"cohorts" poems
Rest in peace to all the brave gryffindors
The courageous ones with hearts that soar
Rest in peace to all the smart ravenclaws
You left this generation in intelligent awe
Rest in peace to all the clever slytherin
without you, many of us wouldn't grin
Rest in peace to all the kind hufflepuff
I know our journey was tough
Avada kedavra to the other sort
Crucio on voldermort
imperious on the non deluxe
Destroy all of the horcrux
Shortlived were the cohorts
That tried to defeat hogwarts
we thank you
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 10:03 AM UTC
**IMMEDIATELY PLEASE REMOVE ALL OF MY INFORMATION FROM YOUR DATA BASE FORTHWITH. ALSO,
ADVISE ANY AND ALL CONTRACTORS, SUB-CONTRACTORS, AGENTS, SUB-AGENTS, AFFILIATES, PARTNERS, COLLEAGUES, ASSOCIATES, CLIENTS, WEBMASTERS, WEB BASED LINKS, WINKS, TWINKS, COLONEL CLINCKS, BOSSES, CO-WORKERS, EMPLOYEES, VENDORS, SUPPLIERS, SALESMEN, ASCCOUNT REPS/EXCS, ACCOUNTANTS, BROKERS, CO-BROKERS, HACKERS, SLACKERS, WHACKERS, JERKS, PIMPS, HOES, HOBOS, BUMS, DERELICTS, DEGENERATES, DOPERS, DEALERS, TWEEKERS, GAMBLERS, RAMBLERS, SOLICITORS, SIDEKICKS, COHORTS, WINGMEN, WHEELMEN, LOOKOUTS, OUTLAWS, IN-LAWS, RELATIVES, FIANCES, GIRLFRIENDS, BOYFRIENDS, FAMILY, FRIENDS, ENEMIES, EVIL NEMISIS', CANVASSERS, INQUIRERS, QUEERS, QUEENS, COWBOYS, KINGS, **** DRAGS, HAGS, HETEROS, HOMOS, TONY ROMOS, FEMALE IMPERSONATORS, (PRE OR POST) MALE IMPERSONATORS, ***** ***** VAN ***** **** VAN **** LESBIANS, LIARS, BUYERS, CRYERS, CIGAR SMOKERS, CARPET MUNCHERS, RUG RATS, TODDLERS, TEENAGERS, YOUNGSTERS, SENIORS, SUCKERS, TRUCKERS, MOTHER shut yer mouth, LAW MAKERS, LAWYERS, ATTORNEYS, JUDGES, POLITICIANS, PECKERWOODS, LEADERS, FOLLOWERS, DISCIPLES, PROPHETS, EVANGELISTS, SAVIORS, SINNERS, SAINTS, SOOTHSAYERS, MEDICINE MEN, GYPSYS, TRAMPS, AND THIEVES, WITCHES, WARLOCKS, VAMPIRES, LYCANS, ZOMBIES, WAR MONGERS, PROTESTERS, SOLIDERS, GENERALS, GOVERNORS, PRESIDENTS, PATRIOTS, PACKERS, LIONS, BEARS, BROWNS, BLACKHAWKS, REDWINGS, RIGHT WING, LIBERALS, OR LAW BIDING CITIZENS, THEY ARE NOT TO CONTACT ME AND LOOSE MY NUMBER.
BUT IF YOU SEE MY MOM, TELL HER TO CALL ME.
