Tag Archives: poetry

abstinence is more fun

me and me buddy
we are twenty one
we have freckles like Alfred E. Neuman
we are atop a kids’ slide
we climbed the long long long ladder
with the knurled steel steps
it’s a double we are excited
we grip the railings stand up
look almost straight down
upon the gleaming tin
heat waves rise from it
we see at the bottom through clouds
perfect miniature villages and farmland
we turn toward each other eyes wide
i’ll race you we say
and down we go
helter skelter
Godzilla and Rodan
god, we are so high

me and me little brother
inside a mile long china shop
locked in and vacant
it’s darkling outside
all the walls ceiling floors
are just cabinets and drawers
we cry a little we wanna go home
strange knocking sounds strange sweeping sounds
a grotesque shadow moves rapidly around
floor ceiling walls
it scares us before we even know what it is
we try the drawers
we open cabinets, trash the china
find the cabinet has a back door
Narnia? or escape?
we go through, feet first
we’re in another long room, empty concrete, one candle
at its end a door with sunlight and green plants
we look back through the glass cabinet
and there’s the face
black robed black hat
slowly sweeping
it is the Season of the Witch.

Song sung blue

The music of the singing strings
the melody and rhythm brings
and prints a pretty pattern to the ear.

The poetry of metre fine,
of effortless and flowing rhyme,
is close akin- to music very near.

The two together make a song
so well connected, seeming strong,
and memorable for all of us to hear.

Then, in a waltz, they consummate
a marriage of the intimate-
a swirling sensitivity, so dear.

Good night, sleep tight

I have brushed my teeth now
and the mother says it is time for my bed
but first
you must piggyback me down the hall
my feet must not touch the ground, mind!
dump me on the bed, bounce me one two three

get out the big colourful picture book
by Richard Scary
I must find Goldbug, right?
I pretend I do not know, do not know
until you look askance at me
then triumphantly I put my finger on the page
there he is!

now you must read me Tom Tit Tot
that little thing with the whipping twirling tail
no one can guess his name, but we know.
is he related to Rumpelstiltskin?

now I start to yawn
you lay me down on my belly
you play Down in the Jungle on my back
with your beating bongo hands
and then mother yells GET THEM TO BED

now you cover me
I lay my head on the pillow, shut my eyes
you sing to me, in the littlest of voices
Bluebird
“late at night when the wind is still
I’ll come flying to your door, and you’ll know
what love is for”

you know I’m pretending to sleep
’cause I can’t help the little smile
so you burble my lips with your finger
and I make the silly noise

and now, I feel it.
just as you always say
the sandman is coming
you wind my curls around your finger
make them even curlier

goodnight my Daddy

Pieces of you* (graphic)

Do you ever look back on your reasons and motives
for regrettable things that you’ve done?
For thinking that you’re such a generous soul
When you toss a few coins to a bum?

Have you flinched when you passed by that face you thought ugly
Or that person you judged as “retarded”?
And moved away quickly, secure in the knowing
They safely could be disregarded.

And you say that your friends, some are black, some are Jewish
And you think yourself prejudice free
But you still fail to value, on Twitter and Facebook
Any similar pictures you see

The slow, the deformed, and the people with Down’s
They’re such an insult to your vanity
You’re scared half to death, and you shamefully think
That they’re all on the verge of insanity

The faggot, the fairy, the butch and the queer
Your phobia’s surely not lacking
You’re “straight”, and you’re “normal”, you’re better than them
And so you are prone to attacking.

After this, you may think that I preach from a pulpit
Self-righteously pointing at thee
And all of these things could be pieces of you,
But I know they are pieces of me.

