"Anansi" and "Waiting Room" recited 4/30/13 - 5/1/13.

Anansi

January 6, 1999

Clever the austere.

Luckily, for me, my sentiment

is arachnophobic.

Silent-clacky creature,

you lulled me at first

with elemental croonings, singing

in verses, spilled elixir.

How incredibly, secretly, blissful

was it to rest on your

self-made hammock; though

a bit adhesive;

Reciting your telltale stories,

folklores, advice: while your

babel is grandiloquence, bewitching

in neatness.

Largo, your song took its time,

though you were bold and determined

to make me a keeping

in your silky macrocosm.

Addicted, afflicted, your legs

gesticulate with a composer's

percision - I was weak to your

magic.

Nonetheless, you saw instantly

the untethered; blasting forth

hail-fellow-well-met repetoires to

settle me. I, drinking in your

reputed savor, was nearer to

your venom.

Mmm, the stock and stuff of dark

meat, but your tasty tenderloin was

no longer home.

You replusively spoke of your all-

possessing prisoner, wisdom.

Foolishly rescinded, you nearly

feasted on me, and for one abscent-

minded open sesame, you flanked

your ingenuity.

© 1999 Jarrod C. Lacy

******

Waiting Room

February 26, 2001

An unnecessary balsam

with few, necessary

patrons;

And it's crowded, even

with available seating.

How could any person

with a cusp of endurance

allow the forward of this

quiet author of this agrivating

complacency?

Watch how they hobble for the

baked goods and bad coffee.

Sorrow for the television,

that unbiased attention-seeker.

Then there are those faces:

Incurable patience pretending a good outcome is pending,

while one is at least purple with portents, feeling life

is unfriendly.

Note: This piece was written while waiting patiently for the results

of my mother's surgery. I couldn't write any more than this.

Nervousness overpowered me.

© 2001 Jarrod C. Lacy

　

Reciting "Was," "The Wind Before the Rain," and "Croak." 4/24/13

Was
February 19, 1994
This, too, is time,
That mountain climb. Referring to what's linear but brittle -
That carries melodies of temporal tides.
It is the tenure tender legacy
Coddling growth so gently.
A granted once-chosen sample
Of a second to a tick, then further graduates in minutes.
For the lackadaisical, the zestful;
Some so minimal and others ample.
It's a wave crashed, but never fully abated from its family matter,
Rather frozen in the moment.
As rebirth becomes an imprint
Of the inevitable.
The chase is movement, motion alive,
Not forms of activity now stiff -
A photograph derived.
"I'm yesterday. I convey all as a fare.
My magic, if you will, renders what's here and there."
Age is a monniker
That pledges to its science.
It's immovable, defiant, and to understand
This cosmic inhibition should nullify
The causation of strain relentlessness.
Bow to the all-star prominence
Of permanence.
The warring flat line that whines
That all is done; the wind isn't here
In a world that no longer turns,
Then the comparison to trees.
Look at them, now, and gloat; look
Again at the differences that can only
Erode if to reminensce on
Prior glances and seize thrills that emote
What's clear.
It's the rider of space,
It's precise and placed,
A past that's not last,
But the old face of formality.

　

© 1994 Jarrod C. Lacy

******

　

The Wind Before the Rain

February 21, 1996

Symmetry is this moment,

the wind before the rain.

Another gift from Mother Nature

To acknowledge the purely sane.

With a brush of sweet air,

Drip drops sprinkle upon faces

Along with the aroma of sweet earth,

Our dear mother delivers her good graces.

Longing for overcast of skies,

During an ill-bred summer's bane,

A concern for the withering of constant flora.

Hoping for the wind before the rain.

© 1996 Jarrod C. Lacy

******

Croak

January 2, 1999

An infantile influenza,

The impossible, manned

Grandstand.

Unruly and seedily neutral,

The opposed is adjacent,

Distance paired to a sealed can.

Sluice. The sound of something -

Something

That clogs the grooves.

Those little funnels

Are now

pudgy entrapments,

Poor water will never supercede

a body's block.

Privy to the lack of tools.

A carass,

And salivates all nightcrawlers.

Remember, the main line has stopped.

Tremble to the prickliness

Of simpleness,

Or be a source red-gushed,

Then to cool.