........................................................................BA-ZING....................................................................**
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 9:47 AM UTC
I remember watching Grandad
Whenever it would rain
He would walk around the house a lot
You could tell he was in pain
See, Grandad fought in World War One
Though he never said a word
He was hearing things inside his head
Things no one ever heard
He hated rain, it made the mud
And that's where it began
Fighting, deep within the trenches
Keeping dry as best you can
Everything was always wet
You fought the *** and fought the sky
The battle in the trenches seemed
To find ways to keep dry
Fifty yards away, no more
The enemy was waiting
Would today be when we made a move
Both sides always waiting
There were no birds up in the sky
Just clouds and all that rain
That war was stuck in Grandads head
And it was driving him insane
My dad would watch as Grandad walked
To hide from that **** sound
You know that all he thought of then
Was that trench, and muddy ground
You'd wrap yourself in what you could
You'd use uniforms of the dead
Taken from your cohorts
Soaked in mud, and stained blood red
Boots, soaked through like paper
Feet wrapped up as best you could
The mud was everlasting
It covered everything but good
Dad, said it was painful
To watch Grandad on those days
He would hide so deep within himself
In a deep, dark, mental maze
The sun, it never dried the earth
The water just sat in little pools
With the sunlight bouncing off of it
Leaving drops shining like jewels
The smell, of rotting corpses
Piled high down at the end
Bodies of the fallen
The bodies of your friends
Dad said it was different
When he went off to fight
It wasn't like his father's war
It was just like day and night
I remember when my Grandad passed
It rained the whole day through
I remember as they lowered him
Now, I know what Grandad knew
The mud, the worms, the water
Filled his little six foot trench
And everyone was soaked on through
In my mind, I smelled the stench
I feel sorry for my Grandad
Because in truth, I like the rain
And I feel so sorry for him
That it caused him so much pain
The horror of the battle
And the act of keeping dry
You might defeat the enemy
But, not both...but, you'd try
I remember watching Grandad
And of how he hated rain
But, my Grandad was my hero
And, now I know...he's out of pain
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 11:56 PM UTC
Welcome Back To This, Your Isle
The rabbits beneath the deck,
Even the pesky deer who eat the shrubbery,
Sea creatures, living and spirits of the dead,
Lying on the paths and in the creeks of Silver Beach,
All inquire:
Was it better wherever you went?
Were the:
Bears, hiding in the forests outside Berlin,
Eagles, double headed, of Russia
Herring, fried, creamed, wined,
From the vendors on the docks of
Helsinki, Riga, Visby and Tallinn,
Salmon, smoked and cured in Stockholm,
More impressive,
Tastier than our striped bass,
Island cohorts of yours, who waited patiently
For their chronicler to return?
Did the Little Mermaid and her Dolphin
Guardians of the Port of Copenhagen
Welcome you more warmly than your friends,
The ospreys, lizards, turtles and owls
Who overwatch your steps and safety
When hiking in Mashomack Preserve?
Are the interlacing tidal creeks,
Woodlands, fields, salt marshes and the ragged,
Irregular but charmed coastline of this cherished island
Any lesser than those of Scandinavia?
Are the sea-going ferries that transverse the
Baltic Sea and the Gulf of Finland,
More poetic than the Menantic or the Lt. Joe,
Who carry you swiftly home to us?
The National Geographic people say that in
Tivoli Gardens, The Amerikaner (ha!) waffle ice cream cone
Is one of the ten best in the world.
Guessing they have not made it yet to the
Tuck Shop for some Moose Tracks!
Were you unaware that our isle settled before
Peter the Great ever envisioned creating the grand
Boulevards of his capitol, St. Petersburg,
Route 114 was a traveled forest path,
By settlers and Indians, not serfs.
Of the Treasures, the Gold Room of the Hermitage,
The Amber Room of Catherine's Palace,
Wrote not a single word, we observe.
Your attentions, they did not deserve?
The answers all, self evident.
Here, surrounded by the gentle breezes of
Long Island Sound and Gardiners Bay,
Sweet and salty flavors of the Peconic atmosphere,
Words unlocked, from your eyes to the page fall,
Smudged by joyous tears, for the muses of the island
Have embraced you yet again and rebirthed
Inspiration, within their comforting, sheltering grasp.
Silver Beach
July 22, 2012
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 4:50 PM UTC
It could Satan's cohorts cause, what portly
Political figures earn, to forsake his camp
And anon join the fray to the fat fiscal treasury
Of the country squander; and that to a cramp.
The pay plus pecks in a year they receive
Will most citizens in their lifetime never sniff.
So some who covet crazily such a mega-cheque
Also seek the same office for the easy favours.
Since our paunchy purse will at their own beck
And call be, they thus make elections endeavours
A dagger thing;--that if they cannot God's gross
Gold get, they must anyhow have the devil's dross.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 5:43 AM UTC
*Combat....
though morbid in nature, there is a sense of beauty....
for example -
the bullet and it's chamber
the slickness of steel, and the power of the trigger
which together correlates the symphony of motion
from the time the trigger is pulled, to the
daunting escape of a bullet, and then finally to the *********** of it's victim.....
