"gourds" poems
Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence,
Toast to stolen prayers with rarer player’s hands;
Soft in defiant laughter,
when drinking their wine from the bowels of brines
Sing along the Ballads of Heritage with Melodies of Exception;
Boast, not a breathe,
though sullen heirs ghost to fairer wearer’s air(s) of land—
A settlement of Rapture and Resurrection, arid, amid dirt and sand
and King and thy Kingdom sprout flowering tomb, and rosebud temple reach to the sky during the showers of spring
Devours the crescent Moon
in big pink petals of bloom;
A garden so fertile
it could look pretty in wartime—
with Gardeners of Courage and Laborers of Excellence;
(Lapse, not into digressions of Being and Essence
but hands in the soil and planting the actions of kingdom come,
patient building of Spring Reign sure
as the flame, the architect of rising Sun is
(Daughters and Sons of kingdom came,
the soldier in a land been conquered and named; abandoned
for the greenness of hope.
)May it never come, Be All The Same; (
be gentle, though whispering wind)
Seeds of Nextyear and the spores of Awhile,
carried by the Wasps and the Clouds
To the Gentlemen of Excellence and Ladies of Courage,
illuminated, eyes from the flora of stars faraway forest floor of foreign
fears,
as the hungry Owls of Time prepare a final feast—
Consume the years between Here and Now;
Watching from blank perch, among
the Trees of Afterall; a place beyond expectance.
Sing the branches of experience, to wake
in Siren’s cipher; inelegant forms
of waking,
ugly sleep on rocks of seabed; once was aboard a marooned skyline—
Those Who Are Will Be
again, again a serf in a wave of Time’s refraction. Neverending neverbeginning;
Those Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence,
on the Day That Is, arrays of seers sayers doers displayers
optimists and pessimists, toast to them
and their rarer player’s hands,
Boast they, not a breathe, though sullen heirs ghost
to fairer wearer’s air and land;
Laugh and howl and dine, they drink their wine
from disemboweled gourds
of their own divine—
Warped, in jowls of hungry fix,
no feast they fear, for they prey to the Owls of Time.
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 5:28 PM UTC
I asked the Lord that I might grow
In faith, and love, and every grace;
Might more of His salvation know,
And seek, more earnestly, His face.
‘Twas He who taught me thus to pray,
And He, I trust, has answered prayer!
But it has been in such a way,
As almost drove me to despair.
I hoped that in some favored hour,
At once He’d answer my request;
And by His love’s constraining pow’r,
Subdue my sins, and give me rest.
Instead of this, He made me feel
The hidden evils of my heart;
And let the angry pow’rs of hell
Assault my soul in every part.
Yea more, with His own hand He seemed
Intent to aggravate my woe;
Crossed all the fair designs I schemed,
Blasted my gourds, and laid me low.
Lord, why is this, I trembling cried,
Wilt thou pursue thy worm to death?
“‘Tis in this way, the Lord replied,
I answer prayer for grace and faith.
These inward trials I employ,
From self, and pride, to set thee free;
And break thy schemes of earthly joy,
That thou may’st find thy all in Me.”
