Black Rhyme Time

I love to pen the poems 

of dunes and lake and rain

there are times for those but

also for my sonnets of pain

Shakespeare, or his ghost writ

bled out his heart in rhyme

I find dank verse comforting 

their harsh jarring notes sublime

I've a black parade of memories

but I won't sing a morbid tune

I'd a death-eater dad for that

it's to the falling but trying I croon 

ever notice how "help" really hurts? 

on essential cruelty BS we're fed

healing by inflicting more suffering 

to bloodletting nonsense we're wed

 

Sure there's stuff I don't know

but I really don't get why 

if help helps and hurts hurts 

will it actually help if I die?

Cuz it really hurts like hell

That's how "therapy" can feel

by gutting, debriding and dicing are

they cutting off more than they heal?

That's where poetry has a place

to our suffering it gives voice

elect your bearing down and tearing 

but know that you have a choice

we can sing out our bleeding

on in theatre we can bleed out 

is everything salvageable with verse?

that's what this verse is about

It's naive and yet I find 

salve in my bitter refrain  

my soul wounds embracing 

instead of opening up a vein

So let the blackness come 

let sorrowing heart waters flow

let justice roll down like tears 

as to my River Styx I go 

That's where the prussic acid

in my black rhymes originates

damned dammed up flood rivers 

neither pooh-poohs nor placates 

no condescending shush-hushing

Hurt must be screamed out in song 

all the little lost souls grieved for 

this shit won't be quiet for long

so with this ship I'll go down

and on this bloody hill I'll die

let's quit spit-balling platitudes

and take a stand on the why 

why so many broken people?

why do they choose the dark side

call it what you will it's the same

self-harm, or dare we say suicide?

So let's name it and claim it 

with guns and bombs we're sending

so many to what it fucking is

the endless end without ending 

and I don't have rhyme for that. 

Some us went down that path

to their promised uncloudy day

us blind, crippled, lame and insane

sent on our hopeless, helpless way 

And it's because I well recall 

many filthy, grimy bleak days

I don't want any of mine to 

trod in my footprinted dark ways 

ways which were preordained

by my death eating dad of yore

ways which I inherited but still  

I don't want to go down anymore

so now we come to the gist 

to prevent I WILL go down the

fiery slide to Hades and more 

whatever it takes to protect them

I'll go to that unhallowed door

I'm not brave but I owe

to my beloved posterity 

to exorcise demons so we

can I hope live clean and free

but I'll admit that I'm anxious

to face down Satan's horde

may handsome boatman Charon

ferry us both safely back to shore  

with love to my handsome boatman 

Albert by name, psychopomp by trade

I found the moon for us

our dear Jakey A was a 

lovely little man child

though you daren't call him

lil guy lest the boy go wild 

workman was the name

young Jakob best preferred

(loudly demanding) by that 

title he should be referred 

his workman job description

included some duties at night

this industrious third shifter

made sure to do his tasks right

self-appointed watch to keep 

when day began to wane

he'd always find the moon for us

from his bedroom window pane

when moon played hide n seek

and Luna was difficult to find 

Our Magus persisted diligently 

that rascally orb to mind 

nights when moon was new

her face seemed turned away  

Jake would explain she had to

shine on other kids that day

or when on stormy nights 

she couldn't be found at all

he'd cheerfully remind us she

still shone behind cloud pall 

 

his efforts were appreciated

keeping track was too much work 

it's nice to have a moon finder 

who never does his task shirk

adults get busy and we forget

simple pleasure can be ours 

thank God for our workman

displaying his universe of stars 

he was emcee and impresario

at the stellar moonshine show

bidding us come and hurry 

to see friend moon all aglow 

sometimes it takes a small one 

musing upon the heavens above

to draw our attention moonward 

and to help us feel her love

Jake now wears the dad hat 

has his own flock to tend

adulting leaves no moon time 

when there's work without end

but happily for everyone

a successor was begat 

a sweet starry-eyed maiden 

to wear the moon minder hat

All's well that ends well

now we've a star tender again

each night she finds the moon for us

Thank you, dear little Flora Lane 

our Gen 2 skygazer performs her

job, like pa, conscientiously

never a night goes by without

her checking for the moon to see

We're blessed, said the spider

for just a moment in time 

to gaze outside the window and

dance to earth's eternal rhyme

So peek out your peek hole

in whatever nest you call home

moon is smiling down on you 

to say you're never truly alone 

With love to the Magi, then, now and to come

Death-eating father

This ain't one of my 

summer sunshine rhymes

sorry fresh out tonight 

this is for blue black times

I'm not normally one to

let my inner goth out

but there are times when 

she needs to howl and shout

there was a man, a wolf

no, a werewolf was he

he was blackly charming this 

wolfman father to me

he had a curse on him that 

he alas to me passed on 

or he cursed us both with

his morbid unhallowed passion

death by name, death by trade

my pater was fixated upon 

a modern pre-Raphaelite with

unholy suicidal obsession

So very romantic, innit?

