Page without Prose

Poetry in absolutely no sequence.

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  • Lately (6/26/2016)

    Locomotion in female walls that runs a fire engine.

    Plasma charisma and daring orgasma passing out on stars.

    Hooting and Hollering, spinning and splintering,

    This is the end of Sane Jane Main Jane Plain Jane–GONE.

    The heat of the sun is the why she’s undone.

    Puzzling through a sticky heat

    And battling through a sweaty sheet–

    Flirting the demon to outsmart the devil

    And feeding the lion to quiet the lamb.

    So much for the tango.

     

    Maniacal strings hold the beautiful head

    And the eyes hers and theirs smile softly instead

    That maybe, could be, it is possibly just

    That ending an engine is revving strange dust.

    She could pull through the odds if the odds weren’t timed

    But the clock whispers oddly and deepens the lines.

    There were darker than light things that held on to tresses

    And she spun to avoid the savage undressing.

     

    Delicious and precary in an untested world.

    She clamors to get in and then she clamors to get out.

     

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  • Sargeant Magenta (7/5/2016)

    The soldier was not in a familiar arena,

    And very darkness deep in someone else’s,

    Whip-like aware of dwindling defenses.

    The indifferent heat would be his undoing–

    Almost visible the tongue of steam.

    He was itching in the undergrowth,

    Twitching with the expect,

    Capital Fear at what’s next.

    Bugs—festering, brilliant, myriad,

    All fucking over him, and catastrophic loud,

    Seemingly ignorant in this fetid shroud.

    The various smashes of sound were unnerving.

    If an enemy could be defined,

    What was the enemy behind?

    Alone he was alone he was alone.

     

    He was sure in youth he knew despair.

    Now derision at such nonsense etched him crookedly.

    What was that despair?

    The glee of heart-break?

    Some inconsequential waif waving get lost?

    Bitter, bitter this particular chocolate.

     

    This used to be sticks! He shouted in silence.

    We hid behind rocks!

    It was Ollie “Speeder” Finch

    And Tim the moron down the street,

    And the soldier smiled as only a soldier can smile.

    But here sticks were dirty mean, underhanded.

    Wooden pieces waiting to betray—

    Stop progression, snap as he ran.

    Traitors all, he thought.

     

    Yet another traitor snap and now the enemy fired.

    A thud of pain found his back,

    Grew aching fingers further up his spine.

    The soldier paused while buckling.

    Had he been shot—had he been gotten?

    Messy confusion, regret, rotten.

    The ground was kindly there

    To catch his endless descent.

    He was shuddering, shuddering.

    Blood sputtering, sputtering.

    Then he heard foot-falls, determined.

    Someone was closing the deal.

    Even now, clichés from another planet.

    Knowledge seeping, seeping.

    Mr. Black creeping, creeping.

     

    His ender approached and up looked the soldier,

    Ready for this moment of which he had dreamed,

    For which he had bravely braced.

    But this was not his reverie,

    Did not belong to him.

    The fiend who had sent the bullet was smiling.

     

    The soldier had imagined righteousness—

    A knowing recognition—

    A meaningful glance exchanged between fighting men.

    A solemn, but proud moment in death.

    Bravura.

    Glory.

     

    Vicious, Vicious the foe he faced.

    Sardonic, haughty, eager to witness one more.

    He reached for anger but only got disgruntled.

    So this was bloody it.

    Valor and honor gone to shit.

    What of beauty in this fading gray?

    What of an angel at the end of his day?

    Stupid smile on a stupider enemy who would remain unadvised of same.

     

    Death was not unkind, just vilely disappointing.

    He stared at his enemy while vaguely dying,

    Duly noted the raised gun butt,

    Understood the pristine intent.

    A rather large Alas.

    Maybe Tim was not the moron.

  • The Prism (1/4/2017)

    By Narcissa Lyons

    Note to reader – This was written maybe 15 years ago but sadly now rather more relevant

     

    Dark, green leaves and sticky heat,

    Dewy tendrils caressing bugs—

    That’s what is this jungle,

    This bed of wild and danger.

    We left the ship for this fresh stench,

    For this dense and sense of stranger.

    What they said we’d find we found

    And thus we are en garde.

    We’ve met strength that looks like men

    But oddlier, foreign.

    Primitive mumblings.

    Creatures are these,

    Creatures indeed.

    One might say they’re sleekish

    Due to the sweaty black,

    But conclude in fact it’s freakish

    To be so bloody black.

    Before their capture what we beheld!

    It’s wild, berserk and rhythmic!

    No subtlety and no finesse,

    No demonstrated sanity,

    And no requisite vanity.

