Long Summer Poems. These are the most popular long Summer by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Summer poems by poem length and keyword.
See also: Famous Long Poems
Scent Of Paddy Flower
By Goutam Hazra
My father told me
I was just a boy then,
“Follow the scent of paddy flower
move with the wind it carries,
surely you will go to heaven.”
he would catch
fistful of wind
bring near to my face
“Isn’t it godly!”
Magically, opened his hand
but I never felt
what scent he meant.
Days of kind rain
“Son, see the misty wind
rushing all over the paddy field
comes every year
to drink the scent of paddy flower.”
Mere as a boy
I could see only
tides of a green plane
touching my little finger
and racing far… too far.
I would ask
“Where have they gone?”
Smiled my father
“Did not you listen,
they are going to heaven,
call the goddess then,
‘come goddess dear’
we all are ready with paddy flower.”
Curious was my face,
“Goddess will arrive smiling
her feet will be here
Seeing a pot in her hand
all those paddy flowers
delighted, will open their mouth more wider
and life will be poured…”
“Where these flowers come from?”
Remained my father smiling
speaking all his mind
looking high at sky
asked me to see there
spoke he again.
“Rain, rain, kind monsoon rain
on the first day of its shower
kind rain would ask me to come here
with bagful of paddy seeds,
‘let seeds be spread all over,
let its eternal relation with soil
be the fertilizer’
when all said is done
starts showering its kind
make visible hiding life in the abyss of seed.
Happy wind changes color
being green all around
waits for the day
when the wind would smell the scent of paddy flower.”
Days passed by,
kind rain was still in waiting
sometimes hidden beyond horizon
or simply making sun blind with its smoky face
and whenever wind said,
‘Dry I’m now’
quenched the thirst.
Someday wind played naughty with sun
asked kind rain to make it misty
and with brushes of sun rays
painted a rainbow on the face of east sky.
Wait was over
green field blossomed with flowers
and wind said,
“Fill in my heart
with scent of flower
I shall bring life…”
Happy was my father’s voice
“Rain, rain, kind monsoon rain
green wind brining life
scent of paddy flower
is made so.
Bare footed be here
print your soul
in the dust of this soil
kind rain will come
green wind being there
life will be yours
with the scent of paddy flower.”
How old was I then
nine or ten
my father looked up
up to the sky
again and again
for a month long
only to see
change of sky’s color
from the color of a summer day to a long humid night.
Dry wind cried at last
over my father’s sweating body
“Rain, rain O kind rain, where have you gone.”
One day sudden
kind rain came again.
Cried to my father
“Why no green wind came this year
to bring me here.
Desert wind why
dry my breath
seeds you have sown
how could I then
enliven with my rain.”
my father had asked the rain.
Short-lived, hurried rain could spell its last breath,
“I am not that rain
as was your friend,
I am the curse of dying forest
I am the ghost of all pollution
I am born out of acid weather…”
Who knew, it left for where?
My father cried
As kind rain left him alone
hiding in a dry wind’s bone.
My father was still
going every morning
asking the soil
if soil could alone
make the paddy flowers to be born.
Year passed by,
came back the time,
for green wind to bring kind rain.
Rain came one day.
as a cloudburst
like an unkind monster
in the life of a simple farmer?
Dumb remained my father
for days together
sad was his voice at last,
“Run away, son, run away from here,
sky rain wind
river village land;
thread of this garland
who cuts it
go, stop now there hand.”
Draught and flood,
uncertainty of life
changed my mind
as of a farmer’s son.
Books, studies and education
reasons, truth and compassion
might have had fulfilled my father’s mission.
Does not this civilization
as the products to do more production.
Run, run and run
run ahead of time
let be it, at the cost of inhaling killer tension,
stress taking over your life.
Insomnia, cholesterol or cynicism
is our success’s companion?
‘A’ is shaped as ‘B’
and ‘B’ is sold as ‘C’.
but I found the basic
what it remain
as life’s supreme conviction
‘simply a fist full of paddy
and its grain’.
Scent of life
So here, I am again
standing in front of this green plane
searching for the shadow of my father.
Green wind surrounds my existence
I can see the dance of those bunches.
