Long poem by
Brian Johnston | Details |
CHALLENGE TITLE POETRY CONTEST FOR AUGUST ON POEMHUNTER.COM!
'WHY DO TURTLES CROSS THE ROAD? '
OK FOLKS! Please choose your favorite poem from those entered here and remember too to give your reasons for your choice. How often is it that we get to hear why the judges (YOU) voted the way that you did. Really it is very important to give reasons. Believe me your reasons are a very important part of the show here. So tell us what you really think.
Poem's can be voted on from Sept.1 to Sept.12, 2014 at which time the winner will be formally announced. PoetrySoup members can vote too if they wish I would have liked to show you the other entries in the contest but since I only wrote two of the poems entered under PoetrySoups laws I cannot do so. Although hosting a contest in Poemhunter is much more difficult than on PoetrySoup, there are innovations in my contest that I believe make it superior to contests on PoetrySoup. The biggest innovation is democratic voting. The second innovation, is that here is just one winner, and for your vote to count you must explain why you have voted as you have. This innovation can be very amusing. A final innovation is that the Contest Master can 'roast' the contestants. Go to Brian Johnston's site on PoemHunter.com and look for the poem...
[Challenge] Entrees for August! Vote Here!
Proposals of marriage, profanity and other inappropriate comments however will be deleted as soon as they appear. And like the US Supreme Court, I may not be able to define what is inappropriate here, but I know it when I see it.
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Why Do Turtles Cross The Road?
(A **Joint** Poem by Diane Hine and 'THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA')
‘Okie' turtles cross the road
because they've all read
‘The Grapes of Wrath'
AND NOW LIVE 24/7
IN AN ALCOHOLIC STUPOR
IN MIGRANT WORKER HOUSING
TRYING TO IMAGINE
WHAT THE WORLD WOULD BE LIKE
IF GILBERT GRAPE WAS PRESIDENT.
Badbottom Leatherback bikie
turtles on Harley-Davidsons
don't just cross the road,
they own the road
AND LIVE IN 'HOG' HEAVEN
THE TRUE FAT CATS (IS THAT A SLUR?)
OF THE MODERN WORLD.
Kerouac turtles are the road itself
SO LIKE SCHROEDINGER'S CAT
THEY ARE ALWAYS IN BOTH STATES
AT THE SAME TIME, IE.,
CROSSED AND UNCROSSED,
IT'S ALL PROBABILITY PROBABLY! ? !
ANYWHO, IT'S HARD TO LIVE ANYWHERE
WHEN THE WORD DESTINATION
IS NOT IN YOUR VOCABULARY.
and Chuck Norris turtles never
have to cross the road because
the road crosses itself
EITHER IN TRIBUTE TO L. RON HUBBARD
(WHO LIVES IN THE HUBBARD TELESCOPE)
OR BECAUSE THEY HAVE WATCHED
SO MANY INFOMERCIALS
THAT CROSSED EYES CAN'T TELL
ONE SIDE OF THE ROAD FROM THE OTHER
CHUCK NORRIS TURTLES DON'T LIVE ANYWHERE
THEY PERSONIFY, ‘I AM.'
Contest Master's Comment - The 'dark horse' of the pack, this poem is probably way to literate to garner many votes even if you have taken voice lessons from the Master of Music himself. Who is that masked man I wonder. Will he ever be unveiled? Surely there enough literary references in this poem to make most vapid English Major cross-eyed. The only groups left out that I can see are 'Samurai Ninja Turtles' and 'New Age Belly-Button Turtles' who are too frightened of the real world to ever come out of their shells anyway. Did you ever see a turtle levitate? I think you should add a couple of verses Diane & BO (I mean PO), after the contest is over, don't you?
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Why Do Turtles Cross The Road?
By Brian Johnston
‘So why are the turtles crossing the road?
My sister ask wonderingly
As each turtle would come into view.
No guarantee, but sometimes we'd see them
As we drove with Dad out of town
Checking out cows on a farm or two.
‘It's a great mystery to me, ' I said,
‘As both sides seem really the same,
And our vision's much better than theirs.'
‘The problem I see with crossing for turtles…
Is that they're low and also slow
So fast autos catch them unawares.'
A nice gesture, Dad would frequently stop,
Let us scoop them up in a box
For the ‘turtle farm' at our home place.
The grip's important when picking them up
‘Cause turtles can scratch, bite, and pee,
Oh what a joke, … ‘turtle won the race! '
But now why does a turtle cross a road?
Perhaps he's trolling for people?
Buggers don't care about other side,
From industries' leaders they take their cue,
Their mentors, short visioned and slow,
Who risk their lives to get a free ride.
Contest Master's Comment - Truly the oldest poet in the group, I am hoping to win by means of the sympathy vote crowd. Just think of me as a friendly, old, senile, grandfatherly type. Remember the reasons so many of you voted for Ronald Reagan you tea-party, sociopathic, nabobs of negativism and vote for me too or I will raise your taxes too just like Ronnie did! That's a promise!
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There are several more poems by other gifted poets on my site. Please come visit.
If you like what we have done here.....
>>PLEASE VOTE ON THIS 'POEM CONTEST' (FROM 1-10 <<
Maybe PoemHunter will make contests like this a website
feature in the future like some other websites already do?
