Best Busied Poems
Stage 1
Trick-or- treating long after dark, we knocked on an old lady’s door.
Her annoyed look clearly did not match our Halloween glee.
But that did not dissuade us from dashing to the next lighted porch.
Stage 2
I took my two small kids out in cute costumes Halloween night.
Once Trick- or- Treating was finished and my children were tucked in bed,
I busied myself sifting through their bags for the Snickers bars!
Stage 3:
Sometimes before 5, the Trick- or- Treaters appear at our door,
announced constantly by our barking dog. Although they may look cute,
after 9, I become the old bothered lady from my childhood.
Oct. 25, 2016 For the Halloween Contest of Eve Roper
Tribute
Bright star, ascendant,
Now too quickly gone,
Light becoming -
Bright as transparent rainbow colors
Made of sun and storm
Lingering on the sky
With not one color unseen,
Full spectrum complete
Of joys, of tears, of hope -
Abiding memory
Of child becoming one
With woman
In endless summer days
Winter secrets spoken beneath storms
Running through the spring
To autumntide.
Bright Star
With images held fast by midnight,
Rememberings paused,
Nothing added –
Nothing changed –
No words re-spoken
No actions explained;
A circle completed
All the threads joined
Into a tapestry of light
As shades attempt to separate
Present from memory
Going beyond
The still and final chord –
The naked soul
Fleeing to the light.
Bright star ascending
I still look for you
Upon the velvet sky,
Searching that empty space
Where you resided,
That place
Where daily tasks busied your active hands –
Where shimmering dreams
Guided your every step
In quiet recesses that even friendship
Left untouched –
For your light reflected
Life’s ever borning essence
Bubbling up,
You reflected the stunning wonder
Found in all creation.
Bright star,
This night I stop along the way
To tell you
I still miss
The patterns of your light
And honor you
With tears
Of separation,
Celebration,
And of love,
Quietly residing
Where the signature
Of your days
Wrote an indelible portrait –
To you, bright star -
A light that never dies.
[1. Challenge]
“Have you even been listening to one
Word I have said,” she asked? I to my
Shame, withdrew from my reverie of sheer
Nothingness, at least nothing important.
“No, my dear, you are right, I was lost in
A fog I should not have entered.” Hurt
Shadowed her eyes, but she busied
Herself, attending tasks other than me.
Knowing my wrong, I rose coming to her,
Laid my hand atop her trembling one,
“Love I was wrong, and I’ve surely wrong’d you.
What were you saying just now?” Tears rolled
Over her lashes, staining her cheeks. “Do
You think we’re drifting? Guess you answer’d that!”
[2. Accepted]
“Please Honey, come to my arms. I make no
Excuses. Somewhere between my head and
My hands, I lost my Heart – so, lost my way!
Please tell me it’s not too late to find you
Again!” We stood there weeping, uncontrollably,
Breathing, “I love you’s,” and “Sorry’s,””Forgive
Me’s.” “What’s to be done,” I begged my Love?
“Silly Man,” repli’d she, “Open your ears!
Be present in the conversation when
We are talking. I’m not an afterthought,
After your paper!” Listening is not
Silence, nor absence of speech; but hearing,
Engaging, meditating, responding,
Growing love’s dialectical garden.
Sat all alone beside that muttering shoreline he busied
Himself, diligently, and sewed.
And whilst sewing, sang, in a redundant tongue,
Tales of an unforgiving sea...for in him resided the only
Remaining refuge of the old fathers songs;
But then he had been sired from the loins of a rarer kind...
The last native of a vanished tribe.
Bowed, pale blue mountains in mourning behind,
The forlorn mists slowly gathering below;
Unintelligible utterances from weeping seabirds, those
Shrill, demented cries
Resonating across the marooned, windless bay; plunging
Down, the abrupt outline of towering cliffsides;
And in his voice a great sorrow...that which only the
Truly forsaken could ever possibly know.
Now just abandoned longboats lying beached above the
High-water mark; white sands
And white pebbles still washed by lulling tides;
Sometimes, from out of this little cove, a troubling breeze;
And carrying on this breeze, faint sounds of muted,
Despairing sighs.
