THE LONELINESS OF THE ITINERANT DOGWALKER
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THEBEATPOET
Author’s Note: Alan Ginsberg’s poetic write – Howl – still provokes thought, analysis and controversy – surely, the focus of the poet.
I suppose this piece is kind of my vain tribute but there is not a word in it that does not make me want to HOWL – howl TWICE and then keep on howling !!!

THE BICKER WOMEN .. .
Who wears best this shawl of uncertainty
whose mind is trained of fears furrow
to bow at noon – the bells of the Angelus
when blackened clouds of hell descend
around the fair shoulders of the puissant
burnished shields adorn their defence
within realms of hope and trial, honour gracious
worn heavy-knit her skin battles fields of care
for tis’ only soldiers that do not wonder
who were the authors of their answered prayer
and the Bicker women
not cultural stereotypes or
horror film characatures
taken from some ancient, dusty books
not plastic, elastic bimbos
the Bicker women
local born and bred
born to Bicker
who live long in Bicker
lives until the ‘she’ is dead
her splayed black dress
her woolen scarf
wrapped around her head
she speaks few words
yet kneels to pray
Bicker woman
of highest feminine degree
who went to school at age of five
with childhood peers, all years
her teacher aged
much talked of life
Yet no one teaches Bicker woman
how to be an honest wife
it is inbred, assumed by sight
the law of wolves and nature
understanding, words unsaid
Conscripts travel to their debt
fair soldiers of regret they line
the fields of shame, those fit, healthy
will remain after nights of sordid pain
have robbed their mothers of their love
none revive yet memory keeps all alive
and there the Bicker woman
dressed in morbid black
her body no less fragile
her beauty rests beneath her shroud
of shapely legs and cuni
her chest adorned of breasts
she is not an animal to scorn
or mount within the farmers field
Bicker woman
made of sterner stuff
not given to the vagaries of snuff
or perfumed trinkets
Bicker woman
the least and last to bicker
or to gossip or to blather
she has no time for sentimentality
or lust of thought
she is happy with her lot
The guardian angels who return
carry their dead and wounded
Jerusalem hath fallen for today
there are animals now in trail
who carry broken boys to their
mothers for burial or for death
but then the Bicker women
collecting souls from the glen
where lie generals spent forces
dead and dying in the heather
tragedy haunts the Bicker women
their smiles as gentle as their dead
©edenbraytoday06.10.2022
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The Heart of the BEAT POET Is free you do not tell the BEAT POET what to write .. .

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. ..WE SACRIFICE BEFORE THE BRONZED MOON .. .
. .. we sacrifice before the bronzed moon .. .
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We vowed to meet
at the grasp of night
under robes dressed
with starlight golden
your auburn fringe tinged
bequeathed so cliché
neither angel Malakh
or JFK did appear
in the clearing, in the ebony
of the cherry wood
while the crimson burning
his face appeared alarming
I brought the ceremonial
sharpened blade alone
altar cloths heavy stained
the ones we saved
customs we have not seen
through need nor any
measure of how much feeling
viola moon might bleed
we garland rosebuds
shamed of our awful deeds
laid our purest thoughts
upon the forest carpet
the planets voices heard
rumbled at the sacrifice
complained ’twas unfair
as pelicans and pixies fly
against yon moon-slit sky
yet did they stop to think
he would know, care one fig
if in this age we proffer
at the yin-yang moon, talk
again of gemini’s true gender
our masks are sock and buskin
on the dark side they are runes
I pressed the platinum blade
against his brazen, lava chest
testing my resolve as Abram
his head turned away sharply
the canopy of earth’s splendour
desists to render its regret
an intelligent assumption
for who has greater need
should moon’s heart bleed
or leak into earth’s oceans
a tsunami of treasons hid
within the blade within my fist
Dinghees bob in half light
no forest’s there to see
pioneers search other lands
who happened upon America
search long for space capsules
950m southwest of Hawaii
or ‘pon the sands of Dungeness
have you seen that coastline
in the sun of springtime zest
or by the sea of tranquility
I deigned to change my mind
put up my sharpened sword
Fair we love the august moon
watchman at the highpoint
whose limpid eyes disguised
see all, tell none, reflect the sun
within the darkened valley sunken
his understanding face traces
tears of all the lost, the lonely
disenfranchised and comely
unable to explain cries of pain
filtered to his wizened brain
my clenched fist, my human blade
my vengeance at his masquerade
©edenbraytoday25.11.2022
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You always hurt the one you love
The one you shouldn’t hurt at all
You always take the sweetest rose
And crush it till the petals fall
You always break the kindest heart
With a hasty word you can’t recall, so
If I broke your heart last night
It’s because I love you most of all
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