General Poetry Page Five

Ruthless

Ruthless

the act of cutting

fresh dough hot from the oven,

the strata cut

of a buzz saw through fallen Kauri

the sound of death

from a man choking on Ice Cream

the days end

when rains heavy cut a new path.

Holy

when you sing

hymns that have no meaning

when you bend on knee

to the postulations of dying men,

to the point

of passing the dreaded cudgel on

when sisters

anoint you with fatherhood lasting.

Dreaded

the minefield

of the M1 motorway even-time

those hand grenades

found in UN villages ready for use,

Mary on a donkey

in an age where Toyota rules,

Animals scream

mercy to humans with hearing loss.

Awarded

the death star

with new life to extend existence,

Girly Greengauge

first prize in composition,

Donald Trump

for a rug that makes him look more important,

some passing stranger

for handing on his knowledge of life

Rewarded

for services to Man

all dogs that bark and shit,

for playing the fool

The Queen of England and her family,

Moses, that old guy

for doing the impossible – god willing,

me, the poet

for having the guts to post daily.

Afterthoughts

Lice in the hair

just something to challenge our kids,

Mice in the sugar

little black leftovers mean throw it out,

Rice, blackened in pan

feed it to starving orphans,

Dice, role them hard

your life depends on the outcome.

Ze Nozzythingy

It's got a damned finger magnet,

sits below and between two eyes,

yet guess what, can you see it?

Sure sign you're getting old

rum red and splotchy,

gold and grey hairs sprouting.

As for finger width nostrils

hairs there longer than your eyelashes

and wet with each morning dew.

I pride my nose, have to really

been there all those years and seen

only in fleeting glimpses of mirror time.

Sicky – wicky

I’m so sick

I awoke every forty five minutes

or so

during a busy night.

Got up this morning,

legs gone

chest aching

and bile fighting for space

in a mouth dry from breathing bugs.

Suddenly I did the 100 metres in 3 seconds

the toilet bowl the receptacle

the colour of pineapple juice

hot and spicy

burny throat

and how does it get up the nose.

Baby Starter Kit 101.

Red roses flutter,

love blooms

sweet smells

of amour in the room

a plate of chocolates

garnish her tastes

a dance Rumba

holding waists tight.

We kiss lightly

devour atmosphere

rub chests

where no one may touch

energy electric

spasm of night

the day wanes eerily

the moment of might.

Remove clothing

it interferes

that look in your eye

often cares

under the covers

flesh upon flesh

mingled with sweat

the whole darned mess.

Legs open and close

arms all akimbo

lips locked lavishly

where do we go

the final plunge

the long last ride

pretty damn soon

a baby inside.

Show this to your child

when he or she grows

how baby’s are born

the whole damn show

and maybe they’ll share

their parents delight

when a moment of lust

was borne of the night.

Words that have no right to exist.

If I mouth striata

what am I saying?

a word that sounds like others

but mean nothing all the same.

If I say differentialisation

would the dictionary

or Roget’s Thesaurus

give it the meaning it deserves?

Then there’s timolationary

another puzzle for long crosswords

scrabble matches with too few letters

a missed headline in a well meaning Daily.

I sat and pondered cryptucity,

sounded like something from Egyptology

a museum in a dusty bowl

a word written to trip amateurs.

Crimsonationary

a technical love poem

written by androids on steroids

in households sans books of learning.

Suddenly Thanordinal

leaps out of a mind that screams duplicity

a name once enamoured in love and cherish

now a dictionary pirate sailing the sea of tomes.

The Eyes of Indifference

So who calls what ‘a what’

throws names with racial impunity

who is superior

who has it best

why are things so different

if when you close your eyes

all are the same.

News Item – black men riot against a news item

What’s in an accent

north, south, east or west

which racial slur does it jest?

when you close your ears

who lisps

who mumbles

what step stumbles.

Headlines – White supremacists march for peace.

If you get close

can you sniff

with a nose pinched

taste the indifference

with a sharp tongue

who bites worse

who bloody curses.

Lead TV News run – Asians deny reverse racism

The separation between each of us

is a mere handshake and a word

a word of welcome and hello

is it too hard

give yourself a yard

soon reasons for war

are left at the door.

Radio News Lead – Hispanic makes history?

