"slunk" poems
Last night I dreamed again.
I tripped the soul right out of me.
Danced dashed against the moon.
I dove through the night.
Skinned through it to get to you.
Slipped flitted out of my body.
Just slunk over to you.
I screamed my rage at you!
Tore out my heart for you.
If sleep is the little death,
Then I'll see you again tonight.
cc1210
Dec 22, 2010
Dec 22, 2010 at 5:09 PM UTC
Amanda was a Panda
She was a lovely lass,
Although she had two big black eyes,
She retained an air of class.
She ambled into the Bamboo Bar
To have lunch with Panda Pete one day,
And he looked into her eyes
And to her he did say.
"Oh Amanda with your big black eyes
Will you please be forever mine,
And promise that you will never
Let your panda arms entwine,
Any other bloke panda
In this bamboo land,
Please oh please Amanda,
You've got to understand
For me there is no other
You're the only girl for me,
You remind me of my mother,
And so we're meant to be,
Together as a couple we'll be
With our four eyes of black,
Oh darling please look at me
Why have you turned your back?"
She answered very clearly
She said "because Pete I'd rather,
Find another Panda really,
To be my childrens father."
Now Panda Pete was really sad
He felt total and utter rejection,
So he sloped off before he got mad,
To a future of dejection.
He slunk out of the Bamboo Bar,.
Back into the forest outside
And jumped into his panda car
And took off for a long lonesome ride.
Tom Higgins 07/05/2014
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 10:40 AM UTC
When I was a windy boy and a bit
And the black spit of the chapel fold,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of women),
I tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wood,
The rude owl cried like a tell-tale ***
I skipped in a blush as the big girls rolled
Nine-pin down on donkey's common,
And on seesaw sunday nights I wooed
Whoever I would with my wicked eyes,
The whole of the moon I could love and leave
All the green leaved little weddings' wives
In the coal black bush and let them grieve.
When I was a gusty man and a half
And the black beast of the beetles' pews
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of *******
Not a boy and a bit in the wick-
Dipping moon and drunk as a new dropped calf,
I whistled all night in the twisted flues,
Midwives grew in the midnight ditches,
And the sizzling sheets of the town cried, Quick!-
Whenever I dove in a breast high shoal,
Wherever I ramped in the clover quilts,
Whatsoever I did in the coal-
Black night, I left my quivering prints.
When I was a man you could call a man
And the black cross of the holy house,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of welcome),
Brandy and ripe in my bright, bass prime,
No springtailed tom in the red hot town
With every simmering woman his mouse
But a hillocky bull in the swelter
Of summer come in his great good time
To the sultry, biding herds, I said,
Oh, time enough when the blood runs cold,
And I lie down but to sleep in bed,
For my sulking, skulking, coal black soul!
When I was half the man I was
And serve me right as the preachers warn,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of downfall),
No flailing calf or cat in a flame
Or hickory bull in milky grass
But a black sheep with a crumpled horn,
At last the soul from its foul mousehole
Slunk pouting out when the limp time came;
And I gave my soul a blind, slashed eye,
Gristle and rind, and a roarers' life,
And I shoved it into the coal black sky
To find a woman's soul for a wife.
Now I am a man no more no more
And a black reward for a roaring life,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of strangers),
Tidy and cursed in my dove cooed room
I lie down thin and hear the good bells jaw--
For, oh, my soul found a sunday wife
In the coal black sky and she bore angels!
Harpies around me out of her womb!
Chastity prays for me, piety sings,
Innocence sweetens my last black breath,
Modesty hides my thighs in her wings,
And all the deadly virtues plague my death!
5.3k
When I was a windy boy and a bit
And the black spit of the chapel fold,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of women),
I tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wood,
The rude owl cried like a tell-tale ***
I skipped in a blush as the big girls rolled
Nine-pin down on donkey's common,
And on seesaw sunday nights I wooed
Whoever I would with my wicked eyes,
The whole of the moon I could love and leave
All the green leaved little weddings' wives
In the coal black bush and let them grieve.
