Shocker Poetry
“I took the one less traveled by and that has made all the difference.” Robert Frost, Key West’s poet laureate.
The road I took, well, was dragged and shoved down, I hardly ever met anyone on it, and those I did meet didn’t stay on it very long, not with me anyway. The following verses might suggest why that was/is. Might. These are not new verses, and only the last two fell out of me in Key West. That’s how all poetry comes to me: it just falls out –kerplop. Hundred’s of kerplops, since the first kerplop in 1992, at age 50. Hundreds. That’s also how my life goes — kerplop, kerplop, kerplop. Then I deal with it, or try to, in the way I’ve been trained and am guided by what I sure hope are angels who already have been down this weird road, or one close close enough to it. Otherwise–egads!–I’m just a bloody experiment or –gulp!–an object of divine amusement. Either way, the whole thing is a poem, and poems within poems. I sort of suspect God even is poem, but I might be a while proving it. I might be a while. Sloan Bashinsy 27 April 2009.
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Only fools rush in
Where angels fear to tread,
But if there were no fools,
Who’d lead the angels?
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Who, yes please tell me just who, invented the rule that poetry must rhyme, have pentamenter, be cast into verse, be politically correct (a terminal disease), or stay on the safe side of the fence? Yes, please tell me who, just who, invented that really stupid fucking rule? Shorely it warn’t de maka ob de furst ston — udderwiz der’d be no stons ta brake all dem slavin’ ruls!
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I happened upon a mocking bird
Singing its fool head off.
I asked it why and how it sang?
But all it did was look ahead,
All it did was sing.
It never turned to see if I was watching,
Or listened for money jingling in my pockets,
Or asked if I liked its music,
Or expected a recording contract.
It was too busy singing
To pay any attention to me.
————–
Earth,
The sacred prism
Through which souls are refracted
Into their elemental parts,
Purified in holy fire,
Then one-forged and sent on their way
To not even God knows where,
Simply because they are all
Unique emanations of God,
Evolving . . .
—————–
“SHANGHAIED”
A calling to serve carries its own wisdom,
which legitimates both the calling and the serving
so that the two are one:
Only the one called to serve
can know this wisdom,
and for some who are called
the knowing comes easily,
while for others the knowing is a fiery baptism.
Each calling is different,
and while some callings can be declined,
others cannot,
and those whose calling is without repentance
know they are in it for the duration,
and while others may try to persuade them out of it,
the calling for ones such as these always prevails;
thus is it advised to all called for keeps
that they view their calling as a blessing
even when it seems at times to be a curse,
and that they try to reconcile the loss of their captain status
and allow the Spirit of God to man the helm of their ship,
and be glad and willing crew members thereon,
knowing that all sailing ships of souls
need a crew as well as a captain
to maintain and navigate the ship through
seas of many tones, depths and flavors;
so consider each league sailed
as part of the overall journey
going to where the captain deigns to go
by using whatever winds and sea currents available
to navigate the ship to the experiences
this ship and crew need to have
in order to fulfill their calling and its wisdom
revealed by the journey of many leagues,
many known only to the ship and its crew,
all of whom come to know,
some sooner than others,
that once conscripted
there is no safe jumping ship.
—————
There is no somewhere over the rainbow,
There is only the rainbow.
—————
Black is white,
White is black,
When they fuse
Rainbows bloom.
—————
Rosa Mystica
Sweet Mystery
Blood of Christ
Living Water
Without which
There are no Rainbows
And God is dead.
—————
“Orgasm”
He feels deep beauty in the dark pool from which his writings flow. She clings to him like fine silk, precious oil. She feels sold, compressed . . . like a black pearl growing from inside out, ever larger with each stroke of his pen, pushing her precious waters over her banks into his dreams and life . . .
————
I am a man.
I said,
I am a man!
What means it,
being a man?
A man is a warrior:
he lives by a code of honor,
his word is reliable,
his actions confirm his words,
his commitment is holiness,
his enemies are welcome at his hearth,
he fears but moves forward,
he cries and gets up again,
he hates but forgives,
he loves and let’s go,
he doubts but trusts God,
he’s a good friend,
he seeks resolutions,
he demands nothing,
he risks everything,
he regrets his mistakes,
he seeks to make amends,
he puts others’ welfare first,
he accepts apologies truly made,
he expects nothing back,
he lives ready to die,
he laughs when he “should” scream,
he screams when he “should” laugh,
he sings just because,
he shrugs off insults,
he learns from misfortune,
he cusses God for making him,
he wishes he was done,
he loves children and animals,
he relishes a woman’s scent,
he smiles when he’s content,
he knows God’s his master,
he walks in rainbows,
his garden is the world,
his way is nature,
he loves fishing,
his wife is his soul,
his food is life,
his pay is whatever he receives.
Yep, he’s crazy.
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Nope. I don’t go to poetry workshops. Or writing workshops. Nope, I don’t read books about writing, at least not if I can help it. Nope, I don’t sit in front of my computer monitor or writing journal waiting for inspiration. If it ain’t coming (pun optional), I ain’t s’posed to be writin’; I s’posed ta be doin’ sumtin’ elses instead. When it be time to write, I be sat down and it write me. When it be time to write, I cannot not write. I do it, or else. Or else ain’t all that spectacular, so I try not to do or else. And in case you be wondering, yep, you guessed it: I speak three languages: English, Redneck and Dialect, en sumtimes I mixes dem ups.