So why do we have to segregate through creed,

what need we have to blinker

what need to tinker

with the policy

All Man is equal

no not men, women and children too

see what we do?

The Last Page of Holy Books - Addenda

Civilisation has materialised

sensationalized

caused despite

seeks respite

day and night

through darkened eyes

no more whys!

Heartbeats

Only a husband knows this,
sure her friends and family hear it too
but a Husband does it with the thought
It's mine, ours, hers

an ear to a distended belly
the soft pitter patter of a baby growing
alongside the thump thump of the mothers'
feeding.

For nine months, it enthralls
and counts down the first hold
in a nursing home
sterile except for that pitter patter thump thump.

Engineering Feats – Freaks of Nature

Look, I’m a teacher, I say - you do! Got it?

Now over in Australia is the biggest piece of space junk in the known world,

Uluru the local aborigines call it

one solid red rock planted gently in a vagrant desert.

Set your eyes on possibilities right now, ya hear.

Now on the highest part of the world is Mt Everest

Qomolangma or Sagarmatha or Chomolungma ཇོ་མོ་གླང་མ such names we never hear uttered

shameful really when such magnificence

doesn’t deserve Everest.

Wake up boy, am I boring you, here fetch my cane!

But deeper than Chomolungma is high

is the Marianas trench,

far deeper than anything on Earth

no one knows what lives in it’s 37,000 foot depths.

When I say listen you’re meant to learn, OK!!

Down south in Antarctica is a millennia of ice

disguised as glaciers and floes

one chunk the size of Sri Lanka broke off in 1995

Yes a small message that natures on the charge

(what – global warming you say – Hogsteeth).

Sir, can I go to the toilet? I need to D/L some data.

Hurry away little boy and as you watch

the water in the bowl

think that 97% of the Earths water is salt

yes a mere 3% to drink and pee into

look after it well.

Now the last tidbit of information.

The Moon is a satellite of Earth,

If it left Its orbit, it’d take all the water

on this planet with it (leastways anchor

it to the ceiling)

Ok, I made that up to scare you,

please expunge from notes.

The Taste of You

The soft patter of your feet

as you dance on the wool pile carpet

the whirring aroma of your passing

as you twirl yourself under my eyes,

the sensation of monogamy

as you give birth to my daughter,

the green of envy

as you cuddle our infant,

the breeze of power

as you suckle from the breast,

the rise of knowledge

as you brush my hair and moustache

the waning of the night

as you spin yarns in morning glory,

the crackle of rice frying

as you send me off to work

the humour of your kiss

as your tongue speaks a foreign language

the weapons of war

you collect to prevent disaster

the time of your life

as we dance sans Volta in Disneyland

the rays of the sun

shining from your golden locks

the blue of your teeth

wet from a chalking instruction

the dinners romantic

as we celebrate a 21^st anniversary

the touch of your brooms

as sweeps settle chimney dust

the racing of horses

as your hair pales to gray

the days passing ships

as my gait stumbles in yours

the smile you give me

a knowing plethora of distance

the raising of a 16 year old

your accomplishment to share

my days as a father

past through separation

my love for a woman

I admire with no doubt

the end for all endeavours

just a passing of the day

the rift we once never saw

now a reality of generalization.

No ( or The return of Johnny Stiltwalker)

South Central Arizona

a railway station with No Name on it’s sign;

the dust of devil-winds

blowing sightlessness

in a population not used to news.

The train stands quiet

pouring life through diesel engines,

as a figure stands down to the platform

the crutch noticeable

and clutched with unfamiliarity.

The Iraq War walks with a legless limp

swatting Mayflies from a furrowed brow

and dragging a scarred kitbag

to an old destination

lacking a son for so long now.

John Ross the taxi driver

also legless - Vietnam vet

sees the figure -

the flashback hits

freezes hands to a worn steering wheel

sweat beading from a dust worn forehead

Iraq meets Vietnam in a simple phrase

“122 Neiderheimer Avenue, cabby”

chucks his bag in back of the dying Dodge El Dorado

swings his legless frame

in a fashion not used

to the need to hop –

and slide

into the front seat.

A cough, a trouser raised

another too -

a bond -

silence -

bar the revving of the trusty V8

and dust coughing from an exhaust

used to polluting.

Home,

no bombs

no rapid fire rifles,

no unending night patrols,

no ducking laser sights, whizzing hand grenades

no more need to kiss his mother each night on patrol.