When I was a gusty man and a half
And the black beast of the beetles' pews
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of *******
Not a boy and a bit in the wick-
Dipping moon and drunk as a new dropped calf,
I whistled all night in the twisted flues,
Midwives grew in the midnight ditches,
And the sizzling sheets of the town cried, Quick!-
Whenever I dove in a breast high shoal,
Wherever I ramped in the clover quilts,
Whatsoever I did in the coal-
Black night, I left my quivering prints.
When I was a man you could call a man
And the black cross of the holy house,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of welcome),
Brandy and ripe in my bright, bass prime,
No springtailed tom in the red hot town
With every simmering woman his mouse
But a hillocky bull in the swelter
Of summer come in his great good time
To the sultry, biding herds, I said,
Oh, time enough when the blood runs cold,
And I lie down but to sleep in bed,
For my sulking, skulking, coal black soul!
When I was half the man I was
And serve me right as the preachers warn,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of downfall),
No flailing calf or cat in a flame
Or hickory bull in milky grass
But a black sheep with a crumpled horn,
At last the soul from its foul mousehole
Slunk pouting out when the limp time came;
And I gave my soul a blind, slashed eye,
Gristle and rind, and a roarers' life,
And I shoved it into the coal black sky
To find a woman's soul for a wife.
Now I am a man no more no more
And a black reward for a roaring life,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of strangers),
Tidy and cursed in my dove cooed room
I lie down thin and hear the good bells jaw--
For, oh, my soul found a sunday wife
In the coal black sky and she bore angels!
Harpies around me out of her womb!
Chastity prays for me, piety sings,
Innocence sweetens my last black breath,
Modesty hides my thighs in her wings,
And all the deadly virtues plague my death!
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She,
Thick eyeliner'd eyes
Racoon-rung, fingers slunk around
The overused pencil, smudged on her hand
And yet, it's not how she feels
More, how she wants to feel.
Oh, such a scarred star
In a sea of dulling graphite.
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 10:08 PM UTC
it was a late night
we were walking alongside a road
quiet was the air with the exception of the rare
car passing
but then out of the darkness
it came
the car was all windows down
rap music busting through worn speakers
yells and whistles penetrating our ears
yet we walked on
but the monster crept back
hungry for our power
preying on our innocence
maiming us with their words
and just like that it was finished with us
it slunk off into darkness
never to be seen again
Coward.
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 8:41 PM UTC
I woke up very early this morning, restless and bothered, itchy for the day to happen. As dawn broke orange, the city was revealed. I’ll never get tired of watching that. The snow was gone but a gloss over the city streets indicated ice. I scanned the landscape for movement - for life - like a predator.
Lisa and I are headed back to school today, at 11am, by air, which our parents feel is the best way to avoid our old, holiday nemesis omicron (doesn’t that make us sound like secret agents?).
Once everyone was finally up, Lisa and I got our busy-on, doing the last load of laundry and final packing. Lisa, packs a suitcase, by throwing clothes in without bothering to fold them, while I meticulously fold and roll my clothes, like a marine headed for deployment.
As Lisa and I worked, Leeza (12) was lying on Lisa’s bed, on her back with her head hanging over the edge - watching us pack upside down. Her red hair looked like a thrown plate of spaghetti.
Leeza was talk, talk, talking and gnawing on a toasted bagel at the same time. “How do you feel about going back to school?” she asked us. “OH, feelings!” I gasped, “A free therapy session!” “No, really,” she said, grown serious and rolling right side up.
Leeza is cute as a button and vulnerable - I could almost feel her anxiety. As the youngest sibling I’d been left behind too - you don’t want the holiday to end and your big sister to leave - it’s a singularly lonesome feeling. I wanted to grab her, like a puppy, wrestle her and tell her I love her and I’d miss her - like my sister used to do with me. I decided that as soon as we were done packing, I would.
“My GOD,” Lisa said to Leeza, “will you PLEASE shut up! I have to think.” Leeza blushed and shrugged “I’m just making conversation, grump-face, you’ve packed a million times before haven’t you?” “Does counting to 10 make ****** premeditated?” Lisa asked the ceiling.