Quite morbid... yet hauntingly beautiful.....
Then come's the bullets quintessential cohorts
The Chemical and The Armored Car (a Tank)
The brutal barrage of steel cartage
crashing into unstable masonry
then the soothing smog of golden mustard gas...
The echoed shrieks, the violent shakes,
the ****** eyes and mucus filled noses
whose violent episodes finally conclude
when the eyes of death stare back at them...
Quite morbid.... yet hauntingly beautiful....
The finally... how can we forget the noble foot soldier?
his footsteps, silent to the earth....
out of the hysteria and chaos
two men, two weapons, and a whirlwind of emotion
nationalistic pride, paranoid fear, and scattered tranquility...
A sign, as is to say....
"I don't want to fight, but I have to..."
Which all correlates in the ****** of the bayonet
a twinkle of blood, and then finally the gentle weeps...
Quite morbid.... yet hauntingly beautiful....*
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 9:36 PM UTC
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed:
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride:
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
2.4k
Were you alive when the
bricks began to crumble
beneath our hand-held, picket line
across the parking lot in front of some
school that no one bothered to name?
Our exhaustion-mumbled whispers
skipping across lips dropping to the street
that tapered ladders on gargantuan gadflies as the summer heat
etched the tear lines into mud tracks against
our ruddied faces.
Cohorts torn into flip stands
layered toward standing political sores --
tell me how to cross my t’s and fill in scantron circles before
the suits step over brown-bag lunches
to stretch the yawning yellow tape over the students’ lockers.
We were strung up the flag pole, almost posted as decapitated heads for the public.
The political analysts call this “The biggest school closing in decades.”
Under teeming hammer-strikes :
glasses shred to paper-splinters
before a young boy’s diploma
crying white chalk bricks
from university’s doors instead on to
prison yard orange jumpsuits.
Can we call this a school improvement project
or can we call this the Same Salem Witch Hunt
As unwashed teachers and students alike deck the sidewalks like
Either Christmas decorations on Michigan Avenue or
Inmates on the gallows platform
I’m completely unable to read the television marquee that told the neighborhood that City Hall was too stuffed with paperwork to defend the mothers and invisible fathers.
I’m completely unable to write out of respect for these children’s already-carved in stone pathway to the gutter, graveyard, and/or prisons.
In the first wink of dawn
We will all scatter
To our respective positions
Carved out in concrete before the
barricades fall
to flood the street.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 3:52 AM UTC
my hidden shames
are an excellent source of moral fibre,
nurturing, but not nutritious.
we coexist in a quiet
mutual acknowledgment,
coexisting but un-categorizable,
nonetheless,
among my oldest cohorts,
their singular coordinated characteristic,
they are mine alone,
not meant to be shared.
But they will someday
make an excellent poem.
Mon jan 2 2023
6:47am
@here
———————————————————-
the askew
are my oldest companion,
dating back to my naissance,
faithful, eternal, but single-minded,
with a rueful sense of humor,
of course,
refer to my relatively plentiful hairs
inherited from my mother’ genetics.
a morning chore,
to return their antics
to an adult,
dignified pose,
plenty sufficient to be be brushed,
straight back,
the preferred orderly compose,
of older men
who cannot waste time
with foolishness,
the excessive vanities of
curls, parts and pompadours,
and yet,
every day they wake me with
ridicule, mockery, by presenting
themselves.to me,
as if electrocuted,
each
hair raising itself
pointing to the heaven,
whence
their true Creator resides.
no amount of product
persuasive,
they do what they must do,
akimbo, askew,
with inordinate amount of
malice aforethought and
a venomous sense of
hairy (and now hoary)
absurdity .
a splash of water,
a handful of rigorous brush strokes,
returns order
and the pretense of a serious mien,
an adult demeanor.
But their purpose accomplished,
they have reminded me of the
absurdity of human vanity,
to humble myself
before forces
more powerful
than human self-aggrandizement
by accentuating
our human foibles.
