ME, MYSELF AND EYE: Poetry by Larry Eugene Meredith

POEMS OF AGE 2005 - 2009

Some of these poems also appeared in Aging Ungracefully and Just An Old Poet

Cain & Abel & Ishmael & Isaac & Esau & Jacob & Today

Acrid vestige

Smoke cloaked carnage

Hell’s residue remarks the ruins

Eyes blink open to reality

Souls burned, broken, buried, blown to acuity

Ages’ cinders

Never blow clean

Death-soaked soil germinates its filthy seed

Divided from the first jealousy

Until the final trump

Shocked streets in a

Time without pity.

Illustration: Photo by N. S. M., Iraq, 2003

Please scroll down and turn off my music player if you choose to play the video.

When I was Young I Played with trains

Over the border where only woods once were

Are the gray lands on a once country road

Developments landscaped and carefully planned

With rocks and ruts, rills and artificial streams

Upturned dug out stones transformed to fortress walls

Gazebo porches laced with gingerbread trim

And mailbox crosses like the fields of Flanders

When I was young I played with trains,

Lionel and American Flyer

And quite often I would go to the five and dime

And spend my allowance on another kit that snapped together,

And then, I too, lived in Plasticville.

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Rain

Please scroll down and turn off my music player if you choose to watch the video.

Sh-h-h-h!

Tune in to the din.

There is no shadow

In the dim of the rush

In the hush,

Of the rain.

This

Is the gloom of sin

In a cowl of cloud.

We wallow in the splash,

In the lash

Of the rain.

Drips of spirit had gurgled down some drain,

Or slid in slow droplets from the window

Of my eyes to puddle upon my hands,

Writhing together in an empty pain

Like the weeping limbs of some willow

Who in summer-flooded fields sways, but stands.

Within this twilight in the middle day

Of later life, I hear the patter and ping,

The roar and crash and splatter. I listen

To the rain in its musings and its fury,

To its whisper, its shout and each tingling

Change of mood, then I catch the puddles glisten

Sh-h-h-h!

There is no thrashing.

Only bright silence

And the breaking quiet scream

Of the beam

Of the sun.

Thus

Comes the refreshing

Salvation of soul

That says today I don’t die.

In the sky

Shines a sun.

Abandon Place

      Our nostalgic hearts

Are only placated by

      Abandoning done.

The photo above is of a once popular restaurant called the Lobster Pot as it looks today.  To the left is how it looked in its heyday.

Young Poets

Young poets write words wet with angst

And angry whipsnaps at the world.

Hissed whispers harangue injustice

With facile manipulation.

Phrases, like white-foaming river

Rapids, rushes revelation;

Revolutionary in their

Mind. Their paths of poetic truth

Symbolized by their pacing feet,

Disrupted by four-letter words

As if the sludge and flux of slang

Was less cliché than moon and June.

They’re def in their rap, stringing things

Still damp from camp on lines of twine

For the sky to dry.

I could cry

From the rhythmic monotony.

Written 2004 with tongue firmly in cheek. There are many fine young poets doing Slam Poetry with clever rhyme and rhythm, poets much better than I. This is aimed only at those who rhyme over and over the same simplistic moon-June of old time hacks or think stringing curse words together is the height of witticism.





Illustration: Parnassus by Raphael [Raffaello Sanzio da Urbino], 1510-11

Among the Stones

Listen to the voices,

So still upon the hill,

Whisper in the grasses

And sigh across the leaves.

Look upon the faces

That form across the clouds

In a moment sudden

When the rain tears and grieves.

Find the past aside you

As you stand among stones

That speak in muted tones.

Bird Lust

I sat by the sea

And watched a gull,

Who watched a girl

In a bikini.

She ate a weinie.

Sometimes she would hurl

A piece to the gull.

He would wink at me.

Following a Path of Poetry

RAIN

(to the memory of Bill Manchester)

Sh-h-h-h!

Tune in to the din.

There is no shadow

In the dim of the rush

In the hush,

Of the rain.

This

Is the gloom of sin

In a cowl of cloud.

We wallow in the splash,

In the lash

Of the rain.

Drips of spirit had gurgled down some drain,

Or slid in slow droplets from the window

Of my eyes to puddle upon my hands,

Writhing together in an empty pain

Like the weeping limbs of some willow

Who in summer-flooded fields sways, but stands.

Within this twilight in the middle day

Of later life, I hear the patter and ping,

The roar and crash and splatter. I listen

To the rain in its musings and its fury,

To its whisper, its shout and each tingling

Change of mood, when I catch the puddles glisten

Sh-h-h-h!

There is no thrashing.

Only bright silence

And the breaking quiet scream

Of the beam

Of the sun.

