Long Birthday Poems. These are the most popular long Birthday by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Birthday poems by poem length and keyword.
See also: Famous Long Poems
OUR BABY GIRL TURNS 21
ON 1ST JULY 1990~ THE ANGELS DID SOMETHING ALMIGHTY
FROM HEAVEN THEY SENT US OUR LIFE-LONG DESIRE-A PRECIOUS DAUGHTER TO LOVE AND ADMIRE.
TRUE TO YOUR NATURE YOU ARRIVED WITHOUT FUSS OR PAIN--THE FIRST TIME OUR EYES MET WE KNEW OUR LIVES WOULD NEVER BE THE SAME
AS A BABY AND TODDLER YOU MADE US SO PROUD
YOUR VERY LONG HAIR, GREEN EYES AND SMILE-
ALL THOSE GOOD LOOKS MADE YOU STAND OUT IN A CROWD
YOU STARTED TALKING EARLY WITH MANY VOICEPRINTS
YOUR CHARM AND GOOD LOOKS HAVE NOT STOPPED SINCE
YOU LOVED YOUR DOLLS AND PRAMS-- DREAMT OF BEING A “SINGER”
AND VERY QUICKLY LEARNED HOW TO WRAP YOUR DAD AROUND YOUR LITTLE FINGER
YOUR BIG BROTHER DEVON--BEST FRIEND AND PROTECTER
MOST OF THE TIME YOU GOT ON PERFECTLY TOGETHER
FROM AN EARLY AGE YOU SHOWED YOUR LOVE OF SWIMMING
AGE TWO AND A HALF YOU WERE ABLE AND WILLING
TO SWIM UNDER WATER AND DO MANY LENGTHS
THIS WAS CLEARLY ONE OF YOUR SPORTING STRENGTHS
AT AGE THREE YOU COULD BARELY WAIT TO START PLAYSCHOOL
“MISS INDEPENDENCE”, WAS YOUR GENERAL RULE
THE SLIDE AND JUNGLE GYM WERE YOUR FAVOURITE SPOTS
AND TO OUR HORROR YOU WOULD CLIMB RIGHT TO THE TOP!
AT AROUND THIS TIME, YOUR FIRST BOYFRIEND YOU MET-
HE LIVED NEXT DOOR, AND HIS NAME WAS BRETT
SOON IT WAS TIME FOR PRE-SCHOOL
YOU LOVED YOUR TEACHER--YOUR NEW FRIENDS WERE COOL
‘SPRING BONNETS’ AND THE END OF YEAR SCHOOL PLAYS
THE TEDDY BEAR CLASS GAVE YOU SOME REAL SPECIAL DAYS
NEXT WAS ‘BIG SCHOOL’ AND YOUR FIRST CLASS
WE WERE SERIOUSLY ANXIOUS BUT FOR YOU JUST ANOTHER ‘MISS INDEPENDENCE’ TASK
LETTERLAND, MATHS AND LEARNING TO READ
YOU EXCELLED AT ALL THAT WITH INCREDIBLE SPEED
YOUR ACHIEVEMENTS CONTINUED THROUGH GRADES 2, 3 AND FOUR
YOUR PLACE IN THE SWIMMING TEAM HELPED YOUR SCHOOL WIN MORE
OUR MOVE TO AUSTRALIA… SAD FAREWELLS TO YOUR FRIENDS AND YOUR PETS
BUT, GREAT EXCITEMENT YOU FELT AT ADVENTURES TO BE MET
A NEW SCHOOL--“METHODIST LADIES COLLEGE”
NEW FRIENDS--JUMPING A GRADE-- MET WITH SUCH POSITIVE COURAGE
YOU MADE US SO PROUD IN THE WAY YOU ADAPTED
MRS. WILLIAMSON SAID YOU WERE THEIR NEW CLASS ‘ASSETT’
THE ‘MR BEE’ SPELLING AWARD AND MANY MERITS LATER
WE ALL GOT HOMESICK-- BUT YOUR POSITIVE NATURE DID NOT WAVER
THE DECISION WE MADE TO RETURN TO CAPE TOWN
CAUSED YOU HEARTBROCKEN TEARS AND A PERMANENT FROWN
ONCE AGAIN A SAD FAREWELL TO YOUR NEW FOUND FRIENDS
RETURNING TO S.A. FOR OLD ONES TO MAKE AMMENDS
IT WASN’T VERY LONG THAT YOU PICKED UP WHERE YOU LEFT OFF AT ALL
ADDED TO YOUR TALENTS WERE NOW TEAM HOCKEY AND NETBALL
AS YOU APPROACHED THE FIRST OF YOUR TEEN YEARS
WITH YOUR LOOKS AND CHARM, INEVITABLY THE BOYFRIENDS WOULD APPEAR
