Long poem by
Ralph Sergi | Details |
By the lampost at night
with the pale moon shining bright
but obscured by the fog
I saw her in the harbor
standing where my boat lay moored
but she knew that
her azure eyes beckoned me to come
smoke from a cigarette in her hand
trailing upward and blendng with mist
and a gold braid around her wrist
I remembered my gift
I stood there transfixed
if for only a moment
then I walked to her slowly
and tipped my fedora
and the little joke we shared in love
I asked,”Where have been all my life?
Waiting for you, she said
I laughed at her resentfully and said
You left me here from this place
without a note, without a trace
I scoured old haunts, you weren’t there
you left as if you didn’t care
Remember our walks along the shore
your favorite drink, our special place
in a cafe by the wibdow
where the sun would shine on your hair
and leaving a golde glint
as it did on my boat when it was in full sail
Then one day you went away
our love became a mystery
that was never solved
now you’re here and I ask you, why?
There was a war she said
I lost this guy and you came along
to fill the void and share my grief
I loved you, Jake,your silly hat
the way you tipped it, the boat ,the cat
who begged for fish after after every catch
she paused and lit another smoke
Then one day, he showed up, his name was Cilve
the guy I mentioned had survived
and left his tags with a guy who died
and he became an MIA
he was hiding out in Mandalay
involved in something, he wouldn’t say
but he wanted me there, he promised me fame
I was a singer you know
and all the dough that I could want or I could take
I just had to know how to play the game
but I thought of you, Jake
and what we had and I told him ,No
He got mean, Jake
and threatened to expose me
for what I really was
and I couldn’t bear for you to hear
my sordid past, my constant fear
We’re both alike you and me, he said
we’ll take what the world has to give
or grab it by the throat
or I’ll expose you if you don’t
As time went by it didn’t take long
to see he was singing a different song
his lies, his schemes, his other dolls
I lost my respect and I didn’t care
I had to get out, I needed a plan
to rid myself of this rotten man
There was this guy, Buck
who ran the bar, he pitied my plight
that I was in, he hated Clive as much as I
I told him I watched Clive at the end of each night
the cash he hid in a special place
no doubt to leave in a hurry when things got hot
he would check to see how much was stashed
if it was worth the dare, we would split down the middle
and make our departure as soon as we could
I knew a Burmese captain of a scow
who asked no questions for a fee
he’d have some cabins for you and me
Just before closing, I feigned getting ill
and called for Clive to aid me somehow
to stay awhile and give me a pill
and while he was there, Buck went to that spot
took the cash and lit out that night to wait for me
at a pre destined place
My bag was packed in another room
I told Clive I would rest and join him soon
but as soon as he left I slipped out
to the back grabbed a bag and headed
for freedom away from that man
thinking of you and to make things right
She paused for a moment and put out her smoke
and I thought I saw a drop of blood
form on the corner of her mouth
she quickly wiped her hand across her face
and continued her story at a slower pace
I arrived at the pier where the scow lay docked
took one look behind me and looked at the clock
on the building we were to meet
I checked my watch and matched the time
I saw a jeep and he saw me
two grips in his hand and a smile on his face
he said, I got the dough , I’ll leave the jeep
it’s the least I can do for that miserable creep
I said ,there’s no time to waste, just show me the dough
we’ll split it up now and get ready to go
he said, Oh, I’m ready but the plans have changed
I’ll leave you enough to change your luck
this one’s for you and this one’s for Buck
I suspected as much and I scowed as he grinned
but his mouth formed an O as he looked down below
a knife in his stomach pulsed blood from his guts
too late I saw his gun come up as he fell
I felt a pain in my side and clutched at my coat
I picked up my bags and summoned the strength
to get onto the boat
I said to the captain, there’s double the price
if we get away soon just pick up some steam
and head for Rangoon
he patched me up as good as he could
with the aid of rum and smoldering wood
to cauterize the wound for awhile
I knew it was wrong to take his life
but I was prepared to kill him
to end all this strife
as a precautionI took the knife that we cut bait with
a long time ago the knife stirred up memories
that you and I had
that pressed my decision to leave that cad
the wound didn’t heal, the lead stayed inside
i was resigned to my fate to see you once more
before it’s too late…and here you are
She collapsed in my arms and I held her tight
with tears in my eyes , her audible sighs
gasping for breath and leaning toward death
And before she expired her hand on my face, she said
Where have you been all my life?
