Best Doubly Poems
Chronicler of Events and Emotions
As a Poet and as a Writer . . .
I’m a Chronicler of Events and Emotions;
I watch, observe, and record all that I see.
It’s truly enough to absorb and understand
Both the grandeur and depravity of mankind.
As I observe events—past, present, and future
And delve into any emotions that are at hand,
I make doubly sure to comment at will while
Showing no fear and sparing not the “sting” of
My words as a poet as a situation may command.
I can and should do no less on every theme I
Approach as a poet and a writer—for all of us who
Pursue this passionate path of refined exposition
Should realize that though we all may fulfill a very
Needed function of recounting and relating events,
Situations and emotions—we should never fear in
Providing, at times, a much-needed “conscience”
To a theme, event or situation as it unfolds.
And so it’s suitable for us poets to function at times
As a “conscience of mankind” and to be not afraid
To reflect this in our poems when the necessity of
A circumstance or situation pleads for it out of a
Compassionate need for human understanding and
Obvious decency.
For what are we as poets and writers, if we don’t
Undertake a deeper and more exalted approach to
What we do and really attempt to become “one” with
The human event, emotion, situation or relationship
We are writing about?
If we don’t do it—who will?
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
May 3, 2015 (Didactic)
*Appears in my new book under release date February 7, 2015.
Dragon went to the mailbox this morn,
And he came excitedly flying back, yes, toward the house…
So Now, you should… be doubly, doubly, doubly forewarned.
Yep! Now, you GOTTA know… We’re in for a LOT of ensuing chaos!
Yes, He had a letter addressed to him…
With a smile on his face and a letter in his hand…
And what, you ask, had him wearing, such bubbly, bubbly, bubbly grin?
He’s going, this year, to the Fireman Competition, and held the invite so grand!
By Now, you must know, such excitement, so fine…
As usual, made his fire to run, run, run… onto the letter in hand…
And that Date, and the Time? You know, that fire? Well… never mind!
Thought this would slow Dragon? No way! He’s ready, now, for that Laurel Strand.
He flew to the Firehouse, lickety- split…
Crashing into the fire truck, giving it a broken axel and 4 tires flat, flat, flat!
Leaving his head, stuck, solidly, through the window, into the trucks cockpit…
Fortunately, out ran the fire chief, to organize the rescue, of our little dingbat…
When NOTHING ELSE would work, all the firemen…
Put their feet on the door, grabbing Dragon, and they pulled, pulled, pulled!
Finally, it took old Grandpa Troll to pull his head out, by taking the door off…
And then breaking the door apart! My! What a day, I must say, THIS had been!
Then next week’s competition was explained…
As a Charity Event to enhance and outfit their old faithful fire truck!
Now a little rescue practice will never, never, ever… it’s ascertained…
Ever be turned down! And Oh My! And Oh Well! What’s that truck worth?
That is… compared to our klutzy, little clown…
Grandpa Troll donated repairs as Dragon worked it off, day after day, after day.
My Moral is: If great you will be, then mistakes will be made along the way…
As you walk to your destiny, don’t despair; just keep going to your brighter days…
Written By Carol Eastman 5-19-2016
Did our Age of Aquarius evaporate,
fail to regenerate,
to resonate,
fall too far short of what our parents
knew we should anticipate?
Free love could not sustain
weak non-violent resolutions against
whatever busyness was for.
Yet, if love invites synergy,
mutual gravity,
and creation evokes compassion's transregeneration,
how could love cost more than free?
How could co-redemption not invest everything
in learning how to cooperatively Be,
free of enslaving supremacist becoming,
free to come together
as ecological We?
Those who stop to count these costs of love,
look for ways to divest of co-investment,
ignoring Earth's mentoring economy
of light's photosynthetic comprehension,
of neutral's dark unconsciousness,
a fog bank evaporating
doubly unbinding timeless spaciousnest
patterned mystery
absent of color
flowing free love intention.