And a huge vote of appreciation to both contibutor and my
collaborator Bri Edwards (the disgraced ex-poet and now
>>>Please help us make this contest even more popular <<<
>>>by emailing your friends on PH and elsewhere even, <<<
>>>to make the vote as democratic as possible! ! ! ! ! ! ! <<<
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Poem Entries Continue in Part 2
Long poem by
Brian Johnston | Details |
- - Chapter 2: Adult Responsibility (With Some Breaks) - -
By ten years old, no weekends off,
Or Saturday cartoons,
Although I did have cash to spend,
I felt my life in ruins.
I dusted cars in my dad's store,
And cleaned its toilets too,
I fixed truck tires as I got old,
Not much I couldn't do.
A trip to two month summer camp,
I learned to shoot and sail,
At twelve years old, a pioneer,
Canoed explorer's trail.
Near tragedy on my return,
My sister paralyzed,
A late victim of polio,
My conscience brutalized.
Felt guilty leaving her alone,
While I frolicked and played,
Brotherly love had been displaced,
Her protection was waylaid.
The washers, dryers, I repaired,
And freezers with no chill,
Then televisions came along,
Tube testing my new skill.
Assembling new farm implements,
And posting parts on hand,
My driver's license opened doors,
‘Collected bills' firsthand.
On Sundays we would go to church,
To hear the preacher tell,
Because my dad was not with us,
His soul would burn in Hell.
Dad's Channelled Poem-
[‘It's bad news when a preacher comes.
They all want stuff for free.
I have to feed my children too,
I've problems they don't see.']
Three years of summer music camps,
In Junior High reborn,
I played piano in dance bands,
Took lessons on French Horn.
My French Horn teacher laughed out loud
When I walked through the door,
‘Your lips too thick, please stick out tongue, '
Now rolling on the floor!
‘To take your money is a crime, '
The German said to me,
‘You've no high notes, ' ‘I know' I said,
‘Mom loves French Horn you see.'
Most summers were our busy time,
We all worked hard till dusk,
My ‘tail rung through a ringer, ' (1) la, *
The time for ‘smart mouth' (2) brusque.
But then the job that I loved best,
Flat tractor tires in field,
A chance to meet a farmer's girl,
The country's charm revealed.
One summer worked a cattle herd,
Two thousand cows were planned,
By cutting, wind-rowing (3) the grass,
Soon haystacks dotted land.
Dakota winters could be fierce,
The temp forty below,
The stacks were shelter from the wind,
A shield from blinding snow.
We'd use a horse for round-up, la! *
My God that was a thrill,
Except for blisters on your ass,
Or when you took a spill.
I had not ridden horses much,
You're so far from the ground,
The horse not knowing you from spit, (4)
Disdain can be profound! '
There was no time for niceties,
And work to do, ‘C'MON! '
If horse and you somehow part ways,
No choice, you climb back on.
Our ranch was all on ‘Indian Res., ' (5)
By river loop enclosed,
In South Dakota's Lower Brule, (6)
A twelve year lease proposed.
Land acres more that twenty thou.
Covered by native grass,
A chance like this was very rare,
My father could not pass.
The river's edge a solid fence,
No barbed wire to maintain.
The nearest town two hours by road,
Our days were mostly work and sleep,
With meals our only break,
Except for weekend groc'ry trips,
No chance for love's heartache.
Till I discovered farmer's girl,
Who lived half way to town,
Contrived a way to go to church,
When Sunday's call came down.
The church's name not one I knew,
The people all seemed nice,
To escape Sunday's usual fare
Was worth most any price.
Played music we could sing,
The pastor beat foot-pedalled drum,
We made the rafters ring!
I told myself, ‘there's something strange,
The music's gone too long, '
Emotion peaking and yet I
Somehow did not belong.
With music's end the sermon broke,
The world's sure end was near,
Time now to sanctify all sin,
‘Repent now! God's word hear.'
For God's quite mad, this cannot stand,
No doubt that it is prov'n
Those rockets from Canaveral
Are shooting holes in Heav'n.
I was in shock, glued to my seat,
The flock their garments rent,
And I the last one in his seat,
No sin did I lament!
At last not knowing what to do,
I left and went outside,
And knew whatever happened now,
I hadn't found my bride.
August 20, 2014
* When I was in the American Peace Corps in Tanzania, East Africa we had a group of 7
surveying assistants that were always with us in the first year and that we became very
close to. Their conversation was always sprinkled with 'la' and I thought it was kind of
cute. Like they might say to me, 'Why don't we stop in this village for some food, la.'
They used this word kind of like I use the word ‘OK' in casual conversation. 'You've got
food in your teeth, la.' I really enjoyed this idiosyncratic affectation.
(1) 'tail rung through the ringer' - Early washing machines did not have a 'spin cycle.' So
to get the excess water out of your clothing you would ring out the water from each item
of clothing first before hanging it on a clothes line to dry completely in the sun. So the
phrase 'tail rung through the ringer' means that you are all out of energy, and very tired.
The energy has been squeezed out of you by your job like water rung out of newly
(2) 'smart mouth' Someone who likes to talk back to authorities, or who just complains all
(3) 'wind-rowing' - To rake newly cut grass into long rows called 'wind-rows' that could be
more easily picked up and bailed then by yet another machine.
