy.
They hear and obey while you’re watching the game.
The refugee nations, with time on their hands,
flow over the borders demanding attention
Malign infiltration. Deception expands.
These newest dependents refuse to assimilate
whining of racism, milking the state
Government, clueless, declares them immaculate.
Holy diversity Batman—it’s late !
They wait for their moment. You’re scared to offend.
it’s the Christians you wish would oblige you and die
The Muslims, you know, are committed to peace
and that’s something to celebrate: shut up and buy.
No borders no flags, social justice, no war
(nor knowledge of history, conflict or God)
Universal utopia, scaffolded lies
crashing down (but you’re busy defining jihad)
Poor traumatized victims. Concern never ends
It’s our fault they are here: it’s a charity high.
They laugh in your face with your back to the wall.
Your nation’s invaded so shut up and die.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 8:07 AM UTC
☺☻☺☻☺☻
Post-Christian pornstar unsubdued,
My lady—you are too tattooed;
bored, studded, and nearly as cheap
as everyone else tossed on the heap.
You don’t excite, inspire or alarm.
You’re just a big Alterna-Bore. No harm
done to me; baby you’re a pincushion
of piercingly superficial fashion
Neither tribal nor demonic—just silly.
I pity you, pierced like that willy-nilly…
Some conserva-matron with a gun
is edgier, riskier (and way more fun)
Israeli soldiers are hotter than you.
1940’s pinups sexier. It’s true.
That’s why we won. Now they’re losing it.
And so am I… but thanks for choosing it.
(War)
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 2:08 PM UTC
You will get lost in the big city
you WILL, too hard, you WON'T, too much
the secret to a long life is keep breathing and a pulse pounding
you will seek riches and find pity
you will find a garden of riches yet turn it too mulch
you will marry an attentive spouse if you don't mind the hounding
the secrets of the moment are lost in the blink of both eyes,
the secret of receiving is an open palm
if you touch the swollen belly of a bull, and you find ardor
you can find beauty everywhere do not despise the disguise
a secret a flock of birds leaves behind is calm ( bird **** is a secretion not a secret)
the secret to great wealth is found offshore
you will go places reading without, leaving your seat
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 1:00 AM UTC
♗ ♗ ♗ ♗ ♗ ♗ ♗
Hopery, changery, stranger-than-strangery
tip the good vicar your hat—
as he sits with Obama, the global Gautama
indulging in neighborly chat.
Popery, popery, changery-hopery
grant the old Pontiff his wish.
Then summon a bishop to season and dish up
a kettle of catechized fish.
Changery, hopery—swing from the ropery,
garnish the Vatican stew.
The Cardinals compassed, the media rumpused
the Protestants joined in, too…
Fakery, changery, safety in dangery
lack of direction was lost
as it became clear that no concord was near
and the threshold of lunacy crossed.
Changery-hopery, soap-on-a-ropery,
buy the Obama a beer.
Let the Lord’s liberation enlighten our nation
as forums and quorums get queer.
Hopery, changery, babe-in-a-mangery
hail the immaculate mess;
until limbo is purged and repentance is urged
and the canonized con-men confess.
Babilo-mockery, roll with the rockery
kiss the pontificate ring;
til’ the old Argentinian wax Constantinian
causing Gods angels to sing.
Jiggery-pokery fooling the folkery
monkery second to none…
what was once sacrilegious is now a religious
conventional focus of fun.
Papacy, lunacy piping the tunacy
Father goose mothered the egg –
but it cracked in the nest while the stupefied West
lit a match to a gunpowder keg.
Yessiree/nopery—smoking the dopery
opiates dulling the masses
who bow genuflecting, with candles reflecting
the shine of their Latinate *****
Fakery funkery, pachyderm trunkery
hierophants never forget
but the clown and his trainer cut loose the restrainer
and cancelled the circus’s debt.
Piggery, smokery, tighten the chokery
offer the refugees bacon;
their mullahs may howl with a slaughterhouse scowl
but the empire’s free for the takin’…
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 1:51 PM UTC
Shout from the rooftops
those whispers in your ear
that schizos may speak
and their followers hear.
That nutcase Messiahs
and self-proclaimed Lords
may reign in the splendor
of ****** wards.
That demons be exorcised,
angels beheld,
and the Savior restore
what the Garden expelled.
That shepherds spin yarns,
flocks be well-fleeced
with no charlatan spared
from the reign of the beast.
