November Chills Remind Me
As November chill creeps in
I think of June and a friend
Sun beaming so eagerly down
our spot at the edge of town
Silent moments holding me
to a time and her pitiful plea
O' that this day last forever
and my love leave me never
She saw farther than I
the thought made her cry
I thought her so wrong
right she was all along
Clime cooled and so did we
leaves fell from our tree
October faded swiftly away
Parted on a chilly November day
November chills I think of her
so gone, I know not where
Shall June ever come again
will ever I see my friend
Sun shines down upon my Soul
keeping her should have been my goal.
R.J. Lindley 09, 11, 1976
note: Tomorrow will be two weeks and no new writes by me.
That is other than my private writings at home..
Found this in a old poetry book tucked in a chest with
divorce papers from my first wife.
Seemed fitting to present it because , well its November now.
Answer, no never saw her again. She moved away, I lost contact.
Life sent its distractions and the universe spun ever onward..
I'm sure this hill is where it stood.
Amazing shapes of stuccoed wood.
A glass-brick, neon stream-lined place.
As if it flew from outer space,
A swing band auditorium,
An Art Deco emporium,
When romance, innocent in pace,
From dancing to a teasing chase.
The town grew west in modern haste
And down it came, without a trace.
The war and culture's change in taste,
Predestined doom, the past erased.
The future sighs, with solemn face
The wrecking ball, the glittered waste
No plaque to read "Historic Sight".
The swirling dust, a dance goodnight.
You call this poetry
I'm sorry I must confess
Your recent work
Why, it's a complete mess
Your rhymes aren't good
The story's not compelling
Where's this going
There's really no telling
You think it's clever
I don't mean to criticize
But your latest poem
Put a hurting on my eyes
Are you embarrassed
You didn't print your name
But this looks familiar
So I'll guess just the same
What's that you say..
Oh my, can that be true
No wonder I recognized it
The poet's me and not you
Contest: Linda's "A Poem Not Entered Into A Contest #13"
Poet: Lyric Man
In the garden she said goodbye.
A kiss filled with remorse.
Moonlit memories she asked to forget us
as I promised to try.
Time and addictions.
A change in appearance.
Old vices and new afflictions.
I found comfort with many
and refuge with none.
Life can be a tragic play.
As empty as the night as beautiful
as the setting sun.
Sometimes a vision becomes unclear.
Forgotten lovers guilty eyes.
Did we part under false terms or
A candle's light.
Glows softley and cuts
through the night.
Sanity is only a common state of mind.
To forget is not possible.
For it only takes a single song to remind.
I saw the pain in your eyes.
The sorrow did illuminate the darkness.
Moments go unseen as this statue of a man cries.
I cannot give you my word that it will
be my best.
In that place so far away.
I belive I will never be able to fulfill your
I understand that which could never be.
Trapped in a prison of a memory.
My white-washed bars surrounded me -
they held me as I slept;
they soothed me when the days were long,
and mother’s blue-eyes wept.
A baby girl, six months or less,
awakened from my sleep -
stood up legs as sure as hope;
as strong as flat is steep.
My hands, my saviors, gripped the rail
so I could peek outside –
the bluest sky I’d ever seen,
As tall as it was wide;
came into view - between the blue,
an airplane gliding by,
its smoky streamer like a flag,
across my memory’s sky...
The memory is a simple one -
a window, sky, and plane -
but in my heart, it's heaven's door
and there it shall remain.
I’ve hung it on my memory’s wall
Between that life and this –
It covers every hole I’ve dug
In sorrow’s vast abyss.
This picture brings the special peace
I knew when I was small –
Where mother’s just beyond the door,
and waiting for my call…
*Inspired by Danielle's Earliest Memory contest. I have blocked out almost every memory
from my childhood, and only a very few gems remain - this is the first. and I will treasure it
Wind so cold.
Fondles my face.
The tears from heaven.
