"clucked" poems
PROLOGUE
The Flame, aflicker, licks and flays,
illuming evening’s negligees
With braided curls she swirls and sways,
and flits and floats in light ballets
APOLOGUE
A Flame, to conquer creeping fog,
flew dancing towards a random log
Her flight perplexed a leery frog
beside a silent somber bog
The Flame, a ripple, all alone
alit on leaves where birds had flown
The aching twigs began to moan
A rising breeze began to groan
The Flame arrayed an ancient oak
with torrid tongues and veils of smoke
A ****** bailed, the dam had broke
The leery frog soon ceased to croak
The Flame uncoiled and lashed midair,
consuming crowns with utmost care
A crazed coyote fled her lair,
left in the lurch bewildered bear
The Flame, unfurled, went wild and grew,
enkindled cats and caribou
Remaining... not a residue,
as reeking vapors bade adieu
The Flame revealed her strength unshackled
Flora, fauna crisped and crackled
Fire Witches clucked and cackled
One more forest stripped, then hackled
EPILOGUE
The arsonists were well aware
the Flame would travel everywhere
The weirs are gone, the land is bare,
and soon you’ll find a city there
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 5:15 AM UTC
Uncle Joe,
Quietly a bachelor,
All his 77 years,
Never spoke an unkind word
I ever heard.
Most afternoons,
He sat in his brown chair
Behind my Grandfather.
Two old French men,
Smoking pipes
Talking slow and low
In English, French-laced,
Laden with Quebec enunciation
Though they'd not been back
For sixty years.
I didn't think he'd ever loved a girl,
My Uncle Joe,
And then his nephew spilled the beans
One day to me.
Alice was the damsel's name,
But innocence was not her style,
And so my great-grandma,
Memere, disapproved,
Clucked her tongue,
Hands on hips,
Glared and crossed herself,
Whenever Alice came around.
Still, Joe pursued
Until the day she walked out
To the field where he was plowing
Behind a team of horses.
She didn't think ahead.
So when her dress billowed out
As she walked up,
She set the team in fright.
Uncle Joe,
Too shocked to act,
Fell feet first into the foot board,
And down the field the horses dragged
The plow and Uncle Joe.
They stopped before disaster came,
And Uncle Joe crawled out.
When he stood up,
He ended any chance that Alice
Had with him.
"Dat **** girl near got me ****
His exclamation.
So it was
He lived sixty more years
Safely and alone.
Jan 3, 2012
Jan 3, 2012 at 8:51 AM UTC
I saw pig wearing white fronts
I looked
Perplexed,
Confused,
Laughter,
Then came out,
*"Never wear white, with an **** like that"*
Trotters to small to wipe,
"Skids bigger than the grand canyon"
Brown with white, I
Gagged,
Heaved,
Smelling,
Like crap, I just looked as it went
Past, I started to follow as it
Trotted along, It stopped turned
"Growling at me"
Woof Woof GGrrrrr...
"Ok its not just me? don't pigs OINK"
I stared open mouthed, fingers in ears
Making sure no wax had altered the sound,
"Did you just bark and growl at me"
"Ok I'm now talking to a barking pig"
It stared for a moment
Me at it , it at me
Then it clucked
Cluck,
Cluck,
Cluck,
Front trotters flapping wildly in the air,
And then quiet
From the white which turned more brown
Now fell an egg not white
You can guess what dropped upon the floor,
Shaped like an egg, but smelt rotten to the core,
Then it walked off on all fours,
"I was puzzled"
"A dog"
"A chicken"
"What more"
"I am forever off eggs"
Never seeing them the way I saw before,
It trotted to a farm,
A farmer I saw before my eyes
Opened mouthed, hands jested towards
The pig, dog, chicken thing,
O you meet harry, he's special you've seen
That's nothing wait and see,
"Harry what do you wish to tell the gentlemen"
"Dear sir"
"Would you mind paying up"
For what I confusingly said??