7:13am
same time & place
——————————————-
morning prayers are
always
a trilogy
the rounded evenness of three,
provides the necessary gravitas
of sufficiency,
three being
not too short,
not too long,
not too quick,
just three right,
to impart
the seriousness
of gratitude
for having gained
another day upon earth,
with it,
many multitudes of
chances to share
thankfulness,
kindness,
yes,
& love too,
and to write,
one more poem
encapsulating
all of the above.
7:35am
same day
same place,
same cup of coffee
Jan 3, 2023
Jan 3, 2023 at 9:17 AM UTC
Fish heads for dessert
Confetti-saltwater taffy for lunch
Canned laughter for snack
And peptide bonds for a well balanced breakfast
"But whats for dinner?" says The Windbag
"But whats for dinner?!" screeches The Mimick
Hmm, well we have a choice between the sociocultural criteria and a toxic relationship
"Can't we have popsicles with answer-less riddles on the sticks?" asked the Windbag
"Can't we have popsicles with answer-less riddles on the sticks?!" copied The Mimick
"Leeme alone!" cried the Windbag
"Leeme alone!!" yelled The Mimick
In the end the decided to eat the pockmarks of bird feeding cohorts
They picked their teeth with proven points
Then watched The Windbag play the glockenspiel
Followed by The Mimick on the xylophone
As I put the leftover scraps in Tupperware, making sure to burp it before I put it away
-Tommy Johnson
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 5:14 PM UTC
*Combat....
though morbid in nature, there is a sense of beauty....
for example -
the bullet and it's chamber
the slickness of steel, and the power of the trigger
which together correlates the symphony of motion
from the time the trigger is pulled, to the
daunting escape of a bullet, and then finally to the *********** of it's victim.....
Quite morbid... yet hauntingly beautiful.....
Then come's the bullets quintessential cohorts
The Chemical and The Armored Car (a Tank)
The brutal barrage of steel cartage
crashing into unstable masonry
then the soothing smog of golden mustard gas...
The echoed shrieks, the violent shakes,
the ****** eyes and mucus filled noses
whose violent episodes finally conclude
when the eyes of death stare back at them...
Quite morbid.... yet hauntingly beautiful....
The finally... how can we forget the noble foot soldier?
his footsteps, silent to the earth....
out of the hysteria and chaos
two men, two weapons, and a whirlwind of emotion
nationalistic pride, paranoid fear, and scattered tranquility...
A sign, as is to say....
"I don't want to fight, but I have to..."
Which all correlates in the ****** of the bayonet
a twinkle of blood, and then finally the gentle weeps...
Quite morbid.... yet hauntingly beautiful....*
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 3:30 PM UTC
**A ravaged beauty -
long threatened tired life,
riding appreciated**
Friday’s off-road cycle ride started late with a heart-choking chill head-wind blown rain - blurring my glassed vision, so I trusted into the triple lanes of colours slicing through the Vale of Neath. Here a builder’s ladder jumped boomeranging off it's white van - attempting to decapitate me - behind me it’s miss was announced by squealing brakes and crunching impacts, scaring alive splattered visions of a flat-end and being posted within a near drain. Surviving today's devilled ribbon of the dangerous windscreen imprisoned - sitting with pub bound murderous cohorts - I found off-road safe solitude’s mountain bike path East to Coelbren - joining new, a fine yet unsigned cycle route curling around Mynydd y Drum, to open views of Cwm Tawe as I pass hunting twisting through woods a single Red Kite. Then gravities speed, circles barriers into Ystradgynlais top - a narrow ribboned descent, hemmed by cars and paved children to the rugby fields.
**Senses travelogue -
previously un-experienced,
time spins slower**
Here the trails old section points to Swansea - winding lost betwixt fields, paths, trees and roads to Cwmtawe Cycleway proper, there to pedal beside and across Afon Tawe with repeated special offers of child saddled exhaust roaring kamikazes, bicycle maiming broken glass, proudly owned attack dogs, branch hung ball-sacks of excrement, visions of the lost ripped-away steel gated stops, hacked-off wooden fences and never-there deceitful dreams of red doggy bins all disguised what passed for hidden beauty, which he called lovely ugly. *Backing-into Pontardawe to crawl away below the dark bridge,
past a single inviting pub - I accompany the Tawe and it's twin a decrepit polished canal
through ***** alleys - until our hero stutters, gapes then tunnels under
great noisious noxious ribbons of hurtling tired....*
**Pressured paced life -
impossible commitments,
Living organic**
.
