"parochial" poems
~
Ivory-teal ruffled his parochial feathers
His tongue dipped in languages
He wanted to learn the pronunciation of life
As he folded himself in Egyptian ink
He opened his mind against the dioramic surface of syllables
Painted in alloy; dripping from a papery canvas
He brushed his ivory creme feathers
in crimson and lavender hieroglyphics
Bleeding their pictorial valor inside a golden sepia lantern
"Go on, light the world with your suspense and mystery"
Ivory-teal twittered to himself
Wrapping the bijoux night around his little body
he disappeared into the stars
The teal birthmark on his forehead; glowing
He took the lantern in his gold beak
fluttering away into spirals of smoke
Toward Mythology mountain
Where a storm of butterflies
were winging their seasonal weather
Ivory-teal sometimes wished he could be a candle flame
Flickering in the darkest of moments
Letting the sunshine bleed through his beautiful feathers and soft skin
But his destiny was a bit different
He was folded in cultural prophetic proverbs and
sewed neatly in parabolic traditions
Where nationality is mixed into colorful pixels inside skin
Accents are curved in throats and lilted on the edge of tongues
Ivory-teal was carved in diamond flex dreams
In a temple of mythical patterns
Imprinted in mercury cocoons laminated with knowledge
The Angel Apostles printed him in their book of Dreamtales
Where he became a bilingual silhouette
He was birthed right here on this mountain
As he balanced himself on thoughts
He had learned to love himself to this point of his life
He wanted to be the change he wanted in the world
He gently lifted the little lantern
It rose up toward the sun and exploded into rainbow fireworks
The contexts that were inside split sideways
Tilting and pressing themselves into the air particles
If birds could smile then that would've been Ivory-teal
As he laughed quietly
"Now breathe in earthlings, breath in the wonders and knowledge of life"
He then spread his gorgeous ivory creme wings
tattooed with all the languages of the world and life itself
He twirled into the sunset and bled himself in a cloud
A mountaineer had been watching and wondered to himself
As he unknowingly breathed in the context from Ivory-teal's lantern
"If flying is a language I would love to learn and speak it with my wings"
But shouldn't he know that language already
For it is the language of freedom
Ivory-teal is one of many symbolic accents
Of that beautiful language
~
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 11:10 AM UTC
Cloaked eyes of white
Open throat cries dry
Echoed padding cadence
Panting tremours
Unable to get away
The streets are unsafely empty
Equality to walk
No illiberal clocking in
I have a cogent life
Will not cede segregation
The struggle, snapped the stem
Stole the stamen from my flower
Shook my pollenous verve
Scattered my soulful scent
Destroyed my confidence to regrow
Sneering the lonesome wolf
Crushes the very flowers that will save it
Without heart of virtue
Praying on those they cannot have
Betrays their own soul without anguish
Proto-stalkers seek help
Decant your desires
Throw off your fur coat
Open up and do not venture into a nightmare
Your Samaritan will always befriend and guide
Lay down your sword
Change the parochial pathway
Magnanimous now live
Fields of flowers beckon
Don't be a brick in the wall
Embrace the feminine essence
Yield flowers their blossom
Steer the legislation to counter the wolven spread
More tulips amongst thorny parliamentarians
Educate the children and those in power
Mar 14, 2021
Mar 14, 2021 at 7:39 PM UTC
Have you seen sunkissed oceans?
stretched till eternity,
pacific yet turbulent,
destined to touch the shore.
Have you seen a girl?
carefree and wayfarer,
breaking the norms with harsh blows,
creeping through parochial minds.
Have you seen a girl?
aspires to be the ocean,
her sunkissed hairs are like jet streams,
messed-up but knows where to flow.
Yes, I have met a girl,
vast than the ocean,
turbulent yet pacific,
smeared with sunkissed soul.
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 3:50 AM UTC
America the land of obesity and greed
Mean and morally bankrupt in the face of world poverty
Ever ready to eagerly attack a foreign country
Rednecked and rabidly racist
Ignorant and parochial to a sickening degree
Canada's ugly southern neighbour
Arrogant and self-opinionated
Narrow-minded and bigoted to the Nth degree
A total ******* disgrace really.
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 10:42 AM UTC
This is the cup of the new and everlasting covenant
Shed for you and for all, so that our sins may be forgiven...
Do this in memory of Me.