I wonder if i wish
to stop them
The little voice in me says,
Wait, don't go.
Stay a little longer. I plead.
Sing for me today, rain.
With the gliding rhythm on my piano,
Chilly Wind, caress my bare skin
with the pure coldness that you bring.
like it's my first time in the snow.
the fire tree never fades in the picture.
The yellow sunkissed leaves, too.
What is it about Summer and Fall
that I can't forget?
Memories. Sweet imaginations.
The chilly rain. The misty wind.
You are here.
Freeze me with the sharp coldness you give.
Calm me. Maybe, comfort me.
And, if you leave
Will you visit me when summertime comes?
Before it gets too late
And again I fold.
Memory is my fading friend
of millennial days transpired—
faithful scribe and guardian
who measured mercy and intent
and gauged love’s joyful glint—
yet never turned from rutted path
when sorrow’s specter, tinged
in mottled shades of gray and black,
sought only to inveigh.
Dissembled memories puzzle,
viewed dimly from afar—
where motes of recollection dust
swirl in thoughtless disarray.
I stepped within to query,
asked what’s to be done,
but rueful silence was
the sole reply of ones
not only deaf but mute.
Then appeared a trove of treasured books,
pages crisp and white, without a crease—
gatherings firm, oblivious of age.
I lightly touched the gilded words,
their selfsame title: Wisdom: Gift of Time;
the Author’s name was mine.
I nodded, smiled and then withdrew
aware at once of where I was,
secure in all I knew.
1st Place, Portrait of a Poet, Gautami, Phookan
seconds, minutes, hours and days
these pass to most in uneventful ways
s'o's' is a common phrase
yet to some times pass in torment and haze
a sound, a smell, a sight we glean
can nudge the mind to places more mean
places and times long ago pushed away
visit the mind with a will to stay
we know it is troubling and a not wanted visit
but the taste is bitter or sweet, which is it
some say be strong and pass it away
once the claws are set they want to stay
deep in the mind the battle is fierce
your heart, your soul, the claws will pierce
seconds are minutes, minutes are hours
hours are days as life darkens and sours
not battles rage or depth of sea
no limits set for him or me
for circumstances vary of tragedy and pain
no one can limit loss and gain
we must reach inside and pull ourselves free
not to live as him but to live as me
Robert Gene Stoner Jr ©
In moments when the twilight sparks
To gently flare as dark embarks,
Tender comes eve swinging a hum
While air-brushed clouds, on flight, succumb.
Yet, through the lull of sky, I hear
Their voices billow quite unclear
Whispering mildly, still I know
Those refrains from seasons ago.
Somehow, before the call of morn
When foggy mist glides on hawthorns,
And daybreak hails a new sunset
I trace past journeys now at rest.
Amidst the quiver of my dreams,
Beloved voices float midstream
On to pathways that bless each name;
Marked deeply in my soul, aflame.
Andrea Dietrich's Let's Get Technical Contest
In my quiet times I often try,
To remember places I've been.
To recall folk I have passed by,
And sights that I have seen.
There is nothing wrong with my mind,
Sometimes my memory is quite refined.
I think it's filled over many a year,
With so much junk, nothing seems clear.
So, I made up my mind to write it all down,
To recall it all caused me to frown
It started like I was in the dark,
A memory flared, I was in the park.
That day in the park was just the lever,
I found my mind was as good as ever.
Tho' times and places got out of line,
I wrote it all down, now wasn't I clever!
I'm nearly at the end of my story,
A journey I'm glad that I took.
For my grandsons to read in years to come,
I'll call it Granddads Book.
© Dave Timperley 2012.
I’d like to pretend that my hands aren’t dirty
from the soap of mental suppression,
that the callouses are from hard work,
and not from picking my bones back up
off the floor on a daily basis;
ragged, dry, and weary.
Every fairy tale has a root,
stapled into the hard soil of truth.
