Allegory Chapbook
“Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.” --Leonard Cohen
The Year of the Lord, 2002
Early Spring
Bare, spindly branches stand
starkly against pewter skies.
The tips . . . explosions of swollen
red buds bringing to mind eager nipples
dark and ripe with desire.
Hoosier Harvest
Brown pole barn.
Somewhere from within
sounds of:
hallelujahs
praise the Lords
amens
dredge up long-buried
memories of:
black velvet paintings under black lights;
water-filled glasses droning, Amazing Grace;
stories of pot-bellied children from far away places
lead to forgotten
nightmares of:
talk of Satan and the END;
souls frying in Hell – “Are you ready?”
Hushed voices in the background cajoling sinners to
Come Home;
white knuckles – stark fear – daughter be SAVED.
With a shudder and a sigh, one more altar call denied.
. . . so much has changed, or has it?
The Year of Their Lord, 1231
Nyx
She was born of chaos
a lover of the night. Like
Nyx, she created a child
without a father. For
that, she was condemned
by the Holy.Bacchanalia
She is
surrounded and
pulled by the calm touch of
his hand as they revel amidst
the throng celebrating
Bacchus.
She did
not foresee that
she would be a victim
of his malediction as he
condemned her while saving
himself.
Penitence
Many came for her knowledge
of herbs. Belladonna, absinthe,
hemlock and wolfsbane
all have aided those in need.Penitence was what they demanded
as they tormented her with
hot needles and splinters forced
under her nails.
She refused to be humbled or show
regret for her assumed misdeeds.
Entropy
As she stood before
her inquisitors, she
could smell death and
decay on them. She
could read the damnation
in their eyes.Anathema
The stigma of excommunication
clung to her heavy as
the Vatican.
Misunderstood, she
was denounced by
the arrogant.
Cursed, an angry
howl escaped her
tautly corded throat.
Unrepentant, sin and
excess draped her
form like a shroud.
Chimera
As the wind tore the unholy
howl from her throat, she looked
down upon pale, dirty faces
twisted with fear and anger.
She was alone except for
one old crone whose eyes
mirrored compassion.
She stood upon the platform
with the noose tight around
her throat praying this moment
was a fabrication of her mind.
But as the hood was drawn
over her face, she mourned
her unrealized dreams.
Elegy
The wailing of a newborn infant
is mingled with the dirge forthe dead. -- Lucretius
The wind howls a lament
for the dead …
forlorn and forsaken.
As it shifts, hidden within
is the cry of a startled
newborn.
One ushers out life;
one announces it.
One mournful one lusty.
Eerily beautiful, evoking
primal feelings and
memories from the past.
Ancient, unseen power:
bony fingers scritch at the
pane, loose leaves
skitter across black
grass while a pall of clouds
drapes the moon.
Unfettered at last, souls
released cavort in the
void between incarnations.
A Year of the Goddess, 2003
An Ancient New Direction (A Choka)
I pause, uncertain,
wondering where to go next.
The four arms of a
crossroad are splayed before me
stretched forever in
an ancient new direction.
Starting is perpetual,
and I hesitate
inchoate, yet old, but there’s
something within that
wakens. It anticipates
what will be found in
that ancient new direction.
My cards speak freely of past,
present and future
influences which have and
will shape me - change me.
Providing guidance, those cards
lead to another
grand, ancient new direction.
And so, the journey begins.
This Japanese form, Choka, alternates five with seven syllable lines, concluding with an additional seven syllable line. Thus a choka of nine lines would run: 5 7 5 7 5 7 5 7 7. The choka can be of any length, and is unrhymed and non-metrical.
American Dreams
In line at the drive-up bank,
the black Ford pick-up in
front of me proudly displayed
a homemade bumper sticker that
read, “I choked Linda Lovelace.
”Next to it was one from the
local head shop. Its message?
“Driver carries no cash wife
and kids have it all."
Art of Crying
Why is it you cry?
Accoring to Sam Beckett,
your tears are liquefied brains.
Brains Over Brawn
A quiet man by nature,
he wears his intellect
like a peacock’s tail.
Coffee and Cream
The ritual of coffee
and cream is quite beguiling
as they unite completely
in transient swirls.
This is the Japanese Dodoitsu which is made up of four lines with a syllable count of 7-7-7-5. It is neither rhymed nor metered.
Deja-Vous
“Be careful,” I said.
“Have to be, “ my father replied.Flash to
another time.
Mom in this very seat,
my father heading out the door.
Familiar words from
the past,
and their
well-known cadence
throw me backwards to a
memory of the two of them.