    Such movements…..

    Animals stand as men.

    They’re not bangles, maybe so

    But the beasts need mighty measures.

    Hence a shackle here—

    Hence a shackle there.

    Who wouldn’t do the s(h)ame?

    Some cried when we took them;

    So human the tears that fell.

    Too the shrieks and too the screams

    Prove the beasthood we beheld.

    Their chicanery might have cost us.

    Such a human ruse, daunting.

    But we carry on.

    Bravely.

    Fairly.

    Scant cruelty.

    Rough seas, mean rains, rare sun

    Make weary sailors vapid.

    Some excuses for abuses

    We regret, bewail, don’t quite condone.

    Anchors down, the shores are reached—

    We’ve most of us survived.

    Our beasts in chains seem tentative,

    Hesitant and lost.

    Their mutterings are quieter,

    Glances less than angry.

    That lion’s fight is not yet gone

    But eyes can’t lid defeat.

    Some of us now cheerier—

    Nay, we’re almost martyrs.

    We will give these blacks a home!

    Give these blacks some means!

    They’ll not have to forage

    In pesky damp and risk.

    They’ll do some simple work

    And such for simple fare.

    The climate would be similar—

    A nod and a wink, good job.

    They’d surely get familiar–

    Handshakes all around.

    Yes, we were feeling kind,

    Ignored the vague nausea,

    Sweat-drenched dreams.

    Our duty is now done.

    Back again to farther shores.

    We will need thousands

    Of these newly tethered,

    Newly welcomed hands.

    II

    I own a vastness

    And I’ve bought some fine fettered men,

    Though I’ve never seen the like

    (And it’s not that I dislike).

    Big and black and strong—

    Fierce, I think, and sly.

    A few are even beautiful

    And some seem downright keen.

    They’re from the deeps of Africa,

    The center of splendor gone crude.

    Most of them obey

    But most of them resent.

    Punishment

    Punishment

    Punishment

    Is not absent.

    One must enforce the rules.

    Since much like beast,

    A whip is just that must,

    And my stand-up peers agree,

    Nod their heads, “of course”.

    By and by we get along.

    They understand their place,

    Come to terms with race.

    These beings are not fiends,

    Just not quite you and I.

    And the female variety

    Offers satiety.

    Fetching–

    Alluring—

    Devious.

    (I know it’s what she intended).

    Tension is filling our days.

    Those that don’t know

    Question this show

    And are forcing our noble hands.

    And I will fight fight fight

    For what is right.

    What is right.

    What is right?

    The land is turning red.

    Blood seeps into branches

    And stains the sky.

    Misery, misery

    Is a swath.

    Where is comfort for this honest man?

    A deluge of battle—

    An unwieldy war—

    And illness that reckons with evil.

    How did this begin

    For the slightest sin?

    But now I’ve said the wretched word.

    It could have been a sin.

    These could in fact be men.

    No conviction in fighting,

    I offer this waving white.

    I offer late freedom

    To my awkward companions.

    III

    My sweet, black Maisy

    Has been with us some time.

    We’re a border state,

    But have no hate

    For this strong yet gentle kind.

    Maisy can be trusted.

    She’s got her own to tend.

    She may not be clever,

    But I’ve begun teaching

    And her eyes are very sharp—

    Seeking, absorbing, resolute,

    The beginning of quietly smart.

    As I said,

    She has her own clan.

    Her fair husband Jeffrey

    Is our other hand,

    And her little ones play afield.

    While ours are thus concealed.

    I’ve thought of them mingling—

    Children are children.

    But what if some essence

    Of which I know not

    Goes into the minds of my young?

    Goes quietly creeping and thusly infecting?

    Yes, we are so alike

    But I’m no clairvoyant!

    What I can’t see

    May still exist,

    And if it’s vile

    Then we are undone,

    Probably perished I fear.

    Still they wish to frolic,

    My little ones and her little imps.

    I finally broke and they played.

    My eyes were braced for naught,

    Will O’ Wisp poised,

    And hand at the ready.

    But

    Strifeless, harmless amblings.

    Tripping, bubbling, mimicking.

    And Maisy just smiled and knew.

    Assumption or presumption?

    I will not admit wisdom.

    Yet this is trivia, trivia.

    Cursed rumblings bother the righteous.

    White sheeted men

    Mean harm

    Mean hate

    Mean blood.

    We lost Maisy’s man to treachery.

    The night rife with screams

    That since have my dreams

    Been causing the ruin of days.

    Those triangle men

    Tied him and beat him

    And put torch to the home of these friends.