*Content and title inspired by “Pieces of you”, a song by the artist Jewel

Image credit to

http://www.goluputtar.com/

Periwinkles

They headed down the valley
With their wine and picnic lunch.
The periwinkles blooming
They gathered by the bunch.
Happily remembering
The times that they had spent
As children, in the old ravine
Inside a makeshift tent.
With jam and jelly sandwiches
They’d huddled from the rain
And hoped that in the days to come
They’d be there, once again.
Soon they would be parted, though
Still children, and they wept.
They’d always been the only ones
Whose promises were kept.
Two decades passed, the wheel had turned
They never did forget.
And often looked within their hearts
Without the least regret.
Close unto this very summer
He thought of her once more
And prayed that he would find her
As lonely as before.
A fairytale friendship
Remembered o’er the years
Had sent him on this errand.
He’d not forget their tears.
Now he was a grown man
And thought she must be married.
Indelible the memory was
That in his mind he carried.
Back to their old school he went
To ask where she had gone,
But none knew of her whereabouts.
They said that she’d moved on.
Please tell me where, and name the town!
He cried, and someone spoke-
The old and grizzled janitor
Whose memory then awoke.
Away now, with the precious answer
He went with all good speed,
And sought her out, for days it was
He’d not paid any heed
The search had finally led him
To a dark and dingy bar.
She’d worked there as a waitress.
T’was said she had a scar.
And that was how he found her.
He would not have recognized
Her face, so drawn and haggard
But still, she mesmerized.
She waited on his table. He touched her hand and said
“Lissa, do you know me?”
She slowly shook her head
He spoke his name, and handed her
A jam and jelly sandwich
Her eyes grew wide, and then she cried
O’er the scars that marked her damage.
A man she’d met and stayed with
(She was so all alone)
Had used her as his punching bag
And cut her to the bone.
Remembering the long ago
And the tent in the ravine
Her heart within her melted
And they quit the ugly scene.
To his own, he took her
And let her rest in bed
He waited on her day and night
And caressed her weary head
Whole had she become now
And when this day had dawned
They went to pick the periwinkles
Of which she was so fond.

Dejection

His ears have been ringing for thousands of days,
as from a hard slap, but it stays and it stays.
A similar sound to a siren that plays
without losing its pitch pipe perfection.

A strangling snake seems to coil, and to tighten.
Never to loosen, never to lighten.
Its singular purpose to cow and to frighten,
‘Til its victim has no clear direction.

His nose, it is running.  His stomach, it churns.
There is no surcease from the acid that burns.
The doctors have done all their tests, and he learns
that there is “no disease, or infection”.

“My bones out of joint”, as was said in the Psalm
“My heart melting like wax”, with no spiritual balm
“I am poured out like water”, there’s nothing to calm,
and no miracle cure or injection.

All too common, our souls tell this harrowing story.
We cry out to someone (the Power and the Glory?)
We regret, we repent, and we say we are sorry.
We’ll accept any kind of correction.

Will forgiveness be ours, now our life is in doubt?
Can our guilt and our sin and our debt be wiped out?
If we care, then we’ll know what this story’s about-
We are called His Divine Imperfection.

Jovian

The Music of the Greats
Charges the very neurons of the mind
They glow brightly
As if from a sudden injection of quicksilver
I think

And the ones that are the keepers of memory
Secrete themselves and wait until called,
Often in times of great need.

Cadence, phrasing, pauses,
One note eyeing and speaking to the next
Uttering thoughts high, and thoughts deep.
Causing anticipation, and great desire to hear
What is next?  What is next?

Can this be of humankind’s making?
Yes!  That is why we call them the Greats.
They have used all that was given to them,
And have shown it unto us
As something of beauty and power and permanence

Like the magnificent storms upon Jupiter.

Illicit

She colours when he looks her way,
a blush so fair to see.
They met upon a winter’s day,
but it was not to be.

He saw she had the sweetest heart.
She cared for him unasked, but
their lifelines were too far apart,
and their secret was unmasked.

Those who saw them, gossip spoke,
though the two of them were chaste.
Illicit friendship, up in smoke.
It’s said they had “no taste”.

When he saw her, ‘mongst her peers,
she preened for him alone.
Their disapproval brought her tears,
in private, and at home.

Regrets he had, and understood
perhaps what he had done.
Affection, and the common good,
were pitted, one on one.

He stayed away, for her own sake,
and waited for the day
that they might meet, by some mistake,
as in a tragic play.

Her chipmunk cheeks and Bambi eyes
beamed back at him in dreams.
And, Oh!  That Soul!  He ne’er denies
his own has been redeemed.