Slay me with your words. Annihilate the very fabric of my being. I've been meaning to emphasize the import of meaning as a means of amending the syntacic meanness. Madness. And by "meanness" I mean please by all means do be sweet upon my mind's ears, you see, they lately have been failing of being able to make me savor any trace of such euphony. Let the symphony recommence, let the advent of any address apropos of the dress code to this digital address (following "the") be unrepressed, and for the love of (the) fucking press, DO press play, I beg you to abstain from "pause" or "rewind," and let us continue with minding our most verbal business. And madness, of course.
Here comes Rani
Look at the palace,
O look at the tomb
Look at its pillars,
O look at its dome!
Don’t you be surprised,
For this isn’t all;
Just wait for our Rani
To enter the hall.
With mehandi filled hands
And with a face of a teen,
Wearing a hundred bangles,
In walks our queen.
Look at her emerald eyes,
For they are very rare
But not more than a moment,
For she isn’t a toy to stare!
Amidst the thousand girls,
Her anklets sound like a song
And if you think she is just a beauty,
You are totally wrong.
In our kingdom,
Not a beggar is seen
All are rich and happy,
And the reason is our queen.
Today in this saree,
She looks like a fairy
And her long black hair,
Is her crowning glory.
She is our Rani,
She is our queen
And she is the best one,
I have ever seen.
a refraction of light
slithered down from the sky
danced over the sand
glided over the pebbles
of color and fangs
the craggy cavern
eyes to the
but the snake
and that same
jaw that spilled
lyrics and melodies
it was not wanted
and what was
gone was gone-
in their place
in brilliant feathers
but not enough
and the serpent’s
its voice turned
into the earth
The Molly Maguires: A Ballad
I will sing of Molly Maguire:
Come down to the pits of coal.
We’ll weep for Molly Maguire
And those good Irish boys of old.
Their axes dug the anthracite
That burned so hard and long.
They worked to death for petty coins;
The foremen done them wrong.
The blackness ruined lungs and breath,
Men worked their flesh to bone.
They dug their Catholic souls to death;
They’d die in the darkness alone.
For tons of coal were in the ground,
And Irish lives were cheap.
Their coal would fill the furnace and
The owners pockets so deep.
When a man could take no more,
Needed more than whiskey and piss,
He’d join the Molly Maguires:
A man would raise his fist.
They burned the company office down,
They cracked the foreman’s head.
When company men came lookin’ around
They knifed the bastards dead.
The Pinkertons came in October
When the moneyed men had enough.
They got more than just the Mollies:
Beat ‘em and shot ’em and cuffed.
They hanged the Molly Maguires
Before that year’s first snow.
Judge doomed each man on the docket
Whether he was a Molly or no.
Ghosts pace in the cells where they held them,
The hole where they broke ’em of hope.
Ghosts gaze at the beams of the rafters
Where they broke their necks with the rope.
And the Irish, they suffered and hungered
And struggled on down in the mines.
And the owners still lined their silk pockets
Just like they did beforetimes.
Let us sing of Molly Maguire:
Come down to the pits of coal.
We’ll drink to Molly Maguires,
All those good Irish boys of old.
Multiple liberties taken - in a folk song, shouldn't they be? - but here's a bit of history for the curious: https://explorepahistory.com/hmarker.php?markerId=1-A-3B9
dirge in d minor
When breeze blows down o’er the trees
and treacle flows down the tart,
my love lies cold neath the knoll.
My blood don’t warm at the hearth.
My bonny cries from the grave.
The sound, it near breaks my heart.
Cut down she was by the knaves,
her honor, forced her to part.
I know I ought to forgive.
I know I ought, though it’s hard.
For how am I to go on,
to heal this weary a heart?
A bird comes crying at night.
I spy it call from the trees.
I’ll have my peace when I die
enraptured by folds in the fleece,
enraptured by folds in the fleece.
A mournful tune sprang up in my head to accompany this original folksong that I just wrote. I sang it and played its tune on my keyboard and flute. I think it will sound eerily nice on my recorder, as well.
There’s nothing there
There never was
It’s just my name
And an empty pause
What would I write
That’s not faux pas
What perfect line
Would bear my flaws
What simple text
Could be my psalm
So I left it blank
An unanswered qualm
Irony at it’s best!
It’s ironic how we live in a world where we wage wars to attain peace.