SHOPPING, MOVIES AND MANY PARTY SLEEP-OVERS
CHOOSING TRUE FRIENDS AND DUMPING THE LOSERS
DANCE SHOWS AND DANCING EXAMS… YOU EXCELLED AT HIP- HOP
FUN AND OF COURSE THE DESIRE TO SHOP
THE END OF JUNIOR SCHOOL-- THE FINAL ASSEMBLY—AWARDS
TROPHIES FOR SPORTSMANSHIP AND YOUR S.R.C. PRIZE GOT MANY APPLAUDS
SAD FEELINGS AT LEAVING YOUR OLD SCHOOL BEHIND
EXCITEMENT AT STARTING HIGH SCHOOL WOULD SOON COME TO MIND
NO PROBLEM TO YOU, IT WAS ALL JUST A BREEZE
AS YEAR BY YEAR YOU CONTINUED TO ACHIEVE
SWIMMING AND ‘A’ TEAM HOCKY MATCHES ON THE ASTRO TURF
YOU EVEN STARTED TO LEARN HOW TO SURF
FRIDAY AFTERNOON CHRISTIAN MEETINGS AND EVENING CHURCH YOUTH
WE WERE SO HAPPY YOU FOUND GOD AND HIS TRUTH
THE REST OF HIGH SCHOOL PASSED IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE WHILE
YOUR LIST OF ACHIEVEMENTS REMAINED EXCEPTIONALLY HIGH
YOUR ORGANISATIONAL SKILLS WERE ASTOUNDING
COPING WITH TOUGH SUBJECTS LIKE MATHS, SCIENCE AND ACCOUNTING
IN HOCKEY AND SWIMMING YOU MADE THE TOP TEAMS
NO SURPRISE AT ALL THAT SWIMMING COACHES MOVED IN ON THE SCENE.
THEY CULTIVATED YOUR TALENTS FROM STRENGTH TO STRENGTH
EVERY YOUR NIGHT YOUR PASSION SAW YOU DOING MANY LENGTHS
WEEKENDS OF GALA’S AND NATIONAL SWIMMING
S.A.SHORT COURSE, YOUR P.B’S, AND FAIR SHARE OF WINNING
TOGETHER WE CELEBRATED YOUR PLACE IN W.P. SCHOOL CHAMPS THAT YEAR
SO PROUD OF OUR BEAUTIFUL SWIMMER ALWAYS AHEAD OF HER PEERS
FIRST YEAR AT UNIVERSITY YOU BECAME SO INDEPENDENT
STARTING YOUR STUDIES AS A B.Sc. STUDENT
IT WAS ALSO THE YEAR YOU LEARNED TO DRIVE
GOT YOUR LICENSE—DAD SPOILT YOU—NEW CAR—RESPLENDENT
YOUR FAITH AND TRUST IN THE LORD STILL REMAINS FIRM
AS YOU WALK AND GROW SPIRITUALLY DAILY WITH HIM
SO MUCH HAS CHANGED, AND YET SOME THINGS REMAIN
YOU BEAUTY AND TALENTS SO EASILY MAINTAINED
YOUR LOVE OF SWIMMING AND OUTSTANDING ACHIEVEMENTS IN WATER
YOU KNOW WE WILL ALWAYS BE YOUR NO. 1 SUPPORTERS
AND NOW YOU ARE 21, SWEETHEART
YOUR WHOLE LIFE AHEAD OF YOU-- TODAY IS JUST THE START
IT SEEMS LIKE JUST YESTERDAY THAT YOU WERE BORN—
OUR DAUGHTER~LOVES BRIGHT SHINING LIGHT~ WE ADORE
YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL AND TALENTED IN EVERY WAY
WISHING YOU GOD’S RICHEST BLESSINGS ON YOUR SPECIAL DAY
HAPPY 21ST BIRTHDAY TO OUR BABY GIRL
TO HAVE YOU AS A DAUGHTER HAS BEEN A REAL PLEASURE
-YOU HAVE AND ALWAYS WILL BE OUR MOST BEAUTIFUL TREASURE-
(FOOTNOTE: OUR DAUGHTER WILL BE 23 THIS YEAR, HAS COMPLETED HER BSc. AND HONOURS DEGREE’S IN PHYSIOLOGY AND GENETICS AND NOW DOING HER MASTERS DEGREE IN EXERCISE SCIENCE. SHE IS ALSO A PROFESSIONAL TRIATHLETE—DOING SWIMMING, CYCLING AND RUNNING AS ONE DISCLIPLINE)
This, the first day of summer, two thousand and two, finds me,
slipping back into what once was my desire, my need, my reality.
