Below are the all-time best Leo Larry Amadore poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members
Leo Larry Amadore
Things that seemed poetic were always sad,
though I yearned for sparkle
and my dad's guffaw, which never came.
Familiar things were always drear --
repeated motions in the same old game.
There were only distant glimpses
of budding spring, fleeting views
of daffodils. The strongest
poems dealt me death and dying.
Yet I always hoped, never went under
to gray despair, always dreaming
of a garden of love that we could share.
But those forbidden delights faded
quickly away; the only reality
I understand is the ever-looming
and final one. Nothing's changed.
The strongest poems deal death and dying.
(This is a "childhood" poem, written many years ago.)
High above the pristine falls
the looming mountain lifts its walls.
A monolith of stony gray,
with bulky lips, it seems to say:
"Eons passed since I've been here;
nothing have I seen to fear
while above my walls, from year to year,
about the world below I peer.
My walls so high, so steep and strong,
protect me well from all that's wrong.
Would that Man below could see
how I keep all harm from me.
Would that he could build a wall
about his home, his family -- all --
to keep them safe from Evil's charm,
which causes Man unending harm."
Do you ever think of me,
though much time has passed and
we have not talked, we have not met?
Do you ever wonder how I am,
what I've done, where I've been?
Do you ever picture in your mind
how the years have changed my face,
lined my brow, slowed my pace?
I often think of you, as you were,
when I'm blue...how we two
would talk the night away then
greet the day with smiles and laughter --
ready to face the roads ahead,
the crooked miles we'd walk alone --
but, after, waiting to relax again,
to smile once more, trusting that
we'd meet some time and talk till day,
with nothing changed that counts at all...
still all smiles, all hugs, all laughter.
R.I.P. William Dale Eubanks
d. July 1, 2012, aged 68 yrs., Tennessee Ridge, Tennessee
Death came as no surprise
the first Sunday in July;
it claimed you, on a ridge in Tennessee,
with kin who took you in and waited with you
through the last hard days.
You kept what fears you had well hid,
did not betray with loud complaint
the fate you could not but know awaited.
A smile, a joke, a hug – exotic meals –
And genuine interest greeted all you met.
And you were, certainly, never boring
but well-traveled and smart
beyond the telling.
We’ll miss your wit, your bright demeanor,
and will remember all you freely gave ---
and what you took from us
with your passing.
The mirror reflects, obliquely,
a peculiar yellow butterfly -- it flutters, flutters
the specks of black my beard is made of
on the breeze. A daffodil hangs down its treasure
and I spread shaving cream, in great white puffs,
shielding from the wind and rain its yellow
across my face. The nose protrudes, ridiculous
excrescence. A leaf half green sweeps up in circles
in the whiteness all around. A weak chin, think I,
of windy sighs. Squirrels crack acorns, crunching,
down into a patchy neck. Very unsatisfactory
remembering winter's almost famine. The trees --
appearance. Altogether so. Oh well.
Quiet. Steady. Sturdy. Oh well.
The mirror reflects, but not uniquely.
the gray cat, Tempus, in doldrums
lazes, purring, stretching.
I have watched him.
Cunning eyes half-closed,
he stalks bright birds in the garden,
near day lilies.
The birds swoop and glide, flutter,
wings wet from flights
through the sprinkler's sweeps.
They light on dry grass,
strut and shake themselves,
are lulled. Then,
Tempus pounces on one bird.
The rest are routed…
And Tempus fugit.
(Please read The Park -- Part One first ...
This is a continuation from Part One, due to space limitations)
Yes, kids at play are bold and wise
with flashing smiles and knowing eyes.
Children bore easily with grown up prattle;
their thoughts turn to cake and to toys that rattle.
They know that Belles and Bills tell lies.
Time is but a birthday gift or new surprise;
more games to play; a windy day for a kite one flies;
coins that shine; toys that squeak;
a trip to the zoo at the end of each week.
But Belles and Bills persist in their story.
Some even mention forgotten glory.
Children go home to eat, to sleep.
Belles and Bills their vigils keep;
falling leaves and darkening sky
shows them their truth and the children's lie.
Nothing is forever; all things die.
Then, Belles and Bills go back to flats,
to wait -- to wait till morning comes.
They listen to the rustling rats
and slowly sip their gins or rums.
Eyes are glazed; minds are dazed.
The atmosphere grows dim and hazed.
They will await, once more, the sun's first ray --
the birth, in the park, of another day.
Before they leave, they look all around,
surveying the world to which they're bound;
then, they shuffle away, with airs of sadness
at being, always, on the verge of madness.
The echo of an unheard bark
reverberates throughout the park.
Fallen leaves and darkened sky
confirm the truth. Children lie.
To see ourselves as others see us --
unmasked images, through others' eyes --
half-formed caricatures, perhaps --
or mere grotesqueries --
barely recognized, telling
what we thought to hide.
We'd label these as skewed
perceptions, not real truth...
But, no matter -- when once
I thought myself unfairly judged
and asked "How so?",
I was reminded of the obvious,
i.e.: all outcomes are determined
by perceived attitudes and actions.
Not truth, but clear perception,
pure appearance, guide others' thoughts
and so create the world we live in.
Thus, however harsh,
"Perception is reality."
Chilly late October;
early morning fog banks
the roadside, cloaks
a trickling bayou...
among the thickets of dense trees,
the wispy tufts
barely top man-high
goldenrod, Queen Anne's lace,
dried-out thistle stalks...
A yellow school bus, solitary,
slowly passes on the parallel,
dew-dampened, skinny black asphalt
where wet spots reflect
the newly risen sun.
Only occasional rustles of high,
green cane fields and
intermittent bird songs
interrupt pervasive quiet...
Timelessness, and solace --
calming, soothing --
a Louisiana bayou:
(Another childhood or teen years poem.)
Newsprint small talk
in Mediocrity's lead pot
rustles and gossips while,
splashed spectacularly across
the speckled page of
a murder making column one
hides the hushed massacre