waiting for you , I cried, waiting for you
*This poem is a tribute to the black and white movies prevalent in the
late 30’s and 40’s ala Humphrey Bogart, Alan Ladd or George Raft and the phrasing had a special charm.There was aways a failed romance, war, misguided loyaties and clandestine
treachery that separted these lovers. I received an N/A because it may have not been poetic enough or too long but I tried to portray a dialogue and atmosphere of that time
Long poem by
Robert Candler | Details |
Dedicated to the 2000 National College Football Champions, the Oklahoma Sooners
Over fifty years, boy and man, I’ve been a Sooners fan
Watched and reveled in their glories, every one;
But there’s no more glorious “Sooner Magic”
Than the Red October Run.
The new millennium's first football season,
Excited Sooners fans’ hopes did soar.
They had tasted victory in Bob Stoops’ first year;
Now, they wanted - no, expected - even more.
There was a glint of promise in Bob’s eyes,
Strength and confidence in his every word.
“Our Team has shown improvement”, is what he said;
“We’ll win!” is what fans heard.
By September’s end, the Sooners were 4 and O,
A “cupcake schedule” some anxious fans would say;
Twenty-two days in October would rule their destiny.
Texas, K-State, Nebraska, the teams they’d have to play.
“OU’s October is a gauntlet”, said ESPN;
“Play #10 and #2 and #1…and win”?
So, on a rainy Saturday morning in Dallas,
The Red October Run would begin.
The Texas State Fair at the Cotton Bowl,
Fans were welcomed by Big Tex.
They screamed, “Go OU!” and “Hook’em Horns!”;
But none could imagine what happened next.
Heupel was a dominating General;
The Sooners Offense, his relentless troops.
Calmus and the Defense assured a total rout,
The Coach of the Day was Bob Stoops.
Sooners fans were wild, delirious with glee;
But Bob seemed focused and sedate.
“We’ll enjoy this victory Sunday;
Then Monday, we’ll prepare for Kansas State”.
No time to revel in the Glory, #2 was tough.
Better than the Huskers? The possibility was real.
The road to #1 went through Manhattan,
And the Sooners would have to win it on the field.
The sportscasters had a field day.
Last year’s “coaching coup” was news again.
Beasley versus Heupel was “The Match-up”.
Could Heupel evade K-State’s awesome defense
and find a way to win?
Again, Heupel and his troops met the challenge;
And as the Sooners “D” assured a hard fought win,
Every Sooners fan’s heart was stirred.
Could our Sooners be “Big Red” again?
Mighty Nebraska, #1, was coming to Owen Field.
“Biggest OU - Nebraska game in years!” Corso said.
It would be 1 versus 2, a heralded gridiron epic
For the coveted title of…”Big Red”.
It was OU’s biggest home game ever.
The campus was alive with vendors and would-be
Every Sooners Fan’s heart was pounding.
Could the smell of #1 stoke the Sooners' fires?
The Huskers struck so quickly.
At 14 to nothing, Sooners fans were stunned.
It was shaping up to be a long, long day;
And it wasn’t going to be fun.
Quickly tho’, Heupel rallied his Sooners troops.
They scored and scored and scored again.
The Sooners “D” built a Wall at the 50,
And would not let the Huskers in.
Winners, the Sooners ran and jumped with glee.
Fans flooded Owen Field, milling all around,
Praising and hugging their Sooners Heroes.
They even tore the goal post down.
Now #1, the Sooners had won it on the field.
Their preparation had been well taught.
Bob Stoops, all his great coaches and assistants,
Took pride in how the Sooners fought.
Someone once said, “Everyone loves a winner.”
Everywhere you looked confirmed it’s true.
OU flags fluttered. Decals, hats, and clothes abound.
Come November, the Sooners and their Fans
had been renewed,
There’s no slighting the importance of Red October.
The Sooners came together as a Team.
No doubt too, without “The Red October Run”
Their National Championship would still be just a dream.
For the next five games, it was simply unacceptable
For the Sooners to even think that they could fail;
And, tho’ Heupel played injured, they won the Big 12 Championship;
Great Sooners Defense had prevailed.
