Best Chastened Poems
I have been to places of great death:
walking the battlefield at Gettysburg,
as a lusty young man of no firm belief
who stepped between the great rocks
of Devil's Den and felt his soul shudder
as though he had been a soldier there,
and died in fear a long, long time ago.
I taught my tongue to the gentle Khmers
as civil war raged and the killing fields
were being sown-- I left before the
heartless murdering began, the killing
of over a million: teachers and students,
doctors and peasants, the old, the young,
each with a photo taken before dying,
their images taped to classroom walls.
And when I visited Hiroshima, now myself
chastened by death's touch, and knowing
my soul real, knowing of meaning absolute
and of unseen forces working good or ill,
as I stood at the first ground zero, I once
again shuddered to feel the pull of madness
(though I knew not if it was my own or some
remains of that evil which brought the fire
and brimstone of a world wide war...).
But by then I knew I could pray, and so
opened my desperate heart and sought
His mercy. Suddenly I saw a sort of angel
who took me from that place of insanity,
healing me while we wandered by the
beauty of the Inland Sea as my storm
calmed and left me, never to return....
I have been to places of great death, and
I have felt death's cold, careless hands.
Yet now I know what death itself fears:
the Light, the light eternal which carries
souls beyond time itself, like the winds
of a Love exceeding all understanding.
Dreams Dancing A Dance Into Retreating Time
I hasten to see worrying worries flown
In abyss of chastening chastened fires,
For decades she held tight, loving love, her own,
Soft melody, with noted notes that inspire,
Fallen spirit given grasping grasps at hope,
Dreams dancing a dance into retreating Time,
Resplendent ardor, its aching aches a rope,
Wrapping blessed blessings true, sweet and sublime!
There within bluest blues, sweet angel resides:
Her feet prancing a prance in bright ruby shoes
Through mirroring mirrors where no secret hides
With laughing laughs, tossing treasures two by two's.
Where dreaming dreams and only love's heart abides
Resplendent loving love sings, and then decides!
Robert J. Lindley, 3-23-2019
Sonnet, ( Of Dreams, When Full Moon's Glow Sings)
Note: A heavily reworked old poem fragment, which was
originally dated from September 3rd, 1977...
You were loved once
just because
but in defiance of your lot
perhaps in spite
learned to dance, love again
Think it's hidden
in diamond's luster
or hereafter
not all the smiles
nor outpour of laughter
Educated, ready to reach
the brass ring's test
understanding even less
of life's best
Trade in yesterday for
sister's and brother's
just a taste
of tomorrow's forevers
never promised, nor bothered
I'll never tell you it's so
if you want or don't
who'd think I could ever know
when you will or won't?
Never can be too sure
if anything will last
channel'd from someone or
something
remains from ages past
Run faster hoping time will never
catch up, to all this
ask you to pay amends
for moments chastened
now missed
Try to catch the wind
sleeping
best to practice touching..
keeping
No, you won't remember hard times
if it were up to me
staring into a lion's eyes,
from where you came
on the way to where you'll be
Return to doctor's orders
hold on to praise won
pray all turns right
before the ending' sun
Ten's beauty is half as such
twelve is way too much
make due with that special
someone
just because
Tomorrow it will be your turn.
Your turn to be beaten.
To get bruised.
To bleed.
Because you are wrong.
The wrong sex.
The wrong color.
Just wrong.
Tomorrow is your turn.
Your turn to be mocked.
To be shamed.
Because of how you look.
...or don't look.
To be harassed.
To be chastened and disowned.
By everyone you love.
Because of who you love.
...or don't love.
Tomorrow is your turn.
Your turn to lose:
Your job.
Your house.
Your dignity.
Your turn to beg and be ignored.
Because of what you wear.
...or don't wear.
Where you live.
...or don't live.
Tomorrow is coming.
And it will be your turn.
Your turn to get the letters.
The ones that tell you to die.
To kill yourself.
Because of who you are.
...or aren't.
Not because of anything you've chosen.
Not anything you've done.
...or not done.
Just because it's your turn.
And as bad as tomorrow is going to be
For you.
For others,
Tomorrow is just a repeat of today.
I think old lovers wish
Einstein correct
and Time not a thief
called Time;
A jester perhaps
that toys with our hearts
leaves Spring not a leaf
all youthful players aged
parts...