(4) 'not knowing someone from spit' - To have no respect for the person at all.
(5) ‘Indian Res’ – Land that Indian’s were given official title to by the American
government in an attempt to placate and domesticate them.
(6) ‘Lower Brule’ – A huge tract of Indian Land contained in a large meander of the
Missouri River. Although the mouth of this loop is only one mile wide, to get from one side
of the meander by river is over 28 miles. Lower Brule is owned by the Cherokee Indian
Long poem by
SillyBilly theKidster | Details |
Sentenced to hang in the town of Lincoln,
Billy made his bold escape.
Both of his guards died from thinking
that a shackled young boy couldn't break away.
I've often wondered what thoughts were going through his head
as he stood staring out that window chained to the floor by his bed,
watching the gallows being built that would soon seal his fate.
Was he planning at that very moment his greatest escape?
Did he already know that his hanging would never come to be?
Was he already aware that before night fall, once again he'd be free?
Whatever his thoughts, they were interrupted rudely
by Deputy Bob Ollinger, one of his guards while in custody.
"Word has it you said that if we ever met again you'd kill me on the spot.
Well here I am Kid. Now's your chance. Show me what you've got.
It's a shame that you'll hang in another week or two,
because I'd love to be the one who gets to kill you.
I've got 16 silver dimes in the barrells of my shotgun.
I'd love to try them out on you, but I can't unless you run.
If I free you from those chains will you run for the door?
Oh by the way Kid, your Ma was one sweet dirty whore.
I'll kill you before you hang Kid. That's a sure bet."
"Be careful Bob," said the Kid, "I'm not hung yet."
Bob thrusted his shotgun hard into Billy's gut.
The Kid looked up at him in pain and said, "Now what?"
"Don't do it Bob," Bell screamed angrily,
"or you'll be the one who'll hang for sure
for killing an unarmed man in cold blood
who was chained helplessly to the floor.
It's time for the other prisoners to be escorted across the street to be fed.
The Kid's not going anywhere. He's chained to the floor by his bed.
Anyway, I took the prisoners last so now it's your turn.
Go and have yourself a beer and I'll stay here
and guard the Kid until you return."
Bob Ollinger placed his shotgun into the gun rack.
Before he left he said to Billy, "I'll see you when I get back."
No one can say for sure if the above dialog ever truly took place,
but one thing's for sure,
Ollinger tormented Billy at a merciless endless pace.
They were arch enemies who fought against each other
during the Lincoln County War.
Ollinger was in the posse that killed John Tunstall,
Billy's employer, friend and mentor.
"I have to use the privy Bell," Billy said to the deputy.
Bell kept his rifle trained on Billy as he tossed him the key.
Billy unlocked the chains that kept him bound to the floor.
Still in handcuffs and leg irons, Bell escorted Billy out the door.
Billy entered the outhouse closing the door behind him.
"Let's not take too long in there Kid," Bell said with a humorous grin.
While in the outhouse Billy managed to slip one of his hands out of his handcuff.
"You fall in there Kid?" Bell laughed, "You've been in there long enough."
"I'm coming out now Bell," Billy said opening the door.
"Sorry I took so long Bell. I must have ate something bad for sure."
Deputy Bell then escorted Billy back to the jail cell.
Once inside, Billy spun around and smacked hard Deputy James Bell.
Bell lost his balance, dropped his rifle and was momentarily stunned.
"Hands Up Bell!," the Kid yelled. In his hand was a gun.
"Please don't do it Bell," Billy pleaded, but Bell tried to run.
The Kid had no choice but to do what had to be done.
He shot and killed Bell, then went and got Ollinger's shotgun.
The Kid never found pleasure in killing,
but Ollinger would indeed be the exception.
Knowing that Ollinger heard the gunfire, Billy stood by the window
and waited for Ollinger to appear in the street down below.
One senior named Godfrey saw Bell fall dead down the stairs.
The moment probably gave Godfrey a few more gray hairs.
Ollinger ran out into the street as Godfrey screamed,
"The Kid's killed Bell!"
Ollinger looked up into both barrels of his own shotgun
and whispered, "..and now he's killed me as well."
"Hello Bob!," Billy called out with a song in his heart
just prior to blowing Bob Ollinger apart.
He blasted both barrels into Ollinger's chest and face.
Pieces of old Bob lay scattered all over the place.
Billy smashed his shotgun in two, threw it at him but missed.
"You'll never rifle me again," he screamed, "you son of a b*tch!"
On the balcony he addressed the crowd whose jaws hung agape.
"I don't want to hurt anyone,
but I'll kill anybody who tries to prevent my escape."
In the office he found a sledge hammer
and smashed the chains of his leg irons free.
He told Godfrey to fetch him a fast horse immediately.
As he walked down the stairs, he came upon Bell's lifeless body
and many eyewitnesses admit
that the Kid looked upon him and said almost tearfully,
"I'm sorry I killed you Bell, but couldn't help it."
As Billy mounted the horse the chains of his leg irons startled the beast.
The horse reared up and threw Billy down onto the street.
He was at this point his most vulnerable laying down on the ground.