But no one gave these Big 12 Champs the slightest chance to win
Against the mighty Seminoles of Florida State.
The Heisman Trophy Winner was their quarterback
And their defense was touted to be great.
At the coin toss, Team Captain Torrance Marshall
Said to their quarterback in words most serious and sure,
“You took our boy’s trophy”. Then he smiled,
“Now we’re gonna take yours”.
The Sooners “D” was everywhere and completely shut them down;
And, when Quentin Griffin’s touchdown closed the door,
Their quarterback knew that Marshall’s words rang true;
The not-so-mighty ‘Noles had not been allowed to score.
Yes, Bob Stoops and his Sooners knew the challenge:
To win Each game ‘til Every game’s been won;
Win for Sooners and their Fans the unchallenged right
To revel in the Glory of being #1.
Yes, my Sooners Team goes on and on,
Different faces, different names;
But these Sooners Champions will be well remembered
For the Season they won Every game.
Undefeated National Champions!
Before October, who would have ever dreamed?
Why, just last year, we didn’t even know the players' names;
And now, they’re College Football’s Greatest Team.
To overcome all adversity and rise to every challenge,
The reward for such a feat is being #1;
Their path to Glory born of a Sooners Legend
Called The Red October Run.
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
Long poem by
William Masonis | Details |
There, in the In-Between,
No trumpets sound
No beings clad in gold celestial fire
Arrive as guides to the heart's desire,
Only silence falls
Throughout the velvet deep profound.
At the In-Between,
No Savior calls
For there is naught but nothingness;
An emptiness entire.
Strangely, I sensed myself suspended
In a nevertime of not-quite-being.
Such was the In-Between, where now I wandered.
As though it had always been,
I felt myself afloat, adrift
Upon some frigid river full of ice
Which had no source and knew no end,
That traveled 'round and 'round and back again upon itself
Rising and falling over distant hills and bearing me with it
- Or rather, what was left of me -
Along in its meaningless, endless circuit.
Nor dark nor light intruded.
Vision compassed only what might be envisioned,
Images forming and fading
Within the little cavern of my skull.
Voices without discernable words.
Murmmerings within the waters.
Something like a sword
Was lodged down my throat.
I gagged upon it, over and over;
Unseen hands would withdraw it, then shove it down again.
The main thought flickering in my head
As I lay in this place
Was of how I seemed to have become some frail remnant
Of whatever I once was.
No longer did I have that sense of flesh
Containing the shape of me,
Nor the feel of muscle, nor the bone beneath.
I felt I had somehow been rendered
Some modern scientific wonder,
A creature flayed alive yet living
In some embryonic form, possessed of such shape as it could claim
By virtue of a remaining mass of nervous tissue;
A minimalist miracle
Preserved in a nutrient bath by the power and will
Of a conclave of white smocked High Priests of medicine.
Strangest of all, perhaps
Was that this perception of my fate
Occasioned in me not horror,
But rather a regretful sadness.
"What will they tell my wife?" I sighed in my mind.
Yet, by slow degrees the feel of the outward world
Stole in upon my little hell of shapelessness.
The throbbing thing I seemed to have become
Refleshed itself somehow,
Though the sword in its throat remained.
Distant voices resolved into speech again,
And as they did I felt myself begin moving again
'Round and 'round as before, still on circuit
But no longer floating on ice.
Now, instead, I seemed lain on some unseen track
Circling through a low-roofed sandstone cavern.
When I passed the band of light
That marked the faroff entrance of this cave,
I would hear the voice of that Boy Who Would Be Our King
Exhorting the Disunited Nations
To join his crusade to punish his chosen scapegoat
For an evil he had helped loose upon the world.
The long silences that followed his harangues
Revealed the skepticism of his audience.
I could sense that a long roll call of the dead
Would soon be scrolling past the world's collective eyes,
Be his call accepted or no;
This was for show, decisions had already been made.
I regained perception of how dangerous things were becoming out there,
Out there where I'd lost my way, to stumble into this place,
How long ago I could no longer recall.
I knew this to be its nature, though
And as well that this was where I belonged, Out There
Where the only source of peace or peace of mind
Was the hope we wove between ourselves
With threads of unstoppable possibilities
The human way spins for itself.