My mind whispers to my ear
echoes those words of my father,
“Bare footed be here
print your soul
in the dust of this soil
rain will come
green wind being there
life will be yours
with the scent of paddy flower.”
I never felt so,
what I smell now
is the scent of paddy flower.
The Earth dry and bare; waiting eagerly for the drops of care;
Caught in the hot, steaming summer’s snare;
The flowers and creepers decorating window sills; all look desolate and ill;
As the nature withers away in the sun’s merciless glare.
The men and the wives; the kids and the wild;
All are enduring the summer’s waterless exile;
They are waiting for the rain; to relieve them of the heat pain;
And of that life which has become a sweaty turmoil.
The wind strong and gusty; makes the roads yellow and dusty;
And the air around becomes suffocating and musty;
The birds forget to sing; their lilting, musical thing;
Even as the tree leaves wristle and make noise so husky.
Then come the Monsoon showers; falling first on boughs and flowers;
Making the trees and plants glisten and glower;
So the monsoon comes in grace; driving away summer’s trace;
Lashing at window-panes with its all-reigning power.
As the monsoon drives away the summer heat; with its raining rhythm off-beat;
And the flower buds open up to return it’s greet;
And as the water seeps in soil; a refreshing fragrance arise;
While the rain continuous to cool down hot gardens and streets.
The Earth grows green; and water droplets gleam;
On the smooth, waxy surfaces of the leaves;
Everywhere the flowers grow; in pink, red, white or yellow;
While buds make their way blushingly between tendrils.
The wet and soft soil; now grows fertile;
And tender green plantlets push through the Earth in style;
Through soil the tiny saplings peep; as their sown seeds begin to reap;
And the plants and crops shake off the Earth’s temporary curse sterile.
As the raindrops go pitter-patter; water in puddles begins to gather;
And the little birds begin to chirp, twitter and chatter;
The insects begin to hum along; their irritating and happy song;
While due to rain and wind the roofs on houses begin to chatter.
As the showers for some moments cease; after giving Earth life’s new lease;
And the pitter-patter of rain is gently appeased;
The sun coyly shines; a cloud it half hides behind;
While the fluffy clouds move along with the cool breeze.
The fields now green and bright; are an artist’s sheer delight;
Pleasing to the senses of smell and sight;
The fresh air so sweet to breathe; that with pleasure the body writhes;
In the newly born rainy sunlight.
But this sunlight so quickly goes; as thunderstorms blow to and fro;
And Earth engulfs in darkness that now grows;
The wind rises and howls; with a voice that trembles all souls;
And day and night this gale roars.
The trees in fear tremble and shake; as leaves, twigs and branches break;
And the life of these trees is put up at stake;
Birds in nests cower with fright; and due to cold shiver with all their might;
And live in fearful anticipation of what else the storm may rake.
The monsoon now shows its ugly face; gone are its days of grace;
Rainy calamities take its place;
Cyclones and floods destruct worldwide; the raging sea throws up its tide;
“Nature reigns supreme”, we are forced to say.
Same is the life of man; may he do what he can;
But destiny will always play a hand;
What all will man control? So he should let destiny play its role;
And enjoy life and act as the situation will demand.
Somedays will shine the sun; those days life will be fun;
And work will be successful how much ever it’s done;
Somedays by the fun you will tire; and will long to get back into the attire;
Of normal life, however boring or glum.
Sometimes hope will come out; like a tiny plant sprouts;
And will remove from your mind every shade of doubt;
It will be a bright, hopeful ray; but for long it may not stay;
So we must make most of it when hope sprouts.
Just as the shower of joy; after summer comes out shy;
So shower of success will come when you have almost given up the try;
It will wash away your helpless sigh; and will give you a new will to try;
Which will help you succeed by-and-by.
Just as the sun goes behind the cloud; when thunder is heard aloud;
And darkness suddenly falls on Earth all around;
So also failure will touch you once; its upto you to prevent its repeated occurrence;
Or due to failure remain depression bound.
Sometimes through demotivation you will go; sometimes loads of success you'll know;
For we need all types of experience to make us grow;
Like some days it is wet; some days the sun for long doesn’t set;
But then it needs both the rain and the sun to make a RAINBOW…
Again the alarm is set.
Strawberries, date squares…Yum, Yum.
The alarm rings again. The tea party is over.