This step back into, and into times passed, has allowed me to touch,
to feel, to re-experience – for a moment, to a degree – my all time,
favorite sport – sunbathing. A sport I once played in all my glory
– my birthday suit – with such joy and total freedom,
beneath blue skies, high above the mighty meandering Grand
or alongside it’s river banks, silent winds, a breeze, rustling the leaves
of many shading trees, of many a cornstalk, a million blades of grass
beneath the heavens, beneath my feet, beneath my naked body,
golden brown laying in the noiseless sound of Mother Nature,
all Her, creatures, large and small, invisible, one and all,
except to the mind’s eye and ear, as the pleasures of hypnotizing music,
the sweet taste of mother grass, the glowing nectar of sparkling grape
that could take one on a journey, away from or into, dependent upon
the destination, the ticket you purchased would carry you.
For me, the journeys were upon the black leather of my red motor cycle,
upon the black leather of my black Bird of Thunder, her wings spread,
her top down, that great, platinum, glowing orb, hanging on high,
above this little planet, wearing it’s great, bright blue shroud,
opened to expose the light shining down upon her nakedness,
showering down upon me, in mine, on our journeys through time,
through space, with his – Heloise’s – healing rays as I drive, as I ride
over, upon those black ribbons that wrap themselves around
Mother Earth and the back roads of southern Ontario, in the
Counties of Brant, of Wentworth, of Norfolk and others as well.
This is a sport I played – as I laid – from north to south,
from coast to coast, even, out into the ocean deep,
– on an island of coarse – on mountain tops, on sand dunes.
This sport I played, on the shores of all five Great Lakes,
on the beaches of Florida, of Mexico, of California,
of British Columbia, the last place, the last time I sported
my birthday suit in public before hanging it up
behind closed doors for more years than I care to remember.
Today, along with a few more that followed, during two weeks,
I took the opportunity, – covered of coarse, in my red and black loin cloth -
to lie beneath that burning orb in the deep blue sky and tried to recapture
the essence of those feelings, those desires of long ago and far away
- of what was and I still would like to be -, that will always remain
a part of my psyche, even though all the changes – no more noiseless sounds,
for they have been drowned out, polluted by screaming tires as they tear up
those black ribbons of death, as those combustion engines ( the driving force )
cry out in pain from friction as they pass by my horizontal frame looking for,
but hearing not, all that once was hearable, all that was beautiful in nature’s noise
– that have left me longing for that time, left me as empty as a dried up lake.
A lone bird cry’s out it’s muffled song, a note or two where once was a chorus,
a full-fledged opera now reduced to a mumbling, meaningless sound,
a sound drowned out by the sounds of traffic, traffic from our attempt
to escape our closed in, modern life style of constant motion.
Those sweet smells, clean and clear are lost by the cremation of decaying,
remains of once living organisms that inhabited this planet.
They are now – in death – permeating, with pollutants, the nostrils, the lungs,
the air Mother Earth and all upon her back, inhale.
The peace, once known, - in rivers flow, upon its banks, in Mother Natures flow,
on my motor cycle, in my black Bird – for this old man has almost evaporated.
The grass, the wine, the music, the camaraderie, the clean air, those silent sounds
have almost become extinct, fading into memories hoard, to be stored, forever more.
All that seems to be left - from the origins of these thoughts – is that silver orb,
still radiating down upon, but with more intensity and less glory and peace.
Only the music carries on as before, seems to remains the same,
at least to these ears, this heart, the old soul of this lone traveller.
Maybe the music has change ?, maybe for the better ?, maybe not ?
Could it be just perception ?, or has all lost its glory ?, its fire ?,
its passion ?, its glow ?, all I thought I did know in an earlier age.
Is it all in the mind of this old man ?, who still remembers that age,
the music, music still providing a refuge, companionship
and comfort during the hours, in the passing of time .
My father died prematurely while away on
a business trip from a rogue blood clot to the heart
I never doubted he loved me, would have liked me,
(not the same thing), adult to adult, provided I
was not too strong a woman for him. He was difficult--
a Henry VIII of the times, two divorces, a first wife
we never knew, one from my mother when I was six,
then heated voices from their bedroom with a third,
heard in darkness beyond my door, hands over my ears.
But, he was DADDY. the god-like person who emceed
his daughter's birthdays, planned games, gave out prizes,
while a backstage stepmom provided cake. Cake
mistress, fond father. Thus, I learned to turn to men.