If Time's eternal unfolding presence is 0-dimensional,
and AnthroNature's bicameral perception i
s 2-dimensional line
and 4-dimensioned time
recreating bicameral form with function,
ego emerging from eco,
yang incarnating binomial yintegrity
reiterating communicating neuro-processors
borrow RNA's decomposing 3-space with 1-time prime bilateral dimensions,
equivalent seasons;
Shy winterish Uracil of Universal freely decomposing love
greets Cytosine's full summer-formed regeneration,
as objectives greet their past and future subjects;
while Adenine painlessly springs
for Guanine's lavishly com-posted integrative harvest,
as verbs form fractal-recycling nouns,
verbal con-science revolutions,
relearning Earth's organic language,
by echoing universal polypathic syntax.
Universal Anthro-cultural
verbal power of co-governance
becomes a Left-brained dominant and reductive tyrant,
an Emperor reified of clothes
to cool His naked Ego-thirst.
However,
when power remains integral within co-passionate
climatic health,
co-gravitational integrity of wealth,
synergetic uniting cooperatism,
then naked 1-power conjoins dark yin-time 0-rations,
shy bigendering romantic convex/concave camouflage,
re-birthing this post-millennial
gift-it-forward
Age of co-binary Aquarius.
Hurriedly, silently, in purposeful fluid movements
and long, determined strides, he dashed among
the thickets, bending and darting amidst the vines
searching for a perfect little place to stay and hide.
Stealthily and noiselessly he slithered underneath
lush, leafy overhangs shielding him from the sun -
keen, cautious, like a crouching, hungry predator
anxious not to draw unwanted attention to himself.
The birds on treetops hushed their singing in haste
as the woods turned suddenly still - frozen in place,
shocked, stunned and unprepared to bear witness
to the mysterious man’s strange, diabolical scheme.
He threw a quick look to his left and another to the right
then jerked, turning his head around to make doubly sure
that no human soul finds him in this quiet, secluded place
about to carry out his dark, sinister and unplanned crime.
Taking a deep, measured breath and now totally reassured
of being truly alone, away from prying eyes to a gory crime,
in his madness he violently yanked down his old Levi jeans,
squatted to the ground, grimacing, and…ahh, sweet release!
A din ensued
my imaginary brood
with a good dose of misapprehension
hauled out their toys
and with a deafening noise
held band practice to demand my attention
My head resounded
I was astounded
as my voices insisted space be freed
then took up position
for a spit competition
unless their demand I would heed
"Spit all you may
I refuse to be swayed
back to your cupboard, skeleton folk
all was well hitherto
with my self-made crew
till my head friends you chose to provoke."
"Dear host, you're unfeeling
to your good sense we're appealing
repeal the bones' non grata status
or your imaginary crew
will hold a coup
assisted by our posse comitatus."
"Skeletons and friends
your logic transcends
admittedly you've much courage and clout
I'll have to engage
with our very own sage
the inimitable Shadow of Doubt.
"After due consultation
and much deliberation
Shadow and I decision had reached
you may rant; you may rave
do the Mexican wave
yet still be punished for my rules you have breached.
"The imagineries and Hubbard
to inhabit the cupboard
access to my head is forever denied
you skeletons will hoard
keep my secrets well-stored
in my head where you henceforth will reside."
There's no happy ever after
my world is now dafter
cramped, the skeletons keep knotting their chains
with more space at hand
my imaginary band
multiplied. I'm now doubly insane
***************************************
The
imagined force is recast and concentrated into an inorganic
material.
Intentional,
possessing the owner's future with satisfying
charisma.
The
talisman, as some are known to be, is the resulting
changeover.
Better
days lay ahead of the object holders, who will be the subject of good
fortune.
Prehension
of one's life worth and outlook will be exceedingly
awesome.
Blithesome
accesses the favorable
heart.
Impart
the wealth produced, amongst
others.
Effectuators
are doubly loved for that
realization.
