Poetry

[C C]

Stick a fork in this bird: Final version. Radically modified since last developmental stages posted in other threads, including a title change.
- - - - - -

Stirring Tea

Down the hallway, a clique is waiting; 
Their cautious whispers now abating.
What it bodes is wilted witchery;
You and I have purged the mystery.

The misdeeds exhumed by spelunking thought; 
Drugs prescribed and experts bought.
So many weeks since truth was last sighted...
Are you being gaslighted?

We have become this stronghold's creature, 
Haunting its rooms, a phantom feature.     
Stranded in the panoptic tower:
Seeing all, but deplumed of power.             

That coiled, paranoid rattling in your mind:
Was it an uplifting find?
Doubt is what this partnership invited:
Are you being gaslighted?

At sly slants and edges these jaws lurk,
Squeezing fate like tightening clockwork.
Calm your unease, the guests will arrive
To leech us pale until we're alive.

Was it impish wit that scored a titter,
Making them dicey, bitter?
A playhouse built by risks that collided:
Are you being gaslighted?

One exit path we cannot follow, 
Where betrayed promises hang hollow 
Like shivering slabs of butchered beef: 
That wall where they brushed the new motif.

Bundles of cryptic papers are implied 
To be softly ratified. 
Ornamental lies have been decided...
Are you being gaslighted?

Seaside, there crept a wriggly design,
Fattened on sweet spite and salty shore.
It curved through garden and prickly vine
To set a springe for the herbivore.

"Still buying pity with your shrill conceits?
Our goodwill shields no deceits."
Deep, deep in what the sewer has guided,
Are you being gaslighted?

[C C]

Must continue to resist the gnawing impulse to replace "tongueless" with "aglossal"... (It's an extra syllable for one thing.)

Final version of this one, heavily revised (title retained). And surely the last of these repetitious intros, since this should exhaust the clutter on my end (from last year's Halloween lyrics) that's beckoning to either be recycled or be put down like a broken-legged horse. It's only due to those earlier renderings (posted elsewhere) that I have to monotonously append these clarifications. (Who cares, why does it matter? For reasons similar to an OCD neatness ritual, or some compulsion to tie-up loose ends. Just let the afflicted eccentric get their pointless ceremony out of the way...)

One of the monkey wrenches thrown into the gear works: The presence of the suggestive "pre-mourner" neologism could alternatively flip this mire of metaphor -- that "apparently" reflects a common, moribund circumstance -- to a subjective interpretation of anxiety regarding a looming parental or post-parental phase... Other projections possible...? [Trivial rites again...]
- - - - - -

Impending

It seems to be an odd silhouette. 
The kind that perversely has a face.
But still drab as a snubbed cigarette,
Or ashes from a fireplace.

The way the deaf girl hears her heart beat,
How the blind man sees a timely trend,
Like the tongueless champ tasting defeat,
Maybe I can sense the end.

An outlaw cure? A rogue ambulance? 
I scan the stream of passing drivers
That roam the same road his Damned Crew hunts
For journey worn survivors.

The way a bold cancer is appeased,
How dark romance is tortured and penned,
Like a torqued gurgling from the diseased,
Many fetishize the end.

New patients huddle at Hope's last glow,
Harried there by the howling unknown.
Each ferried across the briny flow...
The boatman returns alone.

The way a church greeter hugs a guest,
How a damaged shirt receives a mend,
Like a spent target doing its best,
Maybe I welcome the end.

A shy thief propagates through the ward,
Startling the pre-mourners from their roost. 
Even doubt feels a dissonant chord
As the body's ache is loosed.

The way a trauma hides in the gloom,
How a vintage spirit tries to blend,
Like painted sunsets frozen at doom,
Crumbs linger after the end.

[C C]

^ ^ ^ ^ ^
The animated gif rendering of "Impending" (above) changes "crumbs" to "marks". Probably should have done that here.

