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n0r May 2018
This is mine
Sweet wine delusion
Slipping in
With life illusion
Mixing amidst
This wind and sun
A gold retriever
Belly rub
~
emerging from my repose
this poem slipping from my lips
i glimpse Athena’s yellow streak
sinking teeth into
two wings
while six
shriek away
still again another corpse
ingloriously amidst the grass
hosting my meditations
true story broh
Seanathon May 2016
This day is like the pouring rain, heavy falling and hard to swallow.
Dark as the memory of an old embrace,
Cold and mellow, like the cousin of a summer day.

Yet within this rain we are unchanged, just not the same.
I see the water as it cascades,
And floods the streets, to wipe the dogged dirt away.

It’s in my ears, it's on my mind, like a booming sigh.
The raindrops on the soggy ground.
Flooded I am washed away, but not far enough to leave this town.
Sometimes storms really creep up on you...
Still Crazy Jun 24
drrry spells

~for the r in all of us~

a normanative condition, a kitchen condiment, an un-relished
I’m-in-a-pickle relish, when there in no hot **** dogged doggedly poem perspiration in the fridge or anywhere to be found; nothing but a top sliced bun, ah, plain buns, old stale dog ones is all ya got left for dinner, during one of them there drrry spells that
no blonde tanned unweathered weatherperson ever
forecast correctly

Normanative? Oh yeah.

the tyranny of the white, white bread, the white, whittle ya down screen, couture-cold water from tap direct, neck bent, jugged to try and fail to wash down that lumpen ball of dog fur brain drain clog that’s backing up the paper words, in a stomach churning brine holding you back from reaching the top of the Mt. Everest,

rite Normanative?

Normanative.Oh yeah. Son of Norma and Normally.
It’s in the bibell, look it up!

she-he is my pooka, (nope, uh-uh, look it up) a six foot tall rabbit,
climbing up my brain stem, strategically strangling my words like
a flea killer collar round my neck, one that actually visually works,
my flea bit words fall to the floor, to live with the dust mites descendants of the ole south, drafts and rejection letters, all whose blessed memory may never die etc. etc.

that was the condition of my normanative condition when I dropped in (yup, look it up),

Norman sarcastically asking, how’s the weather up there,
any rain in that-northern-brain, down here it’s as dry as an southern old dog porch panting in Jewlie, breathiny out summer hottie poems, write out like it’s crazy going out of style, oh yeah, forgot
you don’t speak dawg that well.

so I don’t know nothing about your drry spells, just climb into
the hottest hot tub, staying all the summer months if necessary,
reading old poems about busted hearts, old dogs, unrealized loves that can’t be forgot, promises kept that one never made, other curses,
battlefields of yore, sweatin’ out the toxins till r
sends along a new one, rocking my toenails to my disbelieving eyes,
for I’m a mentally patient person,
whose never seen a drrry spell so long, that was not worth
wading thru, waiting for, till something busted out and
another thunderstorm of a literary good one, errr come along

like I said, I’m a mental patient man, still crazy after all these years...
(yup, that too, you could look it up if ya made this far)
John F McCullagh Sep 2018
On a cold, grey Bronx September day, an old man stood on the Courthouse plaza.
His palsied hand reached out to touch the monument to his life’s sole drama.
He’d just turned nineteen when the A.E.F. had been ordered to assist the French.
Near Chateau-Thierry He helped hold the bridge without the safety of a trench.
“We Marines fought like devil Dogs” He whispered softly to the rain.
“The Germans came, wave after wave, but only the stars and stripes remained.”
“Paris was spared and the foe was impressed by our Marine’s defiant dogged defense.”
“My best friends died, but I survived to keep them in remembrance.”
“We stopped the Germans at the Marne.” He felt an old familiar pain.
Some might say that the old man cried, but he would say it was just the rain.
07/18/1918 American forces of the third division thwarted the German attempt to seize the Bridge at Chateau-Thierry. This combat success in their first action is considered by many historians to have been the turning point in the conflict. Since 1940 the keystone of the bridge they defended resides on the plaza of the Bronx courthouse with a small plaque explaining the significance of the stone. The incident recounted here took place in September of 1962.
Terry Jordan Oct 2018
I used to have 4 brothers
And loved them all the same
The eldest used us siblings
For where to lay the blame