The crowd could have overtaken him easily, but none made a move or a sound.
Once again Billy mounted the horse
and fled with the sound of his leg iron chains ringing.
Many claim that as he rode out of Lincoln County
that they heard the Kid singing.
Billy had escaped danger so many other times in his past,
but this was his greatest escape ever. It would also be his last.
"I had no intention of killing either one of them. My plan was to tie and gag Bell and then get out of there before Ollinger got back, but then things went terribly wrong.....I certainly didn't want to kill Bell, but I had to in order to save my own life....I never felt happier than when I gave it to old Bob. I said, "Look up here old boy and see what you're getting". I then blasted him in the face and breast. He use to ride me to the point where I just couldn't take it anymore."
- Billy the Kid
Long poem by
William J. Jr. Atfield | Details |
Differences – you say !
I – me Lass – brave Helios, rides his golden chariot,
drawn by fiery Steeds, into the vastness of this universe.
These mighty Titans, dispatched – brilliant, glowing -
ruled, controlled the blueness of this planet, the heavens.
Our bright Sun, sprinkles life giving particles, waves,
out in all directions – into the endless firmament.
Then there is the cold souled, silver shield that traverses
that moth eaten, dark cloth, that hangs like lead
in that dead laden space, blackness the place
you choose to ride – your life to hide.
Oh !, if only we would climb down from the edge of fences.
Oh !, if only we would leave behind, walk away from defences.
Oh !, for us to, but if we only could, reach our dreams
Oh !, for us to, not have all those things, it seems,
that get in the way – life’s experiences, what it means,
from time to time, - that should be left behind – long ago,
that hang on so tightly, from fears that you won’t let go.
Oh !, for us two, to find the door, to see, understand, to know.
Oh !, for us to, for us to realize, that after the end, the winds will blow
it all away, into waves of rainbow colours that will show
it all to have been a necessary, but unnecessary way to go.
No matter what is said and done, it all is the universes flow.
A straight line, towards your destination, is the obvious choice.
Unfortunately, a jumble of thoughts, experiences, become the voice.
A trip – full of baggage – and around the world we go.
A carrousel ride, on each and every horse, the story doth show
A very dizzying ride it is, the point, to get to know
is a journey, of many directions, on winds that blow
Live and let live the life one so chooses.
Seldom is it necessary if one wins or one loses,
not much concerned for – or where or why.
For in the end, it is all in the beholders eye.
Much too much involved !, much to obsessive,
with others and the lives they made a mess – ive.
I can only wonder ?, make an educated guess, live
with my analysis and know, from the heart you give.
I cannot carry the weight of your life into today,
for all that was, all that is, need not words to say,
for nothing will change, not before, nor after, it’s your way,
no matter what one chooses, or not, to express, it’s the game you play.
All has come into, become a part of, is constantly shared
with, and no matter how it affects, it’s no longer cared
for, for it all distracts, disrupts, disturbs the air
that we are inhabiting - and not – it is unfair
I know that it is part and parcel of the lady fair.
If only to the point, but you never seem to get there.
Hours and hours go by, I cannot help but cry
as I listen and listen, understand, I do try.
Actions, activities, motion, play are the order of the day,
board games to win, games to lose, but they cannot be had,
for it is not in the cards – alone – one can have a say,
only but for two, does it come though, to share and that’s not bad.
Vocalizing, expressing, gossiping, complaining are your way.
Hours to exercise the body, the soul, the mind, it is so sad,
for it leaves so little to share, so little time for making hay.
Not such a bad way to connect, what a great fad !
Just some of the differences that have come to be
what is between you and me, yet there is much more to see
that could come into you and me as we ride this rough sea
of life, that at times you find joy in this old boy, so free.
Happy am I when you come near, when you are here.
A little hollow, a little empty, in the end, harbour fear
that the sunshine will fade, be covered, will disappear.
Which way ?, - our ships passing in the night - will we steer.
Will the Mole, leave her underground, black hole ?,
to – with eagles fly – reach out and touch the sky ?
will this night hawk, this owl, venture into day light,
play in sight of shadows, created by a sun so bright
and warm, where day creatures know the storm
that rages throughout and within, who shout
with voices searing, with knowledge clearing,
with understanding of choices made by rending,
choices made for, and by them, behind a closed door.
Living a life that has been over flowing with strife.
There is much to know, about what was laid upon her soul.
Some can, some cannot let go, why ?, I do not know.
Can the bound, the nocturnal, the frightened ?,
find freedom, find in the diurnal, find in fearlessness,
a soul mate to travel with, upon day light roads, opened.
A soul mate to take into the darkness, the coldness.
Can they be blended, one into the other, if the story be told.
Differences – are they few or are there so many ?
Are we able to live with them ?, or without any ?
There we are – two old birds on the wing,
with different voices, different songs to sing
of any or all, to the table, want to bring.
Shed light, and let show, what is our thing
which at times has put us into the ring.
Sparing in defence of our particular notions,
beliefs, as we express – in animated motions,
a light, who we truly are in the heat of the moment.
Yet the hurt, the pain created by wards, was not meant.
Yet they have lent a truth, some truth was sent
out from the heart, the soul, life ancient
that dictates - in the moment – what’s fates sentiment.