For it is the longboats that sigh. They sigh for the
Passing of well schooled and patient hands.
Not a true Choka...but uses a 5,7,7,5,7,7 format
-------------------------------------------------
Chill, steaming vapour;
Silence over pale water;
Faded, thin wisps of ribboned
Pink
Above the east gate;
I dip oars...and silence
Breaks.
Trace of flame in lilac sky.
Raise, lean, dip and pull;
Sculling forward little
Twirls
Swirl away from dripping
Blades;
Uplifted soul -- soaring!
Remembering how, when young...
Each new day would bring
New hope.
Extends the shoreline --
Sweeping inwards at the
Point;
Green bulrushes in the bay;
A bittern booming:-
Rising up like slow thunder
Drifting out of jade mountains.
My busied childhood,
Hidden pate not yet shaven;
Shrimping with a fine mesh
Net;
Loud, boyish laughter;
Brimming jars crammed with
Sunbeams --
The golden, darting minnows.
Horizon widens,
Shadow retreats from low
Hills;
Gathering orb comforts me;
Selfsame warm comfort
When held by sleepy women
In cold grey of early dawn.
The vaguest murmur,
Faint as drowsy breathe,
Of the soundings of dim chimes...
A call to prayer?
Hands hard-clenched on the
Staid oars;
Restrained by yesteryear.
The time was 1969, the place- Home-Economics class in junior high. While guys got sent
to “shop,” those of us of the softer sex learned culinary skills. I loved those days when the
room was filled with the sounds of our chatting, laughing and clanging pots and pans, as we
busied ourselves preparing meals before sitting down at our group tables to enjoy the fruits
of our labors. That was my first semester. In the next semester came. . . .SEWing.
Gone were the room’s former tantalizing odors. And the tables once used for sampling
our experiments in cooking had been ominously transformed. Now there were patterns
we’d been asked to buy in fabric stores pinned onto pieces of material and laid out
across the center of each table. Those forms for clothing-yet-to-be, strange maps imprinted
with vertical and horizontal lines and codes along their edges, confused and overwhelmed
me. The implements of baking - mixing bowls, pans, and the cups and spoons for
measuring - had been replaced by a much less comforting display of thread and thimbles,
sewing machines, binding tape and scissors.
With zero scintillation and after the befuddling explanations from my teacher,
I somehow ended up with a hot pink mini dress(actually wearable!) with white trim
amateurishly attached, and. . .for all my effort, the stunning grade of C.
Thankfully, in high school I discovered among a broader choice of electives, Creative Writing
Class, my time to sparkle!
For Carol Brown's "Story Time" (just one story of many that would comprise my bio)
After the storm has passed,
Pelting rain has ceased, and
Ratchet winds have shifted into
Tolerable and non-threatening breezes,
Life resumes in an ordinary sense.
As grey clouds move east,
The sky opens to unveil its majesty
And daybreak takes its proper place.
Slowly the sun emerges,
Rising like a phoenix,
Renewing our hope and calm.
The world looks anew.
As birds chirp and trees stand tall
No longer swayed by unfriendly gusts,
The clean scent of rain left behind
Brings forth a new freshness in the day.
Life resumes with kids playing in puddles
And downtown streets are busied with people
Who walk unrushed to appointments.
On lucky days when looking into the sky
A bow of colors may catch their eyes –
Such a rare treasure that makes them smile
As they take delight in its pleasing sight.
What a miracles it is to see
After the passing of a storm.
Perched above it signals harmony
And the promise of a new beginning.
A wondrous sign to behold,
A remarkable ending to that which has passed.
SAVING GRACE
In the middle of the universe, I stand
Where it all revolves around man
Selling and consuming disastrous blends
Burning the candle at both ends
Neglecting duty, overriding beauty
This story of the ages, never told by sages
Who lived in the bell jar, with the fat cats in the big car
Where small minds, busied and blind
Lost the human race
NO ONE’S SAVING GRACE!
2.4.15: J. Polatnick
Submission: In the Middle of the Universe, I stand
Could you imagine,
A face like that?
