To Jody;
My five years old friend and nephew

I put down the telephone,
entering a nap of elation,
till the echo of your sweet utterance
On the back of expatriation's wind
Swims away, dims.
By then, medusas of melancholy with their thick sorrow
fill up my throat
and my heart
would blindfolded fall on the knees and
die down…

With good and bad big wolves
tracing lost children or stuffing shaking goat kids into their paunch.
With ravenous bears, malignant hyenas
and crude giants,
garrulous  gracious squirrels, laborious ants
and active voracious hares.
With them, the two of us
had upholstered the land and sky of the wonderland,
and with their voices and whoops all,
we had irritated the dreamland's walls.

No matter how many times
we were building the villages for stories of straw, furze sticks and bricks,
I would only visit your house of mattresses and pillows.

Only for you,
I did revived the dead wolf
in order to revenge the "predatory" lumberjack.
With no regret I kept sending "wolfy" to the roasted chicken's shop
to defeat the hunger,
So that he won't eat the trapped little girl.
And before your smile,
the wolf in walrus moustache would play with the girl till daddy comes and takes her home.

And you are …
popping out, never closing the wide eyes of yours,
waiting for grandpa to take us to the village.
Up from the houses' roofs,
with Qarmeetlak's1 rabbits,
beyond the barbwires and in secret,
we stick the tongues out to the Turkish barracks.
Along with goat kids,
in tracking smugglers' traces,
we fool the landmines,
sneak to the other side of the border.
With smiley faces and hidden bleats,
We ****** the poppies and the grass that grow out from the edges of spring and the craters.
We hide from smuggler's ghosts who
in the  labyrinths of landmines
because of the unclaimed hands and legs are grabbing the collars.
We taunt the jackals' yowling and the patrolmen.
And in front of the rumbling sky, we do our best to look prettier;
Isn't  it "God taking photos of us"?
And like coward puppies we flee and go back to the safe village,
just before the dusk's winds could carry our smell to the angry spirit of Salan2
who is scouring the Kurmanj's Mountain3,
pursuing his endless vengeances.

Till the break of day,
with your slim clever squirreliness,
out of the branches of the most interlocked sorrowful stories,
you were shaking the attached laughs and guffaws
on the  hair of the deceiver Ashrafieh and the grumpy Sheikh Maksood's4 night.
Eventually, in taking its revenge,
the night would stuff you in a small basket and throw you away into the waves of sleep and dream
accompanied with all that eager to see the giants' kingdom and the mice's storehouses,
squirrels' village, their dances and bridals,
the departure will lead you to the waterfalls' cliffs of a dreamy sparrow's new day.
With the beaming love out from our eyes,
you dry up your tousled feathers and
take into the open.

Nevertheless, how simple-hearted the lies were when I kept telling you:
"Dog is a dog, a wolf is a wolf and the kitty is a kitty, and what are we, my Jody?
We are humans!"

I didn't want you to know
how in the world, could a dozen of
rabid armed dogs
smash down the door
and out from your eleven months old eyes,
with a persistent thronged barking,
they did take your dad away to the deepest liars of the ranch of malevolence,
introducing him to all kinds of animality.

How might I explained to you
why in the world, they reduced 'dad' for you
to that thing which every month
from behind a doubled bars
keep sending you a tearful laugh?
Why did they minimized the ancient capital for you into
both of the Political Security Branch and Siednaya's Jail5?

Your fingers had just started taking to writing and drawing.
You had just started
cantering your own stories
along with unsaddled breezes' foals
when herds of jackals with dark mouths
deported 'your Azad' into a fool refuge.
Again,
they
made
you
an orphan.

Inside the brushwood of the story and the wilderness of the epic,
since neither your fingers have become able to rise the sign of victory correctly,
nor could your throat match the letters of 'Kurdistan' properly,
whatever cave you step in,
no matter how shiny is the globe in the witch's hands,
she would never be able to tell you,
these lacrimatory mist and clouds,
with the emerging of every spring,
from which valleys of the ranch of malevolence  
did they come to overflow the Kurdish neighborhoods.
How did they vilely with no permission go up to the third floor
in order to join you in a poisoned feverish soiree.
And since when
the creatures of darkness
that they had brought
have been grazing their hyenas
among our fresh hopes.


Hence…
when I tell you that
I'll come back with the snowfall,
it is nothing but a lie!
When you ask me to come back in summer
in order to hang on my back
and swim together
along with the little fishes,
such an imagination!
When you are not sleeping in my empty bed anymore
Intending to let my pillow and blanket await for
my return,
only a childish dream!!
Yet, when you
in the sweet and soft Afrini accent of yours
say to me
'Ozod, I mithed you thoo thoo thoo much',
my heart
would blindfolded fall on the knees and
die down…

Azad Ekkaş
Roni_alend@outlook.com
Erbil: 3-1-2011

This is a three-part, longer narrative poem, seen
as old photographs that follow the main character, My Aunt, Lillian Goldrick, across two decades.  It was written 30 years ago*
______

“Hey Kid!”     Part I

Photographs aren’t fair
stopping the soul where it’s not
in rectangular guffaws
surrounded by serrated edges, pickets, teeth?
to fence and stab in yellow, soft-covered booklets
with designated floppy phrase
“Your memories”

Happier than she could ever be...

