Soulful interludes Cento Taka

Walk up a country lane to farmhouse darkness the finesse the true an deep point of navigation everything bathed held in quiet glory
Become the farmer go to the fields at first light let the machinery flow through your eye gate steel formed with lines of brute power
Rubber round the glide across richest black soil these fields so common quickly turn from spurious to immeasurable splendor as told
In the farmer’s heart as he stands on his porch looks into this six foot stand dark brooding stretches endlessly away its volume weighs
On his soul as it comes in great waves into his consciousness the finest feeling of accomplishment brightness his face well done Cloyce
Gatewood you left a lot behind as you passed from this green productive land

Purposely walk along the streets of the big apple no senses it can’t activate music your taste go on a quiet early evening slip in unseen
To the concert hall look on from the shadows as the master opens the case tenderly and lovingly takes out the violin you will hear
Sounds that can only be formed in dreams it’s not possible in the realm of those that are awake you will hear the spruce plate and the
maple ribbing create such acoustic sounds only sounds of tears gently coursing that only God can hear are brought forth from the bow
And the strings take caution lean on something or set or you could fall from weak legs and a mind and heart to full overloaded with
Beauty the master uses outward physical means to bring and evoke the music of his hidden soul thank you Johann Sebastian Bach.
Or perhaps your interest lies in art paints and canvass art shows abound museums house every piece imaginable the higher beauty
Of New Mexico and its desert shapes not found on the surface no need to worry Georgia O Keefe went from these very streets her
Vision her eye that looked beyond barren waste made the desert flower before it biblical time that it bud as a rose when the prince
Shall come by the way happy birthday great prince on that note maybe your taste runs in ancient musty yesterdays the master piece
Of Rembrandt he stalked the world as a lion his brush his power his strokes exude genius timeless wonder captured executed with
Deftness enthralling praise of the crowd still is heard well at least in sweetest whispers it is a museum you know.
Great writing telling lines your delight book stores out number restaurants food for the mind far greater than the temporal treats
Consumed and then soon forgotten No man is an island John Donne (1572-1631). … "All mankind is of one author, and is one volume;
When one man dies” or the words of Henry David Thorough “most men live quiet lives of desperation”
Maybe you’re the outdoors man leave the soul of a city that flows back and forth from divine true heart and goodness to a city noted
As a volcano the pressure intense at times that’s the cost of greatness well walk among the redwoods john Muir possessed the good
Sense to set this treasure aside in fact a Golden gate is at one end of Muir Woods the Barbary Coast its greater cloak that defines
Beauty through breath taking sites cliffs that rise and border the pacific waters, detailed by a Salinas resident you might have heard of
His two stories Cannery Row Grapes of Wrath and several others made John Steinbeck an American literary giant not bad for great
Outdoors men well this completes my Cento salute. Authors and masters who elevate us all.

Canto I: Exposition

A dampened quill and wrist unstill
Dare gallop ‘cross the page
Scribbled lines in black do shine
With much and fervent rage

And without fail, they tell their tale:
A passage tried and true
Lasting years, through hopes and fears
On page of yellow hue

Epic tales and loss at sea
Are listed in its text
The hand that writ this hallowed script
Can be no less than hexed

It begged, it sailed, it led a crowd,
It took a lady’s life
It stole, it smote, and always wrote
In volumes more than rife

He took this hand to unknown land
To carve a profound path
He set the sail for times to come
Yet tore himself in half

He lay awake in warm Toulon
In misty-morning May
The yellow birds in shrillest words
Alert him to the day

For too long days and longer nights
He’s waited for the word
The morrow here will mark the first
Of correspondence heard

Bonaparte has rallied here
To Toulon’s bustling bay
Three-fourths a score of battleships
To Egypt make their way

Before the high and mighty men
Joined with the water’s ebb
A note was slipped beneath the door
Assigned to M. Lefèbvre

Finally, a true decree
Has blest his merry course
Soon, eagerly, he’ll set to sea
Lost time his one remorse


Canto II: Aleron

Out to sea are thirty-three
That with me sail the tides
With these men, I trust my life
They follow where I guide

And so we’re gone from warm Toulon
Just days from the decree
Noble men off far ahead
And me with bourgeoisie

Bonaparte has aimed his fleet
To Egypt’s sandy shores
Through pirate gangs and ill intent
His roaring cannons tore