Poe, Rosetti and Millais

such fine young gentlemen

must have their peccadillo play 

look at all the little punters 

those dreamy soul-eyed pens

of halcyon times languishing 

in rat infested opium dens 

in laudanum induced stupor 

fantasizing about a red head

who by her own hand made 

herself all drowned and dead

isn't it a bitch when your 

superheroes show their grime

welcome to my world folks 

that's what happened in mine    

he was my Ozymandias

despite having feet of clay 

we all do of course but

his were the muckiest of clay

by clay I mean earth, dust

eaten up by moth and worm

he dreamt and plotted his death 

practiced  his funereal requiem 

a  bit like poor Mozart with 

death disc played in reverse 

funeral for dear old dad

was expected of our Amadeus 

at least unlike Wolfie

I didn't have to plan for dad

I don't know if on reflecting

it woulda been any less bad

what the hell is wrong with 

these death-eating fathers of ours

bloody consumed with fussing 

about arranging their canopic jars 

so discussing this is hard and

I'm coming to it roundabout 

with all my highfalutin nods

why can't I just spit it out

me dah detailed his plan

urged me to join suicide pact 

his death wish 'bout destroyed me 

his the plan, but mine the act

on top of his threats, the guilt

made worse by well-intentioned 

wondering aloud at his motives 

my shame increased when questioned

did he jump or was he pushed?

did it predate him enshrined in tomb?

his constant cake walk with death

might it've  begun in the womb?

I'm tempted to cut him slack 

cuz that's what I always do (did)

did he have a secret half life

that he kept from me well hid?

Was there some abiding pain

that made him speak fluent self-harm

did my grandparents hurt him

and set off his coffin alarm?

but how and when he did show

endless talk of ending was ruse

to claim exemption without remorse

was a weapon to punish and abuse

I was threatened with it when

he wanted an exit or excuse

suicide promises have a way 

of shutting down home truths 

funny it's never themselves

with whom they plan to do away  

vampirically they suck your self 

till you've no spark to light your day 

But I found my voice recently

and I find I've got a lot to say

to him who terrorized little me

dicing with death to get his way

now the doom has come upon me

the mirror's cracked side to side

taunts of his self-death broke me

and the gates of hell opened wide

It's a curse I'm stuck with 

this tendency toward self-harm 

the loop has come full circle

now it's me sounding the alarm

I hate like hell I'm like this

it's knee-jerk though unwillingly

passing on the devil's contagion 

hurting my beloved posterity 

sins of my father brain-staining

Mea culpae for my many wrongs

mea maxima culpae two wrongs

don't unwrite the death-eater songs

I can't erase what's past but 

I can ease our today pain  

stop the evil juggernaut and

derail the ceaseless self-hurt train

I have to. I owe it to them. 

--with sorrow, contrition and love to the family circle

--and prayers to the Heavenly Father to help me to excise this generational cancer of the soul

                     

It's my poem and I'll cry if I want to

You scold my poems because

they've a bitter bit of sting

the acrid sour anthems 

I've finally begun to ring

I'm "too heavy" you say

that I should write with levity

think of rainbow colored ponies

drink the chalice of poison Hi-C

Much as I'd love to be

a bright whiter shade of pale

tempting as cyanide is not

mine's a Bleaker street type tale

My biography was ever 

tart with lacrimal note

so I owe no explanation

and I'm not taking a vote

you demanding I defend

my verse's tear- salty word

shows you weren't listening 

you never saw nor heard

you turn your back now

as you always did back then 

against deaf-blind-muteness

why should I bother to defend? 

there are none so deaf 

as those who won't hear

none so obtuse as they who

harden eye, heart and ear 

If you still insist on reasons

don't miss your hand pulling strings

flip the mirror roundside right

you'll see how you messed up things

you called me oversensitive 

such hypocritical arrogance 

YOU told ME to sunny up, you?

the death-eating vampire prince?

May I ask why it's essential 

I sing a Nutra-sweet refrain? 

what's in it for you to tart up 

and candy-coat my memory train?

why the gaslighting nonsense

that the problem is the hurt one

that reporting harm is worse than

what and by whom hurt was done? 