They all have a moral,
some sort of clerical error
born from life’s shadow.
We watch, hoping to learn
from the missteps of someone
else’s intrepid imagination,
some 4D revelation singing
lullabies to the young heart
And they bend to the fickle
will of greedy creativity,
making the yoke less bitter
so that we can tongue the purge
of denial without pouting.
I’d like to pretend that my hands are clean,
that I don’t whisper cold lies into your palms,
watch you drink from the frosted glass
of my sincerity; Hope that you don’t blink,
that you won’t notice the blood bubbling
up, and over my shiver before you finally
finish this story.
I just want you to understand.
This isn’t poison.
This is merely me bleeding out,
and hoping you’ll learn to love the
taste of fire kissed oxymoronic metaphors,
served up with juiced will and the vegan
flesh of my inhibition.
So that you can see through my eyes,
know where I have been,
and how it felt to be consumed.
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.
A new photograph floats to the surface
Playfully dressing up as the world around me
Hat, striped socks and all
Tiptoeing at the top for one last sweet moment
Before sinking back into my ocean mind.
One after another they arrive
Steeping my eyes in the world
As the minds shutter, ever fluttering
Strings together this conscious stream I play in.
My photographs fade in time’s wrinkled arms.
Joining their brothers and sisters at the ocean floor,
They hold hands and try to answer the question that is always asking itself:
Who am I?
I just wanted to let you know
That I have this love for you...
Although I'm not fast to show
For you, there's nothing I wouldn't do
And I can't control this love
No matter what I try to do...
While I know our lives are separating
Which has got me pretty blue
I just want you to know
How much I love you...
Because I was blinded by shyness
And now my heart's feeling rugged
So this here's An Ode To My Beloved
Oh how I still see you every night in my mind
You're the best girl I feel I'll ever find
And when my eyes would fall upon your smile
My heart would be put on trial
And so if nothing else, I want to let you know
That I'll always love you, that my hearts beat
For you, won't ever slow...
Because I was blinded by shyness
And now my heart's feeling rugged
So this here's An Ode To My Beloved
So I wish you happiness beyond compare
And sorry for the times I couldn't help but stare
Caring, passionate, smart, and loving
From my heart, to you, I'll never be shoving
You will always be in my heart
No matter where we go, how far we drift apart...
Goodbye My Love...
I do not know?
The Beach of Promises
Fingers entwined, barely touching,
turquoise waters teasing your dancing toes,
strolling along that serene deserted beach,
our promised dreams within aching reach.
Hands clasped, holding on,
sea-breezes tickling the nape of your neck,
walking together, alone, vowing to never breach,
the dreams dreamed on that faraway velvet beach.
Hands in my pockets, alone,
traces of you linger, teasing,
lost in my scribbles, your memory fading out of reach,
my thoughts ablaze, now and then,
catching a whiff of your fragrance,
wafting through alleyways of nostalgia,
your hand in mine on our pristine beach.
Born American, sixth generation of great-grands all German,
not much liking sausage or sauerkraut, English speaking all the way,
except the Germany of my ancestry was fought over and broken
so I’m a bit of France, Germany, Poland, Hungary all the Holy
Roman empire, dissolved down, fought over, egotized, horrified
and remade Into some new state where English is as common as German.
We share a love of flowers in the face of cold and rain, I drink less beer
and wine, meet up somewhere, anywhere around the world on a beach.
From my parents and grandparents, I know to serve up too much food
seven sweets, seven sours and drink and whirl the night away to a band.
Hardworking sorts, unafraid of a little dirt, loving dirt, the turnover
and young sprout brought to fruit, wearing overalls and then washing up.
To sit before a pressed linen table cloth, served up on the finest china,
the cha in my father’s name, the uff da, and other exclamations.
The morning rosaries, the blessed churches where we give thanks for all good
and the setting aside of pride while we work together to make our food.
Sure there are aprons for cooking. Shorts for summertime. A dive into any pool.