May 1, 2010
May 1, 2010 at 9:37 AM UTC
Difficult for unpracticed hands
Valuing it, protecting it, nurturing it.
It should have been all that she needed to carry
She felt sure it was there,
In the dark place
Beneath the joy,
Between this breath
And the next laugh.
I see some echo of it there still.
It shows itself in the negative spaces
And desperately needs the light and air.
She thinks it small and cheap, and well-covered
Beneath the bite of a vinegar voice
In the folds of a silken smile
Muffled by the thick wool of persona.
She keeps her arms folded
Her irises blank.
Idly pulling loosened threads,
And tunes the prototype.
Sometimes there is the terror
Of cutting isolation
Of an icy apartness
In a dense and moving crowd
Of friends and cohorts.
Once she tried to let it free.
Arms spread wide in the street.
Ready to give that gift to herself
From deep within the erected façade
Amid the mass of anonymous humanity,
Amid the ********** legs and cab-hailing arms.
Later, a mirror brings a cold draft
Chilled by the empty spaces.
And then a fear,
Not knowing where it was anymore.
Hidden too deeply?
Lost along the path?
Maybe it was never given to her at all.
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 2:43 PM UTC
Static of definite extinction, to whom are We allied?
If it is to Your noise, Your scatter and clean-up-later attitude,
then We are separatists.
If to Whatever, We are assuredly conspiring cohorts.
Do You claim to provide what We've needed all along,
but have simply been too short-sighted to know We've needed?
Or do You delineate? Do You define Us by unpacking Us,
thereby reconstructing Us into sections of a whole untarnished tool?
Machinery, if you will?
Take, for instance, television.
Do We need, or even want to watch?
Needlessly We need it. We want it for lack of choice,
or so We think. It is, simply, there.
Easily - and how easily We may never know - one may turn
to the body's offerings, or the plummets and peaks of the mind.
Sport, science, language, art, human, essential, vivid, now -
they are nearer than no one knows; practically graspable.
But Static, You move Us to wish.
You **** Us to think we must consummate Ourselves.
As We said, We are separatists.
Declare some vapid civil war.
Who, then, will provide your nothings?
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 8:58 PM UTC
Know-it-all revelation celebration deflated with a
"no you ******* don't"
Cartesian cliche quotation.
So imagine mom's elation when she finally shut the **** up and moved up in conformist ranks
set trends and bred friends.
Thanks!
Thanks friends. Without you I'm just some pearly whites,
a sundress and a skewed perception of what is wrong and what is right
Future bright, like some little paper lantern glowing
but if the flame kisses pulp than than just gulp and take up sewing.
Because you're growing with the notion you're just some fish up in the ocean attracting fish nets with fishnets floatinghopingchoking
Choking on your words over 3 syllables it's a drag
I'm feeling bad
for the fact that I'm a man
**** you dad.
A slight ephebophillic fascination for the fairy folk
Till she spoke, and ruined the illusion I was going for
Little girls turned shiny objects
auctioned off to flyest bidder
Quit her after several children, physical evidence you did her
Hit her too, I feel the burden bared by my sister,
hung on the bottom rung just because her organs are within her.
teenaged girls are wasted on the their Y possessed cohorts
***** and ****** so guess what? your mother was a ***** too
Our system's banging **** ******* "get money" funny we weren't singing that song getting tucked in by our mommys
Nov 3, 2011
Nov 3, 2011 at 11:26 AM UTC
Lippy Dippy the hippie,
Always so much to say.
Protesting, picketing
Never quite gets his way.
So much about us
The world and how it runs.
Someone to carry a sign?
Lippy Dippy is the one.
He started out with war
Calling out President LBJ.
The issues kept happening
Up to and including today.
Lippy and his hippie cohorts
Protested for human rights
Whether it be about gays
Or brown, black or white.
Get him and friends arrested?
That just may have to be
As long as law and lawyers
Practice their legal infamy.