The Scars We Bare
When the Day
in Evening’s gown
with starlight sequins,
counts ’20 down,
The Milky Way,
Eve’s spiral sash,
each aster spoke
the ember tales
dons her mask:
in disguise —
she, witness to
an empty page;
turn yesterday —
a (f)errous age
The sun felt magnificent as Lucy warmed herself while she napped on her apple tree, she had just started waking up from her nap when she heard a crunch of leaves underneath her tree. “Well who could that be” Lucy muttered to herself as she started to unravel herself from her branch at the top of the tree. It is not everyday that people wander over to her apple tree in the garden. In fact, Lucy could not remember a single time anyone else had come to her tree. This was strange to Lucy because it was the only apple tree in the garden, and had very delicious apples on it. Just thinking about the sweet apples made her drool, and Lucy made sure to grab one and take a bite as she slithered down to the bottom branches of her tree. However, when she caught sight of the leaf cruncher, it stunned her enough that she accidently dropped her apple. Right onto the woman’s head.
“Ow!!” yelped the woman. With a shout that was more surprise than pain. The dark skinned women picked the apple from the air as it fell off her head before suddenly pausing. She had noticed the bite in the apple and, realizing what that meant, looked up.
“Well how do you do” greeted Lucy. The woman just stared. Not knowing what the problem was, Lucy continued her greeting. “I am so very sorry about that, I have just never seen anyone else near my tree, it being apart from all the others, that I just dropped my apple in surprise when I saw you.
“You can talk. I have never seen anything like that,” the women said. “I mean besides Adam and I”
“Well I hear you and Adam all the time”, quipped Lucy. “Adam, if that is his name, in particular tends to wake me up in the mornings with his hollering at the rising sun.
“No, no that does not count, I mean you are the first talking animal I have ever seen” the woman said.
“Oh”. That caught Lucy by surprise. “You mean none of the other animals talk. Like at all?! Not even George the lion?
“Yes, that is exactly what I mean,” The woman said matter-of-factly as she sat down at the base of the tree, the whole time inspecting the bite mark in Lucy’s apple. “Wait, if you have been around as long as we have been, surely you would have tried to talk to the other animals. I mean all you have had to do is just try talking with them once on any day of these last few years and you would have realized that none of the others could talk. That is unless you are a recent move in.”
“No, no” muttered Lucy somewhat sadly to herself. “I have been around just as long as you guys have been, I just am more comfortable by myself.”
“I am so sorry, I never meant to get you to cry. I am just beside myself because I have never seen a talking animal before. The woman hastily said. “My name is Eve, what’s yours?
“I’m Lucy, but it is no problem. Even if it was one, it would be my fault. I mean, I have a fog memory of when I was first made that would explain it all.”
“Really!” gasped Eve. “How could you remember that? That must have been years ago, I barely remember what happened last year.”
“Your faulty memory is probably because of how often you two hit your heads on trees as you go running through the garden, while I take long my luxurious naps”, said Lucy as she grabbed another apple with her tail. “Anyway, I just remember wandering over to this tree when the fog and smoke cleared and I have mostly just relaxed since then”.
“I think I know why you can talk,” whispered Eve. “I think it is because of the fruit”
“As delicious as my apples are, I don’t think any food has the ability of granting speech.”
“No, you don’t understand” blurted out Eve as she stood up. “These apples are the only food that Father told us not to eat. He said that we would die if we ate from this tree.”
“Well your absent father seems to be quite the oddball, I have been eating these apples forever and have woken up from my naps everyday. Here, try a nice and fresh one”, said Lucy as she handed the apple she picked earlier down to Eve with her tail.
“Oh, thank you, I certainly want to try this”, said Eve. “After all, if it can make an animal talk, just imagine what talent it would give someone who can already talk. Even if I get in trouble, it has been so boring hanging out in this garden for all these years that I long for something different. Some variety in our lives.”
“Trust me young lady, you will find that to be a delicious apple", said Lucy.
And with that, Eve took a bite
In April, I found love, twice
And I paid the price
One was a crush
The other not so much
In April, I knew sunlight
And I also knew night
One made life beautiful
The other made it dutiful
In April, I knew flowers
I also knew power
As I left March to April's scent
I also left it to find what life meant
In April, I saw life bloom
And I read Eliot dress it in doom
It is out of this womb
That I saw a day loom
April's day is a difference
Between closeness and distance
Where a heart hurries a distant memory
And close memories are not a remedy
Because one April day my love was born
Another April day my love was sworn
I didn't find my love among the touched
And I touched that which I didn't care for much
So, can the next April be the same
Where I see a face that doesn't have the name
And tell myself some other time
I'll split the stale from the sublime
In April, I learned a lesson few learn
It's possible to yearn
But the clock has no hands to turn
This April: Change is everyone's cocooned concern