Tag Archives: poetry

Hearts Buoyant

To U.S. Representative for California’s 28th congressional district Adam Schiff


I see an illuminated bright 
five pointed star
Over the emotional ocean
Of black and greasy-greedy oil
The light moving upon this darkness 
Wavering leaps of sparkling exuberance.

This star ascends 
as the current below moves 
like the waves of a darkened 
Depressed ocean. 

Shall we focus on the star 
For the exuberance is like
A cleaning soap
A detergent affirming justice 
The Eagle is scrubbed clean.

I see an illuminated bright 
five pointed star  
I hear the waves of the ocean 
Calling to break the
Eagle clean.

Returns the rhythm to the rogue waves
I see justice there  
hearts are buoyant 
Upon that black and greasy-greedy oil
awareness and mindfulness
The Eagle is scrubbed clean! 

My heavenly shower

Jerusalem ~William Blake



My heavenly shower
is a sacred place
of hot, warm or cold water.

It is there for me in worst of times
bones ache and chills of fever
cleaning a dark soul quality away.

I sing, talk and compose there
I talk to my medicine animals there
and say my prayers.

It is an old shower with a whacked head
yet the water cleans me inside and out
my holy shower that sings me sweet words.

 

The Nasty woman is me.

The Nasty Woman and the

Smörgåsbord of words and feelings… some very nasty…. like me.

“In his late works , he embodied these and other ills in the nightmare ridden figure of the cosmic giant Albion, or universal humanity, who has fallen in to deadly sleep of mundane existence. In humanity’s coma, the divine is a remote and forbidding sky-god: nature a sterile heap of atoms, lovers and family members, enemies; and one’s own innermost being, an unrecognized alien.” 

~Blake’s Poetry & Designs ` A Norton Critical Edition.

I realize I am being confrontational, nasty and outrageous. It is that two-week time as we move into the autumnal equinox. I hate this time of transition, but I love autumn.


Today I had to get gas on the way to where I was going. This local gas station charged me a 30 cents gas fee. Yet this is the normal way to skim the top and make a lot of money off millions of poor people. I remember when gas stations had attendants pour the gas, check the oil and fill the car tires. It was service with a smile.

I wish one of these monster gas companies would be brave and bring the service attendants back. They could collect the cash and we could give them the service charge… instead of a fucking machine.

Every time we take away a person’s job and replace them with a machine, we become less human.

I went into the mini-market and the cashier, who seemed to be acting as an employe,  knew nothing about the fee and said,

“I don’t know why you are asking about it. You are the only one that cares? No one else has asked about it.”

I looked at her silently and squarely.

“You should know about it and all the things around you here. I must pay a fee and it is dirty filthy outside around the gas tanks. I remember the day…”

A man came forward and interrupted our conversation and the cashier looked away.

“Excuse us,” I said. “We are talking.”

I used a figure to point to the cashier and me.

“Grumble, “said the man under his breath.

I left telling the cashier she should lose her job for not knowing anything.

Then I came home to find standing outside my home a strange older man smoking a cigarette.

“Are you waiting for someone,” I said.

“No.”

“Then why did you park here?”

The street had no other cars around. He then looked up at the tree. I then asked him to please move his car I needed to part our truck there. He seemed nice enough for not having a reason for being there besides smoking a cigarette. We talked back and forth.

“We have had issues with drug dealers around here,” I said.

He soon left and I moved the truck out. I know I was being ridiculous. I thought it strange that he would get out of his car with his cell home in hand to smoke a cigarette under our lovely olive tree. I did say to him.

“I don’t like the smell of cigarettes and I am sure the tree doesn’t either.”

I think upon a poem I wrote that I have changed a bit.

Any time of the year but now it is moving into the Autumn poem.

Green-gold olives

This eve
I take my broom
Last ray of sun is dead here …
it is real…

The shy clouds hide stars
Only the Moon, Jupiter and Saturn shine their breastplates.
Of radiant light…

I take my broom to the front of our home into the dustpan goes
Dry brown and yellow
Pointy olive leaves and hard green-gold olives…

Into the waste bin… away away.
Goes all the thoughts of this day
Of a wooing Crone…
Looking around as I sweep and bend

For any Fay to show their haunting ways 
In the clouds sailing on the night or
Upon the grasping arms of the olive tree. 
Queen of Elphame mocks me
As I move quickly and consistently,
I call her Sabrina…

How symbolic have I become?
Wild movement… yet strangely calm.
Sweet sweat dripping
My dusty perfume…

I do as many an old Crone
Sweeping clean the front of their home
At this transforming time.
Today I am a nasty one...