Hoping reincarnation
Proves true after a while
Dan said his fondest wish was
Return an only child

Soon I arrived, his sister
Right after Dan turned 2
He fed me peanut butter
Until my face turned blue

Dan denied that he loved me
As kids did, once or twice
But he jumped in to save me
When I fell through the ice

Surviving eighteen months then
My baby crib moved on
I moved to the bottom bunk
My next brother was born

Named for our dad’s Commander
World War II not fearing
Ted was sent to Vietnam
Where he would lose his hearing

Neighbors once thought we were twins
Blond hair and Dad’s blue eyes
Family strife split us apart
Though close in age and size

He can’t hear but does read lips
That bomb, it took its toll
Seems no single moment’s joy
PTSD took hold

Next came Bill when I was 6
AKA “Sweet William”
Boundless joy and endless love
His broad smiles worth millions

When I loved chocolate ice-cream
That was his favorite, too
He is my son’s Godfather
His wise words helped me through

I have no clue what ended
Brotherly affection
Before 2 brothers died he
Cut off real connection

Sam was born prematurely
When I was twelve years old
Spent 5 months incubating
Before we took him home

Our father’s disappointment
Sam never went to college
Didn’t want to play football
Was seeking other knowledge

Sam learned how engines functioned
By disassembling cars
Made candles in the basement
An Eagle Scout-golf star

A heart of gold he suffered
Much doggerel and strife
Alcohol’s what dogged him till
Tragically took his life

Divided family members
I’m actor and spectator
Seeking to forge connections
Reunion instigator

Some gather for funerals
A wedding now and then
I mourn, alone, Dan and Sam
Lament what might have been

Hadn’t been able to finish this piece until I took a long vacation. I still have 2 living brothers, but neither responds to my overtures. One can't hear me, and the other is not speaking.  New Englanders are known for denial and take-it- to-the-grave-grudges.  I guess I really don't want to know why.
Lucas Jan 13
Big blooming zero---
all the available brides
in all the available positions,
running like trains across Douglas
where no tracks make connection

Touch
and trust
---the men receive spiritual help
through potted,
planted
Jesus Christ
union rescue missions

Is this Wichita?
an ode,
an opening in the same slit
of the same clothe
down the same seam
of the same stitch---not dogged,
cold eared with doctored mothers

Requirements foreign
among other things
here,
bare chested,
mostly in the wheat
---tell our fathers
we haven't made it---
on starship F.G.

Send the railyard
back along Douglas
--the high rent district
doesn't chug
AND NOW THE RELATIONSHIP CRISIS FORECAST ISSUED BY THE SANE SIDE OF YOUR SELF  ON BEHALF OF THE MERRY TIME & KEEP YOUR GUARD UP AGENCY.

The general synopsis at mid-life is:

Late 40’s
dogged by blighted love life

new all time low
expected by that time.

new all time low
expected by that time.

***
occasionally very poor at first

becoming
moderate or good.

F**k  all
(hand over fist)  
******.

Marriage 3 or 4
becoming a bore.

Blonde mantrap
34-24-34.

**** Mrs. Fitzroy
(formerly Finisterre)  

affair deepening rapidly
expected imminent.

Getting carried away
hoisted by one’s own petard.

Chances it will work out alright
moderate becoming decreasing slight.

Fair Isle sweater left
carelessly behind in car

Eh...uh uh!
Big mistake.

Violent storm warning
boyfriend built like Viking.

Gulp...not Dover Wight!
Becoming cyclonic
...moronic.

Severe icing.
Oh *****! Despair. Panic. Flight

What more could go wrong?
Chelsea 2 West Ham 1!

Town gossip Lundy Fastnet
informs wife.

Accused of infidelities
backing off into continual lying

veering towards disbelief
clothes thrown out in street.

Locks. Changed.

Caught fast in net
like trashing fish.

Future visibility
moderate becoming poor

in showers.