And what are the differences you see ?
What are they ?, what is between you and me ?
B. J. “A ” 2
March 15th 2003
Long poem by
Gary Bateman | Details |
Rosalia - The Evil Black Witch of the Harz, Part Three
Vespers’ Prayer Preparation for Black Mass
In preparation for the ritual Black Mass at midnight, Rosalia recites the following prayer incantation which must be rendered latest at 6:00 pm on the eve of the Black Mass. This is a six-hour process that lasts until midnight when the actual Black Mass ceremony formally commences. The Vespers’ Prayer incantation by Rosalia reads as follows:
We Pray In The Name of Our Father Lucifer,
Which wert in Heaven:
Boil, Boil plague-ridden rats and toads in oil,
With a pair of gleaming snake eyes too.
Mix in fresh hen’s blood and a rabbit’s paw,
With a touch of horse dung and a lizard’s tail too.
Add six cups of Vitriol and a tablespoon of Goldwater.
Stew, Stew this Stygian alchemic brew for ne’r six hours
During Vespers for Our Midnight Black Mass on All Hallows’ Eve.
Serve this unholy sustenance to Our Coven at midnight,
As we pray in Great Lucifer’s name for his guidance
In defeating Jehovah’s forces of good and light.
We do this in the name of Great Lucifer—The Dark One.
We seek Blackness, Darkness, Degradation, and Negation—
As Our Coven has the power of His Power as granted
By His Unholiness when the full moon’s shadow
Crosses the face of the Earth.
Rosalia’s Sacrilegious Activities and Mask of Deception
Rosalia was very self-aware of her bewitching and beguiling activities,
and her seasoned ancient command of the instruments of evil and debauchery, whether by plan or at will, to execute her nefast activities against all who were innocent and unsuspecting. Her negative actions left an indelible stain and a wicked scar of evil on the spiritual psyche of all of her victims.
Rosalia was also vividly aware of the Church’s knowledge of witchcraft and sorcery, as written, codified and passed down by two Catholic inquisitors in the Malleus Maleficarum published in 1486. The power of her profane instruments of witchcraft found many of their original associational relationships with certain sacraments and church procedures, but were later corrupted and brought to the dark side to aid the Devil’s work. What was once good, could become instantly impious, if the witches focused their negative efforts and pagan power on corrupting and harming mankind.
And so, Rosalia understood and appreciated the power and the knowledge
of the Catholic Church concerning matters of witchcraft and the witches’ devotion to evil. The Church was not unaware of Rosalia’s evil activities,
but they were confined presently to a local area and were not of a larger regional nature—at least for the time being.
With this in mind and being so informed of the Church, and with the power and influence of the Dark One, Rosalia continued her ruthless, evil crimes
and her heartless, blasphemous activities during periodic nocturnal visits
in bucolic villages in the Harz countryside.
It was during these so-called “evening activities” that Rosalia’s dark-side mask, that is, her true witch’s countenance shone through and presented her ghastly Gorgon-grimaced face to her chosen victims—men, women, children—with no quarter given. This was Rosalia’s true self, her “evening mask,” but yet her true self.
Yet while during the day, as part of a masterful chameleon-like deception,
Rosalia would appear to unsuspecting people in her “daytime mask”
as a beautiful and charming blonde-haired, blue-eyed lady of young adult age, with a kind and genial spirit who worked in a local Inn in a village close to the Brocken. This was Rosalia’s perfect cover for plotting and conducting
her wicked and unholy activities.
Rosalia naturally commanded the insatiable power of the black arts
which allowed her to maintain her “normal appearance” for as long as she chose—and yet, she could summon her real dark appearance on a moment’s notice, but preferred the night when her dark-side powers were at their greatest pitch, whereby she could command whatever hell-spawned demons or earthly elements she needed to help and support her evil intentions and deeds.
With the daily reality of this “perfect deception,” Rosalia, with her coven of disciples, could strike with impunity throughout the numerous villages in the Harz countryside, consummating their evil intentions and horrible deeds
in the name of God’s fallen angel.
Rosalia’s goal was to deceive, corrupt and destroy the eternal souls of as many men, women, and children as possible, while ensuring the maturation and permanence of her power, and the unholy glorification of her master—Lucifer.
Who could ever imagine that a young beautiful blonde lady who innocently worked in a local village Inn could be one of vilest black spirits in the history of witchcraft?
Could Rosalia and her hell-spawned soulless minions be stopped and brought to justice for their terrible actions and deeds?
Who would dare challenge Rosalia’s power and the evil she sought to inflict on mankind?
End of Part Three
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved, Schoeningen, Germany (September 20, 2014)
Long poem by
Brian Johnston | Details |
Not to let the air out of anyone's tire but it's really not fair to compare religious
writings to modern science. Scientific theories for one thing are models of
reality (for example) and do not really claim to be reality itself. Though
there may be some 'scientists' who claim that 'science' is true in the same
sense as the belief that there is a God, I am not one of them and I believe such
'scientists' are not very bright! . Holy writings always require us to have faith,
to believe something because it seems true or because we want it to be true,
or because someone we trust told us it was true. Science tells us a model is
true because all the tests made to determine it's accuracy show that it's right.
