Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Reciting "Bumps" and "Ravens."
Bump
January 7, 1999
1. An Old Mother's Word
The smell of boiling pigs feet,
The serving of water cornbread,
Apple sauce for dessert, in a wooden bowl,
And the soft drink is red.
Eat it all, drink it all, and don't waste anything.
Then take a bath and take yourself to bed.
Get up in the morning and always do the do.
Put on your shoes and socks; your clothes too,
Slap a lil' water on your face, brush your teeth, smile.
Go to school and learn for a lil' while.
2. Lots
They've gathered all over, in the house.
Neighbors and friends of the family
Some big-mouthed and gossipy.
Wannabes who wouldn't know their own identity,
Others are quiet, but all hoping to 'bum' a meal.
Whatever happened to the 'cup-of-sugar' days?
Bold habits live fast and totally free.
No, they would wish and beg for credit.
Feed 'em anyhow, and payment? Forget it.
3. Photographs
These are the days when privacy is empty
Stop and pose for a camera.
What one does at the moment really doesn't matter.
Snap: a teenage boy is biting his toenails.
Click: a ninety year old man's diaper dropped.
Snap: a woman's dress is caught in the wind a notch.
Click: a football jock slowly adjusts his crotch.
Finger in a nostril, a sloppy kiss.
Gamblers at the black jack table with trump cards,
Or the old lady tossing leftovers in her own backyard.
© 1999 Jarrod C. Lacy
******
Ravens
March 9, 1999
We'll go far from a standard peck and a caw, then easily brush aside
any cornfed crow.
They laugh at us because they covet us, and perhaps they're
ashamed of their turkey's feet.
Farmer's field is a hiding place where they're wreaked under the coverage
of conceit.
We're the brothers and sisters that possess the formality of grandeur.
We know the flavor of the seed. They crave this.
Our pedantic lunch we seem to vomit on a plate of prejudice;
There is their gloss that doesn't mirror a relic glam of an eternal royal.
Smaller in form, feat and feature are tips of their eclipse that horns
little music for our popularity as an employer.
© 1999 Jarrod C. Lacy
January 7, 1999
1. An Old Mother's Word
The smell of boiling pigs feet,
The serving of water cornbread,
Apple sauce for dessert, in a wooden bowl,
And the soft drink is red.
Eat it all, drink it all, and don't waste anything.
Then take a bath and take yourself to bed.
Get up in the morning and always do the do.
Put on your shoes and socks; your clothes too,
Slap a lil' water on your face, brush your teeth, smile.
Go to school and learn for a lil' while.
2. Lots
They've gathered all over, in the house.
Neighbors and friends of the family
Some big-mouthed and gossipy.
Wannabes who wouldn't know their own identity,
Others are quiet, but all hoping to 'bum' a meal.
Whatever happened to the 'cup-of-sugar' days?
Bold habits live fast and totally free.
No, they would wish and beg for credit.
Feed 'em anyhow, and payment? Forget it.
3. Photographs
These are the days when privacy is empty
Stop and pose for a camera.
What one does at the moment really doesn't matter.
Snap: a teenage boy is biting his toenails.
Click: a ninety year old man's diaper dropped.
Snap: a woman's dress is caught in the wind a notch.
Click: a football jock slowly adjusts his crotch.
Finger in a nostril, a sloppy kiss.
Gamblers at the black jack table with trump cards,
Or the old lady tossing leftovers in her own backyard.
© 1999 Jarrod C. Lacy
******
Ravens
March 9, 1999
We'll go far from a standard peck and a caw, then easily brush aside
any cornfed crow.
They laugh at us because they covet us, and perhaps they're
ashamed of their turkey's feet.
Farmer's field is a hiding place where they're wreaked under the coverage
of conceit.
We're the brothers and sisters that possess the formality of grandeur.
We know the flavor of the seed. They crave this.
Our pedantic lunch we seem to vomit on a plate of prejudice;
There is their gloss that doesn't mirror a relic glam of an eternal royal.
Smaller in form, feat and feature are tips of their eclipse that horns
little music for our popularity as an employer.
© 1999 Jarrod C. Lacy
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
Teddy Bear
November 23, 1998
Little ones, every babe, all to your
surprise.
It's a cuddly nose, and soft to the touch,
With welcoming, innocent eyes.
How lovable, how sensible this memorable,
youthful peer.
Carry him softly, wholly and with care,
And he will bundle you with cheer.
Furry features and a kind face, what
child wouldn't want to escape with their
pal to a spectacular dream-time
place.
The gentle thing with fluffy hair
Lying on a bed, a teddy bear;
The other playmates lie simply
floored; all everywhere.
As pretty pinks paint little girls,
Baby dolls and dresses, their ribbons
whirls.
Powder-blue, light and new, tells of a
little boy.
Airplanes and video games are put
aside for one tuft toy.
Shiny cheeks from a toothy smile
After a hug he gave.
From the comfort next to the pillow
Oh, what a timely save.
Cradle that stuffed creature, feel
happiness blend, among
All the toys in the great playroom.
No choice compares, no toy is there
unlike that of a child's first friend.
