"haranguing" poems
Mongst the salacious ferns of
Artemis requested in the land
of the handsome labyris women
wealing and weaving Vulcans
shrewd hearts of jasper and
chalcendony, governess Hulda
cleaves Muspellsheims yew bones
fletching mandrakes philtre whetting
hie Cupids perfuse herb of grace
intercessorial unto volcanic pious
virtues haranguing loves cataract
dashing herewith demotic enditements
distempered of ludic ordination;
forging a year and a day halest
cledonomancies volley of truths
bequeathing privity of Heavens
prismatic trajectory.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC
heatwave
hotter than Hades
heating every inch of our terrain
heckling with it's scorching sear
haranguing us from dusk to dawn
hell fires have been unleashed
holy cow we're in need of a bit of relief
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 5:11 PM UTC
The gaze feels suited under reflection,
catfish know better
than the bullfrogs haranguing it alone -
Midnight's rupture
the star Edith blazed her Gospel voice
across the Phoenix Star,
those podagra Svengalis mill
perpetually serenading this their dollar sign,
due graciousness lasts as long as the
peyote nostrums
parfum de la maison
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 7:37 PM UTC
"who taught you to look so good?!"
says a thought [shot] in the dark.
--- this to no woman in particular but to
all womankind i suppose.
outside there is a dog haranguing me,
saying WOOF (that is, "where d'you get those old clothes?")
i tell him the sally ann but good luck
getting in there, dog . . . he takes off, complaining ---
but i pay no attention to the bellyaching of an old mutt...
"nay," says i there's not a ******
thing of any real importance in this
universal dustbin/save the dharma.
yea i could live in a woodsy cabin
deep down a valley-ay shoutin' "HOOO-EE!!" out the open door
to anyone who comes by and
be thought a crazy young ('ventually old) ******
off his rocker in the trees.
--- and why not!!
chop logs/cook bread 'n brew potsa tea
'n otherwise lead a silent but meaningful old existence
out there with weekend friends/girls/wine/talk.
--- tell all that to a bookish pal
who scoffs:
*"some dharmy of yours, boy. all that work.
where are the café sittings & sunny youthy days of
readin' sutras on a lawn somewhere?"*
"bah," i says. "bah..."
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 3:10 PM UTC
.
Can you feel the rhythm rise,
but never, ever leaving the ground?
The bridges sway with every song that they play,
I can barely wait for the sound.
A sonic exhilaration
crosses dreamstates of predecision.
While wild wizards are haranguing the warlocks,
the devil makes a quick incision.
In the hearts that are subdivided,
to those full of James Brown soul-
there's an evil wind that's suddenly pinned
your face to the totem pole.
Echoes from dragons seducing a sigh,
there's an ache to leave in their blood.
Some-
when they run, run far, far away,
while others are still stuck in the mud.
Can you feel the rhythm rise,
but never, ever leaving the ground?
The bridges sway with every song that they play,
I can barely wait for the sound.
.
Jan 22, 2010
Jan 22, 2010 at 10:58 AM UTC
Her hand slips softly, into mine,
Her eyes glimmer, with reminiscence.
and this moment is ephemerally divine
divinity, drowning in Dissonance.
The sky is turning grey,
like my love.
Her incandescent beauty, as immortal..
..as the fire that burns within my haranguing heart,
fueling perennial passion, that shall slowly fade,
like the gut wrenching ire, that obscures my gaze.
the trees, reveling in the glory of spring,
in full bloom,
pushing away the recurring gloom..
the setting sun and its sedating sight,
fills my soul with seraphic light..
As the seconds turn to hours,
and I shower my love with a thousand flowers,
the moon maketh me feel, her luminous presence,
and I drown myself, in her ethereal essence.
Jun 17, 2012
Jun 17, 2012 at 8:55 AM UTC
automobile assault again
by
churchlot crasher.
departed, damage done
even
forgoing forgiveness.
grumbling gomez glowers,
haranguing
impossible immunity.
jeez! just...jerk!
klutzy
lot leaver!
mangled mobility machine
needs
overnight observation.
poignant payment, pending
quixotic
recompensing ravager.
supposing satisfactory salvage.
truck
under
vehicular
warranty.
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 12:31 AM UTC
I, whose sleep gloats
searching for answers, steering for a dream
I take my place amongst men
in parks, in alleys, in trains,
and the Sun unmasks itself
like timeworn skies of linoleum.
trees their bulwarks realize such oneness
and birds start to rain
where time wounds all feelings
and lovers innumerably lay flat on their bellies.
mountains ***** as tall as truths,
and the sleuth more than my body’s engine
turns less than a seraphim – dizzy with the
night’s utmost haranguing.
