"stragglers" poems
Soft melodies of the deep sea echo
Moonlight dances on my pretty scales
And icy bubbles whirl under my chest
Through my slippery hair
And down into my lungs to clear the way for overflowing foam
Laughter splashes behind my lips as my anticipation rises
Waiting for a night of twisted fairy-tales and uncalled for surprises.
Shimmering bodies swarm in spirals
Grinding in unison with the waves crashing at the surface
We're anxious for overflowing foam and hidden treasures
Purple light pierces the dark like shards of crystals
Casting a ghostly shade on bulbous faces
Pressure rises as each wave surges
Whirlpools of hot breath suffocate our gills
But the sidelines are shallow
And stragglers float motionless
Hair like seaweed at the nape of his neck
Unbuttoned linen soaked and dripping
Her hollow eyes glow green
Like the jelly orbs of a fish under florescent lights
She’s pressed against a boy who has hooks for fins
Searching for the parts that are edible
Tender, Scale-less, Slippery
Nothing wrong with being the catch of the day
Right?
Bubbles rise and pop as the last melodies drown
Schools of us are begging for shiny hooks and bad decisions
A handsome boy has been smiling all the while
He’s caught in a fisherman’s net
Craving salty lips and the spell to make him a man
But fisherman don't care for little mermaids
With hearts like sea glass and no hidden treasures to steal
Sweaty fins splash and cheer
The fishbowl shatters
Sea glass spills out onto sand
We squirm and flop onto land
Gasping without air to breathe
As our mouths and ***** thoughts dry in the sun
Leaving behind fresh meat without mouths to feed.
Rainbow confetti was stuck in the grooves of my scales
Wet clothes left on the floor of a steamy bathroom
Gasping and moaning into tile
With the face of a handsome stranger
Because this meat shouldn't go to waste
And I'm drunken with desperation
For overflowing foam, jewels, and shiny hooks
But I'm just another fish in the sea
Tumbling in the waves with my rainbow confetti scales.
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 6:00 PM UTC
. . . . . . . . .
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
what about the gull
with a wayward splash
or the balanced blend
of cirrus and ash
foghorns throw
the pock wave
sewell stragglers
and bonny boats
earn their keep
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 12:35 AM UTC
to exonerate the clippings
they took the back road to oswega
the tudor house rabbits
had long lost their heads
(presumably to the *****
and what remained
of the landscape
was dead
and dry
and orange
that happy home
on the brink
of cattle loop
was now gull grey
the needles
and stragglers
from shady bay
remained (in growing numbers)
on the outskirts
of the driven back park
the once fabled town
of horse drawn tours
and dignitaries
was stone washed ~
on the back of it's
government docks
sat decrepit toppers
set against the high tide
beside the lighthouse
and its measured song
flutes and fiddlers
and acoustic sitars
ride the accompaniment
nose rings
and signage
in the hands of
staged protesters
the sickly spit strewn
with tidal run
and ocean bags
hedgerows trimmed
along the sea side
rolling hills fade
adjacent the chuck
mint juleps
and flop hats
peak on the parade
clydesdales
and royals
blinded in the back
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 2:41 PM UTC
I never put away all of these socks,
there's just something so final about putting away
all the socks. When I close the drawer after putting away
the clothes, its like saying "remain here for awhile,
for I do not plan to wear you again for some time".
But putting away all of the socks
is like saying "stay here,
I'm not going anywhere". What if
something pops up though?
It gets cold, a friend calls
with exciting plans and I must say,
"No sorry, I just put away all of my socks"
Whats the point in putting them all away if I just
go right back and take some out? Might as well
leave a pair or two by the shoes, at the ready.
Plus whenever I put away all the socks
I find the stragglers, the lone socks, the swiss socks,
the worn out ones and then I have to make difficult
decisions. Weighing the severity of the tears against
how uncomfortable they'll be. Designating indoor only
socks and how many more wears a sock can receive before,
garbage. And every time I put on a sock like this I shed a tear
because socks don't receive burials. Socks are easily replaced.
It's just not worth the trouble to put away all these socks.
