Motor-Psyche

I looked back in my rear view mirror

And saw such a wonderful sight

A beautiful girl in a red convertible 

Pulling up on my right.

In the mirror she was pert, sweet and blondish

A nymph in a cherry of a ride

But something changed in her facial character

When she pulled the car along side.

Her hair was blown by the highway 

Her eyes sparkled with youth

The tone of her skin was a newborn peach

Her lips were a bow - that's the truth!

The symmetry was gone as our cars aligned

She seemed sweaty and a bit too plump

Her cheeks had the red of hard chewing

More than passing resemblance to a chipmunk.

I drove ahead a bit furiously 

Breaking the limit for speed

I wanted to catch up to the front of her

And see the cute hottie I'd first seen

But no matter what angle I slouched at

(And I nearly drove her off the road,)

I couldn't make cutie or princess again

Out of that roadster toad.

The car gleamed like a promise

And the highway - a soft ribbon to ride

But no squint or tilt or lift or shift

Could restore the beauty inside.

I pulled off at an upcoming gas stop

Following her sparkly wheels

And cornered the swarthy lady

And asked her out for some meals.

We have now been 10 years together

In fact we are man and wife

Though trying in every conceivable way

I can't make her look good - save my life.

 You stare at this end disbelieving 

That I would take such a gal for my bride 

Well the things we do are not pretty

But they make for one hell of a ride!

We meet every night on the highway

As the sun just threatens to go down

And she drives on the right past my car from behind

And I look in the mirror and around.

For in memory's confident fastness

The perfect woman will always be near

And I married the gorgon of my choosing

Off of hope and a dream, not in fear.

If this tale has gone on overlong

And I'm certain it has and it will

The price for a dream and a cushion

Is a gigantic grocery bill.

Golden

Syrupy and sanguine
Lithe and luxurious
Effervescent from within 
Eager to please
Perpetual and fleeting.

Crocodile's Complaint

Read my letter to Caz 

The snake whispered solemnly in her ear

and dragged up all this old muck

Which was better forgotten I fear

But the listener would be better to duck

I hadn't thought about her lying crap

For nary a year? Two or  so

Her broken language brain damage pap

That convenience made come and go.

When she wanted to write deep meaningful stuff

It always came out sweet gibberish

But she put words together well enough

When her pride or her anger got liverish.

She should know full well I have left her alone

This old song has a broken down tune

But if she's a fraud she will find insult bones 

In everything else that I do

For frauds can always find their glory

In every wry word I say 

Like "Daisy" -er, Peter, the same old story 

The snake ever puffing away.

But though I speak about liars and cheats

Who pretending to be women are men

I did not realize I had mentioned her beef

And I will say it again and again.

So dead lady or "shady", whatever you are

I hope that this rhyme makes you happy

CAUZ the world would be better for you by far

If your fans don't find out your a "chappy".

Yesterday...

Spiffing up his old brown shoes, 

crouched down to child's level,

speak/singing a song from the Beatles

oblivious to anything but waxy polish and shine.

Staring at tiny teeth

under ebullient husks

wondering how to make corn thrive

in the muggy clime of New Jersey

Driving the old white Rambler

slowing down half a block from the lights

"No use racing to one's grave" he'd say

saving fuel, and brakes and tires.

Propped up like a manikin

so his lungs won't fill

terror in his eyes and longing,

for he feels each breath diminishing.

A box and a flag, and some cardboard looking flowers

He couldn't look comfortable, even with well shined shoes.

By H. G. Lowry

Andromeda

The slope of your neck, in the dawn's light
would muddle a geometer's art
a pale curve half aglow/half in night
like the space between waves as they part.

The feeling, like a stone in the gut
frightened and weighted by love
wheeling birds not merely in rut
they set motion to the stars above.

Were you set before monsters by fate
I would be your Perseus and free you
But the morning is getting late
And I know you have things you must do.

So I look to the stars for your beauty
and I look for your curves to the sea
and the rock, where you are memory
That rock is and will always be me.

Let's See what the Yahooligans think of it: Andromeda

Poetry Written Only For The Rich?

In the times that came before
the rich found verse a bore
the bard was viewed as plebeian
but poor folks found him a scream

The reason for rhyme and rhythm
is so works could be remembered when given,
and the power and music of verse
was its ability to be rehearsed.

Modern poems would have fallen flat
trace their forgettableness back to that.

No, poetry was made for the illiterate.
its the scholar who all have made shitovit.

http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?


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sussuring, gyres of chaos...

The Inner Land

Close your eyes and take a deep breath
feel power beneath your own skin
a bitter scent rises from the garden's wet
seeps in, like the rustle of a robin.

You are relaxed, and the world is sound
shivering trees and a sussurate stream
you feel power in your feet flowing from the ground
soft air leads your neck to a dream.

Your body, a fortress, all gabled stone
an entryway is your lungs and ribs
you stand in the interior campus alone
guided by your ear-like jibs.

For this is a fortress that silently moves
under the guidance of a aural tide
sail into fantasies which tongue-and-groove
where stately treasures abide.

Cacophony strides in the garden gate
bringing a sour note of despair
should you open your eyes, t'would be tempting fate
though nothing so evil would be there.

Still you cling to your auditory rock
and whistle blithely through the fear
the arctic wave of air is a shock
as the creature presses near.

Amass every mullion, and stanchion and stone
to feed the artillery's maw
pointed at the creature that chills the bone
and cringe as the cannons guffaw.

Every weight we would bear on the beast
only flows through Evil's sieve
If we only could prick it, or nick it at least
we could feel a moment's peace.

The sound emanates like a series of gears
grinding themselves into rust
as the Evil's oppressiveness rings in your ears
turning your hopes to dust.

You think of the treasure of the Bodhisattvas
awaiting beyond clouds of fear
but for gyring cacophony's unerring pistons
You quit! Open eyes, and it disappears.

Copyright 2013 hgl