Note: This piece was inspired by Engene
Fields, poet.
© 1998 Jarrod C. Lacy
******
Rime On the World (or a Frothy Ground)
January 5, 1999
When downy flurries have had
their fill of the sky, encased within
a crystalline gleam, then does their
nature heed to the cool command, so
clouds can finally release them,
those excess loose bits of fabrics in
allayed contrast.
Depending upon a place, those soft
tufts sew into winds to intermingle,
forming polar quilts; now our
earth truly lies asleep.
As the fabrics still form, the more
their restfulness becomes the impression
of warmth.
The inches are icily seething, the covers
become more condensed, and as days
pass, many feet will intervene and press them,
then vehicles will thereby crush, swerve by
and mash them during this comatose season;
changing, molding them into a crisp comfort,
a chilling mattress.
© 1999 Jarrod C. Lacy
November 23, 1998
Little ones, every babe, all to your
surprise.
It's a cuddly nose, and soft to the touch,
With welcoming, innocent eyes.
How lovable, how sensible this memorable,
youthful peer.
Carry him softly, wholly and with care,
And he will bundle you with cheer.
Furry features and a kind face, what
child wouldn't want to escape with their
pal to a spectacular dream-time
place.
The gentle thing with fluffy hair
Lying on a bed, a teddy bear;
The other playmates lie simply
floored; all everywhere.
As pretty pinks paint little girls,
Baby dolls and dresses, their ribbons
whirls.
Powder-blue, light and new, tells of a
little boy.
Airplanes and video games are put
aside for one tuft toy.
Shiny cheeks from a toothy smile
After a hug he gave.
From the comfort next to the pillow
Oh, what a timely save.
Cradle that stuffed creature, feel
happiness blend, among
All the toys in the great playroom.
No choice compares, no toy is there
unlike that of a child's first friend.
Note: This piece was inspired by Engene
Fields, poet.
© 1998 Jarrod C. Lacy
******
Rime On the World (or a Frothy Ground)
January 5, 1999
When downy flurries have had
their fill of the sky, encased within
a crystalline gleam, then does their
nature heed to the cool command, so
clouds can finally release them,
those excess loose bits of fabrics in
allayed contrast.
Depending upon a place, those soft
tufts sew into winds to intermingle,
forming polar quilts; now our
earth truly lies asleep.
As the fabrics still form, the more
their restfulness becomes the impression
of warmth.
The inches are icily seething, the covers
become more condensed, and as days
pass, many feet will intervene and press them,
then vehicles will thereby crush, swerve by
and mash them during this comatose season;
changing, molding them into a crisp comfort,
a chilling mattress.
© 1999 Jarrod C. Lacy
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Homunculus
August 20, 1998
Hammers, knives,
Razors, scythes -
Bring them on!
Even the gun.
Homunculus, I gladly beam at you,
for you are undetermined.
Silent distinction nabs your features,
And you play the hokum's tune.
What is it like to be that person
Astranged from all of terra's souls?
What is it like to always escape from
human nature, human nature that
controls?
Being is well,
But it is also a cell.
Delight not everyone has won -
Homunculus, you don't have to
feel a thing.
You are blank to this nature, you
are none.
Where I live, to feel the feel-good,
and never, ever will I do...
Homunculus, my mentor, I kindly
take to you;
For those who care less for my voice,
Do clearly make your choice:
Grip every weapon, first, the aforementioned;
Sluice, shoot, hew, spike, and pummel
me, too, if it will drain or ease your tension.
But to face the aftermath, then.
Truly know the blood you soak in...
This place I'm in, living in, isn't
kneaded into the most tragic,
But, Homunculus, you wanderlust,
to possess a taste of your magic.
Hate-mongers could
possibly see what's true,
but in my heart is the arrow
of an archer.
Made to fade. That's you.
I can only marvel at your your
departure.
© 1998 Jarrod C. Lacy
August 20, 1998
Hammers, knives,
Razors, scythes -
Bring them on!
Even the gun.
Homunculus, I gladly beam at you,
for you are undetermined.
Silent distinction nabs your features,
And you play the hokum's tune.
What is it like to be that person
Astranged from all of terra's souls?
What is it like to always escape from
human nature, human nature that
controls?
Being is well,
But it is also a cell.
Delight not everyone has won -
Homunculus, you don't have to
feel a thing.
You are blank to this nature, you
are none.
Where I live, to feel the feel-good,
and never, ever will I do...
Homunculus, my mentor, I kindly
take to you;
For those who care less for my voice,
Do clearly make your choice:
Grip every weapon, first, the aforementioned;
Sluice, shoot, hew, spike, and pummel
me, too, if it will drain or ease your tension.
But to face the aftermath, then.
Truly know the blood you soak in...
This place I'm in, living in, isn't
kneaded into the most tragic,
But, Homunculus, you wanderlust,
to possess a taste of your magic.
Hate-mongers could
possibly see what's true,
but in my heart is the arrow
of an archer.
Made to fade. That's you.
I can only marvel at your your
departure.
© 1998 Jarrod C. Lacy
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
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