Best Eighty Two Poems
Eighty two years young, but still a trooper,
pen writes daily, he's an evergreen souper.
Behold the limerick king and his wisdom,
providing laughs from his humorous kingdom.
Five posts a day, one is bound to make you smile,
some a little naughty, but that's his cheeky style.
Long before his Benny Hill transformation,
he was rocking this poetry soup nation.
First post a two thousand and twelve quatrain
about soaring in clouds, free like an air-plane.
Master of many forms, posting poems galore.
Eternal legend within poetry soup folklore.
Yet his talents do not end there, oh no no!
Perfect Santa clone bringing cheer, ho ho ho!
A chess ace whose trapped many kings in checkmate,
but what he really wants is a pretty playmate!
Skilled graphic designer and portrait artist,
but now he claims he's a talented fartist!
Did you know he once played the five string banjo,
with his sweet wife Linda, many moons ago.
The Canadiana Folksingers were his group,
toured the world, but now he's happy with just soup.
This limmerjack, maybe a cheeky chappie,
but he will go out his way to make ya happy.
When you need a laugh to brighten up your day,
go read Jack Ellison, he has so much to say!
The Silent One
29 January 2018
Grandma, The Farm And The Silent Young Cat
Before soft golden rays the roses slept
Night, its slumbers had not yet bid adieu
From its barn perch the young, silent cat leapt
Upon the old farmer's empty brown shoe
And from the farmhouse, breakfast call rang out
Grandma had no time for late sleepyheads
In her sternest voice, she gave warning shout
"Up and at'em, all rascals out of bed"!
That ringing throughout the place came alive
The cat swiftly raced to the backdoor
Soon as it opened in it would dive
To chase away mice was its daily chore
Table set with coffee, eggs and pancakes
Surrounded by those hungry mouths to feed
So delicious like only grandma could make
Out we went to fed livestock and plant seeds.
Midnoon her roses glowed vibrant red
Each paid homage to life and mother sun
Decked around the porch and the old shed
Grandma watered them having such fun
That garden and her kids her pride and joy
She still agile and spry at eighty two
With sweet memories of her three young boys
Each new day she thanked the good Lord too.
Before soft golden rays the roses slept
Night, its slumbers had not yet bid adieu
From its barn perch the young, silent cat leapt
Upon the old farmer's empty brown shoe
And from the farmhouse, breakfast call rang out
Grandma had no time for late sleepyheads
In her sternest voice, she gave warning shout
"Up and at'em, all rascals out of bed"!
Robert J. Lindley, 6-29-2021
Rhyme, ( Those were the glory days of youth )
Note:
As was promised, I wrote this new poem today,
using the phrase, the silent cat leapt-as was noted
from the haiku in my new blog, title-
"The Image, The Inner Reaches Of The Mind"
Thank you, James Marshall Goff for noting it
as your favorite line of that poem….
I promised to write a poem using that phrase
and have now done so.
Believing
Written: by Miracle Man
December 6 2020
I remember the day I first began believing,
To things of this world I’d long been cleaving.
Cancer was camping in my right Parotid gland,
The day I grasped Jesus’ outstretched hand.
Cancer had branded and trademarked me,
Would I then fight back, or just take a knee?
But I knew, alone, I couldn’t beat this villain,
I needed the real deal, not an earthly fill in.
I fell down at His feet and started praying,
Knowing that He would hear what I was saying.
I wanted to be saved so I wouldn’t die lost,
I prayed forgive me Lord, whatever your cost.
I knew help would come only through His power.
and I accepted Jesus, as my savior, that hour.
I was twenty eight years during my hospital stay,
now at eighty two years I’m still alive today.
I Asked, Believed, and Confessed
An adrenalin rush, rocked my head
When I saw a child- on her sled
It made me think; should I go slide
I'm eight-two...So, before I died
Just one more time, before I'm dead
Or before I'm ridden...in my bed
What could happen, something tragic?
I'm eighty-two, can you call that tragic?
So here I go, down the hill ....Wheeee!!
Oh my God- ((Tragic)) ...."Peeee"
Celtic courtship ended
nineteen eighty-two.
Marriage nuptials blended
"us" from me and you.
Seaside lovers heading
to the Irish Sea
showcase Christmas wedding,
silver jubilee.