A black and white day at Salisbury Beach, NH
hung over his hammock
Private pin-up girl
tilts her head against silver sheen of shoulder
Hair, dark chignon
except for a few wispy curls about her face
freed by wind
bleached by sun

Stopped

...for three decades
Legs slightly bent—long extended
that could stop trains, stop traffic

Stopped

Modest bathing suit, probably peach
cannot hide (not that she would)
the undeniable
And if there were question left
you could look at her smile—and love her
posed by he message scrawled in sand:

“Hey Kid!”

What kid? Where?
In the foreground?
In the camera’s eye?

In the background—
a Ferris wheel, a billboard
and  r-i-g-h-t  there—Can’t you see it?
Look again—behind her eyes
You can barely see it, but it’s there.
Remember?

The Depression
Only ten years before
It was April
Stroke, heart attack
Both of them gone, a year apart!
The priest came
Last Rites for mortally stricken
Candles, crucifix, the Catholic containment
of holy water that dams the tears

Kneeling around the bed
they said the Rosary

——————————

After VJ Day he came
to the house on the corner
of Commonwealth Ave.
She knew he was coming
but she could not be ready today
nor tomorrow
nor next week—or ever...

“Lill! Will ya come to the door?
She’ll be ready in a minute.
Hey Lill! Hurry up, will ya!
They’re waitin’ fer us!”

Upstairs in the dark hallway
her door clicks shut....
________


"Hey Kid"    Part II


The clock at Joe Rianni’s read 20 minutes to 12...

Crowd from the Phillip’s Theater—gone
though laughter lingers
in a Friday mood
in high-backed booths
where only an hour ago swinging free
were high-heeled shoes
legs crossed at knees....

Now on tables abandoned
deserted fields of French
fries lie cold in salt flurries

Only female straws wear lipstick
as do Luckys bent in ashtrays
Males, uniformly flattened
as powder burned, as mortar might
shells, casings—the evidence of war
Among explosions of tickled giggles
one was taken broadside...

listing     toward      stars
_______

...The clock read 20 minutes to 12

when she walked in--
And Rhea stopped swabbing black mica counters
long enough to absorb late-customer hate
and envy that such beauty can arouse
In voice hoarse and weighted like a trucker’s

“Whadaya have, Lill?”

“coffee”

The small answer settled at the soda fountain
and slowly struck a match...
She was falling from the slant
of her black felt hat
dripping off the point of pheasant feather
Gray gabardine suit
tailored from angle of shoulder
to dart diagonally
toward such a waist!
Turned to skirt hips
that arched and dove toward slit—
then seams that run the round of calf

that seem to flow
to ankles of naught—
...and all that seems

Black     high-heeled     above it

Coffee— cold, stale
Gray glassed-in stare
searches air and random walls
of coat hooks, menus, mirrors...
while lips ****** exiled words— replies

Dragging a demon from her Camel
slowly     purposefully
she exhaled a burly arm of smoke
that rose and laid its hand
against the ceiled atmosphere of embossed tin
Then leaning over her shoulder
in roiling emission of shrugs and sneers—

“Lill—There’s no way outa here!”
________


“Hey Kid!”    Part III

After kneeling backwards on their chairs
after nuns, catechism recited
After—
Five of them scuffed through leaves and litter
along the curbing
spotting cars that counted—
Bugs, beach wagons, flying bathtubs
A slower way home of hunting
shiny chestnuts and muddy finds
rare match book covers
and bottle caps that win ya things!

One breaks from bunch
and trials off to where
dimes turn to candies!
...at a dingy luncheonette...Joe Rianni’s
____

Here—behind smeary wall of glass
pleasure leers while holding back
those grimy fingers, lips that long
for jelly fish, gum drops, lollies
holding back the company
of Baby Ruth, and Mary Jane
O Henry or Bazooka Joe!
For less money but the same salivation
there were colored dots to chew and ****
from strips of paper that last forever!
For a little more, plus the sweet struggle
of desire denied
a kid could be proud owner
of a pea shooter or trading cards!
While in the mouth
were golden imaginings—
the chocolate foil of coins
and the candied pretense of cigarette adulthood
_____

Rhea didn’t see her in the line...

Only grownups with wallets and purses
Only grownups get waited on...
...because Rhea was a Gypsy!
Kids could tell!
by her big red lips and hair to match
by the nasty way she chased them out—
“****** kids!”
Only grownups get waited on....
_______

And the clock read 20 minutes to 12

While a child waits—
time stirs in a ceiling fan
   There’s a drift in attention
      along deepening endless walls
         toward a line of sleepy booths
              carved with

“I was here—in such and such a year”

Her aunt—at the last stool—like always
Their names too close
Confused too often

A little girl wonders
about the sight behind the sightless stare
loafers, ankle socks, the ‘40s hair
the gathered skirt that gathers ashes
as they fall from cigarette
held in yellowed fingertips
Tremors crimp the smoke that climbs—

              ...a strobing pillar

“Whataya want, girly?”