I knew where I belonged, and reached out for it.
I came back to be within
The folds of all I love
To seek the mystic shine of life
Expressed in friends, relations, wife
Awaiting my return.
I began to climb Above
Back to where all hopes begin
To where desires brightly burn
Until their ash shines whiter than
The purer feathers of the dove.
Long poem by
Robert Candler | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/went_fishin_547715' st_title='Went Fishin''>
Submitted to the "Gone Fishin" contest
Trollin’ the islands at Texoma,
It was April, 1964.
New rod and reel in hand,
I’d NEVER been fishing before.
A Garcia 2510T casting rod.
The reel, a Mitchell 301,
Plus hand-selected worms and lures…
I was ready to have some fun.
My teacher, a master fisherman,
Had fished all over the earth...
From trout in Austrian mountain streams
To sea bass just west of Perth.
He showed me all the basics,
Including how to tie a lure.
“No snaps. They’re no good.
Tie’em on…just to be sure.”
He made me practice casting.
“Take aim with your rod’s tip
Take her back - ten, eleven, twelve, one;
Smoothly return to ten… with just a little flip.”
While I practiced the casting motion,
He said, “Large Mouths will be jumpin’ bugs.
Water’s bubblin’ with Sand Bass spawnin’.
You’ll know the difference if one gives you a tug.”
As we drifted around the islands,
He said, “I think you’re ready.”
So, I picked a lure, a pretty Heddon;
And tied her on. My hands were steady.
Yellow with black dots and a weed guard.
A streamer tail and double treble hooks.
Who knew if she would do the job,
But I liked the way she looked.
As I tied her on, I looked around
For a likely place for my first cast.
Magazine pictures always showed weeds
In the background of a striking Bass.
So, I picked a reed bed in the shallows;
Threw my first cast, watched her fly.
What happened next was the stuff of dreams.
We couldn’t believe our eyes.
About eighteen inches before she lit,
A monstrous Large Mouth erupted from the water.
My teacher screamed, “Holy Mary, Mother of God!
Kiss O’Reilly’s Ugly Daughter!”
When the Bass broke water, it scared me.
My whole body jerked and shook.
So sudden, so silent, it seemed like slow motion.
Until I heard him screaming, “Set the hook! Set the hook!”
When the big Bass scared me,
I must have set the hook.
The tussle was on, long and hard.
This fish didn’t want to be cooked.
My lack of skills prevailed, however,
As I finally reeled him in;
I grabbed him by the lower lip,
Like I’d seen Don Wallace do, time and time again.
“Oh, my God”, he murmured as he weighed the Bass;
“Jeez. Over thirteen pounds....Thirteen pounds, two.”
He took out his Polaroid and laughed,
“I’ll take a picture of this fish... holdin' you.”
He snapped the picture of me holding the Bass;
On the back wrote the date, the length and weight.
As he turned to put the camera away……
Get ready. This is the part that’s great.
I’d watched Don Wallace ‘catch and release’.
He always did that on his show.
“This fish put up a good fight.” he’d say;
“Now it’s time to let him go.”
Yes, as my teacher put away the camera,
I held the big Bass by the lower lip and tail
And ‘swished’ him in the water,
Making sure his gills would not fail.
My teacher turned and saw what I was doing
Just as I let the big Bass go.
This, too, was like slow motion
As I heard him screaming, “NOOOOOOO!”
“Why would you do that, Lad?
Do ya know nothin’ at all?
A fish like that... on your very first cast?
Well...Lad, that fish goes on the wall.”
“Well…he’ll be here next year.” I said with a smile,
“And even bigger, I’ll bet.”
He said, ”You’ll make a fisherman, Lad.
It’s not for the fish that we fish…
but for the great stories we get.”
I still have that lure…and the rod and reel.
Still in their bags and boxes, just like new.
I thought about selling them on eBay,
But 50 years later, they have sentimental value.
You see…I’ve been invited to go fishin’ several times
By golfin’ buddies and other friends;
But for some reason…I really don’t know why…
I’ve never gone fishin’ again.
They say, “Truth is stranger than fiction.”
And I believe that is a fact.
I hope you enjoyed this bit of truth and,
In the meantime…..”Ya’ll come back!”
