Let the Whales Escape R.W.Haynes
Mona Lisa and the Marlboro Man
Not knowing if wisdom would impulsively fly
Or if it dragged its feet when impulse flared,
She had to make the call and suddenly try
To do what an immortal would have dared,
An Aphrodite, ascending in a flying cart
Drawn by fifty gurgling pigeons at a speed
Which matched the speed of her own matchless heart
And the heartbreaking glory of her need.
Later, back in Laredo, she would say
She didn’t know why she’d taken off that way,
Smiling with satisfaction, recalling when
Her best moments flew by delightfully then.
He didn’t want anyone saying, “Oh.
This is how I feel,” but people do
Say that, and he said it, sometimes, too,
In unguarded moments, and he would show
How he felt, displaying great disdain
As he lit his pipe, blew blue smoke forth
Delivering himself from aesthetic pain
Incurred by foolish ideas from the North,
And, nodding slightly to appreciate
A tolerable turn of phrase which he
Thought suggested some brain activity,
He let his tobacco counter-obfuscate
Suspicious overflows of raw emotion
Which threatened to undermine devotion.
On the Balcony of the Palacio de Cortés
Madness stands at one elbow. At the other
Various figures in masks take their turns,
And all whisper steadily, one after another,
Syllables whose content one never learns.
The maniac is familiar; one keeps a careful eye
On him night and day, and day and night,
But who are the others who are standing by,
And what are these advisements they recite?
I dream the lonely ghost of love is one
Whose only consolation is to speak of sin,
And when that sad companion is done,
I hear Complacency, Madness’s mad twin.
I listen in patience, fighting back the fear
I’ll never hear the voice I hope to hear.
Ibsen on the Nile
Those monuments are monuments merely
Of themselves; this river of nutrition
And death, inundating Egypt, is clearly
A muddy embodiment of time’s volition.
I saw the Sphinx off in the distance. Today
I purchased an ancient mummified hand
To give to my wife, safely far away,
And I suspect that she will understand.
I met DeLesseps recently. He and I
Have much in common, more than he knows;
My work is lonelier, but there exists a tie
Between what we do as humankind grows.
These monuments record the vanity of ages;
Mine put the outraged human soul on stages.
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; his publications include
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules and Next Arrivals, collected poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)
This way please.
The light had been so bright
when he entered the room.
He could smell a hint of sulphur
and a faint smell of lavender.
The receptionist was typing
on an old typewriter,
and ancient dot matrix printer
made a sound like gravel
falling on concrete
as paper spewed out.
She paused and pulled the sheet
from the machine,
laid it in front of me,
The form had headings,
arguments lost on purpose,
The pen mad a scratching
sound on the paper.
The printer spit out duplicates.
She tore the top one off,
handed it to me,
“Door Number Two.”
Judgement day poem……October 2019….David Michael Jackson
Where is the hairbrush
where are the keys
where is my heart
my yearning for a soul
Where is the hairbrush
keeper of lost hairs
clinging to the bristles
with my dna
the proof that I was here
in this moment
with only you to read me
meandering on about my hairbrush
meandering on about life
as an observer
an imperfect camera.
The tree falls in the forest
without a sound
The hairbrush does not exist now
It will exist for a moment
when I find it.
It is in the other room
which doesn’t exist now
but will spring to life
when I enter
looking for the
Oh to be in art galleries
with purple and pink marshmallows
on a table in a corner
with a sculpture that I made
out of the spare parts
of my heart
Oh to be in art galleries
hearing the special words
of the purple and pink marshmallow man
as he talks of didactic
responses to form
in his purple and pink marshmallow words
Oh to be timeless in a temporary
purple and pink marshmallow world.
Walk beside the waters again
and talk of peace
Be the lonely wind
shaking a single tree
When hate grips everything
like a snake coiled
around its prey
be not despondent
be the correspondent
alone in a forest
of one tree
….david michael jackson
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Where are my words?
I must throw them at this screen.
I must shout at the wind
the weak metaphor wind.
It whistles in my ear,
Though none may read
Though my words are wrong,
Magnetic spots will go out
ones will be zeros
paper will rot while covering rocks
and the rocks will win
for no one,
Dave Jackson….aka David Michael Jackson aka nobody of importance. Move on.