Best Courtesies Poems
It was a token gesture
A hand he offered me
Emerging from my cab
Stormy night in the city
I didn’t know his name
But I’ll not forget his face
For he helped me gently
To a safer place
Blue eyes and thick black hair
He stepped in the rain-filled gutter
To close the taxi door
But not a word did he utter
Just a simple kindness
Like those of olden days
When gentlemen ensured
Ladies’ safety always
Now I’m a modern gal
And oh-so independent
But I stared in awe
At my hero so resplendent
As he turned to walk away
My impulse was to give a hug
But I just touched his jacket
And gave his sleeve a tug
“Thank you,” I whispered
Captivated by his smile
And how I wished within my heart
That he would stay awhile
He simply waved, then walked on
Disappearing into the rain
Since that night I’ve prayed
I’d meet this man again
But this kind token gesture
Recalled courtesies now rare
And I am pleased to say
Such tokens gents still share
*March 22, 2021
One summer eve in Galilee
I stood before my open door;
to me it seemed just one more night--
like all the others gone before.
Someone would come and, passing by,
would hear the tinkling of the bells,
would see the garish harlot's robe
and painted eyes beneath my veil.
Someone, a man like all the rest--
it did not matter much to me--
a nobleman, Samaritan,
a Roman or a Pharisee,
someone would pause and with one glance
strip me again of maiden pride,
and leaving, later, never know
the shame and shattered dreams I hide.
O, he would think me very gay;
he would not see my hollow heart
nor hear me curse him for his pay.
Just then I saw a band of men
approaching down the narrow road;
there should be one among that crowd
aho wants the favors I bestow.
Kind eyes met mine, and with one look,
He saw what others could not see;
He saw the hunger of my soul,
my loneliness and misery.
I only know that since that day
I live to walk along with Him.
His look of love has changed my life;
I need not sell my love again.
Tonight He dines at Simon's house__
all day the dusty paths we roamed;
but, still he waits, unwashed, unkissed;
small courtesies no one has shown.
My love for Him! It rolls and swells
till from His side I cannot stay;
I will wash His feet with tears of love
and with my hair wipe the sand away.
Copyright, 1987, Faye Gibson
Beautiful Ones
Aloft in the steam, they look like Eagles.
Perched now on the edge of the bowl,
proud courtesies peck the kind and meek
with true meanings and Premier trophies.
Unprecedented vanity creates illusion
with self appointed monarchs.
Court jesters perform a merry dance
patronizing peasants.
Draws the gaze towards the stage,
demands the ‘groundlings’ awe.
Under their script, the knees bend
as truth is removed by deleted scenes.
Kings and queens laugh sadistically
offering a standing ovation, but
festivities are interrupted abruptly,
as valiant knights rebel against oppression.
Disrobed, their crowns become
spears through the sternum’s shield,
impales hearts that only bleed
weak fallacies and pretentious devices.
As their guise becomes clear,
anemic vultures are revealed.
Perched upon a bowl of blood,
anticipating their next persecution.
-------------------------------------------
A collaboration with Silent One
Inspired by the Globe Theatre
05.16.16
If I was to take a word, say focus,
Stand it on its head,
And ask with growing sense of dread,
Why my friend did you just now,
Fly upon this particular
Moment’s verbal locus?
Torture I might answer, like waterboarding,
Might explain a thing or two.
Indeed the stakes are dear,
And the coast far from clear-
For foggy shores clarity prevents,
The utter contingency of cluttered events.
Focus is the mine shaft of the mind,
Magnifying that which falls
Into categories of significance:
Signs of a trance, a mental dance,
By which thinking signifies
The magnificent follies
Of a man upside down
In a world of lies.
No subtlety there,
Poet banging hair chest bare,
The mental frequency hertz,
Screeching, scratching, snatching,
Lose bits of hurt out of the air.
The mathematics of falling
Made clear by Newton,
His numbers uncovering
What was
Always there:
A god already in free fall,
The Fall, the autumn of our birth,
The forsaken garden,
Two dummies hand in hand,
An undulating snake,
A world of entanglement,
All fleeing into a desert dream.
For what? To where? And why?
The three double jews of the trinity
Which Law forbade no One to ask,
Yet no body did
Put focus to task.