She returns to her perch where her wings are immediately clipped by the Bald Eagle who informs her that a bird doesn’t chirp when her poem is being critiqued, that a bird just listens.
“I didn’t know this was a critiquing session,” she chirps.
I thought it was an afternoon of poetry reading.
“Bring two poems”, is all that the Raven requested.
God! What does she know about critiquing? Everything she knows about poetry, she has learned from a website. She still hasn’t really grasped the meaning of Iambic Tetrameter.
The scar beneath her ring, feels as if it might explode as what remains of her Revlon mask begins to melt under the heat of her humiliation.
God! Please don’t let them see I am a fraud, she prays, as she desperately tries in vain to regain their acceptance, as if there was any in the first place; her being such a sparrow.
The Bald Eagle twitters a poem about her battle with cancer, which brings her to tears. Again, she dares to dream she can be one of this flock as she too is a cancer survivor. It is decided the Bald Eagle’s poem needs punctuation.
Again, still daring to dream of acceptance, she chirps that most of her poetry is also written with very little or no punctuation.
“Well,” the Raven caws, “your poem in comparison is child’s play,” and with those words, breaks the strings of her ‘Violin’.
As the afternoon wears on, the Crow caws for her to be quiet as she can’t hear. Visions of Vultures begin to fly in her head.
Later the old Crow caws that the bird she is addressing as a Blue Bird is not a Bluebird and that the only Bluebird is the Raven’s wife and that the bird she is addressing is a Turkey.
Even, while responding to something the Turkey has chirped to her, the Turkey gobbles for her to be quiet because the Crow is cawing.
The scar beneath her ring now feels like it is splitting apart. Again, all she can see is red. The Vultures are circling now.
Her second poem, ’The Rise and fall of An Empire, is received with little pecking, other than ‘Well it’s poetic.’
The Raven caws, “If he were to be cruel, he would say it contains a cliché,” (a cardinal sin in poetry) as he caws an excerpt from her poem (as the sea grasses sing).
The Turkey, demurely and with a gobble of sarcasm, inquires if everything she writes is in rhyme, as she casts a disdainful glance at her book of poetry.
At 4 p.m., when the final alarm has gone off, the Turkey announces that the next meeting will be at her Nest.
The Raven caws, “The sparrow doesn’t know where you live.”
The Turkey then asks her for her email address, but doesn’t write it down and gobbles she will email her, her address before the next meeting.
“Don’t hold your breath,” cackles the Sparrow’s little voice inside.
The Turkey then drops a book on the coffee table.
Still foolishly seeking acceptance, the Sparrow chirps, “Is that your book of poetry?”
“No, it is ‘Descant’, and I have a poem published in this edition,” she gobbles.
“Yes!” the Crane pipes up. “It’s the only book that REALLY matters, the BOOK that all birds want to be published in,” ruffling her feathers with her innuendo. What? The pitiful Sparrow doesn’t even know what Descant is, she with her self-published book of poetry.
Then the flock gathers together, chirping amongst themselves, and begin to fly away without a single chirp to her, like “Nice to have met you.” “Hope you will come to our next meeting.”
No! They simply leave her there with her wings clipped and her veil removed, having been incinerated by their hot air.
They leave her there with her Revlon mask melting like candle wax, sliding down her face, all their black barbs having finally penetrated her thin skin, exposing her for who she really is.
Not an intellect, not a fraud, just a Sparrow, now in the autumn of her life; a Sparrow who at the age of 16 dared to dream beautiful dreams while living in a nightmare.
A Sparrow, who had many years ago seen an old broken violin in a junk shop and was so moved by its haunting beauty she was inspired to write a poem.
A Sparrow, who as a chick, with her brother, on a summer day, built an Empire made of sand, in a land where sea grasses sang—A Sparrow who knew why violins and willows weep.
A Sparrow who knew she would never be one of them.
Yet she was grateful!
Grateful she had survived the Ides of March, and on this day was left wondering how something so ugly could have grown from something as beautiful as poetry.
PART 1: THE MEETING
Alone, one night neath lantern light, I trudged a weary mile.
Forlorn, I went with shoulders bent (the winds around me howled)
until I met a Silhouette behind a sultry smile –
She gazed with eyes that mesmerise (Her body caped and cowled)
and stayed my way with question fey... ‘Why don’t you while awhile?’