Sep 2, 2010
Sep 2, 2010 at 2:39 PM UTC
I wait for you to come closer,
To draw closer and tell me
That you can't deal with me
Any more. Not with my
Insane, bordering on
Psychotic, behavior, and
My bipolar mood swings.
But, you draw closer
And you smile right at me,
And draw me into a hug
For a second, that little voice,
Which I am always aware of,
Which tells me I'm never
Going to be good enough
For anyone to accept or like,
Let alone love,
Fades to the back of my mind.
I let myself relax
Into your warm embrace and
I let myself be and believe.
I turn to smile at you...
Before I can see your face,
Your features, I am woken up
From my daydream
By the bell signalling the
End of school. I pack my bag
And head towards my carpool,
My movements sluggish-
Even cheerily wave goodbye to
A few stragglers.
I reach home and eat lunch alone.
I go for tuition, let myself
Become numb to everything
But learning and understanding.
It becomes darker and it's almost 8,
I come back home again.
I had been out from 7 in the morning.
This time, my family's there and
We eat dinner together, though,
I am barely there with them.
They're discussing important
Things like business and will
Talk to me later. I finish eating
And go sleep. Tomorrow's going to
Be the exact robotic same.
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 7:53 AM UTC
the rain has come
finally
first in thunderous
clould burst
big fat pregnant drops landing
labouriously on
the dessicated dirt
leaving craterous footprints
as evidence of a
glorious dance
more fall to the cloud's internal beat
a steady rhythmic fall
into the mudpit dancehall
that once was dry dusty street
the rain has lessened
now wavering
between drizzle and mist stragglers late,
to raindance fall ball.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 7:17 PM UTC
While the calmness returns,
the strangers gone,
noise of gunshots,
the cry of the wounded
and dying are no more heard,
our children and women
came out of hiding,
the young men smiling sheepishly
as they survived the onslaught
of the insurgents.
You can see the older women
in small groups scattered all over
selling food and all kinds of stuff.
The stragglers returns,
loitering all over the place,
trying to adjust and blend
into the communities.
Laughter and shouts of joy
is again heard in our land
even the morning songs
of the turtle dove.
The stray dogs are seen
looking for food and handouts.
The women pounding
their yam in mortar
with the pistil are
heard in our backyard
with the noise of
happy children singing
and dancing at the village
square in the moonlight,
while the elders and young
men keep watch.
What a beautiful moment
as peace returns.
With grateful heart we
celebrate this day.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 5:15 PM UTC
<!>
Four Irises tall & gallant, looking though
slighted worn out, a tad bedraggled
they are springtime survivor stragglers
of the Great Spring Weather Battle.
living in an open trench, battle conditions,
wind-whipped by constant strong breezes,
raked by intermittent machine gun rain,
familiar weapons of the “handover” season
loyal guardians of their pinpoint position,
remaining on duty, standing at attention,
dignified amidst the serene, nearly summer, now,
accepting quietude & gratitude of surround soundings
arrow-straight, in dress uniforms of royally purple,
four lead a cohort of unbloomed green fellows,
protecting their charge, an ancient marker of time,
rusted-green bronze sundial, symbol of continuity
these four, boon companions to human and animal,
shall persist long after I cease to dabble in this art,
they greet their admirers in full regalia, every year,
long, long may they live, die and be yet reborn!
here, in place, when we arrived four decades ago, a tiny forever,
changelings heading a processional of the summer season,
greeting all with a simple story of constance of change, of beauty,
leading our Summertime Commencement Exercises
May 26 ~ 27, 2023
May 27, 2023
May 27, 2023 at 4:55 PM UTC
Sweet, harmless lives! (on whose holy leisure
Waits innocence and pleasure),
Whose leaders to those pastures, and clear springs,
Were patriarchs, saints, and kings,
How happened it that in the dead of night
You only saw true light,
While Palestine was fast asleep, and lay
Without one thought of day?
Was it because those first and blessed swains
Were pilgrims on those plains
When they received the promise, for which now
’Twas there first shown to you?