Created by the face of an angel
And modeled like fashion
For the damned and deceased.
A respected locksmith,
Drunk on insomnia and aging,
Kissing the pavement
With bare and busied feet.
The Brazilian beauty
Who prides herself as
The representative of blushing.
The one who catches the bouquet
By chance and
Throws it away before anyone notices.
But on a theory in a slip of time,
Before the extinct proposition
And an oddly proportioned new born,
Curls a quivering life form
In the belly of this woman so sweet.
Born from innocence and named Mary,
For the sake of Jesus.
She is not 36 nor is she 16
Yet she is at the fruitful age of 57.
And at 57,
This symbol of love and innocence
Is fumbling with the curiosity
Of breast feeding her unborn child
That wiggles and withers with frailty
Inside of her.
Dark wood,
Unimaginable line,
Where could you have gone
When the pages were as blank as the faces
And for the life of you,
You couldn't tell the difference.
Just say it.
Rip it from the tip of your tongue.
Show your taste buds no mercy and speak.
Grow.
Expand.
Consider the possibilities when
It appears there are none.
Enjoy the pain
And embrace all oppressions and oppositions.
Slumber in the smutty bluntness
Of a marital masquerade.
Quit it
Then keep it going.
Move the stones
And bend their broken subtractions.
Crack the indescribable aptitude
Of times motive for murder.
Explicate reason,
Smoke your lungs away,
Cry your eyes out,
And suck at the wastelands.
Wicked
Young minds
They delude innocence
Forever they act sovereign
Ameer
Childish
Their behavior
Often they clamor
Wail their emotions behemoth
Dour
Play
With gesture
Time befriend rejoice
Busied with oneirisms foretold
Pollyannaish
Cozened
Hatful alibis
Bebop their paroles
Disputes often looked battles
Liberty
Bored
By pages
Books limned cartoons
Brains mattered to creations
Jejune
Love
Yet teemed
Maneuvered by care
Parents seek for smile
Charismatic
------------x----------------
S o dispassionate I have BECOME
E ager voices of people made me NUMB
R ambling tales of them just gave BOREDOM
I to restore my faith, still silently seek FREEDOM
O ffshore built my own little place to avoid any BOTHERSOME
U nafraid, un-argued, unasked, un-broken, ah my own solemn KINGDOM
S lowly turning in to an old soul though LONESOME
L ooking in the mirror, irking on lost SARCASM
O ver-busied, I made my mind, being DEFEATISM,
O f peace I only yearn and restore gone OPTIMISM
K nowingly of serious look wore, but still don’t know, why feelings are FEARSOME
Incarcerated;
I only reflected a vapor image of a world I was in.
Enslaved to a master;
Who only gave woe;
Continuously toiling;
Of rest I found none.
Weary and worn I had become.
Friends became enemies and hope turned to despair.
My eyes darkened black as the night;
Shutting out any light.
Overtaken and almost soulless was I;
Trapped by a master who always spoke lies.
The bars on the door only opened a few minutes each day,
Such hurried and busied;
No time to pray.
My speech taken with the very first step through the dark door.
I began to hide within myself,
Locking the door of which only I had the key.
Terrified of what I had become;
A monster.
That could shred anyone who tried to rescue me.
The vapor became so thick I had to feel for the locked door ands search for the key.
Day after day;
Pressed and pushed;
Toiled and enslaved.
Those few minutes when the bars gave way;
A message I was able to convey;
To a man who appeared in front of me one day.
I want to be free.
Please don't forget about me.
Wad all the time I had to say,
Before th master came to lock me away.
Each day I grew more desperate than the day before;
Asking The man to free me;
To carry the message to a far away shore.
Knowing if I was to ever be caught trying to leave the master would behead me.
One final day the man appeared unto me.
He opened the door and set me free.
The onslaught of my life continues and my head is forever saught by the foe.
But braver am I when I hand Jesus my keys and He rescues someone just like me.
By Christy Teas
After coming back from church last night, wishing everyone a Happy Easter, my sister's only wish was to watch The Greatest Showman. So, my mother and I took our seats next to her and watched, right in the dining table, with our dinners in front of us. It was past eleven when we got back to bed.