Just the dust laden wind-whirls,

just a chance to rest one leg,

just a chance to rekindle lost love

just a need to forget

to find a future

perhaps as a cabby?

perhaps anything if folks don’t shy away,

yes a returning hero had a dust storm for a reception

no family

no mayoral flag waving

no No Name Chronicle lead article

just the sound of a rusty V8 and buildings straining,

with the weight of sand

and wind blown train whistles.

The dogs in Iraq have plenty of meat.

The Cold War

Ice

a pane

of glass scars

memories deep

as the puddle fills -

the tide of well-spring lakes

spill loving tears to mask crimes

inflicted on Floes drifting north

in worlds gone mad for frozen love –

we pass bad smokes to no one as gifts.

Rhyme – no reason.

We supplicate

to dedicate

you replicate

I masturbate

we reach a height

in dead of night

never lose sight

of God’s Holy might

There’s anywhere

near nowhere

a place held dear

when we run with fear

in the heat of day

we party and play

you straight, me gay

we want it that way.

You will socialize

I can victimize

the cake doth rise

we show surprise

the days are long

we sing a song

the daily throng

does us do wrong.

My mind is demure

I swoon to your lure

your lips so pure

our love endure

we dance till dawn

whence cometh the yawn,

goods we pawn

and baby is born.

The minds are thighs

we say goodbyes

we touch eyes

romanticize

the lift goes down

I walk to town

your tears do drown

me the clown.

Sadly times pass

I scratch my arse

you show me class

Blue Green Grass,

I say farewell,

you no longer tell,

we stray to hell

please don’t yell

The distance great

we once were irate

distance now hate

served on a plate

the time it sighs

for goodbyes

no more whys

poem dies.

An English Country garden

Massive conifer hedgerow surrounding style -

pretty gardenias and rhododendron

vying for space as head flower in a place

where space is a premium, ask the roses.

Take a picture and paint it with water colours

the hue of the flowers cut to enhance inner living -

see bluebells tinkle in a warm summer zephyr,

the weeping willow in the middle drips fresh tears.

The green of twice weekly mown lawn separates

flower beds like a dormitory set in rows,

the day’s shadows cast grey meaninglessly

over pansy reds and violets purple, they grow.

Sally sits in the summer house warding flies

and mosquitoes in hot summery heat,

popping seeds from Sweet Peas for regrowth

in flowerbed seventeen, next the Lemon tree.

Another Day in Danny O'Hare's Harem

"Jesus friggin' christ woman!
When I say give me a blow job,
I don't mean hoover the lounge carpet."

Danny O'Hare's one of them old school Irishman,
Roman Catholic to the core,
except for his thoughts on polygamy.

See his tenement in the Bronx,
dull brick facade,
black kids throwing graffitti
on windows boarded from previous missile attacks,
protecting the nine rooms
littered with pantyhose and wasted perfume bottles.

Each room a cornucopia of wasting life,
Danny's little pets for his sexual prowess,

"Fuck me now Alicia,
and everytime Alicia Keyes sings,
you come running."

"Yes master"

Most are late teens,
supposedly working an Irish sweat shop,
they sweat alright, and they get paid,
retired cops tend to be loaded.

I hear you ask, why don't they leave?
I answer, why don't sheep leave the safety
of a fenced off paddock free from wolves?

Yeah, maybe too many conundrums to ponder here,
too many arguments against,
but one certainty,
Danny owns nine women,
and he's a right bastard too.

I guess they all love the Benjamin Franklin
he's willing to part with.

High Road to Immortality

Burnt sienna highways,
dusty mesquite rolling,
decay of civilisation evident
in the rusty hulks
of cars and trucks
and skeletal remains.

There is a man who shouts from a loudspeaker,
calls for the patriots to murder and maim,
in the name of the Eagle and the Stars and Stripes,
a man reminiscent of a wilting tree.

"Oil makes the world go round"

Yet the corridors of normal life
echo with the howls of innocence lost,
with the groans of disbelief,
with the ever present shout of death,
the understanding they were duped.

A baby is born under a cottonwood,
hidden from the riders of the Man,
hidden from the Eyes in The Sky,
mother a rarity in a world of Ends
succouring, not succumbing
to the Dogs of Indifference.