*"I'm the worlds only ventriloquist"
"Porker"
"Now you have experienced the show"
"Now pay up"
"I may be a porker, but I not stupid"
"The talking is extra"
What,
Why,
What,
Is all that spilled from my mouth
I handed over notes,
£10
£20
£30
Mouth still open, as I walked
Before I knew it at the hotel I strolled
In to my room, friends standing around
"What you get up too"
"You'd think I was telling porkers"
"Want a bacon sandwich"
I look at them opened mouthed
"Really"
They say I was as white as a ghost
"No"
I replied,
"I'm a vegan"
Since when they asked??
"Since about thirty six minutes ago"
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 8:55 AM UTC
In that age of aged seasons
predating our own's four-square rhyme,
a reasonable jape was hatched
beaked but hairy to a guilt-free Hen
whose humors ran with jaw-slackening
creatures, foul and not at all bird-like.
Soon after its mixed-up cracking,
two prattle-prone Wrens hopped to spread
rumors of an un-chickity chick
and the ungodly origins
of fatherless yowls. Their tittered jeers
found welcome ears, and Mother Hen preened
her babe chased by merciless guffaws.
This Hen was not one to lay
down meekly, and a never stony
tongue rolled out its antidote myth
to a pair of gabby Gulls: "My child
may look not-much, but he's divine
engendered and miraculous born.
Sure he's messy, ah, but you'll see
he'll grow to be, much-much-more than
any feathery tykes your like did bear."
She clucked it so seriously,
who were they to doubt her? The plumed
sniggering ceased. But before another
grateful day could dawn in a hallelujah
glare of right angles, out pecking
up a snack, Mother made eye
contact with an unfortunate Fate
brandishing his lucky-gripped ax.
What of her wonder-why, joke of a boy?
Left alone at straw-pocket home,
waiting for his Hen to return,
he starved then decayed to hollow bones,
and was never thought of again.
Apr 1, 2010
Apr 1, 2010 at 12:43 PM UTC
I’d imagined her in the fields of
Tea; one, “she,” with hair born ink,
Perfectly-lined pearls,
A soon to be smile,
Wells for eyes, lost,
So very starved to be saved
And a'tic-tac-toe
Scarred the earth upon back,
So mimicked the sun.
So clucked the tribulation.
We, and after, “we,”
****** We trust
And two necks rocked backward
Under an unrelenting moon,
Could become, “we,”
With an already, “she,” and now the
“He,” a'wander before stars -
A wish and the only she’d wanted,
By name of, “touch;”
So one, the sun scorched rice,
And second, red stained the field,
And so on, the son missed home,
And once more, one son stood ground
And another sun held his hand,
So built, this newer home
Come allowed and growing old;
Together.
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 10:57 PM UTC
THE BIG HAPPY EVER AFTER
She was one cool chick.
Dressed - très chic.
She curved in all the right
places - if ya get my drift.
Her name was Miss Dumpty.
Claimed her father Humpty
had been pushed - taken the fall
for some Mr. Big and
got his.
I remembered the case.
His smile was cracked...yoke all over
his face..legs scrambled at an unnatural angle.
The autopsy pics
made me sick.
Said she had gone to Sam *****
to dig up dirt.
But no dice.
Sam's paid..he's off the case.
She spat the name out
with a thanks-for-nothing look.
"So. I came to you.
See what you can do!"
"What's in it for me!"
I smirked.
"Me!" she clucked
in a Linda Darnellish way.
Turned out it was
Little Boy...would ya believe it...Blue!
Jealous of Humpty's
easy said-ness and how he
got recited more often than
Mr. B. Blue.
Nursery Crime is increasing
so they tells me.
Too many modern authors
making ***** parodies..
Or in the *****
Limericks Business.
Scaring the kiddies away.
Putting the frighteners on parents.
Me and Miss Dumpty?
We're going for the big happy
ever after!
