Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nancy E Tracy Sep 2014
Set in silver
braids of gold
memories of days of old

Stiff lace collar
eyes of blue
inner beauty shining thru

Crinolines and high-topped shoes
transcendental state if muse
inspired by a picture of my Grandmother
Tammy Boehm Feb 2015
Perhaps it was the blasphemy of lovers and fools
This dalliance of ravens and necromancy
The brush of pomegranate mouths
Amaranthine against the backdrop of ochre and tintype
I dance the silent rhythm
Innate the rush of blood in veins
Salome
I am your feathered death on prism wings
Small consolation you cannot see the soul beneath the veil
Spin a legacy of heretics starry eyed and hungry
For flesh and soft skin
Spills the stain on pristine canvas
The palette of indiscretions
Peep show intimacies
Vibrant I am unfettered light
And you are blind
In black and white and gray
You twist this myth
Ropes coiled serpentine
Hungry eyed you feed on dreams
Cellulose crackling in the heat
Borne on desert winds
I rise to claim you
I am the moment
Pigment and poetry
Alive and fluid in your mind
Inescapable
Whisper my name
Salome
031113
Donall Dempsey Oct 2015
IN THE AFTER-TIME

" Alice thought she
had never seen such

a curious croquet
ground in all her life; "

It was somewheres near
Roswell

18 something and something
there or there...abouts

& Billy the Kid &
the boys have just

...paused:

in their croquet
for a tintype photo.

Billy's the guy
in the cardigan sweater.

Him & his gang
( the Regulators )

are posing like
they were a prototype

for
Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers

or the band
THE BAND.

Pure Americana.

Billy the cardi-cowboy and
his gang of croquet playing outlaws...

Not exactly how
one would have  somehow

imagined them
. . .passing the time.

One of the outlaw...eh...gentlemen

points out that
Billy

" . . .the Kid has spooned
his shot!"

A ricochet of tobacco coloured
spittle hits a spittoon.

Silence congeals
about the accusation.

Now, whether Billy has
merely pushed the ball

silently through rather than
soundly hit it

is:
neither here nor there.

A cold revolver
clicks &

"I says I hit it...I hit it
get it?"

The other gentleman outlaw
begs to agree.

"Ok, Billy boy...keep yer
cardi on!"

And so, we leave them
there

in the croquet craze of
1878.

Time like a yellow ball
hit through hoop after

hoop until: it arrives
at this

present...NOW!

And a photo found in a store
for a dollar or a few dollars more

repays the expense
by morphing into

the 5 million dollar
photo.

But I hit the ball
back through hoop after

hoop after hoop

until it arrives back
at Billy's boot.

And a voice cries:
"Ok, kid...play!"
mark vogel May 2015
Riding stolen horses

The guy living large with the hat,
dressed to the nines in black,
with eyes sweeping a broad dry valley to the cows,
who seeks his eyes, then humbly brings a store-bought
present to the woman tall in leggings with
long hair free, like an ancient story ***** alive.
He is frozen in communal memory,

this single cowboy guiding his returned
stolen horses at dusty noon all rock and dust,
the hooves as staccato rhythm for manly wild eyes
stating be here now as permanent fever
moves toward the rushing transparent river.
Forever the big sky breeze caresses his stoic
face schooled in fragile civilization,

knowing soon in the script he lives he will
push outward swinging saloon doors
to face another lawless soul, another wood built
village/far trail—prepared, as if venerated
teachers in his few years of school saw him
stripped of words pounding in a gallop,
protected by the silver belt buckle

and tall boots scuffed and pointed, the shaped
hat shielding eyes from the bright—
as a copied tintype—the crooked squint and smile
slowly emerging untamed.  Deliberate, the hand
moves in habit to the gun in a muted painful sepia
myth robbed of mom and dad progression.
His stripped history has been released

into wild context—mixed with spaceship/
instant access—on the cartoonish
thin fringes with 50s big hair, as a brave bluff
facing forgotten consequences.  Nonetheless,
he struggles from the bestiary of faceless others,
grizzled and contained and handsome, to
head on out, away, alone as always.
And join (singing the words
in the next paragraph) whether alone
in a traffic jam
basting, cooking, then eating a lamb
prepared by thee missus
a superb culinary madam.

