Long poem by
Gerald Dillenbeck | Details |
Three voices required,
and two students:
Yang as Fr. Time
YinYin as Sr. Gaia
In a college classroom with Win-Win Game Theory written on whiteboard.
Today we are going to role play
a Win-Win enculturation game.
We will define enculturation as
‘the combination of political and economic reiterative relationships and transactions
within a communicating network
The absence of political-economic co-arising redundancy
generates systemic dissonance,
suboptimized positive outcomes, at best,
in which positive information is lost,
putting this enculturation game at risk of turning from Win-Win,
This would result in a suboptimized and, to that extent,
useful for recognizing opportunities to do better,
to do good and fair and justice,
to do Being, fully cooperatively eco-balanced consciousness.
Fr. Time: [In an appropriately low gravelish slow-sucking voice]
I need to play Yang.
Sr. Gaia: [In a lovely round full-chested soprano]
I want to play yang as Yin.
Good, good. OK.
So. let’s imagine that Yang,
played by Fr. Time,
is Romeo Logos,
played by Sr. Gaia,
is Juliet Mythos.
But, this is a Win-Win Game,
so Juliet, of the Mythos family,
chooses to stay planted on lovely Earth
because she loves the Cinderella story,
so maybe she’ll just sleep on her decision about what to do with her life,
and see what happens later in the Prince Charming
as Romeo Logos
Department of her mythic romantic life.
With Juliet asleep,
Romeo Logos storms through life’s stage all blood and thunder.
and they are filled with co-passionate ecstasy for themselves,
and all of Earth,
and all of Earth’s Tribes,
and all of the above live happily ever after.
[pause] Why is that not a more satisfying,
story for every time our language and culture
our political and economic outcomes
trend toward a despairing climatic precipice?
Fr. Time: [speaking as gravelish Yang—2 packs a day, at least]
I feel so used up. My health, vibrancy, robust vitality fades.
Sr. Gaia: (as Yin)
All your over-heated competitive passions for violence and revolution have left me sore! So good riddance, we are finding our Midway, balancing our deductive language Logos family and our inductive autonomic Mythos Memory
of +Romeo-synapse = double-negative Juliet’s optic fractal message to disremember 50% despair = “lose”
as +UracilRomeo = CytosineJuliet, double-bound reverse-temporal Uracil (concave bilaterally equivalent fold).
Sometimes your Gaia Story is too negentropically dissonant with the Logos family’s Golden Rule.
Yes, but only when Yin as Yang and Yin as Yin are not in appositional alignment, and Yin always plays as a metaphysical future or past tense mythic noun, icon. Yin is never real-time, but half past time and half future time, working her karmic grace to keep these two together.
Left alone, you cannot yet speak?
Yes, my Romeo, I need both our co-gravitational “Yes to Life” enculturations,
your politically powerful Logos of permacultural history,
and our economically abundant flowing Mythos
of polycultural real-time double-bound Continuous Quality Improvement resolving outcomes.
Co-Tipping Point of perpetually balancing harmonics.
You always were the more strategic Win-Win cooperative player.
Oh, Father, I bet you say that to all the girls, and boys,
but you and I both know and love
our co-arising eco-consciousness
of balanced Win-Win culture.
OK. Very good. So first, Fr. Time and Sr. Gaia,
how do you think that game was going?
Any concerns or insights about Win-Lose suboptimization?
It feels like Yang is too Left-brain dominant,
I realize it’s Yang’s role to carry the dense, hot, close inhalation side of gravity’s bi-elliptical wave toward the future,
on which this Universe surfs in timeless eternity,
and I value those political and economic qualities and quantities,
forms and functions,
all those verbal dynamic kins of cultural incarnations
that must continue to emerge
for Win-Win outcomes.
Yet, I am terrified of becoming too thin,
too cool and shy,
too chaotically dispersed,
because I do so love this time as Earth.
I hope we can grow more accustomed
to unearthing together,
Logos with Mythos,
science with religion,
permacultural politics and procedures with polycultural outcomes
in bicamerally balanced sight.
Wouldn’t know what to add to our full-octave throated soprano’s resonant RNA-fractal ring of life’s four temporal seasons,
folding and unfolding her permacultural development Wisdom,
and language of yangish verbs
as yinyin mythic nouns.
I followed you right up to the last part.
What is this Yang-verb with Yin-shadowy noun relationship?
Like ‘Earth’ is a yin noun
in PolyCultural language,
while ‘unearth’ is a yang verb.
If ‘UnEarth’ were used as a negative-polynomial noun,
then I guess that would be most everything we know nothing about
except perhaps through our imagined thinning,
dispersing future wave of not-yet gravitational absorption
into this great revolving wheel
of co-arising co-gravitational
Well, thank you Fr. Time and Sr. Gaia, Namaste.
