"caned" poems
this old year in its last hours
checks its tie
its coat tails
its long trousers
spats
its insalubrious look
gets ready for one last stand
at the times square of our minds
sick in singapore she wrote
i rather be caned that live one more day
and i concurred i rather she'd be caned
than i
here in ohio i hear some winter birds
i swear and i attest
their forlorn cries carry far
and sometimes i believe i see their shapes
remotely flitting far
their cries carry far
here in ohio
where the winter snow came and went in two whole days
its surprising whereabouts both seen and felt
now we are back to flimsy silver lace affixed on
windows
infirm in beijing she said
they all spit!
i took that as a sign she was getting well
here in the post soltice winter there is hope
for longer days ahoy
the maritime soul departs in yet another lost boat
inexplicably tied to the date
sick in mazatlan she said the water makes me puke
i heard later she bought a boat to sail from the west coast
down to the panama canal then up the east coast to new yor
k
that was her plan
but no she gave it up after she bought the boat
she realized she would have to fill it with ***** and nothing
else
choice give up the ship or sink under the influence
i hear the "Rosa Linda" i still tied in long beach pier
I mourn such passing as the days
disclose and hide in a foggy patina of misremembrance
see this was her coat her gloves
the angle of her visor gave us more of her
than i can just now tell i cant even remember the color
of her eyes
and yet firmly believe that we once met
as i get ready to welcome a new year
back to the chalk line
on your marks
ready
set
go to my habitual everyday
here in ohio some winter birds
pester the air with their calls
perhaps they know something about time
I don't know
anyway, let's go meet another minute hour or day
sick in
ohio i say
Jan 24, 2010
Jan 24, 2010 at 3:19 PM UTC
The young poetess^ writes:
*Sitting on the edge of brilliance,
that cuts my youthful pride to shreds,
are the verbal shards of bards,
poets, beyond my experience.
Expelling their lifeblood,
I can, but only,
place my hands upon
their open wounds
murmuring hopeful platitudes,
praying that their blood spilled,
is not their excellence drained,
their wisdom wasted and stained!*
The old hoary replies:
Wishful thirsty drinkers
from the cups of youth are we.
We 'presumed' ancient bards
have lived to regret the
burden of our accumulations,
the weightiness of our pages,
owning insights, steeped,
fermented, wine-to-vinegar,
spoiled by age, time-wasted.
Our words, product of visions
grown dim and simp,
under no duress,
we-eager confess!
Better poets were we,
when possessed of
blood hotter, skin smoother,
brow clearer, innocent of fear!
Your eager cuts run
zesty red and freely,
Ours, clotted ones,
anemic, yellowed from
the curse of the boundaries
of too much experience,
purchased pricey rules,
murderers of our uninhibited courage.
You cogitate with
passions unlined, unruled.
We shuffle, bemoan
our drizzling days,
waiting for relief,
and yet, rue
our inevitable conclusion.
We curse our fate, our slow dissolution.
You bless the opportunistic rising sun,
enervated by energies unbounded,
You animate for answers, solutions!
We sit caned and quiet, acidic,
damning Solomon and his caustic words -
There is nothing new under the sun.
Perhaps we know a word or two more than you.
Gladly we'd trade that for youthful hands
that pray, point and scribe, with the eagerness
that sets words upon paper of spirits enflamed!
Time, our master, has shred our writs to pieces,
yet, you young poetess, greet the morn, confident, saying
today I will give birth to the first of many, masterpieces.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 8:55 PM UTC
When they taught me I hardly paid them a heed
now I know my teachers were benefactors indeed
I regret the curses I held in my mind for them
their punishments were blessings not something to condemn!
Sadly those days they seemed to point their gun
on me for unlearned lessons homework not done
for such small lapses the teachers made a huge fuss
pulled my ears made me stand outside the class!
Some of them more zealous went a little far
caned hard on the back plucked out my hair
it appeared so barbaric at my expense their fun
they only knew it wouldn't harm me in the long run!
Such punishments I did never willingly embrace
ran around the room sending them on a chase
in fueled fury with faces in anger red
often flew their duster toward my head!
