I don’t want the mudless path
no dirt on my shiny shoe
Give me fossilized rocks
epoch charms and tiny clumps
jammed and stuck on my
lackadaisical sole
Give me bumpy ruts
and jaggedy juts
Jar my sensibly hued horizon
Paint heaven cornsilk blue
with feathers of rye grass
Punctuate lanes with baby turtles
and dressed up daisies
Let goldenrods gather at my feet
And dot my path with puddle-mirrored clouds
One-god-white tufts
sweeping sparrow butting in
Blow puffs of thistledown my way
feathered seeds prancing
on golden-fizzed rays
As the days dwindle
I’ll feel their tickle…and smile
how red can a cherry get
when drunk with sunlight?
just enough to kiss the tree goodbye
and roll down to feel
earth’s asperities.
there
the cherry spills its blood
all over the (maybe) ignorant rocks,
(i wonder) –
teaching them the poetry of redness,
and the rocks
in exchange
peel the cherry’s sacrificial skin
and dig within its flesh
for the pip.
would you recognize the ghost of the flower
when watching altogether
the bones of the cherry
among those of the rocks?
In England once there lived a big
And wonderfully clever pig.
To everybody it was plain
That Piggy had a massive brain.
He worked out sums inside his head,
There was no book he hadn’t read.
He knew what made an airplane fly,
He knew how engines worked and why.
He knew all this, but in the end
One question drove him round the bend:
He simply couldn’t puzzle out
What LIFE was really all about.
What was the reason for his birth?
Why was he placed upon this earth?
His giant brain went round and round.
Alas, no answer could be found.
Till suddenly one wondrous night.
All in a flash he saw the light.
He jumped up like a ballet dancer
And yelled, ‘By gum, I’ve got the answer! ‘
‘They want my bacon slice by slice
‘To sell at a tremendous price!
‘They want my tender juicy chops
‘To put in all the butcher’s shops!
‘They want my pork to make a roast
‘And that’s the part’ll cost the most!
‘They want my sausages in strings!
‘They even want my chitterlings!
‘The butcher’s shop! The carving knife!
‘That is the reason for my life! ‘
Such thoughts as these are not designed
To give a pig great peace of mind.
Next morning, in comes Farmer Bland,
A pail of pigswill in his hand,
And piggy with a mighty roar,
Bashes the farmer to the floor…
Now comes the rather grisly bit
So let’s not make too much of it,
Except that you must understand
That Piggy did eat Farmer Bland,
He ate him up from head to toe,
Chewing the pieces nice and slow.
It took an hour to reach the feet,
Because there was so much to eat,
And when he finished, Pig, of course,
Felt absolutely no remorse.
Slowly he scratched his brainy head
And with a little smile he said,
‘I had a fairly powerful hunch
‘That he might have me for his lunch.
‘And so, because I feared the worst,
‘I thought I’d better eat him first.’
I levitate above my bed
with all those dogs clinging to my feet
eyeless, toothless, headless
the blue flowers on my white
bed sheets burst red
the fishermen around
read the future in dingy scales
I walk in these bare streets
dragging words behind me
heavy like carcasses
crying: listen!, listen!
but I hear no echo
just a flattering of wings
behind barred windows
I climb the walls of my bunker
pull at roots, filaments and fur
choke with the smell of burning flesh
cover my eyes with barbed wire
aghast at seeing the signs
branded on the festering cortex
of an army of mutants
Across the dead gray landscape of January
and February’s somber slate skies,
the grating complaint the blackest birds
lodge with steel-wrapped winter is the only
natural sound breaking the creak
and snap of wind bending these boughs
turned old by too many seasons’ snows.
Just when the cruelest month
nearly claims my spirit, the trees
begin to bleed drops of cardinal
from limb to limb and back again.
Urgent six-note melodies perch
on maple and pine staffs, breaking
the monotonous drear and crows’ atonal rasps,
as redbirds flit and spatter a transfusion
of warm hope into this frozen heart. Here,
place your hand on it and feel ice crack
and new life fight to trickle within.
The depth of it exceptional, and all
at once she lies and sits and stands below.
She smiles, then in her mind she skips, her paws
tread deeply in the soft white powdered snow.
An icy East wind hails from far away,
intemperate continental clime it brings,
that covers food so blackbirds cannot find
sufficient energy to brace their wings.
Out there, beyond the hill, the homeless lie,
reciting tunelessly an unheard poem,
they fight an urge to yield to hopelessness,
and longing for a crackling log-fired home.
We look in warmth, contentment unalloyed,
at children with their snow dog, overjoyed.
[Poetic notes: This poem looks like a sonnet, in that it has fourteen lines, arranged into four quatrains and a concluding couplet, and it is written in iambic pentameter. But that is where the similarity ends. The rhyming scheme is confined to alternate (second and fourth) rhyming lines and a rhyming couplet at its end. So it is different from either Petrarchan or Shakespearean forms. Crucially, though, the classic structure, in which the first eight lines present an issue or problem, and the last six lines, particularly the finishing couplet, present a resolution or a ‘turn’, is absent. Instead, the opening quatrain portrays a pleasant scene, the second and third stanzas move to present the problems created by cold winter weather for wildlife and the homeless, but then the final couplet seems to try and put blinkers on the reader; blotting out, as it were, the harsh reality of life’s injustice. It depends on your mindset, as to which sentiment the poem leaves you with…]
Your soft and furry skin was like a prize
that felt as if it were a therapy,
reward for when we were too short of time
to pander to your young demands, and yet
you never once gave any less, and more
besides, you did not waver in your loyalty.