Thus

Comes the refreshing

Salvation of soul

That says today I don’t die.

In the sky

Shines the Son.

WIND

(a double acrostic)

Silence filled both hill and hollow

Perpetual emptiness enticed I

Icy winter seemed a yearlong season

Repeating dully throughout all my mind

It was the slate colored cloud that was I

Then through this valley blew a reason

It was a mystery stirring my spirit

Not just the breeze that chilled me through

This was deeper, something seeped inside me

Held my heart tight within its angel fists

Eased the flame I stoked under the deep

Wicked furies against past hurts that I

Imagined caused my agony and fear

Now forgiving all who punished me, I

Danced away under God on lighter feet.

FOG

A stroll after the rain of a humid day,

On this path I toddled since naissance.

I knew it well.

It curved and twisted throughout my mind.

And in the heat a mist began to dance.

It had a smell

Moist and pungent. Primordial this perfume.

Miasma shallow, pretending romance.

I knew it well.

Just an ambiance of earthly delight,

An enticing wisp come to entrance,

Like Pavlov’s bell.

It would reward my imagination

If I traveled after its promised chance.

I knew it well.

But a vapor is never grasped and held.

Now a murkiness started its advance,

It began to swell.

I know this twisted path so picturesque.

I won’t get lost but for a moment glance.

I know it well.

But my path of good intent is but smog

and this pleasurable road the entrance

Straight down to Hell.

I know this well. 

Cain & Abel & Ishmael & Isaac & Esau & Jacob & Today

Acrid vestige

Smoke cloaked carnage

Hell’s residue remarks the ruins

Eyes blink open to reality

Souls burned, broken, buried, blown to acuity

Ages’ cinders

Never blow clean

Death-soaked soil germinates its filthy seed

Divided from the first jealousy

Until the final trump

Shocked streets in a

Time without pity.

 AMONG THE STONES

Listen to the voices,

So still upon the hill,

Whisper in the grasses

And sigh across the leaves.

Look upon the faces

That form across the clouds

In a moment sudden

When the rain tears and grieves.

Find the past aside you

As you stand among stones

That speak in muted tones.

PROGRESSING TOWARD TRUTH

  

If

One

Looks for

Perfection

It is hid in nature’s number

On the petals of the stalk; distance of eyes to chin

In the spirals of our bodily coding this intelligence of eternity

Is the trinity of the designer and the mind, body and spirit of existence into the continuation of infinity...

WHAT OTHERS WISH

I know what they’d have me write.

No rhyme; no sunshine bright days,

Clothes white upon my lines.

This woman not old, not young

Hasty in her labor, exuberant,

Should be bent and bellicose.

I should find murkiness

In the attic, not an owl,

Stuffed, who never blinked.

My fright should be daily fed

Not by my imagination,

But the reality they’d have me have.

Why must my memories,

As dusty, creaky events now,

Be unmercifully mordant as well?

It wasn’t always gleeful, true,

But why only moments miserable?

Is that the past all poets embrace?

Who are these arbiters of the craft

Insisting on cluttered dim alleyways

Littered with our trashcan lives

Instead of with the beauty of words

And the Grace of God?

Bones

Incident Along I-95 near Bellevue Park

(A True Story)

All trees in brief leaf.

Shadow fresh. Lush spring grass.

Lingering eve light

Glistens in red sundown rage

Upon apparent rib cage.

Seen in disbelief

Along the highway. Sped past

Homeward bound each night:

Vertebrae, discarded spine.

Accident victim or crime?

Each day and a week.

Bones lie exposed and ignored.

White, unhid by weed.

Is it only I who pay

Heed to death by the highway?

With son and daughters,

We drive to the skeleton,

Approach with shudders.

The murdered corpse we fear

Is but carcass of a deer.

Wind

WIND

A Double Acrostic

Silence filled both hill and holloW

Perpetual emptiness enticed I

Icy winter seemed a yearlong seasoN

Repeating dully throughout all my minD

It was the slate colored cloud that was I

Then through this valley blew a reasoN

It was a mystery stirring my spiriT

Not just the breeze that chilled me througH

This was deeper, something seeped inside mE

Held my heart tight within its angel fistS

Eased the flame I stoked under the deeP

Wicked furies against past hurts that I

Imagined caused my agony and feaR

Now forgiving all who punished me, I

Danced away under God on lighter feeT.

Please scroll down and turn off my music player if you choose to watch the video.

Fog

FOG

 Photo by Ronald W. Tipton, 2005

A stroll after the rain of a humid day,

On this path I toddled since naissance.

I knew it well.

It curved and twisted throughout my mind.

And in the heat a mist began to dance.

It had a smell

Moist and pungent. Primordial this perfume.