Did no one see the whillywhoops
of desert storms and oil embargoes,
see the demise of democracy
and capitalistic endeavours,
see the ever present March of the Saudi,
the oil dollar and those it owned,
see glass towers send shards of rot
to empty pavements below?

Had they seen, would it have mattered?

In far off lands, The Eagle flutters
in immortality, a memory
life goes on, no one dares ask
what of that country?
what of the ruination?
what if the people had been awake?
Aware!

What if's are for Romans and Britains,
for empires that come and go,
for Elephants and Hannibals,
not for little nations that survive
the plutocracy of deceit
of bigger countries.

Mesquite is a lonely bush,
rolls in the winds of the Texas Panhandle,
rolls in the deserts of The Eagle,
nowhere else in the world does it blow
it's lonely trumpet of Gone.

The Trick to Matrimonial Ambience

You sit there in your imperious womanhood,
bemoan years of wasted matrimony,
moan about my part in your own demise,
sweat profusely when you spy the mirror,
you take a lie detector test every time
you open your mouth, I answer with misery,
drench yourself in vodka-stained tears,
and call me a womaniser and drunkard.

Speak to me, bitch, I deserve that much!

That old cliche, takes two to tango,
yet my two step pales into insignificance
to the deceit you throw at me every day,
the neighbour with the Gene Kelly tip toes,
the milkman with tupenny silver tops,
the butcher with meat fresh every day,
the insurance salesman once a bloody month,
I married you once, now I no longer know you.

Speak to me bitch, cat got your damn tongue!

I find basted roasts two days old in the fridge
when I've been away for a whole damn week,
I smell colognes that make other men present,
see your legs shaved when you hold out on me,
yes, I want you to change, or a divorce,
but more importantly, speak to me, woman,
let me know where I have failed you, if I have,
give me the rights of passage, so I know my journey,

Speak to me bitch, I respect your word, if not you!

Ghosts in pot plants and Nana's old boots

Remember those innocent days,
Ma and Pa dragging your childlike ass
all the way across miles of boring country,
to that old house, paint flaking,
and pot plants all over the goddamed place.

Recall the smell of fresh scones always baking,
an old woman in a pinny, flour smudges galore,
you'd run and hide from her, friendly as she was,
she always just gave you a jolt of the what ifs.

So whilst ya folks shot the breeze with the ancient crone,
you'd sit on the porch, and try catch butterflies,
pull the wings off stray grasshoppers,
never think of the consequences,
'til one minute, and those old boots she wore,
spoke to you, yes you, in brisk bootish.

You checked them out, edged closer
and nothing, nothing but the pot plants whispering,
"ya shouldn't oughta done that to thems creatures,"
then the damned boots echoed the plants.

Suddenly you wanted your Ma, or Pa
and you needed, no, desperately wanted,
to be back on the road watching whizzing fields
and animals feeding and sleeping,
anywhere but not here, not those boots,

not those plants and their mocking tease,
then you hear her, an ominous chortle,
maybe some joke, maybe her boots had told her,
the sweat on your brow knows you want to run,

then you pick up the grasshoppers,
try to repair them, to unmake the damage,
to stop those damn things mocking your evil,
the tears stream, running a miasma of nightmares to come.

Then she comes out and sees you,
places a hand on your shoulder
a handkerchief on your tears
and whispers to you

"thems old boots and potted plants,
theys know, yes theys know,
and they's being kind to you,
be telling you the ways things be around here,
and you listened,
good boy"

and she takes your hand,
leads you matriarchly into the inner sanctum,
places a plate of fresh scones and raspberry jam,
some whipped cream and lemonade,
your fears dissipate, tears dry,
Ma and Pa smile, knowingly.

You drive away
and to this day,
the echoes of ghosts in the pot plants
and in Grandma's old boots
live in a memory that lives dreams,
that lived to be a botanist and zoologist,
and one that appreciates good simple food.

Bomb Blast in Baghdad

You could have done something,
anything,
procrastination was fine,
till the dust settled
and the ringing in your ears stopped.

Could have picked up the severed left leg,
(you could see it was a left one)
given it back to the remnants of Joe
lying prone on the pavement
the shrapnel protruding from his once proud back
meant for you, you'd seen it,
ducked
behind poor Joe.