We follow in this taintless route
As far as we can trail
But soon we’ll turn half-way to stern;
To Gibraltar we shall sail

Days upon the Aleron
Are short but riveting
My men maintain their cheery air
And working still, they sing

No more of cloudy restlessness
No more of shady days
The blazing sun and windy waves
Have chased off my malaise

We pull our sheets and head from east
To curve around southwest
Past Ibiza, whose northern shore
Our Aleron caressed

The choppy sea grows thinner
And our nerves become unstill
The pirates of the Barbary Coast
Could leap in for the ****

And now, a sign above the line
Where water meets the sky
A tow’ring plume of certain doom
Is growing ever high

The heavens choke with blackest smoke
As fires burn a boat
The raw, impending fear of Death
Is clawing at my throat


Canto III: Skull and Bones

‘Tis hours later and we’re chased
Beneath the star-dogged moon
We tried to break away to north
But broke away too soon

Unknown, we tailed the pirate ship
Then saw the far black dot
The crow’s nest signaled skull and bones;
We held onto our knot

We much too late had turned around
My Aleron spun slow
Sheets so white in plain of sight
Had sold us to our foe

Our heaviest of itemry
Into the sea we cast
Rusty tools and iron spools:
Submerged, and sinking fast

Yet still we could not make a pace
To lose the rotten crew;
On our backs, they sailed our tracks
And split our wake in two

And so the misty moon is here
And watches like a ghoul
As we divorce our southern course
For Pillars of Hercule

The flick’ring light behind us
Like a glimmer in an eye
Stares and preys upon us
In cover of black dye

It grows and throws upon our ship
A light of fear and blood
It digs into our drowsy eyes
With sharpness of a spud

We hold on to our frantic pace
Till night invites the day
When to our right, in bright sunlight,
An ally heads our way

With Godly sound the cannons pound
The scoundrels far in back
Our brothers there in ship so fair
Repelled the foul attack


Canto IV: Gibraltar

In safer seas, our Aleron
Met with Le Taureau Bleu
We buy and sell and trade our stock
And praise and thank the crew

For safety’s sake, along we take
Two cannons of our own
We’ll stand a better chance against
The skull and crosséd bones

On we sail, on more and more
On through the placid day
No longer faced with poor intent
We make our merry way

Finally, from the vociferous chum
Upon the tall crow’s nest
“Land **! Land **!” Enthused, we know
Gibraltar’s over the crests

I decide to park (good-will flag on ark)
At the British colonial base
With cannons in stow, civilians are we
Attacking is surely bad taste

Just then, as I stood face-front on the deck,
A shrill squawking was cast
To the back I turned, and quickly discerned
A yellow bird up on a mast

How dare it perch there! I’d **** it, I swear
But I’d fire not a gun
Britons who spy me would surely deny me
Fair entrance, if that’s what I’d done

Instead I’ll sit tight; my crew is all right
They don’t mind the bird at all
I’ll listen and bear it, and try to forget
That the bird is the cause of my fall

Closer we draw to Gibraltar’s port
The Britons are within clear view
With a wave of a flag, they accept us in
But my anger cannot be subdued

I ready my gun; to the bird I have spun
And fire my shots to the air
The Britons, upset, rush onboard and get
Me constrained; and ensued despair


Canto V: The Crimson Owl

Silver chains kept me detained
As questioning carried on
Was I a spy for whom I ally?
Or was I simply a con?

I kept face as the questioner paced
And the brute slapped me around
Lastly, I smiled, as after a while
They had no evidence found

With regret, they set me free
Determining I was no harm
But seconds before I went through the door
A fellow rushed in with alarm

Cannons, found inside my ship
As rifles point at me
Again, they had me cuffed and chained
And threatened hostilely

“Smuggling arms to enemy ships”
Was written in their book
Chained and gagged and stowed was I
No better than a crook

Between the pillars I was passed
But not as I had hoped
Both my arm and legs were bound
My fragile neck was choked

In the bowels of The Crimson Owl
I slept in dark distress
No other day, with truth I say,
Had I known such duress

The days had passed and I’d amassed
A hunger, fierce and true
All my thought was set aside
To find something to chew

When suddenly, the shrillest sound
Came flying from afar
A cannon shot had hit its mark
The mainmast it would mar

Sounds of death came all around
And finally toward me
My blind removed, I held in view
The pirates of this sea


Canto VI: Captain Riceau

I stepped aboard by point of sword
And left the burning Owl
“Bienvenue à Le Chat Fou”
Said a fellow through his scowl

