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Eviction of Alice CarpenterIn the low country, in the swamp-peppered cradle of Louisiana,
the widow Alice Carpenter trims a potholed lawn made dense
by the suffocating fruitfulness of bayou humidity beyond rickety porch fronts
and the screen door still dewed from morning rainfall.
    She pauses.
    And she motions insincere welcome with a nod
    at the White Man in his tawdry emerald suit.
She watches, blamelessly spiteful, as he steps proudly over cracked cement
and into her peeling kitchen to speak of business with the Brother.

When he leaves, he stops and glances at her baby in the rocki
the debts of John-Lisa
We are the debts of John-Lisa.
Enter past mailboxes nailed shut
or just ignored.  Step by oil marks staining
the sidewalk in slick tailpipe drips,
framed by rails in dead-brain paint.
Scrape your shoe on our welcome,
cheque your tricks at the door.

Sit
on our upholstered yawn-chair,
eat our boring bread (coated
in cold butter).

Miss, judge these two-eye-toasts
paid by His truly.   Thanks.

It was stale and sharp,
the talking, and each left scars
on too-old wounds.  Excuse yourself
and

splash water on boiled skin - avoid
grease fires.  Leave your putdown
footprint inside.  Shiver out the
threshold, past the porch
and a flag
Exaro
Psychosomatic,
a simple grammatic
prophylactic rhapsody in blue--
arms quaking, bones shaking the space
between one/two/one/two
      numb hands thrumming
one loud, unending beat.

Polymorphic mobiles dance naked,
so many stars against the vacant expanse
of space/time/space/time
folding the unfolding words
into hijacked, weeping rhyme--
elementary emphatic
symbols struggling to implant it
in the stone cold static.
CannedLaughterandCoffeeDreams
Canned Laughter and Coffee Dreams

I grew up in a coming of age novel
A thousand cups of cold coffee
And the meager sprouts of juvenile dreams

Years upon years of canned laughter
And you (and you!) and all those
Forgotten acquaintances

We thought we were dreamers
Who one day woke up

And I thought
I was always doing the right thing
By being the person inside the background
They'll Be Back In Summer
The boats pull in
Pull out
Like clockwork
By months
Every year breaks open
On the edge of the seasonal bowl
Its fiery orange yolk
Dawning
Giving the extras their cue
The camera reels
Behind my eyelids
Record this summer at-home vacation
The aural thump
Of their midnight parties
Permeating the walls
Of concrete
And bone alike
Until the role of ambient silence
Is recast
Till fall
The Garden of Ethelart deco fruit punch spouts,
The Garden of Ethel.

but if i keep my mouth open,
will the sun rays damage
my sunbathing throat gums and ridges?

Why do the palm trees slouch?
Why can i see the creases and wrinkles between the obvious
puzzle pieces that construct this constant blue sky?

God: Ethel was fond of her slender ember sticks and she passed by
       way of emphysema. This world is the fallen eyelash of Ethel.
       A woman's flawed life and the sky cracks mark no sympathy.
Cliff Notes
Cliff Notes

Cricket leg serenades
To this Asbach taste that veneers late Tuesday -
Companions to a cork parade
Of characters strolling through the vines;
Residential escape in charmed, young prime
Staving off charge of rolling night.

Fetch your pink,
From recessed cupboards, bottled up
To pour on ice.

Relax.

Lay the tumbler to the coaster;
Watch condensation droplets
Pool into a question
You avoid.

The modern art above your bed
Is sacrilege;
Grasping for tradition, well-kept
And bred in sound conditions;
A sieve that bled until she cried
Your name
From underneath those lines,
And you found heaven

Through that answer i
Latitudes
Latitudes

These prancing fillies are picked apart and headless;
Tiki torches dancing on rooftops
bathed in candy
while I'm soaked in rum and sweat.
We talk the length of the tab, for miles
trading eavesdroppings so decapitating
that it's easily decreed
which one of us is tethered, and
which one of us never learns his lesson;
locking on subjects that make the grip tighten
while eyes follow paths crossing sights,
(knuckles whiten)
and the makers of graphs begin tracing their plots
to ride lands and set their courses on maps;
measured with legends of character
or desire
or love at the drop of a hat.

As easily explained as how
As A Row Of Tents
Genetics ganged-up,
forced my hair into retreat,
unable to cope with the things
I have to face.

So my haircut is,
shall we say, aerodynamic.
To lessen the effect
of my skull poking through.

Coupled with the harsh angles
of my face it gives me
a thuggish air. Policemen
eye me suspiciously,

OAP's cross the street
and real thugs
exhume their aggression
from shallow graves.

