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Land of Uncertainty: Poetry and Prose 2013 - 2018
Actions du livre
Commencer à lire- Éditeur:
- Rori O'Keeffe
- Sortie:
- Oct 10, 2018
- ISBN:
- 9780463765623
- Format:
- Livre
Description
From the blissful moments in my bedroom out to the bedlam of the world around us all, I contrive to paint portraits of myself, us, and how everything meshes together into a confounding jumble of images.
The good, the bad and the ugly are all presented here, as well as the occasional heartfelt sentiment. Veering unpredictably from deadly serious thoughts to playful whimsy, rhyme to free verse, and poetry to prose, these poems capture a world on fire, and a humble nobody trying to find happiness in a burning house.
Philosophically, I believe that we understand the world in terms of partial truths, never able to simultaneously contemplate every facet of a thing, let alone a person, a society, or all of existence. Our intellects are limited by the singular perspective that confines us to a meager understanding of any phenomenon. That's where the power of imagery comes in. Art, literature and poetry can overcome to a large degree the weakness of our intellects, and help us feel what we are in relation to the world. Presented here are my partial truths that both entertain the reader and illustrate the sublime power of poetry.
Adult reading.
Informations sur le livre
Land of Uncertainty: Poetry and Prose 2013 - 2018
Description
From the blissful moments in my bedroom out to the bedlam of the world around us all, I contrive to paint portraits of myself, us, and how everything meshes together into a confounding jumble of images.
The good, the bad and the ugly are all presented here, as well as the occasional heartfelt sentiment. Veering unpredictably from deadly serious thoughts to playful whimsy, rhyme to free verse, and poetry to prose, these poems capture a world on fire, and a humble nobody trying to find happiness in a burning house.
Philosophically, I believe that we understand the world in terms of partial truths, never able to simultaneously contemplate every facet of a thing, let alone a person, a society, or all of existence. Our intellects are limited by the singular perspective that confines us to a meager understanding of any phenomenon. That's where the power of imagery comes in. Art, literature and poetry can overcome to a large degree the weakness of our intellects, and help us feel what we are in relation to the world. Presented here are my partial truths that both entertain the reader and illustrate the sublime power of poetry.
Adult reading.
- Éditeur:
- Rori O'Keeffe
- Sortie:
- Oct 10, 2018
- ISBN:
- 9780463765623
- Format:
- Livre
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Land of Uncertainty - Rori O'Keeffe
Land of Uncertainty:
Poetry and Prose
2013 – 2018
By Rori O'Keeffe
Copyright © 2018 by Rori O'Keeffe
Published at Smashwords by Rori O'Keeffe
All poems previously published by Rori O'Keeffe 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, 2018.
All rights reserved by the author.
The image on the cover is courtesy of Pixabay.
To see more by Rori O'Keeffe, go to www.smashwords.com or use this link to
her profile page: Rori O'Keeffe's Profile, Interview, and Books
Table of Contents
First Poem
¼-way point
½-way point
¾-way point
The Persistence Of Tunnel Vision
When they saw slaves twisted in bloody heaps
Under the fallen rocks by the pyramid's side,
They turned and said,
It is not that I don't care, but I am busy with my tasks.
I suppose, long ago, flames licked their tongues at the agony
Of my ancestor's dying flesh;
It was good, said some, to burn a witch;
Others, less imbued with divine authority,
Could but watch, and return to their tasks -
Their world narrowing with
Each harrowing desecration
Of humanity around them.
Peace at last, they found in the grave.
When many among us
Make good for themselves
By the desecration of human beings far away,
It is as though they are of no concern;
They are not known to me,
So their suffering is but illusion to me.
Besides, I am busy with my tasks.
We ever fail to hear the screams,
Until it is Mother, or Brother
Screaming out to us.
As the screams of the world rise,
Threatening to call us out of our personal worlds,
Our tunnel vision protects from conscience,
Or action,
Until, as the story goes,
They at last come for each of us -
And then the screams are felt
Not just heard.
Destiny is what may be achieved
With will and love and unity.
Fate is what befalls those who have come to believe
In their own immunity
From the scourge of the ages
That have plagued each life
Since we left paradise
Long, long ago.
