Three poems

 About these: I’ll throw a warning up for these, they’re a bit sombre in mood, Emma might be particularly troublesome for some, it certainly makes me want to run away to a corner. It also might offend some tutored literary expectations, in fact I think they all probably would as I’m not shy about adjusting syntax to suit a metre, so you can go hang if that’s particular subject of angst.  I’m not at all happy with the final line on Jacque’s Hymn, so when I’ve time I’ll probably revisit that poem. There’s also an illustration for Emma, which needs to be scanned properly but for now I’ll put up what I’ve got.




Emma gulps down her breakfast, bacon, eggs,
Each morning the rote to build length to bone
Then to school with due diligence she’ll hone
The skills a young girl’s ambition begs.
She’ll not grow to just hang up laundry pegs,
As she builds on her strength to let mind roam.
I will see my princess upon her throne,
And dance to test this father’s weary legs.
She’s my font of joy when the times are lean,
There’s never need to rue her mother’s caution
The road she chose while we were just eighteen.
If you knew me then and if you had seen
my rage, you might some concern apportion,
if Emma’s life were not just in my dream.


The Cinder

Life–it seems, courtesy of convection
What conceit, what sic confection of mind
Could stir such motion of the brownian kind?
Fires stoked to extinguish compassion,
Effort that is almost redundant, I find,
Like smoke razed, to occlude those who’re blind,
As we expedite Moloch’s consumption.
The tears shed here are from motes in the eye
A cinder, the ember birthed by the wind.
Remorse isn’t home, to Cyprus he’s torn
Asunder the earth that cultured his lie
Gleaned for those so proud not to have sinned
Who killed their own curse before it could spawn.


Jacque’s hymn

I spent all my mind a chasing lucre
She took all my wood to her winter room
Where those who trod ahead had urge bloom
Their hips had grind her red stain lips pucker
Now’s the time that I should—pluck her!!!!
In a little while that small death should loom
The one I will use to forestall my doom
The dreamless mare, the weeds, the quiet acre
How many members latex shod are here
how many mothers angels lost innocence
To prove in vain that they are none too queer
Or feeble goons sourced their dominance
There’s a disgust for our us that finds no peer
Those who vent lust with such free flatulence

~ by deadspidereye on April 5, 2014.

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