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Posted the one below three years ago, but it was a "sabotaged-for-public" version with some errors and awkward choices. This 2nd round fixes and revises those, and an upcoming animated gif revision will reflect those changes as well.

With respect to religious sensibilities, note that the ditty concerns a different world/reality or even a simulation, brain-in-a-vat scenario, etc. "Maker" (etc) thereby does not pertain specifically to the Abrahamic deity and applicable belief systems -- it's a generic usage.
- - - - - -

Sleeping Beauty Sublime

Over sanctum walls,
Down deep hallowed halls,
They creep like figures so traitorous.
Invaders surround
A body spellbound.
The girl in the jar is dangerous.

When a Maker beams,
Asleep in its dream,
As a maid fair, that's precarious!
Her guards ascetic
Are quite pathetic.
The girl in the jar is dangerous.

To the royal court,
Fleeing monks report:
We bring ill word, do not quarter us.
The Doom Sect has seized
What cannot be freed.
The girl in the jar is dangerous.

Their tidings dismay!
Advisors give way
To the monarch who will sanction thus:
Forces I shall send
To oust the madmen.
The girl in the jar is dangerous.

Up flowing spring rills,
Up wooded foothills,
Trudging loftily the rangers must.
By midday, they hear
Lurking zealots jeer:
The girl in the jar is dangerous.

The fanatics warn
Like stoic firstborn:
This prize we claim, do not anger us! 
Or we shall decrease
The avatar's peace...
The girl in the jar is dangerous.

King's agents prevail,
Seek the nonpareil,
Find a bottled form which answers thus:
Sleep no longer binds
This high temple shrine.
The girl in the jar is dangerous.

Skies are imploding,
Landscapes are folding,
A mind in a jar is dangerous.
O the world is due
Its doomsday brew, BUT...
Is woken god a mere stranger us?

[Zinjanthropos]

It

 
It is what it is
It was what it was
It did what it did
It does what it does
It should when it should
It would if it could
It’s bad when it’s bad
It’s good when it’s good

Don’t know who it is
I know what it’s not
It’s been here forever
It’s cold and it’s hot
It’s a bird, it’s a plane
It’s again and again
It’s never the same
And it isn’t a game

Can’t figure it out
It comes and it goes
It’s never in doubt
Somehow it knows
It’s no where to be seen
Not sure where it’s been
It’s unbelievably true
It’s something we do

[Leigha]

Must continue to resist the gnawing impulse to replace "tongueless" with "aglossal"... (It's an extra syllable for one thing.)

Final version of this one, heavily revised (title retained). And surely the last of these repetitious intros, since this should exhaust the clutter on my end (from last year's Halloween lyrics) that's beckoning to either be recycled or be put down like a broken-legged horse. It's only due to those earlier renderings (posted elsewhere) that I have to monotonously append these clarifications. (Who cares, why does it matter? For reasons similar to an OCD neatness ritual, or some compulsion to tie-up loose ends. Just let the afflicted eccentric get their pointless ceremony out of the way...)

One of the monkey wrenches thrown into the gear works: The presence of the suggestive "pre-mourner" neologism could alternatively flip this mire of metaphor -- that "apparently" reflects a common, moribund circumstance -- to a subjective interpretation of anxiety regarding a looming parental or post-parental phase... Other projections possible...? [Trivial rites again...]
- - - - - -

Impending

It seems to be an odd silhouette. 
The kind that perversely has a face.
But still drab as a snubbed cigarette,
Or ashes from a fireplace.

The way the deaf girl hears her heart beat,
How the blind man sees a timely trend,
Like the tongueless champ tasting defeat,
Maybe I can sense the end.

An outlaw cure? A rogue ambulance? 
I scan the stream of passing drivers
That roam the same road his Damned Crew hunts
For journey worn survivors.

The way a bold cancer is appeased,
How dark romance is tortured and penned,
Like a torqued gurgling from the diseased,
Many fetishize the end.

New patients huddle at Hope's last glow,
Harried there by the howling unknown.
Each ferried across the briny flow...
The boatman returns alone.