Suddenly, Lisa dropped the blouse she’d been holding and pounced on Leeza, tickling her as she squealed with delight. In a second they’d become a ball of flailing arms, legs, hair and playful noise. I slunk out of the room to give them their sister’s goodbye.
Besides, I smelled bacon.
Jan 14, 2022
Jan 14, 2022 at 9:19 AM UTC
His garb was not spectacular,his shoes were grey and worn;
his hair was longer than a mere crewcut.
His nails were very *****
his veins were free of needles-
and his face shone bright red
in the misty sunlight.
He greeted the sky with a wail of delight,
and the hearts of passers began to throb.
Summer and autumn were remarried in an embrace of generous hope,
throbbing airwaves,tapping feet,delighted smiles.
And then along came a citizen,politically correct;
oh so relevant,barely tolerant ,emancipator.
With a fuzz of of ***** gray
a salloween expressive nosegay-
A mission to expunge the infiltrator!
He was busy with his flute;
he could not practise,he said
"I only live two hundred yards away.
You must cease and leave this place
you do not fit here in this race-
ABANDON this ridiculous idea!"
So,the stopwatch was set;
the 'half hour rule' began to reign:
And the police turned up
after merely twenty minutes!
Nelson's watch saved the day
"take another twenty"They did say
and our liberator slunk away
unfairly treated.
Though earth on heel and
sky on neck:Lovers'
authentic myth
outshining heaven:
a piper
on a bridge
unsheathed
across
the Ij
A klted
magpie.
unswathed
the lay
fairly
greeted
Sep 27, 2010
Sep 27, 2010 at 7:55 AM UTC
I learned an important lesson
during a street hockey match.
Don't stand in front of slap shots.
Some runt boasted
of how powerful he could smack the ball,
and I howled with laughter, a hyena,
standing my ground,
confident as a peacock,
feet away from his stick.
I was a hockey god none could conquer,
and he, a puck peasant
whom I could smite with a single shot.
But then he slapped
The ball, Crack!
the start of a track meet.
From there my memory is as shaky
as my knees when the ball
crashed into my eye.
They say I wailed and crumpled
to the ground, clutching
away, feeling the stinging
tears come.
I tried to fight them,
but like the eternal rains
endured by Noah, down
they poured. I slunk home, head-hung
In shamed defeat.
I ran to the bathroom
to inspect my battle wounds,
and there in the mirror,
dark and purple as a stormy sky
was my first
Shiner.
Dec 26, 2009
Dec 26, 2009 at 11:20 PM UTC
the beach is for losing yourself
i ask you what manner of man or beast could ignore its siren song
it dragged our silly smiles across the sand
feet trailing giddily behind us
we slipped wearied into the warm unceasing avalanche
and a year was washed away
in the thunderous salt rinse
the beach is for best friends and for beer
it is for games beneath the stars
while a plankton metropolis fluoresced underfoot
and a meteor grazed the spine of leo
we slumbered through brooding rains
that slunk away when we awoke to stare them down
white shapes cast slender shadows on the reeds at noon
sea breezes crooned tunes every child has always known
in languages no man will ever understand
the beach is for all of us
last night we dreamt of ancestral slimes marching out of it
today let us plunge in
it is for even creeping snakes and gnawing fleas
verily
but most of all
it is for your glistening face
for two sleepy seagreen eyes accustoming themselves to the bright shores of morning
while your coffee cooled on the camp stove
it is for the sheen of your wild brown arms
the surf of your laughter
words with which you filled a quiet moment
circling in my mind like gulls over the harbor
yes most of all
most of all
it is for you
speeding down the narrow cape
i was beside you
tapping in tandem with your electronic music
realizing more with every pastel cottage flickering by
that you had found me
and i had never felt
so safe
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 3:25 AM UTC
British soldiers,
Trained her for war,
Slunk through these vines,
Machete-hacked jungle trails,
Stumbled through tangled heat,
Discovered torturous needles
Of the dusty ******* Tree,
Cursed the stinging pain,
Attempted cures for naught.
Belizean allies revealed
The bastard's secret:
Within the sap
Beneath the needled coat:
Analgesic antidote.