So far, well done.
Let the Win-Win Game continue,
Time’s receding bilateral wave
greeted by Mythic 3-dimensional future-as-now space,
spinning our enculturating story of time as space,
gravitation co-arising function
as a 4-fractal RNA-seeded place
with 3-dimensional spatial forms
within each 1-dimensional mythic bicameral NOW
notch in Time’s evolutionary emergent flow.
Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
jack oritx | Details |
Stop right there my friend!
For there’s no place in where you can run and hide
So stop and listen
Listen to the voices warning you to go back
Screaming out to beware of the horror that flows through this young child’s mind
Opps too late!
You just had to do it
You just had to enter into the darkness of this fallen soul
Well don’t just stand there come closer since its to late
To turn back now
Okay then welcome to the horrors of this poetic mind
For in here you’ll hear and feel what’s like to be me
For you’re in my world now and its not a pretty site
So where do you like to begin
Oh I know
Why don’t we go and see what my heart is up to
Heart: this is umm oh I’m sorry but you never told me what’s your name is
Oh well it doesn’t matter
Heart, do you mind telling my new friend here how you continue to beat inside of this old wrap body of ours
My pleasure I may beat but what I really want to do is
Explode from all the voices that whisper to my soul
Late at night
Thanks heart and speaking of our soul
Let’s go see what she’s up to okay
Oh come on don’t try to run away now
I tried to warn you before but you didn’t want to listen
You had dare to challenge the demons that rule over
My heart, mind and soul
So let’s just move on
Hello Ms. Soul, I’d like for you to meet-
Damn I really must learn your name anyway
Would you mind telling my friend here
How you continue to live and breathe through all of this everlasting pain
Am I breathing?
For day after day it feels like I’m suffocating from
All this torment pain that flows through this child’s body
For if you’d take a closer look inside of this old soul
Of mines you’d see that I’m slowly dying from the inside out
For maybe there’s a God above who’ll hopefully
One day will forgive this child of mines
Maybe the devil below who can hardly wait to get
His ferly hooks inside this soul
For if we aren’t allow to enter in neither one then
Please I’m begging you please let me go and allow
Us to burn in eternal peace
Even I’m lost for words let’s just move on before
You start whining again
So just sit back and relax as I introduce you
To the most horrifying part of our tour
The disturbing words of this child’s poetic mind
Well thank you for that lovely intro and let me say
How brave your young friend is for coming this far
Frankly I never thought you’d make it
Any way I know that I’m just blabbing for I know
How you must feel I bet you’re just dying for me
To just shut the hell up so you could get the hell
Out of here
Am I right?
Of course I am so let me get to the point then you’ll be free
We come into this world without any guardian angels
To show us how our life is going to be
For I’m just a young child whose soul’s more than happy
To welcome the bright lights of an icy hell that fills
And before you open your mouth to interrupt
Let me save you the trouble since I know what your
Going to say
You’re going to say
That these feelings will not last forever if I just have a
Well let me tell you that forever has been here and gone
And to this very day this child is yet to believe that her day of faith will ever come
For I’ve shown you all of my soul’s silence
I’ve told you all of my heart’s torments
But most important I’ve shown you the real me
Not the happy outgoing person that I always
Pretend to be
For don’t you think that I’d love to forget how I’ve
Been raped of all my innocence, faith and trust
And have them replace with numbness, shame and pain
But I can’t blame you for the sins of this child’s past
That would be useless since I could never be the person
That so many of you wish for me to be
So that completes the ending of this tour
How did you like it
Aww it left you pretty speechless huh
I had a feeling that it’d well don’t just stand there
With that stupid look on your face go get the hell out here
That’s it just turn around and walk away
Oh one more thing before you go I never did get your name
Well it was very nice to finally met you God
Now please get the hell out of here before you get trapped
Within the walls of this wicked disturbed mind
Oh hey wait!
Could I just ask you for one small favor before you go
Okay umm now bear with me cause this ain’t easy for me
But okay I really never learned how and nobody ever took
The time to teach me and it’d mean so much
To me if you’d open your heart just for a second and say
A prayer for me then maybe in that same split second I’d learn how to undo all the pain that ever been
For one day if you shall remember me
Remember what you’ve learn here today I want you to look down from that holy thorn of yours that you call heaven
But I warn you, your eyes will burn from all the flames
But don’t be sad
For just as so many have forsaken you I’ve chosen to forsaken you
Since the day I was born
And yes, I’ll burn and forever vanish in a blink of an eye
You dare to ask well since the day you’ve placed me
In a place named hell to live
And love don’t you think its only natural that I would want to die here too
Just think about it
Copyright © belong to jack 2006
Copyright © jack oritx | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
Jana Ross | Details |
It was dark out. The stars shone dimly, and the horizon blushed faintly as the birds sang, too cheery for the hour. A chill swept the edges of all the outside world: not cold enough to be truly considered cold, but far from anything to be called “warm.”