Drunk. Again.
Singing in the rain.

What’s it all about
...Alfie
AND NOW THE RELATIONSHIP CRISIS FORECAST ISSUED BY THE SANE SIDE OF YOUR SELF ON BEHALF OF THE MERRY TIME & KEEP YOUR GUARD UP AGENCY.

The general synopsis at mid-life is:

Late 40’s
dogged by blighted love life

new all time low
expected by that time.

new all time low
expected by that time.

***
occasionally very poor at first

becoming
moderate or good.

**** all
(hand over fist)
******.

Marriage 3 or 4
becoming a bore.

Blonde mantrap
34-24-34.

**** Mrs. Fitzroy
(formerly Finisterre)

affair deepening rapidly
expected imminent.

Getting carried away
hoisted by one’s own petard.

Chances it will work out alright
moderate becoming decreasing slight.

Fair Isle sweater left
carelessly behind in car

Eh...uh uh!
Big mistake.

Violent storm warning
boyfriend built like Viking.

Gulp...not Dover Wight!
Becoming cyclonic
...moronic.

Severe icing.
Oh *****! Despair. Panic. Flight

What more could go wrong?
Chelsea 2 West Ham 1!

Town gossip Lundy Fastnet
informs wife.

Accused of infidelities
backing off into continual lying

veering towards disbelief
clothes thrown out in street.

Locks. Changed.

Caught fast in net
like trashing fish.

Future visibility
moderate becoming poor

in showers.

Drunk. Again.
Singing in the rain.

What’s it all about
...Alfie

*******

THE SHIPPING FORECAST...

An aural nautical weather map of an imaginary cut-up sea where the naming enters our nation’s consciousness....becomes part of the British psyche through its radio recitation... a litany... a rosary...mantra... a prayer of various here and theres that can only be imagined.

An oral/aural concrete poetry whose art belongs to Dada... an incantation of sounds and places only imagined...well known unique distinctive soundings and their hypnotic reassuringly ritualistic resonant repetition which is held in the greatest affection...mesmerically obscure...soothingly safe...strangely comforting...a litany of waves coming across the airwaves like a lullaby or a wartime coded message or Cocteau’s Orphée trying to decode death on the radio.

As iconic as the tube map with its elegant geometry of twisted coloured lines...it has become part of our mental landscape that our senses seek out as being quintessentially British.

It scans...it’s got rhythm...who could ask for anything more.

Something rich...and strange.

*******

Especially in its bedtime for Britain broadcast with us all drifting off to the strains of Ronald Binge’s SAILING BY(also the writer of ELIZABETHEAN SERENADE) as we sip our coca...lock the back door...put the milk bottles out and try to persuade the cat to come in as the day is put to bed and finally laid to rest at precisely 00: 48

And now the Shipping Forecast issued by the Met Office, on behalf of the Maritime and Coastguard Agency, at 1625 utc on Monday 31 May 2010 for the period 1800 utc Monday 31 May to 1800 utc Tuesday 01 June 2010.

The general synopsis at midday:

It is read out on Radio 4 at 0048,0520,1201 and 1754 (local time) . All broadcasts are on LW on 1515m (198 kHz) and some transmissions are on VHF. It gives a summary of gale warnings in force, a general synopsis and area forecasts for specified sea areas around the UK. The radio bulletin also includes the coastal weather reports (0048 and 0536 only) .

The music played before the Shipping Forecast is 'Sailing By' composed by Ronald Binge.

The mystical marine areas are as follows:

VIKING NORTH UTSIRE SOUTH UTSIRE
FORTIES CROMARTY FORTH
TYNE DOGGER FISHER GERMAN BIGHT
HUMBER THAMES DOVER WIGHT
PORTLAND PLYMOUTH BISCAY TRAFALGAR
FITZROY(FORMERLY FINISTERRE)
SOLE LUNDY FASTNET
IRISH SEA SHANNON ROCKALL MALIN HEBRIDES
BAILEY FAIR ISLE FAEROES
SOUTHEAST ICELANDetry whose art belongs to Dada... an incantation of sounds and places only imagined...well known unique distinctive soundings and their hypnotic reassuringly ritualistic resonant repetition which is held in the greatest affection...mesmerically obscure...soothingly safe...strangely comforting...a litany of waves coming across the airwaves like a lullaby or a wartime coded message or Cocteau’s Orphée trying to decode death on the radio.