Tennessee Williams wrote, "My sister was quicker
at everything than I." I was like that, maybe not quicker
than my brothers, but quick to fall in love with cities,
objects, water anywhere: tide pools, oceans, rivers,
mountain streams, stately geese, lake ducks in queues,
the vermillion of winter sunsets, purity of cumulus
in a summer sky, the scarlet flash of a cardinal from tree
to tree. Good luck, always, but with bad luck, I always
fell in love with impossible men, ones who left me, or I left
them. The husband who stayed? He was the true one.
Then, there was Mr. K, my high school principal, a dead ringer
for Thomas Wolfe, with whom the girl I was must have
thought she could go home again. His costume
"de rigueur" was a rumpled white shirt, black trousers
splayed with chalk dust, coal black hair, and an imposing
presence no one took issue with, maybe not even his
British wife, teaching English in the same school.
I sent him my poems by a classmate to his office, too shy
to deliver them myself. Years later, "Poetry mash notes,"
a colleague said, inciting laughter in a poetry audience with
whom I shared my youthful infatuation, the energy lingering
long after he signed my graduation diploma, because Yes,
he read my poems, and Yes, I sat dazzled in his English Lit
class to "Beowulf," "Chaucer," and the Shakespeare plays we
took turns reading aloud. When he chose another to read
Portia instead of me, "for her gentle voice," I was devastated,
yet when a boy spoke out in class to criticize my poems:
"No one can understand what she writes," Mr. K. replied
"On the contrary, she writes about very complex things with
very simple language." This praise never left me.
Years after, moving to Atlanta with my husband and small
children, our paths crossed again. Living there
at the same time, Mr. K. and I found each other in an
Episcopal parish, its satisfying high-church "smells and bells"
the only show in town, "Spiky," his wife said. There, our
friendship deepened, until Mr. K. moved to England with his wife,
she returning home to complete the cycle, finish out the years
at point of origin. We do go home again, Thomas Wolfe not-
withstanding, as did I, seeking toward close of life
the comfort and substance of birthplace.
Mr. K. returned occasionally to Atlanta for a visit with his son.
He would call me, and it was then that we met for dinner,
most often at Zazu's an intimate bar and restaurant on Peachtree.
What did we talk about sitting across a table from each other?
I do not now remember, but once I observed him glancing at
his aging hands and comparing them to mine, younger by a few,
completely irrelevant years. I once asked him as he entered
his later years if he ever felt "old." He said No, he felt the same
as he always had. This was a revelation: I imagined people
felt as old inside as they looked. This is not the case, as
I was to discover in my own lifetime.
On one evening I did not know would be the last time, Mr. K.
and I sat in my car in darkness after dinner in front of his son's
house. As he prepared to leave, he said, "I don't know how I shall
get along without you, though I've been without you all these
years. We never touched, save in the bond of friendship, and more's
the pity. Some time passed. I wrote a letter to Mr. K.and his wife.
It was returned unopened with a message on the envelope,
"Both deceased." In my car, then, that last night, it was Adieu --
To God, not Au Revoir. Now, with "All time, all attitudes washing
away," as I wrote in a poem called "Fernandina," he lives
in the room in the heart where no one enters but me.
No need for a phone call. I hold the key.
1) Since you have such a crazy drive to post every thought which goes through your mind, you consider posting your grocery lists.
2) You come up with another lame senryu just to post something new(and create a cheap entry for yet another contest).
3) Even though you post everything which comes to mind, post 3+ poems per day, every day, you believe all of your posts to be exemplary pieces.
4) (in relation to #3) You believe all of the "This is a masterpiece!" comments left on your poems, to be completely sincere.
5) You have the tendency to ignore that you are nearing 60 years of age. You put up avatars of yourself, circa 1971, and flirt with nearly every Souper below the supposed age of 30.
6) Instead of having a romantic evening with your significant other, you end up surfing the Soup blogs and drooling over member avatars.
7) After being single for 15 years, a completely compatible person asks you on a date. You decline the offer, end up surfing the Soup blogs and drooling over member avatars.
8) The admin makes an announcement concerning site maintenance, how the site might be down for 24 hrs -- upon reading the announcement, your stomach drops-out, you are filled with a phantasmagoric sense of doom which escalates into a bout of nihilism so strong, you consider methadone treatment to prepare yourself for the upcoming site-shutdown.
9) You begin methadone treatment in preparation for the two hours you will be away from the Soup(and awake)attending your best friend's funeral.