But when I talked, they stopped and gawked
Surprised at me they were
A fellow French, I was embraced;
The Crazy Cat could purr

They brought me on, my captors gone,
And took me as their own
And for the time, I went along
And made this Cat my home

I was kept live, and was used for
My knowledge of the sea
For vengeance ‘gainst the Britons
I complied happily

For months - perhaps three seasons passed
I rode upon this ship
Captain Riceau valued me
He named me second skip

For cause unknown, we crossed the sea
Old Captain held his tongue
He would not tell us why we trekked
And chased the setting sun

He brought us ‘round the chilly tip
Of Chile’s southern shore
No reason from his crazy lips
Though long did we implore

Then at last, the day had passed
When Riceau caught a cold
His eyes were red, his limbs were dead
His breathing: hoarse and old

I became the skipper then
And buried him at sea
We cut up north to flee the cold
But at a loss were we

Confused and crazy we’d become
Just like the Cat, rode we
I thought to keep Old Captain’s path
And that meant mutiny


Canto VII: Mutiny

Two days it’d take for them to make
The foul and bitter plan
That I’d be through with Le Chat Fou
And they’d return to Cannes

I lay asleep, in sleep so deep
Dreaming of Calais
The maiden fair with yellow hair
Who one day would betray

In this dream, I heard her scream
And went to touch her cheek
But standing as a statue does
Her gaze was still and bleak

They dragged me back into this world
Then dragged me off the port
My lungs too filled with shockéd air
To object to this tort

They threw my pants and diary,
And sandals, as they laughed
For shoes could serve no purpose
On the ocean’s liquid draft

The flick’ring light before me
Like a glimmer in an eye
Stares but grows more distant
And retreats into black dye

An injury had placed me in
A lesser swimming league
Then again, it’d only serve
To cause me great fatigue

Three days, I had rode the tide
Of the western ocean’s waves
No shark, no squid, no slimy thing
For my flesh did crave

The crests came up like daggers
And fell like hulking trees
I prayed to God almighty
I survive the vicious seas

Finally, I set my stare
Upon the northwest sky
Far away, but clear as day:
An object in my eye


Canto VIII: Abyss

Although I swam me ‘cross the sea
As fast as my arm can
Dry throat and sun win victory
O’er me: a fainted man

Trapped in darkness once again
I spy my fair Calais
Screaming, shrill in bleakness then
With not a word to say

Over me her head hangs low
Her arm is slightly raised
Blood drips off her elbow
Her expression leaves me dazed

She’s gone; the air is hard to breathe
The wind is biting cold
A canopy of restless leaves
Is stirring uncontrolled

Lost inside this world of wood
I struggle to emerge
Feels like years have I withstood
While searching for the verge

No chirpings from my yellow bird
No noises all around
Not a sound is to be heard
But footsteps at the ground

No rodents gnawing at the bark
No insects in the trees
Alone I sleep in brush so dark
With nobody but me

In the drying mud I’m laid
Despondent of my fate
Looking through the verdant shade
The sun does penetrate

Streaming down, the light is rich
Bespeckled on the floor
Dancing ‘round without a hitch
Its presence I implore

I call upon the pouring light
To lift me from this hell
To nullify the chilly blight
Incite the warmth to swell


Canto IX: Land Forgets Itself

The burning light lends me its faith
Yet suddenly absconds
The dulling light projects a wraith:
My soul from the Beyond

The day retreats and turns to night
The moon in place of sun
Mute, and without touch or sight
I desperately run

Fleeing from my fading soul
Myself, I do berate
For no such being should extol
Escaping from my fate

Luscious leaves all turn to brown
They wither and fall fast
Suddenly, upon the ground
A dune of sand’s amassed

Crawling on the desert floor
And shaking from the cold
I hate and bitterly abhor
The night’s begrudging hold

In the distance, at the line
The land forgets itself
The beaming rays of light do shine
And warmth indeed does swell

Basking in the drenching sun
My coldness is expelled
Frigidity that night had won
Has fully been repelled

In the sands, I’ve laid to rest
To steal the heat of day
Yet no sooner had the sun caressed
Than sourly betray

Melted on the scorching sands
My body burned and scarred
I cannot lift my torrid hand
My feet have both been charred

The burning heat has ripped my lust
For life and will to live
My last resolve is brutely ******
Through Death’s unyielding sieve


