Toe Nail Poetry #1
Noon Strut
Walk for
blueberries
and almond milk
Turquoise toenails
extended
Turquoise neck
pigeon back
Grey strut
With purple metal
shining in the sun
against charcoal
shadowed
branching buds.
Sitting Home Alone .
I should make
efforts to make
this poem known
Instead of sitting
home alone .
Not that it’s
some standard
of established good
or bad ,
It’s just so very sad
that
It sits here on it’s own
waiting
to be received,
reflected on,
perceived,
perhaps
to mirror someone else’s
thoughts,
life condition,
woes,
or
Someone else’s throws
of passion or regrets .
This poem needs
company,
and a reference point ,
just like everybody else.
From “The Black and other Base elements ” by PWChaltas
This Time the Page is Waiting
This time the page is
waiting for the poem.
No need for the lines
to force their way
on to it ,
and into to it .
There’s no violation
here this time,
only a white willingness
of the page
to be inscribed
with the blackest letters,
as permanent and
Immutable
as a ratio
of golden means,
that is
pricked and inked
into the page
divinely
as it
lays spread out alone.
Today the poet
is an ink artist
in a skin parlour
with a willing client,
who asks for the inscription
to be made,
regardless of the pain.
From “The Black and Other Base Elements ” by PWChaltas
I Will Cleave to the One I love
I will cleave
to the One I love
In the beauty that comes
from inside,
and to and from above ,
to the beauty of nature
without.
There’s no lasting beauty in abandon ,
no true joy in a One night stand .
It’s empty with a promise
of panacea .
There is only darkness
hiding there
and a sliding
of the wandering
errant hand .
Embrace of Midnight Hours
You wash my body with water
and tiny crystals of dissolved salt.
The myrrh refused,
is now welcome,
and received with oils on skin
from rounded vials and bottles
of scented red and blue.
Rubbed on flesh is
fragrant cedar, cypress, myrrh,
and oil of Lebanon.
Tongue, arms, hands,
legs,and feet,
are motionless and limp,
stigmatized with love.
They reside here in limed spa
of striated stone,
so dimly lit by wick of lamp,
and laid out wavering candle.
I hear monotone music
of the chorus
of your beating hearts,
and the feel labour
of experienced hand.
Wrap me in the shelter of your linen
one final time
as in the womb
once long before,
celebrated
with flute and song.
When will I awake
from this narcotic state
to stir again
from my so deep,
and palliative sleep?
He had not seen her for quite some time. Sitting outside the cafe she just happened to run into him with her two young daughters . She was a diminutive woman with fine features and blond hair and her name Anastasia meant resurrection . Her two daughters were dressed identically like two tiny porcelain madeleines except that one was distant ,the other thin and very affectionate .
The thin little one immediately jumped into his lap as if she had suddenly found her long lost father and gently laid her head against his shoulder .She looked up at him with soft hazel eyes . He noticed her eyes had many tiny specs in them .There were so many that together they rivaled and almost crowded out her pupils .”Your daughter is not well”
He said .The mother immediately got up and ran into the cafe .She came back shortly .
He noticed her eyes were red .She had been crying, Her blonde hair slightly disheveled and showing her black roots She was angry ; not with him but rather at fate and how circumstances could fall together in such a way that her fatherless daughter at such a young age could be ill and riddled with so many problems.
The little one nuzzled even closer to him.“ Have faith he said . “Time rectifies all things “They kissed each other on the cheek and she went on her way, with her two daughters on either side, holding hands.
The morning broke and he awoke from a deep sleep .
His eyes slowly opened ,to the sounds of all the birds welcoming the morning, many small birds in a garbled melody of chirps, and the solitary refrain of an intermittent cooing dove nearby .This would be his last day. The pain of the wounds was excruciating now again, and he was sweating blood.
There were crimson tears at the corners of his eyes,dried blood and dirt on his face .As dawn broke to a new host of torture he realized the little one ,with her head on his shoulder , had been the dark one himself . He braced himself as the door opened .
From “Mercy Brother ” by PWChaltas
Conclusion
I’ve come to the conclusion
like Christ that there can be no great art ,
no hand of G_d stuff,
worthy of the sacrifice,
without suffering.
Disjointed Muse
A disjointed muse has hold of me.
Crossing city streets
aimlessly with a knife
at my back
and a blonde woman
walking in front of me ,
wondering what it would be like
being hit by a speeding car
and in a millisecond
becoming
a broken bag of bones …
But let’s save that experience
for another night .
Publivion
I’m fading away into publivion
And soon there won’t be any meat left to bite into ,
…only bone ,
and a broken poetical marrow
Hold the beef
don’t give me none
put some patience on that bone
and stop bringing
home the bacon
Poetics Moment . I’m Hungry
I feel my backbone now .
It moves in strange ways,
bare with less protection,
while standing in the poet’s corner
completely surrounded by books of verse .
Ginsberg Eliot Rumi to boot .
Poetry is becoming popular again.
This time describing polymers
and hard returns ,
Love, zygal, and artifacts
to barbarous renditions
of Cohen’s music
sung by female lounge
lizards .
And I’m told A. Miller’s
Marilyn Monroe
had six toes ,
like Alexander’s horse.
They were both poetic
and well loved.
PWChaltas 