    Ended him

    Without even seeing him end.

    We watched in shame as he died.

    Maisy saw me weep,

    But her eyes held no pity

    And even a trace

    Of “You too are guilty”.

    What good was that bloody war

    If now cowards might cloak such hate?

    More north still we must

    To be rid of this lust.

    We can’t escape it, but shall avoid it,

    This atrocity, monstrosity, truth.

    IV

    Mother, said John, Jimmy’s my best friend.

    Yes, Mother said, so what of it then?

    Well, why’s he not in school?

    Gosh John, they’ve different rules.

    But Mother, he should be learning.

    He’s learning but somewhere else.

    Well, said John, then I’ll go there.

    No you won’t and don’t you dare.

    But Mother this makes no sense.

    It does, his school is special.

    Is that what’s really fair?

    It’s true that it’s separate,

    But it’s also nearly equal.

    Mother, said John, why’s Jimmy way in back?

    Because we are in the front.

    Well then I’ll go back there.

    No you won’t and don’t you dare.

    How about Jimmy next to me?

    That makes no sense, be still.

    But this is nuts, he’s my best friend.

    And the same he’ll be at this ride’s end.

    V

    1965

    Took awhile, but has arrived.

    Roses and Parks,

    Lovely the image—

    So that’s the end of that

    (at least the legal facts).

    VI

    Two men playing basketball,

    Sweating and shining—

    Jostling and spinning.

    Black and white rubbing skin,

    Black and white exchanging grins.

    Shoot the ball,

    Defend it.

    Love the game,

    And honor it.

    Both men clanking drinks

    And talking manly tripe.

    Constant nods and I-know-what-you-means.

    Heeding, but viscous vision,

    Seeking dames or any action—

    The boys don’t see

    The you and color me.

    “Nor should that be.”

    Agreed and then some.

    How long we been friends?

    “Too long, but this is cool.”

    Know it is you fool.

    “So what happened long ago,

    And do you need compensation?

    Would that be our salvation?”

    Too late, too late you simpleton,

    The time, it is at hand.

    We’re close, we’re friends, we’re pals,

    But we must, we should, we have to.

    “I must ask–

    Since that is past–,

    Why is us a must?”

    Look around you, white boy–

    There’s a brewing on the rise.

    Too much Spanish Brown

    Is in our next sunrise.

  • This Mother (6/26/2016)

    The soul of a single–

    The need for a tingle–

    The screech for the mingle–

    This is not a mother.

    Have I blown this cover?

     

    Precious nothing more than this,

    Beauty by define–

    Better than water–

    Better than wine.

     

    But the soul of a single

    That needs to mingle

    Dances on the fine–

    Seeks the scintillating

    Yet lives the true sublime.

     

     

    ——-

     

     

     

  • You Are Excellent* (6/26/2016)

    *The only humorous poem I’ve written to date, and written because it was for an entry to a bad poetry contest.  I did not win, but maybe that’s OK?

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    I saw Bigfoot kiss a flower

    Which reminded me of you.

    You are so very pretty

    Not just here but in any city.

    And you are not an old bitty

    Like someone who a sweater knitties.

    But you are cute like kitties.

    I like when you sing ditties.

     

    I know Venus us a planet

    Which reminded me of you.

    You always have a nice hair-do.

    Your eyes are like pools

    And you, of course are cool

    Like someone out of high school

    And it’s not me that you can fool

    Because to my heart you have the tools.

     

    I have several big teeth

    Which of course reminds me of you.

    Your elbows are like a magic potion.

    I get your awesome neck action.

    I like how you walk and function.

    My heart must have a love infection.

    I am pleased with your mid-section.

     

    Most ladders help you go up

    Which mostly reminds me of you.

    It is for you I sing a song,

    One not short but not too long.

    But don’t cry and try to be strong.

    This is not a show where you I’d gong.

    If you like, please wear a thong.

    This love, so deep, cannot be wrong.

     

    It is obvious that toothpicks are useful

    Which almost reminds me of you.

    I look at you, your such a doll.

    I think you’re bouncy, like a ball.

    If you’re cold, I’ll give you a shawl.

    I would date you in public, even the mall.

    Probably write our names on the bathroom wall.

    Maybe even the handicap stall.

     

    There are certainly peas in most soups

    Which always reminds me of you.

    As you see, it’s for you I fell.

    When I see you off go bells.

    To my friends you’d be an easy sell.

    I hope this poem finds you well.

    I think you’re more than pretty swell

    And this is not something I’m afraid to yell.

    I love you, can’t you tell?

     

 

 

 

 

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