Canto X: L’Oiseau Jaune

I coughed and spat the water that
I swallowed with my snores
Upon the sand my hand did land;
I’d made my way to shore

The beach was bright with fiery light
My skin was hot and red
I tried to get out of my head
Those visions that I dread

A novelist I once had been
Writing was my joy
With pen in hand, I could withstand
Each plot set to destroy

Yet Calais came and stole my heart
But also my free time
We wed and had a baby boy
Our life was too sublime

I raised my pen to write again
To feed the family right
I spent my days filling the page
And toiled all the night

When finally, she’d lost her mind
She needed to be loved
I tried to calm her shrill attacks
With no help from Above

My raging wife had grabbed a knife
And stabbed my writing hand
Yet somehow I had speared her eye
I couldn’t understand

At the elbow, I was chopped
And no more could I write
The widespread fact I’d killed my mate
Had augmented my plight

I beached onto an island;
This was no Chilean land
I walked around the grainy ground
And found nothing but sand

But soon a rescue ship had come
I was not too long gone
I read the name upon the port;
It was l’Oiseau Jaune

The fundamental phenomena in nature are symmetrical
with respect to interchange of past and future.* --- Richard Feynman

                 Millions for Defense

In the Cabinet room of Monticello, clutching Decatur's letter,
the President removes his wire-rimmed glasses ---
Frigate Philadelphia has been burned.
Decanting a bourbon, he pours and quaffs.
Outside in the piazza the cicadas' din is unbroken.
The Pasha of Tripoli has his tribute!
In three short hours warm rays of sunlight
will greet the outstretched arms of Earth,
but for now the bourbon scintillates.
Ink splatters on the blotter,
as he pounds a clenched fist upon the desk.
Not one cent!, he pronounces to the wall-clock.
Cicadas hold sway in the Charlottsville night,
but on the Barbary Coast a fire is raging.

Where marinated in our murky past
have we found justification for the travesties we do,
build prisons where our prejudice lasts,
and allow its prisoners to fester as they stew

I have felt this heat.
The flame which boils in the toils of others,
whose oils lick embers into wildfire.
And we fall back into the Dark Ages.

where minds who place burden on those with different skin
slink flicking flint to fire, raising from the earth
the walls we have spent decades taking apart one brick at a time.

one brick at a time,
comment by comment,
each passing moment
condone it.
ignore it.

passivity pays the builders of this monument.
who see no wrecking ***** to stop them.
passivity, fills the pockets of the petty
coin by coin collecting courage to speak
outwardly outrageous
slurred hate speech contagious
barbary amounts its fortress from our silence,
one brick at a time.

I have seen the origins of intolerance,
holding together the cinder blocks of utterance
all the moments we should have said something and didn't.
In my selfish silence I see senselessness slip past my snares.
In my hush I hear hate harrow the ventricles of hearts much weaker
than the speaker.

Loathing left untended like
loose mountain snow
will like an avalanche gain strength
in movement.

To you,
the architects of abhorrence
the creators of execration
I plead:  lay down your urban dictionaries.
Know that you lay a foundation
whose structure will build  up,
but whose existence will tear down.

To you,
those who watch the construction
and stare in silence sufferance,
know that although no sweat has fallen,
and no aid has been laid by your hand,
That this malicious monument is as much yours
as it is theirs, through your willingness to watch it go up
one brick at a time.

I had to stop writing for two months because of my leg but then Addy's sister died unexpectedly so I wrote through my pain for her she is my friend from my other writing site.