He shuts it with a click
and is
gone. A
long-forgotten
thrill of deja-vous skates
down my spine. With half-damp eyes I
wonder did he shiver
like me?
Epiphany
It’s late afternoon.
I cross the prairie
where native grass has been tamed.
Black soil lies open
wide, tilled by steel blades.
Within weeks, the fruits of this
planting will stand in
regimented rows,
and soon will be processed,
ready for your breakfast bowl.
In the west, where the
sun should be, lies an
ominous bank of dark clouds.
I squint into gray
light bright enough for
me to pull out amber shades
as fat heavy drops
smack the windshield and
spread, amoeba-like before
rejoining the atmosphere.
A vertical beam
of shimmering space
punches a hole through the clouds.
The silver tube forms
a portal to the
heaven I have learned to fear.
For a moment, I
think of the rapture
and Christian souls ascending
rank and file into heaven.
In my mind, empty
cars dot the roadway
as, westward, I continue.
Recognizing the
beam for what it is,
I smile as it cuts the clouds,
absorbing moisture
from newly tilled soil.
I watch the clouds shifting as
they quickly reclaim the sky.
February Snow
A light, powdery snow fell all around me;
clumps of powdery snow tumbled all about me;
the late February snowy night was a sight to see.
The Moon shone frostily behind a ragged cloud;
she tossed her icy light through a ragged cloud;
as the snow continued to dance and the wind sang aloud.
Through the swirling flakes the surrealistic glow was bright;
though the flakes closed in, the surrealistic glow remained bright
while the snow and I celebrated the secret song of the night.
This form is known as Blues Stanza because it follows the pattern established by blues singers. Each stanza has 3 lines. The first 2 lines end with the same word with the 2nd line being either a total or partial repeat of the first. The third line which rhymes with the previous two forms an ending for them, or develops them. There is no rule as to number of syllables or metre.Fortune
My fortune today said, “Better to bend than to break.
”I don’t understand.
For each of us who does
there is at least one other who doesn’t.
It is said that willows never break … they bend.
Could that be why they always weep?
Grief
They came
whispering words
formed of letters.
Words strung together
in dizzying tiers
that rose up in
a tower of Babel.
And I ate
their words of grief
washing them
down with my tears
until I was filled and
bloated to the
point of sleep.
Only then did I escape.
Innocence
As she dreams of returning to innocence,
her daily commute on the rail begins.
She blends in with all the rest
while hiding behind the morning news.
The headlines scream war.
As she dreams of returning to innocence,
she sees a man knife another for a nickel bag.
One’s left dying – blood running red.
Slowly, she joins the throng
disgorging through the chutes
as she dreams of returning to innocence.
Up the stairs, out into the light,
like moles squinting into the sun.
They begin their choreographed dash
resembling lemmings scuttling to the sea
as she dreams of returning to innocence.
This poetic form is called Viator. It was created by Robin Skelton, the author of "The Shapes of Our Singing." It consists of a poem made of stanzas in which the first line of the first stanza travels through the poem moving to the second line in the second stanza and so on until the poem ends with the line with which it began. Viator is the latin name for traveller.
Juried Student Art Show
Naked tits done in charcoal and oils,
giant white feet of styro and plaster,
wooden fetuses in wooden wombs.
Twisted, welded metal amorphisms
impale the floor; a black chair,
wooden spikes sprouting from
the seat, represents the pain of 9-11.
Whispers abound with the subtle message that war is not good.
Labyrinth
A spiral path carved
in honeyed wood.
My finger follows it
lazily as my mind,
chaotic, restless
tries to focus on
the ins and outsof my breaths.
At the center my
finger pauses as
my thoughts tumble
round in my head.
Slowly my finger
retraces the path
cut smoothly into
the wood until once
more it reaches the
start of the spiral, and
I pause to give thanks.
Limited Edition
It’s a god-damned bottle of nail polish,
or should I say, ‘nail lacquer’?
A clear [or colored] resinous coating
used to impart a high gloss on an
otherwise dull surface. Dull? A soft,
pink curved plane partnered with
a delicate white half moon ... dull?
The color in this bottle is called ‘tease’.
It’s a fucking LIMITED EDITION. How
can a $.97 bottle of nail polish be a
limited edition? The damn thing more
than likely will be used up before it
has a chance to become limited anything.
Not much unlike the poor sods I work with.
Lullaby2The notes
of a well-known
lullaby spill from the
hidden speakers announcing a
new birth while your morphine
pump marks
time with
loud obscene clicks.