The way a church greeter hugs a guest,
How a damaged shirt receives a mend,
Like a spent target doing its best,
Maybe I welcome the end.

A shy thief propagates through the ward,
Startling the pre-mourners from their roost. 
Even doubt feels a dissonant chord
As the body's ache is loosed.

The way a trauma hides in the gloom,
How a vintage spirit tries to blend,
Like painted sunsets frozen at doom,
Crumbs linger after the end.

I really like this, CC. Have you ever entered a poetry contest or submitted your works to be published? I tried my hand at getting a poem published a few years ago, and only one editor replied (which apparently is amazing according to some of my literary friends because usually, you get the 'stock' reply) saying that they liked it, but it still wasn't a good fit for their publication. The rest of the rejections were the standard ''no thanks, not a good fit'' responses. One must have a thick skin, and since I don't, I stopped.

Not entirely serious. Maybe a little serious.

In truth, when I submitted my work to different publishers, each one wanted a different font, format, cover letter bla bla bla...it was like having a second job. If one thing is off, they won't read it.

[C C]

It

 
It is what it is
It was what it was
It did what it did
It does what it does
It should when it should
It would if it could
It’s bad when it’s bad
It’s good when it’s good

Don’t know who it is
I know what it’s not
It’s been here forever
It’s cold and it’s hot
It’s a bird, it’s a plane
It’s again and again
It’s never the same
And it isn’t a game

Can’t figure it out
It comes and it goes
It’s never in doubt
Somehow it knows
It’s no where to be seen
Not sure where it’s been
It’s unbelievably true
It’s something we do

Got me, if it's a riddle, Zin. Or if it's just playfully taking "abstract placeholder" as pronoun to the hilt, as another little gem from the verse-meister, too. 

Back in childhood days, when I was reading my brother's stash of scattered paperbacks, I vaguely recall Theodore Sturgeon having a short-story titled "It" or something. Might have been a precursor inspiration for DC's "Swamp Thing".

[C C]

I really like this, CC. Have you ever entered a poetry contest or submitted your works to be published?

Not any of these.[1] I cripple them in varying ways by ignoring meter/rhythm, conforming to clunky rhyme patterns that the free verse world abhors in general, creating adverbs that don't really exist, leaving spots of bad grammar, and other little incidents of self-vandalism. That said, I apparently can't resist the temptation to slightly mitigate their cruel maiming occasionally, with revisions.

[1] As if my non-public stuff, sans the sabotage, was any less a deep floundering in mediocrity.

I tried my hand at getting a poem published a few years ago, and only one editor replied (which apparently is amazing according to some of my literary friends because usually, you get the 'stock' reply) saying that they liked it, but it still wasn't a good fit for their publication.

Yah, it's definitely not the first half of the 20th-century anymore, when a bevy of pulp magazines were dependent on being receptive to free-lance submissions. The bulk of the latter were still rejected, of course, but at least the the majority of editors actually read the manuscripts before returning or tossing them into the trash -- as well as frequently sending personal replies offering advice. (Science fiction, especially, had to build its own crop of writers in the early days from scratch, and that meant vigorously guiding them, as John W. Campbell did as editor of Astounding [later renamed Analog]).

Today one almost needs an agent, or assistance from writers/poets who have their foot in the door, or a recommendation from a writer's workshop, etc.

The rest of the rejections were the standard ''no thanks, not a good fit'' responses. One must have a thick skin, and since I don't, I stopped. 

Not entirely serious. Maybe a little serious. 

Keep at it if it has long been a "night-job" goal and you've got the aptitude, Leigha. Including placing yourself in circles where opportunities improve percentage-wise.

Ocatvia Butler might never have seen print if not for Harlan Ellison taking her under his wing. She had everything going against her: belonging to a marginalized population group, severely shy to the point of being a recluse, her own family telling her there was no hope for a Black writer, etc. But she kept chipping away till she crossed paths with somebody at a convention or workshop who had a talent nose and noticed her work.