Touring without hassle -
Isle of Man’s ferry,
Dublin, Blarney Castle,
Cobh Cork, and Kerry.
Guinness, china, mincemeat
pricey souvenirs;
homespun sweaters compete
lamb’s wool profiteers.
written February 19, 2018
contest: 88 syllables hosted by Joseph May
It is a gorgeous spring day, there are greens on both sides of the road.
The smells are fantastic, and my hair is blowing like I’m on a cycle.
I’m actually driving my new purple trans am, windows down, music blaring.
The white racing stripes might have been a bit much, but
Not for me. The sun is beaming on us with magic happy.
BRRRR BRRRR GRRRR
Should I try to outrun him?
He’s gaining on me fast. I glance at speedometer. Swear.
82 m.p.h. This is what happens when I listen to the Oldies.
I pull off, waiting, heart beating fast.
Lanky patrolman pulls himself out of car, gets younger as he gets closer.
“Hi,” I say, brightly.
He says, “License and registration, Ma’am.”
He is carrying his ticket pad, and a pen.
My hands are shaking as I start stammering nonsense.
He studies my license a second, says, “Just a minute, Ma’am,”
Walks back to his car, slides in, sits down, spends an hour or two in there.
I get worried I might have accidentally handed him my big-limit Visa card.
My heart is thudding, as I watch him laboriously walk back to my Trans Am
Who is not feeling so fine and foxy now. “It’s your fault!” I tell her. “You did this!”
“You were going 81,” he tells me. Eighty-two, I wisely don’t say.
“I am giving you an opportunity to slow down, and today, I’m giving you a warning,” he says.
No smile. No expression. He could give a mannequin a lesson in subtle.
I cannot help it. “Why?”
A glimmer of an ant’s smile starts in the left corner of his mouth, for a second, but he quickly snaps it off.
“Here’s the deal, Ma’am,” he tells me. “I stopped this car yesterday, on this same curve. I wouldn’t feel right about giving you a ticket on the same corner, at the same speed after letting your 17-year-old daughter off with a warning.”
In my head I picture my adorable blonde daughter who was wearing white hot-pants yesterday.
As a last hurrah he says, “I’m going to be out here for another two hours, Ma’am.”
We both smile.
This is the best warning I’ve ever had!
Mother still round, in love with child anew
Easy to overlook the subtle hints
Of the fracture within, trained eye sees clue
Eighty-two shines your number, bluish tint.
Tearful farewell, fated day has arrived.
Pained mother’s face as we pass through the door
Invisible cord stretch, tense and alive
Umbilical phantom limb evermore.
With tubes, scalpel, we enter sacred space.
The threshold crossed, commitment becomes real
To hold numbers, sounds, instead of your face.
The care within transmutes into sharp steel
Foreshortened, stolen, your time may well be
Yet you touch the hearts of all who touch thee.
They sent her out for dingleberry dew.
A crazy mission for no one gave her a clue.
Were they orange, yellow, striped, green, red, or blue?
She was a newcomer to this planet too.
She had only been here a month, maybe two.
They said we will send Robot C4 out with you.
He will stick to you like Yabber Eye glue.
They went down Highway four thousand and forty two.
Looking all over for dingleberry dew.
Is this it? She’d ask him for she really had no clue.
Don’t know, he said. But I like being with you.
They brought back berries of every kind of hue.
Some were oozing a bit of blue dew too.
Berry mongers laughed, and threw them a shoe.
She left the planet without ever finding dingleberry dew
But she had a new friend who had fallen in love with her too.
Robot C4, her bestie, who lived with her until she was eighty-two.
Then he went back to his planet, for he was only twenty-two.
A December –May romance that worked for both with a giant yahoo!
Notre Dame...Notre Dame...
your eight hundred years of wisdom’s gone;
eight hundred years of beauty strong;
architectural sage, Notre Dame.
Notre Dame your life has seen
so many broken centuries and
oh, the stories your stones could tell,
told by the ringing of your bells.
Will they rebuild you once again?
Will your façade grace more eyes and
then will you be the same as once;
can France’s spirit overcome this loss?
Survivor of revolution and two world wars;
you’ve stood beyond the bombing hoards.
How many strove to give you life?