~ John Newton (1725-1807)
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 1:08 PM UTC
Our solar lamps
plead for more sunshine
as they die
in the middle of dinner
every night
even in this stark Texas
late afternoon light
all the while
I can still
get a beastly burn
the faintest suggestion
of Fall
wafts through
the chilled
grocery store air
rife
with frothy pumpkin lattes
maybe if I stare long enough
at the neighbor’s
front porch
loaded with gaudy gourds
I can almost
trick myself
into feeling
crisp.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 1:24 AM UTC
The woman who had her wings clipped in a car wreck showed me how to swallow truth deep into my throat, how to pull it out with minimal damage - told me being a circus act is easier than being a good person. And it is! worrying about money isn't apple pie, worrying about appearances, disappearances, alien encounters, trafficking, scamming - all so sticky they causes me to gag. When you worry you lose sight of the trophy buck... Which doesn't matter to me, it's your video game - its hooves are in the field, stomping pumpkins and viny gourds to mush.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 7:27 PM UTC
There's spring and there's summer, there's all that's in between
no listless skies of anodyne; now nature flaunts and preens
What beauty fills the hungry eye 'neath a sky of blue, serene
verdant vales soaked in sun, awash in palettes of green
There are pastels that awaken and deep shades that passion brews
created hues that trickle...sprinkled with 'chartreuse'
There's the green of 'asparagus' and that of 'artichokes'
Of 'forest', 'ferns' , of 'moss', a brush of different strokes
Fragrant plants of 'mint', then 'myrtle' and 'green tea'
'Emerald', 'jade' or 'harlequin' and 'malachites' that be
Off creamy shells, just 'pistachio', 'green apples', then of 'pines'
It lies too in 'sap' and 'teal', in 'avocados' and tangy 'lime'
There's green of the 'mantis', in 'jungle', 'hunters' and 'shamrock'
The lithe 'parakeet' fluttering and the lazy sanguine 'croc'
In blessed 'basil', ' pickle', in 'pear', 'olives' in 'bottle green'
'Gourds' and 'peas' that farmers grow in cultivars pristine
'Tis there in 'aqua' and 'seaweed', in the ripple of 'sea green' waves
In 'turtles', 'sea foam', 'anemone' and a 'tropical glistening lake'
From 'laurel green' to an 'army green' , in 'sage' ( a shade of grey )
The color of 'grass' , the murky 'swamp' , hues in array
There's 'neon' and an 'Indian green', a 'Persian' one to mystify
A 'midnight green' to bright 'fluorescent', oh, for green rainbows in the eye
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 10:30 AM UTC
Crisp, the fallen leaves now pile,
the times are changing, Autumn-style,
breezes rake the tippy-tops of trees,
bare branches rattle like skeleton keys.
Subtle September has come once again,
tipping its hat to the Summer's end,
makes clear and crisp the evening air,
the harvest season now sidles near,
grass and weeds will wither dry,
scythes and sickles swing low and high,
gourds of pumpkins soon will burst in patches,
fat apples drop down cider-press hatches,
so soon those sugary coats of frost shall rise,
and sharp, chilly winds will sting teary eyes,
fruit pies will bake, brown nuts will roast,
glasses of wine shall arise in toasts,
to the approach of yet another Fall,
before the stark-white of Winter blankets all.
Sep 11, 2010
Sep 11, 2010 at 6:25 AM UTC
Sings a small boy whose hair is tousled by the wind,
As too the folds of his mother’s peplos and the robes of clouds,
When Greece gathers in silence like the stillness for a deposed crown,
And all Athens around, the song of eiresione for firstfruits of Autumn,
Singing boys with the olive branches of colored wool and garlanded gourds,
A fall-bird to wander the Ionic sky, foretelling of new sunrise.
How that joyful ancient voice still haunts the songbird of sunset.
Apr 2, 2023
Apr 2, 2023 at 11:21 PM UTC
Madame Salamander
With her small, speckled spots
Spread smoothly over her
Skin, similar to the sun.
Tiny toes tip tapping long treks
Through tough terrain.
Madame Salamander
Grand and glamorous, great gales
Of green-eyed ganders give her
Gosh awful grabs as gifts, gabbing
Gleefully of gross gourds.
Madame Salamander
Feel her filmy eyes on her
Flat facade furrow into a feverish
Gaze as her words fan further
And farther whilst she fabulates.
Madame Salamander
Let her linger on her long legend
Of little lizards lipping to large
Lions and licked away from
Their lovely lives as lizards.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 11:46 AM UTC
Forty days and Forty nights
Kachina dolls danced
pounding deer skin drums
rattling snake gourds
whistling circles of
flustered chicken feathers and totem poles
around the drooping firmament
here and there wisps of
sunken chested, shrunken breasted
castrated clouds dragging their empty
rain barrels could be seen straggling
across heat infested waves
at times I swear I could hear the wind
cussing through dry crackling branches
Pine wearing wide brimmed straw hats
squabbling with over bleached blond Palms
How we languished and thirsted for the
dulcet, pure, pellucid taste of Your crystal kisses
lavender squeaky clean smell of rain-bells
oh! to feel those torrents gushing down our
upturned faces, slicked back hair,
engulfing our flowering *****
drenching us to the bone
then this morning we heard an unfamiliar sound
fairy feet tap-dancing on rooftops
excited I ran outside
crowing the Gayatri mantra
flapping prema pink wings
waddling like a duck in slap happy puddles
Yes, Dear God
a grateful, thankful swan,
gossamer reflection
glistening fervently up at You
from diaphanous depths
inexhaustible wellspring
diamond spa of Your Love
Hari Om
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Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 8:47 AM UTC
Here hang the wine-sotted troubadours of sadness and clouds,
~Having played serenas to paramours lipping at the cup of an evening bawd~
Like tethered donkeys now with their packsong of pastorela and alba,
No more musical mensurations of the ****** Mary, Cantigas de Santa Maria,
But slung over the railings of dawn-blotted taverns or courts of renown,
Here hang the wine-sotted troubadours of sadness and clouds,
Like drinking gourds, their stringed citherns dangle from their shoulders,
Leaking the strummed honey-wine of sound like the retchings of the nearby sea.