Emerging Love
Over the years of my life,
I have watched that scotch pine
In its ascent through the air,
From sapling I plunged into the soil,
To the green spire
That now crests
The old home's chimney top.
How many gales has it withstood?
What of it's calm presence in winter?
Though it's beauty enraptures my heart,
I yearn for a pyre
To consume it with flame.
I roll and loll about in my bed at night
Wishing in dreams and under baleful moonlight
That you would return
And carry my heart away;
After all, it is your rightful trophy -
Or, perhaps, a notch on your little black book.
I succumb to a vision,
Or a fond hope, perhaps
Of you lying dead, a knife in your chest,
Finished off by a virago that found you at last.
I believe it is likely, however,
That you are off on a cruise ship
In the Sargasso Sea
Where we met so long ago
In those still waters.
None have compared to you
And your turquoise eyes;
Nor your lilting trills
As you carried your prize;
Why must I recall you in each
New man's face?
Why do I teach them -
Beseech them -
To learn your embrace?
After all is said and done,
You cut the bloom off my flower
And replaced it with a brooch
Meant for weddings
Though without an engraving.
How the years have passed cruelly
Since you abandoned me at sea,
To find a firmer ass
In some other woman's cabin.
Does it matter to you
That I have drifted off course
And find myself alone on the
Isle of Old Maids?
I counsel myself to yearn for
The flesh of a woman -
In the hope that love would become
New again in a kinder bed mate.
I caution myself against desperate
Chance-taking
On the wheel of fate
That is the dating service.
I tell myself that, in time,
I will no longer want a love
To place by my side,
For does not desire flow,
Then ebb as the tide?
I have been placed in the tomb,
A premature burial,
While a raven calls out
Nevermore.
I still see myself in the moon's orb,
A dead ancient world
Scarred by age and melted rock,
Until it now has a companion in me.
My life was changed forever
By you
Under that tropical moon,
And though your kiss infected
My still growing spirit
With your blight,
The sea turned vicious on me -
The price I've paid
For having you
One night.
A storm raged around my home
All hours of the night;
The hail bullied the roof into submission
And bolts' light captured the sight
Of a sinuous wind cloud
Snapping the trunk of that old scotch pine.
Nothing will ever be the same
In my old neighbourhood -
All has been moved,
Turned about as omens
Are ironic, yet not perverse.
That fine old tree is now dead,
And I can never now summon the will
To plant a new sapling -
And so my heart will ever be still.
Peace at last
Can now fill my being,
As I walk in my garden
No longer in the shadow
Of that old scotch pine.
Berserkers
They hack and hew and hex
The lands they visit.
They leave what hearts are left
Cold and shrivelled.
And, they are coming to your town next.
Blood and gore they will spill on
Free people's monuments;
Eyes they will pluck from the
Harried masses who defy them;
They will gorge on Civilization
And the future: They will condemn.
They can be stopped from entering
This land, your land,
Though they dangle gold
As bait for the hungry
The greedy
And the desperate.
And all they want is Liberty
For themselves
Alone.
Bare Naked Babes
I'm something of a telepath, you see;
I can read your mind while you
Sleep beside me
In the night that was meant to ours.
I see you in your depraved fantasies
Straining, urging, ogling, and humping
All those bare naked babes
You have known throughout
The endless years of your adolescence.
Your most repetitive
{And boring, I must add}
Perversions concern
The girls on the track team at high school,
And the soccer babes with their
Inviting thighs,
Not to mention
The unmentionable things you do
With the cheer leading squad.
Your typing teacher makes a little more sense.
At the end of these dreams you have,
You return to me, and I dance {!}
To finish you off,
So you can rest until the next REM cycle,
And then it begins again
With college girls,
Your first lady boss,
And that really cute effeminate guy
You once rode on a train with.
I must admit
That your dream lovers are all quite sexy.
I don't blame you for remembering them all;
But the imprint on your sizes-too-small heart
Enshrouds our marriage bed in a demonic pall.
Why our new neighbour with the gym sculpted body,
When she as well is betrothed
To the guy you invited to poker nights?