But nearer the end
when time less a friend
when the hours grow ragged
when all seems sorely jagged
when the sun is too hot
and the winter cold twice
Time chastened by God
responds with a paradise
SUMMER FALLS
April heralds Summers March
as she leaves behind her warm glow
in blazing trail of red and orange hues
pursued by winds she trips and Falls
chastened to submit to colder paths
stormy clouds-- thunderous showers
shedding garments of leaves and color
exposes herself baring dark squall bruises
behind fragmented damp misty wisp
SUMMER FALLS AS WINTER CALLS
© Kim van Breda—April 2014
(The start of another winter here in Cape Town)
It's been written before and quoted more
"Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder"
Born in London to American parents
Her beauty, would come to make, men smolder
Blue bedroom eyes for us to view, but more of a violet hue
Golden eyes reflected her seductive guise
And chastened more than a few
Unlike many beauties the color of her hair,
Rarely changed it's tint
Styles may have changed from year to year
But darkness was her intent
A voluptuous figure with statuesque curves
Changed in her golden years
But when she was young and middle aged
Men's hearts would always shift gears
She fell off a horse and broke her back
Scoliosis tormented her health
She overcame, like the trooper she was, through the years
And died in excessive wealth
Called many names in public and private
As she gracefully turned a deaf ear
Home wrecker, tramp, alcoholic, and ****
With head high she never failed to appear
Her persona was large but larger than that
Was the size of her philanthropic heart
Converting to Judaism and a Foundation for Aids
The first actress to ever really start
She won best actress in "Butterfield 8"
And never really looked back
I coveted the role Paul Newman played
In lust of "Maggie the Cat."
by Daniel Turner Feb 3 2016
Why can't I do it how I want to do it?
Been told my rhymes are sophomoric - at best
I may violate pentameter but I write what I like
Why must it pass some journal's vapid test?
Behind a block of writers I've been hiding
Cowed by thoughts of editing snafus
Trying to write deep, intensive tomes of valid lore
Only to be chastened and abused
There's elegance found in concise expression
Saying all the world in just a line
No matter that I know this, I belabor all my thoughts
Create elegies for elegance in time
Onomatopoeia is my best friend
And alliteration waltzes through my dreams
Thoughts chatter, clatter, chirp and clunk around about my head
Demanding that they be released in streams
And after I have done what I have done here
Exposed my heart by opening my head
I send it forth with hope that someone will enjoy my words
And get rejection letters only, in their stead
Won't you like my poem - just a little?
I promise it won't be a trite conceit
I don’t emulate the standard ways of any other writer
But you've called my words monotonous and cheap
But yet my writing keeps on remonstrating
That whether it be ballad or blank verse
It should be able to do, just exactly what it feels like
And it finds your journal editing perverse
It says it does not care if it is published
Doesn't want you to consider it profound
For if you did, it might become repetitive and common
And make cool people, like me, put it down
But won't you like my poem just a little?
At the least - you could be non-committal
While Shepherds watched their flocks by night all seated on the ground
The ewes collected up their lambs and gathered them around
"Listen now," the old Ewe said, "you young lambs listen well,
If you all want to grow to sheep then hark to what I tell
You may see lights up in the sky, or coming cross the downs
They could be aliens my dears, from space, or other towns
They may use flashy coloured beams or other fancy sights
But sometimes they have dim headlamps and indicator lights"
"It does not matter how they come or from what other lands
Aliens are just as bad who drive white transit vans
So lambs who plan to wander off and get up to no good
Can get sheepnapped to Cygnus Prime, or maybe Cricklewood
And whether you are beamed aboard, or bundled in a sack
The aliens have got you, and you won't be coming back
A simple truth for young lambs to, within their noddles, keep
Is alien companionship is never good for sheep"
"It matters not a sci-fi whit dissected in a lab,
Or spiced and served with napkins in a curry or kebab
The preparations, much the same, occuring on the way
Are what you can undoubtedly expect to spoil your day!"
The little lambs were chastened much and some quite overcome
And resolved that they would keep themselves close to their mum
But other things were happening and shepherds on the ground
Beheld an Angel visiting, with glory spread around
"Fear Not", he said for mighty dread had seized their troubled minds
"Great tidings of great joy I bring to you and all mankind"
The sheep reckoned that was not them and were much relieved
It did not really matter if the shepherds were deceived
But still, they thought, 'twas best be off, although no need to hurry
And one or two thought shepherds might improve turned into curry
The night was dark and shepherds eyes were full of holy light
And so the sheep all silently crept off into the night
Leaving shepherds to their fate somewhere among the stars
The sheep hit Bethlehem's nightspots, the clubs, the pubs and bars.
Feather to feather on a branch, this early winter morning,
Are they planning outings for the day or of grave dangers warning?
A predator comes swooping by, a red-tailed hawk in plunder.
As of one mind they fly away, not one is pulled asunder.
These are the winter birds that stay, to face the stormy weather.
They mind the rules of Nature and no one asks why or whether.
The ice and snow, the winds that blow, they do not stop to measure.
For what could be one bird's nothing, could be another's treasure.
The springtime finds them once again, assembled in large groupings.
They know a single bird can be endangered by hawk's swoopings.
The over-powering scents of spring, assault them from the orchard.
The butterflies and bumblebees are courting in the courtyard.
The apple tree is leafing out and showing her pink buddings.
The robin is digging in the mud and making her worm puddings.
My own body is a tingle at the sounds and smells and scents.
A bunny with his ears attuned, keeps watching through the fence.
When summer comes, life has progressed. Among the leaves, nests hidden.
Many a chastened crow has learned that to rob one is forbidden.