Jul 31, 2019
Jul 31, 2019 at 11:33 AM UTC
Man enters the tavern
Claps down some cash and outbursts ;
'Thirsty Things Firstly !'
The barman evaluates his condition
And provides a session brew
Man tilts toward potential company
(a ferrety bloke in the shadows)
"Pull up that stack of milk crates
And halve a heart with me"
(he earns a quick friend
in a tolerant stranger)
Soon fellow gaspers fill out the gloom
And an eve of humour descends
Though soon upending
Gourds downed the gullet
Sunk ugly into the scene
The tippling wit drags the night
to the Slurry Pit
things turn Psychologically Rugged
his Mates soon round on him
bulldozing at the Elbows
saying he's a Cheapskate
they Berate him with rigorous Rattleprat
he's been goated with the Cain's mark
they tousle his crown malicious
Thorough in his cups and eaves
he mumbles and leaves
heaving up bile words
unheard
gurgle
over
his
shoulder
outside is dark and harsh
Outside the whole wild world does wail and weary
drunkenly
he sings to match its melancholy
but sadness lifts with his altered view
he sees 'a flock of moons' weigh down the sky
and natures churn
makes a phosphorescent stew of it all
... decay
to lifes' celebration
Jun 27, 2022
Jun 27, 2022 at 9:04 PM UTC
I
And suddenly it is mid-October,
Everything is ablaze with color, all of the leaves
Are descending, the air is comfortably cool,
The sun reminds me of the approaching equinox,
The earth is standing still, it’s lovely, enchanting,
The scent of fresh apples engulfs me, hello autumn.
II
Gourds grace our front doorstep, autumn,
Don’t you love them, don’t you love October,
The way the leaves crunch, their demises are enchanting,
But did they ever die, I don’t know, they are just leaves,
But they are autumn, they hug the equinox,
Love its embrace, its temperature drop, so cool.
III
Where are my sweaters, it’s getting cool,
But I’m not worried, it’s only autumn,
It’s only a Halloween equinox,
Time is changing, it is still October,
But things are changing, even the leaves,
The fire is fading, but it’s still enchanting.
IV
Hello autumn, have you seen the leaves?
Hello October, are you ready for the equinox?
Prepare for enchanting colors and temperatures cool.
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 12:50 PM UTC
Each of you.
My individual singularities, Dad’s One Thing.
Conceived 1955.
Driven home, progeny, made man, unequivocal, indisputable.
Post-war night spirits undaunted ~ stop ******* me.
*** for you, stopped me.
Can’t make it the way you want. Please stop.
Backing off, I respect real you.
Don’t push me Me.
Don’t dream.
Will dream us.
Short sentence for guilt whisked way beyond what crime could be.
We combine beans and seeds and gourds.
That’s science! Culinary!
Botany, true, but I’m enaturated.
Human pod progressed.
If that’s a word, don’t dream it’s not.
Forget every word.
But make each and every word count.
Then add stash, socked away.
I concede.
Mi casa su casa.
Paint it.
Together.
Made mistake then fixed it.
Copasetic dovetails, my lady and me (not I).
We walk talk island jib.
I like the cut of your yar across the moonlit pool.
Go around with me to all haunts, snow globetrotting shaken not stirred
My déjà vu in futurum videre, I can’t believe.
Asunder goddesses should be together,
While Isis and Osiris boogie like Beatrice and Dante encircled,
Their own private imbroglio invaded
By Goth end time alchemists conjuring copyrights for gelt.
You tell me this short story.
I cringe.
My mind clouds men’s, and then conjures Morpheus.
My shadow child joins me in Paradise,
Deliria dancing in concert with Shakespearean intent.
My daughter’s got more guts in one pinky
Than all that fallen pilot on our island bargained for
In the games that decided who’s hungrier.