She reappears all the time.
The rabbit hole stood for what was to come,
The worms therein what was done.
The trip down was fun,
Getting out gave more than the sum.
The prism diffracted the invisible
Beams of light,
An assortment of possibilities followed,
The world explained, the mind contained,
A boundless infinite void of space,
Surrounding us,
Disgracing us,
For we had to face,
The borders of our place.
Trapped inside
We looked the other way,
Attic floors, token doors,
A distilled virtue, forgeries for another day.
The sky was not the limit, we were.
The atoms of the mind mere reflections
Of our best guessing games.
There though, lay our best hope.
After the bloodshed
She reappeared again.
But only after.
Choices like Templars into the night,
Distracted the courtesies of a harmonious cosmos,
God had blood and died,
Men embraced humiliation and cried,
Change, the abomination of free will,
Altered the fabric of time.
Focus put by for a rainy day.
Distraction, the play thing
Of an unruly monster lurking in the shadows of thought,
Vomiting a pile of disassociations.
It's that time of the year for the suit
Time to give those rolls the "boot"!
You can't cram it all in
Into material that thin
So get a 1 piece to hide all of your "loot"!!!
Grand Ma
Depending on a day’s mood-
Grand Ma my mind recalls;
Saint or Devil in the wood
For fast writ on the walls!!!
Ah! Lovely Devil was she
She’d catch you up the tree
Or acted a wise witty witch
Fishing you out of the ditch!
“This hand your mum it trained
“Would I then be restrained
“Or to failure my head nod
“In decadence while you plod!?”
***
All the relentless rigour
Adult me I recall with vigour
It was meant with love
Not game of the grisly grove!
Palms rough and cracked
Castor oil she gently smacked
Sores on my supple back
To sooth clean and black!
Brewer unpaid and at home
Just for the lust of bonhomie
(How I burned my thirsty lips
With harsh stolen brew sips!)
Traditional dance drummer
Hands hard as the hammer
Tanning the dry cow leather
Throughout the night weather!
Indeed, they fell in a trance
Those in a frenzied prance
Then, for home I’d escape
In the pitch black landscape!
Grand Ma had ragged raiment
Yet healed every bad ailment
Was I to revile her mood,
Study of Science in the wood?
Surprise of it all was her age
When she took the passage....
With her teeth sound intact
And Memory quite compact!
***
My Dad would obsequies
While Mum paid courtesies
To the bygone lady of yore
Who knew no gospel before.
Send-off without drums
No shakes of drunken bums
No brew, no castor oil
No coffin, body; wrapped coil!
“Let her possessed spirit rest
“Don’t let Demons manifest
“Should for her you mourn
“Her spirit will not sojourn!”
Ah! I ate, slept beside granny
Never felt a feeling funny.
Was I with demons in contact
Yet, am still sound and intact?
Whether demons or seraph
This is to her a cenotaph:
You had a scant body hood
Yet, rich in gen of the wood.
My very life’s heartbeat
Resonates with that drum beat,
As I recall the sprite massage
And pray to pass at your age!
JM
05th December 2013
*Image of Real Pussy Willows & A Mockingbird by Cat Art & Florida News.
righteous courtesies
looms pussy willows
eager mocking birds~~
sopranist voice ebbs
2021 December 28
22 Years And Counting ( Recovery From Life)
The separation of love from soul
a dreadful death itself.
Stripped of denial, now a raw wound,
time is the only true cure,
requiring a rebirth of the soul again into love.
Love surrounds me.
It is in a child’s smile,
an elder hand, withered, wise.
Words of support and kindnesses,
Common courtesies, welcoming hugs,
respectful endearments and
tentative encounters of barely intimate moments.
Love shows with the rising sun,
and gentle rains, and the reality
that I exist.
There are things of love
collected, a consolation of time, unfulfilled,
stimulation, compensation.
And the longing begins to pry itself
from a place so deep within
you cannot believe it will grow.
Though you have nurtured loves,
a small child, a withered hand,
the deep inhalation that whelms
the heart, eludes you.
No euphoria of endorphins
no soothing voice assurance
no melting touches of comfort
the ultimate soul mate death.