Donning designer specs
and perfectly ironed shirts
softens the impact
on the eye,

but unfortunately
it lends me an entirely
different air altogether.
The Man in ThoughtWhite castles
Set the scene in Vienna, Rome
Tripoli - countryside cities.
Restaurants in the shade.

Men in shade
With white straw hats, the sun curve
Of the day, and buzzing of motors on
Rocky cobblestone.

Family visits an old man here.
A hearty dinner, the sun a shine on the glass.

She says tell
us something
Like you used to.
The boys poke the ground,
Fiddle with the earth,
Before he sighs.
Sighs, speaks:

Columns Contract,
The dirge splits, spoken

Ramparts, assailed corridors.
Degraded anarchs in the veins.
I hear Fire.
Random chaos in
The voi- voi- Void.

And the entry read:
'Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate!
Azaleas
.

The Metro can be heard.
Its dark blue silhouette
passing through the station
like a film reel,
with the sunlight filtering in to reveal
the drama within each frame.

The announcements weave
their ways through the pigeons
and land gently at the bottom,
like the autumnal auburn drift
from a Darjeeling dive.
And I trade in,
a glance of grooming reflection with the window,
for a ray of paradise
shooting in from between two skyscrapers,
whitewashing the interior,
as the cabin curls
around the outer lane.

The monsieur with the pipe
shades his visage
with this morning's crispy newspaper
and the young woman beside him
let
The Lyrebird and Writing DeskThe Lyrebird and Writing Desk

It is a frightening lung,
a not-quite-natural red swell beneath feathers,
that grates like a shaken sack of nails.

This bird is a chameleon
of voices, modulating its shriek
to whatever frequent note might rise

through the trees. Today
its cry has become the gargle
of splinters and split wood:

the chainsaw's growling melody.
In my own climate, adapting
to the shift of pages and their stains,

my voice strains; I almost crow.
Derivative Depositsthey will derive consistency
from the motion of lax drizzles,
engaging moments with precision,

never still.

each peace a steam travel
colliding fatelessly
on a stolid amble amid lit trees

begging for constance,

begging for trespass,

begging for tide...

and you will be
              sometimes
that disconnected line

dotted, for meaning
in some transitory time,
              aching for stability
        and a thinner crowd.

  because sometimes
  the silence of a louder shrill
  melts quicker than the pelt,

  stirring smooth enough to
  slip,
  slick downside the stair

to where we meet in the foyer
at the end of our d
NORMANSCRISMUS
hawlee
misoltow
treas
presants
famlee
peese
luv
presants
charetie
presants
presants
am i mising sumthing?
how did this awl begin
wat duz this holedae
meen?
never mined look at all tha presants

presants
preasents
presenz
pretends

a seeson of desepshon
of plesent lys
so cute wen we fule children
wat hapens wen thay find owt tha truth?

wat is tha truth?

never mined look at all tha presants

presants
preasents
presenz
pretends

look at tha presants

presants
preasents
presenz
pretends

stand in aw of tha presants

presants
preasents
presenz
pretends

its all abowt tha presants

presants
preasents
presenz
prete
Art of the Onward March
And here you are, perched on the eaves
of your fathers' understanding,
ripening in folly as the chorus swells.
Like an heir to Babylon you meditate
on the melting of peoples
sloughed into your flaming voice and hands.

This is your manifesto, artist of broken
lampposts and husks of homes, streets
where metal whines like
mangled mongrel dogs still limping
roads emptied behind the
crackling gravel of your many, many brushes.

Your calligraphy is stroked in slanted reds
and browns, ink leaning from the force of your
latest, brightest work.
Browse More Like This

More from `wernstrum

Specter
.

Specter

A figure maneuvered memory's periphery
tossing greeting, smiles and winking
low brow antics blurred by ripples
of whistles and crunching gears

shuffled gawks missed him
commanding childhood bunker buddies
to death
poised at sunrise
on a destroyer
lead-pumping fishermen from 300 meters
while hiding at night, paused
in haste shooting trees and shadows.

Shrouded over years
in pus transfused
through tubes and blips
echoed crayon kisses -
war's relic

though my side glance dismissed him
as an epitome of middle-age

finding comfort
in forgetting another hobbling specter
unknowing
that twenty years ago
I could have
Fiddler
.

Fiddler

Spying with shy stare
and uneasy anticipation
yet comforted in a bed of faces
she knew his thoughts were with her
though he didn't look even once.

Another ceremony,
center stage reluctantly embraced
a master
as hush allured an audience -

violin howling high agony
for ghastly night creatures,
wailed with mourning's waves
held by sub-silhouette eyes
peering into the most timid heart
as frail fingers fondle its strings.

Cerebral parasite,
he played on others' thoughts,
murky tunes urging repentance
were his sustenance
and love,
a series of notes to hide behind,
was reserved for tomorrow.