He reminds of Dred Scott
And how the law of the land
Immorally took the freedom
And dignity of that poor man.
Too little water here
Too much water over there?
Veterans getting gypped?
See if anybody ever cares.
Lippy Dippy and friends
Will gladly show up at your place
And show you what you are;
Bad example of the human race.
Oh, they made fun of him
They called him many names
Including Dippy, so unkind
But it gave him a kind of fame.
It would be nice if maybe someday
There were no need for him.
Unless things change someway
The hope of that is very dim.
So, he and others like him
Which will, of course, include me
With stand up and protest
As long as we citizens are free
To gather publically and say
This sort of situation is wrong,
Then Lippy Dippy and the rest
Will come sing our protest songs.
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 10:14 PM UTC
There was a time when
all times looked the same
passing through seamless
dawn of ageless drain
We sought, fought and
bought our freedom for an ageless price
At a pace that dares not to take away our
endangered race
But what have brought
this craze of dismembering
the maze we felt less safe in.
The incorruptible men who
once calmed the storm
are now cohorts of a demeaning plot.
Their role in a war of stakes
is a gusty grab for the frontline
as they tussle for the ratio of cake
a game they so delight in.
Exhausted in a place which
was once a timeless haven
as their dignity is torn in shreds.
All sorts of glory are lost
still no one feels this is a shared shame.
If only we knew the journey would abort halfway
but the signs were like flare from the start
as sides became drawn in clear spat.
Two hundred and more of our “prized cowries”
got snatched from our land and our leaders
cannot guard our streets because they say
the times are bad and the enemies are back.
Everything get soured and some of us are left behind
as limbs are severed high into the firmament of red horror
We go hash with our tag
twitting and chanting that they restore our girls
bring back our girls-we pray
bring back our girls- we chant
Bemused, the soldiers assure to search our lands
While Boko bomb us out from our very own sands
Tangled, mangled, limbs and bodies get buried in our time.
© Chijioke Izundu P
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 3:14 AM UTC
upon closer examination,
my hands,
my history.
my hands fit
irregular-sized gloves,
life summaries,
slightly worn,
marked down
for the discount table.
my creases are
covered up
underneath a few
genesis survivors.
a "handful" of
youthful blonde hairs,
failing to depart,
as time has requested.
these blonde survivors,
refuseniks to
time's ravages,
mockery makers,
of history book writers.
yet, these cohorts few,
are in cahoots with,
wave machines,
tidal decay suppliers,
gray color,
content providers,
to the balance
of my body.
nicks and grooves,
crisscross stitches,
vanity disrepairs,
someone is
counting down lifelines,
one million billion cells,
used up, only shells,
wreckage of death stars,
jails for membranes,
forgetful fabric memorizers,
crumbled fractures,
patches designed by
an unknown haute couturier,
a failed revisionist
of the original conception.
All our hands.
upon closer examination,
Jubilee finale,
arrival day of the
Halcyonian,
mythical bird,
powerful enough,
charm the winds,
calm the waves,
harbinger of
our demise.
that date,
initialized,
DVR recorded,
visible,
right there,
upon on all
our hands,
all our history.
Source coded
in a language
for which the
Rosetta stone
yet undiscovered,
but visible,
right there,
on all
our hands,
all our history.
Halcyon bird,
comes
when it comes,
though we,
always, surprised,
oblivious
to the obvious.
Halcyon bird,
coming, to calm,
and to lament loss,
coming,
to still the wind
and wave within
the heart,
repair the
deepest rent.
So these words,
caresses,
coming,
to calm and to lament,
from my hands
to yours,
asking modestly,
for acceptance,
for forgiveness,
for another's hands hold
mine, my heart.