10) Your sleep-time has drastically altered to less than 4 hours of sleep per night. This is for various reasons, one of these being that every week you feel the need to leave a minimum of 1000 comments on poems, so whenever you post something new, the 'return' comments on said post, help push it up the 'Top 100 Recent Poems' list. You consider this to be an accomplishment akin to winning the Nobel Prize in Literature. You are awesome.
11) Instead of watching your favourite soap opera on the booby, you follow the soaps happening between Soupers in the blogs.
12) Every time you get a splinter, you have a strong urge to put up a blog about it to gain support and sympathy during your ordeal.
13) You put up blogs telling members that you are going to be 'gone' for 2 days, and apologize for not "being there for everyone" while away from the site.
14) After not seeing daylight for months on end, you put up a blog about seeing the most amazing thing .... you finally went outside and saw this blazing orb in the .... in the .... in the whatchamacallit, sky?
15) You forget to say "Merry Christmas!" to your family at home, but 'say' it in the Christmas blog that you put up on the Soup.
16) You forget your significant other's Birthday, but remember the Birthday of your favourite 'platonic' Souper.
17) Whenever you see or hear the word "Soup", your palms become itchy and you can barely contain yourself from using a computer/phone to login to poetrysoup.com.
18) You believe that if a poem rhymes, it is automatically a decently written poem.
19) In desperation, your family members and friends create accounts on the Soup, believing this to be the only way left to interact with you. In return, you have your account deleted and open a new one under an assumed pen-name.
20) You make the rounds each new day leaving "Good Morning!" comments on your friend's poems.
21) You go on vacation to an exotic beach location. The weather is gorgeous. The water is wonderfully warm. The sand is splendid. You don't swim in the wonderfully warm water. You don't take in the sights of the beach. You barely even notice the beach. Instead, you log onto the Soup via your laptop/phone.
22) Your children are hungry. You barely even know who your children are anymore. You don't care. *click* *clickety-click*
23) Your significant other finally offers to "do THAT thing"(yes, THAT one!)you've always fantasized him/her doing with you, but until now, he/she has always refused to fulfill for you. Now .... you don't care. *click* *clickety-click*
Metaphor of outrage, Translation of Carlos Bousono’s poem : Metafora del desafuero
( In celebration of a birthday)
for Andrés Amoros
Having been outside of you, yourself, dizzying voyage
the quiet, beggar
of your conscience, hermit
in the desert of your inaction, believing
only in the cactus/thistle, in the excessive stone,
without a hole from which to drink, without food, without bread,
miserable and without grove
like a boat struck by tempest
but a tempest not particularly disruptive, without the grandeur
of this sum of experience
in a sea, now, later, monotonous, without end, monochromic,
with greying water,
or, better still, without it, sailing on it in its non-colour,
sailing in the not-water, with continuity in the never-monotony,
or in the midst of ruins after an earth-quake
that leaves everthing low,
rather in a place where there was no house nor where they put up
neither was the floor split open, nor were there cracks,
there, exiled, without the remembrance of a lost country,
dumb, without the notion of a language ido*
all the shine shorn off, all persuation, all complaint,
irremediably left alone, but without solitude,
yet you hadn’t any memory of any earlier companionship,
there, where no form of evocation could touch you,
even if to accomplish this, you had to be precise with the previous
there, there you were with your back to your own being,
without seeing, without seeing yourself,
even if sometimes the opposite took place and you began to think with
who knows if for his (sic) condition, that is, principally,
which happened, during this period, to occupy
the totality of your attentions and which grew (perceived then as of
a short distance) with it,
your enormous knee, your extraordinary foot, your great foot,
stepping on the treeless plain with resonance,
in a clatter like the rattle of a tambourine,
your gigantic foot,
your treacherous leg, rotund, which grew longer, alone and
autonomous, to a point where nobody could ever reach it,
and after that, but only afterwards,
your entire body made up of indeterminate materal, of noise, such
that your skeleton without peer,
your terrible skeleton, advancing with great strides
towards no one, towards nothing,
everything of a sudden began to diminish in size and returned little
by little to its initial state,
and every part of your body began, by slow degrees – yes, this – to
absent itself :
first the flesh and the skin disappeared, and then your erect sex :
impenitent, the object of ridicule,
even if the nails continued with indifference to grow,
attentive exclusively to its pre-occupation with its strange sense
of avariciousness in an effort to acquire much more :
the hair, the beard, without paying any attention to how
parsimoniously it proceeded,
but, following which, that in itself, subjected to such a state of
enrapture, obliterated itself, and arrived punctually on the
generalization of the scrupulous duty to obedience,
which is to disengage itself, in all precision, without any exception
whatsoever, nor leaving even an iota of dust on the polished
surface of the piece of furniture,
the chaos of not being seen, the scandal of invisibility, of confusion,
there, on the obverse side of truth, on the other side of lying
on the frontier which it was deemed not worthy of being demarcated,
this area without topography where truth and lies appeared
as the self-same answer to the question that you didn’t pose.