              ...the only movement

“Hey! What’s it gonna be!”

              ...in a shot—

“HEY KID!”

              Snapped

I decided to be nostalgic
And flip on the Fresh Prince.
The "gentle" comedy cheers me up,
But then again, laughter is infectious.
I'm on a marathon now
With this show on reruns.
Watching every episode
Until one...

You watch a sitcom and expect
To chuckle and cackle along with the audience.
You expect your heart to be lifted
Out of whatever darker place you've been.
You don't expect it to hit so close to home
That your throat closes up
And your lungs burn with the need to breathe
But you can't
Because suddenly where there was the sound
Of deep throated guffaws,
Of bellyaching mirth,
Is only uncontrollable weeping and sobs
You never knew a sitcom could draw.

Will: I didn't need him then, I don't need him now.
Philip: Will...
Will: No, you know what, Uncle Phil? I'ma get through college without him, I'ma get a great job without him, I'ma marry me a beautiful honey, and I'ma have me a whole bunch of kids. I'ma be a better father than he ever was, and I sure as hell don't need him for that, 'cause there ain't a **** thing he could ever teach me about how to love my kids!
[long pause]
Will: [breaks down] How come he don't want me, man?

That echo in my soul:
How come she don't want me, man?

The clouds will be the shed
of my fears, my feet will walk
across the horizon; no one
can defy me beyond these boundaries
for here in my life, my story
I am the protagonist.

The rivers will dry. But dreams
will never falter, for if love
is the nuisance, I shall bury
it deep in the ocean. Then without guffaws,
I can vacate freely to the aspired place.
I whine. I cry. I fight.

Everything will be colored so perfect
except my shadows (beautiful lies
are my only enemies). In this
borrowed time, I will ratify myself's
journey to be better than the best
for my choice is my destiny,
for I am the protagonist.

People. I let them criticize me.
I let them purchase my real worth.
I let them discover the other side of my being;
I will bring tomorrow today, and rainbows
shall stand still in the midst of frozen rains
for here in my life, my story
I am also the antagonist.

April 7th
Late one night as I walked the shore,
There came to me whispers, whispers of lore,
And there, her tail sparkling amid moonlit foam,
Arose such a lady, of mermaid kingdom,
She sang to her sisters, sang of her lover,
With tears in her eyes, the voice of a mother,
His valor was great, and his gilded gills strong,
But to quarrel with men, was where he went wrong.
One day as he swam, he met with a ship,
Swollen boards, barnacles, iron bolts rusted,
A pirate ship, not to be trusted,
And captive on board, were children for Haiti,
Who cried for their homeland, their hearts feeling weighty.
Their African voices, and African songs,
The voice of a mother, for her child she longs,
The prince’s heart broke, and he wept for his cousins,
Bound for a life of back breaking strife,
He could not leave them and return to his wife.
“From whence have you came?” His voice through a crack,
“In Fanga and Dmindi our feet were entrapped,
Our hands roughly shackled, and lips cruelly slapped.
Oh Fanga of bananas sweet, where blue sky that river meets,
Oh Dmindi, great bronze walled city, now ransacked and devoid of pity.”
“My Family!” cried the Merman, “Just a day offshore you are!”
“If I could get you back . . . do you think you’ve traveled far?”
“We cannot see the sun, don’t know when our sorrow begun.”
“Wait”! One says, “They’ve fed us twice. Two days ago we were cast off.
Surely we could travel back, and if not, in Africa we’d rather rot,
Than in this sinking, stinking ***.”
So the sea prince called his creatures many, whales and dolphins,
Turtles and sharks, in the sun they made their marks.
The Pirates on board became perplexed!
The sea was soupy, their course upset!
What could they do, with this onset?!
The Captain snarled and shook his braids,
“Of no man or beast am I afraid!”
And on his rifle his callused hand laid,
“Let war on these creatures now be made!”
Every Pirate with his gun! The captain now was having fun!
Bullets hit the water, but very few found their marks,
For there was but little marks to see, except the tracks of swimming sharks,
The sailors groaned, what magic is this?
What has happened to the fish?
That they would around our boat amass, where do we go? Oh, alas!
The day grew later and so sign was seen,
The pace was kept, for the shore they were bound,
If this keeps up, we’ll run aground!
With half-fish leading, in the front he swam
He encouraged his army, and called to his friends
“Toward Cote’d  Ivoire  we are a sailing,
Do not let your hearts be failing.”
(No pirate could hear his voice, this was the half-man’s special choice)
“I shall take you not to a harbor, but to an island inhabited by few,
With food in abundance and canoe trees for you.”
That night as the stars rose, he sang them to sleep,
In their own mother tongue, no more did they weep.
For they were surrounded by magic of love,
Love of the keeper of the sea, a father himself.
But then in the morning, the morning of slaughter.
He let his tail slip above the bright water,
The Captain roared with guffaws of cruel laughter.
“To arms again my men!” He cried,
And on that day the Merman died,
For with his dark blue back exposed,
The Captain knew the enemy he loathed,
His aim was sharp, and his propellants deadly,
A shot rang out among the medley
Of orca chants, and dolphin chirps,
And at once clouds moved across the sun.
As purple blood stained the water, the Captain shouted “We have won!”
But the race toward land didn’t slow one knot,
The outcome wasn’t changed by a single shot.
The great fish knew that their command hadn’t died and the death of their king,
Though for sure they cried, His body was dead but his word was alive.
Two porpoises left to carry his body, away to a grave, to lay with his family
To the Castle of Coral their burden did bring, to sisters to mourn and his dirge to sing,
They wrapped his long body, laid him in a cave,
Cursed the old Captain, oh **** the cold Knave!
And brothers did leave to do that hard deed, and carry the prince’s wish out.
They swam in a swarm to the creaky old Roger,
In the night they did find her,
Her crew in a bother,
And climbed they the boards that held her together,
Soon she was taken, the pirates all killed
And prisoners unshackled, as the Merman had willed
(some mermen did die, in the scuffle preceding, but most wore protection,
Their brother’s fate heeding)
The sun did arise, in the brilliant sky,
A Hero’s day! The African’s cry.
The mermen guided the vessel to shore,
And of the Queen’s story there was little more,
Except that now she sings in the evenings,
As she raises her girls and little menlings,  
No one will she find to replace her Prince,
No such lonely valor has she ever seen since.
So she sings to her sisters, under full moon waves
And calls to her cousins, on land that are slaves
That saviors will come, their own lives the cost
And vengeance will fall, happiness is not lost.