In life those torments have borne fruit
the running around standing on one foot
they have made my leg muscles quite strong
helped me hold my balance without support for long!
My ears too have still remained intensely keen
my hairs for my age haven't grown too thin
the pulling and plucking had done me no harm
but made my hair root healthy and firm!
*The teachers for sure were prudent and wise
punishment they meted out was blessing in disguise
so if you ever cursed them make amends and repent
say, thank you dear teachers for all the punishment!*
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 11:23 PM UTC
I can feel me
******* breaking under gray skies
As I dream of red eyes
And green grass
CPT Slime and Rasta's daft laughs
And the taste of tobacco on your tongue
While I wash up in SlimeyG's kitchen
Good God, if I wasn't there, that infamous week would've been filthy!
We can feel
The bass ******* it through the sideboard
SlmieyG's lounge walls are shaking hard
And we cackle bare
When Big Gay tumbles grinning downstairs
So I stick the kettle on
Good God, we caned a litre of milk in one round of teas!
I can hear
Those slimey green dawgs singing loud
When we bring Tom's cake out
And his face is a chuffin' picture
At the realisation of the six-layers' topper
So throw him a Clipper
Good God - eighteen, eighteen, EIGHTEEN tokes to clear it!
So, will you?
Can we all get together? We'll feel alright
For just one more warm hazy night
And when we sing these songs
Of freedom, we'll laugh in peace together. So long
To misery, my brothers
Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 2:36 PM UTC
the heat has made me feel as limp as a reed
my air conditioner is going at full speed
these excessively hot days are too much to bear
one longs for the days to be less fair
it is like a furnace in this particular territory
and one's thoughts turn to a lower degree
for a lovely cool breeze to come this way
would most certainly make my day
but alas the sun has it's switch at the highest setting
and it is causing one to be constantly sweating
one's energy levels are completely drained
the over abundance of sun has me thoroughly caned
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 7:30 AM UTC
O’Brien took
the comic
Sutcliffe was holding
and said
what the ****
you got here Sutcliffe?
give it back O’Brien
he went to ******
back the comic
O’Brien held it away
hey Davies
see what Sutcliffe’s
got inside
the comic cover
and he showed Davies
the magazine
of women
in all states
of undress
look at the **** on her
Davies said
give it back
Sutcliffe said
O’Brien showed you
the centre fold
of some woman
posing in a position
you thought
most uncomfortable
come on O’Brien
give it to me
in case a prefect sees it
and we're hauled
in front of Thompson
and get caned
O’Brien scanned
through more pages
with Davies looking
over his shoulder
where did you get
this magazine from Sutcliffe?
found it
he said
where?
Davies asked
somewhere
Sutcliffe muttered
where somewhere?
O’Brien said
Sutcliffe looked at you
then around
the playground
of the school
under my old man's shoes
in the cupboard
he said quietly
you looked at O’Brien
gaping at the magazine
his eyes peering intently
look at her Davies
fancy waking up
with her beside you huh?
Davies grinned
and pulled the page
to show you
the woman had a mole
on her left breast
you noticed
Sutcliffe snatched back
the magazine
and pulled
the comic cover
back in place
Davies laughed
and O’Brien said
you're a *****
young man Sutcliffe
you enjoyed the look
Sutcliffe said
as he stuffed
the comic into
his inside
coat pocket
and buttoned it up
any more under
your old man's shoes?
O’Brien asked
no
Sutcliffe said
just that one
shame
Davies said
you noticed
Mr Austin’s
sports car drive
into the playground
his pockmarked face
staring at you
from his car seat
Austin’s arrived
Sutcliffe said
you all watched
as he parked his car
then looked away
as he made his way
towards you all
the sky was grey
the start of Fall.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 5:55 AM UTC
Frosty the snowman was scarlet stained.
Stripes all across him and the surrounding snow.
Instead of the white Christmas everyone had been wishing for,
It was now a candy caned Christmas.
The smell of pine and turkey dinner ran through the streets.
But when you entered that small yellow house,
it smelled of something odd.
Something off.
In a season where many houses are filled with the joy,
of baby Jesus and his birth,
this house smelled of something different.
Something off.
What was that smell?
All the kids rushed to open their presents.
Wrapped in tissue and ribbons.
