Its in these waters, when I was merely a Parr
Or as you might refer to me as a fry,
This wise but young Brook Trout cruised the slow water with my kinfolk fry.

Moving to and fro hiding among the biome vegetation
The sunlight supported my living space and warmed my growth rings.
I dart in and out of the oxygenated seams which help me flourish.

Some days, I had to use stealth to outwit the pine marten and warblers,
I shadowed the cattail and watched them fill their bellies with those around me.
But I felt fate had a purpose for me to be something special.

And When the time was right, I'd propel myself above the water into the night air.
The large circle of orange light filled my eyes and the night sky was filled with luminary.
I imagined what it must be like to live outside this riffle domain.

This morning, through my refractory vision I spot some floating objects,
And through an inherited sensory recall I can see these are hatching green Drakes.
I immediately shoot to the surface and fill my stomach, then swim back to the undercut for cover.

As the years pass by and maturity abounds,  I find my self settling in behind a large boulder
Right at the tail out of the back eddy, providing me with an ample food supply.
And it's here I prefer to live my life in the slow current, content and peaceful.

And one day as I swam into the current seam, I spotted what appeared to be,
A different looking bug with yellow belly,  so I make my move.
He's not moving much so I decide to raise my head above the water line and sip.

As I grab the hopper I start to slide back behind the boulder,
When I feel a pinch, as if someone try's to pull me towards the surface
I fight with all my might but this force proves to be stronger than I.

It's now I realize a human reels me towards the shore line, and I'm fearful.
This one called a human, grabs my tail and places his hand on my under belly.
Pulling me from my home, he dislodges the hook from my mouth. I gasp for oxygen.

He looks me over from nose to tail, smiles and says how beautiful I am.
He looks me in the eye And says " This was a wonderful fight my friend, enjoy the rest of your life,
He places me back in water, gently reviving me and finally lets me swim away.

I dare to turn and look back at him for a moment and as he continues to watch me,
I hear him say " I fish, knowing everyday on this stream is a gift."

What I have is a pitch
angled at nothing
and I envy the limber crowd of bees,
and I envy the spider’s easy meal.

The low hum of a wash cycle
competes with, then dislodges my dirge,
gradually builds a golden,
natural looking wan expression.

Diffident? Go out and meander
content to accept the indifference of meaning.
This walk is not a protest.
This work was only ever play.

Suitable for all skin types
our explanations can’t help themselves,
run like British accents on trade
and explain away any need for help.
Non-streaking conceits
you know best how much you are worth.

Why is there lies?
Trips my eyes and throat with his tongue,
Dislodges his word jumbles into my ears.
To amuse?
Not even a stutter breaks it.
I see no end for us.
Just false hope.

Uncaring minutes are but passersby
disregarding my wails.
They hear me; they offer no help.
Though, with only sixty seconds to exist,
why would they stop for me?

The hours pound against my skull with intent to smash their way in.
Such constant clangor resonates through my consciousness
disturbs my ego,
dislodges regrets,
the agitation seems to sieve out
tiny jealousies from among other thoughts.

The Days...
Oh those ******* Days.
They see me confused and seize their chance;
they pull out my feet
right from under my frame,
and helpless, hurt,
I collapse to the earth.
And here time really sets in.

The Months form gangs called 'Years'
and The Years take their turn
breaking my joints, my fingers, my knees,
all my snappable, crackable points.
Curved, crippled,  and creaking,  
I languish in fantasies of what's supposed to be,
oh, and the 'might-have-beens'.

Time makes things worse.

A dark shadow moves over me.
I look up  as far as a heavy, beaten head will allow
only to see the massive, soul-crushing weight of the decades
seating their backside;
oppressively,
down to rest upon my twig-like spine.
Snap

And throughout the abuse,
I crawl, cringe, cower
as safe as can be in a low lying state on the ground,
(which is still six feet too high for all that time cares!)
I hear from somewhere afar
an unfaltering decree
from my maker to me
"Stand up straight! For Heaven's sake!"

there are nights when i’ll tire myself out chasing cars and city lights or writing about constellations i don’t even know, and there are nights like this, when i can’t help but steal our happy endings from the poems you haven’t read. there are nights like this, when your name dislodges me from the orbits i learned to tiptoe in just so i can forget what walking next to you feels like. there are nights like this, when i wish that our songs will wane with the moonlight.

there are nights like this, darling — when you’re asleep while i’m out here trying to unlearn the patterns of missing you — nights when i miss you even more than i want to.

there are nights like this, darling.

there are nights like tonight.