So it is the "Give and Take" poisons
Then takes the curse away...
Solutions sometimes lie
Just beyond our pain.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 10:10 PM UTC
Her wide-brim hat was pointed, and worn with ne'er a tilt
Her midnight robe was flowing, and wove from satin silk
Her Besom broom was hazel-hilted, twigged with fresh cut birch
As she flew o'er the hill, until she spied a rocky perch
The hill was trapped in moons light, caught in its silken nets
And grizzled trees were swaying casting eerie silhouettes
A howling wind came moaning, as it wailed a haunting sound
When her swishing broom came whooshing, as she swept o'er the ground
She alighted on the hill top, landing dainty on her toes
And took a tattered grimoire which she held up to her nose
She raised a magic talisman and cast an ancient spell
Then she waited through the gloaming, till midnight chimed its bell
The hill stood gravely silent, as the wind restrained its breath
The grass and flowers wilted and released their scent of death
The shadows neath the trees became alive and took on shape
And ghostly figures rose, as Hallows Eve called them awake
The sounds of horse drawn carriages, came trundling up the hill
Whilst babbling jeering voices exorcised the silent still
A sudden gust of wind called out the names of those condemned
Each manacled and chained up, as they rode to meet their end
As time echoed its memories, she watched the scene unfold
The victims forced unwillingly, to climb upon the scaffold
Some offered up the Lord’s Prayer, and ne'er a word was stumbled
They took a final breath of life, and into hell they tumbled
Their bodies swung ungainly, as they swayed a ghastly dance
With lifeless spectral faces locked into a stone-like trance
Their deathly shrouds were pale, reflected in moons silken sheen
And she watched as they cavorted, ne'er attempt to intervene
They slunk back into shadows, at the fading of the night
The hill reprieved from darkness by the early morning light
The ritual was completed, as she whispered them goodbye
And she climbed onto her hazel broom and kicked into the sky
On Gallows Hill neath stars and moon they hung
And ne'er a one had done the world a wrong
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 9:18 PM UTC
There's nothing new
about this song
it's all been sung before
I'm just a broken soldier
bleeding from an ancient war
When I came home
there were no crowds
no bands for me did play
I slunk back like a refugee
And now I'm here to stay
Every door
was closed to me
no woman and no lover
to take my hand to comfort me
to lead my heart to cover
You found me like
some fallen bird
you took me home and said
I feel this pain you carry
now come with me to bed
You took me in
you eased that pain
and soothed me in your arms
outside I heard the sirens scream
inside I learned your charms
You tried your best
to heal my wounds
to get me on my feet
but guilt was far too much for me
I left you for the street
I live alone
in poverty
I guess I'm here for good
there are no saints or saviors
in this fallen neighborhood
But listen to me
if you please
I need to hear your name
to know I'm not completely lost
upon these streets of pain
It's cold it's dark
I'm fevered and
I'm lost in bed alone
I never was much good at love
too weary to the bone
I need to kiss
your shining eyes
but you are far away
and I am caught so far from you
upon this lonely day
You were much
too good for me
my dark relentless lies
too good to see the enemy
within my felon eyes
I thank you
for your comfort
your body and your heart
the way you shared your bed with me
forgave me from the start
There's nothing new
about this song
it's all been sung before
I'm just a broken soldier
bleeding from an ancient war
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 8:12 AM UTC
1134
The Wind took up the Northern Things
And piled them in the south—
Then gave the East unto the West
And opening his mouth
The four Divisions of the Earth
Did make as to devour
While everything to corners slunk
Behind the awful power—
The Wind—unto his Chambers went
And nature ventured out—
Her subjects scattered into place
Her systems ranged about
Again the smoke from Dwellings rose
The Day abroad was heard—
How intimate, a Tempest past
The Transport of the Bird—
1.4k
In one of those fogs of London
I boarded the East End train,
The mist was a yellow, evil smog
And then it began to rain.
I found a compartment, only two
To bother my peaceful ride,
And placed my case at my feet, in place
With my gold-blocked name outside.
The smell of the fog was drifting in
And burning my eyes and throat,
I said to the man, ‘Let fresh air in…’
He sat and buttoned his coat.
