#jebediah hambone

[madpoetsthoughts-blog]

Excerpt From ‘The Last, Long Exhale’

In the days of the dead, 

the spirits walk among us;

 remind us that the past is

 the cornerstone of repetition.

 The veil is thin

 between the worlds-

hell of a time here on 

the road less traveled.

 I saw a grown man weeping

 inside a microcosm of pain-

his shame became his undoing

 until he forever walked the

 paths of night alone-­ pay 

attention to the things I say-

you cannot, ever, walk away.

 Behold: the sin eater comes.

bow your head and lower your 

eyes lest you look your undoing 

in the face­ no trace of sorrow left 

to shield what’s left of your 

fractured soul.

The figure standing before you is 

Death. Life is but a series of 

transitions, the final culminating 

in your departure from the world 

you have known to the worlds you 

shall forever more inhabit. 

Caught up in the undertow, 

sinking to the bottom like a stone; 

Seeing, far up above, a small

fading circle of light that might

have once been the sun.

 You’ve tarried too long-

 the fire burns low, the 

prophet has fled for 

want of a song, and 

fell beasts cry out 

into the night 

Heaven is among us. 

what I’m trying to say; 

you’re in it, 

it’s all around you. 

Skeletons of trees-­ 

black against the 

darkening sky-­ the 

stars come out; one, 

two, three­- innumerable 

another celestial dance 

begins 

Your fall from grace 

was spectacular-

 epic, maybe. 

and how the angels 

wept to see you thus: 

you, blest of heaven 

cursed of man 

heir to the throne at 

the edge of inception 

the cusp of nothing. 

You fell a long way down 

-no longer of the mighty; 

your mouth a perfect circle 

of surprise in your 

free-­fall to certain death, 

the feathers of your wings 

disengaging slowly, 

one by one. 

-Your darkest hour. 

I’m not talking about people 

handing out pamphlets 

proclaiming the end of the 

world and repent…. 

when i threw the first stone, 

it had the name of my sin 

etched upon it. 

We know our failings. 

We’ve lived them. 

so, relax-  the rest remains, 

has always been, between 

us and our gods. 

(This excerpt was taken from a much longer piece. The original is in 40 parts and is 19 pages long.) 

(from ‘In Other Words…)

[madpoetsthoughts-blog]

The Turning*

That you should pick up where you 

left off should be a given, but no-­ not

 today. This is a moment of quiet

 introspection; the wind whipping

 violently, bitter cold, down through

 the headstones. 

The horseman on the pale horse is

 pestilence­ he follows the wars.

 The legions and castles and their

 spirits crying out for vengeance.

 And where is justice? Marching,

 slowly, down the long road to

 oblivion.

 Silence is all I can summon to

 express my profound sorrow.

 Sick, but not in the way mere 

illness might reveal itself: the

 sickness lives deep inside, 

waiting for the moment of

 supreme inception-­ revelation

destruction-­ annihilation-­ it

 obliterates the spirit, leaving

 its black, putrid mark upon

 your once light­filled soul.

 Why do you push yourself so?

 Merely to test the limits

 Moving like a shadow through the

 world­- a memory of another age

; golden, sunlit­ then gather your

 ghosts around you. Do they bring

 you comfort in the long, hushed 

twilight?

 Wars­ across the world; seeming

 so far away but when they come

 here, they come to stay. They

 take up residence in the vile, 

stinking blackness where our

 fear also dwells.

 I came to speak about the turning-

about the death of the first to the

 deep-­seated violence of the next.

 Something rich and soothing like

 honeyed mead dripping from my

 tongue. My words should bear

 consolation but the time has 

passed, taking the opportunity

 with it. Now, I am tired, and there

 is nothing more for you here today.

 Gather your things, and go. 

(from ‘In Other Words….’)

[madpoetsthoughts-blog]

Fragments (a little glass table)

A lovely glass table on

a back­corner balcony;

the same table I’m sitting at

now, having my coffee with

the early­morning creatures

and the pre­dawn shadows.

The same glass table we moved

last night, downstairs, to the

front of the house­ the same table

upon which a hornet has just

landed, on top of my notebooks.

If it reads something that makes

it angry, I might just get stung.

Remember how the dogs bayed

at the moon, her light distilled

through a thin layer of cloud.

How the dogs bayed, calling to

each other through the heavy

night air, and the one voice­

“Shut up!” that restored

the silence; only a

comparative silence, the

night already thick with

the sounds of insects

Last night the table played host,

holding trays of food and

sweating beverages;

again this morning, either graced

or cursed by the poet’s toil.

Perhaps someday there will be

a tour, and the guide will say,

‘See here. This is the table where

he wrote that poem, the one

that made him famous.’

Perhaps. But today we shall

continue to remain anonymous.

