"chequered" poems
I am the barbed thorn
the serrated reward
facing savage cruel winter;
sedition in transmission.
I am the only pawn
on your chequered board
facing a feisty queen;
of restricting submission.
I am the demonic exon
a heraldic discord
facing bleak futures;
an inherent disposition.
I am the stillborn reborn
the aberration restored
facing anomalies instability;
violation on a mission.
I am broken and worn
a fallen sword
facing a grim battle;
outnumbered by division.
I am the brass horn
the out of tune chord
facing orchestral expulsion;
a musician in remission.
I am history's forewarn
the contrite accord ignored
facing penitent absolution;
clemency in transition.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
A Poem in 3 Parts by Sara L Russell, 4/6/15; 00:51am
I
There is a grey area between
this world and the next.
People can be foolish; they dabble in ouija, in
dowsing, in automatic writing;
and - wittingly or unwittingly,
they may open a portal
to the other side.
That is how they enter.
Beware of inviting them in.
Shadow people are there
where needle pierces skin; where the ******
sits, glassy-eyed, on the precipice of oblivion;
they lurk in unholy places where godless
politicians declare themselves to be
speaking for God;
they haunt the dreams of drunkards,
schizophrenics, junkies
and the paranoid.
But they are not spun out of dreams,
they are real.
Shadow people were there
when the ancient pharaohs of Egypt
were interred, with all their gold;
they took them to Hades
for also burying their wives
and servants, alive.
They were there
in **** concentration camps,
sitting on the left shoulders
of those who blindly carried out
orders of death and torture.
They subsist in underworlds of catacombs,
they lurk in the spaces between
our conscious and unconscious minds;
In blackened mirrors they seek out a vortex,
My friends, be the light that
keeps out the darkness,
Do not seek to question the dear and foregone,
No matter how much they are missed;
for there are others lurking in the shadows.
Be not the portal inviting them in.
II
Did I see you in Bohemian Grove,
smiling at the Cremation of the Care?
Were you there,
and did you have more than one shadow?
Did I see you in that Great Hall
with chequered floors,
where the Eye of Horus
watched over a pyramid of gold?
Did you lift a cup of
the good red wine,
did blood brothers drink each other's health,
gazing through a glass darkly?
Did we toast the Cremation of the Care,
and how many others were there?
III
Sometimes we visit Hell in our dreams,
though we may fervently pray before sleep.
There is no shame in sleeping with the light on.
Wear a cross, if you think that it will help.
Sometimes the citizens of Hell visit us,
in that stasis between sleep and wakefulnes;
they are only ever seen at the outer periphery of our vision.
It's never a good idea to look at them directly.
Sometimes they venture a little closer than the rules allow.
Sometimes the line between their domain and ours is blurred.
Occasionally, the breeze seems to whisper your name -
only, it's not the breeze.
Be vigilant.
Always try to see them first.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 7:55 PM UTC
windmills turn
slicing days
as prescribed
moving water
as they do
set troughs
can't complain
there is no point
cycles set in place
grids buckle
like we're
trapped
live chequered lives
without ourselves
on deck
though paths
with every step
trod blind
at close of day
did we not take
that road
for steering wheel
this hand
grabbed
let's harness Self
remove the screen
and see
in this precinct
or yonder place
we've opted for
we took a route
with outcome
flawed
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 11:35 AM UTC
Night falls over Soho and, gazing into some cheap tart's eyes
Over a candelit-chequered-food-stained tablecloth,
Beneath my belt an immense ******** lurks leakily,
The seams of my ****** soaked with bursting lust,
My groin twitching in desire for her wanton arse-flesh.
Streetlight shining through threadbare curtains
Glinting sexily over my hairy pounding buttocks;
My screamed roars of pleasure echoing
In the deepest depths of her tenth-rate mind;
Her poor brain collapsing in mighty mid-climax.
Morning reveals a classy scene to chambermaid's gawp:
Spread-legged cold-as-chilled-salami ****
Puny brainbox imploded like mashed bananas
By staggering rivulets of overpowering *******
Like a duck's entrails in an unwashed sink.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 1:29 PM UTC
Hot boys express emotion
in the resonance and width of their exhausts
in pipe dreams of measurement
in the rev and roar of super heated motors
mixing spark and sensibility
in the sudden screech and stretch of rubber
marking asphalt and bitch-u-men
out there in the middle ground
where the road humps.