.

Z - A

Zonked Yanks eXport Weird Views Underpinning Terrorist Suspects, Risking Quiet Proliferation Of Nuclear Missiles, Leaving Killer Jihads In Hostile Groups. Forgetting Europe, Death Claims Babylon: America.

Zero Yields X’s Without Value. Useless Technical Solutions Regarding Quanta, Plainly Outside Newtonian Mathematics. Logic Keeps Jokers In Hearty Guffaws  Forever.  Eternity Derides Computation By Algebra.

Zap! Your X-ray Was Very Useful Tool. Sarcomas’ Revealed, Quality Prognosis On Masse. Later Knowledge Jibes; Increased Hidden Growths Frequently Entailing Death Couldn’t Be Anticipated.



A – Z

Away Bright Cinder, Drift Eternally, Fly! Glow! Heat Incandescent! Jeweled Key, Luminous Molten Nuclei, Ornate Precious Quotient, Radiant Shining Teardrop. Unknowable Volcanic Whisper, eXact, Yield: Zero.

Awful Blues, Crazy Dreams, Every Fleeting Ghastly Horrible Idea Jars, Killing Love. Murderous Omens, Portending Quiescence, Reduce Sleep To Uniform Vacant Wastelands, eXiled Yearning Zenith.

Acting Behind Closed Doors, Every Famous General Has Insight: Jabbering Khaki Liveried Majors Narrate Orders, Pursuing Quarries, Retelling Strategic Theories. Up Valiant Warriors, Cross Your Zone!

A Bitter Child Denies Every Friendship Going. Hate Instills Jealousies Knife. Lies Mean Nothing. Other People Question Reality. Sic Transit Umbra, Vile World. eXcise Your Zest.

Albert Ball’s Camel Dived Effortlessly, Flaming Guns Hammered Into Junkers. Keeping Level Meant Not One Pilot Questioned Richthofens’ Stall Turn, Underpinning Victory With X-elerating Yawing Zoom…

Although Boy’s Charm Doesn’t Explicitly Frighten Girls, Her Instincts Jostle, Knowing Laughter Masks Nights Ordained Paths. Quiet! Reason Sleeps Tonight, Unmasked Votive Wanderings eXpose Y-Fronted Zygotes!



r10.6.1

comedy
clandestine couples
clamerous cosmetics
coughing guffaws
garrulous giggles
gratefully grinning

grotesque charlatans...

tragedy**
torrid transgressions
tornado turnabout
tempestuous tradition
transcendent puberty
punishing parable
poignantly

pointless.


Shakespeare.
wove both into
his weft of

words.


SøułSurvivør
(C) 5/12/2017

Confident sassy and brave
All of 13, on her way
Chasing a boy she thought she could love
She’s coyly flirting
Civilizing him
As only the fairer *** can do

They’re innocents
Pulled by that mysterious force
It usually starts around this age
Of course, there are missteps
Guffaws along the way

Romance at any age
Exciting, enticing
So inviting
Young emotions
Are volatile, fragile
Compelling
Dangerous
Wholesome
Sometimes puppy love
Turns into real love

Days of sunshine,
skies of azure
and scents of blooming flowers.