As iconic as the tube map with its elegant geometry of twisted coloured lines...it has become part of our mental landscape that our senses seek out as being quintessentially British.

It scans...it’s got rhythm...who could ask for anything more.

Something rich...and strange.

*******

Especially in its bedtime for Britain broadcast with us all drifting off to the strains of Ronald Binge’s SAILING BY(also the writer of ELIZABETHEAN SERENADE) as we sip our coca...lock the back door...put the milk bottles out and try to persuade the cat to come in as the day is put to bed and finally laid to rest at precisely 00: 48

And now the Shipping Forecast issued by the Met Office, on behalf of the Maritime and Coastguard Agency, at 1625 utc on Monday 31 May 2010 for the period 1800 utc Monday 31 May to 1800 utc Tuesday 01 June 2010.

The general synopsis at midday:

It is read out on Radio 4 at 0048,0520,1201 and 1754 (local time) . All broadcasts are on LW on 1515m (198 kHz) and some transmissions are on VHF. It gives a summary of gale warnings in force, a general synopsis and area forecasts for specified sea areas around the UK. The radio bulletin also includes the coastal weather reports (0048 and 0536 only) .

The music played before the Shipping Forecast is 'Sailing By' composed by Ronald Binge.

The mystical marine areas are as follows:

VIKING NORTH UTSIRE SOUTH UTSIRE
FORTIES CROMARTY FORTH
TYNE DOGGER FISHER GERMAN BIGHT
HUMBER THAMES DOVER WIGHT
PORTLAND PLYMOUTH BISCAY TRAFALGAR
FITZROY(FORMERLY FINISTERRE)
SOLE LUNDY FASTNET
IRISH SEA SHANNON ROCKALL MALIN HEBRIDES
BAILEY FAIR ISLE FAEROES
SOUTHEAST ICELAND
patty m Mar 10
In the land of ghosts there lies a shimmer of light ethereal and sacred.  This hour I feel it and care not if it is sand or water, this destiny that liberates faith and soul.  Too long have I, Hassam prayed for someone to help me in my quest to find the place called Rainzapour.  Here, I was a prisoner shackled in a dungeon,  besieged and tortured by hideous devils especially the man with the evil eye,   But now my hands are unshackled and I breathe the air of freedom.  Sometimes I stare into a void and gather my senses, yet in white shade there is still darkness.  I am strong as I whisper to fate, " take me to Rainzapour and the palace of the black hearted Caliph Rashidun enemy of the common people."  In the beginning I was wearied by travel having been besieged upon by demons and suicidal assaults and yet my love carried me forward to my destiny.
As a very young man I had collected haunted items, a moon chalice used in sacrificial ceremony, a sword taken from the hand of the dead on a battlefield, a mushroom turned to stone still purple with it's poison one bite away from whole.  Once I found a copper bottle with a heavy seal, this too I added to my collection. I was serious and scholarly but studied the art of combat and became skillful in mock battle and combative games. It was at such an event I caught the eye of Bahija, beautiful creature, my dream of womanly curves, my heart throbbed in my chest when she gave to me a flower and soon I gave her my heart.  She was air and nature and her soft voice danced like smoke in my mind.  All went well and one day as we met in a field of poppies a dark shadow descended upon us.  There on every side were stealthy warriors, soldiers of the dead, hooded devils who took me prisoner and stole Bahija away.  Many years later I learned she had been forced into the harem of the Caliph.. Hatred rose in me, hatred and love and it made me powerful.  I was free and still they incessantly dogged my heels like hounds from hell.  I returned to the field behind my home, unwilling to subject my family to the same fate as mine, I didn't enter the house but dug deep into the soft loam to retrieve the box which held a few belongings along with my collection.  The sword gleamed lethally in the light of the moon and a surge of power sang deep in its metal.  The moon chalice as well vibrated, as though it had a task to perform and couldn't wait, but it was the bottle that was most powerful of all throwing itself out of my hands until the seal broke and there before my eyes was a giant genie or jinn.  Broad chested and strong he appeared human but narrowed to fit inside the bottle.  Now I had heard of such as he, but never in my wildest dreams did I expect to see one.  He was of the line of Marid, considered the most powerful tribe of Jinn. When he spoke it was deep and booming and made me shiver inside my skin.  There were no wishes to be granted, he would help me obtain the most important thing in the world that I wanted and once it was mine he would be free of the bottle.  True to his word he taught me to bathe myself in mud fortified with basilisk oil and to bake in the crust of lava until my body hardened  to the strength of armor, and it was he who as my spirit guide drew up my magick sigil a Silver Sword and Chalice above a Star on a background of Ebony. When I was attacked while traveling he trapped himself in my body and we slew hundreds on hundreds of warriors.  Now as I stood outside the wall of Rainzapour, I knew that soon I would be losing this valiant protector for once I claimed my beloved he would be allowed his freedom.  One last battle condemning the Caliph and all his evildoers to die in their polluted blood, as I freed those innocents he forced himself upon.   So close and yet so far I could detect the flickering of a mind heavy hearted and needful of solace. " Bahilja," I whispered, "Can you sense that I'm here for you?"