The Silence of Heaven Speaks
Dedicated to Addy and Kathleen

In Pacific Grove there is a secret cove from these sheltered waters God would draw two out two sisters
To them he would bestow voices like the sea breeze enchanting as you listen cottages grow on wind
Swept bluffs rapture filled their souls this would flow from gifted pens on paper treated saturated
With softest tears from which their combined poetic senses grew like flowers of yellow and orange
With boldest red they fed the readers mind stirred the mist to open on fields that held their words
Like tender plants though fragile when plucked they held wonder that fell from these up rooted
Roots did they not favor the silver crested moon ghostly thoughts that float down streets that have
Amber lights reaching out of windows they instill all open space like eves of houses they hang so straight
They divide the green grass where softest walking is done from the blue sky where flying is devised
Here their words were as white and grey seagulls the completing of a sea side hamlet nestled between
The blues of water and skies and spiking thoughts of greenest pine cover this inland coast completing
The scene that sweetly sings gorgeous is your climes steadfastly each morning they shine not twins
But together by family they are entwined if one should slip away surly the blustering Barbary coast
Would live up to its name but only briefly would pain rule because by the undying spirit of the absent
Would return the one who remained would then be enriched and become a singular voice but now
A soothing is found uncommon because it stands with one foot on earth and one in the great beyond
And from heady sights it shares truths that seem more like dreams but are heavily flushed with stirrings
She has learned from streets that feet excitedly walk on that are transparent gold does not the soul glow
As sunlight but more it carries the reverberations of the very Son of God thus exposed she bows back
Down to earth and sweetly her voice caresses her earth bound sister with riches profound her sister
Too is released to drift among the stars at her beloved sister side as her guide for a season this will be
And then the curtain will rise and they will be forever together without the unevenness of flesh
And spirit they will walk in rapture and be in comfort as if they were clothed in clouded gowns
Weep not little one just believe


There are great nurses and doctors healing our bodies I know some personally this my trying to heal Wounded souls

The Silence of Heaven Speaks

Dedicated to Addy and Kathleen


In Pacific Grove there is a secret cove from these sheltered waters God would draw two out two sisters
To them he would bestow voices like the sea breeze enchanting as you listen cottages grow on wind

Swept bluffs rapture filled their souls this would flow from gifted pens on paper treated saturated
With softest tears from which their combined poetic senses grew like flowers of yellow and orange

With boldest red they fed the readers mind stirred the mist to open on fields that held their words
Like tender plants though fragile when plucked they held wonder that fell from these up rooted

Roots did they not favor the silver crested moon ghostly thoughts that float down streets that have
Amber lights reaching out of windows they instill all open space like eves of houses they hang so straight

They divide the green grass where softest walking is done from the blue sky where flying is devised
Here their words were as white and grey seagulls the completing of a sea side hamlet nestled between

The blues of water and skies and spiking thoughts of greenest pine cover this inland coast completing
The scene that sweetly sings gorgeous is your climes steadfastly each morning they shine not twins

But together by family they are entwined if one should slip away surly the blustering Barbary coast
Would live up to its name but only briefly would pain rule because by the undying spirit of the absent

Would return the one who remained would then be enriched and become a singular voice but now
A soothing is found uncommon because it stands with one foot on earth and one in the great beyond

And from heady sights it shares truths that seem more like dreams but are heavily flushed with stirrings
She has learned from streets that feet excitedly walk on that are transparent gold does not the soul glow

As sunlight but more it carries the reverberations of the very Son of God thus exposed she bows back
Down to earth and sweetly her voice caresses her earth bound sister with riches profound her sister

Too is released to drift among the stars at her beloved sister side as her guide for a season this will be
And then the curtain will rise and they will be forever together without the unevenness of flesh

And spirit they will walk in rapture and be in comfort as if they were clothed in clouded gowns
Weep not little one just believe

There was an Old Man of the Cape,
Who possessed a large Barbary ape,
Till the ape one dark night
Set the house all alight,
Which burned that Old Man of the Cape.

Who could condemn the clouds
for its dream and rendition of heaven
in vanilla cotton canopies
like steam trails from wishful
twilight's great sleeping

who could refuse the stars
that connects distant years from space
to wonderment's eyes here,
gazing up tonight agape at its mystique

when the machine mach march
of industry and city din spinning
in smog loud air - percussions down
to the edge of the shore

where silver sheen of onyx
black stillness of the water laps
licking the earth in its soft reality
the moon-glow and darkness

with its unseen places keeping slumber
in silent throes or weeping woes
still, I ache to cease the gnashing
of teeth - Barbary and conquering…

those who are unseeing in great haste
With worry and loss of a moment's look
theirs given to everything
outside themselves, mistook.

Who blames heaven, not knowing how
we lead a song yet never loving its vow?
Search for more of offerings
yet not even aware of how
blessed we are
here and now...?

I had to stop writing for two months because of my leg but then Addy's sister died unexpectedly so I wrote through my pain for her she is my friend from my other writing site.

