IJIPOETRY.COM - POETRY BY LARRY INGRAM

Bored to tears

3/11/2015

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I would be bored to tears if tears could sing of rocks
dancing, or girls singing songs that sweep life aside,
to make the next book a silent repose,
there on the couch they lie of real countenance,
real efforts to drag the excited response of novel ending.

It's sad to think of dialogue unsaid and reality that
this one will not ever say, to remind the person to
speak in a dialect that all can understand, a brogue
that makes coffee for drink and brew that's too
wealthy for salty eyes, ready for a good cry.

Hardly ever do we see our kids in this state, in this
way of dozing, slapping life from the jar, from cookies
ready to be had instead of lunch, just white bread
that we usually see, rarely toasted for fear of
heavy eyes, heavy faces solidly behind the off white.

Is it gray or simply another foggy day, fog that brings
us closer to a remedy for sleep, taking turns at the
night, a soldier stands at attention, the penalty for
sleep being death by Lewis, Clark standing in approval
though any of us could be a nightmare away.

The squad is certainly one way to shock the senses
awake and full of caffeine, standing at attention,
backs up against the wall, to take a hint from the
dark ages when people also did sleep, but highly
unlikely to breed dissent from sleepy lullabies.

© 2015 Larry Ingram
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Deserted deserts

3/11/2015

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Deserted deserts deserve better than to walk the night,
walk the daytime alone, without dessert to make the
night chill heavier, the stomach full of berries,
chocolate and such remedies for lightness of being.
To try to make it from scratch is the last thing on the
mind of people deserted for less than a from scratch
recipe, the favorite of island dwellers left in state.

Walking to make a better dessert, for cake, walking
purposely takes all or nothing, the gaiety of life that
can spell doom for the fallen cake, the fallen night,
the skies so clear in sand, watching the sun fall,
but fall so closely to sink, water, baking soda of
all that harbor grief, to make a sense of it better
than the next report that we watch.

So it is that the finished product is worthy of reality,
but none of us would leave a layered cake to itself,
without garment or fork for choosing the next bite,
leaving ice cream as an avenue that many would
disregard, ignore to the peril of icing that breeds
cover, covering deserts with unlikely moss,
travails that match wits with a bunt cake.

© 2015 Larry Ingram
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There lies the heart

3/11/2015

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There lies the heart, tattered and torn with painterly
effect, drawn closely to attain by numbers or visioning
a number of hurts, otherwise knowing how to apply
a dressing, a dry desert of embers, ready for dusty
places that reflect light in the distance.

It doesn't make sense to leave the sound crew behind
the camera, unless it requires such in such and such
script for playing all kinds of numerical games, ready
for top ranked players, A-list actors stand in black,
closely guarding thoughts in dust.

A tombstone perchance will see further childhood to
know how to eat lots of bacon and eggs, staples of
every house and home and weakness of heart,
to trail behind the others, picked last so to release
any thought, anxiety about scholarship.

So you want to heal this malady, this tack on the
windward, the southward that speaks of storms,
a course not taken, but braved so that all acceptance
can travel here and stay, whether a Jew or no,
a gentile or never making the pilgrimage.

2015 Larry Ingram
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Burning tongues

3/8/2015

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It's never too late to try to talk your way out of
this morass of hot sauce, habanero for the likes of
misunderstood maladies, simply charging the world
for remedies, anonymous but not nearly so as to
waken the doctor, the white coat that coats really
a fantasy of efforts that cross into realms of glory.


Doesn't really seem glorious to suffer, tongue in
cheek or just cheek or tongue, as it says for jokes
about beef, cattle or even other animals meant
for the stockyard, ones who don't pester pedestrian
pharmacists, as though there were ordinary
prescriptions for this malady, as suffering goes
or pains me.

In particular it is that the symptoms are catching -
or not really something I can describe beyond aspirin
that's easy to purchase in boxes, meant for giving
meaning to the word love, I know as I would like
to be known for my sauce, but never pain at
dinner time, when good conversation floats but
never wanders into emergency rooms.

© 2015 Larry Ingram
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Colonial times

3/8/2015

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The balls they drop, they scatter, or are they squared
for girls tangling in social parties, still scheming under the
guise of gangsters playing within the rules, of bikes tangled
about the dirt, barely transgressed with Spring, a nightmare
for freezing, for refrigerated lives of weeks past, they
barely register to dangling legs stuck to pedals, quickly
skirmishing the lane, a healthy dose of aerobic wheels.

They'll be twins by the time it's really spring, taking turns
with sisters, house guests of play time, swinging from
house to house, panicking with current dance, ballet and
tap are lively art houses, there and swinging tennis across
the ages, as they eat hourly their fancy hearts, dressed to
make the next one as real as the culdesac that melds into
the grocery store, with plenty of candy for the next game.