Tonight the moon will eclipse and the Jinn once more will become part of me as we scaled the high imposing wall cloaked in darkness.  There were soldiers everywhere, we moved  ghost-like, landing lightly in the courtyard. with only seconds to spare, as the Jinn performed his task.  Twenty men downed and now we swap out our clothes for the theirs, donning hooded face covering and weapons to spare.  Soon we're climbing to the halls of the palace lighted by tall torches and golden candlesticks.  I longed to search for the harem and Bahilja, but silent warriors were everywhere guarding halls and doors.  Some raised their hands in welcome as we passed and I nodded in pretense of recognition.  Before us lay a court room and there the Caliph beckoned us to join him in a meal.  No hummus or taboule, but complex stews with spices and herbs their foreign  scents causing a sickness to rise in my throat.  He invited us to pull forth a cushion as though waiting to crush a dove in his hand.  Things were out of control. I could feel that he recognized me for what I really was, a man inhabited by a jinn and yet his eyes were hypnotizing and I felt unable to resist his hospitality, though I knew this was a sorcerer and a man of blackest evil.  Women entered carrying platters of bread and as the light moved I saw her sitting comfortably on a cushion.  A harder version of the young Bahilja, assured and in control as though she had attained great status.  My heart crashed as I saw the child beside her, five or six years old and the image of the Caliph.   She must be his first wife and mother of the heir, no abused innocent, but a woman of status.  There would be no saving her now. She'd hate me for the child clearly was her love and life.   The caliph played me like a snake, his evil eye delving into my soul and the jinn too was confused and perplexed and prey for evil promptings.  Summoning intense concentration I rose up, making ready to leave.  Then the battle began, there would be no easy exit for the air became putrid and all ran away. It was just the jinn and I and the Caliph whose appearance had changed into a huge black jinn with a bejeweled turban.  Suddenly it all became clear, and I saw this is where I belonged. My mind alert now, I pulled myself up to my full stature returning stare for stare and then the battle began.  Abdul my Jinn surfaced from his previous oblivion.  We bowed and the heaven fell down and darkness turned everything bleak.  I felt jabs and pain erupting  though my soul, this was good and evil battling with all their might.  Abdul fought courageously downing the evil one again and again.  But my body was his prison and each bolt rent yet another hole and each hole seeped blood sapping Abdul as I floundered on the ground. .  I was the bottle that enslaved him and he couldn't cut me loose.  And yet as I became a shadow, Abdul reached for my sword, the mushroom and the chalice and the earth stood still, as rumbling vibrations spawned my rebirth..  One slice of the sword sent the black Jinn's head flying and evil shrank to bitter root leaving the Caliph in the shape of a man.  In the chalice Abdul combined wine and root and mushroom, the final swallow and the Caliph was turned to smokeless fire scorching earth .  We drew a circle and ringed it with salt and his spirit was banished to the cave of horrors.  