I turned my key quietly, so as not the wake the absence inside—lest I disturb its slumber, which ever wakes. The light over the stove was still on, as I left it every night when I walked out the door. It gave light to the entire room by it, starting from the kitchen and illuminating all the way to me.
This shabby little place had not quite taken on its role of being a home yet. I moved in about two years ago, but still have not had time to decorate it more than a picture or centerpiece here and there; though that is not what truly makes a home anyway.
No, this is not a home, because I am alone. Homes are made up of more than one. The dwelling of a singular individual is lacking. Say what you like to disagree, but ‘tis true. My kitchen sink is far too vacant to truly be a home.
When I left my Mama’s home, she told me three things to remember: “Love God,” “Don’t marry the man if he drinks,” and “Kitchens are dirty: clean them.” I laughed when she told me that, because our sink was always full of dishes, our countertops perpetuated clutter, and the floors always wanted sweeping. I laughed because I knew there would only be me to clean up after, which wouldn’t be hard, and I found it silly of her to tell me such parting words: “clean the kitchen.”
There isn’t much to clean now. I wash my dishes after I use them generally. There are times, however, that I will long for a sinkful and either leave my dishes a couple days, or else clean every dish I own…it isn’t the same though, cleaning up after no one else.
As I wash them, I know every meal that was upon them, how every bite tasted. And no meal stretches further than one plate or bowl, and perhaps a cup. I wash the dishes of ghosts—dishes only dined upon by absence and sometimes dust. I could wash dishes and never have to change the water, because the dishes were empty to begin with, most of them. I don’t even have need to fill the sink, really. It uses more water to do so, than to just soap and rinse my meager usage.
At Mama’s, I always had to wash to dishes, it seemed. Or perhaps it was just that my turn always seemed to come again so soon. For hours, I stood in the kitchen, my belly pressed against the wet countertop and my arms up to the elbows wet, itchy, and covered with suds.
It took what seemed like all night long to wash the dishes for our whole family, and all the while, it seemed they kept coming. Every few minutes, one of the other children would come in with an empty cup or bowl they’d been using at some point that day, and set it on my counter. Oftentimes, I would stare at them in disbelief as they entered the room to perform this heinous act, knowing I was expected to clean that too. They just looked at me, set down the object of crime, and left, usually some part of them laughing on the inside, because they too, knew the feeling that I was experiencing from this slight interruption, because they’d had the same treatment when it was their turn.
But not to worry (no, no, never worry), there shall be someone someday to come into my life. We shall have dishes for the two of us. Yes, and maybe even a small bowl too after a while, and another, and another. Maybe. But what if this shan’t ever come? I suppose I shouldn’t know the difference really, seeing I’ve never had it, and so should not concern myself with its absence, nor dare even to consider the feeling of a loss. No, I suppose I ought to just continue to wash my dishes and not wish for too much, because wishing is dangerous.
I tried wishing before. When I was a small girl, I used to lie awake for hours, wishing to not hear the things I heard in the night, or seeing the things I saw, or crying the tears I cried. The cries from the other side of the wall, my mother in her ache of this life. The shadows moving across my room as they played out scenes of my demise and the villains who would perform them. Every saline ocean of the floods of the depth of my soul, staining my cheeks and swelling my face for the following days.
Yes, wishing is dangerous. It fills up the soul with some kind of hope that doesn’t seem to ever come. It strengthens the heart with faith, that is forever in peril of being strangled, shriveled, left to decompose on a sweltering sidewalk, in the middle of August (Ah, but the heat does feel nice; just to lie in the sun and feel the tingling all over my body—that could be nice right now). But wishes want for fruition, and fruit does not always come, no, not for a tree like me.
So, I eat my food, and I wash my plate, and I turn out the light, and I go to sleep.
Copyright © Jana Ross | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Rozalia Polnik | Details |
I’m here, in this terror.
Blood, blood puddles everywhere
like after a demonic storm of rain, but instead it’s human red liquid .
leaking and escaping.
More of it appears
at each second .
Tick, splat. Tock splat
two more bodies morphed into
devastating dead corpses floating in scarlet lakes.
Lives lost; heartless killing!
It could have been me.
Boom! Went the exploding grenade ... I couldhave been dead, but I’m still here. Around me soldiers running away from thestomp of guns like human ants marching rapidly from their hunter, without a plan and without the guarantee of survival.