Long poem by
John Posey | Details |
When we think of traveling we most often think of going from one location to another. That’s good but I sometimes like to return in reverie to times in my past. Places where I spent my childhood are precious to me.
We seem to race through childhood never slowing down to enjoy the moments we may seek to recover in years to come. I remember the place of my early years. Cameron, Texas was the only world I knew until I was eight years old. Names and landmarks still cross my mind in moments of remembrance.
I still remember the path that led me home hundreds of times from Ada Henderson Elementary School. It passed through a park about two city blocks in size. In this park were the normal things such as those galvanized metal slides polished by literally thousands of khaki or denim clad rear ends. Two slides stood side by side. One was a simple one-hump slide. The other was over twice as high using two humps on the journey to the ground from what seemed to be such a lofty height. The kid sized slide was seldom used after one had experienced the thrill of the ‘big’ slide. There were seesaws that weathered years of teeter tottering by excited boys and girls. There were simple gymnastic pipes that were just the right height to sit on and do back flips, nearly slamming your head into the ground beneath. All these things were so much fun to a kid and his friends as they made their way home from another day at school.
But one fun piece of equipment always furnished the thrills that last a lifetime and are remembered in the fondest reverie. About halfway through the park was a merry-go-round made of the strongest and seemingly indestructible pipe. It, too, was polished by years of holding on by squealing children, lest they be thrown off by the magic of centrifugal force. It was about 12 feet in diameter and the center pipe was about 8 inches in diameter and must have been anchored somewhere in China since all the many years of use it yielded not a fraction. There were some 8 or 10 pipes on the outer portion of the merry-go-round that allowed you to grab and step onto the running board and hold on for dear life. Kids would grab these posts as they came around and spin them as hard as possible. The speed they built up was surprisingly fast and it took some agility to master the art of stepping on and grabbing the handle. I have no recollection of grievous mishaps, just an occasional scrape or bruise. This contraption has served at least 4 generations of school kids and has not changed the last time I saw it some 20 years ago.
Farther down the path home was a giant gazebo with a stage and seats around the outside. It was equipped with public restrooms beneath the gazebo. It has been there for many years and sometimes I can close my eyes and see that gazebo and hear the faint strains of Sousa marches from the brass bands that played summer concerts there. I remember many happy times there on family picnics and occasional reunions.
God watched over the kids and me whose paths home took them through the park. Just past the gazebo was a huge drainpipe, which during heavy rains drained water from the park into a ravine running through the park. It was some 50 to 60 feet in length and about 6 feet in diameter. It was always on a dare that we would walk through that dark, dank and scary tunnel. We were sure there was all manner of creepy crawly creatures lurking in the shadows waiting for unsuspecting kids to slowly make their way through this scary conduit. I remember going through it once and that was enough. I’d rather walk through the cemetery alone …. But that’s another story.
Long poem by
Kelly Deschler | Details |
A few poems written by Chan Hurst, (Just That Archaic Poet)
I hope that we can find some comfort in them at this sad time.
"A Rational Explanation"
What must I do to see this through-
Unlock the world I never knew?
For all I've seen hath been untrue,
As all I've felt hath plagued me, too!
I am no more, past Deaths before
I've reached the end of Living War-
(to see through eyes both blind and closed)
A life to touch, but never know...
"Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep"
Every day, to God I pray
For answers to Life's enigmas
Patience lays in wait to stay-
To cleanse our Social Stigmas
We pass the time in our idle Dreams:
Like fallen stars in singing streams
"A Happy Ending"
Remorse and regret, I mustn't forget
Remind me that Life is a process of Learning
Indeed for I sorrow'd; 'twas always upset
As the Truth was met with painful discerning
But now my eyes are open-wide,
Grew to love what I once despised
I am no longer sick inside-
I just feel happy to be alive
"A Master's Approval"
No happier could I ever be,
(Or feel a joy's enormity!)
Than to know a Soul as Poe-
Would say he likes my poetry!
"The Poets I Hope to Meet in Heaven"
I pray that in my Eternity,
I'll meet Shelley, Poe and Emily
That we'll all sit down at a table round,
And at length discuss our Poetry!
And Longfellow, lest we forget
Lord Byron, Shakespeare, and beloved Keats!
If I prove their favorite Poet,
I could accomplish no greater feat!