Hot boys light up the night with high beams
cruise the darkest alleyways of masculinity
challenging old men at intersections -
in their soft leather seats and euro-neat boxes
of air-conditioned luxury and debt -
to pole position and the chequered flag of fortune.
Hot boys in cars that throb with bass notes
and bootilicious chick lyrics -
sung by black boys wicked in the zone
always bragging ’bout their bone
and how they make the ***** moan -
snarl abuse at walking women
fragile objects on the pavement shelves
shaped colour lost in time
that pass beyond their touch and reach.
Hot boys are tiny traces of an oil rich mixture
trailing blue smoke in their wake
foot to the floor high stakes, top geared no brakes
as they snake round the hills and the hairpin bends
as they wrap tight trees at the crash, crush end
and the hot boys cool in the night.
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
There will always be an Autumn spat
where the cat foils the dormouse
and the Annual taster chocolate box
arrives as nonchalant
as the mysterious sender.
Sometimes I wish we were boxing hares
to really celebrate an outlet for renewed anger.
Munching on my bagels, i feel a pang of Hypocrisy.
I run fickle, planning out the chequered
season.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 8:11 AM UTC
Night fell on Montmartre and, gazing into my love's eyes
Over a candelit chequered tablecloth,
Beneath my belt lurked rancid lust,
The seams of my ******* oozing desire,
My groin drenched in desire for his wanton arse-flesh.
Streetlight shone through threadbare curtains
Harnessing proudly over my twitching buttocks;
My screamed climaxes echoing
In deepest recesses of Parisian dawnings.
My clear goal: swallow his salty comings.
Morning exposes a sordid scene to chambermaid's gawp:
Spreadeagled cold-as-chilled-salami bozo,
Puny synapses crushed like mashed strawberries
Blasted smithereens of overpowering *******
Like chicken's entrails in an unwashed sink.
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 3:54 PM UTC
When did it happen, how did it happen?
What lonely hour did dawn break into the
dark vaults of the firmament high? When did
the storm-cloud tiptoe across the arid sky?
Was it that night of the festival of lights,
when you nudged past the crowds to stand
by my side? That winter when the moon
shone across the desolate snow, to rhythms
of dew dripping from distant tiles? Or
the days after the storms when I discovered
that vulnerable you beneath your chiseled
cloak of practiced calm? How does the spring
bring mourning valleys to flower in the smiles
of a thousand vines? O cherished mystery,
when did this feeling, deeper than sorrow,
unmoved by pain, mightier than weakness,
stronger than the bruises from a hundred lies
that line the course of this chequered life, how
did this arise, anticipant joy of a journey nigh?
Bonds of lives past, is this how ye come alive?
That very first day when hello-eyes smiled?
Oct 27, 2012
Oct 27, 2012 at 2:17 PM UTC
One Sunday
On one of our many births
We
must become the Pappa and Mamma
of an ancient Nazrani tharavadu.
I will go in the morning
And return with
A kilo of beef meat
With bones
Two kilos of tapioca
And may be also a *** of toddy
From the toddy tapper.
While I slice the meat
You will crush the coconut mix
In the grinding stone.
I will come, now and then,
And wipe my face
In the chatta and mundu
Draped folds of yours.
Go away you shameless man
You will dub
The slogan of a coy mistress.
Meanwhile
I’ll drum quick rhythms
On your buttocks
Graced
With pleats.
The kids will see
You’ll repudiate, with your eyes
With the sun
Our bodies also will get warmer
Drops of sweat
Will make studs
On your
Nose.
With the fold of
My chequered mundu
I will wipe them off.
The sun will grow warmer
The toddy inside
Will simmer
In our bodies
An insatiable hunger will torment.
The aroma of
The beef curry with the coconut mix
That you cooked
Will drift into my nose.
Unable to control the craving
I will pick
Tapioca pieces from it and eat.
The hot bits will smolder my tongue.
“You Glutton”
You will then
Whisper to my ears
By the time I wash my hands and sit
Calling out to the kids
And you, to come for lunch
The 12.30 bell will ring in the church.
From that unexpected
Sunday
Which we spent
Stingily
We will set aside
Some memories
for the next creation.