I, whose soul returns not with garlands
but with chains as my phantoms go with them
swimmingly across the blue Earth
and a man brindled, tussled against
space that so distant the star becomes so near
and all sleep lose names of dreams.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 12:45 AM UTC
~for my naturalist, Victoria~
*the poems all end up in midfield,
yellow carded, the game a tied up,
0 - 0 unsatisfying affair, all the shots
way wide of goal as I search
for the perfect phrase to capture my
*twiddling and twaddling,
fussing and haranguing,
harrumphing and bemoaning,
my very own Brexit,
postponed, the hard answers terrifying,
the soft ones, humbug and *******
incapable of lifting a mighty pen,
or a fully worn down pencil scrap,
seen better days, but now,
all leaden ashes, all fall down,
my natural pointer taps only gibberish
in my plain manila actuality folder,
the cut off dates, ignored, so they
cut me off too for good measure,
plenty good bills to due in there,
plenty good ‘orrible poems for company
the pile of to do’s forming a party,
social, democratic, and
anti-septic or skeptic or semitic,
perhaps all three, as they are two jowls
or two cheeks, too many to the windy
all this shilly shallying, or is it
dilly dallying,
is quite simply to say that
my rooted U.K. naturalist
a Sherlockian moors, traversing specialist
cuts to the shortest quick,
by jove, there it is, succinctly red beeping,
in my garden, awaiting a good boiling
I too exhausted from all the
“scrabbling with the day to day”
she so easily summarizes,
though my poetic ego demands an
Ameddican textual emendation*
“hard scrabbling with the day to day”
or
just an all encompassing globalism
“ditto”
ah, Victoria
Jul 4, 2019
Jul 4, 2019 at 7:04 AM UTC
His bedroom door a tombstone for the room that lay inside and hidden there away from sight,light years of light sat in the dust.
The wardrobe old and oaken,spoke of hanging,
haranguing coats of cowhide skin and trousers that crept up like weeds within.
No party times for Simon Lime a product of a bygone age,faded pencil on a faded page, he stumbled and deep down in the rage that simmered far below, he would know,
who sent the clocks that dismantled him,
that wound him up,
that bound him in the past?
Held tight and fast,though tired at last he settled down upon the old stuffed chair,where the antimacassar kept the oil, slick on his thinning hair,
and here where shadows shuffled on the widow of his window sill he sits there still and,
thinking thoughts like these,praying in some long forgotten diocese where bishops wander ill at ease among the congregation.
Nations stand and fall among the shuffling shadows up on Simon's wall he doesn't care no more,
he carves the tombstone for another door
and life goes on.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 3:45 AM UTC
i have no need for change.
it's meaningless to me (in most senses).
so i plop $6.24 (exact change) on the counter.
he throws pillows filled with guilt at me.
and i hurriedly leave as he's shouting threads of vitriol that could trap me there forever, with my bags of guilt (what else do i have?)
commuting home is easier now.
we stand on the backs of alligators.
brave men fit them for harnesses.
but it's all good here.
until a beautiful women steps out of her house.
nothing good can come from it.
my alligator lets me off at my house.
i only have to blow on the front door at a certain angle,
my shelter has been charred so many times;
touching it might make it collapse.
my house is the only one with no electricity or running water;
noone knows why.
but i've learned to improvise.
a man on the street once told me, "it's better to be adaptable than to have no need to adapt."
i asked him "why?" but he was gone.
i unload my haul of guilt next to my collection of desires; seems fitting.
no.
i'll have them pad the totem of regrets; it's much more delicate.
and maybe if i make them more comfortable, they'll stop haranguing me every night.
every evening the floor gives out, and worse, nothing to hold onto.
but while i'm falling, a fish hook always finds it's way to my chest and sinks into my heart.
and i just dangle there for an hour or more ("where do i keep these things?").
the floor comes back (as it always does), frozen solid.
i don't know where it goes but it is not to the core of the Earth.
as per ritual, i'll give it painful fit of body heat;
i know where i'm sleeping tonight.
i don't get any visitors,
but if i did, i'd like them to be comfortable.
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 3:45 AM UTC
1 “Pursue not with accolade in mind. The hand will remain blank, if not black – blacker at that notion of conflagration. There is a fine line between infinite and obsequiousness. It is all disappearance, isn’t it?” she humbly quipped sotto voce.
2 Whenever I look at a dog, I lose my metaphors. Say, when he gnaws a wall for no reason. Or when I watch the indefatigable motion of his tail. Is it all redundancy?
3 I’d like to think that I sold myself a long time ago, mistaken as hurling a stone into the deep setting of repugnant waters, my body assuming fragrance, or a fall of feather – half-mast at that, in conscious space.