The next day dawned: the last day of the holidays. It started quite alright, with mom, dad and I plucking down a several ripe papayas with the help of a bedsheet and a stout wooden pole. Then my dad went home to work, while the rest of us busied ourselves in our own work.
I didn't note the time, but I did hear mom's phone ringing. Half absorbed in Pip's world, I hardly even noticed it. But my eldest sister got a call from dad, almost after the ringing of mom's phone stopped. She told mom to call dad immediately, telling something about the Kochchikade church, a church which I've known ever since I was small.
My mom gave a call and went to see my eldest sister, and she sounded serious. I overheard her speaking about the roof being blown out. I thought it was the wind. I never expected it to be bombed.
Everyone was calling. Most of them knew that we went there. Within those moments when we assured those horrified voices, we got to know the six other attacks. Now, everyone was paniced. Everyone was expecting curfew at any moment.
Dad hurried to the supermarkets to do last moment shopping. He told us that there will be curfew from 6 pm to 6 am of the following morning. During this time, I heard a strange throbbing and hum, which lasted only a few seconds.
After dad came back, we checked the news. Curfew had already started, and won't be lifted until further notice. Then there was something else. The 8th bomb explosion for the day: a housing scheme in Dematagoda, only a few kilometers from our home.
The strange hum echoed in my mind, as all of us stared at our neighbouring building through the french windows of our home. We were staring at the grey wall of the tall housing scheme, which stood majestically in front of our veranda.
4/21/2019
We heard it over the radio
We heard it over the radio and I don’t know if it’s true
It was today at the gathering by the village square
The chief had just bought new batteries so everyone was there
The newsman sounded excited as he spelled out his story
He said a son of the soil is now the paramount chief of America
America, that land of the white man who once called us monkeys
And now I hear a monkey reigns over them
I recall it wasn’t April first so the chances were high
So high that the elders were summoned to look into the issue
For if the crown was for one of our soil then who were we to still toil
As the elders met we sat by the oracle and waited
Offering our obese goats and hailing our fore fathers
For now a born of their line had the world by its horn
When the elders emerged it was smiles instead of wrinkles
Mzee Ojok’s land was to house the village rice milling plant
The sons of Labeja would widen the village paths for tarmacking
Schoolteacher Okello would write the congratulatory letter
And remind him to start work as soon as possible
Fathers were to send virgin beauties for our new heroes’ bride
The choice of course would be his when he landed the iron bird
But for the first night, Chief Ocuc was giving up his own bed and wife
For whoever the gods choose, we their subjects must worship
Within one week all was set, new drums curved and songs proposed
Lands had been cleared and roads all trimmed
Mothers ceased weaving and busied grooming daughters
Eight years already and this son of Obama is not yet here
Yet today, the newsman said his reign is coming to an end
The elders believe its because the gods are angry with him.
XMAS TRADITION
How I longed for the Xmas tradition we celebrated when I was growing up. The Xmas tradition that still lives on; but we left behind. It is celebrated here in some parishes. However, it is not the same as we celebrated it in the Philippines.
As Xmas advent approached, my father busied himself making Xmas lanterns to be hanged in every window of our house. They were made of bamboos and colorful papers with bulbs inside to light at night. My brothers and I were so excited watching him make them and when they were all hanged.
Then the devotional nine-day celebration started on December sixteen, wherein we walked to the church to attend a mass each day starting at dawn or four o’clock in the morning. After the mass, at five o’clock we ate rice cakes with tea or hot chocolate outside the church. There were so many delicacies to choose from, as they were so many who made these rice cakes to celebrate the Xmas season and to show and share gratitude.
On the ninth day, the end of this devotional tradition, the mass was held at midnight or Xmas Eve welcoming our Savior with gratitude. Instead of eating the rice cakes after the mass, we all went home to celebrate Xmas Eve. We all gathered at the kitchen table, young and old, enjoying Xmas dishes and rice cakes and togetherness.
“Christmas”, the season
to reflect and be grateful
for our gifts, blessings
11/27/21 "X" Contest, New Or Old Poetry
Constance La France