Ellison had a mildly notorious reputation for being a jerk in certain ways, but one area where he glowed was helping out and guiding struggling or novice writers.

In truth, when I submitted my work to different publishers, each one wanted a different font, format, cover letter bla bla bla...it was like having a second job. If one thing is off, they won't read it. 

The word processor slash computer age being yet another curse. In the old days, a battered manual typewriter product that looked like Zombie Queen font would have been acceptable or a universally common feature of a received manuscript. We can only dream (or dread?) about what it would be like to reside in that time...

Leigh Brackett
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leigh_Brackett

[Zinjanthropos]

Got me, if it's a riddle, Zin. Or if it's just playfully taking "abstract placeholder" as pronoun to the hilt, as another little gem from the verse-meister, too. 

Back in childhood days, when I was reading my brother's stash of scattered paperbacks, I vaguely recall Theodore Sturgeon having a short-story titled "It" or something. Might have been a precursor inspiration for DC's "Swamp Thing".

Nothing in particular. My wife thought I was describing God from an agnostic view. Just a bunch of expressions using (it) that I’ve heard from time to time. I thought I could make something since half the time no one knows what (it) is

Tried something harder with dinosaur names. I know some critters mentioned are not considered Dino’s but tough to make a rhyme. This is as far as I got. Thinking of doing one for homo ancestry, or plants and maybe other animal epochs, who knows

Best I could do….

DinoRhyme

Allosaurus, Stegosaurus, Tyrannosaurus Rex
Triceratops, Brontosaurus, Archaeopteryx
Oviraptor, Velociraptor, and Iguanodon
Mosasaur, Plesiosaur, and Dimetrodon
Pterodactyl, Pteranodon, Quetzalcoatlus too
Titanosaurs, Gigantosaurs, the Prehistoric Zoo

[C C]

[...] Tried something harder with dinosaur names. I know some critters mentioned are not considered Dino’s but tough to make a rhyme. This is as far as I got. Thinking of doing one for homo ancestry, or plants and maybe other animal epochs, who knows

Best I could do….

DinoRhyme

Allosaurus, Stegosaurus, Tyrannosaurus Rex
Triceratops, Brontosaurus, Archaeopteryx
Oviraptor, Velociraptor, and Iguanodon
Mosasaur, Plesiosaur, and Dimetrodon
Pterodactyl, Pteranodon, Quetzalcoatlus too
Titanosaurs, Gigantosaurs, the Prehistoric Zoo

Perhaps akin to the challenge of writing lyrics for the "The Elements" song back in 1959. I first heard it in school, but time buried those instances until seeing the character Gale Boetticher singing it during an episode of "Better Call Saul". (There's apparently a later replacement called "The Periodic Table Song" that's updated with the new elements created since those days.)

Tom Lehrer's original recording: https://youtu.be/K8eT-k4f7_8

Gale Boetticher sings 'The Elements' bonus scene (Better Call Saul)

https://www.youtube-nocookie.com/embed/b2QjhOVKqpc

[Zinjanthropos]

Saw YouTube video of Daniel Radcliffe singing that on a Talk Show once. Of all the lyrics to songs that performers have to memorize, that might be the toughest.

Anyway. Watched some vids re Ukraine/Russia last night and came up with this:

Sounds
Can’t you hear, are you listening
Shells bursting, bullets whistling
Missiles fire, tanks boom
Choppers hover, jets zoom

Soldiers shouting, children crying
Wounded screaming, people dying
Ground shaking, motors running
Rifle shooting, machine gunning

Bricks falling, windows smashing
Concrete cracking, bridges crashing
Cables snapping, forests shattering
Drones whirring, constant battering

Go offensive, stay defensive
Cacophony of sound extensive
Flies buzzing, blood dripping
Rats squealing, bags zipping

Through it all the dead are quiet
Mayhem, chaos, bloody riot
No dog barking, no bird singing
Shovels digging, church bell ringing