WordSalad: The Poetry of Luke Prater

geocentric chart

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Ptolemy was the foremost proponent of the hypothesis of a Geocentric Universe, where everything revolves around the Earth. (Irrelevantly to this poem, this was shattered by Copernicus/Galileo, much to the Catholic Church’s extreme disapproval).

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Some sleep like fresh-fed pups, not
spending hours ruminating in unrest,

meeting the rise of the hill,
blinking into black

while the world turns its back,
thieving the duvet. Not

mouthing in existential exhortation
at a cruel, starless sky; the still-shackled spirit.

Fighting, resisting,
finally relenting: an outdone pugilist.

The less fortunate sleep like fresh-fed pups.

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Balanced within this
mounted mould of sinew and skin,

knowing – for the short stretch
I amble the earth -

I’d prefer to have, than have not,
yet with modesty and generosity;

absence of these would
sweat the scruples out of me.

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The last person I want to forgive is he I need
to most. Made sick stockpiling resentment,
indignation, recrimination; fuelling an empire

of hatred sending it the way of the hater.
Greater, with guilt and regret, comprise the
pantheon of pernicious spirits stood at the foot

of the emotional spectrum. Conscious
forgiveness, without forgetting – learning
in our amnesty – is betting on the right

mare to dare clinch the derby. The last
person I want to forgive is he I need to most.

Forgiveness (Prose Poetry)

The last person I want to forgive is he I need to most. Made sick stockpiling resentment, indignation, recrimination; fuelling an empire of hatred sending it the way of the hater. Greater, with guilt and regret, comprise the pantheon of pernicious spirits stood at the foot of the emotional spectrum. Conscious forgiveness, without forgetting – learning in our amnesty – is betting on the right mare to dare clinch the derby.

The last person I want to forgive is he I need to most.

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They shoot the breeze with big and small (but mainly small);
“It never came to any good”, self-satisfied.
As ever, then it was forgotten, ditched by all.

It might have been worth all that spit, they can’t recall,
though some wore truth and some wore coloured shades of lie;
they shoot the breeze with big and small (but mainly small).

Agreeable or inclement, to face a squall
as endings come, is irrefutable. Deny,
as ever; then it is forgotten, ditched by all.

A cynics ceremony, protocol of pall;
these senseless seething spirals gathered in goodbyes.
They shoot the breeze with big and small (but mainly small).

What to wear tonight? Might have to spree the mall.
That clothing, cotton worked by swarthy hands, untie
when time is done, and flesh forgotten, ditched by all.

Still breathing and still chattering, can’t face the fall;
emancipated higher selves will fin’lly fly.
They shot the breeze with big and small (but mainly small) -
forever, now they are forgotten, ditched by all.

☆

Villanelle rewrite of (mainly the small), which is in free verse and prose-poetry forms.

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Madam Karma (blank verse)

God damn it, Madam Karma, you pre-empt
my stint with Destiny. What is the debt?

Freewill is not enough to keep a man;
true Self-Determinism’s tough, I rue
the bedbound wretch with seeping sleepless fettle.

The Universe is in rogue bedlam, a
pre-Ordered pandemonium (stop. Breathe.)
where Karma, Des and Will all ashram-kneel,
chant mantras: cymbals, with harmonium.

Madam Karma (the light version)

God damn you, Madam Karma -
upstaged my date with Destiny.
Yeah, she’s a little charmer,
but basically she lets me be.

Freewill just ain’t enough, y’know,
to keep a man alive, true Self-
Determinism’s tough, y’know;
ill-fettled wretch with weeping wealth.

The Universe is Bedlam Hill,
pre-Ordered pandemonium,
where Madam Karma, Des and Will
chant mantras with harmonium.

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