Trans: Shyma P
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 9:41 PM UTC
A "Memories" poem by the immortal Barry Hodges aka Edna
Night fell on Montmartre and, gazing into my love's eyes
Over a candelit chequered tablecloth,
Beneath my belt lurked rancid lust,
The seams of my trousers oozing love's sweet song,
My groin lumped in desire for her wanton arse-flesh.
Streetlight shone through threadbare curtains
Harnessing proudly over my pounding buttocks;
Hermione's screamed climaxes echoing
In deepest recesses of her third-rate mind.
My clear goal: swallow my salty comings, cow.
Morning exposes a sordid scene to chambermaid's gawp:
Spreadeagled cold-as-chilled-salami ****
Puny synapses crushed like mashed strawberries
Blasted smithereens of overpowering *******
Like chicken's entrails in an unwashed sink.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 8:41 AM UTC
some days I grieve alone
as sunshine sounds obscene
no help or match for rain
not caring where it goes
to leave a chequered scene
the clouds hide their intent
build-up to manic heights
and storms attack our land
to savage crumbling shores
and saturate the nights
I stare in broken starts
I've seen too much that stings
with stoic eyes some pray
and mop the mud-soaked rooms
we wish our homes had wings
Jun 15, 2023
Jun 15, 2023 at 5:33 AM UTC
His hands stretched out as if in the
Shavasana pose, only he was
Wearing his old jeans, chequered shirt
Black laceless converse shoes
His head on the lush green grass
With Hesse’s Siddartha in his left hand
and a magical airbrush in his right hand
He gazed at the cloudless blue sky
Like an artist in front of a canvas
he drew the people he wanted in it,
The boy with the inquisitive big brown eyes
The girl at the bus stop carrying a tote bag
the things he wanted to do,
Climb the highest mountain peak
Do the tango in Buenos Aires
Vagabond across South America
the sunsets and the full moons he wanted to see
the reasons he was willing to suffer for
the smiles he wanted to have.
A masterpiece in the making
the outline took no more than a few minutes
but the finished piece took a lifetime to create.
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 5:25 AM UTC
I pull myself down
to live on chequered floors
of empty community pools.
The chlorine burn,
the pressure in my lungs,
are only a suggestion
as I listen to the echoes
of my heartbeat.
It is only when
my lungs begin to burst,
my knees begin to kick,
and I speak in bubbles,
that I stop listening to my heart
and break the ceiling.
Strangers glance at me
as I laugh into the sky
because instead of seeking air
I am looking for you.
Jan 29, 2023
Jan 29, 2023 at 7:55 AM UTC
I rolled my own tobacco tightly, lips pursed through a gormless grin,
As he, the idle Gean Canach, warming up, kisses a lonesome gin,
This dream as told to be his tonic - the bitter slice - so I begin...
Musing over beauty, his admirable hair, warholic an' fitted to wear,
Of Tartan-clad men whose ghosts have chequered stares,
An' Art, Free Speech, Faith, dipped in batter - much to his despair,
Of people, prickened purple as they blow a silent whistle,
To how the sun beams through heather-fields of shared pistols,
An' those scattered morsels of society, left to nothing but the gristle,
To how more questions than answers affect his whispered speech,
Yet he stirs mulling over youth and language receded to their peak,
'...Come, I'll walk you back to your hiding place – safely out of reach...!'
Back home to talk of MacDiarmid and McFarlan, to agree and feel solemn,
As he explains that a poisoned bee carries but only poisoning pollen,
An' how a love of our country, for its freedom, is all we have in common,
He tells of the tears from the Nationalist, nation-less, who lives in arrears,
Of the ink further dried on the receipt of forced union; of some 400 years,
An' that of my friend the leprechaun; ****** on the burnt grass that he shears,
An' now he exclaims - '… Swallow the pound..! Gulp on its hardened flesh...,
...We are as separate - the reluctant strawberry atop this eton mess...,
The majesty of our homes, as one, forever in a state of undress,
...We shall squander fortunes on entire pleasures dear to empty minds,
The resources of our country fixed to the crown with no benefit in kind,
Computerised Tesco's an' ****** at the BBC is all that we will find...'