Oh ! Beggar of your conscience ! Oh ! Scrutinisor !
Oh ! finicky Explorer !
Oh ! Celebrator of the unfortunate !
* Ido, cf. Idus, meaning the « Ides » of March, etc., in English. I don’t quite know. Could the poet be so kind as to enlighten us ?
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
That's my dad for you... getting his hands deep into the knitty-gritty, when most others would just back off a safe distance away saying, "No thanks! Maybe when Armageddon comes a'knocking we can talk religion, but right now I'm in the middle of favorite show so.... bye!". I have much respect for him in that sense... a hard working man as well as a man who never stops thinking... even when on the coattails of turning 60. Still in the fields of repairing roofs, fixing leaky pipes, (even building tree-houses for the overly eccentric clients that don't even have kids that would enjoy it). My siblings and I would unanimously agree that he's been in construction since the dawn of time. And in some ways that statement isn't so far off from the truth - depending of course on who's "time" you are referring too. In my heart and soul he will always be high in my book of Highly Admired People. But of course there will always be those personality traits I wish were apart of him. I can say this, in complete honesty, that I don't believe he ever once remembered my birthday. I don't hold it against him by any means. Truth be told he doesn't remember ANY holidays whatsoever (Fourth of July, Christmas, not even his own birthday, bless his soul). He's just not wired that way. To him a holiday is nothing more than a glorified day where telemarketers and business men take full advantage of. "Feel like your mother doesn't appreciate you enough? Well here's something that will change her mind, this coming mother's day. A brand new 24 carat diamond encrusted necklace that's guaranteed to dazzle those eyes. You can beam with pride when you hand it to her... I went to Jared, yes, indeed!". But in some ways I mourn his inability to become engrossed in a monotonous no-nothing conversation. We can't discuss movies, musicians or any upcoming local events. Sometimes I feel as though if the topic isn't of dire importance, he won't give it a second look. Sports won't hold his attention... doesn't everybody know the Superbowl is just a distraction from all the wars going on around us? Doesn't at times, we resemble Hitler hiding his bunker, drinking wine and eating gourmet delicacies of pate and caviar, while the rest of the world is battling it out? Perhaps he's a victim of too much truth and it consumes him... perhaps I just have a truth deficiency and just smile away, in ignorance, at some comedian on the TV, "I have no idea why I'm laughing, but I guess I'll sit awhile, and wait for this steeple of ours to come crashing down upon us." This proves just how much I take after my dad... might as well have a Walmart worthy button pinned to my shirt at all times, "HI! MY NAME IS TIM AND I'M A HOPELESS MELODRAMATIC... FREE SAMPLE?". Truth be told, I guess we both have elements of wisdom and elements of pessimism deeply ingrained into our thick skulls. It's one of the most difficult things in the world to explain the complexities (or in some cases, lack there of) of Garold Hicks. When my friends inquired, I'd cut it short saying, "Well he's different... not all that social I suppose." But I feel that is a great injustice to his personality, to sum it all up in pocket-sized sentence that takes barely more than a short exhale of breath, to let out. It's hard to end this ode of him, and still leave the reader with a clear sense of purpose, or any real sense of conclusion. I guess it's only fitting to end this piece, once and for all, with yet another my dad's witty zingers,
"I used to think I was in indecisive...
... but now I'm not so sure."
NOTE: I wanted to write a piece about my dad for ages, but couldn't find the words. He really is a strange person (and I don't mean to be insulting for I'm very much like him).
GUILTY AS CHARGED!
Justice Romantic Romeo : Stand up in court!
Case No 345/03/2012
Accused: Ms Provocative Dishonest
Address: 197 Mpopotwane Street
Sun Valley, Mamelodi West
(1) PARTICULARS OF CHARGES
(1) Charge 1: Sweeping my heart away.
(1)(a) Alternative charge to charge 1: Stealing away my soul.
(2) Charge 2: Provocatively hijacking my feelings.
(2)(a) Alternative charge to charge 2: Playing continuously in my dreams.