The taste of death strong now
in the midday heat,
mingled with kebabs scattered
where once stood Youssef's Kebab Stand
now a gaping hole
full of afternoon dust
and mourning wails of the women.

You feel the stickiness of your own arms,
glass shards jutting at obscure angles,
slow trickles of blood, nothing threatening,
no pain,

the pain is in the lonely leg
and it's deceased owner,
in the chaos of Lower Baghdad
after another militant attack of insanity.

Who dies?
Who lives?
Who cares?
Just faceless no-names on a busy street,
a target unsure, general mayhem
and a cause that is lost in irreverence.

You lean down, the ringing gone,
concrete dust spat out of a wettish mouth,
pick up Joe's favourite left
and place it in his still arms,
sad irony in that,
he was always pulling someones leg.

The Yen of I, Me - Man

Born of middle class,
backwater New Zealand,
a kid of adventure
in a household always on the move,
fluid, never affluent.

Tall trees, equally taller mountains,
my playground of youth,
with a brother and two sisters
to share the thrill of life,
learnt from some wayward errors,
not crime you understand.

Schooled in the above average of grades
made it through college only to escape,
escape a father domineering
to a new life upon the waves,
on grey warships to start with,
then the white of survey vessels.

Managed to marry and have kids,
and pass down my heritage,
my background need for travel
and to enjoy life while you can,
provider, provided, providence
all necessities of growing old.

Now, a reflective poet,
a counsellor of internet friends,
looking forward to immortality,
in penmanship, and of tales to be told,
leave a mark, all we ask,
the journey of a man (or woman).

Man of Peace, nation maker

Little bent man,
hailed from South Africa
but managed to galvanise a nation
a quarter away across the world,
walked with crooked stick,
and simple garb,
into the minds
of India.

Tasted racism,
segregation and wrongs,
displaced people in a misplaced country,
went home to his homeland,
helped to build new bridges
of hope in a people
long subdued
by England.

Walked the long
dusty roads from Calcutta
to Mumbai, and Srinigar,
Hindu's, Seikhs, Muslims,
all together for a Free India,
his banner, no resistance,
no bloodshed,
no anger.

Passive to this day,
oft seen in photos under a tree
with his people, his followers,
his believers that they could do this,
and in a sunset over Goa
the ravens caw at the
train of change,
a new freedom.

Out walked the imperialists,
in walked home rule, Ghandi it's leader,
a nation was born, prospered,
split too, but that was destiny,
still though, the change was made
was perpetrated
by a robed ancient
and his promise
of freedom.

Skipping Stones

I remember as a young boy,
going down to the river
and finding the flat stones,
the "skippers" that would be sent out
with a whip of my arm, across the surface
and leave ringlets
as they skipped along.

The circles would start out great
and grow greater, and as the stone travelled,
they'd get smaller,
in size and in intensity.

I'd try to get more than ten
on a flat piece of water,
to show how my skill was better,
better than my brother's
or my friends,
to see who was best,
who was king of the Skippers.

Now I am old,
and I see the meaning of those skips,
the meaning of the widening circles,
it was the story of life and our impact on it,
the story started big, and bold,
and with each skip,
it diminished, till eventually
we all sink like a stone
into a flat river.

Our mark is intransigent,
a ripple big to begin with,
but diminishing with each impact,
and as the skips converge at the end,
our mark is minimal,
disinterested,
and those who watch see us disappear.

Until one day,
when a flood washes the stone
back on the riverbank,
and another kid with skipping stones
in his youthful sight,
tries to match his skill with long past skippers
and grows old wondering about the stone,
about life,
about those that came before,
about himself.

The Blood of our Pasts

He was just a small kid really,
young enough to pick Grasshopper wings,
too old to poo his nappy and play gaga,
tall enough to stand at the kitchen sink
make Raspberry Jam with Mum,
his own bowl and spatula,
his own raspberries.

He sits there now, the needle in his arm,
thinking back, ten, no twelve years,
the vivid scene inked on his memory,
a memory fast fading with each hit,
a life diminishing as if raspberries
were an unwelcome interlude.

Sits in a padded room, tomato sauce
smearing walls long lost in fading white,
stares with psychotic distemper at a memory,
the red eliciting familiarity, lost now-
like his mind, like the remnants of his past
and future, wrapped in social decay.