What do I know of being German, not much, it's just somewhere in my roots.
It's been a good run
To the back side of sixty,
The short side of time.
First Hollywood kiss
Behind a pink crepe myrtle.
Thanks, Patsy Werner.
High school was okay.
Didn't help me to focus;
So, my mind wandered.
Surfed Bonzai Pipeline,
Big waves break into lava.
What made me do it?
I wondered why I was there.
Smoking pot. Stereo.
Good fun in the seventies.
And three wives later,
I finally found true love.
We're still together.
My destitute heart,
Saved by the sweetest angel.
I love you, Sandy.
Sooners are my team.
Most winning football program
In the Modern Era.
I am retired now.
But I have plenty to do.
I've been writing more.
Perhaps I will write a book.
I have many tales.
I'd chase young girls; but,
Girls with a "grampa" fetish
Are so hard to find.
If I am lucky,
I will just drop dead one day.
With my peace of mind.
Yes, made a good run
To the back side of sixty,
The short side of time.
Let them say I was a simple, stubborn person,
hypersensative or insensative, a dispenser or partial justice,
a person of particular patience,
may those who encountered me in moments of bliss or blight,
in instances of charity, charisma or condemnation speak of me ruefully & beautifully,
some will surely say that I was apolitical, asexual, atypical,
an atheist an animist, a racist or an altruist, a want to be soldier,
a combatant for my liberty,
others, I suppose, that I was selfish as sin,
courteous like kindness, and furious as a frustrated phantom,
maybe they'll say I was gay or anticompliance,
I do not dare require truth, fact or fiction from my bifurcated biographers,
I only ask for their breath,
their rosey & ruse recollections of my life so stark,
let them say that they knew me,
let them say that I lived,
that I lived lovingly, lonesomely, and learnedly,
let them witness my reality like laughter in the dark -
Ah quanta nostalgia
Ah what memories
Mentre tutto va
When everything’s going
Oltre I limiti della mia fantasia
Beyond your wildest dreams
Dove tutto e paradise se
Where all is paradise
Giorni di liberta di festa
A day of freedom and celebration
La musica dolce suorna
The sweet music plays
Io pensavo e stato giusto
I thought it was right
Voli e brividi
Thrills and dreams
Lost and alone.
In the land of shadows.
Blue skies coming thru.
I hint about it at times.
Though never really say it.
I wonder, do they know?
Can they tell by my words?
Or by my silence in place.
I've turned my other cheek.
As I pretend it never happened.
All those barbecues in days past.
I wonder if anyone really knew ?
jan , 15th 2013 Tues
Don't look this way
For I have been burned in the face.
Defeat and captured
Only released by the sound of my breathing.
From dust till dawn
I say look away for I no longer wish for you to see me.
Released the blood from my eyes.
Look away for I have you placed in my heart
I wish you not to see me this way.
Though I be burn ,torn,tattered and fatal wounded
Shall my breathing keep me sane.
May you memory keep me warm
See these words I speak,hear me breathing so shallow.
Feel the darkness that formed in my eyes
Since this is my mind I may be released.
But forever trapped in a maze that brings
Me up to drag me down.
Look away for I am burned in the face
As long as you remember your in my heart,
And memory I shall be in yours.
So I shall say look away
For I am burned tattered and torn inside my mind.
Just look away
I do not know?
Another voice enters this information spectrum, omitting dictation unheard by anyone. Lost echoes repeating into thinned obscurity, forever unknown. But your words exist, some indefinitely; your original waves undulate through air from experience. Vocalize innermost thoughts offered by U.
Based on a poetry form created by David Williams: start by using a word beginning with 'A' then use a consonant, 'E' then a con., 'I' then a con., 'O' then a con., 'U' then a con.; repeat.
the past recedes and what
was once a tsunami
of energy, exaltation and intent
or a depression of sadness and despair
play out into waves and troughs
to ripples of recognition,
to a becalmed sea.
your resolve to remember always,
that awesome victory,
or deathly loss,
to the day you find that
you haven't thought of it
and now the details are
caricatures and cartoons that
you feel guilty and petty
for even mentioning.