The churchyard groaned, an organ moaned, the bells of midnight chimed
as wanton winds awoke and dinned, and mistrals multiplied.
A baroness in tattered dress, with gestures pantomimed,
snuck by in haste, left tracks untraced, beneath the evening tide.
The Persian moon, like arched harpoon, arose and slowly climbed.
The Silhouette, a pale brunette, She gave my hand a squeeze.
And down the lanes, twixt windowpanes, the shadows danced and sighed,
while meadowlarks within the dark, somewhere beyond the breeze,
when seeing Her adorned in fur, were willing to confide
their whispered tales, to nightingales, of human vanities.
Through summer vales and winter gales Her secret thoughts were voiced.
Midst storms so cruel (neath lightning’s jewel that glistered on the ridge)
She reminisced, She touched, we kissed, Her lips were wet and moist.
A lighthouse dimmed, a moonbeam skimmed across a distant bridge
to avenues where residues of shallow shades rejoiced.
She doffed her cloak, before She spoke with tunes of sorrow sung
(Like mandolins, as night begins, when mourning day’s demise)
and spun Her tale of grim travail and tears She shed when young.
Though jagged volts of thunderbolts lit up the dismal skies,
the creeping fog concealed a bog beneath its twisting tongue.
PART 2: HER TRAGIC TALE
“Midst sweet perfume of youthful bloom, the lonely spirit braves
and often cries and sometimes dies in quest of her amour.”
While starry-eyed, a ship I spied, a’ sail upon the waves –
The galleon docked, the seagulls flocked, the Captain swept ashore
where, debonair with gypsy flair, he led his salty knaves.
And passing by, he caught my eye – I tried to hide a blush,
for ambiance of innocence leaves fire’s ice congealed.
He turned his head (with hair flamed red), beheld my cheeks a’ flush.
His gaze inclined with eyes that shined, I felt my fate was sealed
– a bird in spring with fledging wing – he’d snared a fallen thrush.
He said ‘hello’ – I answered ‘no’ and yet before he’d gone
said I, ‘I’ll wait at Heaven’s Gate not far beyond the Pale’.
At dusk he came neath moon aflame, and left before the dawn
just humming tunes along the dunes that lined the sandy trail
beside the pond where morning yawned, where swam an ebon swan.
We met again, and once again, and once again, again
entangled in a love called sin, in whirls of make-believe.
Beneath his charms and in his arms, he said ‘I must explain –
the tide awaits at morning’s gates and I must take my leave’.
A tempest formed and vapors swarmed in ardor’s hurricane.
‘Forsake your home and we may roam’ he smiled as if to tease
and still naive, said I ‘I’ll leave, with ribbons on my shoes’.
He took the helm in search of realms, before the morning breeze –
to tearful eyes, I bade goodbyes with fare-thee-well adieus
and sailed above a wave of love across the seven seas.
We swept one morn around Cape Horn and sped for Gold Coast Bay.
With naught to reck, I strolled on deck, a baby at my breast
while zephyrs blew and seagulls flew above the ocean’s spray.
Our ship soon moored, we went ashore and off to Fortune’s Quest –
with gold doubloons which shone like moons, he gambled through the day.
With deuces wild, he thinly smiled... another card was drawn –
he called and raised with eyes half glazed, was dealt a dismal three.
With betting tight throughout the night, the final ace was gone
and so he lost... at what a cost... alas the prize was me.
With empty bag and pauper’s swag, he left alone at dawn.
A buccaneer with ring in ear sneered ‘now, my dear, you’re mine’.
He grabbed my wrists to block my fists and then, my honor stained.
In midnight’s swash, the sky awash with tiny tears of brine,
I broke his clutch with nothing much of me that still remained:
a residue when he was through, left clinging to a vine.
In morning dew, the good folks knew, and spurned me in my plight.
The preacher man pronounced a ban and wouldn’t condescend,
ignored my pleas on bended knees and prayers by candlelight.
While cast aside, my baby died... my world was at an end.
Until this day, I’ve made my way beneath the shades of night.
Continued in Part 3
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.
What's that in your hand?. Let me see.. He said.