Miasma shallow, pretending romance.

I knew it well.

Just an ambiance of earthly delight,

An enticing wisp come to entrance,

Like Pavlov’s bell.

It would reward my imagination

If I traveled after its promised chance.

I knew it well.

But a vapor is never grasped and held.

Now a murkiness started its advance,

It began to swell.

I know this twisted path so picturesque.

I won’t get lost but for a moment glance.

I know it well.

But my path of good intent is but smog

And this pleasurable road the entrance

Straight down to Hell.

I know this well. 

Progressing Toward Truth

PROGRESSING TOWARD TRUTH

A FIBONACCI

If

One

Looks for

Perfection

It is hid in nature’s number

On the petals of the stalk; distance of eyes to chin

In the spirals of our bodily coding this intelligence of eternity

Is the trinity of the designer and the mind, body and spirit of existence into the continuation of infinity...

Squeezed Oranges

Rhyming Orange

by

Diane Stirling-Stevens

Orange for my foot-man; you lazy old pup

Orange for my carrier to pick me up

Orange is not a word that can rhyme

Unless you orange for the Queen - with her accent - it's time

To orange for Linda (no word can I find)

A rhyme for Linda - but no poet shall bind

Me to such lingo - such restriction can I 'foller'

When I decide on what is proper; and what I'll allow her!

Linda - that lady - how she does inspire

Linda - that woman - in no single day does she tire

Linda - the inspiration to all who live

Linda - she does all; she is all that can give

Linda - the inspiration; late at night ... ever active

Linda - the lady - not only productive, but reactive

Linda - my precious - how you do labor...

Linda - my goodness, I do wish you were my neighbor!

I wrote this for LINDA HUBER - IMAGINEE - she is just about the most terrific sketch artist I've ever seen!

When Diane Claimed She Rhymed Orange

By

Larry Eugene Meredith

Ah, how Ogden Nashian
To rearrange the pronunciationian
Of orange to O-Range.
How perplexian and strange
Is this PUNishment to our language.

But technically this change,
Did not even rhyme O-range.
You used it as polypunlingo,
But never end line rhyme though

Excuse my poetic hubris,
By the same disarrangement
Of rules then, its no sin ta
Force a rhyme with Linda.
May Ms Huber excuse us
For our derangement...

Photo from thedailygreen.com

Morning

It’s the dewy woe of morning

Under the rising dawn sun drear

Green leaves sit hush and still

After birds cease worm song

The ants of society twitch in bed

Rub their eyes and try to clear

Away the sand hills of sleep

After birds have flown along.

And elsewhere where birds gather

It’s not the early worms which scatter.

But the wounded and bleeding dead,

The fleeting flicker of freedom fled.

It’s the moment, not outcome, should matter.

Written during the Iranian Election Uprising, 2009

What Others Wish

I know what they’d have me write.

No rhyme; no sunshine bright days,

With clothes white ‘pon the lines.

All women old. Never young,

Hasty in labor nor exuberant.

Just beat, bent and bellicose.

I should find murkiness

In my attic like an owl,

Stuffed, who never blinks.

My fright should be daily fed.

Not by my imagination,

But the reality they’d have me have.

Why should my memories

Be dusty, creaky events now,

And unmercifully mordant as well?

Life wasn’t always gleeful, true,

But why only moments miserable?

Is that the past all poets embrace?

Who are these arbiters of the craft

Insisting on cluttered dim alleyways

Littered with our trashcan lives

Instead of just the beauty of words?

Elegy Is A Five-Letter Word For Deception

Poets old.

Poets bold.

Poets carry a heavy load

When eulogizing.

Their fooligizing;

Writing words in liar mode

What is said,

‘Bout the dead,

Is pondered with foreboding

Saying Party Bore

Or Wall-Street Whore

Are truths too corroding

He was a guy

Nice as pie,

Poets grit their teeth and write.

But poets old

And poets bold

Rejoice he’s buried out of sight.

Manchester Memories

To Bill Manchester

Fellow poet and friend

Who led a sometimes harsh life

For such a gentle soul.

Last seen in his deterioration of body

At Franko's on a Saturday night.

Who died too young, too unfairly.

 MANCHESTER MEMORIES

There are memories of monsters, ain’t there Bill?

They float on the air and flaunt us our past;

‘Bout a future never was.

Fiends in the fields of our heart,

Wave like ghost grass with each puff of breath

Poison blades that sever us.

Memories of monsters,

            Ain’t there, Bill?

                        Secrets of the soul,

            Hidden crimes hoping we lie.

We’re poets truthful to the end, ain’t we Bill?

But it’s you float on air and I lift the glass

To the gone days of cleverness.