Eleventh hour awareness shows

you bound and gagged my voice 

now your dirty blame shame game 

exposes your abuse as a choice 

you claim my remembrances mean

because I'm ashamed I'm to blame

what they reveal is you playing 

your sick Twister DARVO game

but I guess I should thank you 

your agenda demonstrates a lot

my shell-shocked brain now sees

that loving parents you were not

your overplayed your hand

the biter bit by her own fang

you're too up yourself to see 

by your own rope you'll hang

so beware your slip is showing  

you effed around and found out

your pink slip has been issued  

you're fired for messing about 

in this sorry song of mine

it's here we turn a corner

do an about face on shame and

be our lost child's chief mourner 

their pride killed small selves 

time the solipsists were leaving

forget their fanned out voices 

get on with overdue grieving

time to permit myself to

repeat the shit they said

to evict rent-free squatter

flying monkeys from my head 

I didn't think it needed 

to be reiterated yet again

that tears too long unshed 

just burn in endless pain

It ain't pretty inside me 

it's a grubby rubbish pile

But to heal the yuck within

I must dwell on it awhile

if it's inconvenient to hear

if you cannot sit beside me

think how hard it is to live and

don't mellow my harsh reality

Keep your toxic platitudes 

Save them for your rainy day

when your angst overflows

and everyone's gone away

I don't want your cheery

unicorns all sparkly brite 

you scoop their rainbow poop but

beware, lest they come back to bite

I don't give a fat rat's arse

who does or doesn't like my song

It's my poem, I'll cry if I want

you're free to read or move along

Grama-grampa reminise-storys: a verse in scents

Remembering the grama-grampa

house now has faded with time

but the scents and smells stay strong 

in this jumble sale mind of mine 

den redolent of evergreen

from closet conifer lined

I played without toys 

had a grand old time

also scents of mothballs

from cedar closet of hers

placed to protect grandma's

coveted fox and monkey furs

In den lived countless curios 

inkwell, gramophone, ukulele 

something called a stereoscope

church organ grampa played for me

ornate marble top table

I now have in my bedroom 

it holds her Christmas angels

and old Avon bottle of perfume

this ungodly heavy table 

with fussy carved woodwork

made when quality mattered more

than figures in a ledger book

on it family photos displayed

inscribed with spider-writing names

smelt of masonry and musty dust 

from oft-repaired antique frames

a vintage decanter set 

gave off faint odors of hooch

a riding crop adding horse scent

long-gone dog leash, hints of pooch 

everywhere notes of furniture polish

that iconic lemon Pledge smell

grampa took care to dust and wax

if he didn't she'd give him h-ll (🤣)

writing brought back memory

minds-eye looking out window  

in fragrant warm contentment

watching as it began to snow

attic smelt of wet wool mildew

sniffs of kerosene in the air

of army blanket and mattress ticking

and old toboggan stored up there

basement nosed of cardboard 

and the big Lionel steam train 

board games by the fireplace 

smoke with heated metal refrain

in cellar multi-tiered perfumes

engine oil, printer ink and Ajax

workshop, metallic, wood and glue

and solvents of epoxy and tacks 

a beach-sand-water smell

did a spicy fragrance make 

added to the overall aroma

of the house beside the lake

And best was grama's cooking

the savory, sweet and fine

her tiny kitchen table was

the very best place to dine

It's not just about smells 

they have lessons to tell

about treasuring and preserving

and loving often, much and well

It's old things lovingly saved

curious curios, not really toys

lack of playthings far surpassed 

by those bygone gestalt joys

A pair of tiny great grandma boots 

A gun from American civil war,

A furry ancestor hat and photos

And super 8 home movies galore

Each with tidy foxed labels 

history conscientiously taught to me

better than any book I've read 

their bedtime reminisce-story 

from photo album minty paste to

pine wood shaving and boot black 

home movie heated celluloid

they all take me right back

such an olfactory cacophony

Throughout their home dwelt

so many happy memories live 

in how their house smelt

When just a whiff I get

Scent memories in my brain

I'm transported back to the 

home on Crestwood Lane

The lamp post in the yard

a post light was planted

in the many-treed front yard

at the grama grampa home 

to recall feels sweet hard 

I see him at the lamp post

her window waving bent hand

rain or shine they welcomed 

till they joined the angel band 

lamp and window folk bidding

hello and farewell at night dark

side by side joy parenthesizing 

like enfolding punctuation mark

my without was shades of grim

their within sequestered sanctuary 

the old post light signaling a

place with room enough for Mary

the grama-grampa house an

enchanted hidey-hole for me

red brick lakeside castle 

on Michigan's dune strewn sea

journeys start with first steps

my personal Narnia fairytale

entering cedar wardrobe, to

emerge on snowy lamplit trail

Christmas lamp was bedazzled

In her festive noel skirt

His simple holiday offering was

just a wrapping paper insert 

paper faded by the bulb

as it decorated the years 

memories of him standing there

always brings me to tears

That's how everything was at 

The grama-grampa home so bright

Like lamp post nothing fancy but

giving so much more than light

yet all the much muchness

those dear old people gave

makes nostalgia bite harder

now that they are in the grave

But I must take care not to drown

in hole black as printer's ink

if I should tarry too long at 

the memory fountain to drink

I must only let recalling

fringe-flutter firefly by 

not capture nor cling lest the 

poor thing and I surely die

So I'll let their yard beacon

beckon to the yore day

but too long in back then 

I shan't allow myself to stray. 

Because I have now joy

the delights of my soul

people in the today time

who make my picture whole. 

Love to Gram and Gramp from Marilisa

Music of the swamp

critter sounds resound

in the riverside damp

knowing folk call wetland

we just knew it as a swamp

tree frog sawmill buzz

burp chirrup of bullfrog

companionable jamming

on an old bog log

don't let's forget the 

orchestra insect band

and slurpyish munch of

deer dining in marsh land

this is cattail country

I've long been keen on those

the bushy exploding fronds

as fuzzy as horse's nose

And on swamp things furry

that pearly grey pussy willow

which Jake calls kitty toes

we could make of them a pillow

no idea what they grow into

softy beansies are fine for me

not sure it's required I know

the full Systema Naturae litany 

I sing the all creature choir 

that in misty symphony play

such merry melodies abounding 

just cause it's Tuesday