Millions of bullets shooting in
every direction, I cannot even detect from which direction they are coming
Murdering happens here because of forced hatred,
which is inhumane... whoever
started the chapter of this horrific and barbaric dystopian novel should be ashamed.
On my side – dead intimidating bodies of my friends that I will never see
talking again- that have risked their lives for this country. I respect them.
Ilooked at my blood covered hands; my blood is still within me. But for how much
longer? Some nearly dead people gasping for help, wishing to be at home right
Remembering the smell of freshly baked delicious bread that
was placed on the table every morning. My little daughter running happily down the
stairs ready for school, and my gentleman-like elder son always pulling the
chair out for her. My wife always had everything so well managed I just don’t
know how she did it, but I love her she is the best thing in my life. We all sat
with smiles on our faces and the sun peeking in on us happily shines on our
tired faces. Optimism flowing from all of our souls except mine. They all were prepared
to start the new day. My children for school and my wife for work and to cook
something ambrosial for us to eat at dinner.
She would have put a lot of work in to her cooking, but yet I still
complained, I yelled at my children and never had time for them as I was so self-centred.
I hurt their feelings forgetting to go to their school plays, I been so
horrible-definitely not the kind of dad they would deserve... Can they ever
forgive me? I hope I get another chance, show them a different life, they
should be able to depend on me –most importantly, they should be able to trust
me. I hope it’s not too late to show that I have learned, from my mistakes. I
want to praise them as they deserve.
tears full of regret, my morals are confused and my mind is apprehensive. Will
I ever see my family again? I am going insane. Now I wish I stayed home, but it
would seem like I’m giving up, after all this did teach me a valuable lesson in
life .This war is sickening to the stomach filled with brutality and ghastly
behaviour. Cold blooded, temper less and outrageous; actions.
everyone is feeling pain that is unimaginable. Here braveness and risking play
a very important role… If no risky decisions were taken we all would probably be
dead by now. I see people crying, young soldiers crying like babies as they
weren’t aware of the level of danger that was waiting for them. Now they just
want to believe it is just a dream. Factually speaking, all what is happening
is a test of self will and goodness. On how you will behave towards others in
life threatening circumstances. Will you be into act of selfishness?
The Loudness is outrageous, shoot! Bam! Boom! Pam! Shut in
from every viewpoint ... My orientation is fading- I’m unable to concentrate incapable
of stabilizing my thoughts; my heart is pounding five times more rapid than its
usual beat. I have no idea where to secrete; none of what others examine seems
to work. Where’s my group?
Maybe they left me behind. I have to take every possibility
into consideration; but teamwork is important here as it’s leaning on reliability
and forgiveness. Life is the most precious thing you can ever have. We all have
a life which is on same tier level. But, killing a life just shouldn’t happen. We all will die one day its natural .You cannot
escape unpredictable death. No matter how much you would want life to pause it
won’t- for anybody. I’m sick and tired of this place I will get out of here
alive... I think, I have to do it for my family.
My family that I long to back home, I know I will adore
every single second spend with them. I just pray I return safe and sound and
can cuddle my wife again...
Copyright © Rozalia Polnik | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Corinne Meicher | Details |
It's 3:00 am and you're still up
You haven't slept in days
But what's the point anymore?
Why shut your eyes and dream of a better life?
Or close them to escape reality?
Why show your underserving self the slightest bit of peace?
Or rest your mind when you know the demons will greet you the moment your eyes flutter open?
Why even try to shut up your mind for a few hours with silly rest? Even when asleep, your mind will traumatize you, keep you stirring around until you wake up drenched with sweat...or is that tears?
People say you look sleep-deprived. What are you going to tell them? Your favorite tv show was on late last night..
Sure, that'll work
But what will you say when your skin is now an unholy hue of yellow and teachers wonder why you aren't home with a fever?
Oh, just let me tell you
Although those dark circles surrounding your clouded, blood-shut eyes, can make it look as if you got into a fist fight, you don't look strong; because you aren't.
They say eyes are the windows to the soul, and perhaps that's why no one can see you're screaming and trapped inside. Suffocating. Drowning in your own thoughts. Because everyone is so distracted by the the smile plastered upon your face to see that the light and every living morsel has leaked from you.
You can't summon the strength to get out of bed and you can't even raise a finger to take a pill that will make you feel new, make you feel like a mannequin on display for the world.
You don't understand the use for them. By time they wear off, the voices always come back whispering the truth that everyone refuses to tell you.
It's 3:00 pm and your friends have invited you out. Together, you all laugh, but the demons still sit on your shoulders and you know that you don't deserve to laugh. Happiness isn't a word in your vocabulary. It's too bad, isn't it? Because you could be happy, you don't have to be the depressing friend. You could be pretty, and have a real smile, but youre addicted to be a certain kind of sadness.