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 2:13 PM UTC
The garden served little purpose
It sprawled across the bored ground, despondent beneath the yawning sun
My mother would wail her annual rage
At the snarling weeds that softly smothered the flowers
How I loved those flowers
Rejected footballs perplexed the lawn
Their obtuse hulks spoiling that ripple of green
I found a four leafed clover there once
He poked his obscure head above his brothers: a suicide mission to bring me luck
They are all dead now
I didn’t waste nearly enough time reclined on that jealous cushion
Watching the lethargic clouds wobble on
But most otiose of all in that seldom wandered paradise was the Wall
That Wall was never high enough
I see it from my back door
Squat, depressed, sighing, each dusty clot of red brick seems so lifeless
Doomed to live out the rest of its days as a failure
All flung ***** that compress their rubbery bodies against it will soon vault over
It crudely bookends the busily neat hedge
Simply because that is where the drunken soil runs out
It fails too at its chief instruction:
Be the purgatory bridge between Our heaven and Their hell
But the Wall was never high enough
I remember the other side of the Wall
How I crouched in filth
Needless to be afraid of a cut from a single blade of grass
Impoverished chickens clucked in the squalor
How they survived such malnourishment awed me
The friends I thought I had there cheated me
And I ran from that disastrous place
Where chaos twisted the agonised branches of the hedge we shared
But it followed me like an age old Gypsy curse
Even today, a writhing, mewing splodge of night will sit on the Wall
Looking too fat for its own fur coat
It will viciously attack the thin air for a while
Perhaps accept a stroke but, seeing no morsel, wander home
But I am not spared
For I can see its wasteland kingdom from my window
It is not an evil place
But the Wall was never high enough
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 4:04 PM UTC
Stained sand, we
saved for grey days
that never arrived.
Rivers greeted
prying thumbnails,
which remained
ready, but unclean.
Romance clucked
through the crook
of an armed shadow,
where she melted.
Sherbet floated
like ***** on
her shuddering
upper lip.
Aug 22, 2012
Aug 22, 2012 at 9:40 PM UTC
drank straight
god above
level heaven
contagion.
remember:
lazy approves
of room for error.
snoring counts
as blatantly losing.
blank stare
blank slate
upstairs neighbors
they were making
what could only be
violent love or
beautiful music.
either way
the whole blueprint was shaking,
the sound breaking
a vacant space.
& there was a cloud.
there was
always
a cloud.
sometimes he be spinnin
round & round & rounded
but he usually clucked out
fore ever touching ground.
uhh, shut his mouth.
not saying so long to luck
but the ***** wanted to run.
how he long to get loud
& lost in the crowd
of tired brown-
grays & blacks,
boring blues.
nature,
mother,
lackluster,
satan
kept a written record
of the whether's mood
& heavy surveillance of
his movements
as seen through
***** rear view mirrors.
she said
never better,
never clearer.
so, tomorrow
if we're still
our own & each other's
dearest,
we'll need to find the nearest payphone;
call all world leaders, demand appearance,
then apologize for all our static & interference.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 1:43 AM UTC
“Make things beautiful,”
she said. “Yes,”
they all agreed.
“Yes, make beautiful
things, not ugly things.
Stop making ugly things,
stop making things ugly.”
they clucked their tongues
shaking their heads side-
to-side their eyes staring
not moving and disapproving
overcharged black cat clocks
over my tiny shoulders
another attempted monster
someone scary on my paper
meant to be scary
a werewolf or a vampire
a cut-up human monster
pencil lines infused with the
pressure of wanting
to make real
to be taken
seriously little hands
shaking
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 7:50 AM UTC
Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 10/5/2019
Sitting on the perch the rooster boasted:
soon the king of swimmers I'll be
and laurel wreath I will get:
Cos the champion of champions I am in this respect!
The hens, excited, clucked in admiration,
small yellow chicks silently listened in awe,
oinking happily were the piglets,
and the ducks? Like crazy they laughed!