“A Ram Sam Sam” Lyrics
A ram sam sam, a ram sam sam
Guli guli guli guli guli ram sam sam
A ram sam sam, a ram sam sam
Guli guli guli guli guli ram sam sam
A rafiq, a rafiq
Guli guli guli guli guli ram sam sam
A rafiq, a rafiq
Guli guli guli guli guli ram sam sam.

The following dereliction of truth
heavily influenced
my babe of mine name Ruth
(think prevarication forsooth)
essentially crafted countless years,
when yours truly
courtesy parochialism bred cooth
preserved timeless tintype of me
many moons ago
sitting pretty (once a bonny lad)
with his innocent lass
perched on mine bony knees
while forced lip tulip in kissing booth.

Unlike centenarian
who crafts  these words,
perchance yar juiced
a young whippersnapper man or woman
maybe born, bread and raised
in the city that never sleeps,
or dwelt in the boondocks or sticks,
catch some 'possum or squirrel
and as a loyal son or daughter take a tram
to enjoy a tasty repast

with widowed momma,
cuz ever since da
yo papa passed away....,
a futile attempt made to fill that void
awash with more'n than half a century
of wedded bliss,
whereat purposelessness pervasive
per surviving mother,
who feigns happiness, regales others
with showers of affection,

and remains active feeding her avocation
comprising striving and succeeding
to be adept within the culinary arts
thru self taught trials and errors
of brave taste testers
(which guinea pigs ought
to get medal of honor for bravery),
though her exemplary cooking reputation
exceeds five star Michelin rating
through meticulous

and exacting measured ingredients,
she glides within the kitchen
however occasionally,
a fork and spoon slips to the floor
which inexplicable
gravitational alchemical phenomena
fuses separate pieces of cutlery
into one eating implement
whereupon a dead reckoning
takes shape, that "mum"

might be in mortal danger
per inconspicuous cooking tool,
whence ya stop SnapChat tin
and shutterfly as greased BuzzFeed
twittering like a bat out of hell -
ya swoop down smash mouth facebook first
presaging a fatality visiting  
upon the head of mum
(her christened name Chris Anne thumb -
the last appended word

linked with her diminutive size),
who intently engrossed,
keenly self absorbed,
and rapt attentively
with tasks at hand
most likely oblivious
to potential safety dukes of hazard
as a benevolent offspring temporarily
take instagram reprieve,
and utilize fancy footwork

tote hillbilly tubular re: turn
to counterpoise vis a vis
match less laws of physics,
whereby toe tulle lee tubular
test tick yule har kickstarter antics applied
to kindle hurly burly gnarly flatware bach up
adjacent to state of the art beet oven
which upright pedal
poised pose like leverage incorporates
quickly donning improvisational

makeshift faux cuirass
with suitable culinary accoutrements
stringing together various
geometrical metal trays
and tin *** for helmet,
whereby a strategic
stance thence established,
where inert stainless steel
buffoon glaring spork
would be forced

to take tailspin upwards,
whence fingers grab
innocuous lethal weapon,
which self entertainment learned
while stationed in a rack
run amuck mess hall rowdiness
taught said table mannered tricks
magic mike moment imitating hotmail -
glorified footlocker earthlinked craft,
where whatsapp tinder penned didst

inviting Barack Obama
to zap hiz frankfurter foot,
when he made a syrup prize visit
nobly endeavoring without evincing
auld trumpetting donning shoe purr action
trained first with dominant topface toes
alternating with recessive
opposing shod totally tubular taps
until fancy footwork became ambipedal
balancing ball of left

or right foot atop tine
or dish of fork or spoon respectively
as stray stainless steel ware defying gravity
gracefully leapt - somersaulting
in a pirouette pinwheel linkedin arc
tine and/or miniature
shovel scooper over handle
kin ur pinion (all things considered)
an eye opening experience
and the simple pleasure one can derive
from practicing strategy
trigonometry, spatial relations.
Speculative fictitious flirtation imagined
courtesy grown old male offspring (me)
begat when mine late mother and father met
former named, a popular Arthur Murray
ballroom dance studio instructor.