You could have been that gal.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 12:21 AM UTC
Rich crimson leaves cascade from trees
Embers of fire in the breeze
Luna sails the black sea unseen
Autumnal spell of Halloween
We carve a brood of sculpted gourds
Bake apple pie for all adored
While trick-or-treaters come and leave
Phantasmal dream of Hallows' Eve
Candles burn bright in our window
Ancestors led home by the glow
Our bonfires flames swell with sheen
As shadows dance on Halloween
Let the feast for the dead begin
This spirit night, the veil is thin
Humans and ghosts interweave
The magic realm of Hallows Eve
The clock strikes the Witching Hour
Loved ones graves we bloom in flowers
This spooky Eve of in betweens
The time of rebirth, Halloween
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 3:18 AM UTC
**Because the beauty of your ****** is not a sin.**
I saw you in the twilight
Disrobed in the state of nature
And I gaped and gasped in awesome delight
Spellbound and elated in rapture
As I beheld your voluptuous features
As I gazed upon your priceless treasures
From peak of the mountain
I went down to the fountain
In the valley of your mons veneris
And holding on to your alluring pillars
I have been transfixed at the altar of your estuary
The estuary of your conjugal sanctuary.
I saw the falconer trading his falcon
With the bounty hunter for his gun
Lost in their lust for your connubial offerings
Spellbound by the allures of your charms
And I came in the fleeting mist of the fleeing night
To behold you even before the Aurora Borealis
And saw you embracing the heavenly light
As Father Heaven kissed Mother Earth
And you were enchanted in heavenly mirth
Oblivious of my winking mortal eyes
Hypnotized in the ether of celestial bliss.
At the unveiling of the beloved daughter of Eve
Made perfect in the bowels of boundless love.
Let the fire be kindled in my heart
The eternal flame of my spirit
The breath of eternity
The ether of life formed in purity
Born bare and born free
As my enchanted eyes can now see
Freed from the chains of pains
The pains of natal travails
Oh! Woman! Thou art the vessel of motherhood.
And in thy mammary gourds abound our first food
How much every man in bound to thy *****
For from the canal every man is born
Through the third eye of Eve where love flows
From the seed sown the fruit is grown
The sweetest fruit of love is found in the ******
To behold your naked beauty is not a sin.
~~ Orikinla Oosinachi, 2006.
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 2:45 AM UTC
Some very good friends sat around in their basement
I think we've all been here before
The room of course was smokey and wasted
The four buddies were bored right out of their gourds
They all thought they should do something special
So they decided to build a rocket ship
Throwing a bunch of old plywood together
They then sat around, smoked some more, and planed their spacey trip
Jody spoke up first and said let's go to the moon
But they'd heard that had already been done
That's when he came up with the brightest idea
I know what! We'll go to the sun!
Go to the sun?! We may be high but we're not crazy!!
They replied, this ships made out of wood
That's when Jody explained his brilliant idea
Nodding like Bobble Head dolls they all understood
As Jody dug deeper into his intricate plan
All the guys seemed to like it a lot
They would go when it's dark in the middle of night
When the suns put out and it isn't so hot
Since Jody's the genius, they put him in charge
He seems to have a grasp on what's left of his brain
There were four of them but only room for two
They drew straws 'cause they were having difficulty remembering their names
The straws turned out to be the same length
Cutting them, somebody forgot
So they picked Jody as their Captain Kirk
And Jason as his sidekick Spock
Out in left field, the excitement was contagious
Jody yelled, 'To infinity and Beyond'
They knew that quote came from some famous movie
But had a memory lapse so they gave him more Bobble Head nods
At that point they realized they had no engine
Being impaired, not a one of them cared
They all went back down into the basement
And took another kind of trip without going anywhere
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 4:16 PM UTC
Thanksgiving is a time we are thankful
for what we've got.
For the food on the table and what
harvest hath brought.
Thanksgiving to some is a cold,
autumn day.
Yet to be thankful quietly they
say.
Thanksgiving is remembered usually
with gourds, leaves, and turkey dinners.
Praising God even as sinners.
The wine is poured and some drink up.
Just remember who fills your cup.
Thanksgiving is time to be happy
and a time to celebrate.
Memories of mother saying.." come for dinner-
don't be late."
The table set and people feast and dine.
As one says.." pour me another glass of wine."
"Cheers to all and another year of shelter, clothes,
and food to eat." Yells one.
Harvest time hath been good, but still isn't
quite done.
Thanksgiving is more than that to me.