In terms of the Constitution’s Bill of Rights and Ubuntu Regulations 14(3) that reads with Batho-Pele Principles and Corporate Governance Regulations 18(3),
You performed an act that constituted an offence and you therefore stand accused
Unlawfully and intentionally sweeping my heart away on 2012/03/16 at 16:00, On my birthday, on Sunday at 197 Mpopotwane Street, Sun Valley in Mamelodi West, and alternatively stealing my soul on that day, time and place.
You unlawfully and intentionally, provocatively hijacked my feelings in broad daylight, in full view of the people, and alternatively played continuously in
my dreams every 12:00 midnight from that day until present!
Justice Romantic Romeo: How do you plead Ms Provocative Dishonest?
Guilty or not guilty?
Ms Provocative Dishonest : Eh.........eh...........guilty , my Worship !
Justice Romantic Romeo : Guilty as charged! Guilty on all the charges!
Justice Romantic Romeo : Since you pleaded guilty to all the charges,
I will slap you with this light sentence:
(1) Be the apple of my eye and my lover for life!
(2) With NO PAROLE and NO LEAVE TO APPEAL for this sentence, be the keeper of my dreams!
(5) COURT ADJOURNS:
Justice Romantic Romeo : All stand up in court !The court is adjourned,
And we will live happily ever after.
I still remember how fast it started
And how even faster it all ended
Those wishes that I hoped would happen
And how I watched them shatter when you said goodbye
I still remember how I slowly fell
For a boy’s heart that was beating for someone else
Those nights when you said I was beautiful
And I answered with a denial every time, but you insisted
I still remember the afternoon walks
The Saturday mornings, at the swing, at the kiosk, at the wooden chairs
When we surrendered our means of communication
And sweet dinner times with other couples
I still remember your promises
When you said it will still be me even when I leave that small town
When everyone would squeal, teasing us when we were together
My friends teased you, but you just smiled
I still remember those happy times
You would just stare at me and nod instead of answering me with words
I’d watch you walk with your own friends to the queue of people
Before we ate at the same time, even at different tables
I still remember your almost-gift
Stolen, as if a foreshadowing of our end
That maybe, not too far in time, you’d be stolen from me, too
When you were explaining your irritation or anger at the thief, I was just looking at you
I still remember when that popular photo was taken
Under a tree, in a bench
If that wasn’t taken then, would we ever have a picture together?
Or would I be left with no proof we ever existed
I still remember my last days in a town 5 hours away
We’d eat lunch outside the campus and return late
When everything felt simply happy and perfect
I wasn’t looking for much, I was contented with everything
I still remember those days when I doubted the difference in our birthdays
But you held on and people encouraged that it was okay
And I don’t know how fast those three months just slipped
I was holding it tight, but it disappeared from my hands like air
I still remember that night you ended us
When my heartbeat was a pain in the chest that won’t stop
A confused soul I was, drowning myself with music
So that at least, I could fall asleep
I still remember every word my friends and your friends said
And how I looked down every time they would ask what happened
Know that I doubted myself every day since then
That I lost a great deal of confidence because of your lies
I still remember when I found out about you
I hope by now you know that I know
That your answers were lies that I detected
Stop trying to cover up, because I always find out the truth
I still remember your full name and your phone number
Like a letter etched in stone, it takes millions of years to weather away
When I hear your name, a voice laughs teasingly behind me, irritatingly
As if saying there are many things in life that I will never have
I still remember whatever titanium is
And how our friendship was not as strong and corrosion-resistant as it is
We slowly faded away into the background
Like a beautiful music that was inevitably flowing to its end
I still remember a night when I stayed up thinking
To fall for you and allow myself to be happy or to restrain myself
And I decided that I was to let my heart open again
But now I wonder why I hadn’t closed my eyes into dreamland instead
Based on a true story from a television documentary on Human Trafficking...an international crime with participants from a broad spectrum of society...occuring on a daily basis. I have only seen documentaries on the trafficking of young girls between the ages of 5 and above!! Law enforcers, it seems are fighting a losing battle against the men and women who sell and enslave young girls and I have no doubt, young boys as well.
Somewhere this day on planet earth
A Mother-to-be, while in labor, cries
Not so much for the mounting pain
Nor the fear of possible death
So many fears for the future…
“What lies ahead in the coming years?
What “fate” will meet my child?”
And added to all her heightened fears is…
Will she be there to protect her child?
