I recite "Taketh Away" this week. 10/30/13 - 11/2/13

Taketh Away

March 1, 2008

There is an unfounded collectivization universally present

and certainly not unheard of that bruises a soul, but allows

a warmth, later, in some to migrate to their heart of homes.

 

Can one not keep up with an idea that all parts are salvageable?

Human half shells spared, not relieved of required development.

They are floating in the sky that awaits a song of the sparrow.

 

They are number to number, our sweet babies coming forward

as joy, naked at first, crying, dependant of higher hands to comfort

and bathe them, feed them, sculpt their little bodies with security.

 

Par excellence and preeminent of existence, these novice souls

are provisions for half souls who can now carry their wishes to

carry onward, and they provide soft stability to all surnames.

 

But this, too, cannot go accomplished. Often, our Great Deliberator

decides upon a de novo trial to scintillate our little ones as light to return

for reasons, perhaps, like a myth, to better sustain some future correlation.

 

Unbeknownst with actuality, it is a feeling that will never truly claim this

loss by a mean-spiritedness of a head meandering crudely, indecisively

and arbitrarily striking to deter through a rampage of seething accordance.

 

© 2008 Jarrod C. Lacy

This week, I recite "Mellow Man." 10/24-26/13

Mellow Man
July 8, 2009

I'm a worried woman on the heap of heartlessness,

On the hinge of hopelessness, and all

Because of a man.

My temperament is in strands. Composure stops like

a dead heart, sweet babies, and I cannot make more

demands.

World, I need a mellow man.

A man who is simple, stern, and can struggle.

He doesn't have to have, he does have move some,

He does, at least, have to muddle.

All my time is caked with a typical unwilling face

that I wipe because he can't bare a lively

pace.

He wants the high end but decides to steam 'cause

inside he knows a certain age breaks up what's

Was smoothed out yesterday.

He saw me - though not rich - making it, the day we met

at a thrift store. Believe that. "Can I get an introduction?" is

all I got.

I took it and his forty year attractiveness

What else with that and his matter-of-factness?

Yes, it started kindly, then barely a month

passed came his gruff, that fact that "I ain't enough",

I gave him, but that made his soul more rough.

Between the "What you have and what I don't",

came decent days and nights that run

coolly down my throat.

I would eventually choke,

but he won't make me broke;

he can dig through my earth

until he's dry or soaked.

While I'm with him, I'll deal until the tasty meal presents

himself, and, damn it, he'll bring his own spices.

I'm a chance-giver, but I'm familiar with the flow.

There's no respect for any man who won't

open my door, or backhands his mother

with his hot mouth, and won't offer to

wipe clean the streaks he left on my floor:

　

Waste is his place, but I have to

deal for hours and hours,

Smothered by the burnt

sheet of the fact that he

himself is what he hates.

I won't fight what I can't take.

© 2009 Jarrod C. Lacy

　

This week, I recite "Mass Weapon." Note: This poem was written on 2/08, not 1/08.

Mass Weapon
February 6, 2008

In the radioactive 1980s, many in the United States

feared the coming of a nuclear holocaust that

seemed, at the time, pending.

There were articles written about it, prominent group

decisions on the subject, definitely bolts from

a radical on the street, with hand-lettered signs

that read, in gargantuan red or black letters, 'Repent'.

Not to ignore flowing televised adaptations.

It was the terrible, turbulent tale of dual continents

on the verge of producing mushroom clouds.

What was one to do? There were some very nasty

people (no matter who) ranting about if the "big one"

hits and they survive, they would cling toward finding

others 'of their kind' and start a revolution.

Someone else would wonder, "Don't they know

humanity is through."

Our top people are powerful, not the forces that claim

to be our representatives, but we need them to set a

pace for what is redeemable for any cruelty to any land

that craves a focal point for better ways of all inhabitants.

Can this be done? Foolish to think that there are those

who banked on the destruction of nearly if not all life

and built things simply to allow exculpatory idiocy

never to be seen.

There are only a few after all of it. These will fight with

stones and sticks over scraps and less than tidbits.

The others will appear lost but concerned, nearly afraid

and unafraid; nearly without questions.

One episode presents a two-man queue among the

ashes, smothering debris, all the nothingness of nothing

spread and strewn alongside strange winter when there

probably shouldn't be cold. (The place is not important)

Each takes a valid step into the non-existence of a

predatory actuality lax of backing, mentally as well.

Notice: two waning spirits whose skin seemed patched,

protruded, and about to peel.



Really, the dogs are dead?

"Yea', I buried one I found on Hill Street.

Don' be too bline' not to look at all the

other po' creatures layin' about.

The ones that ain't dust."

I know. Was anybody around there?

"Where?"

Hill Street.

"Naw. You could smell the death."

I suppose you could. You, uh, know

we're going to be having tea with Saint Peter,

too, don't you?

" All o' us gone be doing that anyhow -

if we worth sittin' wit' 'im, that is.

I guess we just, right nah', trying to help

whoever we can out. Just tryin' to be people

until the last."

© 2008 Jarrod C. Lacy

Little Loel
February 2, 2008

Little Loel labored life.

She enjoyed it well enough.

There wasn't time for strife;

She did it in a safety cuff:

It seemed the right feature.

Little girls should have it.

A lovely, petite creature.

She would never quit.

Loel was quiet and shy,

She was loud and outgoing,

She was a voice and a sigh.

This was her daily showing.

Ice cream was her favorite treat,

Though she liked casserole on her plate.

Each meal was well to greet,

But somthing sweet was never late.

Her thrill was outstanding,

Her love, all simple but fated,

So her days were demanding

Time clipped and grated.

She played jacks with Gee,

She phones Adriana,

Roughhoused with Tony,

Told jokes to Sonja.

Her mother glowed,

Her father gleamed,

Family and friends she told

'I love you,' she beamed.

All this simple life of living

Should've refused a rim.

Love trickles her water, giving

Strength of a tree's limb.

She is granted a small clock,

And a tickle in her throat.

Time to leave dock;

Sail the skies in a little glow-boat.

© 2008 Jarrod C. Lacy

Take, Take, Take
May 31, 2009

Delight in diamonds, reflections of gold,

Red to rubies, but the treasure was sold.

Scraps are stretched in times of likelihood.

Often little assists, or no one would.

Private eyes are shown the suite

Of a kingly house where select ilk meet.

While everyone else is content with living,

Who could harbor needs while divvying?

© 2009 Jarrod C. Lacy