And any Tom, Dick or Harry who performs these necessary tests will always get
the same answer. In short: Science is verifiable, Religion is not.
I am both scientifically trained (A sort of scientist I guess) and a practicing
Christian. I find value in both my faith and in science. I personally like to think
of a scientific theory as a kind of a poem which can be very beautiful indeed.
This of course can be difficult for a layman to see who doesn't understand
mathematics very well.
When a child asks you why is the sky blue how do you answer? Do you say
'because God made it that way, ' or do you tell the child well it's because light
obeys the laws of refraction, which once you study mathematics for 20 years I
will be able to explain to you? The simple answer here is that 2000+ years ago
we were much more childlike than we are now. Our ancient texts give the
wisdom of the ages (and it is wise) but just like science is not literally true,
maybe it is not scandalous to say that our spiritual ancestors wisdom is not
literally true either. God may have spoken to us as children then, but one of his
great gifts to us was Science as well. Those who ignore what Science can tell
us, do so, I believe, at considerable peril to themselves and to others.
When Christ taught others he used parables a lot. Surely most people will
admit that while these parables may teach us important truths, they may not in
fact have ever actually happened. In this sense I personally believe that the
Bible is not literally true and that does not mean it is not the word of God, it
just means we need to grow up and understand that our responsibility to God
extends beyond the Bible. Science in fact has much to teach us about how to
understand what is written in Holy Books like the Bible and we should listen,
because the same God that created the universe, created Science too!
Here is just a small example that a scientific theory is not reality, but a model
(or poem) about reality that can serve us without being literally true.
Gravity is a very simple example. We all have an intuitive feeling about gravity
being a force of some kind. This crude idea of gravity being a force has taken
us a long way, to the moon and even to other planets and back again. This was
an early model of physics. More modern physics has a different model which is
really very different sounding and complex but which is much more accurate
than the simple idea of gravity in explaining what we see when stars get very
massive for example, or when we travel very fast. This takes us into some of
Einstein's theories which are much more accurate and complicated than gravity.
So from Einsteins viewpoint, gravity does not exist at all, it is what is called a
'fictitious force' that exists only because the mass of an object, especially very
big objects, cause both space and time to curve. Doesn't sound like gravity
anymore does it, and yet the new theory, though it does not replace the
usefulness of the laws of gravity for you and I in our daily lives, means that for
science gravity is as old fashioned as a horse and buggy.
Did you know the the earth is 4.5 Billion years old, not 6000 years old as the
Bible estimates, and was man really created by God by breathing life into a
figure he molded out of clay or did God create man though evolutionary
processes that took millions of years to accomplish? I personally admire the
God more who created the potential for every thing we see around us in an
instant, than a God who took seven days to accomplish the same thing. But
that's just me. Science can be tested as I have stated, the Bible must be taken
on faith. Given the possibility that both were given to us by the same God,
what do you think we should do? Do we really have to throw one or the other
out completely? I don't think so. Both are valuable.
Long poem by
Broken Wings | Details |
Walking in the dawn,
in the forest loud with sound;
Hear the birds sing in the trees!
Listen to the wind,
see the stream flowing free;
Touch a leaf so green, dew wet!
Do you hear it now,
the sound of nature, the song;
A song so sweet, magical
Written April 23, 2009
Colourful leaves in piles,
luminous colours for miles and miles.
Burgundy, orange hovering,
the trees slowly relinquishing, surrendering.
A cool breeze makes them dance,
some quiet and calm, some leap and prance.
The Autumn sky so changing,
clouds moving, billowing, shifting, expanding.
And in one blustering wind,
piles empty where once colourful leaves had been.
Sun touches the leaves of a tree,
Like a stained glass window scene, to see.
Written October 15, 2008
deep clear sparkling snow
diamond like snowflakes falling
horse swiftly gliding
Written October 28, 2008
my little garden
plant unfurl your leaf
send your root deep deep deep
tis spring tis spring now
Written April 23, 2009
Butterfly hair clip
Deep purple antique necklace
Doll, of my childhood
Pearls, old and yellowed with time
Pink glass vase with wilted roses
Mom's favourite earrings
Scented candle, burning
Written November 5, 2008
On Bent Knees
Prayer books waiting at the door,
polished pews and stone cold floors.
Specks of dust glitter in the light,
half forgotten dreams still burn bright.
Stained glass windows cast a glow,
on bent knees this day my prayers flow.
Written February 2, 2009
Exploring the city on a rainy afternoon,
I happened upon, Ye Olde Book Store;
Opening the door, chimes sang out,
The store dusty, small and amazing.
To the ceiling books and rows of books,
The shop keeper, an elderly man, nods;
I walk quietly, I feel that I am in church,
Alone, I am in this place of books.
So many to touch, but one beckons me,
Taking it in my hands, I brush off the dust;
Opening the book, it seems to me so interesting,
I purchase it of course for a small price.
Finding a café close by, I settle in to read,
The words on the cover seem to be engraved;
A collection of poetry by the great poets of all time,
Page after page, tattered, yellowed with age.
Written April 23, 2009
Standing on a sea cliff with salt on my lips,
Holding out my hands to the heavens above;
Moving past me, a roaring wind, blows my raven hair,
Breathing in the sweetness, it whispers my name,
Tangled with the crashing waves, the birds soaring, the clouds rolling.