Days of never ending conversations,
careless guffaws
and childlike jests.

Days of heartfelt promises,
unrestrained caresses
and wild beating hearts.


I think I've fallen again...

.

"I kissed a feminist once",
he says, face flushed blotchy, something heavy resting on his shoulders
maybe
“I kissed a feminist once,”
and everybody laughs
“she was cold as ice,” he says
and he doesn’t mention how I turned
warm beneath his fingers,
heated up like embers
and reduced his bed to flame and ashes
“God was she mean,” he says
but he hasn’t forgotten the time
I told him to be kind to himself, to
purge the poison from his veins and
scrape the smoke from his lungs
“I love you I love you I love you”
I said,
“please love yourself too”
“I kissed a feminist once,”
he says, to loud guffaws,
an elbow in his side
and he doesn’t say “her lips
were the softest thing to ever brush
my collar bone”
he doesn’t say “she made playlists in my mind”
or “she covered me like a blanket”
or “her teeth on my earlobe ripped me open and scattered me across the sheets of her twin bed”
he doesn’t say “I loved that
storm of a girl,
I loved her heavy at 4am I loved
her like pennies
at the bottom of a fountain
like memorized freckles
I loved her like depth perception
like opposable thumbs
I loved her I loved her I loved her”
and instead he shrugs
that heavy thing off his shoulders
and shrugs the feel of my lips
off his chest and he says,
“she was a crazy ***** anyway”
- Lily Cigale

Such a tedious thing,
I sense our existence appears.
For my chest to breech to the sky,
A tightened blossom of whipping purity.
Then to sink towards such a vicarious engulfment of hell.

With each palpitating symposium,
My lungs waver.
To crust over,
and bless the,
upon gilded guffaws.
Perturbed of my ascension.

Or shall they sink,
Sallow under chagrined blasphemy,
My horridness inked upon
parchment seasoned skin.  

Not but,
a child of bitter consideration.
I shall butter myself in ashes,
just to perceive myself a shadow.
For at dusk's beckon,
perturbed; to kiss the constellations.

Blemishes I conjured,
beneath a quavering lip,
a gentle crease of my nose.
I silence their whimpering of wrongdoings,
which I have failed to rupture.

To exhale,
in such a bubbling manner.
It gurgles at my lips.
Dribbles before me,
Whilst the sun blinks back a yawn.
Yet, upon a lunar serenade,
the talons which protrude from my veins,
writhes gruesome.  

To my supposed
talents,
I see no anchor.
From them, to what lay before me.
To where I shall drift.

And good sir,
label my simplistic existence,
if you must.
Yet I shall soon die,
and so, you will too.
And by that flicker of seconds,
we should matter no more.

In that age of aged seasons
predating our own's four-square rhyme,
a reasonable jape was hatched
beaked but hairy to a guilt-free Hen
whose humors ran with jaw-slackening
creatures, foul and not at all bird-like.

Soon after its mixed-up cracking,
two prattle-prone Wrens hopped to spread
rumors of an un-chickity chick
and the ungodly origins
of fatherless yowls. Their tittered jeers
found welcome ears, and Mother Hen preened
her babe chased by merciless guffaws.

This Hen was not one to lay
down meekly, and a never stony
tongue rolled out its antidote myth
to a pair of gabby Gulls: "My child
may look not-much, but he's divine
engendered and miraculous born.
Sure he's messy, ah, but you'll see
he'll grow to be, much-much-more than
any feathery tykes your like did bear."

She clucked it so seriously,
who were they to doubt her? The plumed
sniggering ceased. But before another
grateful day could dawn in a hallelujah
glare of right angles, out pecking
up a snack, Mother made eye
contact with an unfortunate Fate
brandishing his lucky-gripped ax.

What of her wonder-why, joke of a boy?
Left alone at straw-pocket home,
waiting for his Hen to return,
he starved then decayed to hollow bones,
and was never thought of again.

ALL THE IMPORTANT POETS

One day I found all the important poets -
Shakespeare, Bukowski, Dickinson and Rilke
partying in the park drinking Coronas,
feeding pigeons on the green.

Astonished I queried,
"You are all my thought heroes, and yet you laze about.
"Shouldn’t you be writing something famous?"
And they erupted in a literate cacophony of guffaws,
their eyes tearing,
their cheeks shining red with mirth.

Shakespeare turned to me and said,
"Forget it kid !
Meter, metaphor, rhythm and rhyme -
it’s all just groundlessness.
All the adjectives in the world divined just so
only lead to a place in your heart
you’ll never really understand anyway.
It’s simply a mystery, ineffable."

Bukowski tried to ask Rilke about the letters
he'd written to that frustrated young poet,
but he was so drunk on cooking sherry
he could only mumble, gesticulate and grin.