Subtle social cues (nonverbal or otherwise)
relayed, linkedin and exchanged
constituting courtship between
Harriet and Boyce
particularly on Valentine's Day
circa ~ mid 1950's.

Two young lovebirds
oblivious to cares and concerns
of uncertain webbed wide) world
passionately kissed each other
murmuring sweet nothings
within most convenient ear of the other.

Romance blossomed
requited love ensued
avowed marital troth pledged,
a June 1955 wedding planned.

Soon thereafter
bedroom door locked, I presume
unbridled call of the wild
high powered pistol loosed
courtesy soundcloud hit bullseye
with figurative vroom
biological seed of life
and white Lily fertilized.

Thirteen months after eldest sister born
suckling from horn
of good hope
breast nursing done during the morn.

Forthwith brother planted in womb
hereditary characteristics transmitted
eons old traits disseminated
multitude of random chromosomes
deployed comprising frothy spume
housed generations foregone

maternal and paternal genes
unleashed unwittingly bequeathed
by ancestral forebears
anonymous long forgotten handsome groom
memorabilia couched as tintype
(also known as
a melainotype or ferrotype)

treasured analogous as
if relic dug up within ancient tomb,
perhaps clapper and bell foretold whom
yours truly acquired his
mental health predilection
predisposed toward gloom
mindset swirls with nihilistic doom.

Psychological angst chafes and doth abrade
existential crisis rooted psyche with ankh ring
travesty, mockery, and entropy cast charade
circumspection immediately
brings to forefront
of consciousness positive (necessary)

risk taking I did evade
exemplified by failing nearly every grade
inferiority complex insinuated and did invade
mucking up healthy livingsocial buzzfeeding,
when too many cooks spoil the broth,
hence being superfluous kitchenaid,
hence as schnorrer I masquerade.
IN THE AFTER-TIME

" Alice thought she
had never seen such

a curious croquet
ground in all her life; "

It was somewheres near
Roswell

18 something and something
there or there...abouts

& Billy the Kid &
the boys have just

...paused:

in their croquet
for a tintype photo.

Billy's the guy
in the cardigan sweater.

Him & his gang
( the Regulators )

are posing like
they were a prototype

for
Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers

or the band
THE BAND.

Pure Americana.

Billy the cardi-cowboy and
his gang of croquet playing outlaws...

Not exactly how
one would have  somehow

imagined them
. . .passing the time.

One of the outlaw...eh...gentlemen

points out that
Billy

" . . .the Kid has spooned
his shot!"

A ricochet of tobacco coloured
spittle hits a spittoon.

Silence congeals
about the accusation.

Now, whether Billy has
merely pushed the ball

silently through rather than
soundly hit it

is:
neither here nor there.

A cold revolver
clicks &

"I says I hit it...I hit it
get it?"

The other gentleman outlaw
begs to agree.

"Ok, Billy boy...keep yer
cardi on!"

And so, we leave them
there

in the croquet craze of
1878.

Time like a yellow ball
hit through hoop after

hoop until: it arrives
at this

present...NOW!

And a photo found in a store
for a dollar or a few dollars more

repays the expense
by morphing into

the 5 million dollar
photo.

But I hit the ball
back through hoop after

hoop after hoop

until it arrives back
at Billy's boot.

And a voice cries:
"Ok, kid...play!"

— The End —