That wrinkled face, so soft, with deep dark eyes,
appealed, like downcast seal, to pliant hearts.
We’d have to have a bypass of compassion
to resist enchantment of the first degree,
and look away to stop the heart from melting
with just one sight of sideways tilting head.
You’d run with gay abandon, flapping lips
lifting wings on wind of gambolling speed
back legs attempt to pass your front, that looks
as if it’s doomed to fail. You still succeed.
So, to the welcome after-walk effects;
that cosy warmth against our resting feet.
As innocence turned into character
the stubbornness, the guile, the subtle smile
to greet us at the door, when we got home,
that knowing wag of tail, well versed in art
of language you know well; we only guess,
rewarding you with scratch behind your ear.
But most of all, that special body wag,
the faintest sound of tinkling collar tags,
the clearly unrestrained brief glottal yip,
excitement uncontrolled…
…but then, of late
it must be said, it wasn’t quite the same.
You sniff a tree, as if to pay your due.
The gay abandon lost somewhere in memory,
the softness of your coat turned coarse,
your eyes are slightly foggy, as they search
for some of that shear pleasure; the sound of food
no longer holds its sway on your desires;
hanging on to life and love at home.
Roger McGough is from Liverpool. Of a certain age, he takes his inspiration from the Beats. It seems he belongs to several poetry societies and has a bit of alphabet after his name indicative of honors of the British Empire: CBE – Commander of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire and FRSL – Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature. We’re always happy to see poets honored in ths way.
Charles W. Martin (Read Between the Minds) …. Charlie …. “slpmartin” … was the first blogger-poet that I started to follow with some regularity. That was back in February 2010. Charlie had – if memory serves (which it doesn’t always these days) – recently retired and just returned from a trip to Africa – Tunisia, I think – and had shared a few poems about dusty streets and ancient wisdom and social inequities. At the time he was also sharing poems that had been published in his first book, Read Between the Minds.
I was struck by two things in Charlie’s poetry: his unremitting concern for social and political issues and his unique style. Charlie wrote about having lost patience with the poetic forms he was taught in school. He developed a spare and direct style that worked for him. As it happens it works well for readers and is perfectly suited to blogging, where brevity is the popular preference.
As time went on, Charlie created and introduced us to the kick-in-the-pants wisdom of Aunt Bea, whom we all came to love. It wasn’t long before Charlie created two other personalities, each with a distinct voice.
aunt bea
was reading
the paper
when i stopped by
for a visit
she noted that
there had been
a number of
indictments
of
political leaders
for fraud
and
failure
to serve
the public need
most
of these indictments
she said
were unfounded
in her opinion
since
the word
indictment
suggests
the person
may
be
innocent
– Charles W. Martin
Charlie’s backstory:
Charles W. Martin earned his Ph.D. in Speech and Language Pathology (hence the “slp” in his url) with an emphasis in statistics. His credentials allowed him to pursue a career that included teaching, research and administration in university settings, treating patients and providing administrative leadership in clinical settings.
Charlie worked as a speech pathologist professional in the public schools where he diagnosed and treated communication disorders caused by a wide range of health conditions and contextual factors. Charlie brought passion to each of his professional positions but he was always focused on mentoring his students and improving the quality of life for his clients and patients.
Throughout Charlie’s educational training and career he maintained a devotion to the arts (literature/poetry, the theater, music and photography). He was a published poet before he completed his graduate work. Since his retirement in 2010, he has turned his full attention to his poetry and photography. He publishes a poem and a photographic art piece each day at Read Between the Minds, Poetry, Photograph and Random Thoughts of Life.
Charlie’s second self-published work
Aunt Bea’s backstory:
Charlie wrote me saying that “Aunt Bea, my mother’s twin sister, represents all six of the aunts, my mother, and grandmother. Aunt Bea’s voice is one I’ve heard almost every day of my life. The poems are family observations, lessons, and advice given to me and every other family member who had the good sense to listen. Her homespun philosophy most likely will not be found in any collegiate textbooks or for that matter in any local town crier newspaper catering to city dwellers. Indeed, she has a different way of viewing the world – a bit old-fashioned, sassy, and steely at times but a viewpoint which has engaged my imagination and heart.”
Heads-up Australia: Aunt Bea is heading your way. I predict she’ll turn down-under right-side up.
“Poetry has the power to make us aware of what is hidden in the shadows…those places that we seldom see or want to see…the poet’s voice scrapes away the facade of an issue and lays bare for all to see what has been denied. By providing a voice to these mute realities, poets have throughout history altered the course of events by enlightening readers and encouraging them to take action to stop wars, halt injustice, and to reach out to their fellow man. Like those poets who have proceeded me, I am motivated by the same desire to bring about the social changes necessary to enhance the quality of life for those around me and around the world and to give voice to those who cannot speak for themselves.” Charles W. Martin
Myself whole in an alleyway,
breath and whispers
of darkness slowly entering,
entrapping. …
a pale loitering light off in the
distance, lurking like
an unwanted stranger. …
embolden souls approaching,
bidding- their hands as shadows
clinging; my heart like clay, crumbling. …
A gun waving one minute past darkness
enwrapped my soul in gloom-
no fair dreams to follow, now woven in
musings fright. …
their hands deep within
stealing a part of my existence. …
the Air in the alleyway unweaved
the night- miscreants of social injustice fled. …
me, slowly aging, scarred- now
searching for the feel of not to feel it.
A Social misfit. He never fit in
The BeZine 