Listen,

As malady croons a final nocturne.

© 1999 Jarrod C. Lacy

Bravado Is A Mask

February 12, 1996

You've got the world made

While I listen to your gasconade -

Ranting and raving like you just got

paid.

© 1996 Jarrod C. Lacy

******

　

Carbon
January 21, 1999

Tonight, I saw a soft, light band encirling a crescent
moon, and I felt so comfortable, so safe.

The temperature about the air, a fair 68, gave me kindly
enough room to foster my limbless security.
On my way to my mother's house, walking, I thought of
the current times and the evening's assortment of
particulars.
I engaged in a one-sided conversation with my tacit
friend, the moderate wind, who loves to listen.
I griped about the night, its unfair treatment; its
strength of inalienable rights straddling to be
fully a part of vision.
"Overrated days are only plain, bright sheets anyway," I thought.
"Due to be shadowed and dirtied eventually."
Then I sang night a song in secret and wished blessings
while she keeps it.
That moment sprayed no stars that carried any memory's
distinction, though they were hovering, my decline was
a loveable loon of obfuscation.
It was a tingling time more formittable than rhyme.
An effective fade as I walked and thought as I obeyed
my line, while at my mother's door, the night was
fine.

© 1999 Jarrod C. Lacy

　

******

Despair

December 4, 2000

Despair is a fear with fangs that's turbulence in flight,

and wrinkles the brow too irrationally, handing hearts

to plight.

Whatever the true material that permits any here a stay

is drained vampirically, quickly and merely washed away.

© 2000 Jarrod C. Lacy

******

Trouble-free


6/15/03

Little Wake and Little Sake,

Two who rallied

for fun.

Wake cupped the snowball's of winter,

but Sake lorded over the sun.

Never opposers of thrills and sensations,

Wake's song, a joy prone to silence,

but Sake did more than hum.

They introduced each other,

And played

beautifully acoustic.

One took to the melody;

the other primped to music.

© 2003 Jarrod C. Lacy

　

　

The Fork in the Road

September 30, 1998

Three paths are waylaying, awaiting an

answer.

Three paths that break the line.

The strollers and the runners make way

on concrete, the earth and dry tar

that leads to the lonely dust or

gravel pressed.

Choice is all too much the prod or

the prancer.

Three paths are never to accept or

defer default.

Three paths of glow, illusion and gloom:

Glow to serve, the illusion to lose,

and gloom can only consume.

When the lines limited their ends,

The answer was previously sought.

Three paths are the man-made, and

a faux line.

Three paths that derail the two.

Illusion, the smudge of gloom;

no middle here; limbo is nonsensical.

Three paths and one is now through.

Oh, the first set of soles tender a

powdery soft road.

As throes of second soles are

honeycombed by thorns on a vine

that rend and bind and

intertwine.

© 1998 Jarrod C. Lacy

******

Jackson, Miss

July 27, 2004

Brief note about the poem: This piece was inspired after my best

friend and I had an in-depth discussion about the aforementioned

city's current crime wave.

　

Jackson, Miss, we worry 'bout you.

You've got trouble there,

The fire's coming soon.

Jackson, Jackson, why the abuse?

Jackson, Jackson, please turn it loose.

Jackson, Miss, we're thinkin' 'bout you.

You've sorrow there.

And we pray for a boon.

Jackson, Jackson, ignore the deuce.

Jackson, Jackson, invest in a truce.

Jackson, Miss, you're just a place.

Jackson, Miss, you're beautiful space.

Jackson, Miss, you're precious lace.

Jackson, Miss, why is spit on your face?

Jackson, Miss, they're hard on you.

You're got problems there.

Each a crazy loon.

Jackson, Jackson, no rubber rooms.

Jackson, Jackson, your sanity looms.

Jackson, Miss, they're a shade of blue.

You're dead to them,

While we cry and croon.

Jackson, Jackson, you're burning, burning.

Jackson, Jackson, relief is yearning.

Jackson, Miss, you're a simple song.

Jackson, Miss, you're worth is long.

Jackson, Miss, you banged your gong.

Jackson, Miss, tell 'em they're wrong.

© 2004 Jarrod C. Lacy