Until virgins are satisfied
trimming their wicks,
and we see by that light
that we all need a fix.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 5:15 PM UTC
Dear Life
The Continual Condition,
Alive at the Center, and
Into the Wild,
On the Road,
Double Lives
Tortured Wonders
Writing
No Other Book
My Name is Art and I Am,
Bicycle Diaries,
The Book of Myself,
The Book Thief
and 7 Minutes With God.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 12:59 PM UTC
♪☺☻☺♪
Free verse was captured,
confined to a cell
by readers unraptured
in modernist hell.
And there he did languish
while chained to the wall
and desperate in anguish
gave forth a last call:
“Listen and read me—
my muse is the best!
Applaud and then feed me,
your starving guest !
Don’t fall for that beat…
Please ignore their old line.
I’m here. I’m effete.
I’m a modern divine…
I like it in prison
No, really — I’m free!”
(But his lock was awaiting
Your Readership’s key.
For the moderns all lie,
as your readership knows;
Modern poets don’t die—
they just decompose.)
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 8:02 PM UTC
happy little snapdragons
i love the faces i see
standing in rows
like little solider boys
at play
all knowing the joke
but not sharing the secret
you smile and wag your dragon heads
but not your earthbound tails.
you are an endless delight to me...
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 7:23 AM UTC
(A Choreopoem after Ntozake Shange)
Babbling publicly into your phone
the tragedy’s yours, and yours alone:
messages from your dysfunctional city
inflicted in Afro-eccentricity.
Turn off your phone and spare us the drama.
Look for change from the Lord (not Obama)…
Quit twitching your neckline, stop making that face
there’s nothing you merit because of your race;
no right to entitlement. Take it to God—
we hope He will change you, but spare the rod.
And we pray He does change you, put “yes” in your can;
and that change that’s left over (from Savior to man)
might enlighten your heritage, lighten your load
help you calculate more or less what you are owed
in dollars or dignity (afro-semantics)
while twittering radically militant antics.
A debt unforgiven: this claim someone owes you
some change in a can that black history shows you
your hopeful presumption is scant reparation
for ghetto entitlement fouling our nation.
Go harvest your madness and reap what you’ve sown
now that tares have sprung up as you blab on your phone
now that reapers are ready—the data-plan paid
and our melanin levels beginning to fade…
I’ll shout from your rooftop until you’ve heard
and the crackers get fed to the mockingbird.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 10:36 PM UTC
♪♫♪♫♪♫♪♫♫♪♪♪♫♪
Sight up eclipsed cerebral cells,
let King Selassie spark a blaze.
Drink of the Truth from lunar wells
lighting up shadows, as it plays…
Invade the cold abandoned hells
with transcendental roundelays
and let reality move on through
until our testament renew…
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 11:06 PM UTC
Octosyllabic rhyme was killed.
Her epitaph I chisel here…
so face the book and feed your twit;
while I the rhythmic record clear.
The sad remains of Lyric Wit
are here interred—no more to rise
(lest poets’ brains be forced to think
and plummet from post-modern skies).
You phonies scrolling Twitter-blink
and scribblers with advanced degrees
look up, and hearken to these words
while feigning your conceited ease.
The academic gallows-birds
reviewing chap-books, high on fluff
make darker the sepulchral gloom—
as if it wasn’t dark enough.
The verdict’s in and all assume,
as measured meaning leaves the court,
he meant to **** her (Poetry).
Life sentences are written short.
The killer, grinning artlessly
in blank-verse handcuffs, void of rhyme,
composes abstract lines: the dull
memoirs of his poetic crime.
The prosecution’s notes are full
the case is made, the jury hears
his guilt made evident, at least.
The victim’s mother melts in tears
He murdered her himself, the beast.
then dumped her: a deflowered rose.
His incoherent imagery
dismembered her like slaughtered prose.
She met her end lamentably;
He did her in and cut her down
thus shortening her metered day.
(murderous, evil, free-verse clown!)
Behold her grave—where grass turns hay
as poets’ bones subside to dust;
her soul with God to reconvene
(or wander in bemused disgust).
Her grave-site paints a pastoral scene,
poetic fodder: life from death…
and calves shall fatten near her tomb.
Oh coward reader: take a breath !
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 10:47 PM UTC
It’s National Poetry Writing Month!
Align your chakras, hold your breath.
Let poetry flood your living spirit;
free your mind from lyrical death !
Let go the appallingly unpoetic:
meditate. Assume the position.
Adore your muse in rhythmic wonder;
write in automatic transmission.
Chant the mantra: NaPoWriMo
Let it hum like raw electricity.
Find your center… focus inward
¡ And thus behold sublime diversity !
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 10:46 PM UTC