It's a picture; that`s Chuck; he is my friend... I said.
You pick your friends kinda young, don't you?... He said.
No, that was a long time ago. We were in college... I said.
I'd like to hear more about your pal Chuck... He said.
Okay... I met Chuck in New Paltz in `74... I said.
Oh, that's the pot smoking college, isn't it... He said.
Don't generalize, everyone's not the same... I said.
You're right. So tell me some more about Chuck... He said.
Okay, so you want the short version, or long one ... I said.
Whatever you like, I have plenty of time ... He said.
Well, this guy Chuck approaches me; he looks perplexed... I said.
So what was his issue. Why that look on his face... He said.
Chuck tells me "No one will stay with me in the room."... I said.
How odd is that? That doesn't make sense... He said.
You and I swing one way, Chuck swings the other. ... I said.
Now I see what the problem was; What did you do?... He said.
What do you think ? That doesn't bother me.... I said.
Hey, you want to hear a funny story? It's a side splitter... I said.
I've got time. I could use a good laugh right about now... He said.
Chuck had a 53 Schwinn bicycle, all chrome, red and white... I said.
You've got to be kidding me. I haven't seen one in years.... He said.
I'd hop on back. We`d go to town and chug down a few together... I said.
That's not funny. Where's the punchline? So what happened?... He said.
Well, one day Chuck failed a test and got super pissed off.... I said.
That's not funny either. You've got to do better than that.... He said.
He yanked on the handlebar so hard, he busted it clean in half... I said.
Wow ! Did they have "Funniest Home Videos" back then?... He said.
That's not all. We had so much fun together. There's more... I said.
Don't keep me in suspense. Lay it on me..... He said
There was this girl; unique with a special attribute.... I said.
What was so special? Three breasts instead of two?... He said.
No joke, her name was Madam Clittora! Enough said... I said.
I can't believe that. You gonna leave me hanging?... He said.
Anyway, shortly after that, I graduated. Chuck was younger.... I said.
So what happened to Chuck? Good friends keep in touch... He said.
We saw him two years later. We visited With his family, was nice... I said.
Ever see them again? You shouldn't desert a friend.... He said.
You're right. But things don't always pan out... I said.
So what does that mean? You both seemed quite close.... He said.
I was married at the time with a lot of responsibilities... I said.
So that's no excuse. You should've kept in touch... He said.
After that, I didn't. Time changes things. Wasn't intentional.... I said.
So is there more to this story? There's got to be more... He said.
Oh, there is. Time moves on. 35 years later... I said.
It's 2010 and out of the blue, I think of my old pal Chuck... I said.
So you didn't forget him after all, but almost... He said.
It's a gamble, Chuck Drzal was in the phonebook; I called... I said.
Good for you. You took a chance, renewed a friendship... He said.
You're right. Just like old times. `74 again. What a feeling... I said.
So what happened next. Tell me quick, can't wait... He said.
We talked off and on, old times and new things; it was good... I said.
So it sounds like things are really working out for you guys... He said.
We saw Chuck, in the summertime; looked good for 52... I said.
Hey that's great news; Is there more to the story?... He said.
A little more... His friend died the day after we saw him... I said.
Oh, bummer. Sorry to hear that. How`s Chuck now?... He said.
Called him in November. His diamond ring was stolen... I said.
Wow ! That's a real downer. Did they catch the bastard?... He said
No !... I said.
There's got to be more than that. Call him since then?... He said..
Yeah... but... I called twice... he never answered the phone... I said.
Well, I hope you find out how he is doing?... He said.
I did. Saw his obit a few days ago. He died November 17th... I said.
He looked at me. A tear rolled down his cheek... He said nothing..
I looked at him. Couldn't speak, all choked up.... I said nothing.
He looked at me. Gave me a hug, turned and walked away.