Big grand ribbons.
But there was one last gift that had been forgotten.
One last gift tucked far in the back.
The last thing opened was her.
Her red ribbon wrapped wrists.
Merry Christmas.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 2:58 PM UTC
The nun watched the girl Moran
stub out a cigarette
by the cycle sheds,
and flick it away.
She watched her
put hands in the pockets
of her coat,
and saunter back
towards school.
Mary entered
by the double doors
of the school,
and the nun stopped her
raising an open hand
towards her.
Want a word with you,
Moran,
the nun said,
eyeing the girl,
taking in
the bright of eyes,
the pouting lips.
What's up?
Mary said,
I've lessons
to be getting to,
and you know
what the Bridget's like
if we're late,
half wets herself
with anger,
so she does.
Hush yourself,
the nun said,
and follow me.
Mary followed the nun
into a side room,
and the nun shut
the door behind them.
Sit down,
the nun said,
and peered at Mary
with her dark eyes.
Mary sat and looked
at her hands in her lap.
I saw you smoking
by the cycle sheds,
the nun said,
and smoking is not permitted
in the school or grounds.
Was I smoking?
Mary said,
don't recall smoking,
may have been
the cold air;
sometimes when you
breathe out it looks
like smoke,
but it's just cold air.
It was smoke;
I saw you stub out
the cigarette
and flick it away,
the nun said,
walking in front of Mary,
hands tucked inside
her black habit
out of sight.
Was it a cigarette?
I had gum;
you may have seen me
flick that away,
Mary suggested.
The nun stood still;
stony faced.
It was a cigarette I saw,
the nun stated.
I see,
Mary said,
funny what you can forget,
if you're not paying attention
to what you're doing,
could have sworn
it was gum.
IT WAS A CIGARETTE,
the nun bellowed,
flushing at the face,
her hands out at her sides,
flapping like wings
of fledgling bird.
Don't be telling me
it was gum,
the nun said
her voice softer,
held in check
after the bellowing,
remembering her vows,
her Christ like vocation.
You're probably right,
Sister,
I'll see the priest
and put it onto
the sin list
I've to tell him
in confessions,
Mary said,
keeping her face
straight as she could.
The nun breathed deeply,
eyed the girl,
if you'd been a boy,
I'd have you caned
for your manners,
but as your not,
you can see me
after school at detention.
Mary nodded her head
and stood up and said,
can I go now?
You know what
the Bridget is like
if we're late?
The nun stilled her wings,
and nodded her head,
and watched as the girl
sauntered off out
of the room and away.
The nun crossed herself,
muttered a short prayer,
rubbed her rosary,
to get her through
another day.
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 6:04 AM UTC
forced words on paper
scratched nails on chalk bored
stiff caned laughter
smiles to mask a wound
stitches to hide a broken heart.
this is what the world is standing on
but we can change
we can rebuild
we are strong
WE CAN DO IT.
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 6:18 PM UTC
*Friends and maybe some
infatuation added
they cruelly caned
they call it culture
going against some mean God
reject forgiveness
my God forgives all
just ask and that's all you need
and not bamboo canes*
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 11:42 PM UTC
Latin Mortality
People coping carelessly,
Dissociating, crossly, staring crassly,
Stilled in fantasy and logic phallusies,
Yet time ticks and life leaks,
Money makes me more,
Under false guise of one who seeks,
Love, height, esteem, sight, seeking a dream,
Bulky bags, brimming bucks, books and buffets,
Broad, full or empty,
Doesn’t matter the stacked inventory,
It’s how the items are used,
Momento Mori,
Was your energy used efficiently?
Will you grow in elegance and prosperity?
Effortless legacies echoing down corridors of time,
What will you be remembered for?
Are you fine with what you’ve left unsaid?
Who you’ve led or wed?
Who you’ve fed a lie or made cry?
Always remember you will die,
Ten good deeds?
A score?
Does it outweigh the dark?
Do you care which heavenly bells hark?
Strong formidable, body healthy,
A traumatized mind stares at a reflection,
That of a skeleton,
Drained, caned, infamy preordained,
Bogged down by mental mortal chains,
Social strains, driving him insane,
Perspectively it will never end,
Even death is just another time encapsulated den,
Forever adding details,
To a undefined gory story,
Forever and always,
Momento Mori...