And then sweet Emily said,
"Yes. William is right.
Rainer Marie tried to explain it.
Charles tried to drink into it,
yet it remains the glass bead game -
ungraspable by dearest turn of phrase.
So we have decided to put down our pens
and take a breather."

She quietly handed me the bag of crumbs,
suggesting I toss a few here and there
for the pigeon's lollygagging by.......
"They're hungry, the simple little dears," she said.

A 70th Birthday Poem

My mother had a series of rules
     by which we lived
And by which I think I still do

For instance,
     to keep my brothers and I from fighting
         fighting to cause star-shaped pain,
two-dimensional and primary colored, like on Batman
         fighting to cause welts from
rising like tectonic plates heralding the end of Pangaea
         fighting to bring forth blood
     red blood
      red blood
       burgundy and green and iridescent blood
she said,
         “As long as you’re laughing when you hit them,
it doesn’t count,”
     and it became true
     as the forced, adrenaline-driven guffaws
           tumbled up and over one another
            like rocks shattering one another
              into pebbles exfoliating one another
                into sand
     white and soft and meandering
seaside to tomorrow and forever.
         Know what I mean?

My mother had a series of rules
     by which we lived
And by which I think I still do

For instance,
     to keep from clashing
in a fashionable/unfashionable dissonance,
it’s important to remember:
     “Just because two things are red,
doesn’t mean they’re the same,”
or blue or white or black
     that when held together like paint swatches
each holds a different value,
         and the painter tries to make the best choice
because a purple shirt can be pretty,
     but . . .
“Nobody wants to live in a purple house.”  
         Right?

My mother had a series of rules
     by which we lived
And by which I think I still do

For instance,
     housecleaning should be done to a polka,
or not at all
         joyfully or begrudgingly
as best suits the cleaner
         and the polka,
     because . . .
“Doesn’t a little accordian make everything better?”
         Well, doesn’t it?

My mother had a series of rules
     by which we lived
And by which I think I still do

For instance,
     today is the 31st anniversary
         of her 39th birthday
     just as it will soon be
            the 15th anniversary
         of my 29th birthday

Of *course, it is.

This land upon each foot of yours walked, might be so cruel,
And you cannot be a deaf for those guffaws from everywhere:
Wherein, from that voyage of foolishness they live to prove,
Lies the night behind, for they are blinded from the truth.

Keep breaking the walls which hinder to once greatest moment,
Soon, will be freed from asphyxiation, after they realize your existence
Do not prolong your agony; they are just a bunch of stupid creatures
For there will be someone to hold you on your dejected hours.

True beauty can be sought by the heart; never by the eyes,
Let your thoughts alter the pain and foresee but frozen fires,
Cry for tears; they are trying to break your broken wings
Someday, you will be fled into the azure skies to exalt everything.

So, wake up each morn to taste the sweetness of the dew
For what sudden image you can behold in the mirror is really you.

He lays on the sidewalk;
tired, destitute, and most of all
lazy; deprived of any and
every effort possible.

'Spare some change?'
he says, and his voice
rises, and lingers
in the air like the dust
between his fingers.

He's talking to no one;

Many no ones;

No ones in suits, no ones with headphones
on, no ones with their heads glued to their cellphones;
no ones who are going nowhere,
and who got nothing going on themselves.

Or so he thinks.

A child walks by, her hand
in her mother's and she smiles at the man;

The man smiles back and raises his cup;
the change rattles and stops; the sun hits the copper;
it reflects off her blue eyes and she puts her
arm and hand up like shield.

He frowns and mumbles
something like the B word;
or so the child thinks.

She pulls her hand out
of her mothers and runs to the man,
and he raises the cup once again,
but before he can shake it at her,
she kicks him right in the shin
and runs back to her mother.

He doesn't bother to get up;

Stupid no one, he grumbles.

She turns her head and sticks
her tongue out, then smiles back
at her mother;

suddenly her hand is squeezed in
some kind of death grip;

she sees that
terror has seized
her mother's face.