I yelled to the universe... "That's Chuck, he's my friend!"
like a Renaissance baby born of man and woman
to a fatherless mother without hope for a
future worth passing on or an inheritance
worth inheriting at all in its own debt
that truth to life which breathes so hard
cancerous lungs and a diseased heart
that beats to the vanity of its own blood
a suffering sound does it make like a
thief running on a watery sunbathed street
the falsity of all of the jewels in his hands
that shine so bright diamonds and pearls
glimmer glimmer so they glimmer they
shimmer they shimmer a cold winter
does it snow in the summer does it
rain in that place called hell I can’t imagine
a break from the heat this year it’s
been quite the year as to this point
soot sits silently on the hill of shadows
oh does it sit so very solemnly sometimes
ashes ashes we all fall down the corpse
of Mary’s little lamb rotted away to nothing
but dust and sin and maggots and grit
wonder do I now of all times where
that burnished throne of Eliot does sit
so I might plant myself upon it and
bloom a song of myself and sing the body
electric until maybe it comes back to life
perhaps the winter is too harsh for roses
this year and the summer too hot
but the frost told me the trail was rough
so I perhaps of all should think not
tears of a better day cried for tomorrow
as though the sand should fall up
but it will never come again for us
we only have the present to live
not a minute more than the second
we’re given when we think just now
do you see do you see do you see
it’s quite a remarkable thing to think
and know that for just now this very moment
you’re capable of saying you have life
but in a flash it could all be gone
like the last note of some forgotten and
overly played and out of tune song
do you sing my friend oh ever
should you sing a song to me
would I smile so bright and laugh
so long into the midnight where
the moon beats red against the dead sky
a light over the world where corpses
walk and humans die pathetic
remembrances of who they once were
you can look and you can cry but
the photographic tears will never dry
and they’ll water your soul until
it blooms a subtle dead thing
you might ask Simon what he sees
if the Lord of the Flies is real or
if maybe the body of war is just
another nightmare of the raped thing
we so call a home or a country or
whatever we choose to label it
in these malicious and malignant
times and yet I wonder if maybe
hope can be found in the rotten
flesh of some selfish soul
tis I that is nobody but myself
a worthless man behind the face
of another dead and delinquent one
a mask is only a mask until you
give it the presence of animation
a mask becomes a face when
you let it become one it’s a thing
called freedom or liberation or choice
never perceive the American dream
as something that it isn’t because
those great donators those ejaculators
of emancipation want you free
they want you to choose the oppression
that you so crave and desire
only you can light your flesh on fire
burn baby burn baby burn
let that great wheel turn and turn and turn
until it’s fully satisfied with itself
and all of the things it’s done in its life
some great and liberated idea
that a woman’s body is a man’s toy
but who should I see but a woman
carry the child that he kills with
a flick of his alcoholic wrist
this thing called love is cruel
to those who believe in it
maybe that’s why God is love
because both are cruel and both
cross out their own ideas with nothing
but the idea of their own ideas
you can’t live a life in a book
you can’t live a life in hope that
someday you’ll live a different life
streets of gold are great and heaven is okay
but what does that matter in terms of today
when you can die before you
even comprehend what I’m telling you
so what’s the point then
why am I doing this
why am I even an artist at all
when my portraits of life reflect nothing
but the opaque things in the human soul
you don’t even care so I think I’m done now
see you some other time friend
I hope you don’t let them hurt
you like they hurt me
I hope you don’t hurt yourself
like I hurt me
I hope you don’t become an
NEWS Item AP: TOGO
LOME – In an effort to topple a government set up to end a 24 year dictatorship rebellious army troops seized the state broadcasting station yesterday, then left the building but returned several hours later and recaptured it. Up to six people died in the clashes. The rebels forced a broadcaster to report demands that the prime minister Joseph Koffigoh resign and dissolve the high council set up to oversee the transition from military rule to democracy.
Revolution in Togo
I was lying on my lawn chair on a sunny summer day
With a dozen pack of Heineken and there I planned to stay
My wife came screaming from the house, most upset I must say
She knew there was trouble brewing, that I’d have to go away
In her hand she had the newspaper, waved it wildly in my face
I looked quickly at the headline and my heart began to race
What, I cried, a revolution? That could not be the case!
A revolution out in Togo? But we all came from that place!
“That’s impossible” I shouted, it is such a peaceful place
A revolution out in Togo? What a terrible disgrace!