I'm thankful for God's blessings everyday-
I see.
Its more than food and a pumpkin pie,
latte, or cake.
Its about the love that Jesus brings for
what is real and not fake.
He died and rose again for our sins,
and another year is almost through.
Thanksgiving is a way of reflecting the past
and be thankful for what's new.
I took a walk one thanksgiving afternoon and
saw a poor man begging for at least a dime.
His clothes were worn out, and I gave him
a dollar and a rhyme.
He smiled at me and said..."Bless your soul,
I wish more cared like you." he cries.
As I walk away I notice a teardrop in his
eyes.
Thanksgiving is a time when we should be more
than thankful than one day, but to have a loving heart.
Be thankful for what each day brings and not just one day
in the year that taketh part.
Sherri Harder
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 4:45 PM UTC
Some are lissome, jowly,
blossomed or pocked, teeth
of old horses—eyes white as flour,
a few clubfoot with sisters
pregnant as October gourds. Not
Norman Rockwell’s Americans,
but they are us and live in lopsided
bungalows with leaky roofs,
heaved sidewalks, bare
refrigerators.
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 7:59 AM UTC
Martin may have been
******* by the Trump,
no matter what words
he strings together
the other side
holds trumps,
& Martin's only human,
but the other side
seem of baser
matter,
fabricated out of
cast-offs & junkmetal,
empty gourds
of echoing nothingness,
aching voids,
fathomless chasms,
with truncheoned guardians,
subservient menials,
boot-licking lackeys,
fawning & scraping
Goebbel-like go-fers,
Trump might have ******* him
cos Martin is plumb
tuckered & its
only day 30,
but of course
Martin has the luxury
of not being from
South of the Border,
a very poor man,
a junked-up hillbilly man,
a desperate man.
Martin can give in
to his so-heavy fatigue,
that could be
his choice,
& he's lucky
that way.
******* I'm so tired
of this idiocy.
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 1:24 AM UTC
When the summer of our youth has passed
and the bane of winter draws near,
we sit alone in opaque rooms
and crack ourselves a beer.
To the north we look with glossy eyes
yet to the south our mind wanders freer
we laugh and smile and grimace and weep
and crack ourselves a beer.
We think of days of wonderlust,
of scenes of timeless cheer
of children playing in the rain
-and then we crack ourselves a beer.
What happened to the upbeat muses?
did they take and destroy their lyre?
we wonder where the bluebird went
as we sit and crack a beer.
We haven't seen him for a time
and because of this we fear.
The gourds of innocence broke and leaked
and so we cracked ourselves a beer.
And with them chipped
we quaffed long and deep and into lands we steered
destined for hate and war and poverty
and so we cracked ourselves a beer.
Instead of honeysuckles and wafers
we feasted on bloodied deer
and watched our parents fight and die
as we cracked ourselves a beer.
Trees of mighty oak that hoisted forts
have fallen in the clear
as have the mounds of Geronimo
while we cracked ourselves a beer.
And so our friends have left us
our lovers are nowhere near
last seen flying away with the bluebird
because we cracked ourselves a beer.
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 10:31 AM UTC
*Under the banyan few bamboo stalls
Baskets of garden’s produce
Whiff of fresh fish from fishing trawls
Buyers the sellers amuse.
Brinjals and pumpkins papayas and gourds
Small catch from neighborly streams
With buy and sell exchange few words
Alike a sketch seen in dreams.
Small things small price wish don’t soar high
A few coins to relieve bowel’s pain
Will do enough to let the hopes fly
No need for too hard bargain.
Will be left behind not all will be sold
The fragrance of freshness will stale
They won’t rue hearts of true gold
Having learned this hard fact too well.
Some hours spent when shadows grow dark
Sun decides to recline in west
Wind up they all under moon’s arc
Happy souls homebound for rest.