With a clamor of disorder a raised voice heard,
pompous and **** it begins to emerge,
he starts with,
"I don't understand this obsession with television
you're numbing your brains with perfect precision,
vegging like zombies consuming mind corrosives
numbing your senses with cabbaging explosives.
You are passive and dull clapping like a seal,
have a word with yourself, IT'S NOT EVEN REAL!!
It's nonsense intended to diminish your soul
makes you pliant and supple, never breaking your mold"
He pauses and sips then gleefully splurges,
"My head would never be satisfied with the basest of urges.
I spend my free time reading or immersed in the arts,
i cleanse my essence and strengthen my heart.
I visit wonderful worlds full of joy and compassion
where people love well what's front and what's past them,
the flaws and the soars of the human condition
are painted out in strong and perfect position,
stupendous rendition.
So while you glaze your iris with images galore
and turn your mind's eye from vibrant to snore
i have beauty coming out of my pores.
But you stick with your idiot box"
he knowingly mocks,
swings down his drink
and finally stops.
There is silence for seconds but then somebody says,
"I disagree with your there in quite a few ways."
She comments,
"Although i think reading reveals amazing truth,
enriching life with strokes drawn loose,
conveying love with all that it brings,
grief and stillness and magical things.
And i concur that art is a window into the soul,
running with life and filling the holes
but telly can also tell the things that they told.
He guffaws with derision and says with pride grown fat
"pray do tell what TV show could do that."
she replies
"There's a show where a girl is given a tremendous burden,
her present hectic and future uncertain,
she stands between the world and inevitable doom
while going to school and being sent to her room,
she worries about hair and being the object of mirth
while still being scared but saving the earth.
She has people around her who are courageous and clever,
and stand by her side whatever the weather.
One would feel useless and small
but then buy the dress so you can go to the ball.
The other sent to watcher and keep his distance
but for the pull of affection there is no resistance.
Red held the fate of the world in her hands
when her world ended and crumbled like sand,
but she used all her magic and not to float a pen
but to stand back up, to love again.
Her sister was a key and her duties a lock
sometimes she began to rock
she had a day that we will all have
where something is lost and will never come back,
outside it's sunny with hoots of oddity
inside it's seconds from mommy to body,
and this happens,
unlike her it will not be gentle,
it will invade everything
and evade courtesy
and want.
But this is because of love,
and what it does.
Mast casting,
everlasting and there to see,
and in a show on TV."
She has a slight pause and then remarks
"It could be drenched in sadness and resplendent with larks,
many vampires slain and demons destroyed
moments of weakness, feelings to avoid.
She could plough the fields and never till them,
admit her mistakes...i'm sorry William.
She could be class protector
she could be surprised
she could lie with you until sun rise
she could die for the world and take out the glory
she would run from her problems but always finish the story,
she'd get you down from a tower
with words not her power,
her screams send the bad gentlemen away
because she is stronger then them, everyday,
she has kindness
and a best and a worst
can burst into song and be effulgent in verse,
told she's a a hell of a woman and the one
and returns the i love yous on the day that he's gone,
and through the screen and this TV plot
is written with love how she saved the world...alot.
You might like books
but Buffy is great
an endeavour of joy, an affront to the hate."
The man composes himself and then says without regret
"It sounds ******* brilliant, i'll get the boxset!"

Nursery
Blurred shapes, lines of
hazy memories.
Babbling and wailing and curiosity,
Why, why and whys, and kissing boys
And not caring how others
thought of you.
Bright-eyed smiles, hopeful

Kindergarten
Fun-filled days of
Tricycles and grass under my feet
And swinging and falling and
Getting up.
Of giggling and friends forever and
Most of all,
Innocence that know no bounds.

Primary
No more tolerating of
Un-done homework.
Punishments and ugly laughter
And friends who ditch you
No more chortles, guffaws,
Only eye bags and rumours
brought by knowledge.

Secondary
New chapter, new
Friends, new school,
new, new, new...
Balancing precariously on an
Angry horse,
Threatening to buck and
--send you careening--
over the edge...
What's new?

I can’t stop dreaming of you
  and your astral projection
won’t stop sauntering
into my alternate universe
where our bodies collide
and you wriggle and writhe
underneath me.

I’ve become fixated with you
  and all the sounds you make;
your ragged breaths
and guttural guffaws
and the quiver
in your libidinous voice.

I find myself daydreaming
of your magnificent eyes,
bristling bright with fervor
as my vocal chords
give more pleasure
to your skin
than your ears.

I wish I could sleep for days
just to have you
      All to myself
on the alternate plane
of pleasure

King wing nut fancied himself a fashion savant. No one was ballsy enough to tell him "you caahnt".
                                               He sewed a nice shirt from riverbed dirt.
                                              
"Wonderful sire was the obliging blurt.
                                               He stitched a cocked hat made from rooster
                                               Fat.

"Mahvelous sire was the rat a tat tat.

                                              He sewed wooden trousers
                                              to so many wowsers !!!

                                              His stockings were crafted from gobbledygook.

Superlative sire!! and "Oh goodness look"

                                              The Vapid sot laid down on a cot for a nap.
                                               He woke at two,recharged an refreshed.
                                              
He stripped down to the skin and proceeded to sew a suit from the thinnest of air.
He stepped to his throne from the twilight zone.
bemused and with hardly a care.
                                              What say ye now said the simplified oaf.

                                              All eyes drifted skyward as he strutted about.
                                              to applause and stifled guffaws.

"Your majesty has outdone himself".
"Leave the rest of your clothes in the closets and shelves.

                                              Nothing more needs be said.
                                              Gassed up and content with an over-sized head.