I wondered what was brewing, what the problem there could be
My imagination then took over and the rest is history
I could see the picture clearly, I could see it all come down
It was all about the money, and the purse strings of the town
John Mulroy’d been in opposition for two terms maybe three
He was sick of watching the corruption and all the bribery
The foreigners came from Makaroff and San Clara and took hold
Taking all the jobs and contracts, lined their pockets with our gold
Johns support from Runnymede and Kamsack were stuck outside
Getting menial jobs and thinking they’d been taken for a ride
Rollie Hamel was Johns inside man, he was working for the town
Telling John what was going on and what was coming down
John was now determined to stop the debauchery
And raise himself an army to set the people free
He got the Nabe boys and the Burbacks and a couple of their friends
To mount an armed insurrection and bring this to an end
They quickly took the broadcast station in the back of Richies’ store
Within two hours the regular army came crashing through the door
What a standoff as they stared each other down with dirty looks
Talking about the law and the dubious entries in the village books
It was turning ugly for no one was backing down
But Richie’s store was also the only liquor store in town
In the meantime I had panicked with a sense of responsibility
For there are times when a man must fight to protect his dignity
I sold my house and all my toys to buy supplies and guns
To try and save the homeland from the invading Huns
I arrived in Togo just in time to get to Richies’ store
And found a bunch of bodies lying passed out on the floor
What happened? I cried, with dread to anyone that could hear
John Mulroy said, with groggy head, t’was the best party of the year
“We came down last night to have a beer and watch the hockey game
Drank a too much and passed out on the floor here, what a shame
We drank up all the whiskey, the whole supply in town
Then we finished off the moonshine as the third period wound down”
I said “What happened to the revolution going on here at home?”
He looked at my newspaper article and said “No, that says in Lome”
Lome I said, confused now, where the hell is Lome?
He said that’s in a place called Togo, I said well…. that is my home…..?
He said “No you idiot, that’s not here, it’s an African country
Everybody’s heard about it”, I thought “Yeah, everyone but me”
I said “Damn it, I’ve got loads of equipment, what can I do with it?”
He said “Sell it I guess, to tell the truth I don’t really give a shit”
So, I have two dozen crossbows, two hundred arrows and 3 Willis jeeps
I came fully prepared to fight the war, prepared to play for keeps
I have enough stores and weapons so any revolution I can dowse
I’m trying hard to sell it now so I can buy a house
Moments to Reflect
Seed of Birth
After a summer shower I watch the wonders unfold Gods truth is being shown. His love for all shall be known to all who have eyes that can see. The miracle of life that is a delight to behold can be seen in a drop of rain on the end of a leaf. Sparkling like a diamond in the light, more precious than gold, a secret is told. The water of life, without it we cannot go on the earth would be has dry has a bone. A desert: a waste land as hot as Hades and not fit to be called home. The water of life He is known.
The air so sweet and clean the breath of life He has been called. A blessing from the father it is a Gift given to us all. When the air can been seen it is unclean and in this state I call it satans breathe, oh so foul and within it only death can be found.
Flower and trees, grass that is so green that there is not any artist in the world that could paint a more beautiful scene. Concrete streets and black top parking lots; progress is what it is called…maybe not. An eyesore, mans’ master piece his legacy, beauty it’s not.
Like a spring rain or after a summer shower; new life does salvation brings. Like the morning dew shining like tiny jewels, in the sunshine they do glow. Flowers blooming and life a renewing, with Jesus this is how salvation goes.
Rain can be seen as the world being baptized and cleansed, purifying it of mankind sins. This is a fresh beginning but it not at its end it only truth starts when you ask Jesus to come in.
After a gentle rain shower our God reminds humanity of His power and His promise: rainbow in the sky a wonderful, magical miracle, truly a delightful sight. His signature written in the sky, proof that He tells no lies; never again with water will He end the world that has bought to Him so much pain. His tears of sadness, never again will the world end with rain.
The evil one try his best with his temptation and his tests to cause us to die and never to rise; humanity he do hate want to take all with him into that fiery lake. These are the tools of his trade war and strife adding in a touch of worldly lust doing his best to kill our trust in the Lord who has given us so much. The spiritual war is what we are in do not fall for satan schemes. Heaven or hell which one will it be? Like the sun gives life to flower, the Son gives life to all who follows. He who is free is free in deed.
Christ the savior God did send, it shows us that satan cannot win. Like a summer day after a spring rain new life will begin. He will pardon us of all our sins but you must ask him to come in His forgiveness know no end. Open your heart and let Him in then and only then can you win. In Him salvation is guarantee and a new life can begin; so you must choose Heaven or hell where will you spend eternity in?