’Tis true, He loves that dust whereon they go
That serve Him here below,
And therefore might for memory of those
His love there first disclose;
But wretched Salem, once His love, must now
No voice, nor vision know,
Her stately piles with all their height and pride
Now languished and died,
And Bethlem’s humble cotes above them stepped
While all her seers slept;
Her cedar, fir, hewed stones and gold were all
Polluted through their fall,
And those once sacred mansions were now
Mere emptiness and show;
This made the angel call at reeds and thatch,
Yet where the shepherds watch,
And God’s own lodging (though He could not lack)
To be a common rack;
No costly pride, no soft-clothed luxury
In those thin cells could lie,
Each stirring wind and storm blew through their cots
Which never harbored plots,
Only content, and love, and humble joys
Lived there without all noise,
Perhaps some harmless cares for the next day
Did in their bosoms play,
As where to lead their sheep, what silent nook,
What springs or shades to look,
But that was all; and now with gladsome care
They for the town prepare,
They leave their flock, and in a busy talk
All towards Bethlem walk
To see their souls’ Great Shepherd, Who was come
To bring all stragglers home,
Where now they find Him out, and taught before
That Lamb of God adore,
That Lamb whose days great kings and prophets wished
And longed to see, but missed.
The first light they beheld was bright and gay
And turned their night to day,
But to this later light they saw in Him,
Their day was dark, and dim.
2.3k
Noitareneg
For my Soulmate
I
I saw the best minds of my generation go to waste
I saw the worst minds obsess over awful taste
I walked a steady path and staggered through some mud
I soared through skies so bright, my eyes were useless studs
II
You viewed the same madness that spewed from my pen
You walked the path of enlightenment and gorgeous Zen
You mastered what all the useless fools never could
You comprehended what they never understood
III
We rise, only as one, but the stragglers keep us down
We never worry much, because a king is just a crown
We march to the drum of freedom, with paper on our tongues
We are the 90’s generation, the wise among the young
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 12:37 PM UTC
On a walk companioned by my Muse along the sylvan meadows
We wandered away to delightful realms in unclouded ambience
Don’t know how long I rambled warming my fancies in sunset fires
Must be for long, all lights were out, the quiet hamlet lay bathed in sleep
Above me, stood the starry firmament and the half hidden moon
Could see the vast plains stretching before me in moonlight, bare
My heart was flooded with joy, my fancies took to wings
Got drowned in Nature’s serene calm, my spirit lost in drunken ecstasy
In the gentle blowing breeze, the leaves twittered and murmured
All else was quiet and nothing disturbed the serenity of the night
But soon I knew the East wind strengthening around into a gale
And across the moon I could see stragglers of clouds moving past
I sat on a rock, lost, so lost staring into the clear night sky
Wondering how the celestial joy, made manifest by the twinkling stars
My thoughts began floating like a ship over the briny waters
And my temporal settings faded away like a cloud in the horizon
From the nearby woods, I heard the song of a lone night bird
In rising cadence, alone and aloud it fell on my rapturous ears
Was it a nightingale that poured forth that dewy delight?
Was it the same song, Keats heard long ago cascading from the woods?
With my Muse in this unearthly hour let me sit awhile in this solitary bower
To my paper, let my fancies in unbroken crystal streams flow
Wonder if I can rightly recreate the image that my thoughts enfold
How I wish, I could like Coleridge, build a pleasure dome in mid air!
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 7:51 AM UTC
For Susan on her birthday
At a distance they appear
so unexpectedly red,
a vivid vermillion strip
in a growing green field.
We walked up the farm track
to view a few stragglers
lost on their way to their
Red-Together meeting.
They were intensely red
with liquorice-black centres,
free from that dustiness
of poppies in swathes.
Alone,
and too red to be real,
their stalks too tall
ungainly, anorexic even.
En masse,
nodding variously,
a thousand-strong Red Army choir
chorusing their hearts out.
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 4:13 AM UTC
Depression has made a home in my bones
it curls up inside my rib cage
wounding itself around my heart
This body is a city that used to shine so bright.
Gold and silver dust glowed,
two elements that usually don't
go together blended harmoniously,
you could hear a symphony in your ear.