The Silence of Heaven Speaks
Dedicated to Addy and Kathleen

In Pacific Grove there is a secret cove from these sheltered waters God would draw two out two sisters
To them he would bestow voices like the sea breeze enchanting as you listen cottages grow on wind
Swept bluffs rapture filled their souls this would flow from gifted pens on paper treated saturated
With softest tears from which their combined poetic senses grew like flowers of yellow and orange
With boldest red they fed the readers mind stirred the mist to open on fields that held their words
Like tender plants though fragile when plucked they held wonder that fell from these up rooted
Roots did they not favor the silver crested moon ghostly thoughts that float down streets that have
Amber lights reaching out of windows they instill all open space like eves of houses they hang so straight
They divide the green grass where softest walking is done from the blue sky where flying is devised
Here their words were as white and grey seagulls the completing of a sea side hamlet nestled between
The blues of water and skies and spiking thoughts of greenest pine cover this inland coast completing
The scene that sweetly sings gorgeous is your climes steadfastly each morning they shine not twins
But together by family they are entwined if one should slip away surly the blustering Barbary coast
Would live up to its name but only briefly would pain rule because by the undying spirit of the absent
Would return the one who remained would then be enriched and become a singular voice but now
A soothing is found uncommon because it stands with one foot on earth and one in the great beyond
And from heady sights it shares truths that seem more like dreams but are heavily flushed with stirrings
She has learned from streets that feet excitedly walk on that are transparent gold does not the soul glow
As sunlight but more it carries the reverberations of the very Son of God thus exposed she bows back
Down to earth and sweetly her voice caresses her earth bound sister with riches profound her sister
Too is released to drift among the stars at her beloved sister side as her guide for a season this will be
And then the curtain will rise and they will be forever together without the unevenness of flesh
And spirit they will walk in rapture and be in comfort as if they were clothed in clouded gowns
Weep not little one just believe


There are great nurses and doctors healing our bodies I know some personally this my trying to heal Wounded souls

last night i dreamed my memories
were lined in quills and nettles
soaking in jars of aloe
they played on underdeveloped
film stock, across slabs of barbary fig--
out in the desert
like a burning bush.

Barbary
Go out to the bar
Pop Punk and Emo night
dress in all black
band tea, skinny jeans, converse high tops.
Something Ironic
Want to see friends
haven't seen in ages
jump around
sing Saves the Day
"At my funeral I will sing the requiem."
Watch people drink
they seem to be having fun
feeling ******, can't drink
was just at an AA meeting earlier
**** this, do hard drugs, drop out, hurt the ones you love.

Barbary
Go out to the bar
Pop Punk and Emo night
dress in all black
band tea, skinny jeans, converse high tops.
Something Ironic
  
Want to see friends
haven't seen in ages
jump around
sing Saves the Day
"At my funeral I will sing the requiem."
Watch people drink
they seem to be having fun
feeling ******, can't drink
was just at an AA meeting earlier
**** this, do hard drugs, drop out, hurt the ones you love.

I
God Nine ***** his thumb—
the one with the garish topaz ring.
Even if you don’t know where to start,
you can pick him out of the circle.
Look behind each one’s ear till you find the tattoo.

II
Showing off to junior high school girls,
the skater fell
before he could commence the final turn
of his figure eight.
God grabbed his blade.

III
God prefers nine
The small girl watches traffic passing her house.
She estimates, in her childish way, the incidence
of accidents at one in five thousand fourteen cars.
On the bare, smoking engine block of the most recent wreck
she reads the serial number: G-O-D-9.

IV
We can train a hungry pigeon to scratch out anything—
God,
Lagomorph,
9—
given enough sunflower seeds and horses

V
The first thing I taught my son
was knitting. Then he learned God.
After that he was on his own.
He never could spell “Charles” (C-H-A-L),
and counted “... 6, 7, 8, 10.”

VI
In Corsica, they write the number ‘9’ on its side
to confuse it with ‘6’.
This pleases the Barbary apes, though
god knows the tin whistles are loud enough.


VII
... a hail of symbols. The stir-crazy physicist
hung from the groaning lower bough of the ash
pelting us all with umlauts and nines, shying
plomets, as the Herr Gott
sings through fibre optic cable.

VIII
Answer: God takes tin and fishbones.
Theme: the best inzulation against disappointment
in love.
Query: 9, as a hat with a lost finger?


IX
9> God< Opera > Charles < 9.
Which I hate, being left-handed —
I drag the flat of my hand across the tail.
The wet ink blackens the clean page.
And no, I will resist pencil unto death

Like a prophet in a trance
I saw the gathering of black snakes,
Among them is a giant black snake
Whose size and nature
Falls on the retina of every eyes,
Like an Iroko tree
In the mist of other trees.
He is a strong and proud creature
Like the Barbary Lion,
As the king of his region,
He stays on the greener pasture.