Now, poetry of love, known by others
Soothes my soul, for a moment, fills my senses
With euphoria of that first love
in written word
So I do not forget.
Beyond boundaries, beyond humdrum of human race,
Beyond provinces mundane, among mysteries of space,
There is a realm of thriving wonderment, an idyllic place,
A place of peace and goodwill, hosting heavenly grace,
Where pavements glittering gold beautify every street
Surrounding ornate, walled, mega-mansions of elite,
Where people garbed in fabled attire gather and greet
Grooving to exotic melodies, extolling tempo upbeat,
Echoing sounds of mirth celebrating Shangri-La aglow
Reveling on prairies and streams, glinting angelic glow,
On pristine banks of paradise where rivers of elixir flow
Blossoming beauty of Eden, gardens utopian bestow.
There we meet, relishing dreams, musing in our fairy-tale,
Beyond drudgery, beyond worries, beyond mortal pain,
Lauding courtesies of nirvana fantasies mythical unveil
Elated in enchantment of exhilarating, paradisal domain,
Ecstatic of your fervid stance, inviting fervor of romance,
Caressing embrace of love holding me close to your heart
Proffering gestures esoteric in seductive tease of glance
Synchronizing beats-melodic, passions euphoric impart.
Marauding herdsmen, simple
in disposition,
but yet
sophisticatedly armed
straddling an AK47 as
the rod of a stockman.
The simple farmers, genial
in disposition garnished
with infectious courtesies
straddling simple tools.
It's a fight to the slaughter
not of cows so sacred
but
Of grazing rights and farmlands
Of pastures and food crops
Of the North and the South.
The sacredness of the herdsmen
and cattle.
The lowliness of the farmlands,
life
at its lowest ebb.
Impunity!, impunity!! where the
rule of law reigns supreme.
The herdsman as sacred as
Buddha.
But the farmer as droppings on
a dunghill;
to be trampled upon.
Blood and dust a mix with
derision.
Blue blood runs in the
herdsman's veins
The herdsmen reign supreme in
Nigeria.
More silences than soft embraces,
now we're lost with little left to say;
what used to be the flame of love
has gone to ashes, pale and cold and gray.
Stilted words and courtesies
are all that seem to slip from our tired lips
as quick the fount of memory fades,
the dying ember flickers now and dips.
extracted
smiling; hello
It's been a long day, tired off all the repetitive noise:
Move slow
Times fast
Why won't
You go
I'm important
Are you important
To me
Extracted
Hello; Smiling
Digging into a word; something about electricity, a connection; might discourage it. The sun stayed on long and with all the conversations, cars zooming, creatures moving, I couldn't find silence in my head. Staring at an ordinary sidewalk that grew me exhausted from how normal it was. I paced a listless pace, in total daze of the abundance of copied sound:
move fast
times slow
why won't
you hold
am i important
you're sure important
to me
Modest from the recognition, trying to figure out the appropriate response to
smiling; hello
Alternatives:
If I smile and nod, he could stop and pause, probably turn around, want to know my name.
If I smile and nod, he could move along, probably just courtesies, never know his name.
Tired of all the repetitive noise:
Move slow
Times fast
Why won't
You last
Am I important
Are you Important
To me
Questioning the result that be encountered from the:
Hello; Smiling
How should I perceive so actions could follow through;
Do I want her presence, I don't know why I looked, a smile she had it booked. It took me a moment, that I just had to stare, the hopes I'm not sure I'll declare.
Is it just my intuition, is there something that I'm missing. My walking's starting to ease in speed, I'll lose what could be found, what might I need.
Staring at an ordinary sidewalk that grew me exhausted from how normal it was. I paced a listless pace, in total daze of the abundance of copied sound:
move fast
times slow
why won't
you bold
i'm important
you're sure important
to me
Something about recognition, modesty and prohibitions; ruin a perception twice. Two people could of broke the ice. Maybe to afraid to fumble, but even misheard words spell mumble; A salutation or full discussion, two hands could've been touching
Shake
hold
Play
touch
Feel
same
way
Each other
Grab
cup
Pull
caress
massage
All
day
Like lovers
Hello
Smiling
*Image of My Cup Runneth Over by Church atta Creek.