Fruition,
when done unnoticeably, is agape
love.
Hereinabove,
the exceptional natures are
emphasized.
Harmonized
beginnings are the effects of the talisman's
aura.
And what is love? Beloved, it is thee.
You are wholly love; love is truly thine;
and in my heart, which holds you as a shrine,
I view the two not separate entities,
nor ever twain could these dear blessings be.
Ah, love that is to me my bread and wine,
my feast, my table spread with food divine,
no pow'r can drive a wedge twixt Love and thee.
You hold to love, yet Love does lift you up;
you give to love, yet Love does grant you all;
and at your table Love will sit to sup,
yet you still rise up full; and at your call
love comes, yet your words are Love's voice raised up:
you and Love are one but doubly enthrall.
© 1987, Faye Lanham Gibson
It's hard being a single parent
Raising children as the only parent
is one of the toughest things in life to do
It is hard enough nurturing a child
under your own gender inclination
But doubly so, trying to rear them
under the other gender too
Being two parents to a child
takes a tremendous amount of effort
It takes a lot patience and understanding too
You know in your heart they need the other parent,
but that's not the card fate dealt to you
You have to learn new things on the fly,
but at the same time you have to let them know
who you are,
what you are,
and in time let them know why
Two-in-one ain't always a bargain,
two-in-one can sometimes be a non-refundable regret
But two-in-one can be a soul changer:
raise 'em right, when they get grown,
they will always remember their debt to you
They will come to know of your sacrifice,
they will respect the cost, honor the price
And when they tell you:
Mother or father, thank you for all that you've done ---
You will have given them as much love or more,
than could have been received in any two-parent home
so doubly golden
a sunflower field of sun
beauty waits for me
colorful splendor
abstract paintings draw the eye
to that other world
dazzling bird green trees
to all sings of dawn glory
and takes to blue skies
mountains in the clouds
mostly lost in mystery
before orange sun
The bird in the tree
Singing so beautifully!
Does not sing for me
And yet, as witness
There’s no doubt I benefit
And am doubly blessed
By the notes that play
In delightful ricochet
I deflect your way!
The Morning Speaks With Skylarks Singing
....inspired by 'Poem in October' by Dylan Thomas
The morning speaks with skylarks singing
o'er the greening meadows and the pliant pasture,
crisp and clear, like God's first measure of
a holy hymn.
The air alive with
songs of praise, the gentle winds a sacred message,
the ocean sighing, gulls aloft on wings of prayer.
His grand prescription,
like a dream
that streams out from the pillows of the heavens.
I liked to wander by the sea shore,
skipping stones, disobeying laws of gravity.
A sudden shower would see me running
fancy free,
between the rain drops,
I cried 'Excelsior!' and set the hills alive;
I skittered, happy as a lamb on shaky legs
and tumbled freely,
without care,
'til gasping, I would stop to catch my breath.
The halcyon days of youth came true,
when I would race forever 'neath the tawny sun,
bedaubed in Autumn blood,
the flame,
a blend of hues
the likes of which would make a young boy doubly blind,
and lead him into kingdoms where the battlefields
would blister scarlet,
happy times
that made me see my childhood clearly.
The weather turned again, and shanties
high atop the hillside loomed like castles drifting
in the sea-blown mist, the noise of boats,
their nets pulled,
nudging at the jetty.
From the sand the village was a hazy spectre,
the chapel steeple peeking like Rapunzel's lair,
her hair a daydream
falling soft,
O fanciful imagination!
The holy way to live,
so long ago revealed to us,
was written in stone:
In the beginning ... in God’s own image
Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone
Love charity, doubly plea —
it’s better to give than to receive
If you do wrong,
it’s better to ask for forgiveness
To repent, to atone
This too is written in stone:
Love God with everything within your natural being,
love your neighbor as yourself
Pray for them as well ... unto them do not one mean thing
Always err on the side of doing right,
don’t be so proud minded
Remain humble and meek,
and you shall one day see the eternal Light
Something every wise soul seek
These are all written in stone
A sacred stone embedded in fleshly hearts;
a cornerstone,
whose foundation spirals up to the stars
What if..