(Dedicated to Folake)
Your eyes, woman
are like twilight rainbow
amorously bearing aloft passions of mine
toward androcytic ecstacy.
They tell of endless lights.
Night skies clarion the warmth of you
keep me balled-up till
i am tilted to your adorned essence.
May I call up words to adore you,
agglomerate them into a panoply of worshippers
unsandalled before you
like Moses at the burning bush.
And now you seem to fall asleep
but you tell me it's the heavy night
bidding toward a sunny dawn
wherein our love is lighted.
Slowly I let you fall asleep
impatient with the long night
waiting to gaze once more
into the eyes of my lovely love.
Then a lip is placed on yours
and you rouse up wide-eyed
smiling at my romantic move.
We enjoyed the night, cruising on.
Green bark a prism creates,
Feel the pull of earth, you must.
Rotates, a slime of endless hates,
Can hold me not, this world’s crust.
Friendship’s ties, isolation Deflates,
Succumbs, my spaceship, to bitter rust.
Mist, my soul forever permeates,
Lift-off, booms the rocket’s thrust.
My spirit when light returns, elates,
Swamps swell, swallowed hope’s swirling dust.
Trapped, I am, until student from fate
Arrives to learn; Cloud City or bust.
Mama cried when Papa died,
he was killed by a drunk on the interstate;
but Mama stopped shedding tears,
for she had a daughter yet to raise.
Mama cried when Becky died,
she was killed by an abusive husband;
but Mama stopped shedding tears,
for she had a grandson yet to raise.
Mama cried when Bobby died,
he was killed by an IED in Afghanistan;
but Mama stopped shedding tears,
for she had her own life yet to live.
No one on earth cried when Mama died,
she was killed by a deranged drug addicted junkie
for the seventeen dollars and change she had in her purse;
but the angels cried in paradise when Mama died.
On The Road Back
Serious illness instructs its victims
In the miracle of the normal life.
Spend time starting over on things you never think of,
And a new appreciation dawns
For the marvel of Being-in-the-World.
Crisis finally ended, they move me down
So I may eat like a human again and gain the strength
To walk geriatrically about the ward
Creepingly, yet exulting in my newfound freedom
From the Sargasso Sea of lines that bound me for so long.
Soon they would send me home
To where Gulliver's god asserts his primacy.
There is in every life that question never asked aloud,
Yet waits for its whisper in misfortune's ear:
Why go on?
Why the trouble of going on
When we know all things, after all,
Make an end of themselves?
What purpose served when Summer's light gives way again
To Winter's dark, itself to give way once more
Before the furious blooms of Spring,
This cycling of changes running blindly 'round
'Til all together, when at last we're called away from being
Will soon enough leave not even faint memory
That ever we, or they, had been?
Why go on,
When all are orphaned in the end,
When in due time Time itself will cease to march
When even God may wonder
To what end He set it all in motion for,
Leaving only an original Mystery
To occupy Forever?
Yet still all things contrive to persevere, especially ourselves,
Despite our cursed knowledge of Finality,
Knowing that none shall escape eclipsion,
But sensing that the weight
Of whatever we have made of our lives
Will add its dram of meaning
When the sum of it all is balanced together
In the great equation of existence.
We go on for the honor of going on,
Because there is no road back
And the bridges burn themselves behind us as we go.
The going is its own meaning
Because all moments matter to those they happen to,
Are defined by those they happen to -
And in the happening
Each soul makes its bright flash in the infinite dark,
Illumines itself in silent declaration
That it once was, and dared to be,
Despite the vanishing that follows.
When all is said and over,
It's perhaps best we measure ourselves
Against the blazing stars and wheeling galaxies
To find that we come out the larger
Than they in all their magnificence,
In our tiny, burning brilliance.