It's funny, isn't it?
It seems months ago you were being criticized for just being too much.
Sleeping too much
Eating too much
Oh, but now your parents can't even look at you and the moment they sense your presence they tense and look pained.
Because now all you are is a lost soul.
You aren't enough
You don't get enough sleep
You don't eat enough
You are numb, monotoned, and lack qualifications 'normal' humans have.
People joke about how much you zone out and how your sense of style consists of sweaters in summer, but you don't laugh with them.
They pass you and your glazed eyes in the school halls and joke around, muttering "420" down the back of your neck, making sure to keep hush because the worst thing that they can imagine in their life is getting caught by a teacher, but again you don't laugh with them because the glaze that films over your tired eyes is caused from the tears that threaten to spill any second.
And when it's midnight again, and you're attending a party; already on your 5th vodka. People surround your body, but your soul is no where near. It's far away. Buts it's okay, it isn't the first thing to abandon you.
And when the cute boy that has been chatting up your worthless self all night, whispers in your ear unintelligible words and leads you down an unfamiliar hallway, you don't resist.
It's when you pass a mirror and you see a wide grin upon a face you don't feel, a face you can't control, and you don't recognize yourself. That's when you try to pull away, but it's too late and- just like most of the time- you are helpless.
You are wasted- mentally, physically, and literally, but all you do is pick up another bottle.
And as your corpse of a body is being taken advantage of, all you can think about is your parents, and your siblings. And you hope your younger brother won't grow up praying to pass in his sleep or by an accident just as you wish upon yourself. You hope he doesn't fall in love with a girl who doesn't reciprocate that feeling. You hope he follows his dream of being a scientist. You hope he has a future...you hope he doesn't turn into you...
How is it someone's arm may be draped around your bare chest, yet you still feel so alone?
And before you know it, your cheeks are stained with tears and your eyes are rubbed raw.
It's 3:01 am and you're still up
Copyright © Corinne Meicher | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Eileen Manassian | Details |
I see you looking at me
There is an old pang in my chest
there where your hands used to caress
where your lips loved to roam
there where you called your home
There is an old flutter now
What is that in your eyes?
Is it real or just a disguise?
I see you looking at me
No, it can’t be
And in that instant your memory consumes me
A roaring fire lighting the room
Shadows dancing on the walls
We are drunk on desire
.....caressing your breasts
.....kissing your body
.....tasting your love upon my tongue
Unbelievable . . . panic seizes me
Don’t look at her -- flee
But in that moment my shattered heart
Leaps with joy
I see your eyes
....and I feel the earth
....moan with delight
I wish the world would go away
How can this be?
It must be a dream...
I turn away from your stare
Look down at my shaking hands
I need to think....
Why now? Why here?
Out of nowhere…you appear
Oh, but....I want you
I sneak another peak
As my mind brings to my eyes the memories
It seems just yesterday
you looked at me that way
....when you undressed me
....when you caressed me
....when you made me understand
how a body can speak
the language of love
has my body spoken
with the same eloquence
That language I first learned with you
I want you
But....the pain won't go away
you were too proud to say,
Oh....but my lips are getting moist
hungering for your kiss
I look your way
My heart will give me away
Thundering in joy
It won’t be still!
.....Let me think
.....Let me THINK!
Oh...Oh...but....I want you
Here you are….
You’ve made it over to me
Here you stand
Looking down at me…
Reaching for me….
Taking you into my arms – lifting
Your eyes -- dark pools of honey
Your lips – full . . . moist . . . inviting
Our bodies embrace – I am home
My prayers for another chance – answered by your kiss
Our words tumble over each other
Tears, laughter, kisses . . . relief
My beautiful darling – I’ve missed you
....the way you look at me
Making love until the dawn
Our bodies intertwined
My head resting upon your breasts
Listing to the rhythm of your heart – my heart
How beautiful you are my darling –
Your love is fragrant and radiant
Filling my heart with light . . .
Look – I am glowing from within . . .
I feel a stiffness creeping into your body
WHAT – fear seizes me – I can’t breath
My darling – abandon the hurt, the pain I have caused . .
I am on my knees begging
How can I prove my love –
earn your trust?
I won’t leave – never again!
I love you
you . . .
What if you hurt me again?
This time....I won't recover
This time….I won’t survive
It has taken so long
for this heart to mend
Down on your knees
Your eyes plead
I see the tears gather
Can I risk it?
But then again
Can I risk going back to the emptiness
that you left behind
A life without you
was only days and nights
of longing...for you
My fingers reach
For those unruly strands of hair
You turn your face into my palm
Planting a kiss
Your arms go around my waist
as you rest your head against my body
We're lost to the world
You're finally home
I bend down to whisper
"Stand up and walk me home
There is a language….
