Unnoticed in Clever Worlds

The clearest description I have managed so far about my blog is that it is not about cats. In general, I find predators pretty predictable while prey on the other-hand, because they live in universes of anxiety, develop more textured personalities. I also have as a writer a deft hand when it comes to making matters worse, so of course , the already panicky are ready made for me. I will try to grow this blog into an assortment of laughs, because that is what my life has mostly taught me to do. I will use the famous people I have known to get your attention and then tell you small but many times wonderful things about them. I will never name the ones I say ugly things about but I hope you will guess who they are.

Tag: poems

Birds Don’t Care

 

Eternity is a grooved spinning record,
and we go round and round,
forever guessing if we are a song
Or the melody.

Life finds it’s tune.
Nothing is quiet.
Our sounds, we suspect, carry.
How far we can only guess,
My whistling
may reach Neptune.
I am not certain of this.
Neptune, like God, does not echo.

Birds don’t care
about their songs.
As much as we do.
They care about eggs and nests
and the size of baby wings.
Cicadas lullaby the end of summer evenings.
But night doesn’t pick up
on the chorus
and begin to dance.

Fllies whizz their little ditties
by our ears.
And we brush them away,
like bad David Bowie
covers.

The flowers
murmur their scents
into the winds,
to blind the slave bees.
We mistake them
for pleasure.

Nothing disturbs the evenhanded blizzard
that is being alive.
Nor its comedy of sudden death.

Love is the arrow that
fires straight into God’s
snowstorm
of the brief.
Patient tiny human lifetimes
hunting for first love.
Ignore the whirling and crashing
of suitors.
Who are,
All different,
all the same
all waiting.
Until she finds
the one that does not melt
away.

Poem: To Please Him

He climbs on me at night
to do bug things.
“Remember our first time,”
he whispers in the mean humming pitch
of warm August night locusts?
“Always,” I whimper.
He smoothes his antennae over our pillows,
like the handsome actor.
“Are you ready to die?” He sighs,
like small talk.
“Yes, I will die.” I plead.
He is pleased,
and I am safe.

It knew
I wasn’t going to tell.
I wrapped it in thick brown paper
and ran straight home
after it raped me.
I could not leave it there.
Not knowing where it was.

At breakfast
he asks, “So what shall we do today?
So casually that I am confused.
He touches my hand, his carapace hard
and unalive. I watch my thumb caress
the shell.
In small back and forth dread.
“What would make you happy?” I said
He smiles
and I exhale.

I told him tonight
His grubs live in me.
I feel them tearing to come out.
Praying daddy longlegs scraping
and burrowing for air.
His head on my stomach
listening and whirring insect songs to them.
I stroke the needle hairs on his back.
I know he loves me.

My deceit holds no estate in him.
I have vanished into what has hurt me.
Life forbids I feel nothing at all.
I will love my children.

Poem: ‘The Shortest and Sweetest of Songs by George MacDonald,

Come

Home

Wet poem: “And So Was Gertie”

Mr. and Mrs. Stotnum Powder,
renown for synchronized postures
ran their noses around glass.
“ That cat has been staring at me,” said Stotnum
“At us, you mean ?” Gertie shot back,
much annoyed by the exclusion.
“It’s those big eyes;
they follow me, us, around,” Stotnum issued,
“Like it hates us.”
“It just sits there,” agreed Gertie,
“Doesn’t he have cat friends?”
“He might want company.”
Gertrude was thoughtful.
“It must be hard to be alone,” Gertrude bubbled,
brushing against Stotnum,
her back arched suggestively.
“ What would you do without me?”
He worried she was siding with the cat.
The splashing from above,
waved them apart.
The ceiling cracked open.
Sounds are tricky underwater,
He had never heard a scream.
Stotnum saw the face above them,
and then it’s paw.
Then the claws.
Quick as it came, it was gone again,
and so was Gertie.

The Negro Mother by Langston Hughes

Children, I come back today
To tell you a story of the long dark way
That I had to climb, that I had to know
In order that the race might live and grow.
Look at my face — dark as the night —
Yet shining like the sun with love’s true light.
I am the dark girl who crossed the red sea
Carrying in my body the seed of the free.
I am the woman who worked in the field
Bringing the cotton and the corn to yield.
I am the one who labored as a slave,
Beaten and mistreated for the work that I gave —
Children sold away from me, I’m husband sold, too.
No safety , no love, no respect was I due.

Three hundred years in the deepest South:
But God put a song and a prayer in my mouth .
God put a dream like steel in my soul.
Now, through my children, I’m reaching the goal.

Now, through my children, young and free,
I realized the blessing deed to me.
I couldn’t read then. I couldn’t write.
I had nothing, back there in the night.
Sometimes, the valley was filled with tears,
But I kept trudging on through the lonely years.
Sometimes, the road was hot with the sun,
But I had to keep on till my work was done:
I had to keep on! No stopping for me —
I was the seed of the coming Free.
I nourished the dream that nothing could smother
Deep in my breast — the Negro mother.
I had only hope then , but now through you,
Dark ones of today, my dreams must come true:
All you dark children in the world out there,
Remember my sweat, my pain, my despair.
Remember my years, heavy with sorrow —
And make of those years a torch for tomorrow.
Make of my pass a road to the light
Out of the darkness, the ignorance, the night.
Lift high my banner out of the dust.
Stand like free men supporting my trust.
Believe in the right, let none push you back.
Remember the whip and the slaver’s track.
Remember how the strong in struggle and strife
Still bar you the way, and deny you life —
But march ever forward, breaking down bars.
Look ever upward at the sun and the stars.
Oh, my dark children, may my dreams and my prayers
Impel you forever up the great stairs —
For I will be with you till no white brother
Dares keep down the children of the Negro Mother.

Poem: The Wonderful Eternity

I do not improve by connecting myself.
I have clawed my way over that which I envied.
Until that battlefield finally revealed me,
to myself.
The issue with life is a simple one.
That alone is a prize, not a punishment.
Grasping to hold fast to emptiness,
will never stop the fall.
Smell the breeze of life’s wind
as it backs away from you.
Letting you drop into eternity.

Proverbs

I hunt for proverbs all day long
They don’t mean much
so don’t get me wrong.
They amount to eyeglasses snatched away
just before they decide my day.

Poem: Bushwhacked

Poetry is the last thing

that would ever occur to letters.

The words  would testify if they could speak

that the process makes them queasy.

Most writers are ashamed to leave

an unintended verse.

Feeling they were bushwacked

while on their way to longer bursts.

But I prefer this short shit,

cause I know the reader will peek.

 

Poem: The Noticed

It is deserved that we each are noticed now when we kill.
For soldiers have sacrificed and died neglected,
For so very a long time.
It is a novel time of little murders.
No trumpets or uniforms starched.
And no bands will march and play

 No histories will recall or iron generals sculptured

for kids to climb on shooting

each other with their fingers loaded

Now there will be no end.
For every soul has become an army.
Charging up hills upon the unsuspecting

An uncharming way to kill.

 

 

 

 

Poem: Who Would Bother?

It is good not to be alone and loved
For who would take the tedious time,
to stroll with the memories of me,
If not for love who would bother?

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