God made all people
But some better than others?
Stop being silly.
You became my best friend, someone I would never ignore.
I know I was selfish, but I wanted more.
She became the one I wanted, and the one I got.
She definitely became the one who showed me love,
And taught me the past should be forgot.
To me she is a memory,
I do sometimes wonder if she remembers’ me.
Constantly she said you loved me I knew she lied,
I could see the fear in her eyes.
I’m letting the pain out,
With out any doubts.
I have to hurry up and let it go,
Before this pain consumes me and I lose control.
When she is around I have to wait a while,
See she doesn’t know but I have to force a smile.
I’ve moved on, so did you.
It’s scary to know you love me too.
Sure I could find someone else so I did not always feel so alone.
But they could never be you I would never feel like I am home.
This poem is for those people who can’t move on…..
I do not know?
(for the countless women, names unknown, who bore the brunt of Apartheid, and who fought the racist system at great cost to themselves and their families, and for my mother, Zubeida Moolla)
Pregnant, your husband on the run,
your daughter, a child, a few years old,
they hauled you in, these brutish men,
into the bowels of Apartheid's racist hell.
They wanted information, you gave them nothing,
these savage men, who skin happened to be lighter,
and white was right in South Africa back then,
but, you did not cower, you stood resolute,
you, my mother, faced them down, their power,
their 'racial superiority', their taunts, their threats.
You, my mother, would not, could not break,
You stood firm, you stood tall.
You, like the countless mothers did not break, did not fall.
You told me many things, of the pains, the struggles,
the scraping for scraps, the desolation of separation
from your beloved Tasneem and your beloved Azad,
my elder sister and brother, whom I could not grow
up with, your beloved children separated by time, by place,
by monstrous Apartheid, by brutish men,
whose skin just happened to be lighter.
You told me many things, as I grew older,
of the years in exile, of the winters that grew ever colder.
You were a fighter, for a just cause,
like countless other South African women,
you sacrificed much, you suffered the pangs,
of memories that cut into your bone, your marrow,
you resisted a system, an ideology, brutal and callous and narrow.
Yes, you lived to see freedom arrive, yet you suffered still,
a family torn apart, and struggling to rebuild a life,
all the while, nursing a void, that nothing could ever fill.
I salute you, mother, as I salute the nameless mothers,
the countless sisters, daughters, women of this land,
who fought, sacrificing it all for taking a moral stand.
I salute you, my mother, and though you have passed,
your body interred in your beloved South African soil,
you shall remain, within me, an ever-present reminder,
of the cost of freedom, the struggles, the hunger, the toil.
I salute you!
(for the brave women of South Africa, of all colours,
who fought against racial discrimination and Apartheid)
The fondest memory of a young boy’s drive,
Are those things reminding us we are alive,
As when those physics of natural fortitude,
Rise up to the occasion and start to protrude.
Seemingly the notion is quite uncontrollable,
The mind that takes over is quite consolable,
`T was Love gave us the procreating urge,
Assumption is such, why should we not spurge?
As was this friend of mine who’s name was Berg,
With every young lady he saw, wanted to spurge,
He did saddled himself with three kids and a wife,
Which is fine if mature ,but if not ruins one’s life.
Another fond memory of a young boy alive,
Is all those hot rod cars that he use to drive,
One of my dearest friends lost his life, where and when?
High school graduation on Bayou creek bend.
A four in the floor and a fifth under the seat,
Young boys feel like such a feat is quite neat,
Driving while drunk chancy rich price to pay,
Same as being too young when one hit’s the hay!
This story has no glory, though all parts are true,
Parents seriously need to teach children good pursue,
Apple of God’s eye, tooth for tooth, an eye for an eye,
We have not mercy, when it is judgments we cry!
For Contest: Fondest Memory
In Honor of: Frank Herrera