For all my many silly musings,
This one I covet above the rest
For my Soul's toil- finally proving
That the Masters love me best!
"Heaven For A Poet" by Kelly Deschler
My own piece of heaven, a quiet little nook,
With only the finest parchment in a leather book,
A feather quill pen and an ocean of ink,
My thoughts would never stop to think,
Every single line I write would rhyme,
My poetry would be beautiful and sublime,
I'd be entertained daily, by Dr. Seuss,
And, put to bed nightly, by Mother Goose,
Lessons from Byron, Shelley, Coleridge and Poe,
Teaching me every single thing that they know.
My own piece of heaven, will have to wait,
Until one day, when I must meet my fate,
So, for now I will have to be content,
With my own words that may be heaven sent,
Inspiration from my idols is all I need,
Writing poetry in a notebook from Mead,
With this cheap, plastic Bic pen,
And a dream to be, just like them.
This poem was one of mine that Chan had faved, so I thought it would be appropriate to share this now and dedicate it to him.
I will always miss you, BP, my brother in poetry, but I sense that you are smiling down on us now.
I know that Chan idolized Edgar Allan Poe. I remember him telling me that someday,
he wanted to share a table in heaven with that "good ol' E.A. Poe".
So, Chan, if that is what you're doing now, I envy you, my friend!
And, you said that you would personally invite me to that little gathering, remember? :)
Long poem by
Robert Candler | Details |
It seems like just the other day
Our pup, Shadrack, did pass away;
And altho’ they never seemed like friends,
My old cat, Jorg, knew Shad had met
his untimely end.
He mourned his loss every day
And looked for Shadrack everywhere.
He’d mew and moan as if to say,
“We were friends. I do care.”
Then one night, an eerie howl
Awoke me from my sleep.
He’d found Shad’s toys and left no doubt
That his feelings did run deep.
So our tedious search began
To find another likely pup;
But while my poor wife still grieved,
Could another measure up?
We went to Second Chance and Free to Live.
She just could not make up her mind.
She loved them all; but, if she picked just one,
The rest would have to stay behind.
Then, quite by chance, there was a “pound pup”
Who’d been picked up from the streets.
He was a mutt, a “schnauza-pug”;
But he was awfully sweet.
He jumped up and kissed her frantically.
He seemed aware of his “iffy” situation.
He made the best of his opportunity.
Tears of joy told her elation.
“This is the one”, she smiled through tears,
As she held him oh, so tight.
“I’m sure that Jorg will like him too.
Everything will be alright”.
And so it was, until one day
When old Jorg did pass away…
There was no hesitation on this sad occasion;
Come Saturday morning, we went straight
to the pound,
Open minded and hoping to be “saviors”,
Surely a nice cat was to be found.
“Sadly”, the lady said,” three kitties have only today.
There’s Andre and Panda and another one too”.
My wife smiled and said, “Jorg was your boy. You pick.
They’re both beautiful cats. It’s up to you”.
As I pondered this commitment
Another cat, a young one, caught my eye.
Like Jorg, he was a common gray tabby.
Fond memories were stirred. I almost cried.
On closer look, his name was Boris;
And, strangely, he was number three.
There was a small sign on his crate,
“I don’t like other cats and other cats don’t like me”.
But there was character in his eyes and he was cute.
He was rolling and purring and stretching.
He seemed to look deep into my heart
And did his best to be quite fetching.
But because he was just a common gray tabby,
And because of the little sign,
His chances were slim, his future quite dim
And one day is precious little time.
For a moment I was lost in his eyes
And I heard his desperate plea,
“I’m a swell cat and litter box trained.
Take me. Please, take me”.
“Well”, my wife urged, “is it Andre or Panda”?
“One of us will take the other kitty.”, two older ladies chimed.
“You can each have one ladies”, I said with a smile.
I want Boris and he wants to be mine”.
In just hours he was romping and rolling with Pepper,
Who had happily welcomed his new friend.
Boris was a perfect fit, an affirmation;
The Circle of Life never ends.
Much more Joy than Sadness in this Circle,
And there should never be regrets.
Honor their memories and all the love they share,
Never break the Circle, never be without a Pet.