It was the core.
Now the city is empty,
except for the few stragglers that are trying
to fix it up to its former glory.
It is a lost cause, but they do not yet know
that the bones are decaying,
withering away.
The heart is beating
but it's bleeding.
Black blood that stains this ugly city.
It's all deteriorating.
Soon it will be transparent.
Then it would be gone
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 9:40 PM UTC
Lines composed while climbing the left ascent of Brockley Coomb, May 1795
With many a pause and oft reverted eye
I climb the Coomb’s ascent: sweet songsters near
Warble in shade their wild-wood melody:
Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear.
Up scour the startling stragglers of the flock
That on green plots o’er precipices browse:
From the deep fissures of the naked rock
The Yew-tree bursts! Beneath its dark green boughs
(’Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white)
Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats,
I rest:—and now have gained the topmost site.
Ah! what a luxury of landscape meets
My gaze! Proud towers, and Cots more dear to me,
Elm-shadowed Fields, and prospect-bounding Sea.
Deep sighs my lonely heart: I drop the tear:
Enchanting spot! O were my Sara here.
2k
Maybe water runs uphill
From the ocean's bursting treasures
Of salts, silts, sands
Marshalling at the estuaries
Spawning rivers, as pioneers
Oozing into coastal plains
A brackish caravan rolling
Inland to new-found-land
Beyond the rule and will
Of the tide's spill where
Drought and dry spells
Sweep like wraiths
******** on thieving winds
Throwing heartless dusty curses
Picking off stragglers
In slacks and backwaters
Or caravanned through known channels
Paying taxes to the thick-rooted soil
For passage upstream
Past thirsting leaf and bough
Every mile hard-won
Til the watershed haven
Of bog and lochan
Corralled safely among peaks
There to farm the cloud and mist
And to see blossom, in good years
A deep harvest
Of cold, clean snow
Mar 28, 2011
Mar 28, 2011 at 11:29 AM UTC
Meet me at the verge, the place where
Caledonian Road meets the river and the
Reckless thugs of Camden dare not travel,
Lest they find themselves back home, alone once more.
Meet me at midnight, before the
Gates break loose and spill the stragglers to the street,
And just after the last bus leaves the station,
And the tube stops, silent, dead.
Meet me for reasons unknown, for
Sake of impulse, of joy, of freedom,
To cast away what memory you might have
Of days less full and rich as this.
Meet me dressed in black and grey,
All the better for the night to swallow you whole,
Take you within, deep, as a lover to another,
Or a shipwreck lost within the sea.
Meet me with apathy and disdain,
With carefree abandon and slight
Mistrust, for you are more wary than I
And have seen darker evenings.
Meet me then and take my hand,
Through woollen gloves and shivering, and
Stare at me through condensed breath, as we
Share a smile and walk lightly away.
Jul 15, 2011
Jul 15, 2011 at 10:16 PM UTC
dear mind,
you are attempting indifference,
i try to be too
i am independent
however
without a prop i would surely fall
perhaps this is my lack of confidence
though none of us seem to have any
so that couldn't be it
maybe its my humanity speaking
please excuse my indecency.
i do not mean to be honest but this game of make-believe should have ended long ago
you make me cringe
though, you are my confidant.
we need to help the others
i know you see it too
please stop pressing so hard its turning me blue
and these mind puzzles you play with me are missing some pieces
there are so many screaming souls to save
you and i are lucky
smile more
even though i hate this mouth.
tomorrow we'll wake together
early
we'll try to work our way up the cliff
and throw ropes for the stragglers.
ill leave you now
i know you have tears to dry and words to cross out
write back soon, you are so often gone.
- heart
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 10:06 PM UTC
Orange squeezed, tea brewed, bacon fried
Self showered, beard shaved, robe wrapped
Wife kissed, tea brought, eyes rubbed
Juice sipped, toast munched, day discussed
Sugar stirred, tea drunk, watch checked
Kids rattled, cornflakes spooned, plates emptied
Mum fussed, kids grumped, teeth cleaned
Noses wiped, shoes on-ed, lunch packed
Stragglers awayed, byes waved, friends greeted
Office called, PC packed, car started
Wife snuggled, door closed, journey begun.