‘The air out there is as bad as in,’
He said with a scowl and stare,
‘You might be happy to sit and choke,
The window stays up, I swear.’
I leant well back, and looked at the girl
Who sat there, opposite me,
She wore her skirt right up to the hip,
I stared at her stockinged knee,
Her eyes were bright, an emerald green
But tears I saw on her cheek,
‘This fog,’ she muttered, and wiped them dry,
‘I think it was worse last week.’
‘But London’s always suffered from fog,’
I ventured, ‘Back in the day,
The Ripper used it to hide his crimes,
He used it getting away.’
‘Overblown,’ he said, the man in the coat,
‘There’s many was worse than he,
The blood ran thick in the gutters here
At times in our history.’
‘But he’s the one who never got caught,
You must at least give him that.’
The man slunk down in his corner seat,
Then sat, and played with his hat.
The girl just smiled, and said in a while,
I think you’re right, he’s the one,
I wouldn’t like, on a foggy night
To meet him, minus a gun.’
The man reached into his overcoat
And seized the girl with a sigh,
Holding a cut-throat razor to
Her throat, with a smile so sly.
‘I said I’d never do this again
But I must admit, I lied,
I noticed the name on your carry case,
You’re Jekyll, I see – I’m Hyde!’
David Lewis Paget
Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 7:08 AM UTC
It is an ancient Poet
and he stoppeth me.
“Beware of poetry, my son,
She’s a gold digger.
She’ll chew you up and spit you out,
leave you penniless and lying in a gutter,
drunk on absinthe,
while the rich novelists and scriptwriters
step over you, laughing.”
“Hold off! unhand me, greybeard loon!”
Unheeding, I slunk off to my garret
to compose a villanelle,
heavily derivative of Dylan Thomas.
I only wanted to get girls,
but before I knew it
I was roaming with the Romantics,
bopping with the Beats
and cruising with the Classicists.
Popping some Pope, shooting some Stevie Smith
or hitting up Heaney,
I was hopelessly addicted.
And I never did get the girl.
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 2:44 AM UTC
My whole life I've been lost, and
my whole life they've said, "go home".
I've read enough books and
I've seen more than enough films to know
home isn't always the same place
we retire ourselves to night after night.
So I lay awake -
Is this all there is?
In my dreams, the most beautiful places
in the entire world come alive:
The Pyramids of Egypt,
Grand Canyon,
Even Venice, Italy.
I can taste the adventure,
but I wake into a world with four walls
and no stories to tell.
Is this all there is?
"So travel," they tell me.
"See it all, the big cities and bright lights,
dip your feet in untested waters, go on."
And I've mustered enough courage to
get myself out of bed, to the car
and to brush past all my old friends.
I've got luggage, and a train ticket.
And I've got baggage, and a question:
Is this all there is?
"Board, or go home", the man behind me whines.
"Maybe I'll do both," I mutter,
but I find myself slunk against a wall
waiting for a departed train.
All my life, I've been lost.
Four walls and five words -
and they haunt me every day.
I could travel, I could go home,
but I'd still be lost anyway.
Every inch of the world could be mine,
to touch and to wander.
But what if I had boarded only to find
home was always in these four walls
echoing the same 5 hollow words -
Is this all there is?
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC
I, Too, Sing America (and did so in my diapers!)
by Michael R. Burch
I, too, served my country,
first as a tyke, then as a toddler, later as a rambunctious boy,
growing up on military bases around the world,
making friends only to leave them,
saluting the flag through veils of tears,
time and time again ...
In defense of my country,
I too did my awesome duty –
cursing the Communists,
confronting Them in backyard battles where They slunk around disguised as my sniggling Sisters,
while always demonstrating the immense courage
to start my small life over and over again
whenever Uncle Sam called ...
Building and rebuilding my shattered psyche,
such as it was,
dealing with PTSD (preschool traumatic stress disorder)
without the adornments of medals, ribbons or epaulets,
serving without pay,
following my father’s gruffly barked orders,
however ill-advised ...
A true warrior!
Will you salute me?