Written March 13, 2009
O, The Glistening Tears
You come in the light of day,
Through the ornate cemetery gates you come;
Down the lonely long road,
Past the headstones, row on row on row.
O, the glistening tears.
With a broken weeping heat,
You come, for us your family buried here;
What a cruel destiny and cruel fate,
Such love that even death cannot destroy.
O, the glistening tears.
And when the seasons change,
And fall winds blow over us resting here;
And when winter frost is in the air,
And we lay beneath the pure white snow,
O, the glistening tears.
And when spring comes and flowers grow,
You come in the light of day, you come, you come;
For us your family buried here,
Souls connected by bonds that even death cannot end.
Written February 8, 2009
The Memory Of You
Mom, today I saw a girl with her Mom
They were so happy laughing and talking
Together, mother and daughter, friends
I wondered if the girl realized
My heart was filled with envy and pain
I have so many things to tell you
Happy things, sad things, just things
Things only a mother would understand
Tears came to my eyes as I watched
God must have needed a special angel
To separate the puzzle that was you and me
The pieces that fit so well together
Mom, our love is an endless river
It will go on and on and on and never end
God took you from me, it was your destiny
I know nothing could keep you here
Our parting words, I love you so much
Your answer and I love you my daughter
God took you in the dawn but he left me a gift
A precious gift, the memory of you
Written February 8, 2009
Long poem by
Carol Eastman | Details |
A little girl lost her home this year, for her, Christmas wouldn't be there.
Her family was angry from all the troubles, they simply couldn't repair.
Don’t bother us about presents her parents said, they were depressed by their fate.
With bitterness they said, you’d be lucky to have dinner tonight, or even a plate.
Life was harsh, nowhere to go, anger and fear had put their souls, in a terrible place.
The little girl had found no hope or joy, lurking near their old car, of late.
The car was their home, gas money was scarce, and with few places they could park.
Yes, their troubles had slowly extinguished, that precious hopeful spark.
Without that spark, they’d never find their way, from this terrible place of cold and dark.
And life’s darkness grew deeper nightly, as hope vanished under a reality so stark.
Even the very fiber of her family, seemed to be shattering slowly, slowly, apart.
The child felt alone here in this dark car, as sadness tried to engulf her little girls heart.
The future seemed filled with hopelessness, as shame and dread, were leaving their mark.
Embarrassment to be seen and turned away, made it hard for them to reach out, to restart.
But life goes on, and we can’t fear to rebuild, or the future will be hard to impart.
The girl suddenly declared there’s more to life, and she wouldn't let it conquer her heart.
She decided triumphs will come, and all will get better, if she held to that hopeful spark.
Seeing the desolation and anger here, she couldn't stay around, she had to get away…
So she climbed out of the car, and she walked into town, not so very far to stray.
She went and looked at the store windows, where Christmas was being displayed.
The music and people filled her heart, lifting her spirits, deep inside, that day.
She noticed a store, way down at the end of the row, on the next block, where it lay.
No one was there, it seemed lonely, and the darkness was again, spreading it’s decay.
She ran there in time to see an old man closing up, with sadness on his face betrayed.
What use were his goods, if no one would shop, or come down along his way?
The super store down the block, was daily making him lose more and more in the fray.
He could no longer afford to hire people, and the season had very little time, to stay.
As they talked the girl saw that she couldn't let the darkness take another, so she prayed.
Then she told the old man, if he’d open the shop, she’d bring customers down his way.
She added, she’d find reasonable workers, if her family could live upstairs, she portrayed.
First bring the customers, he said, and the rest will be yours little friend, he conveyed.
She had him put his best toys, as a contest prize, and to add lots of lights on the display.
He set a contest, “Winners-the best collectors for families in need” on Christmas Eve.
He put out a bright contest sign, but still nobody came to his end of the block, to survey.
So she had him call the Salvation Army, for a kettle, Bell ringer, and Carolers, who came
Lickety split, their way.
Then she had him call a dear old friend, and farmer, to bring a tractor full of bails of hay.
Another volunteered his horse and sleigh, both, to see the city lights thru New Years Day.
This was a great idea, since the older drivers, could use the help, for their bills to pay.
The girl ran all over spreading the excitement, and to come see the prizes, his way.
The families suddenly started heading toward his door, and to those wondrous rides.
At that moment her parents came, and she explained what her hope, had improvised.
Her father talked a contractor into building a disabled family a home, to help advertise.
He could get a tax break; come to this store for supplies, and hire unemployed workers, he devised, so wise.
In the end, each night grew brighter, because of a girls hope, and heart-warming delight.
And the old man began smiling for the first time, in a long, long, time, starting that night.
All was saved, a home was found, and another built, as a sad little girl taught grownups to smile along the way…
You might say, A Spark of Hope lit a candle, then a raging fire, which was burning bright by Christmas day.
The moral to my story is:
Never give up on Hope; it’s your best friend, as life brings its troubles your way…
Know that with time, a good heart, good will, and friendly ways…
You can find God’s gifts again, if you don’t let the dark take you away…
Long poem by
Alan Blenkhorn | Details |
You, never, left me
Out, of, sight
Bi Polar stumbles, on
The, children’s, prison
He, plans, on
She, could, be, in, there!