Yet my hands wave on,
each wave, a day,
an entry in and on my handy ledger,
where recorded,
**upon closer examination,
my hands,
my history,
the what is
as well
what cannot ever be.**
------------------------------------------------------------------
* http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/halcyonian
(Halcyonian, a mythical bird, said to have the power of charming winds and waves into calmness, associated with death)
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 3:55 AM UTC
**A ravaged beauty -
long threatened tired life,
riding appreciated
Friday’s off-road cycle ride started late with a heart-choking chill head-wind blown rain - blurring my glassed vision, so I trusted into the triple lanes of colours slicing through the Vale of Neath. Here a builder’s ladder jumped boomeranging off it's white van - attempting to decapitate me - behind me it’s miss was announced by squealing brakes and crunching impacts, scaring alive splattered visions of a flat-end and being posted within a near drain. Surviving today's devilled ribbon of the dangerous windscreen imprisoned - sitting with pub bound murderous cohorts - I found off-road safe solitude’s mountain bike path East to Coelbren - joining new, a fine yet unsigned cycle route curling around Mynydd y Drum, to open views of Cwm Tawe as I pass hunting twisting through woods a single Red Kite. Then gravities speed, circles barriers into Ystradgynlais top - a narrow ribboned descent, hemmed by cars and paved children to the rugby fields.
Senses travelogue -
previously un-experienced,
time spins slower
Here the trails old section points to Swansea - winding lost betwixt fields, paths, trees and roads to Cwmtawe Cycleway proper, there to pedal beside and across Afon Tawe with repeated special offers of child saddled exhaust roaring kamikazes, bicycle maiming broken glass, proudly owned attack dogs, branch hung ball-sacks of excrement, visions of the lost ripped-away steel gated stops, hacked-off wooden fences and never-there deceitful dreams of red doggy bins all disguised what passed for hidden beauty, which he called lovely ugly. Backing-into Pontardawe to crawl away below the dark bridge, past a single inviting pub - I accompany the Tawe and it's twin a decrepit polished canal through ***** alleys - until our hero stutters, gapes then tunnels under great noisious noxious ribbons of hurtling tired....
Pressured paced life -
impossible commitments,
Living organic**
.
May 6, 2010
May 6, 2010 at 12:54 AM UTC
Tomorrow’s sausage rolled along the road
And just beyond my hasty, tasty want for a drink.
Amidst giggle and sigh, my cohorts,
my companions and others
Muddle the horror, or meal at ends, most likely
Come this little pigs jump from the truck
Leading butcher.
In silence, I admire the –
Entrails on the highway; jump opposed shank,
Surpassing my seventh mile for a
Seventh heaven,
Leaving me simply seconds prior Shenzhen.
Sure, little piggy’d never made it,
To the market, to the feast of it all,
But he’d met his end, and on his own terms.
He’d met his end and frolicked upon the
Fields lacking pans and bacon grease,
In opposition the role, the role we force, enforce
And devour time and again;
In silence, I admired the escape.
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 11:32 PM UTC
That was then and now is there
As sister Sara pointed out
We were young and stupid
But our ship harbored no care
The oak was new , fresh the smell
We climbed the rigging
of the mast of life
so fast , so well
"Get down you fools"
The old crusted would say
Seasoned in salt from life's
crashing waves and spray
We just laughed and brayed
Almost depraved
"Get lost old fool"
We were so cruel
We weighed our anchor
and dropped our sails
Little we knew
of the seas of Hell
The distant thunder
lightning's warning
It didn't scare us
Life was ours to plunder
But the oak did gray
It bent and buckled
The rigging's rope broke
some of us tumbled
Beaten and battered
We limped into our ports
There was no laughter
from our fellow cohorts
The crossing is done
Sun seasoned in wear
We are the old fools . . .
That was then and now is there
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 5:35 AM UTC
Were you alive when the
bricks began to crumble
beneath our hand-held, kiss
puppets?
Our mumbled whispers
that tapered ladders on gargantuan folds and slung-held
boy-grips.
Cohorts torn into flip stands
layered toward standing sores --
tell me how to cross rapid waters of social trends.
We were strung up the flag pole, almost posted as decapitated heads for the public.
Under teeming hammer-strikes :
glasses shred to paper-splinters
before a car crying white chalk bricks
onto saran-wrapped concrete.
There were antennas perched like speckled,
mangy feathers,
poised, reflecting defiance toward
the wool-ashed sky.
With dirt-trekked journey marks,
there were trees growing silver hair outside the grocery store --
and frown-marked women -- that skin-folded
war paint -- yelled at their daughters to pay attention.
Dec 22, 2011
Dec 22, 2011 at 9:30 PM UTC