I hope my “small” attempt at humor will help readers remember the sacrifices made by the spouses, children and extended families of our valiant servicemen and women. It was not easy making friends only to lose them, time and time again, as I grew up a “military brat” on American air bases around the globe. I really did make sacrifices for my country, while winning every battle against the “communists” in our back yard.
Keywords/Tags: Memorial Day, military brat, service, war, duty, honor, heroism, soldiers, army, navy, air force, marines
May 31, 2021
May 31, 2021 at 2:26 AM UTC
That fateful day, It slipperily slunk,
The shrewd and crafty Beast
And with Its slithery tongue It struck
Two hearts, and hell released
A fateful day! A fateful dint!
…The Fall of the Beloved
But then and there One gave the hint
Of rescue from Above
---
That fateful day the Beast would bite
The heel of The Great King
But He, in turn, would crush Its head –
Death’s prisoners would sing:
*“The fateful Day eternity told,
Foreknown before the world!*
*The Lion came, brave and bold –
The Lamb slain from of old!”*
---
And so, that fateful day was but
A part in the Grand Scheme
One fateful Day He’d come indeed
To ransom and redeem
That fateful Day upon a cross
He breathed His final breath:
“It is finished!” was His cry;
The death of death in death.
.
Oct 24, 2020
Oct 24, 2020 at 8:25 AM UTC
The flower cared.
Too much, some would say,
Too naive, too loving and innocent.
Easily taken advantage of.
They were right.
Yet the flower didn't believe them.
She wanted to care too much.
The flower knew the snail,
A brown snail with its home on its back and a hard shell.
A shell that spiraled up to a point.
The slow sad snail that sallied its way across the garden every day.
The snail said it would be salted one day,
Or slowly baked in the sun,
Someday soon,
If it couldn’t have a bite of the flower’s pedals.
The timid, naive, caring flower
Believed that brown snail
And stood still as the snail slunk it’s way up the stem
To the precious pedals.
At first the snail was kind,
But when the days wore on and the flower grew weaker,
He hemmed and hawed and hurt the flower with his words
Complaining at the scars and hurt.
The ones that were only there because of him.
He became obsessed, demanding more,
Demanding everything.
She gave him as much as he wanted,
Begging and pleading for him to stop,
And trying not to give any more.
The flower grew weak and nearly died.
If flowers had knees she’d be weeping and trembling on them.
A gentle hand reached down and gingerly touched the crumbling flower.
The hand was worn and weathered, streaked with dirt,
A gardener's hand.
The gardener got his shovel and
Put the flower in a ***
He watched after the flower daily,
Watering, nourishing, healing.
He did not blame the flower for attracting the snail,
His only thought was to heal and help.
He saw the potential in the flower and knew how to renew it.
She began to heal.
Mar 10, 2018
Mar 10, 2018 at 7:23 PM UTC
Today a ten-year-old girl
threatened suicide at school because
a trusted uncle had molested her.
What kind of ******* world
has this become?
Police were called,
Child Services arrived,
statements were taken.
no doubt social workers
were stirred into the mix.
I am a man of the 20th Century,
just old enough to remember outrage,
to remember when too much was taboo,
to remember personal honor.
When I was a kid, this monster
was snatched from his bed
by righteous neighbors, dragged begging
to a private place beyond help
and been beaten nearly to death
by the fathers of other potential victims.
Imagine a circle of men, ordinary men,
mostly World II and Korea veterans:
insurance men, car salesmen, farmers,
store keepers, salesmen, even a lawyer
tightening the circle in the torchlight.
The monster begged, pleaded, wept,
wet himself, **** himself, whimpered.
The sheriff watched, smiled,
and then rearrested the pervert for resisting.
Had he lived, the monster would never
have touched a little girl again in our town,
knowing that his life would be forfeit
and end abruptly and anonymously.
Probably, he would have just slunk away.
This new state of bureaucracy cares nothing
for the victims it claims to protect.
It only wants the paperwork filled out correctly.
I was 11, 1962 in a quiet sleepy town.
My father took me to see what evil brings,
the best lesson he ever taught me.