Sighs the banyan long standing witness
Pains it the quietude of stars
Holds it through dark watches endless
Coming and going of pedlars.*
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 7:17 AM UTC
I haven't felt this in a long while
That same old, beautiful teenage rebellion coursing through my twenty year old veins
Remember the grass we'd tread on during days of
Extracurricular activities all hungover and dread locked
Or the Saturday night in late September
When three girls first inched their way toward a mirror
In the thrift store and the coffee shop
Gourds and games and locking ourselves in the car to listen to that rust colored song
Amid the high school hoi Polloi
Three girls, still, getting closer to that mirror
There were books about the body in a Goodwill
About the diseases that afflict our tiny bones
And science hung from a rack while she put on an old mans sweater and fantasized about the death that could have taken place in each stitch
Catholic school boy bonfire
Doing donuts in the field because, well, life is a highway
And can you believe it? She hit her head again
Oh our blonde believer, knocking her brain out of her skull and onto the highway
While our other friends smoked secrets in the woods out past the driveway
When we parted from our dear doe eyed psychopath
And found ourselves a trifecta for the first time in months,
There was only one thing to do -
Admit there were robots among us, chug a beer, and say goodnight
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 11:14 PM UTC
Trace my love in the half-shell curve of a woman’s back,
Like the naked wetland of Egypt, ibis-nest of the Nile delta.
Lovely woman, throw your arm back like a tethered cord,
To this sledge-mason for your pyramids, this falcon-doting ward
Of your gold capstones, all-seeing eyes over the west-bank shore.
Love, our days of polished limestone are wind-scoured,
Left like a pile of petrified fruit from figs and bottle gourds.
Love, always forget, now the sand has filtered into my pores
And cascades into the empty shell of my quarried heart.
Nov 23, 2019
Nov 23, 2019 at 9:02 PM UTC
I’m sick of it,
The blasted hordes like dried-out gourds
Screaming, cawing for more water.
Feed the flesh, delight the eyes
Give us our shining fantasy. With flippancy
Strip down past all the layers of
My skill my voice my person,
And then take me, break me, make me
Into someone I am not.
Into something that is not.
Pull the paints out.
Imperfections had their day
Yesterday.
Today we’re going all the way.
Make or break you,
Take and shape you:
Tonight you’ll be the idol of the world.
Set the lights, hold your poise.
There’s a goddess on the stage tonight.
Not a person. Not a voice.
It’s the *** doll’s dance tonight.
But we’ll call it art.
I’m sick of it,
The cursed curve,
Numbers up, so clothes come down; and to think I started out
So innocent.
But the eye of the tiger is broken,
The clearness of crystal is crushed -
and those shards just make the perfect dress!
Crystalize, sterilize,
Put me on a different plane.
Separate, distillate,
Don’t let them see your pain.
“If you have to show you’re broken,
It’s gotta be so you can gain.”
Strip away. Everything.
Don’t show them who you really are.
We need an image for the covers
Not a person. Not a windowpane
Into your soul.
So break free, defying,
Undying.
You’re like a god.
No more trying. True flying
Means no more rules for me.
Don’t let them try to
Defy you:
You are now allowed to breathe free.
But only if you push the line. Flaunt your paints and shine your sparkles, leave behind your decency. You stand before a watching globe It is your job to entertain. So really, you are not your own.
The masses are the masters, though they pay.
So no, there’s no way out for you. There’s only forward
Which is downward. And no chance
To just be you. Because
Your freedom isn’t free.
They just can’t take a faulty human. It would be a let-down,
A break-down.
So let us shove you in a box.
Tell you how you have to be.
If you’re gonna keep your money
And your parody of free.
Then take the stage
Play the part.
There’s no more music
No more art.
Just a mad house, a cat house
Diced up platters serving meat.
Kiss my chains, take my gains,
For all my pains
I still ain’t free.
But still. We’ll call it art.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 11:05 PM UTC
Sometimes the Dead
by Michael R. Burch
Sometimes we catch them out of the corners of our eyes—
the pale dead.
After they have fled
the gourds of their bodies, like escaping fragrances they rise.
Once they have become a cloud’s mist, sometimes like the rain
they descend;
they appear, sometimes silver like laughter,
to gladden the hearts of men.
Sometimes like a pale gray fog, they drift
unencumbered, yet lumbrously,
as if over the sea
there was the lightest vapor even Atlas could not lift.
Sometimes they haunt our dreams like forgotten melodies
only half-remembered.
Though they lie dismembered
in black catacombs, sepulchers and dismal graves; although they have committed felonies,
yet they are us. Someday soon we will meet them in the graveyard dust
blood-engorged, but never sated
since Cain slew Abel.
But until we become them, let us steadfastly forget them, even as we know our children must ...
Keywords/Tags: pale, dead, shades, shadows, fragrance, mist, vapor, fog, rain, forgotten, melodies, dismembered, tombs, graves, catacombs, sepulchers, mausoleums, graveyard, dust
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 2:24 AM UTC