Manipulation II
Veterans
Patriotism
Salute
Husband
Pledge
Death
Wife
Honor
Flags
Son
Solemnity
God
Daughter
Country
Liberty
Father
Freedom
Pride
Mother
Credibility
Duty
Friend
Trust
Manipulation
Tears
March Gales
The wind whips the tattered rag into a rage
as the silver staff slowly bows to the ground.
This style of poetry is known as a Mote. A Mote is a two-lined poem that forms a complete sentence and is not subject to rules pertaining to metre or syllable count
Passage
I place a gray node of resin on the glowing
shard of charcoal and watch the white smoke rising from the cauldron.
I softly chant a spell of protection
which rises on the smoke:
“Goddess hold her close and fill her
with your energy. Be ever near as
her time of passing comes."
My love for her is strong.
Saturday morning I walked in, and my smile
faded. She didn’t even see me; partial
vision is the result of the stroke.
Later that night, I stroked the white fuzz
on her head willing the pain to leave.
The miles home were marked with memories
and tears that wet my cheeks.
May I face my mother’s passing with grace.
Red
A hint of erotica which
teases the senses like one
of Georgia’s flowers;
or, like a withering red
apple fallen from the tree,
evokes scents and textures,
even the drone of lazy bees.
‘Tis the way my secret place
appears when awakened by you.
Secrecy
Is anyone here?
Shadows whisper soft greetings.
This is another Japanese poetry form (I tend to like the simplicity of Japanese poetry) known as Mondo.The Mondo is an unrhymed and non-metrical poem of 2 lines. While there is no rule as to syllables, it would certainly approximate at least to the 5-7 syllabic count. The Mondo is formed of a one line question and a one line reply.
SESTAINS
Beauty
can beauspicious, but
beware its allure as
it can destroy as easilyas it can build strong, false
bases.
Moonstone
alone,
a motionless
pearl in the ebony
sky. luminously white-cold with
whispers of gray wrapping
around
…moonstone.
mysterious,
unknown beauty ever
guiding us through cycles of life.
Goddess of the seasons
bless us.
The Seasons
Spring
Rebirth
of a tired earth.
Sunshine and warmth bring a
rejuvenation of all things
waking them from a long
cold sleep.Summer
Sweet smells
of freshly mown
clover, bees buzzing ‘round
busily hunting for that bright
vessel which holds the sweet
nectar.
Autumn
Crisp air.
Crunchy leaves snap
beneath our feet as we
scuff our way through beautiful trees.
Their own splendor unknown
to them.
WinterSharp, cold
winds that cut through
to the very bone make
us scurry along our way not
seeing soft flakes that are
falling.
Silk Shawl
Tonight
the Goddess rides
low in the sky. Wispy
clouds that mingle with the darkness
drape her shoulders like a
silk shawl.
Thunder
rumbles
softly, a threat;
the harbinger of the
storm yet to be released upon
the unsuspecting ones
that sleep.
This poetry style is one that I created. I have called it Sestain. It is six lines long with a syllable pattern of 2-4-6-8-6-2. The poem can be one or more stanzas long.
Slow DeathEncased in
silken cobwebs
spun from your
lies. Naked
beneath gossamer
strands too
strong to be
broken.
Too tired to
struggle; too
weak to try.
So, I await that
final dose of
venom.Standing-Still-Sun
Yule marks the day earth’s
jack-tilted hemisphere leans
the furthest from the sun.
Daylight, for some, is six
hours long; the sun is at
its lowest arc in the sky.
With the celebration of Yule
comes the rebirth of the sun.
Candles, evergreens, feasting
and generosity echo a past
older than imaginable.
Tangled Up in Blue
She weaves her web by moonlight.
Quicksilver swirls along which
she dances throughout the night.
By day, they are dust.
This is the Japanse form Dodoitsu which is made up of four lines with a syllable count of 7-7-7-5. It is neither rhymed nor metered.
Vampires
This is a day of apathy a
lack of feeling or emotion,
interest or concern. The
vampires have won
this round.
Winter Haiku
Sharp wind cuts through bones
An old woman grasps her shawl
Tightly as she groans.
This is written in the traditional Japanese Haiku style of three lines with a 5-7-5 syllable pattern.
Xmas 6.0
Hey Saint Nick, when the
hell did you become so fat
and so inflated?
If not for hot air blowing
up your ass, you’d be as limp
as an old man’s dick.
Mere caricature that you
are, adorning the
yards of homes, schools and town halls.
Xmas version six-point-oh.
It’s the Amerikan way.
