Thursday, April 20, 2017

Poetry Class - LOVE POEM

Friend Zones and Should-Not-Haves

Your vernacular is particular
the way your adjectives adjacent
to their nouns perpetuate a
perplexion in your fair complexion
that made my bleeding heart
beat beats of choruses sung
by far flung angels with pearl
skin as sleek and intoxicating
as your smile

Your humor, an amalgamation of many
differentiating languages (not least
of all sarcasm) in which you are
fluent and your impersonations of
accents that trip
off your tongue along with your freckles
offer enticing adorations to compliment
completely your laughter.

Your intelligence is instrumental
in enticing an edict of ecstasy out of my
blood pumping organ.  My every
cell jumping joyous out of jargon about
abysmal topics on botanicals and oceanographic
research.  Seldom had I sought
a sexuality about fish but I’m swimming
in the vastness that is your mind.

In your body from bottom to bosom
I collided forceful into thoughtlessness.
As each ardent argument leading
to separation led to copulation, and we
continued unabashedly tip toeing away
till I tripped and fell to kiss your
everything to end endless streams
of strenuous tears.  I was lost to urge
whenever I breathed in your chaos.

In your lies you snaked me in wrapping
rattled tail around restful arms.   Telling me
to save you, salvation I could not provide.
Truth be told, bitch, belief was broken,
my worship of you whipped.  A zealotry
given way to real-world sense.  A chasm
formed and I on the other side free
of your violent emotional speeches.  But,
when it was good, it was grand yet I was
thankful to graduate eventually from
the school of your seductive tortures.

Poetry Class - ELEGY

Captive Audience

At the moment of conception
Sid’s joke was planted.

A little baby
boy her third after the other two
his name already known.   Her boys
and her husband dreamt
up games they could play, all the while
Sid’s sickle rested omnipotent
in hand.

Born was a healthy little sprout
with head full of hair, little heart beating
synced to Sid’s joke. He waited, whispering
hopes inside their ears of eventual sores,
and boo-boos, band-aids
and cure all kisses.  Mother dreamed
as baby suckled,
heart beats in sync.

Early valentine’s day in ’91.
Exhausted parents let tired cries
go as they often did because how
could they know Sid’s greasy boned
fingers were seizing a soul.  Mother
maternally got up to inspect
when death rattle ricocheted on walls.
Father darted from bed, down halls, to crib
and their boy in mommy’s arms
secured and safe but still but gone.

Sid’s hooves were planted there, laughing,
cackling.  Still hysteric on route
to hospital as courtesy lights turned atop
a casual ambulance.

In those sterile white halls
Sid’s favorite punchline
was when far away mother held
out her cold infant child for the doctor
and said, “He’s starting to turn
blue.” SIDS beastly palm
marred the white walls
but he had to compose himself
in his hysterics, because he’d played
them for fools.


The Church of Celluloid

I. One Sheet
High-crowned, wide-brimmed sable fedora
at home atop Mr. Ford who stares
out in glorious heroic defiance
because he knows just as I that the story
turns out fine.  In an array of browns
and yellows like mustards we are painted
this scene.   Selected light refractions
perfect against the bridge of his nose,
his left earlobe.   He’s front and center, calm.
The sun shows in spiral over his shoulder
making him ethereal in unbuttoned
khaki shirt.  

Mr. Connery stubbled
with gray is an arm’s length away
from his own glory day
as everyone’s favorite womanizing
lover of British intelligence.  Our heroes the Jones’
father and son, out to thwart
the Nazi threat.   An old friend is back -
from when the hero went raiding, and took a detour
in a temple of doom - red fez capped and fist clenched
prepared to fight.  There’s a new fair-haired
lover in pantsuit blue while our hero Jones adorns
his costume of  historian, but we know
better. Stampeding horses carry garbed
riflemen behind an airplane appearing
to chase a tank where our hero in miniature
fights an officer of the Third Reich
atop that steel beast.

II.  Starving Artist
Before the internet turned out youtube
and when previews were
unsophisticated messes, artists
like Mr. Struzan showed us all we needed
to know about the films we had to see.
Sure, it was business, it was advertisement
like a commercial for coca cola soda pop.
Yet, didn’t artists of yesteryear turn out portraits
of the Madonna in order that people would purchase tickets
to church in brazen one sheets for faith?    Biblical stories
by the pallet-full on ceilings and on canvas told and retold
again and again, highlighting written word.
Here are my monuments in pencil and acrylics,
Luke Skywalker toward replicants,
on through Hellboys and tri-wizard

Drew Struzan has painted
my life in cinema.
He’s illustrated the excitement
I could fairly tell about

and if you looked close
enough into the placard
you ‘d swear you saw moving pieces.
The horse, the tank,
and my savior
Indiana Jones.


The Dam of Enamored Junk
Inspired by: Blue Lily by Deborah Cunningham
a constant garbage cast resembles
a horse.  a stoic steed with proud permanence,
assembled leavings, debilitated castoff,
scrap yard findings, blighted decay,
rusting metals with interfered surface
brush strokes. painted blemishes of deliberate
blue muscle, yellow tendon, orange cartilage,
white bone the chosen forms of tarnish.

circle and observe her strong rotted foundation,
useless debris body with pronounced
tetanus probable and melded to coat.
fused limbs of folding chair legs and mutilated hoods
from a forgotten automobile that mar her mare
lacking an experience of cathartic degradation
because melded parts turn corrosive. an acidic red
invasion of opposed micro-organisms
measured in how they devour mother tissue.
god crafted her, she saw mirrored eyes.
circling begets mournful revelation
a lateral side with a purposeful mangled
mess. innards that are a white manipulation
and twisted.  statement: strong willed despite
residuals of constant permanent pains wringed
within bones of this dam of enamored junk
a formed presence of bungled insides
and always the strongest of its breed,

a woman.