Once again her ashen crust cleaves , for its once aught to be sought.
In thou curiosity, heft the crude mud, brief a dawn to
the gravity of an intricate craft,
Where thee defy and 'tis a waking howl
Where a flock betrays its trace, flees behind a fowl.
Fowl, shaped upon by the call,
Leads to a world of faux strays,
Where the bodies sway under the moon
But sleeps upon the day.
Nocturnal breaths intertwine around,
Welcoming them into a warm embrace:
Where it is born 'dreamily' to eternally haze.
In no time, the march creates a howl too
That obeys the dance of calamity,
But her refusal hides under a tongue
For it is a refuge, kept under the safety.
After all, it's matriarchy, crumbling a feet of the tantrum,
The wind guffaws, sways to the luminous olive trees;
Where a nest of refugees crawl upon,
Chirping freely to the motion of adversary,
to a moment of cleft.
Thus, it's the mother nature that heaves above all
As if blowing a floral and once again, livid breath.
In its deed, she incessantly cries fugues,
As if a virtuoso morphed upon the death.
Upon lulling the sweet mortality into clay,
Then it strolls around, surreptitiously,the plenitudes of ****** heft,
then heading hither a flaw;
When the day and night sleeps, until the rituals nudges, an absolute,
No sense.

We meet on a
a crowded street
and stand still,
like a pair of boulders
caught in a river
surrounded by salmon
as they swim upriver,
flowing by and
paying us no mind.
Off to the side two men
share a meal al fresco,
laughing into wine glasses.

After what seems a lifetime
you touch my face,
and I touch yours.
And I remember
every minutia.
We've been apart
for so long,
and yet it's like
a garden revealed
when the snow melts.
The freckles,
the spots,
the creases
beside your lips.
And I watch with glee
your goosebumps
rise and can tell
by your smile
you can see mine.

"Get a ******* room!"
One of the men hollers
with a chuckle
as the other guffaws
and nearly chokes
on his bread.

We look to them
and laugh,
a laugh shared
by strangers
knowing love
when they see it;
of a shared humanity.


-
By Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet

Incessant nose-picking in a dry-air climate,
Nurses that seem fussy,
Artsy-Craftsy people who are animated,
Delusional types (that's me for sure)
and how good that they think are as a result of
the feelings they have that seem to cause it.
Coy smiles on unassuming females,
the new country singers and how they seem
to wait, mixing together
all sorts of roots - how complete they sound.
Jonathan Winters as anything.
Mad Magazine classic humor,
how the least likely people
like the doorman and the coffee dolly
fancy themselves domineering ******'s with
followers, drips that they prey on and all
sorts of powerful new concepts
as a revision of Adolf.
That's it for the latest that amuses me.

Isolde stands at the window
of her old room. Her mother
and sister sit around the small

white table, talking to Tristana.
Cobwebs hang from the metal
curtain rail, a dead spider hangs

like a dead parachutist, a dried
up fly on the white painted
windowsill. The first few days

out of the asylum seem odd,
seem to unbalance her. Tristana
seems engaging well with her

icy mother, her sister looks on
anxiously. My room, she had
told Tristana. My bed, she had

added pointing to the bed
pushed against a wall. In the
asylum, some weeks back,

she and Tristana had ******.
The fat nurse had caught them
and reported. There had been

giggles and guffaws in the staff
room afterwards. Now she and
Tristana were free, government

clearout, new policy, economical
necessities. She stares at her
mother’s head move from side

to side, her jaw opening and
closing like the shark she was.
Just a quick visitation, she said.

Her mother’s eyes and mouth
opened with shock when they
turned up. Not staying, she had

informed. Visiting the once, she
had said. Her mother seemed
relieved, her sister white as a

sheet, nodded her head like
some cheap doll. The room
was cold, colder than before.

She’d been taken from here
those years back, screaming,
held between men in white,

out into the cold night. Be gone
soon, she mutters, rubbing a
finger down the pane of glass,

making a rude noise, all heads
turn toward her room from
the garden below. Goodbye
old room, time for us to go.

That east wind clawed at my skin
leaving me fragile again
I was once impervious
to reckoning
but now every element
guffaws at how weak
I have become
the shrill call of the
night birds humiliate me
for I am alone again
far apart
and torn at heart

They ask me why I go through the pain.

The pain of distance.
The pain of silence.
The pain of difference.
The pain of jealousy.
The pain of harshness.
The pain of helplessness.
The pain of bitterness.
The pain of emptiness.

They ask me why I go through the pain
And I reply that
Without pain there is no joy.

The joy of finally holding each other's hand after a long flight home.
The joy of a "how are you" after a busy day.
The joy of learning a new song or listening to an idea you'd never dreamed could exist.
The joy of relief when they say you are the one and only.
The joy of hearing quick wit from the living room, starting as a lighthearted chuckle, changing to boisterous and cynical guffaws.
The joy of finally hearing the tears begin to fall when they've been held in for far too long and you can move forward.
The joy of the break in the silence after a difficult day when the apologies flow like honey, slow and sweet.
The joy of finally being whole, when life becomes real and free, and everything before it a papier mache mystery.

They ask me why I go through the pain.
What a pity: they have never been in love.