Mama and Papa Swallow have filled the needs of their first hatch.
They're teaching them to fly now, to make room for another batch.
The summer flowers are in full bloom, each vying with another
To tell the nectar searching bees, they're better than the other.
The bright red of tall lilies and my roses of red hues
Urge me to plant my gardens with some yellows, greens and blues.
At last in fall, time to relax and talk about the summer.
That Robin's eggs refused to hatch, they agree was a real bummer.
They're gathered now, in larger groups, to leave for other places.
The birds that stay, send them away with wonder on their faces.
A riotous bloom of dahlias grow where other flowers have faded.
The last blooms of summer roses are looking quite outdated.
The snow of winter soon will come to cover up my garden,
But hardy plants will live through snow, fall gave them chance to harden.
3/15/14
Unheeded in the spread of his name, quaking
Through the knit brow cuddling the sombre eye
Twice buckled into the couch of his yearning
The mouldy cast of unsculptured hands, moulting
In the surging sweaty cries' unexpected sigh
Sooner lost than won with unrenewed longing
Every day, every night in chastened haste, calling
That one face, one hand trembling on bosomy thigh
Through all the twigs of his knotty brooding
Mighty log in the dismembered chips, raking
In uneasy orgasms of a protracted lie
The woman clasped in the memory revolting
Fleshy hair to press, hovering nostrils, drinking
In the incensing vapours, and that face a wry
Screaming in the rubbing spasm, a bloody cursing
All, all and more, and the biting shame, clawing
Now at the name, silently growing, that shy
Child of old hopefully shared and lingered moaning
© T. Wignesan, 1960, first pub. in "Forum Academicum", University of Heidelberg, 1957 (from the collection: Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961)
Perhaps love is a quiet crimson fire
That burns the soul silently ever deep
The glorious waves that fuel its desire,
is never chastened by its unwanted sleep
As need sought is born from emotion's want
A minutes pause becomes a daily wait
The time of our meeting I must confront
A memory old or a newer fate
In dreams that linger I have met you
A captured wish that dwells in reverence
That blooms with patience when our time is new
and I await your entrance in silence
To see your eyes and find love already known
To touch hearts gentle as their light has shone
contest Contemplation
visual 1 Lovers don't finally meet somewhere
they are in each other all along
5/1/15
First Snow
Daylight~
My world is covered with pure white snow
Untarnished
The branches of the red pine out my
Window, softly comforted with a thin blanket
Of downy fluff streets, unmarked by soot,
Await transgressions of human movement.
One contemplates at such times~
Hats, snow boots, scarves, packers and
Don't forget to throw the heavy survival blanket
I bought from Joyners in Grand Marais Mn...
(On one of my annual camping trips to the far
North with my daughters as they were
Growing up, showing them where to find
Peace in the real world God Created)
...Into the backseat of my car for those
Unexpected moments when caught outside
Demands prolonged warmth to avoid frostbite.
Naturally, one takes personal inventory
At such times, compensations really,
Mostly age related, necessities for making
It over the winter hump to hoped for, Spring.
There are tools I engage > seed catalogs begin
Arriving, thoughts of renewal, both of nature
And myself emerge in my thinking.
Am I worthy of such a renaissance? are there
Apologies or pleas of forgiveness needed?
Satisfied with conclusions, I convince myself
To venture forth in this clean slate ouside,
Properly self-chastened to avoid past potholes,
And enjoin my gentle imprints with other
Intrepid wanderers of the north country.
~ early November in Minnesota '18
Must confess I would not have liked to have
gone through life without experiencing a hurricane
And when Dean came I rode it out with a bit of excitement
as the winds bellowed, the roof creaked with every thrust
And I witnessing the force of nature.
When it had finished raging
The strong was separated from the weak
as if nature had designed a scalpel
to remove the dead tissues opening an area of growth and renewal
to once again invigorate ,renew and redress
what was meant to be done,but in a bludgeoning fashion.
I then took stock, and things that had once stood proud
was shamefully, head bowed, chastened,
suffering in pain
but to start the renewal
and as time permit, the slow rebirth
then the flourish followed by its bloom
and soon I wonder,when will it come again?
She looks kinda cute even when she is mad
yet, so composed when things turn out bad.
How she smiles even in deep, sweet slumber
that I love watching whenever I am with her.
Kids get sick, turns me into a nervous wreck,
she just smiles “Relax, hon, get some sleep”
and while I’m snoring totally lost to the world,
she lovingly nurses them with a heart of gold.
Next morning she whispers “How’s my man?”
what have I done to deserve such a woman!
I smile thinking her children really total five
the oldest of whom is fast approaching 55.
When I erupt like a volcano she allows me
then soothes it with “Are you okay, honey?”
“Now let's talk about this like sane people”
leaving me chastened, a choleric old fool.
I often wonder how she lasted long years
living with my juvenile, explosive temper.
I just count every blessing, this nut case
married to a lady I fondly call Funny Face.