4 I want myself bought back from the dark, oblivion, the constancy of salt in the sea.
5 I fear that when the Sun cleaves through hills, light would be but two bodies never finding each other.
Depth is wedded to loss, cobwebbed into abeyance.
6 Who do you see when you see a shadow? A movement of identity? Or the identity of movement?
And whose land does it continually mark with longing? Or an insistence of feeling? A dearth of space is made aware of its vastness. We must all hide in the night so as to minimize its feat.
7 Speak boldly about memory. Its incandescence, its liminal end. Its forgotten thresholds. How it felt at first light to grasp but not sense out ownership. Be silenced over entrails. I will sojourn into the infinite quiet of your throbbing presence and fade out, the same way you lilted away like a blather of a child in the heat of a haranguing mother, or the predictable yet sudden erasures of sea.
8 I have not, the discovery of landscapes. My next door neighbor’s home is being renovated. I have a fascination for unfinished structures.
9 I look at my image in the mirror: A scruple of metal-reticence. A mangle of scaffolds. I am a home that cannot be assuaged.
10 Disappearance.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 10:13 AM UTC
that moves from its mooring: it was from interstice
to intersection somewhere in Poblacion.
I was once there, looking for loose change beside
the market. Quickly I began as though an impression
was made past the kiosks dense with the matrimony
of the tabloids and print: its dearth on the streets
of Plaridel. Mud caked at the grey backs of gutters,
a spectacle
of leaves on the ground like deft
hands place them there for empires.
the first that I touched: wind,
last: your face, wind was it only that you and I were
never off-tangent, always, minus the blindfold,
seeking endlessly as though things refuse to be found,
pulsing in the heat of hiding grace.
and goes back to its source: something too splayed for science,
only too easy with a child’s fancy – chauffeurs playing checkers,
crossing each other out within conjunctions – much you or I,
our weights syndetic and our weightlessness, imagined – as if phrasings
loose like waters from the spigot left open: mother arrives, haranguing.
like how it was simple for the wind to remind us fit to this
meet constantly receiving your incidence, and my place stilled
to familiar topographies.
a window is left open, with its hands in the terminal of silence
holding light like obdurate stone; the surrender registers
with grievous art, you curved like a bent question mark,
or a swollen oblation borrowing its sheen from the ****
of bobbing beacons – the candid Manilascape you kept on
fevering for like an open sentence
only to find its birth.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 11:11 PM UTC
i arrogantly imagine
rain (splayed on the pavement) as something
too short to ****** with, in plea, so as to say that
genuflecting on a field of budding roses suddenly
blooms wide-eyed skies so brazenly, an aperture that
winks not abruptly to shed tear.
somewhere along the lambaste,
humidity takes form of a nauseating swathe
of demise and immediately, in transit, comes back,
a cold, haranguing wind – something borrowed,
something ephemeral, something that causes trouble
to the frail gestures of a rose, or a child in consummate siesta,
or simply the sudden intone of a band bursting midway
through the sullen thoroughfare –
colors seem to intensify, the world inflamed like
a contusion, the wind like a gaff maneuvering the
trees, and I, lost in somnolence, can only remember so much
of the afternoons lost wandering about nothing
when rain has happened and nothing existed before me
but the braille of seasons and the obsequious shadow
swayed by nothing but light’s silent radio; much like heaven
and I, here on Earth,
looking out in the rain;
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 1:15 AM UTC
ONE OF THOSE DAYS
A tragic day, in the powerful place where the poet lives.
A hopeless pen today.
Said pen haranguing everything, sometimes.
When the hat of passion fits.
So all the world can visualise.
That's what she wants you see.
And she sits there with her head in hands.
Suddenly out of nowhere she finds her mouth *****
She slides on that harmonica.
A musical work of art.
But,today she cannot play.
(C) Livvi
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 6:39 AM UTC
The world closes in.
It feels like the unwelcome hug
Of a person you cannot trust,
Whose physical presence
Wanes and fades to invisibility
But whose hug remains,
Stifling, suffocating.
They and others
Stand around you, mocking,
Narrowing the circle
As they step towards you,
Haranguing then jostling in unison,
Leaving no route of escape,
Tight in their cordon.
Heaviness falls,
A solid lid to seal the enclosure,
Negating light and
Squeezing out air
Until you crouch and kneel,
Curl like a ball
And throw sideways glances.
It seems never ending.
It seals your confinement,
It steals your will.
The circle disperses
And they leave you huddled.
And you wait for silence
Before unraveling.
Copyright Marc Hawkins 2017
Sep 21, 2017
Sep 21, 2017 at 5:37 PM UTC