The table lives in a quiet back

corner, outside on the upstairs

balcony of the girl/ woman next door.

I helped her bring it down for our

modest gathering. Yesterday, the little

glass table had a purpose; perhaps even

this morning, it still does.

Later today, we will bring it back

upstairs to its quiet little place on

the back­corner balcony, where it

will wait, looking out at the distant

mountains, waiting for another

opportunity to be of service.

A lovely glass table on a back­corner

balcony; its home, where it has no

purpose; its accompanying chairs

are all broken and useless.

(modified.from ‘Seven Degrees’)

[madpoetsthoughts-blog]

Dogma*

No mention anywhere of

four­legged friends­ that

was the first Irony. You

can get people to believe

whatever you want them to,

if your personality’s dynamic

enough­ the second. Don’t

drink the purple Kool Aid- Don’t....

Flat­earth espousers,

conjurers­ you can’t produce

magic where it doesn’t want

to exist. Constructing perfectly

imagined lives that never quite

seem to satisfy the original

fantasy.

Insolent bride.

Corpulent mistress, mercenary;

bastard­breeding whore.

They don’t like to be reminded of

their imperfections. They’d prefer,

instead, to spit all over your

lovely corpse.

Gun for hire.

Paid assassin.

You can’t equate meaning

with purpose. You can

convince yourself that

everything’s the same as

it ever was, and will be.

­Skirting around the hard

topics. You can create

something out of nothing,

but you can’t do nothing

about it. I don’t tell

the muse what to say.

Never mind. We’re

past all that.

Look at me.

Look at me.

Look. at me.

The earth.

is round.

*This was the only poem in ‘Dog Sweaters and

Other Ironies’ That even contained the word ‘Dog’.

(The third irony....)

(from ‘Dog Sweaters’. slightly modified)

[madpoetsthoughts-blog]

A Prayer

I dreamt that I could shut out the world

by closing first one eye, then the other- but the sun still beat down upon their

shuttered lids; neon­orange, insistent.

I prayed for silence in the wet, sticky

afterbirth of my inception as the stars

wheeled above and all around,

whispering the ancient secrets of that

universe­ their lives and desires

intertwined with the slow turning of

the Earth on her faltering axis.

I tried to craft the song of you by the

water’s edge. I fought my inhibitions

as the half­sprung angels fledged.

Speak. Speak to me. Speak into me.

Now, hush. Hush. Hush. Dream. Soar,

but don’t forget to breathe. Be still.

Hush. Breathe, and dream. Pray.

There is only silence. Only this.

We go forth in quiet dissolution.

Only this. Nothing more; the silence- and soon, I know, this too shall pass.

(Modified. from ‘In Other Words....’)

[madpoetsthoughts-blog]

An Artist (?)

I have never been a painter.

I have never even attempted it.

I know, as surely as I know

my own namer, that I

simply do not possess

that particular talent.

Even now, my artist’s mind

sees the vision, but my hand

can’t duplicate with clever oils

the resentment the setting

must feel at my intrusion.

Not that I am jealous­

(okay, maybe I’m a little jealous)

but I’m also grateful I can at least

see the beauty so many others

seem to miss....

So­ instead, with my pen and

several scraps of paper I’ll create

a perfect haiku for your soul,

a symphony for your heart.

written in a minor key; played

lovingly, just for you,

in three­-quarter time.

(from ‘Seven Degrees’)

[madpoetsthoughts-blog]

The Pursuit

I know it’s out there.

dancing, just beyond my reach- How can you define it? It doesn’t

even have a name. But it’s out there- over the horizon, and it wants me to

follow. Call it what you will­ fate,

destiny, the higher calling....

My own personal Grendel­ I must

slay it to become what I already am,

what I always was.

It’s out there­ calling, taunting,

urging me forward. And when we meet?

Perhaps today, perchance in some

distant, undefined future­ I will know

the monster’s name. Then I will tame

the beast and make it my own

and I....? Who am I? well....

you can call me.... Ishmael.

(Modified. from ‘In Other Words....’)

[madpoetsthoughts-blog]

To Those Who Have Gone

“We are small,” you would say.

“Insignificant, but infinitely important

to those who love and care for us.”

The road we’re on is paved with

our individual hopes and dreams,

our toil and sudden, disproportionate

sorrow so that it becomes at times

uneven and difficult to navigate- but we would always have each other

for support during the most trying

segments of the journey

I knew you were there, even when

you were a thousand miles away,

and we could reach out to each other

at any time; the distance between us

shrunk to nothing by a phone call or

an unexpected letter arriving in the post- And then you were gone.

Now, in moments of quiet reflection,

as the silence amplifies the beating of

my heart, you have become significantly

more important to me than ever before,

and I feel so much more keenly now your

absence than I could ever then feel

your presence there.

(from ‘Seven Degrees’, slightly modified)