If I had been old enough I would have joined in
without so much as a twinge of regret.
You liberal ostriches can call this brutality if you like.
I call it community action, community justice.
People protecting what is there's to protect
when the official guardians just go through the motions
I miss the 20th Century. I miss justice.
~mce
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 7:39 PM UTC
She sat up, drenched in sweat, panting. A cursory glance out of her window presented nothing but darkness beyond the fluttering white curtains, the cool night air seeping into her bedroom. She shivered and pressed herself further into the blankets, wrapping layers of warmth around her like a fluffy cocoon.
With a forlorn sigh, she tried to coax herself back to sleep, trying her best to ignore the bright red numbers of her alarm clock that flashed a disappointing 4:00 AM. She knew this would be pointless. She could never sleep on this night- this night where she was annually plagued by a steady onslaught of nightmares on the anniversary of that grim event. To fall into the foreboding arms of sleep meant to curl up in a flurry of gaunt eyes and hollowed skin among other things- terrible things that slowly slunk back into the light, try as she might to push them into the back of her mind and deprive them of memory or existence.
The worst thing she dreamt about, though, was his face. It rushed into her consciousness like an angry dark secret with blinding clarity and startling vividness. She counted several prominent wrinkles on the yellowing, sickly skin. His hair was thinning, falling out in wispy clumps. Perhaps what bothered her most was her recollection of the eyes. She had looked into those eyes much like one would peer down into a chasm: knowing that there was a place down there deprived of light or joy or laughter, simply an empty void. It had been painful to look into those eyes and realize that there wasn’t any hope left for him. And so she had held the withered hand connected to the emaciated excuse for a body, and the eyes looked towards her one last time, remorseful and hopeless. Then they had closed and he was gone.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 2:16 PM UTC
the cigarette smoke hang in the air like
tropical transpiration.
dancing, dipping, she hung on to him tight.
flight topical sensations
starts rapid elation
to sacred vibrations.
Lovers in a lover's dance.
One in each others trance.
They form a flower of shape and motion,
and raise their smiles
like the sun
in an eastern ocean.
When, like a sudden shadow
with such outdone bravado,
a man sprung from underfoot,
from under carpet and soot,
and began to introduce himself,
his hand a continental shelf,
waiting for a shake from the lover's ocean.
Without attention, his hand slunk back to
it's bright blue breast pocket cave.
"Henry Ennui, man o' soot " he said was his name.
The lover's proclaimed "You're insane."
The words tickled Henry, like water the drain
then he let the lovers look
inside his brain
where the rain was
and the flame does
what it wants underwater
UNDERWATER:
the lovers gasped,
the ash man rasped,
pulled a pistol from his patched pants,
and proceeded to shoot them both.
Jan 17, 2011
Jan 17, 2011 at 7:06 PM UTC
The wind's blustery paw mauled the night
rattling slack shutters and
shuddering corrugated roofs
like small change.
Sodden leaves congregated
in walled corner pockets,
praying for a last crack at dryness
and the playful kick and crunch of kids' feet.
Stray tomcat slunk
beneath
an s.u.v.
cowering at the naked trees
whose limbs fumbled drunkenly.
Not quite Munch's infinite scream,
but the closest thing I want to see
this night.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 5:40 PM UTC
The Politician
Has he kept his word?
Kept to promises you heard?
Are you satisfied? Let down?
Waiting to see what comes round?
These choices voiced, unvoiced
From voters of the officers new crowned.
To those who vote by rote or call
To those who vote at all:
Has he or she distorted vows
To overpower and devour:
Double thought through double-think?
Misconstruing and misstating,
Skewed with bias filled with hating.
Stinking skills to sell and buy,
To peddle lies which sink a country –
Even if potentially –
Are the aides, incomes denied,
Who stand to profit on the sly,
Men in masks, men in power
Hidden men, men of the hour,
How will tasks now basked in
At whose call flasks, casks are drunk from:
Will affairs of state be slunk from?
This a call to politician;
Call to listen;
He or she just person
In the end.
The Politician 2.28.2017
Our Times, Our Culture II;
Arlene Corwin
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 7:25 AM UTC