Jan 21, 2012
Jan 21, 2012 at 11:20 AM UTC
Consider for a moment,
a straggler of life;
his bag of misfit materials;
the empty train car he sleeps in, when he is lucky.
This, to the world,
is my soul to me.
A snowy field of minimalism,
tainted only by the brief, yet constant,
glimmer on the horizon.
In this vision there is truth,
and hope,
There is truth,
and hope,
in loss and in lacking.
For as stragglers do wander,
their dreams provide homes to thoughts,
and warmth to sadness,
and medicine for wounds.
There was not always this brilliant field of white.
Before it, laid the maze of forestry,
the hovering shadow of fate.
Within the trees was confusion,
and within confusion was pain.
But, with the bright blizzard of chaos,
came the simplicity of love, and therein laid acceptance.
There are those who must chop trees to see the sunlight,
and there are those who simply find the fields of snow,
laying pleasantly within the reflection of the sunrise.
This, to the world,
is my soul to me.
Wandering acceptance,
caught in the mess of falling trees.
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 3:43 AM UTC
five, like clichéd clockwork
every ******* day-after;
after wasting (enjoying)
the better part of a seventy-two
hour stint in wonderland.
i don't know how to
confront the piles of
confetti on my carpet--
stragglers you left here
like it was ok, not rude.
i guess i could try the
vacuum; unplug it
from my stomach
and **** up the
residual signs.
it's funny how
misunderstood
a metaphor can
be, a teenager,
for example.
the vacuum hooked
up to me keeps me
stocked up on longing,
and lacking in content(ment)
what a drag, or a ******
all i can really do on these
rare mornings becoming
regular, is drag this (mis-)
matching hot pink comb
through my hair another
time, in wistful hopes
of restoring some silly
insignificant order to
my disheveled and
"last-year"
hairstyle of a life.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 10:13 AM UTC
Watching half the smoke
I blow
Drift out of the open window
The stragglers
Sweep and slide
The daffodil walls
Of the space I abide
The Spiritual Stoners
Of the Atmospheric
Guild world wide
Dancing daintily
Across my forcibly feminine
Detour-decor
For everywhere I lay nomadic root
Is only a U-turn
Or Do-Not-Park
I’m living on Baltic
While the coughed up lung
I chocked out holds out Beelzebub’s
Idea of a promise
For Park Place
Or Boardwalk
Somewhere the hands of
Time
Aren't mounted on a clock
A room where the
(inhale)
Tetrohydoncannabinoly
Induced stupor isn't the
Only thing
That’s
S
T
A
B
L
E
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 3:15 AM UTC
Crowds gathered and the noise of disobedience shook the neighbourhood whole. I was in the southern part of the city, where sinners sinned and the practitioners groomed the bars and off licenses solely to quench their thirst for liquor. It was almost midnight and hordes of young and old alike chanted and sung merry making song that rang through city; and what a noise it was. And it was on this night I met a lad who dressed as if the night belonged to him. A tall, slender fellow who hadn’t a care in the world. His Caribbean afro would bob up and down as we giggled to anecdotal stories of the past. We were rebels of the night, breaking away from the fragile unity that was the friendship circle.
A few stragglers in the form of Chavs had joined. Many of them formed bonds with the pretty girls, rivalling us out in the end. Deciding momentarily on what our next plan was, we split away from the group and continued midnight drinking into the Holy Lands. We could hear the barking of neighbourhood dogs tangle with the distant explosions of fireworks in the sky. It was beautifully chaotic. But as midnight sinners it was like music to our ears.
“I’m off mate, take care of yourself.” The fellow said as he guzzled his last remainder of his bottled Budweiser.
“You heading home, aye?” I smirked, clearly egging him on to stay out just a tad longer. But, this was to be it. With a hug and a good luck, he was off, towards the mystic backstreets and towards the Ormeau Road. I never caught the young lad’s name, nor did I ever catch his age. It was a strange meeting between the two of us. As if, for one singular night we knew everything about each other yet knew nothing at all. I recall sitting back down on the sidewalk and smiling, before looking up towards the decorative sparkly night sky. And, what turned out to be a spontaneous and random night ended up as a completed final chapter, to a superb little story.