A Cup Runneth Over
we're sorry no pets
poststorm dog barks wag nonstop
an arched cat hisses
cool shades show a view
advanced a treat much delight
sun-kissed blossoming
a smile comes my way
my countenance is induced
courtesies likewise
get the camera
oh just about almost there
outstretched stance crying
you bought only games
I hate it there's no Xbox
it's still in the car
it's a wink of time
that will endure evermore
it's a lifetime rise
two friends meet one more
threesome playing together
greatness in numbers
baseball team haircut
eleven members now bald
boy with cancer hugged
ere the knell chimes in
fun times at reminiscing
hugs and love abide
public tree planting
when the old plant trees whose shade
they'll not sit under
how true can love be
our enemies still fight on
for whom the bell tolls
pick a tight corner
not a wide open field then
get them one by one
what is confidence
'tis fear that dwells deep within you
wear the whole armor
sip his Words therefrom
drown in them force need to breathe
substitutes wisdom
child beseech not I
for He lives within your heart
your faiths will bless you
don't busy yourself
filling other cups but yours
God will fill your cup
I am quite content
I've more than enough for a
cup runneth over
2022 July 27
Pick-A-Title, Vol 31
~~Edward Ibeh
*Image of The Spiritual Gift by Pixabay.
Gift Of A Lifetime
Fortuitous rise o'er Heaven's Gate, Grace courtesies with thy breath,
Gift of life crafts thy mercy being tis naught origin or edge about such,
Therefore, gratuitous deeds innately born to thee from thine inception,
Thou art generous in thy spirit proffers a chronicle of what thou hast giveth,
Performing thy contributable legacy to prompt giving without want in return,
Anonymity's art submissions to Heaven an accounting of thy kindness,
Thereby, thy heart art cleansed for naught soliciting any earthly rewards,
Yielding a part of thyself by donatable acts revises the Book of Life in thy stead,
Blessed art His name for thy breath of life He hast giveth thee,
~~Charitable fulfillment thou surrendereth.
2019 October 15
*2nd Place*
1st Corinthians 13:13 Inspiration
~~Regina McIntosh: Judged 2019 October 24
*HM*
A FREED VERSE
~~Brian Strand: Judged 2022 December 30
All hail thy – sweet – small – courtesies of life.
For smooth do they make the road of it.
Grace and beauty – they cut so deep not unlike a knife -
They beg all inclinations toward love at first sight.
Yes, ‘tis those courtesies which let the stranger in.
And those tones and mannerisms, they too have a meaning.
Oh - ‘tis a blessed thing,
One for which I could lose myself
To the honor of my aching.
I fear a heart which bears all to itself.
Oh yes, open – ‘lest it shut it all out.
So I ask, “Are not my eyes the scout
For which my heart journeys?
That vision, is it not flowing through my arteries
Bringing my heartbeat’s rhythm in tune?
Oh, let that beat be mine none too soon.”
With that said, she laid out her arm in front of me.
Taking hold of her fingers in my one hand, I aptly
Apply two fingers of my other hand to her wrist -
Firmly - and begin counting her heart's throb.
“One – two – three – four,” counting out aloud
Measuring each heartbeat as it happens –
Hoping to find the art of her fever.
I close my eyes as I continue to count – thinking –
There is no occupation in the world comparable
To feeling a woman’s pulse.
And when I had counted to twenty five
I looked up into her eyes and
At that instant I felt her pulse quicken.
She clutched my fingers tighter in the one hand
While pressing the wrist of her other hand
Harder into my account.
Is it possible for two to become one bone and flesh?
If that is true, what is everything else to become?
Sometimes yours while at other times the other has it?
All the while to be generally on par tallying up the score
As each of us permit the other to share in ourselves –
At least in as much as a man and a woman need to.
Not unlike a bag full of pebbles which started out jagged
And rough, with very little gleam.
Only ‘tis after being years in the bag together
Do the stones, having had many amicable collisions
Wearing down their angles and edges, do they
Become well rounded and smooth with the brilliance
Of their combined luster.
Nothing to either could have ever been
Accomplished alone.
She looks back into my eyes as she presses her wrist into me
and asks,
“How does it beat with you?”
Placing her hand on my neck I say,
“Feel for yourself -
‘Tis an improvement –
‘Tis my evidence.”