 

 

 

 

Three little…

I have three books
before me
The Three Little Pigs,
The Three Little Kittens,
The Three Bears.
How many times did I read the books
to my two sons as babies?

I may come out with a little book
called The Three Little Praying Mantis.


a goal I reached 1000 posts… nice..

Jaded Poem


A little around the edges
A spinning energy in my middle
Older and wiser and stronger
Less inspired by adolescent rantings!

So I want to write and read aloud
I want to travel and ponder
the meaning of life.

 

Mary’s Special Place

I worked for the Visiting Nurse Association as a Home Health Aide in Santa Cruz California back in 1991. I enjoyed helping the elderly, sick and crippled. I comforted them and attended to their simple needs of washing, food and medicine. I loved their stories they shared. Most of my patients were in their 90s and their lifetimes were filled with a richness that I yearned for. They shared their stores with me.

I will share a story of Mary. She was alone in her parents’ home. A beautiful Victorian home near the shores of Santa Cruz. Only one room was used for Mary. All the other rooms, which were many, were closed off. The stairs that went to her room were something out of the novel Gone with The Wind. And to the right of these majestic stairs was a giant Ballroom with a crystal chandelier where Mary told me her stories. In the room where she lived was a single bed and a small bathroom with bath. On the wall was a painting of a lovely sailing ship. The painting was of her father’s ship. It was a family ship. She told me that she came from a sea family. It was a merchant family business.

As the times changed her family and Mary took to living on the land. She was born and raised on a ship. She knew the ocean well. Standing on ground was difficult for her as a young lady. Eventually she married. Santa Cruz was a cowboy town at the time. She told me one night when her husband made his usual advantages towards her. She declined and fell asleep. He went off to the bars to sleep with a prostitute. He gave Mary gonorrhea and after that she couldn’t have any children. It took some time but she forgave him.

This is a poem about Mary and our walk to her special place. She told me that the wild animals that lived there sometimes would pop up in her toilet. Small rats,  squirrels and lizards would sometimes appear. It did not look all that bad to me. Yet, I can only imagine how it once was.

Mary, We Call You Near

We walked our way 
To the stream 
Down a short 
Wood’d green.
Marking our way 
Me with my little red hat 
Mary with her special cane 
To a faerie glen 
Perchance we glance 
To see one of ‘em- 
Of course, 
Mary Would be reciting 
A lit’bit of Kipling’s.
 
Arriving then 
I sat upon 
The concrete tunnel there- 
Mary stood proudly 
Above my stare
A lassie quite young 
That only time 
Be’a steal’n years from. 

A stream did run here 
Once very free 
Now the community has grown 
A lot of concrete 
Be surrounding 
The stream’s old home 
Controlling the flow 
Which was once surely
More freely flow’n-
Now the stream runs
Past wood’d green 
And homes to the ocean shore. 

Mary and I listen’d 
To the green trickling
Of the eternal water go 
I looked up 
to see Mary’s face a shine’n
Like the sun
Full of wisdom and love 
Lots of hopeful youth too.

download (1)


old Irish Drinking Song…

A restoring appeal…

After the Woolsey Fire Dec. 17, 2018

 

A restoring appeal bound for
the Santa Monica Mountains
The highway moves by way of serpentine.

Black mountains and summative clarity of once
Overgrown trees and sage,
Wild Promethean fennel and yucca plants.

Fog embraces
The black burned earth hills
Holy sprinkles of rain upon the concealed seeds.

Reading from Chapbook, An Underground Bard.

New Chapbook of Poetry 3

Poems by Hudley Flipside: An Underground Bard



16 poems written from 2018 – 2017

In celebration of Autumn 2018


 

Summer [27 Anniversary] Poem #2



Would you could you
travel miles and miles
for delicious deep-fried
artichoke hearts?

I wanna go to Castervile CA
and eat some deep-fried
artichoke hearts
with spicy mayonnaise.

Near the lovely coastal region
close to Moss Landing,
a fucking pint at The Whole Enchilada
with a shot of hot vodka
with my anniversary man.

Take a walk on the beach
Smell the garlic in the air
mixed with the salty smell of tide pools
under the earthy breaths of
golden-green eucalyptus trees.

Lovely multicolored Monarch butterfly 
sweet bites of yellow-white 
lemon margarine pie
Pacific Grove embraces
never-ending waves
breathless roller coaster rides.