Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Effi you are strong
Held together at points with straw
But string, and twine
Are everywhere they belong so
Effi you are strong

Effi, who I wipe a baby spider from her eye
Swaying, as I have her in her nest in my arms
Preening, playful, so pale and yet warm
Like yet has her form not ready been burned

Like yet has her form not ready been blurred-
Been turned over and over in my hands, and
The hands of some other passing estranged
Who make it their hobby to hold dolls in their hands, and
In the eyes of even those who would like me to “Stand
Back!” And who have many opinions on how you are arranged

Effi you are rotting
Left apart at points with straw
For fun. With time
Parts of you may be lost and gone, for
Effi you are rotting

Effi, who lays crumpled with termites in her dress
Making not a sound as I lovingly impressed
Teeming, infested, so green and yet cold
Like bathing in the attic sun, my raggy little urn

Like staying pretty, still, angled and borne,
Never thou forget from deepest-my-strands
Hair, sweat, longing and wrath to spare you an age
Kept from blood, for mandibles can course through your trunk
You are blessed as more tree than that of a Man
Which says nothing of your more feminine form

Effi you are broken
Simply open to the cold
For sun is spun,
Peaking around attic shafts in your home
Effi you are alone

Effi who they would all stone into the bitter ground
Making ne’er a thought for you as only I protest
For your baggy face I cannot live to see it harmed
You know I did not make the eyes of all the laughing rest

Effi, Effi, Effi, little things like you get lynched
Effi- and it’s them who make you little, it’s not us
It’s not them who lovingly drew you up to always blush
Nor the one who keeps you at great risk to his health
For the one who has you in your nest in my arms,
Has a needle- not some rope to tie you by the neck

Effi you are sunken,
Surely aching in the cold
Or warmth as well
Is scared of what is simply our love-
Effi you are hiding

Do you intend to dig into or out of the dirt?
To escape me, or escape those who see you a sport
And bring up their arms- And one shrieks and blurts
Like “May only monsters own such grotesque sort!”

Like what do you know of the world and of pain
And you’d go out there with no muscles to stand
And I know you- I know you’d get too warm, and
What plan could you make that does not involve us?
They make a special place, in fact, for little girls, like thus:
They call it Hell, and little bugs and string do burn so much

Effi you are safe
Held away from the face with disgust
For skin will crawl
From somewhere clutched inside your breast
Effi you are safe

Effi, who I stitched to life with bug legs, with ******
Who’s little souls will try to serve you, or your soul they’ll wrest
Beaming at the people who hold you from their face
Like soldiers- like claim many who drop you and your lace

I know in my heart- and I know my heart so well,
As I modeled your heart after all the love I form-
That I did not just make you, but I was made in turn
To make you and to keep you near my heart and in my arms
To store you and your comfort of rotting, writhing hugs
Far away from any evil constructs on this earthly dwell

Effi you are strong
Held forever with my straw
And string, and twine
Do everything I allow so
Effi you are strong
from february 27, 2021
poem from the past a day #31
a clunky thing about a very evil caretaker/child relationship.
i'm really proud of the refrains, such as the fourth stanza.
Ken Pepiton Aug 2024
Such tellings as are catalogued folk tales,
and sorted on similarities of plot or character,
from child holdings realized as old, stories, reready
common creatures come alive, the Bremen Band
led by a *******, is all I recall,

then this old cat that comes around
come to mind, ai winking
but as Al exists to recall it all,
"What's got in your way, old beard-cleaner?"
asked the donkey,
as a significant kind of character,
direct descendant from Balaam's, who was
predecessor to Francis the Mule, who was last
of the eloquent *****, less famous nowadays,

magic is not what it once once was, supposed,
posed superior to lesser knowings, proposed
to be the very instructions from the knowing
tree forest whose reach into the tombs,
breathes gaseous weforms from earth wombs,
once once
seppuku - no, Hopi navel of the world- aigotit
Sipapu - spirit forms become Katcina

we see and say so using idle words you own,
and we trust our assisting intelligences own
means of translating our merged minds own

original intention, was to be renowned, famed
for slaying dragons of any non Christian kind,
daemons and demons unionized, to assist
using the psychology of the guy on
Christian radio, Dr. Dobson, dare to discipline,

oh, there, thence rose daddy wounds, perhaps
five long generations deep, military minds run
down this branch of my family tree,
chthonically rooted back to Phrygia,
flip the dime, who holds both sides?
how were these magic dimes made so?
By cleansing the sillohuette of old John D.

"Buddy, can you spare a silver dime?"