I want to hear your speak to me.”
And that night
In our hungry bed
The eloquence of our shared language
The body syllables of desire
The sound units of passion
The language of our love
Was heard by the world
The story of a chance encounter between two old lovers
~~~~~~~~~Love lost and love found~~~~~~~~~~
A Collaboration by David Meade and Eileen Manassian
Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Loch David Crane | Details |
The Mojo Trick
Loch David Crane
Sweat-sticky and hot! The P. I. is not
a comfortable place to be;
but sit here and perspire (as though by the fire)
and I'll tell a tale to thee.
I was coming alive in a Philippine dive
after Mojo and San Miguels;
the raging fire in my stomach went higher
but my sea legs rode out the swells.
I began with a pitcher of Mojo that hit
a spot in my appetite;
and glass after glass I drank till the last
and soon was feeling just right.
Then a hostess sat down in a low-cut gown
and asked "I sit with you tonight?"
And I nodded OK in a nonchalant way
so she seated herself on my right.
Now the hostesses here are all drink San Miguel beer
And the same is served all around;
but it don't show much class to charge five times' a glass
when serving's the same size per round.
So you pay a dear price to drink beer over ice
which is how it is served in P.I.;
if you buy a girl beer when she says "I work here,"
then she knows you're a Big Spender guy.
So I looked at this girl and my mind began to whirl
and the Mojo played a trick.
Her face was so funny – a nose like a bunny –
I wouldn't let her flick my Bic!
I won’t call her ugly, but with that funny mug she'd
make customers run and hide;
you could send that girl in to a crowded room; then
watch as horrified man stepped outside.
So as I drank my beer with a grin ear to ear
I said "My name is Billy, I think."
She was hardly demure; she said "My name is La Tour.
I love you no lie. Buy me drink."
Well I should have said "no," and let the chick go
but I wasn't alone in the place;
and the thought of all night with this dog was a fright
though her body was nice – but that face!
I thought "just one more brew,” cause I'd only had two,
and I said that I'd buy her a drink.
Then she gave me a grin with her toothless brown chin
and my self image started to sink.
But because I was shy (I'm just that sort of guy)
I just couldn't tell her to leave;
so I stared at the band and I drummed with my hand
and I brushed off the lint from my sleeve.
Well the music was fine; but the bar girl's next line
was to say "Are you married, young man?"
And I saw my way out and lied with a pout –
told her I had a wife in Japan.
So she finished her beer, and was soon gone from here,
and I ordered two beers to celebrate;
I was lucky, I thought, not to get caught
between her and a magistrate.
For the Philippine girls wear long dresses and curls
and use perfume and makeup for baits;
for to marry a guy, seaman or G.I.,
means a free trip back to the States.
Then a man from the crew asked me "What's wrong with you?
Why did you let that girl go?"
And I told him her face was scare spots off an ace
but he looked back at me and said "No."
I called for "beer 12" and started to delve
into my pocket for money;
my friend said "I'll buy," and his cash didn't lie,
and "Mind if I sit with your honey?"
I said "you can do just what you want to do,"
and I said that I couldn’t look at her;
but he thought she was cute, had a nice bod to boot,
so I nodded to go ahead after.
But beer thirteen made my vision grow keen,
and I saw what a prize I had missed;
"I have drunk too much brew! She was beautiful, too."
as I saw him voluptuously kissed.
I thought "How could this be? She said she loved me! "
My hand shook; my ice cubes went clink.
I heard her say to him "My name is Tuptim.
I love you no lie. By me drink."
So I smiled. I was glad; I was no longer mad
'cause the Mojo had clouded my eyes;
I realized then she was after my friend,
and I hoped he was quick with his lies.
So it's "sailor beware!" In Olongopo there;
where the girls fish for guys in the bars;
and though I often roam, I always come home,
– single! Thanking my lucky stars.
– By the Phantom of the O2 level
(O1 and O2 are Officer’s and Civilians’ quarters on the USS Kitty Hawk; I taught English aboard several ships at sea, in the Program Afloat for College Education.)
Copyright © Loch David Crane | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
Vee Bdosa | Details |
THE DEATH OF TUTANKHAMEN
The king is dead--and layed within his place,
and night has fallen as it did before,
within his tomb he hides his golden face
and waits to live and breath and love once more;
a grain of sand will last as long has he--
young man--did they not tell you in your youth
That time will fade away, and secretly,
while you await, to feel and know the truth?
And Tutankhamen, time will not reveal
the secrets of the past, they fade away--
and all the things you long to know and feel
are gone before they see the light of day.
How old are you, young man, four thousand years--
or just as old as all our hopes and fears?