In memory of the spooky parochial school halls
In memory of the wizened nuns, quietly obedient
In memory of the over-simplicity of rules
In memory of false piety laced with hypocrisy
In memory of crushing inadequacy
Do this, in memory of me, the child.
In memory of the child whose uniform never quite fit
Whose body developed too early
Who had trouble making friends
Who didn't have enough discipline
Do this, do that, don't do this, don't do that
So many tiny rules and expectations
to love, serve and obey
Oct 22, 2020
Oct 22, 2020 at 12:18 AM UTC
The President says there is
no better party
than the party his happens to be.
I am dazed and confused
with parochial views
of those " know better" folks in D.C.
He gave us "healthcare"
"It's no tax, this I swear"
But the Court said a tax it must be.
It hires an army of I.R.S. men
to perform fiscal prostectomies.
In my city and state
one can't go off half cocked
They frown on us having a gun.
The outlaws don't care
They're all well armed, I swear.
The rest of us call 9-1-1.
The President says there is
no better party
than the party his happens to be.
I am dazed and confused
with parochial views
of those " know better" folks in D.C..
They take from the workers
to feed those who don't
and call it a democracy
Combined with inflation
and forced confiscation
the buck ain't what it used to be.
The President says there is
no better party
than the party his happens to be.
He'll spend half a billion
in ads on T.V.
to say he knows better than me.
Jul 27, 2012
Jul 27, 2012 at 8:31 AM UTC
I was ill,
convalescing in fact
when I read this book
On Poetry.
I was a captive audience,
couldn’t move much.
I sat by a window
and enjoyed the light
playing shadows.
Twice in two days
I read this book.
It convinced me I was already
a judge of poets and like its author
only needed seconds to know
whether a poet was present in a poem.
The book encouraged me to
*‘Read all the way back.
Read what made it.
Read what’s still here
And work out why . . .
Read up on the old stories
Know a little of what past poets knew
And what their poems still know.’*
I thought that was quite enough.
But no, a little later
there was more I had to learn.
I was given as a gift
a collection of poems.
Its prizewinning author
had published respectably.
Imagination would take flight
into airspace off the radar screen.
Childhood scenes were to chill and disturb,
erotica left a bad taste in the mouth,
narrative poems told with a twist, and
common-place objects freshly observed.
Dear Reader, this I can truly say
is a confident, page-turning volume,
full of proper poems,
full of a poet’s presence.
But, for me
there was a significant absence of wonder,
a sad deficiency of joy.
When I brought the book to bed
to read out loud to the one I love,
not one of the poems seemed
right to read to end our day.
These poems called for hard chairs
and the bright lights of a seminar room.
Later, awake in the night,
I thought,
I’m not hard-edged enough to be a real poet.
My poet’s view is too parochial and kind.
I write about penguins, the moon,
even Christmas cake . . . and prose poems
on subjects filched from postcards
picked up in museums and galleries.
And there is, inevitably and always,
this ever-present thing called love,
creeping about when you least expect it.
Know I’m at one with Dr Givens
in Guteson’s East of the Mountains
who laments that with death
the tender memories of life
will be gone –
forever.
So with my poems I try to record
the daily wonder of life and love:
for those I care for
and those who care for me.
Life is so inexpressively full
of images and moments
waiting for words to bring them home.
Oh I know there’s pain,
and fear and distress,
hate and abuse and terror . . .
This is not for me what poetry
is there to express.
I’ve read enough to know it can,
and does. That’s enough.
*Poetry forms in the face of time.
You master form you master time.*
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 2:00 AM UTC
I like mine two cream, two sugars my addiction sans friction.
You see coffee is my benediction to alphabet soup.
Sing as song of sixpence.
a pocket full of rye.
four and twenty blackbirds
baked in a pie.
Sister Loretta.That witch.
She gave me my first hit.
So long ago I had forgotten.
5 foot 2 eyes of blue. In a nun's habit.
I was all of eight years old and full blown away by the woman showing her chin and brow
in the Caribbean heat cool as the other side of the pillow Strange. Even then strange that a woman
would choose to dress in a black full length jacket that swept the ground as she walked.
Sweet as cane syrup. patient as a monk.
She gave me the love of words.
So Where is sister now I wonder ?
Probably pushing daises from under. That was many years ago.
Mia culpa. But I always wished for x-ray eyes. to see beyond her disguise.
Was she all woman or some holy mutation.
built to reject natural passion.
Mia culpa.
sister Loretta was forbidden fruit. One of god's many wives.
And I could only have one ?. Hmmmmm leme think this one over.
Blasphemer.
8 year old wood is hard to mess with.
Any dude out there who went to parochial school and did not have that one
on the replay spool, throw yer hands up.
.....That is what I thought.
Okay. just had my cuppa Joe.
And now I'm gonna let you go.
Just wanted you all to know.
Sista Loretta was Smokin Hot.
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 10:23 AM UTC
She was the only Non-Native
On staff in a parochial school,
Reservation in Montana...
The school nurse,
Working in her office,
Fighter of colds and flu,
Coverer of scrapes and bruises,
Pre-medicine expert...
A little girl stopped in to say,
"You gonna come to Mass today?"
"No, I'm a Protestant,"
Just then another student walked in:
"You going to Mass?"
"No! She's a **********
Said girl one.
And so it goes....
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 8:19 PM UTC
Once
There was an ephemeral man
Precariously balancing on the ephemeral moon
That choleric moon
Always coughing and sneezing
Knocking off that precariously balanced man.
That parochial moon
With its offspring jogging and frolicking about
Maybe one day, that ineffable cough
Will be stopped.
The right thing
What is it?
I wonder
If you do the right thing--
Does it really make
everybody--
happy?
The proletarian moon child
Cogitated this
Along with a myriad of others
While gazing at the ephemeral stars
From the ephemeral moon
Apocryphal writings claimed the answer
But the child couldn't find solace in it.
So he jumped off
To join the vacuous inhabitants
Of the Earth below.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 7:34 PM UTC
Lingers.... (The rain)
The drifting of the Lost Men
(the homeless and the hungry)
Lingers
(they do)
•••
Parochial patriotism
The flags of War
Tbe naked children
The gun fire
The plague
The helpless mothers
Their dying babes
••
Lingers
__
The big mouthed politicians talk
Eagerly we listen
••
Lingers
---
Our acceptance
••
Lingers
--
(Our acceptance)
••
Lingers....:(in the rain)
The light silent drizzle
The meaningless sighs
The beauty of god
The life so betrayed
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 6:11 PM UTC
Touch symmetry
Touch you and me
Touch a pleasant view
Touch the axis of dew
Touch symmetry
Touch you and me
Touch parochial existence
Touch homicidal resistance
Touch symmetry
Touch you and me
Touch love and light
Touch a galaxy of delight
Oct 5, 2020
Oct 5, 2020 at 9:36 AM UTC
I'm tired of Love lost,
of cookie-cutter me missing you
and all of the ridiculous rhymes that ensue.
More and more I am fed up,
plainly sick of inflated ego's insulated by chosen ignorance
or inborn imbalances,
maybe a history of inbreeding
from a catalyst of parochial need.
You are a parody of mental health
shaping the shifting black and white
to propound cheap love, I feel this as a slight.
Committing any wisp of originality
to become an unconscious marketing ploy,
you're looking for glory in methods unlearned
now butchered, bleeding clichés
to stain pages and pages
with your sullen insecurities.
For that I name you an idiot,
a slavering jowls dripping greedy soul.
Comprehend there is no invalidation of your emotions,
just a damning of self neglect and hidden pride in suffering
all laced with the unspoken demand for my respect.
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 6:22 PM UTC
a pendulum swings too wide and clicks vicious out of time
low brooding in a sealed place that parochial visitors never find
beautiful burden of oval things in an old, worn basket
tartan rectangles neatly capped in your salvation drink
empty nest on a cool, summer's day offers some relief
four sets of foliage gives nice tunes for the little princess
ice chips clink hearty like ships in the dream tumbler
a friend revered turns fiend when eyes burn on horrid tiles
a plate cracks in down slide and ossified barracuda get split
a spooky reminder gets played slowly on a vintage turntable
once fine songs given for free to unwieldy strokes
round and round on the turning thing
and just like that, off you go, like a seal
on your flippers
away from here
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 11:06 AM UTC
I shall internalize to the point where i rise
Like a grey misty ash through sullen harbour skies
To descend on these eyes who never danced with ambition
Nor once sought to covet nor hold executive position
Sweeping through parochial house to office building
I consume this room as a deathly prison warden
Where time passes and falls in a desperate eerie sigh
Unable to cry in an endless stare of just getting by
I shall crawl through the past of these city streets
Retracing my footsteps as the years they recoil
The red terraced housing of old Hungry Hill
A young boy in his room sitting there still
Head full of dreams waiting for his moment to shine
Such foolish naivety of a dreamer in his prime
He would never tie his shoelaces anything but straight
Just getting by, the sole manifestation of a solemn fate
I shall leave as a mist to cover these countryside hills
As a wandering soul, a veil rolling down as early dew
Comes upon a house where children asleep in their beds
Let it be them that carry the dreams of lives better led
So that I may finally relent and lay myself down to rest
Not for deaths cold embrace but a warmer peace instead
In a world of all or nothing we have this life of you and I
Where it shall be enough to get by, by just getting by
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 2:53 PM UTC
Academic meanness in the blend of old age crisis
Have over-taken the only professor in my country,
He began with a colonial Maths diploma to his current air
Of Doctorate in history of his ethnic pristine African village,
He served all the universities as the chancellor of chancellors,
Unto now to his octogenarian age dressed in full suits of bitterness,
He is strongly jealousy to full scale of intellectual blindness,
In full plumage of faith that none else went to school after himself,
In the parochial mental realm of his foot steps on the sands of time
Being the features and land-marks of education in the land of Africa,
He hates other scholars with passion, but no iota of reason
He feels them defective as their tribes can not produce a professor,
His fear is that who will teach PhD. students after his death,
He refers to his family as center of everything, none else can do
Other than his glorious sons and daughters from his dear wife,
Mrs. Professor speaks twenty four languages; Greek and Russian,
A mere saucer to her strong linguisticised African mandibles,
Who else on earth can have a wife of this sterling caliber?
That made the Kalahari and Sahara deserts to have thunder.
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 11:06 AM UTC
Sitting – well, slouching
Parochial ticky-tacky chair distorting sprawled alignment
How does a piece of paper weigh so much?
How do I extrude a greater weight from it into another page?
Fumbling with knotted headphones
My eyes drop into the inked Times New Roman
The page intones my fumbling succinctly, “I try to find something, anything.”
What boyscout, boatsmen, or climber crawled in my bag and tied this interminable knot?
My eyes turn to the knot -
Still fumbling with the toner’s entombed dance
I grew up in this slouch, in this tangle, thinking in Times New Roman
Etching knowledge into or from 8 x 12 reams
Does the paper weight I feel in the paper’s request equate to the weight of a neural connection ascertaining chemical knots?
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 2:59 PM UTC
A chief
entirely good
with assent
sought when
he aspired
leadership in
parochial while
his lifestyle
supported a
ritual in
high court
though his
reason without
doubt there
is solid
with omnibus
opinionated height.
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 4:34 PM UTC
Here in parochial Melbourne town,
Football causes many a frown,
Folk say, "Who do ya barrack for?"
I think, "What do ya wanna know for?"
Then I say, "Right back at ya!
I barrack for Jesus and Mahatma!!"
Yes, let's barrack for our princes of Peace,
In our hearts, their .dear souls to keep,
It might make our world a better place,
If we all had a serene smiling face,
To barrack for Jesus and Mahatma,
"There you go, right back at ya!"
Jul 21, 2016
Jul 21, 2016 at 3:07 PM UTC
oft times as a child crayola crayons
occupied concentration
to color, with a hue and a cry
would erupt if the merest and faintest mark
trespassed violating
some shade dee rule, i'd decry
cuz even as a boy,
a peaceful nonconformist/
nonestablishmentarian streak
now finds this guy
proud to be among
the minority removed
from the madding crowd,
though blurt out a friendly "hi"
when within of the vast lines of humanity
entropy vies to get
the upper hand until ban ky
moon: secretary - (at time of this writing)
general of the United Nations
doth raise an hand gesticulating with lie
sense to subdue
the crowded housed planet fitness
even if his magic doth manage to ply
a temporary truce among
scrabbling mobs of hoodlums,
some regurgitating spoon fed
pablum patois bred from an era quois
wanton vengeful retaliation,
whence faux recapitulation
initially evidenced
from hooligans who try
to wrest control
with mortal kombat full commando
from elected officials,
who abhorring violence must vie
trump petting for state military
don protective gear
bound by parochial training
to counteract mutiny why
hill chaos runs amuck law man
dating rubric with force of arms
and crack of firearms,
which forced quiet riot doth aim
to don the mantle of government control,
whereby foot soldiers
i.e. boots on the ground -
operate asia single blame
less force to be reckoned with,
cuz the supreme arbiter of power -
who thru a coup d'etat did claim
sear of power forces opposition
to sing condescending swan song
toward ruler de jure,
which includes a price tag i.e.
at least one vestal ****** dame
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 12:49 AM UTC
I have met a stranger
hanging from the point of nothing
where no wretched parochial fashion
disembowels,
no fellated Pop,
the prop of some, is angled in, exquisite –
no,
the dilation of his eyes
met me on a disc of white -
the hands of mine
spinning the entire weight,
hurtling from a place
of uncontrolled proportions
of nothingness
and patience.
I fear this place
of limitation –
it survives on an originality
slowly disappearing from grace.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 5:45 AM UTC
Stupidly genius, moronic and shrewd people eat their fast food on fine China
Failing is vertical, errors are slander
Their gross insults impacting easy digestion
Hyperbole falsehood messiah
Piercingly silent and ardently soft people keep their opinions on fences
Insults are weaponry not to be yielded
Their platitudes cradling fragile personas
Perversely destructive defences
Classically learned and bookishly rich people carry their privilege with kindness
Science is built with colonial scaffolds
Their method constraining all true innovation
Parochial qualified blindness
Shockingly worthy and recklessly small people polish their boots with lead solder
Gravity holding them grounded and upright
Their bootlaces impacting aerodynamics
Inferior sturdy upholder
Gallantly serving and fearlessly trained people douse the political embers
Fire escape blocked with hobnails and lumber
Their pickaxes caught in the thick poison ivy
Nugatory self-rule defenders
The silent, the learned, the worthy, the trained people trade voyeurism for vision
Hologram values are no longer trump cards
Their gazes averted from hate-dripping sophists
Integrity first coalition
Aug 15, 2024
Aug 15, 2024 at 4:53 AM UTC
Sour drinks and parochial doilies don’t go together/ My impermanent knee protrudes from the pretentious slash of your jeans/ My hair is the anti-cliche, the counter-perfect, the poofy dry to your flat and mediocre shine/ The sides and crevices turn black within seconds, like marks on my soul, mirroring the hidden cavities of my teeth/ Why do I need a phone when you never call? Why do I brush my teeth when they will eventually fall?/ My blocked nasal is similar to your blocked mind/ Your anger does not affect me, it only kills you/ Her black scrunchie is like the black hole, an entangled abyss against her snowy grandma hair.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 3:45 AM UTC
it’s the time of the parochial
baby
tread with care;
it’s the time of fear and violence
walk with eyes
before and behind you
the barbarians are everywhere
tearing down libraries;
there are demon contortionists
who can bend Truth and sense;
and there is violence
blessed by God
and justified in anyone’s Holy Book
there is a man
who looks at how you dress
and look;
there is a team taking notes
the mindless are everywhere
and they want to eat your minds;
there is blackhole-distortion
and everything you might hold dear
is taken to be twisted and turned
look to your mind baby
look to your heart;
there’s the dread of Satan
who walks in God’s clothes;
they try and take what you got
and give you salt and sand to eat
it’s the time of the parochial
baby
tread with care;
it’s the time of fear and violence
walk with eyes
before and behind you
Sep 23, 2010
Sep 23, 2010 at 12:25 PM UTC
Where is the palliation? Parochial visions of blank t.v's fuzzed by all Excruciation!
Paradigms of paradoxed love all come around secretly, yet I see them in plain sight. Panacea night's broken to hot bedded springs, parsimonious money launderer's pocket's grow, while children die to sing!!!
The paucity of romancers so pensive to me, perennial, bicentennial blows strong onto every sneeze...
A perfidy of things so strange, word's of slang, to ghetto walls of brick!!! Eye's glued, bomb's on the move with shells from mistakened and sick....
Why so many pojoritive scholar's I ask? Ties to their neck's, with shutgun shells ready to blast....
Perjury of judges, to Schemer's and dreamer's of pernicious luggage....
Where can I find such one who won't make me their perquisite? One to replenish me,
One who shall satisfy me whole as I them!!!!!!!
To an ancient beautiful feast!!!
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 7:58 AM UTC