When the March of Dimes began,
all dimes were silver dimes, all values
were redeemable in silver, but those days

and those ways, do not function efficiently,

ef-fort effi fine-ancially fiscal police rules,
fi- gimme a reason
hard currency, abused since ever was a magi
with a convincing story told invitingly,

come and see,

Let us order our days from today,
while it remains today, to and fro, let us go
upon the face of the world, the home of our we,

we, in spirit form, find ourselves in words and music,
mused first, of course, in sequence of humane events,

we agree to become, not feminized, but wise, using
Wisdom's feminine form from all ancestral knowings,

she seduces wise men ***** by glorious old boys,
whose only war was Kriegspiel - we all can be heros,

or so the hero makers say, follow us, learn to **** at will,
on demand, you know the drill, onward, Christian Soldiers,
into faith as strongly wrong as your own, sincerely

what sin, the idea first fit to a word, once made
sacred, original intention of the sound chata makes

means error, does not fit future need to know, do over,
glitch, try again, Cain, chata is always possible, hamartia
claim blame, fame and shame
aitia, we invent in mind games, as a she formed from Wisdom,
modeled by sheform statues
of Freedom in Phrygian caps,
on County seat town greens
all over preboomer America,
all meaning lost, until today.

Liberty nods.

I may have made a child that I never met,
and whether ever has a fee for that innocense,
I chose to think I don't believe I know, for sure.

Imagine that, in magical terms, in my bubble
being edge wise superior from every point,

never viewed from until the tech we have today,
left preceptual connections where disconnects,

are as commonly real as
back when Grace Murray Hopper
lived in the upper crustean realm
of education, time records a genius Sidis,
coabode on Earth with her and Bucky Fuller.
William James Sidis, self normalized,
to collected trolley passes,
and let the bosses be bosses,
and that is all,
we know we may yet
imagine the mind used to live true,
whose gaming mind may imagine,
the opportunity,
to visit each trolley ride, in this
version in Sidis's philological vendergood voice,

fourth dimensional assisting ***-umphed if I'da
known, focus on the navel, really, think it through,

we yawn, and wonder,
how long a tale is told, tells a lot about a tale's use.

We reckon, we re co know agnostically religamental
right usual working ways we try, you know

to spy an eye in time tuning spacy gazy lazy
let's see, when last we came upon an option

go, or stay, think it through, or edit the art part,
make it meet the American Rhetoric of 1968,

Cathy sent me letters from the convention,
she was still mourning Bobbie, I was in Long Binh,

being crazy enough to shoot, back home, here,
I was the guy burning actual ****, in the rear,
there then,
I could see the jail go up in smoke from here,
me and the Papasan's found it abnormally strange.

Recognizing a stoner survivor's version of riches
from the total shitshow through to this one today,

across all potential four dimensional codes,
we signal something sibilantly whispering, see.    

Well, imagine imaginary people,
beautiful mind alternative points
from which any fractal forms a whole

truth held self evidently, for show,
to prove, you know, you did go,
you did pay for going, your choice,

bet your life, at any pre myelinated
phase of cognitive natural fructifity,

presume resumption was begun
passively requiring secret rights,

the  hand shake, with out the thumb
nailed it, dead serious, sincerity
definitely now we both know this:
Sincerely
There has been a temptation
to see the first element
as Latin sine "without."
But there is no etymological justification
for the common story that the word means
"without wax" (*sine cera),
which is dismissed out of hand by OED,
Century Dictionary ("untenable"), and others,
and the stories invented to justify
that folk etymology are even less plausible.
Watkins has it as originally "of one growth"
(i.e. "not hybrid, unmixed"),
from PIE *sm-ke-ro-,
from *sem- "one" (see same) +
root of crescere "to grow"
(from PIE root *ker- (2) "to grow").
De Vaan finds plausible a source
in a lost adjective *caerus "whole, intact,"
from a PIE root meaning "whole."


----------------
Whole truth original intent…

Entertaining lost minds,
following trolley tickets

to find the genius in Sidis,
to retrace those long ago
trolley tracks, in old down
towns, not the status tracks

those were the tracks that ran
by the slaughter houses and
packing sheds, south of town,

out in the boondocks, swhat
some called wrong sides of towns,
uptown and downtown, one stop light
on the Mother Road to California,

there, is a sip-appertaining to news

adapted to, fret not, some fail now,
yet today remains today every where
at once, each time you pay mind, here

is where what we are come alive.
One reader makes it work,
a we thought flies free.

We laugh, or we worry.

All the players in the Bremen Band
were old when the opportunity arose.
Where else can one not fear rejection and so, sow such unorthodox seed?

— The End —