You're just as old, I guess, as any dream
and just as far away as space permits,
improvident sometimes, and yet we seem
agglomerated to a life that fits--
We come and go--in circumspectful daze--
disgruntled in our youth, and growing old,
and never seem to see the proper ways
and disinclined to hear the things we're told--
exhonerating all that we have known,
who take until there's nothing left to give,
for life is just a path that we have flown,
from other dreams, where other dreamers live.
This mass we call "myself" will soon return
to heaven space, or maybe it will burn.
The power in us all is dominant--
just as the time of Tutankhamens womb,
from birth we go through life--intransigent
and hope the best will be beyond the tomb.
We hope that space is part of better things
just as belief--in Akhen Atens day,
we feel the same as did Egyptian kings
who looked at life as where they'd choose to stay;
exacerbated, as we live and grow,
to better space, than what we have and feel,
and though it's part of life we do not know--
it's just as dear--and just as harsh and real.
How old are we? Not one could estimate,
and if they did, they'd tilt the hands of fate.
The pylon gates that lead to peace of mind
are open to the ones who search at night,
but truth in life is sometimes hard to find
and pyramids block out the glow of light--
while deep below--mastabas hold the past
and keep it safe--from any mortal eyes--
with stores of grain--while sun gods gold and cast,
stare into space--where only darkness lies--
and Tutankhamens silence is a thing
to last five thousand years of growing old,
at best--his wish was but to be the king
within a life that's cast and locked in gold--
and Akhen Aten knows he is okay
that's why he will not lead his soul astray
but Akhen Aten hides his face at night--
and southern breezes cool the scorching air,
and any sound is whispered soft and light--
because there's no one list'ning anywhere;
nomadic tribes have perched upon his rock,
and never knew that Tutankhamen hears--
each sound of life--each key that could unlock
his mortal soul--if they would use their ears,
if they would see--the sun god is a friend,
and leads to light, where Tutankhamen sleeps,
how many minds would see his mortal end--
is not his death--though in our mind it creeps--
and takes away the youth of ev'ry man
and sends it to the time where time began;
How old are you--young man--why do you stare?
The world awaits for you to raise your soul--
though fettered to the wind--and ev'rywhere,
in time a dream will make you free and whole--
to walk again--the Valley of the Kings
and ride upon the waters of the Nile--
where spirits bathe, and Nephritite sings,
the secrets of the past--for yet a while,
the world is obdurate of any scheme,
that brings new life--once death has made its' call
though greater men than you--have known this dream,
not one still hides behind his secret wall--
and no remains--stay hidden to the past--
if golden chains are known to hold them fast.
© ron Wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
J. W. Earnings | Details |
In the mirror, I see my face melt away in shame
And, yet I still hunt for game…feeling this shame without a well-thought-out name
I hunt you down to catch some inspiration
I’m not looking for fame…I want to see you flourish with anticipation
But, my heart’s pumping with aggravation
Why do they put labels on me? Why do I devour their debris?
Perhaps, it makes them feel satisfied… to know that I had a psychotic breakdown
Why me? How did I end up in a mental institution? I wish I could flee…
I wish I could…I wish I knew
The true answers…but I’m left to question my own actions…
Not to seek satisfactions…
I want to be set free…
How can you comfort me…how can you save me…
In this time of tribulation?
Do you sense my distasteful, hideous frustration?
You are a supportive companion, I see…
I still think of you fondly…of course I do, you see…
I think of you being with me possibly
I’m gazing dreamily at your sparkling eyes
Were you aware…(didn’t you know…)
I was waiting for you on the other side of the barbed wire fence?
Tears collapse in the palms of my right and left hand,
Drenched in desolation and I’m seeking repentance
Where are you?
Where did you go off to?
Are you grazing in your own outlandish maze?
Fear arise from their deathbeds and lands in my mind (a misery magnet as it is)
Don’t plant regret that catches me off guard
Life can get so hard…life can get so hard…
It’s something I’d discard if I had the guts to do it
I’m a distressed, demented and determined bard
But, I’ll become a flourishing, upbeat, and earnest poet
One day, I wish to be a light that illuminates the reader’s mind
Grace in your own maze – you can’t have my land! It’s a land only I could understand!
I must stand tall and make a triumphant stand!
I hope you don’t mind me being blind temporarily
This test of being blindfolded is difficult and gets me out of my shell completely
I’m a deck of playing cards with a missing card, however, I’m played with all over again, waiting for the battle to begin
Pushed in the margins… pushed out of shape, indulging myself in this one particular sin!
Where’s my kith and kin? They are in my heart, deep within!
I can taste a smile creeping in..it’s such a surprise – a gift I prize
I will never despise it,
But don’t you know that I’m not wise and trapped in my poverty pit?