But as I look closer
My eyes began to see my ears,
And my tongue touches my nose;
For the other black snakes
Were like the seven thin cows
In Pharaoh's dream;
They were eating better
Walking faster,
And getting greater
Than the giant black snake.

Then I look even closer
As confusion and curiosity
Beats the drums of my heart,
I gradually found my foot
On the ground of reality
As I realize that,
The giant black snake
Has thirty six heads
And thirty six tails
With one body.

Different heads
With different tongues,
Different tongues with different tastes
So they move in different directions
In search of different foods
To quench their different tastes.
As to this different goals
They fight themselves
Only those whose tongues share same taste
Walks in the same direction.

While the body preaches
Unity and faith,
Peace and progress
The different heads preaches
Tribalism and division,
Inequality and oppression-
This has given birth to
The crocodile smile and
The python dance in
The heart of the giant black snake.

Waking up from my trance,
I realize the giant black snake
Can be a GREAT giant black snake
And see beyond his limit
Like a soaring eagle
Only if, the whole thirty six heads
Walks in the same direction
Despite their different tongues
For their is strength in UNITY
The ant can explain better.
..........The end.......

Oh Kushite muses, open wide my lips
Regardless whether blood or honey drips,
To speak against the backwardness of those
Who progress, light, and liberty oppose.
To clarify a theme of clannish wrong
While nomads move the camel-herds along.
Animal husbandry takes on new meaning:
Their brides sewn shut; their pasturelands are greening;
Sheba’s daughters cheated of their pleasure,
Despoiled through painful plunder of their treasure.

Filthy blade in hand, the crone bears witness.
The girl in terror, clueless, cut, then clitless.
As if this weren’t enough, infibulation
Ensures the bridegroom’s ****** *******.
The honeymoon brings every husband joy:
Reopening the wrapping on his toy.
Where knife or horse-whip place their gentle kiss,
there Kushite swains deliver nights of bliss.
And nine moons later, motherhood, grown mild,
is opened yet again by blade for child.

From Kush to Punt, on Afric’s burning horn,
Sadistic ways cause modern minds to mourn.
We wonder how this barbary was born . . .
Many Bantus, and Ishmaelites as well
consign their birth-machines to living hell.
Explain to me how Satan sold this rite
to those who dwell in bio-****** night?
Veiled in flesh, her godhead cast aside
Subjected to some herdsman’s wounded pride . . .
Let Kush and Punt, their glory days recall;
Their daughters drink the wormwood and the gall.

Old scars, reopened, threaten to infect
What multi-culti feminists protect.
(But no one ought to talk about such things
because of all the prejudice it brings.)

In sorrow, failure, tragedy or wist,
'Tis comfort that makes me a *******.
My neck hurts from the tics I do,
My eyes resent the strain I put them through,
My brain, at war, breaks down the hopeful side,
Discouraged that it ever had such pride.
I miss the one-days I found happiness,
Before my mind decided to regress,
Before the glooming days, like this;
Before the pain made me a *******.

O angels calling all around me, hail them!
No doubt they know the diverse ways I fail them.
Myself I fail, and all the world. It floods
Like Barbary in Noah's time, when bloods
From angels' ***** became extinct, and then
The land once ruled by giants fell to men.
Since men are giants now, they cannot stand
The presence of a pest upon their land,
Producing naught but tearful sorrows pall.
They fear my rise, that I might doom them all.

They went by
so fast
the years and
I'm past all the
hard stuff the
rough stuff
and I just want
to remember all that
is good stuff like
the Barbary Coast
the Frontier and the Stardust
and Janice when she sang
not when she raged against
a dying sun so I'll
pull three cubes
from a bucket of ice
put them in a cheap
glass and watch as
some smooth stuff
splashes on the rocks

© Whit Howland 2019

just one on your tongue. They
fall everywhere. They fall on
your hair and turn it to white. They
fall on Red Square and leave it

stark as the flights. They sit on your
fence and ride up the poles like big fat
rolls of a barbary night. They spread
themselves out far and wide. They’re

shutting down cities. And people have
died. And now people are scared to
leave. They believe anything you tell
them. I’m not saying it is isn’t so. But I
won’t run from a flake of snow.