It is time to take our leave; he has risen sharply an' yet crumbles into a seat,
The fires of the red sun burn for independence with stomping feet,
My dream recited, I wander still, and turn to the fools an' scoundrels on the street.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 11:11 AM UTC
He’s got natural rhythm, a girl in a red dress, a suit of clothes, a hat and a silk vest,
A set of brogues, a packet of cigarettes, a 20 dollar bill with no regrets.
He’s got a fast mouth, a slick deck of cards, chequered blues and a V8 ford;
He’s got jazz, gospel, and ragtime too: a carpet bag and a jug for *****
Sheba, Sheba, Sheik!
He’s got it, he’s got Jake,
His feet will roam from town to town.
Sheba, Sheba, Sheik, Sheik!
He’s the devil with a big black snake,
Your feet may never leave this town; not alive anyway!
For he’s on the board walk,
She’s on the board walk,
We’re on the board walk now!
He’s got mojo, see him switch and walk, a winning smile, a stick of chalk,
He’s a hot shot, man about town, his skin is sweet and his eyes are brown,
He’ll strut that rooster, beat them gums, take cash or cheque before she comes.
He’s got jazz, gospel, ragtime too, a carpet bag and a jug for *****
Sheba, Sheba, Sheik!
He’s got it, he’s got Jake,
His feet will roam from town to town,
Sheba, Sheba, Sheik, Sheik!
He’s the devil and no mistake
Your feet may never leave this town; not alive anyway!
For he’s on the board walk,
She’s on the board walk,
We’re on the board walk now!
Song Link: https://youtu.be/l5papPgYaBc
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 6:53 AM UTC
She is not of this world, no, not of this world at all:
She comes here on difficult visits
To this realm of deception enamoured of gratification
Like the moon reflected on the crest of a high wave:
Never certain, and assuredly mortal is her reign
Breaking apart in a hundred sprays of violent agony
After every roaring chequered ascension;
I too mistook pain for her
Pain, her distant shadow
Sorrow, her cousin who triumphs here
Deep in the woods I heard the song of the willow
And thought it was her song
It was the wind playing in the hollow reed
Emptied of all essence in ****** of suffering
Regal moss covers broken walls worn of centuries of abrading life
The deep night deceives of peace only to die in
A thousand pools of blood, every morning
When the harsh light of truth proclaims:
Listen, distances, resound in the hum of blowing winds,
This toll of reality:
Proclaim to the forlorn lover suffering in the thrall of the early night
Proclaim to the hopeful lover labouring in the field of life
Love is not of this world,
Love does not exist in this world
A moments’ exultation follows a lifetime of agony here
The vain, the ****** profferer of gratification
Is the sole winner here:
Go break the crest of the moon on the rising tide
Go break every longing heart!
Go warn the wanderer in the woods
Of the impending doom that looms over his quest
Aug 17, 2012
Aug 17, 2012 at 11:54 PM UTC
Far yonder aether and spaces traversed in countless night years.
The tremendous travel on light waves till oxidized on ozon layers.
The tedious wait for an elemental suit equipped with sensory marvels.
To sense the air fire water firmament chequered with energy levels.
The suit was made to order at a court woven by matching hearts.
The landing to a cosy slumber bag enacted by eye catching arts
The jovial journey accomplish with purpose meeting the reach.
The cause of the entire travel tip off further detailed research.
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 11:04 AM UTC
Difference.
Praise for all variation,
that diversified play of colour and shape
which takes away sameness
and paints nature with sheer tessilation.
Hooray for the patchwork
of harlequin stripes in that mackerel sky
or those chequered blotches
embroidered on coats of every dalmatian.
Applause for the hues
shot through peacocks and each rainbow,
those pied streaks in ponies,
marbling of stone, the frets in wide bands
on speckled trout, braided
tattoos over the backs of zebras and tigers
flecked with a motely
collection of artistically peppered mosaics.
Smiles for tri-colours
in butterflies and pibald frogs just made
to reflect luminous wet.
For kaleidoscope difference let praise be
and for all crazed iridescence
seen in the glorious abundance of nature.
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 6:19 AM UTC
As we glide
An incessant Kush
Softens the grind
Can I Sense your Soft Surface? Or
Is it merely a reflection through this
Blue,
Quasi-chequered construction?
I long to see as you see me:
A dangling *******
Encompassed by a wide,
Gasping mouth
Gargling sac
I will see you
On the next train
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 1:35 PM UTC
I want to dig my nails – no longer ravaged by my teeth
Into my life.