What of Abdul and me and the widow and child?  My body couldn't contain Abdul so I set him free.  Free to do as he chose and he chose to be the new Caliph. for only he could contain the evil passed down to child who would someday rule.   Bahilja chose to stay with her child becoming the wife of Abdul and I was welcome to stay as well but chose not too.  Somewhere a new life waits for me.  Strong again and free at last with no demons breathing down my neck I ventured out taking with me some riches bestowed upon me by my benevolent hosts. .Perhaps I would find another trove of ancient  relics, or create magic, or maybe I'll find love.  For now I'll return to my family and relate the tale of Rainzapour.  .
(actually, now at present time juiced
well nigh high noon same day)

On this January nineteenth
tooth thousand and nineteen
dogged by an earlier notion
searching soul to glean,
(while at Collegeville Diner)
above place previously wrought
poem hammered from this peon
expounded possibly seen,

asper belated birthday
outing now I mean
to expound upon nagging , yet keen
existential question, sans what purpose
validates yours truly within skien
of terrestrial webbed wide world,
no...no...no not
simply pocketing green

backs (banknotes, legal,
tender, money, et cetera), but now bean
older, and displeasing lee not so lean
when just a slip (pre) youth decades ago
yea, that would be
when I hapt tubby a teen
with nary a concern,

nope not even to preen
myself much to the dismay
of my late mother, nay
no idea why lackadaisical, illogical,
and antithetical bee hay
vee yore prevailed, but more to the point
rarely when young and naive did stray
thoughts besiege my mind,

that LX vintage sketchy,
shady, and seedy gray
area bothered concerning,
hounding, pestering and fill lay
mignon noggin ready toboggan
any price you say
for this staged coached blarney
finding this mortal questioning... ray

zing meaning, purpose,
and underlying importance, gestalt, design...
of life more so today
meaning since recent past
also taking stock of
accomplishments from way
back, and feeling stymied okay
at a loss to delineate

any rhyme or reason
to shout hip...hip hooray
quite the contrary, which following
admission might appear cray zee,
but aye decry barely
living capped off with oy vey!
Sid Lollan Nov 2018
Constellations of Time
    suffocated, deadspace in my neural lapses—

                                               —still, I caught the fly
                                                             ­ with my hand.

Constellations of Time—
         and I am cowboy in the outer expanses of sanity

faithful cowpoke and Lenape murderer,
native lover, too,
dun American guru
       like john wayne defunct.
but when we speak like droogs,
       this be:
       America: A Detective Story

and I’m the dogged dreams of america:
Humphrey Bogart with his dame Liberty

No, I am Robert Mitchum, too.
Remember Philip Marlowe?


I once was america’s psychosis, and still am.
[I am
the soul who walked above
the soul who walked below;

Constellations of Time—
        like gooey cosmic spider webs;
[and I ******* hate spiders]
Fear of Death
…is being stuck, and
fear of that horrible cosmic spider coming home for dinner!

For,
I am
Monsieur Bonaparte’s Hollywood counterpart
who puts the war before the art,
but not the horse before the cart

DEATH

is where my story starts;
railroads,
like the spine of a country and constellations of time
–im on a plain–
ghosts in dust bowl clusters
reflect like
dust particles, like western stars, scattered—
and im on shifting razor planes and who do the math?
Graff1980 Sep 15
Is there life out there
in the city where
ambition and despair
reign supreme,

where people keep
sacrificing
their time and body
on the altar of
success
not love?

Still, we spend ourselves
like coins in a fountain
wishing that we could
climb the molehill mountains
we made from preordained
plain daydreams
that are played out
on our electronic screens.

Such an exhausted existence
of dogged perseverance
pursuing our own undoing
whilst trying to prove
that we are good enough
to be viewed,

but we are just being used.
Till, we find our final fate
in a hole, held up in an urn,
or just dropped off
where we were lost.

The day fades
into night
where lights
burn bright
but like them
all the men
and women
will eventually
flicker out
in death
or in doubt.

— The End —