As the washer clinks and clunks its way toward clean clothes.
I sit and think while listening to the rhythms of the machine
as it cleanses all. If it could only cleanse my mind of random
thoughts of nothing, that seem always to get in the way.

To clear a path to thoughts of substance, paving the way to
literary greatness, or at least a word that wiggles itself into
some mediocre write which I know shouldn’t have made it to
someone else's eyes.

I need that garbled clump of goop that feeds my appetite for
writing, as it dislodges remnants of times gone by, things that
are shaken loose from deep within my soul, while it agitates
and spins me in new and different directions.

It is what life has given me to work with, an abundance of
good and bad, new and old, fresh and stale, with a vehicle for
me to climb aboard to explore the deep recesses of my mind
and soul. It seems that vehicle stalls at times and hesitates
before it is able to start again and continue on its way.

To take me out of this non productive place I’m in, to that
crisp clean white piece of paper so my pen will flow to places
it’s never been.


http://www.charlesdennispoetry.netne.net

© 2009 Charles Dennis

You torture me I crave you
Rage dislodges inside of me  
All because of you
You told me nobody would love me
You told me that  once before
When you blacked my eyes and throw me to the floor
My sky blue eyes look striking when you blacked them so
When you bruise my being and tried to ransom my soul
Shameful  have you no remorse
My full sensual lips  are torn
The blood is  beautiful  as we kiss
I can’t give you anymore
What my eyes cant see is my demise
I want to bury the memory of you
Seize my own essence
Untie the knots of this ****** up love affair
Landing with a crash as I pick up the pieces of my  oblivion
Everything has a cost in the end
When did we get here?
Did I  wear you down to the center of it all
I wanted  to love you
Now I need a place for bleeding
With nothing to hide
The flowers are wilting
Yet they will not die

another tree frog
pushes its luck on my porch
dislodges hairball

a vermillion serpent

with white smoke wings

and light yellow eyes,

slides off a stone cloud.

a fainting phantasma of

unheld height, meets a

stream of milk precisely its

length and width.

issuing midpoint between the

sky-ground.

knocks in its eyes, and

dislodges its jaws for an aeonic

drink.

By: Cedric McClester

Kyle Rittenhouse would have been dead,
Or so his mother said
If he hadn’t brought his gun full of lead
But shouldn’t he have been in bed
Instead?
In a clear moment of deflection
She said, “ He brung that gun
For his own protection.”

But that seventeen year old boy
Left his home in Illinois
With a lethal toy
For Kenosha to deploy
For his own satisfaction
He wanted in on the action
And didn’t pause for a fraction
Before his deadly reaction

She went on to say, “Kyle did a good job.
When he broke down on the stand today
I broke down too
As only a mother can do
Cause he’s innocent of the charges
When his gun dislodges
It made perfect sense
To say he killed in self-defense

His mother must have been drinking
Cos that’s convoluted thinking
Kyle killed without blinking
So her argument is sinking
Knowing danger was brewing
What the hell was she doing
Idly watching her son pursuing
What could lead to his ruin?










Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2921.  All rights reserved.

I crytpically write my fate.
With each cigarette.
Dying of pulmonary oedema.
An abstract aneurysm.

Some kinda blood clot.
And.
My pressure is high.

My lungs.
Black.

But God.
Won't let me.
Die.

So I hack up until I get the feeling.
Of vomiting in my lungs.
A torch song.
Dry hacking until.

It dislodges.
From these maladaptive.
Coping mechanisms.

Life in a nutshell.

Neurotically wistful about neotonous memories.
While your bad behaviour.
Takes its silver farthing from you.

A mockery of your former self.