Apr 2, 2019
Apr 2, 2019 at 8:30 PM UTC
Can you hear them? The screams.
Turmoil, pain, guilt, shame.
Humanity is lost.
Our souls are as broken as the pavement,
as chipped as the doll’s porcelain face.
We ask questions we deem meaningful;
what are we doing to make a difference?
In a world with souls black as tar, is there a difference to be made?
What will you do when you grow up?
Is it possible to grow up in a world where even the adults are surrounded by toys, spending all day in daycares?
How much money will you make?
Money that will buy you proverbial joy, but will burn with you in a temporal hell
Royal we.
We are doomed.
Society is dead.
Heathens.
You scoff, you shudder, you fear.
Truth.
Humanity is hedonistic, selfish, sick, broken.
Prehistoric.
Don your black lace, cover your visage with veils; look away from the future for there is no future. Not here, in a world as flat as the screens we see it through.
Flashes and glimpses.
History books,
Juxtapose our worlds.
We are no longer the people of the past;
nor those of the future.
Back in the day.
Get off my lawn.
Laughter.
Caned, Alone, Confused.
Disabled.
What were your parents thinking?
Blame a generation but, who raised them?
Cracked Soul.
Death comes.
We run, where?
Accept your fate.
Humanity is fallen.
The time has come.
Bravery.
Staunch Courage.
Look Death in the face and smirk?
Cut down.
Over.
Souls as black as tar.
Broken like the teapot on the floor.
Liquid, from the cracks.
Your standards.
Who are you?
Doesn’t matter.
End it.
He did.
Tears. Why?
Humanity is over.
Fallen.
Gone.
Prehistoric.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 2:36 PM UTC
Valueless how nothing lasts forever, life is an empty bucket
Who would care if you didn't exist, if I didn't exist?
Feeling as empty as my old jean's pockets
Open bottle and drink happily
Of course until happy
Only to finish up with the abused opposites
By my blurred eyes, I seem to be nakedly nacred
Questioning whether I'm real, is sadly consecrated
Questioning if its love... rapidly grows vapid
Close, as the unhappy body drawn to my noteworthy pace
Close, as the rain that draws attention to my morbid habits
My happiness is a circle collapsing into a dreaded mess
Erroneous notion that we're all little gambits
As it pays to be negative
It can't be right, I know we're all not evasive
Two days of being convinced, that I am not actually homeless
Face emotionless with xanax on my left wrist
I'm addicted to my truest sense, that'll forever be hidden
Open bottle and drink happily
Of course until happy
Lacked ones open highway road, lonesome wind please blow away
Tie a silk scarf around my neck, and kiss on my benighted soul
As goes below, unnameable
Sniffing more than air and watching my issues blow away
Out my nostrils into the tissue of my flawed escape
Open bottle and drink happily
Of course until happy
My head is swimming from wine
I'm about to spit bedraggled japes
Soon to overflow, soon to dilapidate
Fit my body, warm my old sane mind
Torch patience, I'm a ******* light
Without actually breathing
I somehow stay alive
In my eminent vintage bucket
Of taint time and caned wine
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 2:12 PM UTC
Ripped from his crypt, he
Rips past fast and furious.
Curious, she sits
On her rocking chair and stares
At this fair spirit.
Lit from head to toe like a
Flaming diamond, sun
Reflecting off towards the
Direction he is
Going, she is dying to
Touch this free demon.
Fed up with the fact she lost
Her identity,
Longing for mischief or a
Flare of forgotten
Passion, she leaps after him,
At least the best she
Can with her caned up legs. His
Eyes stay fixed on the
Road, leaving but dust behind
For this craven and
Ravenous old woman. She
Thus sits back down in
Her chair. But now in her mind
She’s thunder, lightning
Cold hot-momma with flaring
Hair, flagging down those
Low-riding demons with her
***** and her ***
Wolfing them down, or at least
Until the day she
Dies. Then she’ll ride with them, a
Flaming raven, a
Demon, ripped from her own crypt.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 1:59 PM UTC