On a paupers grave, a jar, long lost of label-
a token to his memory, a mother's right
to remember him as he once was,
innocence cupped in a glass container
that now holds homemade Raspberry Jam,
and the blood of his youth, his life.

Identifying sparks in innocence

A pink face,
glowing expectantly in youth,
plays a trick on your mind
when it asks an adult question,
you think a hurried answer
behind a knowing smile,
wonder how you started,
how your face glowed
with the knowledge of the unaware?

Maybe taste an eclair for the first time
and joy at the flavours of chocolate
and cream, the same joy each time
a new leaf of knowledge is unfurled.

Sunday morning on a cross channel ferry

You know sunday morning,
hammers banging staccato
on the inside bell of your brain.
Think sea air and a trip
across the channel to Waiheke
might blow the cobwebs firmly out.

Pay the ferryman, a rusty dollar
he smiles that I-don't-care smile
enough to force you towards
a plank of dubious construction,
tip toe with Tiny Tim singing,
up the gangway to a rocking cradle.

Observe faces in morning delight
or decay, like the lady with the thick
gabardine coat, blue/grey like her mood.
She mellows your hangover, feel pity-
duck into the miniskirt of a scantily clad
young lady smelling of fresh Chanel
and stale sex from the night before.

Chaucer seems out of place here,
creeps from your vision and writes
several passages on dogs and owners
skirting the gunwhales and seagulls,
the sound of a ships horn echoes
like more hammers in your skull,
hold hands on head and people
recognise your malaise, laugh haughtily.

Feel the thrum of engines panting
and the jerk of ropes from bollards
as the ferry slips it's berth, and chugs out
into the busy seaway, a sunny day
see Windsurfers dance across harbour
cheating death as encroaching
container ships pass, creating huge wakes
that you see will rock your stomach soon.

She smiles at you, the frumpish beauty
front row center, in delicate green,
a Womans Weekly hiding her chest,
her delights you might gauge her on,
you don't smile back, a brain lock in place
denies social contact, just observations
and recording the data of a Sunday trip.

Glancing at your watch, you time the past,
watch the future scream ahead and invite
you to come play, to taste delights
that might otherwise jump at you.
But all you see is a destination, no reason
to be there, or to come back, a need
to just do something and remember it
for what it is worth if you want to.

The journey draws to its close
the brightness of blue and white awnings
an invitation to party outdoors,
or to just repay the ferryman,
return to whence you came,
for heaven knows why, such is life,
the manner a hangover takes,
no lucid thought, just the need to do.

Then you awake, watch the blurry vision
of a TV screen, blue and white
sailboats and ferries crossing harbours
and you reach for a hair of the dog
bark orders at a new hangover pending,
reach for the remote, and blink, gone.
Not however the smell of Chanel and fresh sex.

The True Meaning of Mother Earth

In the beginning there was the Sun,
ol' Father Sol, who farted one day
and put into orbit,
a planet,
and yes he planned it that way.

This planet grew, matured really,
and for what it is worth
we'll call it Mother Earth.
She floated on an orbit,
minding her own business
when one day,
ol' Man Sol got randy
and fired a shot into her path.

Poor young Earth, virgin she was
expected to take his seed
not knowing what was to happen,
she swelled
and grew, a bulge so spectacular,
that in her haste to be rid of it
she erupted,
and a baby planet, a boy,
entered the realm,
Mercury.

And a few eons later,
ol' Father Sol got randy again,
and Venus was born,
and so it went on,
until loveable Pluto, the vagrant wanderer
was expelled into the depths of space.

And you know all those great eruptions we hear about,
volcanoes going off with a huge bang,
yep, another planet, Janet
and another big unexplained hole

in archeological history.

A drop of rain on a podocarp leaf

In a still forest of ancient trees,
the silent whisper of life
echoes harshly to the sound
of rain, intruding bludgeonly.

Soft leaves bend and bow
to the weight of water
which runs from the sky
and lands softly on leaves
growing to oxygen production
and a need to feed the air.

It never leaves a trail, a soft footprint
to mark it's travel across greenery,
forces the leaf to bend under combinations
until a waterfall rushes maddenly
to the ground, and the leaf returns
to take the next onslaught in its wake.

Never mind the power of the deluge,
the power of resilience in nature
is such that the gentleness
of an emerald leaf is never bowed for long,
strong enough though to manage the intrusion
that threatens to shred it from a limb.