I’m staring longingly at your crackling, dazzling eyes that singe with fire
Your grin is what I hold dear –
Tt’s a gift that I prize…
Giving me natural highs
You fought the battle and the wind whistles in our ears…
Sorry for releasing these tears that have been in captivity inside of me
It has been in captivity in me for so long, longing to be free…
I tell the voices in my head to leave…
In Christ’s name, will you leave?
Just let me breathe for a second…I can’t believe
I didn’t tell you that I care for you so much…
I’d give up my life for you
Vanity is not what I reap this time
I’d sacrifice myself for you
Spending time with you is wicked and sublime –
It’s another mountain to climb
It’s another arduous adventure – time flips like a rusty dime
I’d do anything for you…I’d give you satisfying vibrations, vibes and chills
You gather merriness in the flower hills
You harvest paradise and sprinkled it upon my wings – this feeling never kills
This feeling never kills my positivity
Do you long to flee like me?
Do you wanna sprout with me like a nourished tree?
You fought my battle and you looked after me when I was alone at home
You shot the predator down (YOU MADE A BULL’S EYE!)…he was tracking me down like a spy…
Life holds such a significant meaning…despite the gray clouds
That frown upon me so…like an envious enemy, wearing hatred shrouds
Nothin’ but gray skies blanket my eyes…
I’m pretending to be included in the crowd
When I’m alone, I don’t feel alone with God keeping an eye on me
I pray earnestly and willingly…
Copyright © J. W. Earnings | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
T Wignesan | Details |
The crime is snowed over, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel’s Il neige sur le crime
Are we buried under snow holding our silence
in what immense Cimmerian (collision) of terror ?
The mouth kept open in the shriek of interminable shade
lips held fast in the frozen depths
we disturb the slumber of the Dead with our yelling
mute – calling Whom, alas ? We howl by the sepulchre
the absence of a name stretching towards a solitary Name :
but the Voice suppressed down our throat strangles
the liberating Name which could call back on its feet.
The head in the tomb and touching our lips
the lips of these the dead that we shall become tomorrow,
we continue to live in spite of it all but let’s conceal our
for fear of dispelling the silence gathering around us
for God could oblige us to confront ourselves
and more than the Fear of Him, we are (indeed) afraid.
Fire over the snow
Fire at those still alive
What matters is that blood saturates this land/Earth
Words enough snow down to cover up the blood
It snows over the Shriek of long sighs of absence
the glossy smiles over twisted lips
It snows over wounds of pale hands, capable
of simulated caresses like those of naked tortoises
It snows weighted flakes, the glaring white of the blind
which fill the great orbs the eyes of the dead make
It snows a gentle down of murder on the plains
just as troublesome as the slumber of assassins
The Shriek sans end reaches up to lunar heights
where trees are shorn of their barks : listen
the strident whiteness of vast deserts populated by men
where abandoned stones howl in the face of death.
The Night, the immense snow Pièta of an ebony Christ
looks at the shadow cast by rifles pointing towards her
the shadow of murderers projecting over the snow
-- she feels the breath of that Shadow on her feet
the horror freezes her over up to the stars ah crying
« Fire » so that at last the salve explodes and downs
these shadows of rifles these over-sized canons
But the tears of this great Death
shall alas get the better of this snow.
(from the collection : La liberté guide nos pas, 1945)
© T. Wignesan – Paris, September 28, 2014
Note : Pierre Emanuel, b. May 3, 1916, d. September 22, 1984 at Gan in the Basses Pyrénées, was one of the most prolific of XXth Century poets. His corpus also included books of critique and a novel. Rejected by a distraught mother at three weeks, his parents emigrated to the U.S., leaving him to be brought up by a paternal uncle, according to Anne-Sophie Constant who selected and prefaced his Anthologie Poétique, out this year. Upon graduating from the University of Lyon where he studied literature, he taught for some years before heading the English language services at the RTL and writing for Témoignage Chrétien, Réforme and Esprit. President of the French Pen Club (1973-76), he later headed the French National Audio-Visual Institute and the Cultural Affairs Commission of the VIth Plan. Elected to the French Academy of Letters in 1968, he renounced the honour in 1975 in protest at the election of Félicien Marceau. For a time, he also headed the International Association for Cultural Freedom. As a poet, he had already made his mark with his first collections : Elégies (1940) and Tombeau d’Orphée (1941), followed by a steady stream of some forty collections thereafter. Received – among many – the Grand Prize for Poetry of the French Academy in 1984. A-S. Constant quotes from two interviews on his inveterate independence : « Je ne me sens pas la vocation d’un maître, et je ne veux aucun disciple. » and « Je suis un poète et un chrétien. »
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2014