Wieslaw Musialowski 10/15/2001
Oct 10, 2019
Oct 10, 2019 at 4:41 PM UTC
once again my head is buried in the sand,
and all the cigarettes i smoked and all the hearts i broke
had you feeding the whole pack to me out of the palm of your hand.
it was a stroke of luck that i lucked out, clucked out like a chicken without a head,
no direction where to go and using my feet to guide me instead.
and it was a stroke of genius that struck me out,
we twisted words we crossed arms
we bit tongues until bloOD WAS RUNNING DOWN THE SIDES
of our chins like a mudslide
and the hairs on our skin
prickled up with anxiety when we realized that this mortality is more/less a gift than a blessing,
so i'm done second guessing everything that i see.
i'm relapsing back into hiccups and cigarettes and you're relapsing back into me.
how am i to trust my eyes when the foundation of everything i once believed is now a pile of dirt?
twenty seven seconds left on the microwave and you took them for granted
just like the garden you planted to try to feel alive and alert,
but what would you with twenty seven seconds on your death bed
screaming happy crying hurt
sending fists and laughter bouncing off walls
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 4:20 PM UTC
I sang of you to passersby
To tell them of your grace.
I wished them all the luck
To gaze upon your face.
I hoped they all would be
The luckiest of friends
To feel the peace descend;
Be the joy that never ends.
I sang of all my memories
Of now and days gone by
Where you were a gift to me
And I was just humble I.
I sang a melody of happiness
And life that came complete.
So I was dedicated to lay
The world there at your feet.
I sang though some did think
I was but a simpleton’s fool
Who suffered some diseases
That kept me long from school.
They clucked and bade me quiet
When I most wanted to sing.
They could not feel what I felt.
They felt not a loving thing.
I sang through scowls and scoffs
And heartless catcalls of the many.
I suffered names like half-witted,
Brainless **** twit and *****
But did I care what many had said
Who ridiculed my loving song?
Not I, instead I ignored them all
And sang louder as I went along.
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 4:32 PM UTC
Living in a big city is not who I am
but life doesn't always give us what we want
I remember Grandma's Montana farm
and I go there in my mind when things are rough
Grandma was a little thing, not five feet tall,
but she had the courage of a lion all her years
We went there to live when I was five years old
I was dying from the coastal air and was very frail
My brother was a baby and the apple of my eye
We rode there in a chartreuse Ford, bundled
into blankets...there were no seatbelts back then
The wonder of all that 100 acres to roam and play
Chickens so sweet clucked round my little feet
The geese, Candy and Dandy, were terrorists,
hiding behind the root cellar and darting out
to chase me to the outhouse beyond the shed
Rosie the runaway horse chased cars
Grandpa made flapjacks and those not eaten
were put on the cupboard and I ate them cold...
Maybe heaven will be my Grandma's farm...
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 4:51 AM UTC
THE BIG HAPPY EVER AFTER
( in ego Nursery Rhyme vixi )
She was one cool chick.
Dressed - très chic.
She curved in all the right
places - if ya get my drift.
Her name was Miss Dumpty.
Claimed her father Humpty
had been pushed - taken the fall
for some Mr. Big and
got his.
I remembered the case.
His smile was cracked...yoke all over
his face..legs scrambled at an unnatural angle.
The autopsy pics
made me sick.
Said she had gone to Sam *****
to dig up dirt.
But no dice.
Sam's paid..he's off the case.
She spat the name out
with a thanks-for-nothing look.
"So. I came to you.
See what you can do!"
"What's in it for me!"
I smirked.
"Me!" she clucked
in a Linda Darnellish way.
Turned out it was
Little Boy...would ya believe it...Blue!
Jealous of Humpty's
easy said-ness and how he
got recited more often than
Mr. B. Blue.
Nursery Crime is increasing
so they tells me.
Too many modern authors
making ***** parodies..
Or in the *****
Limericks Business.
Scaring the kiddies away.
Putting the frighteners on parents.
Me and Miss Dumpty?
We're going for the big happy
ever after!
Aug 30, 2019
Aug 30, 2019 at 5:11 PM UTC