Had, no, time
To, even, move
Twenty or, more
Then, a, familiar
He, always, knows
Where, to, go
A, cold, dungeon
Damp, and, dark
Not, one, kid
On, horse, and, saddle
This, group, traveled
Under the, African, stars
Fills, bright, tonight
Then, a, spot
These, kids, could be, the life, of, him
He, doesn’t, want, a, goddamn, thing
Helps, them, feel
A, little, less
His, energy’s, force
Through, jungles, in, the pouring, rain
Not, to, mention
The, constant, strain
Requiring, no, attention
These, kids, never, complain
The, group, finds, a, stray
On, their, pathway
He, strolled, through
Like a, snoop
Can, we keep, him!?
He, lost, his, kin
We, let him, in
Circle, like, flies
A, lion, cub
Brought, these, kids
Up, the trail, a, ways
Trouble, turns, in, the, haze
Pounds and, more
Put, on, this, pack
The, size, of a, Lincoln, town, car!
He, ever, saw
A, beast, of, pride
We, should, really
Try, to, hide
Quiet, in, grace
In BP’s, daughter’s, pretty, face!
She, never, moved, a, muscle
With, plenty, of, reasons
He, seemed, to listen
Like, she, belonged
He is, not, a, pet!
Cub, is, our, friend
You, need, not, fret
On, each, face
For, an, awkward
To, find, the, mothers!
Group, to, group
Lead, the, pack
The, best, ways
As, if, in
She, must, be, near
Is, talking, to, the, birds
He, has, forgotten
What, are, you, doing, here!?
Your, story, isn’t, quite, clear!
Are, those, your, horses?
Any, other, resources
BP looks, back
Was, there an, attack?
I’m, not, well…
BP, never, even, came, close
To, the, children’s, post
Sits, in, a
All, the, time
Long poem by
Maurice Rigoler | Details |
The last horse my grandfather had
he shot one spring morning behind
the shed in which his nameless horse
had lived in for many years. It was
April and chilly, with peach trees in bloom.
It was an old horse, its backbone
sagging like the roof of an old farmhouse,
and it still wore its matted coat
of winter hair, its mane coarse
like a spray of dried weeds, its hoofs
ringed with tufts of knotted hair,
bits of caked earth and dung.
Its tail fell listless from its roughened
rump like a cluster of bailing twine
that hung from a ceiling hook.
It was the last morning of its life.
My grandfather entered the shed
and led the old horse to the back pen.
I followed behind as I hsd so many
times. But that morning the old horse
walked with a limp – an infected knee.
Behind the shed a group of men
stood pressed against each other
with faces drawn like mourners.
Then I saw it, the familiar rifle
leaning against the weathered shingles,
the small red box of bullets next
to the butt. And I knew. I knew what
the old horse did not. In dread I ran
back into the small shed. I pressed
my hands hard over my ears, and I
waited. Waited for the shot that
would bring the old horse down,
the old horse I had befriended,
talked to morning after morning,
had fed pieces of carrot and
apple to; the gentle old horse whose
mane and tail I had often brushed,
the nameless horse I had brought
fresh well water to on hot afternoons,
and fresh shavings I spread over
its stable floor. And I waited. And I knew
what the old horse did not. And when
the shot rang out, my knees buckled
and I jerked as if the bullet had entered me.
I fell to the ground and groaned
and cried, and I kept my hands hard
against my ears, shaking my head
as if to dislodge the sound that filled
my head and amplified. And I heard
the old horse let out a sharp cry
and felt its hard fall rise through
my knees, as it collaped on itself,
its knees buckling under dead weight.
What hurt most that morning was
my grandfather’s casual treachery –
not so much as a pat on the old horse’s
shoulder, not a word of farewell, no outward
sense of loss or sadness, no tears. Only
a cold guiltless betrayal, it seemed to me.
And they roped the dead horse
to the tractor, the small hole in its
forehead still leaking blood like
a liquid red ribbon. They dragged
its body to a secluded corner of the field
grown thick with greening yarrow
and new shoots of goldenrods,
the men following behind, silent
and solemn, to where the earth
had already been gutted open, waiting
like a gaping mouth to swallow
the horse’s carcass: a large meal
that would take years for the soil
to digest, leaving only a small depression
and a stench of rotting flesh
escaping slowly through a growth
of prickly blackberry, purple vetch
and swarms of buzzing insects.
The men stood silent and watched
the dead horse dragged and fitted
into the open grave.
Then, to my surprise, my grandfather
removed his hat and stared pensively
at the nameless creature he had killed,
the horse he had known for most
of his old age, the horse that had
served him selflessly. He stood there
wiping his eyes with the back of
his hand, saying nothing, looking
at the dead horse, and walked away.
Certain men then took up shovels
and began to fill the hole, the others
following my grandfather to the house,
talking in whispers, as if they had
witnessed the burial of one of their own,
one they would never see again.
And for as many springs as they might
live, they would talk about the old man’s
horse, the horse without a name,
the harmless creature they had come
to watch die on a chilly April morning
when peach trees were in bloom.