Those dark years have now passed into decades
When Tanya walked the shadowy streets of the city at late night
While kids her age slept peacefully in their beds
They made her dress up so she’d looked twenty one
Days were spent locked in a room, under watchful eyes
She was fed cheap fast food to her young heart’s content
Soon she'd lose all hope of liberation
This was the second man she had been sold to
And after a while she’d adapt to the situation
Still fresh in her mind was that last day at school
In her backpack was her favorite teddy bear
Her Mother had chosen to believe her step-father again
Now that her twelfth birthday would be in a month
As no one cared, she decided to run away
While at the bus station she met this “nice” couple
Who listened to every word she spoke
They promised her a ride to any place she wished
And she’d always wanted to see Disney land
“Maybe, she thought, it’d be a birthday treat”
However, that would be another promise broken
Weeks dragged on and they bought her “stuff”
Although treated well, sometimes she still felt alone
Then one day came the grown up clothes and make up
That night her innocence was stolen once more
Later she’d try to make an escape
Only to be caught and tied to the bed post
‘Make it easy on yourself and accept your “fate”, she was told
That was years ago, although it seems like yesterday,
When arrested by a new officer on the vice squad
Who saw the flaw in the picture before him
The pimp gave no reasonable answer to the simple question
‘Why are you parked late at night on the street corner with a minor?’
Looking back over the years, she came to conclude that “Fate” is just another word, made up to cast aside blame; when we do not want to see the path we’ve chosen which has led us to our present state
When Pilate symbolically washed his hands, though he had power in that moment to act..
When there before him stood truth and innocence,
Yet, he chose to make a comfortable bed for his conscience
Today, Tanya is a college graduate and a Mother who has vowed not to leave anything to “fate”. She’d teach her children to take responsibility for the choices they make…
She would teach them that no one is of lesser value than another..
Male or female; black or white, all hues; rich or poor
All have a God given right to live free!
For: Richard's "Girl Rising" Contest
(3rd Place Win)
I'm 51 today.
51 tomorrow, yay
Was 51 yesterday.
52 is months away,
And yes I'm thankful.
Although it's not my real birthday,
It kinda is in a certain way.
I'm still alive another day.
I had the notion to celebrate.
And be thankful.
Though it's not a holiday.
Thanksgiving has come and gone away,
I'm just alive today.
For that I'm thankful.
Honestly, I am not just trying to make these lines rhyme,
Or reflect upon the deep sublime.
I'm just grateful today to be alive.
I mean really thankful.
I'm not trying to wow you with philosophy,
Or impress you with theology.
It matters not at all to me.
I just feel thankful.
So tonight I take a walk outside,
I look up into the endless sky and then I breathe.
I breathe in deep,
And I say thank you.
And maybe not just to Who you think,
Man let's throw in the kitchen sink,
And include all who've touched my life, to whom I'm thankful.
Some of you I'm glad you're gone,
Frankly you stayed a bit too long
And some you the grave stole far too soon,
And yet I'm still thankful.
Today the living and the dead
You've both been right up inside my head,
And synergized this verbal thread.
For that I'm thankful.
I close my eyes and think of Tim, named David right there toward the end.
I always smile when I think of him,
And now I listen
I heard a siren going by,
I wonder who and wonder why,
Was it a wreck, did someone die?
Yet still I listen.
Neighbors dogs are going wild.
Was that the laughter of a child.
Seems like I can hear for miles.
Still I listen.
I hear the hi-way roar of cars.
Tho I have never heard the stars
Is there really life on Mars?
Shhh brain please shut up and listen!
The soft night whispers in my ears.
Pressing through my random fears,
I stand amazed at what I hear.
And now I wonder.
I open up my eyes and see as I feel this winter breeze
The silhouette of leafless trees.
I stand in wonder
Then I wonder about the first man to ever be,
Or the first time he looked up to see
The Milky Way the galaxies.
Did he wonder?
I wonder what he did
How he loved how he lived.
If he ever lost a friend?
Man oh man I wonder.
Was he the first to dig a grave?
How it sounded if he prayed?
How he fought?
How he played?
If that man could see us all today,
What would he say I wonder?
In ways was he a lot like me?
Did he sometimes fear what he could not see?
Did he create unseen walls
I stand and wonder.
Did he ever hurt the ones he loved?
Did life convince him not to trust?
My great grandfather lived
My DNA is shared with him.
I wonder how we are the same,
And I don't even know his name.
Still I wonder.
Will my great grand kids know my name?
Will it even matter who's to say?
Will they look up in wonder?
Will they listen?
Will they be thankful?
Not much I can leave to them
That would matter too much in the end.
I suppose the primal hope in man
Is the hope I hope lives on in them
I hope they wonder. About the universe.
I hope they listen. To life's unspoken verse.
I hope they're thankful. Even in midst of deepest hurts.
I hope they're thankful.
I hope they listen.
I hope they wonder.
And no matter what life hands them,
I hope they hope.