Why that young thing down the street
That wouldn't know a leer
If you spied on her from a bush.
And, once again, dear,
Why am I summoned to your oak bar
To writhe and strip when
You have gotten your jollies
Into your pyjamas
After following these neighbours about?
I once scanned your mind after
Thanksgiving dinner,
Fully expecting to see my sister
In her plunging V neck
Chatting you up for some
Brief encounter in my parent's basement
In the cold storage
With all the preserves;
I drew back when instead I saw in your mind
My mother bending at the oven,
Basting the turkey with unbridled passion.
Why do you not disgust yourself?
I'll now beam a moon dream
Into your next bout of frustrated hopes;
You will see that I also have an eye
For flesh that is supple, toned and radiant.
You will see my own dream
As I have known it of late:
A knight in shining armour
Stripping the way a man really should -
Without shyness of his nudity
Or my eye as he dances.
As you tremble in this nightmare,
At the thought of tables turned on you,
I want you look closely at this man
And the way he arouses me
And finishes me off so sumptuously.
He makes love like a man really should,
And he is my own bare naked babe;
The only one I dream of.
He will be the first to carve his initials
On my heart,
And he will shower me with gifts
That I'll keep in my Memory Trunk.
He is a tad younger than I,
But wiser than Solomon -
And never a wandering eye
And has dreams at night that I can share
Blissfully.
You, my first sweetheart,
Will be trounced by this mature man,
And will be free to ogle
And play with yourself
In the privacy of your bachelor apartment.
And no, you are not getting a cent
Out of me in the settlement.
The Choice
So it was written,
As though into my heart,
That all are born free,
And it is noblest, best,
To always be so.
I staved off the ruins
Of another age,
That lay claim upon each soul,
And declared that the lot
Of the peasant
Is duty.
Truly, I set off to the stage of the world
With banners unfurled,
Just a little girl,
And made myself free.
Free for the taking;
Free for lovemaking;
Free, above all,
To do as I pleased.
Fires fell about me,
{From heaven, I wonder?}
And great floods swept my dwelling
Off its rickety stilts.
I was beautiful as Narcissus,
Gazing into the bowl
Of my misgivings about
What I had become.
I was free of it all,
And all of them -
Children were but a ghostly
Alternate reality -
Science fantasy to one such as me;
I had no faith in myself,
Yet, somehow,
I would be free of them all.
Children, parents, and in the end,
My notably wicked friends,
Who made no friends of their own.
Some envied me,
Others pointed to the precipice,
Which at last I have come to,
And so, without hesitation,
I am now jumping to my death,
Where, I have little doubt,
I will at last be
Absolutely free.
This I have chosen to become,
For the life of duty
Is undignified;
Though, I now perceive,
With salt's bitter taste on my lips,
A life with duty in it
Has the charm of being
Relatively happy
Compared to what
Mine has become.
Absolute freedom awaits me
At the bottom of this precipice.
Farewell.
Swiftly
He knew the vicious minute's hour,
And it was a sour motion in his blood.
He left this world a wider place,
With bottle in hand -
A bitter taste
When news of his death
Spread swiftly across the land.
{So they say, in his biography.}
Nine Lives Lost
The crazy old bastard never
Got the cat fixed.
Took the kittens down to the river
In a pillow case,
To send them to a better place
He said.
I, for one, am glad
The crazy old bastard's
Now dead.
Wicked Runs My Smile
Perhaps the finest thing about
Rainbows could be,
That the storm is then passed
Onto an others fine day.
If I win the lotto,
Though I rarely take the chance,
Has a morbid curse
Passed onto another poor lass?
When I hear that crazy
Mockingbird before the sunrise,
And send my cats out to get it,
I give birds a word to the wise.
When I left my last beau
For a woman, did he know,
That she once met his mother,
Who complained of me so?
When old friends of mine
Say that I'm everywhere wanted,
Dead or alive, I take great pride
That my wicked smile runs -
So very wide.
I am alive.
Long Ago
If Pagans could have won
In Europe of old,
Witches would be Christians,
Burned for being so bold
As to worship
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