.
-Journey-
.
Journey

Hung paintings portrayed
saturn\'s flame
for neptune\'s murky currents
through a youth\'s stroke

while nose wrinkles and habitual puckering
turn times laughing
at lecturers\' disbelief
of talent\'s disregard for rules
to myth

.

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Sleep

:iconwernstrum:

 

Sleep

a tsetse fly
drinks its next meal

amazing shrieks
the sun, newborn crying,
is sky ilk

under
a maze of feathery canopy;
the Bandundu forest,
gives birth to a
litter of bananas-

grass covered savannahs,
stubborn windblown maize
yearningly sways
to the river, where

water walking fish farmer
casts a drowsy eye
on a school of tilapia
playing in his bamboo den;

a kihuta viper opens
its razor mouth
and belly,
fresh meat
wafting through
endless horizon;

while decadent sockets,
hanging by swollen neck,
sway
as he is carried to the garden.

Burial grounds
burn slowly
like an old antelope
pulses, waiting to slip
into its last coma,

palm stem walls blanketing
the mind's catacombs
while your planted carcass watches
a tsetse fly
drink its next meal.

 

5,698

61 73 2,224
:iconwernstrum:

Sleepby `wernstrum

DescriptionDetailsShare
Download HTML download, 1.2 KB
I wrote this around the time I wrote my previous submission and put the " finishing touches" on it today. I am pretty happy with this piece, though I know the path to perfection is a never ending one, just as in all my poems.

As I have said before, most of my poetry is based on true stories. But more than that, my short term goal in my poems is to thrust the reader into another world, one that a painting or sculpture could never capture. Enjoy :)
©2003-2013 `wernstrum
Category: Literature / Poetry / Nature / Free Verse

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Submitted on
October 19, 2003
File Size
1.2 KB
Views
5,698
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Daily Deviation

Given 2005-01-24
Sleep by `wernstrum

Call this filmic, a piece that journeys you through a jungle and makes you see jungle life in a number of spectacles though it never loses its focus on what it came to say in the first place. To me sleep is a high level of focus, especially in the dream state of it, then it’s great to see how all comes to one. ( Suggested by ~groovus and Featured by `ndifference )

The Artist has requested Critique on this Artwork

Please sign up or login to post a critique.

:iconla-dolly-vita:
~La-Dolly-Vita Jun 5, 2008
:clap: Great work, congrats on the DD :deviation:
Reply
:iconhallowedgrounds:
~HallowedGrounds May 29, 2007  Student General Artist
You've succeeded in creating that other place. I love fiction, so when something that is non-fiction can carry me into it equally well, I'm very impressed. Beautiful, really... but funny because it is about something that might not necessarily be described as beautiful. Ha... okay, done writing my short novel.
Reply
:iconwernstrum:
`wernstrum Sep 17, 2007
I'm glad you enjoyed, and apologize for the lateness of my reply
Reply
:iconflorapudelkova:
~florapudelkova Jan 24, 2005  Hobbyist Photographer
looks great, stylish and modern :shamrock:
Reply
:iconxtremez:
*xtremez Jan 24, 2005
Werny baby..........congrats on the daily dev mon, nice read/write job, sweet pic...................drop me a line!
Reply
:iconwernstrum:
`wernstrum May 4, 2005
hey mate, sorry for the lkate reply. I don't go on this thing much these days. Thanks for you neverending support matey. I really, sincerely, appreciate it. :D
Reply
:icontyhopho:
~tyhopho Jan 24, 2005  Hobbyist Photographer
eek - the picture nearly put me completely off - that yellow ...

fortunately i realised it s a poem - and what a poem! strong discordant word images which really capture something of the energy and vitality, the death and renewal of the wild lands of africa

good job
Reply
:iconastigmatic:
~astigmatic Jan 24, 2005
+this is tongue gymnastics. it really gave me a kynesthetic pleasure as i read/ thought every word, feeling the shape of the words in my mouth and... it is fun. " ...is sky ilk / under / a maze of feathery canopy", "...grass covered savannahs, / stubborn windblown maize / yearningly sways..." it's the way the words feel when said, even when thought of, that brings the first enjoyment here. neat loop with the tse-tse fly, as the cycle unfolds with rich rythm and images that gain from the correct use of names and terms. the Nature here does not appear stilted or forced in any way: the way you speak about it is self-confident and real. you succeed, then, in the brief creation of this passage to that other world. congrats for the DD.+
Reply
:iconwernstrum:
`wernstrum Jan 31, 2005
Thank you for the heartfelt and well composed comment. Much appreciated.
Reply
:iconastigmatic:
~astigmatic Jan 31, 2005
+my pleasure :)+
Reply
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