God our Father gave His Son to the world so that we would have a path to the truth a light to shine in the darkest of time. Allow His attributes to shine forth you do not would to lose your soul. Before time ever begin He love us, will you not trust in Him sight unseen, the One who gives all life meaning?
All it takes is faith to bypass that fiery lake, because tomorrow is not promise and another sunshine you may not see. Time is on no one side, so do not go chasing rainbows you cannot fly. Keep what real in your mind the reality is sin must die. God give His Son to pay a price that He did not owe, the cost was high, but gift that is given for those who believe; is to be by His side, salvation is free are you ready to receive?
Summer shower and gentle breeze,
Golden flower and dew drops of leaves.
Soft green grass beneath your feet.
The only thing sweeter is than life is living with Jesus for all eternity.
It is a fever.
They found the poet outside the park
His steps spoke many words of wine
His upper half seemed half asleep
And his feet walked a crooked line
His arms were spread as if to fly
His lips apart as though to speak
The telltale flush of liquid joy
Told tales of rum from cheek to cheek
The night herself caroused with him
Drunk on sadness, drunk on care
And drink they drank, the weary lovers
Setting wine against despair
The bonds of reason, broken down
His mind amok, and absent sense
The world in woe, the world in glory
Lay before his presidence
And it was then they walked to him
Rudely rousing man from dream
Casting eye on village bard
Taking man as man would seem
"Sing for us again, o bard
Cast your words at senses keen"
This was why they broke his peace
Winters twice his summers seen
"Sing for us again o bard
Spin sweet words from bitter truth
Stir the embers of your heart
Dig through elder years to youth. And
Let the fountain spring with might!!
Showering us with wisdom earned
Showing us the link in hand
Of teachers harsh and lessons learned
Free yourself from wine's embrace!
We would hear a tale or two"
Turns to them, a wizened face
"Ask not man, but what is due."
Graying eyes regard the gathered
Moving on, from face to face
"The world whirls in the hands of time
And yet all things remain in place"
"As yet all men remain the same
The board reset a dozen times
Pi-eces unaltered, so is game
Though rearranged, the given lines
You come to me as bank to debtor
You plague me with unbridled want
Says at last, man to tormentor
'Cease at once your unjust haunt""
It is a fever
"It is not a gift so given
It is not a boon bestowed
Nor is sight beheld as blessing
When the eyes have overflowed
With the sorrows of existence
Pain cavorts with all men born
Know the price of your persistence
Hear the words of man forlorn
What is loss compared to weakness?
What is pain compared to need?
When the soul suffers from sickness
To give blood to those who bleed
O for those suffering in secret
O for hidden scars concealed
Know a secret's mark of secrets
Is in wounds that never healed
The world at large, and I remain
Numb in spirit, numb of mind
My inner coldness feed by pain
Reaped from years left far behind
It is a fever that I have
It is an illness I possess
It is a symptom that you worship
It is a sign that you profess
To love, to need, to love to hear
While I remain diseased of soul
You chant and clap then disappear
Then falls to me, each telling's toll
It is a sadness that I feel
It is madness that I suffer
When the muses offer gifts
Turn your backs and run for cover
Talent has a price, and paid
This price I have, each passing day
Rise to cup and rise to can
Drink my fill then come what may
All my masters come before me
Warned me of the poet's curse
Know you all of Byron's story
Know you all that Poe's was worse
Happiness is bound to beauty
Joy to all that beauty, see
But for those that birth said beauty
All is pain and tragedy
Listen to my fading voice, now
Listen to my silent plea
Know the doom of every poet
And ask of this, no more from me
I will fellowship with Bacchus
Gimlets of the finest sort
Rise to can and drunken glory
Fall to pleasure and cavort
Now my night bids me return
Wine is all that shields from sorrow
Sets me free from all concern
Trouble enough, will be tomorrow"
His soul unburdened, back unbent
All is caught in a lengthy pause
He turns to go, the air is rent
With sounds of cheer, and of applause
Now lowering balding head to ground
"Man may speak but none may hear
Sing for us again o Bard,
Has now become a thing to fear"