What if; it wasn't a lockdown forenoon
Mommies whisking to kitchenette
Daddy's out with newspaper headlines
Little cubs denned in their late quilt and wishing no schooling today
Rest world racing themselves to indulge in work deadlines
What if; it wasn't a lockdown noon
Chefs busy preparing victuals to serve in eateries
Office canteens loaded with lunch boxes and gossips
Some heading for evening tales
What if; it wasn't a lockdown evening
Coffee shops buzzing with bud pairs, roasted coffee beans and whiffs of smoke
Peeps roaming and returning their abodes before the dark was deep
Little cubs falling asleep in their study and no Surf, no Netflix
What if; it wasn't a lockdown night
Dinner table would filled with traffic and homework folklore
Bedtime would doubly the fairy's list-
Children wishing for no school tomorrow,
Men for hike up his business,
Women emancipation from irons of household chores and society norms
What if; it wasn't a lockdown
Contemporary would have been so lost in it's own bloods and veins
June month would have brought us fruity summer of 2020
And I would have written a poetry of love and lust
"If in the first act you have hung a pistol on the wall, then in the following one it should be fired." -- Anton Chekhov
Chekhov declared that it's clearly imperative
That a gun given billing must duly be fired.
The bullet obligingly cinches the narrative,
Sating the thirst that the gun first inspired.
Yet the world is awash in objects inutile,
Which clog our disorderly narrative streams.
So why should a playwright adhere to so futile
A diktat pertaining to props in a scene?
Myself for example, habitually arming
The darkness that swaddles me, inkily deep,
My mind so occulted its doubly alarming
To grasp the black Kimber, now sprung from its keep.
The prop having found its way on to the stage,
My untethered demons start chorally keening,
Quite certain they know what the gun must presage:
That this is the moment that holds all the meaning.
‘Water’ seems a fitting title
of this rhyme on something vital
for the beings we take care of
and the others we’re aware of.
Life on Earth depends on water,
whether human or sea otter,
fish or fowl, whatever creatures
having some subsistence features.
Water may have been existent
in archaic ages distant
long before we tend to think—
even water that we drink.
Yet when in our galactic history
it was formed has been a mystery…
The researchers have debated
as to if it could be stated
that this liquid can be dated
back to when it’s been related
there was a disk of gas and dust
and molecules that were a must
for water that originated
when our ‘system’ was created
(namely, ‘solar’, where we’re fated)…
Or might it be more antiquated?!
Could we trace to outer space
the genesis that took place
of the water in our glass?
If indeed this came to pass,
it would open up new queries,
not to mention E.T. theories…
But that’s within the jurisdiction
of those who compose science fiction.
Many scientists have avowed
that from the Sun’s parental cloud
of interstellar dust and gas,
from which our star derived its mass,
water, well, to be precise,
water in the form of ice
was inherited there and then,
in that olden where and when…
Some astronomers theorize
that what we may not realize
is up to half the H2O
within the oceans that we know
right here on Planet Earth could be,
yes, older than the Sun we see
illuminating from on high,
in daylight’s path across the sky,
our frets and frolics down below,
where heedlessly we come and go…
Water and life go hand in hand,
from briny deep to wooded land.
In the mariner’s rhyming tale,
all the winds at sea did fail,
and the sailors lives were lost—
the idle ship was merely tossed
as if on a painted ocean,
painted ship, devoid of motion.
There was water ‘every where’,
Coleridge says, except that there
was none to quench their parching thirst;
so the voyage seemed doubly cursed.
Water is such precious stuff!
Do we value it enough?
Oh, may there never come a time
(as in that famous rhyming rime)
when as to water here on Earth—
where mortals meet their death and birth—
we too will ever need to think
that there is not a drop to drink!
~ Harley White