I want to see the zest spray onto my chequered shirt
And hope there is something sweeter inside.
I could go out tonight
And drink until the gag of beer seizes my throat
And causes me to cling sagely to the bathroom tiles.
Until I feel the Earth’s axis shudder
And those plates of rock rumble together in an endless Blitzkrieg
In the centre of the world.
These pseudo suicidal thoughts permeate,
Like an artist painting his meticulous masterpiece
Next to a vat of scarlet paint or lighter fluid.
I could go out tonight
And take a pill until the pound of my heart
Causes my eyes to open
And see past the blackness of my life.
I can dance double-time in an endless ocean of strangers
In the centre of the world.
Oh, I could take a scalpel
To every freckle on my skin,
Before I realise we all burn in the sun.
Sep 29, 2012
Sep 29, 2012 at 5:50 AM UTC
So I went
down the rabbit hole
thinking I was following you, my love
They would have said
it was Mad
that's why I didn't tell anyone
that the living room table & house
was divided into different countries
America at the helm
Germany, Britain and Russia
as I stood in my chequered coat
for days on end, crying
believing people thought I was Stalin
or else, a diplomat
about to be killed
& M&S; tea, the package
being red & black
made me think of communism
( red) & fascism ( black)
& though being neither
I wanted to promptly
order my mother
to spread it amongst the people
then realized the irony of this
& refrained
instead, asking her
why she was sending signals
to the neighbors
by putting the kettle on
whilst praying for all the believers
in and of True Love
True Love,
salvation & fury
debased by them
on purpose, I thought
' Erotomaniac'
what?
Simply for wanting
to have hope?
Believing in romance?
And you,
who rejected me
you'll never know Wonderland
all you saw was a rabbit hole,
darkness & dirt
& it's true, it all just turned into barbed wire
& Angels singing, locked up
little pills at bedtime
fear, my only crime
& yet for a while before that
the world shone
& I don't know how to talk about that
it's just that I thought
every person I met
would lead me to your door
that all the songs in the world
were sung for me
& that all your poetry
was a declaration of love
just waiting to happen
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC
Through the chequered opening
A colorful kaleidoscope presents
An array of lush green
A wisp of fresh breeze
A smiling sunbeam
An expanse of immaculate welkin
Through the chequered opening
I see,
A streak of rushing speed
A slice of broad wing
A naïve game of child
A glimpse of active time
Through the chequered opening
I stitch…
My work, my soul, my time
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 12:06 AM UTC
This is where it almost blew us away.
Where stunned silence gave way to
chainsaws and sirens,
where a whole community rolled up
its chequered sleeves in solidarity,
brought tractors and barrows,
ladders and axes and enough rope
to pull it all together.
(we've seen it all on screen)
It split bare trees.
Some lay paralysed,
varicosed roots flung skywards.
Others, headless, fixed like totems
gave a new slant of light to the polished cobbles.
Some were touched, others not.
Some cursed God's reasoning,
others sure of scientific fact.
The abyss did not divide them.
Peace coincided with the setting sun.
The wailing of sirens and chainsaws gave way
to the sound of unadulterated joy.
(Earth allows these moments-
they are her children.)
In a battle of strength, small hands
locked in solidarity, made way for life.
Straining against an opposing force,
tugging on a rope
where the trick is to stay grounded,
to hold on and not let go.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2014
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 12:17 PM UTC
for Alice
seen from the terrace above
this rectangle of water
absorbs the variousness
of the late spring skies
changing incessantly
from folds of uncertain cloud
past brief appearances of blue
to the sudden closeness of rain
the preciseness of it
this rectangular pool
set in an oblong garden room
on a terrace the middle of three
that fall away to the valley’s end where
up and through and which a funnel of trees
climb to the tops the very heights today
severe against a modulating sky
yet in the camera’s eye
this horizontal mirror
is a painting fit
for Le Musée d’Orsay
a season’s accident no less in
light and growth and colour
where the chequered strings of
toads’ spawn and darting tiny fish
are brush strokes come alive
kneeling on the stone rim
as if in prayer afore
this reflecting space
attentive to what seems
between what is
this woman holds within
her perfect hand the pond
photographically framing
its image as it moves and stirs
across her gentle gaze
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 4:06 AM UTC