Feb 21, 2019
Feb 21, 2019 at 8:06 AM UTC
Last week I sold a bunch of my memories
to help pay the rent. It was either that or my car.
I gave them 146 rarely used memories, they gave me $40.88…
I thought it was a fair deal. I mean, I wasn’t using them…
A couple weeks later I was curious
to see how they were selling, so I walked to the second-hand shop
that had made the deal with me. I saw an elderly woman looking
at my memories. She picked one up, stared at it disapprovingly, then
tossed it casually back in the pile. She did this a couple more times, then
walked away. I waited until she had left, then walked up and picked
up the one she was looking at. It was a memory of kissing and elbows.
Whispers and smiles.
I stood perplexed with the memory in my hands, wondering to myself what
brought about the look of disapproval. To each their own, I suppose…
I hung around that day, trying to get into the heads of
those who were looking into mine…with little success.
There were laughs, tears, and the occasional snarky comment. I watched a memory of driving
down an empty interstate with the windows down on an exquisite summer day sell
for 28 cents. I saw a memory of climbing trees and rope swings leave with an old man
who wanted to remember youth. A girl with dreadlocks in her twenties took a fuzzy memory
of less than legal implications.
I came by every day until they were all but gone, only a few stragglers here and there; One of a hospital bed,
another of a meatloaf dinner in January.
I really don’t like meatloaf.
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 2:47 PM UTC
Graceful predator perched on the precipice of woe
Your satin crown, ebony feathers cannot camouflage mision of misery you'll sow
Your balmy wings caress as dark shadows grow
You sharpen your talons lethal grasp your helpless prey to show
But only quicken the hearts of foragers nestled below
Shrill call does not alarm wary prey; only emboldened, novel defenses bestow
Slower prey their extended units disband; bountiful feast now in escrow
Stealthy ears pick up the feigned, stressful calls of dispossessed lying low
The harried remnant recedes into veiled canopy with their cargo
Confident dive bomber, you plunge into the shielded canopy mayhem to strew
Only to have pleated wings torn by thistle, thorn guarding the undertow
Injured, but deadly weapons your armada still doth tow
With sharp beak you shred the stragglers who venture into twilight's afterglow
With bristling talons you scratch and claw causing stiffened backs to bow
But their desire to live trumps marauding havoc laid in stow
Shorn of limb but not of hope, scurrying from nest to nest to and fro
Storm clouds gather over Dover cliffs; thunderous chorus from nest doth bellow
On the sparring range, a docile, prevailing wind no longer doth blow
Wearied from long chase, depleted eagle from bleeding strand doth go
Aug 10, 2011
Aug 10, 2011 at 10:14 AM UTC
I saw Vietnam
Packing my future into
Impossibly small luggage
Rolling down the streets I knew
In the vicious rain.
We added to the crowds
Of strangers going the same way:
Away—
We boarded the bus
Knowing time, fighting our
Way into the train, watching
Our watches, feeling cheated,
Chained to home.
This is our stop.
One minute left.
We shot off, bags and all,
Down stairs, to the ticket station.
Mine went through; hers didn't.
No time left.
She asked for help from a white man,
But I couldn't wait for risks.
"I'm gonna try to stop them!"
I said, running to our bus
Luggage and life with me
But not her.
The driver waited for stragglers
And there I came.
I showed him my things slowly,
Trying to delay, okay?
Show a smile, own my breath, yes.
Then she came, panting, and the world was okay.
We boarded the bus,
Found two adjacent seats,
Me inside towards the window.
The heavy movement made us all so sleepy.
Looking out, we were over the Oakland Bridge,
Rain pelting all the San Francisco Bay—
But that's not what I saw.
The calm blue green ocean looked
Familiar, like a memory from birth.
I felt older, the world felt younger.
I saw boats, people, my people before me
Floating on the water's ease.
I felt connected to that world I never knew,
But knew
I saw Vietnam.
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC