"pliny" poems
My Prize for Waiting
~
*tucked in all by myself,
resting dark and quiet
in the thin place^
where the distance between
this world and the next,
is no distance at all,
but a few inches separating,
easily fordable, back and forth-able
my palms, hands down,
come to rest on my *******
and the two thumbs in unison,
begin to sweep the streaming space of their in-between,
conducting a radar sweep-search for the precise point
passageway to poetic mystical places,
hoping to snag any residuals for safekeeping
no hurry to either arrive or depart,
in patient attendance for
rhythms of woven word arrivistes,
coming in no particular order,
asking to be seized, greedy to be
nominated and recognized, immortalized,
as great poetry, prize worthy,
kept for all time inside others poetry chests
but in the thin place,
dream records are not kept,
hazy scraps at best retained,
a recipe for a witnessed totality,
is only a soupy reduction of a
few seconds of hazed video,
that can neither give nor get
no satisfaction
the plastic surgeons attempt to reconstruct
the body of the meal, the real deal,
alas, there are no prizes either
for botched surgeries and pretty but meaningless
poetry scraps
the only evidence of my travels,
a flushing, blushing residual flow,
slow to dissipate, a hangover makers mark
of a sojourn best described as unsatisfying,
my blush, a prize for waiting but failing,
“the most peculiar and most human of all expressions”^^
woe to me when returned in ignominy,
medaled in only base irony,
me and philosopher Pliny,^^^
both dying while recording our own private Vesuvius,
our bodies preserved by voluminous volcanic ash,
but alas, you cannot recite the ash of poetry
so one waits, cut and pasting brown edged
burnt photographs epistles,
that are clinging and clung to the distaff spindle,
insufficient to weave a flax complete
and yet we return perforce twenty four hours from now,
to snag another prized piece of meaningless,
my prize for waiting
in the solitude of the thin place*
3:35am Saturday April 6th, 2019
~
last nights scrap
***cease your whining,
seize your waiting,
therein is your own paid price
for the prize of inspiration***
inspired by Jean Fisher,
a real prize winning poet
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 4:26 AM UTC
Pompeii stood proud near Naples.
Close to Herculaneum.
When in August of AD 79.
Volcano magnificent erupted.
Without nonchalance.
A buried city born.
Complete with frescoes of erotica.
Were subject to ancient censorship.
City modern with flowing water.
Trendy port.
Gymnasium.
Modernist by all accounts.
Population 20 000.
Mostly perished in brimstone's evacuation.
From the deepest depths of hell.
Suffocated nearly all.
Asphyxiated on vile fumes.
Eruption cataclysmic.
City buried far underground.
By written description.
'Tis believed that hell on earth unleashed.
The day following magical celebrations.
Worshiping Vulcanalia the Roman God of Fire.
Ironic tragedy procured.
Few survived the tragedy.
Those that did ran free
Anarchy, starvation.
Mainly petty larceny.
Landscape near destroyed.
Pliny the Younger wrote in a letter.
Vivid description of images seen as Pliny the Elder tried to rescue a few.
Felt perhaps had a duty to do.
Was admiral proud of the Roman fleet.
His life taken in forfeit as citizens from the ash world perished.
Pax Romana followed tragedy.
Dealt such a wicked card.
Embalmed in ash citizens lay.
Locked forever on the spot as they ran away!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 6:35 AM UTC
"Are the gods angry?"
she said with a laugh
as Vesuvius rumbled
with warnings advance.
I cuffed her behind,
but gently, and laughed:
"Lady bring me more wine
for my morning repast."
I had sup'd with old Pliny
just the evening before.
Admiral of the fleet
anchored safely offshore.
My vineyards are fruitful,
a source of fine wines.
and the olives, when pressed,
make a spread that's divine.
My Villa is handsome,
and I own many slaves.
so you see I've no use
for their Jesus who saves.
The top of the mountain
disappeared in a blast
Our homes are laid siege to
with pumice and ash.
The women are screaming
I hear a child cry.
I hear prayers vainly offered
to an uncaring sky.
The air is quite thick
My lungs are oppressed.
My Villa is burning
along with the rest.
With a cloth on my mouth,
I race to the shore,
hoping, dear Pliny,
to see you once more.
I look on with horror
as burning stone blocks my path
I crouch by a wall
as my last moments pass.
* * * * *
The Archeologist tutted
"Well, who have we here?
"Clearly no slave
from this ring it appears."
" I am Lucius Flavius."
My Lemure would remind.
but I'm like a statue
and mute for all time.
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 5:10 PM UTC
They used to call me twinkle toes,
And I had my fill of admirers and beaus.
I was quite a dancer of ballet,
My pirouette and my grand Pliny
were talked about for months and days.
I had my choice of theaters and plays.
I was photographed and interviewed.
I had rich men begging me for an interlude.
I had money tossed at me as if it were confetti,
I was envied by people that were talent less and petty.
And then all at once at the very peak of my illustrious career,
I lost it all because I developed a taste for hamburger and beer.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 3:56 AM UTC
Pliny the somethingth's request for a title
put through the paces of a mincing machine
will form this, the entirety of my presentation,
to you, paid for by the flatulence tax.
VAT fantastic. I love the Government.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 5:31 PM UTC
Everything is ruined.
The plan, the plans.
Every ******* thing is torn
Shredded. The hand is poison,
The mouth is a gate that never shuts.
The body, the mind,
A mismatched pair. Utterly senseless.
I’m a hypocrite when I do this.
But then again I might just be fickle.
They call it changing minds,
With the hypocrisy riding on it
Like a wave, up to a froth-filled
Bang on the sandy shore.
The smell of salt annihilates.
I do not wish to live for this.
There, I’ve said it. I’ve sent the
Package to you like I told my head
I would not.
Crumble, crumble oh Pliny.
Vesuvius’s wrath spews here again.
Choking us with its mountain of black ash,
Rushing towards us like a news in hurry.
Salvaging our bones among the ruins of Herculaneum.
We, the organic, getting eaten for centuries.
Shalini Nayar
© 2004
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 8:58 AM UTC
Afterglow grieve bereavement
violaceous flesh limned
kindled espied populace
afflict exultation ayont
disengage, uncage, redeem
bewail materiality it would seem
wager evil haply on dreams
venerated existent ken ataraxy
here transpires this idiolect soul-to Pliny's ism;
lone eminently felicitous forebearer.
Jul 6, 2022
Jul 6, 2022 at 9:25 PM UTC
home is where the heart is,
pliny said.
so, i searched.
but, never did i find
a heart
in my home.
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 4:19 AM UTC