Poems by Christopher Harold

The Swimmers' Guide to Drowning Tongues sweat in humid fumes of sinful breath. Saliva bathing rows of crooked teeth, Gnawing on voices toned to charm the deaf, Bait the shepherd's lore with terms of deceit. One is selling cups of poison hemlock, The other pours out shots of cyanide. One raps on the door latched with a padlock, The other has the key to get inside. Residents drape themselves in sullied gowns. Dirty waters leave stains on what they cleanse, And the repair men construe faulty vows In spite of what their adverts recommend. Still gamblers succumb to their addiction, And on every fourth November they play Their hands against the odds of a system Whose interests lie solely with whom can pay. Descriptive nouns are slogans and banners: Do not verbalize any predicates  That might offend conventional grammar, For the boards they scroll chalk them up to hate. Arms are up to keeping them bearable In the tolerant hands of the killers, So the propaganda is sellable; Spun out in themes of media thrillers.  The sender is returned letters abroad. Financing all business through mail orders. The posted notes all parcel sums of fraud; Usury stamps applied by the sorters. Symposiums shelter absence mostly, As the masses dwell in digital caves. The academies are far too costly, Teaching their pupils that they should behave. Yellow smoke licks its tongue on window screens. Arthritic hostages grip their toils. The lives indebted to technology Spend their gigs in claustrophobic coils. The funded consensus praise the optive; Enrich the climates with chemical trends. The foul airs holding the fearful captive Have been imparted by the prince's pen. Stealthy missiles do not miss their targets: You must accept what you should not believe. The messages urge that one should forget The serpent is selling evil to Eve. Once the Romans cheered the hero, Nero, Then made him choke on the blade he brandished. Stalin the movie star played the hero, As he stole all the grain from the famished. And we look right at what we cannot see. The wine is too fine in this age to wait. It is never called what it seems to be When minced to shreds by the knives that dictate. The straying motion of gusty airs say That the wind shall not today please the rind. Brands become the only choices to weigh; The circle is full of nothing to find. Panic riots loom over mania When a medicine cannot be prescribed, And rescue seems most unlikely when the Lifeguard is drowning in our diatribe. Bearings Agent of the misfits feeds on black dew The candle wax has settled new to form  When pedals lick the mist of fallen sky, The callow lack of shadows fail to warn. No sustenance will quench this cryptic mood Black dew sells empty promise in its broth Elusive fragrance irks the vaguely sensed Harken back the waken spirits aloft. Enigmatic mission incoherent The spaces fill with possibilities Still pollen lacking nectar for the sting No telling what it is supposed to be. Rigid functions seem to feel its passing Carafe is out of spells to charm the wits Time has come to never mind this era; A new phase has come round to erase it. The Crossings The feudal pope tends to bless his excuses for manipulating things. Boiling under his  collar, rashes blister and itch translucent flesh. Fitting in nowhere but inside of the places that silence barricades. Indifferent to states  of empty emotion; caters only to moods. Prone to anguish, he takes the opportunities  to disturb his content. Not good with whomever, estranged from the stranger, no mix of tastes serve his. Impassion endangers the safety of others with his coursing venom. He looks just like Hamlet when lamenting ghosts show up in times he recalls. None stay to matter; he inhabits shelters that have been forsaken. The Casters The alarmist bells will Will wail, yell and implore For the news they are paid To shout and pout about. No matter the channel One may turn to escape, The different path is A section of the maze. They will tell you only What they are to tell you. They will help you forget, and show you what to feel. They know what spells to weep, And to make their phrases  Vacant of any truth And hollow of meaning. They want you to oblige Their words as though sacred Vows credibly endowed, Forcing morality. You will vote for who they Want to be elected. You will learn to hate the One they have rejected. Riots, they will guide into Happening, looting They will encourage, and You will blame each other. They are the fine liars Starting all the fires, And cheering on the plagues They want you to endorse. Shafer's Lost to the world, he walks it with his doubts, Vacancy shone, though half the lights were out. Alone in the room, tattered and empty,  He hacked at the table with his card key. It had been hours since he last replenished. Now alert, his libido was famished. She never showed for the favors she owed, And thus refused to reap what she had sewed. Ten cigarettes burned and his phone exploding, He returned for another reloading. Under the spell of the dust he reveled. Desirous, he plotted with the devil. Secretive rooms had revealed just enough To his knowledge, teasing his state of lust. He looked at the phone and thought he would call, Reaching this point, he gave no fuck at all. She answered and said, yes, she would wait, But after John had vacated her gait. He gazed out the window and wondered just how Long before John would take his final bow. Once his predecessor had walked away, He gathered the stuff and headed her way. He laid a rap upon her passage door, But the silence made him rap that much more. Livid, his senses filled with rage and hate. It seemed, this night, he would not make a date.  He returned and passed out on the table. No lessons were urgent in this fable. The next morning he was given a shock, When pounding portrayed itself as a knock. An officer said the girl was found dead, But fate had saved him from making her bed. Shadow Vermin Bedbugs come out of the Woodwork and scale the flesh They are looking to drain, Licking their blood-stained lips. Purchase and stifle the Advances designed by Any competition In their vicinity. Within their boxes, they Throw sand in the eyes of  Those whom try to see what It really is they are trying to build. Behind ugly faces, They create the cases, And take solemn vows to Enforce the obeying. They know you will be  Watching what they put in  Front of you, and then coin Invisible phases. The grand ones that play the Tunes for the crowds tickle Fears by scoring key notes On pages they printed. They want you to see what You cannot condone or Believe is happening  Before your liquid eyes. The skies are streaked with whites And clouded with yellows. The morsels are soured With cancerous spices. Funds for the guns and the Militant frauds poison The infrastructure with Economic fallout. Bio Christopher Harold is a poet, photographer and blogger. He lives in Eugene, Oregon.