© 2015 Larry Ingram
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Captive to Niagara

3/8/2015

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It started out snowy and continued to pile on the white,
as though to trash love, missing for years, more than a
decade has passed since we last loved to talk with more
than a flower, frozen now beneath reflected sun, cleaning
as though she was found, and how could we not see
clearly to truth, what happened when daring men see
darkly to youth, taking and basking in evil.

It's only now, years have passed in still cracking voices,
staccato in emotion, attacking a last outpost, a fort that
doubles as nursery rhymes, taken to extreme they explain
a mother lost in cemeteries, wanting for more than blooms,
as life ebbs with ice, crackling in glasses, mirrored in what
we know as life beneath glass, she waits biding her time
as men plot the demise of yearning fathers.

Yes the cover is here for all sorts of winter gloom, waiting
for minutes, hours to pounce on unsuspecting backseats,
for only a minute the see the nicest family broken,
falling down steps as a black car steadily parks for a nice
dinner that isn't really that, as exclaimed on the poster of
a formal missing girl, she reflects in strangers seated there -
for all to suspect she will be found, recovered in winter.

© 2015 Larry Ingram
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Russian fathers

3/8/2015

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They talk on screen as though to state their
case of loss, boys and their turns at jumping,
scaring life out of tall scaffolds, not meant
to rappel down to lakes, freezing with absence.
This try will go down into history as breaking
silence and sleeping sheets, scarred with wonder.

We'll take a ride to fishing poles and set about
the trip with hate and beating walls, bricks of
Russia, weathered with years, rough with hope
in mothers, handling moats, swimming across
to a couch filled with blue, blue dust of furnaces,
guarding warmth and ash.

It stops without warning and slowing, churns
to listing, ready for the morning at east with
daring balls, blasting across the pike, to another
staring contest, waiting for embers of hate to die.
It's in the backseat, drenched, dying with galacial
pastimes, refreshing this lie.

Always you are welcome, but beware of elegant
daggers, slaying about the hardwood, a favorite
of this copying father, as Lucy makes her way
onto the screen, cool as every, she pouts to nearly
winner awards, slowly it recedes to nothing.
But always welcome to be forgotten, you were hardly
here when the dinner was trashed.

Cackling outside with fake Russian mobsters in
Norway or Sweden, with frayed budgets hemoraging
actors in pace with a decade or two, taking turns to
read titles substituting for life, for this curse of
quality, the raw wood, the dank life of childlessness,
almost a cigarette of emotion, it emboldens Vodka
and a motherland meant for young boys.

© 2015 Larry Ingram
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Nails heard abroad

3/8/2015

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Nails and there are hardly taken when we'll
make the snarling broadside there when
it lashes about the gunnels.
As though we were captain all all those
dead nails lived in our hands while we plowed
through treacherous waves, darkening our skies.
It's natural to regain a foothold and then to
slip on wooden planks strewn over the edge
of nightmares and soft cuddly hammers.

As though they sailed about the world, and
then they really did take captives and mark their
sails for crosswinds, making fast all the tears
of soul, we wander about the darkness, wary
of winds, southerly and stout to take our
scurvy, limes, lemons as they are tart to our
touch, as they meld minds and starch that's meant
to be near to men sleeping, as they can only
ride the waves while they stand.

A picture of the tossing to sides, to neither far
nor near to remembering the last time we made
it quickly to shore, to as far as we could carry to
sink our anchor, wait for rowers to lay the backs
into our best wares, oars made for stirring memories
of the South Seas, south of Kingdoms farfetched
as mothers, fathers can long last offspring, daring
to tame the world, tame the screw and rudder and
many a mainsail that ponders our next trip.

© 2015 Larry Ingram
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Nearly here

3/8/2015

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I was or wasn't hear when the weather man asked
to forecast the brainwaves, and friends came to call -
or really to borrow lines of how relatives behaved -
or missed the next shipment of long explanations
about life, about children daring to compete with
nets and running, bobbling the next pass -
or score at will.

Still, I asked the same of you, and you responded
with the same you are and how and why you shaded
the next tale, or simply made it up on the spot,
so surely dogs and other breeds can surely tell which
is fake and counterfeit, as strange as it spells the
truth as you are not afraid of a little fireworks,
as they cross the sky.

It will never be brotherly to remain not hugging the
shore, or even the calamity that we all saw, even
with anti-depressants inhibiting the weather, balmy
or stormy with snow, cold, blustery days as they stay
inside, these expressions that remake childhood into
rules, guarding reality as is plain as day, waiting for
the real us to show up, telling no lies to neighbors.

© 2015 Larry Ingram
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    Welcome to the poetry web site of Larry Ingram. Larry is a poet, writer and observer of our culture.
    Check out his columns at ijiblog.net.

    Contact him at
    larriji at zoho.com



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