Long poem by
John Posey | Details |
As I neared home I went by the water works that stood for years behind the ice plant. That’s where the water for the city was processed and I remember how clean and clear the water looked. It was an in ground reservoir just like a swimming pool. There were two houses on the street next to the water works and Mom and Dad lived in one of them after his retirement.
Up the street from the water works was the ice plant. My Dad worked there for a few years just before we moved to Houston. Some of the fondest memories include the time I spent riding with Dad as he delivered ice to the surrounding rural area. I saw my Dad work as hard as any man should chipping away at large blocks of ice and picking up the 25, 50 or 100 pound blocks that was the standing order of the customers. Ice tongs were wicked but necessary tools of the trade. Using them was as much an art as anything. I was mesmerized by the agility Dad used in handling the slippery cold blocks of crystal clear ice.
On hot days when kids would pass by the ice plant we went up to the scoring saw to get something cool. Huge blocks of ice were made ready for delivery by sending them through this machine that scored them with saws. This allowed the blocks then to be broken into manageable sizes of up to 100 pounds through the use of ice picks. During this process the ‘ice-dust’ would collect on the inside of the metal cover. We could reach inside and scoop out deliciously cooling handfuls of snow like ice. It was so refreshing on those hot days on the way home or just anytime we were in the area.
Just down the street from the ice plant was the railroad crossing. I would walk about a block along the railroad to the next street on which we lived. Just about the time I’d get to that point it seemed a train would come by... Heavy steam locomotives were still in use and I was always amazed at how flattened a penny coin could become when placed on a railroad track and subsequently passed over by the wheels of a heavy steam engine.
Down the hill from the railroad tracks was home. Mom was always there always busy with the chores of everyday life. Washing on Mondays, and ironing on Tuesdays along with a myriad of other things that included canning of our vegetables using pressure cookers and making jellies and preserves from local fruit.
Finally being home was nice. It meant I could run down the street and play with my friend, Alton. I’d always hear and yield to the call from my mom telling me to come home to supper.
Yes, the way home never changed, but was always unique. And the next time in Texas I hope to travel once more that path from school to home. Some things may have changed, but the things that stick in my memory will always be there on the way home.
© Copyright 2007
All Rights Reserved
Long poem by
Jack Clark | Details |
Wasn’t it just a week ago, that Mom was putting band-aides and mercurochrome on my scraped knee? Didn’t I learn to ride a bicycle just a few days back? When was it I caught my first fish – yesterday? I have seen an automobile moving down the street, and recognized it as a “late” model, only to have reality inform me that what I recognized as a “late model” is really 25 years old.
I look in my mirror and expect to see a younger man. But my vision returns reflections of gray hair, wrinkles and a furrowed brow. But I don’t interpret that reflection as age …
The wrinkles at the corners of my eyes, are really awards from shared laughter with friends; The furrows in my brow are not from stress, but permanent expressions of pleasant surprise at what life has brought to me; the gray hair I see is not from age, but each dozen are tiny milestone markers earned for having successfully passed through the years with the help and aid of my family and friends.
While my face may appear to be wrinkled, my heart will never be. As time passes, I find the beauty that might have been outwardly displayed earlier in my life, seeps inside, and becomes more than mere appearance.
My slowing gait is not due to health issues, but rather an extension of being more aware of that which surrounds me, and taking the time to appreciate them.
My hands, display scars and calluses from decades of work and manipulation in such things as helping my children in learning to walk; repairing that which needed repair; creating things that have never been before. They remain at my sides, awaiting yet other experiences.
Time has served me well … and I hope I have reciprocated.
I realize that countless ancestors have had the same, or similar, visions and thoughts within their lifetimes. I recall now, when older relatives informed me many, many years ago, that I would have these feelings and memories. As always, they were right.
My mind moves at the same speed it did when I was 18, but my body rejects the ideas it conveys. I’ve spent my lifetime making my bed, and the time is approaching when I must lie down in it. But … before I lie down, there are still loads of Life’s presentations to wash … meals of unseen experience to prepare, and … coffee pots rich in friendships to enjoy. I’ll just do those things at a slower, less stressful, more enjoyable pace.
The sense of urgency within my past of most things in which I engaged, is long gone, replaced by patience and contemplation. My life has become comfortably mellow as I embrace the acceptance of that mind change, and I patiently await … tomorrow.