Their legacy’s now a burning pyre.
One hundred eighty two years of sweat;
poured into stone and minaret.
Gothic, stained glass beauty of Pa-ree,
such blood and sweat poured into thee.
Oh Notre Dame...Notre Dame;
survivor of eight centuries;
what’s now to become of thee?
Written 4-15-19
As an artist, I am sorrowful for this beautiful loss but, glad that no lives were lost. When I think of those who poured their life’s work into Notre Dame’s Beauty, the artist, architects, stonemasons, carpenters and more, I feel an even stronger sense of loss than just that of an
At six foot four, and an eighth of a ton,
A gentle giant of a man, he was;
Father to three, and himself a fine son,
Devoted husband to Jean, without pause.
Phone man, painter, in ocean liners he cruised,
Accompanied by family and friends;
Sweet song in his heart, but never the blues,
Wisdom and patience, in life his clear lens.
He loved a recipe, and showing concern,
With actions, like always asking about you;
His life well balanced, his legacy earned,
Sharing his Jesus—the Gospel's Good News!
Taking time for grandkids, he humbly shared,
Both time and his money, an open book;
Bouncing upon knees, for great grands he cared,
Teaching scriptures, over breakfast he’d cooked.
Eighty-two years was his Lord’s master plan,
Fifty-eight to a soulmate, solemnly wed;
What mattered most, to this giver of men,
Was baking and breaking, life’s finest bread.
A Soldier whose honor, served us all well,
Humbly he loved, these United States;
His strong Christian faith, now clear as a bell,
His given name, you ask? Twas—Walter Yates!
(Rest in Peace Dear Friend. We miss you, sir!)
(This is an evolving story. I keep adding verses until I'm done.)
When I was
eighty-two,
I went to live alone
knowing the money would
forever be coming.
Going away felt appropriate
for a man my age.
The closest analog
to the womb
and to death.
To be alive,
clothed in the
warmth of certainty
amid my own unchallenged opinions
during the age of ending,
out of the business
of a bright, moving planet
my own part in the world
outdated and roots
severed.
I found a place
in the middle of the trees
with a thin asphalt egress
that made it easy
to cycle to the village.
I was surrounded by
the aliens of the earth
with their secret languages
and concentrated lives.
I truly lived among strangers,
not those wanting to know me
or able to know me.
It was like the world
before I opened my eyes.
It was here and far away.
Delivered here in a storm
under which the taxi
and me
and the driver
were as tiny as sugar molecules.
The driver introduced himself as Charles.
He is a black man from Aruba,
Charles an English royal name.
I ran to the door
holding a newspaper on my head
as Charles soaked himself
carrying my black bags.
Jessie James was a fine young lad,
When he joined the Confederate troops.
He learned his craft as a shootist and spy,
While traveling with this group.
His commander was one Capt. William Quantrill,
A man with a checkered past;
And under this man he learned hit and run,
Leave your enemies standing aghast.
After his death in 1865,
Quantrill's celebrity stayed,
And Jessie and Frank used what they had learned,
And found guerrilla warfare paid.
They formed with their friends a wild outlaw band,
And looted the banks and trains.
It seemed to work out just as they planned.
To them it seemed quite a good game.
The money came easy and life was good,
And Jessie took him a wife;
Deciding to settle down for a while,
And lead a respectable life;
But two men were killed in a robbery gone bad,
And the governor wanted his life;
And one of his friends thought he'd turn him in,
And get paid and save himself strife.
Dead or Alive made no difference to him,
The reward would still be the same,
But Jessie was fast and his aim was true,
So it seemed to Bob Ford it was plain,
Jessie would have to be caught unawares,
If he would celebrity claim,
The honor, prestige, reward and glory,
As the man who shot Jessie James.
April the third, eighteen eighty-two,
Robert crept up on his friend,
Shot him in the back as a coward will do,
And that's how his story ends;
But Robert lived on in shame and disgrace,
As a low down, back stabbing coward,
Who betrayed his friend for money and fame,
On the day that he shot Thomas Howard.
"AND JESUS SAID UNTO PETER,'PUT UP AGAIN YOUR SWORD INTO IT'S PLACE FOR ALL THEY WHO TAKE THE SWORD SHALL PERISH BY THE SWORD."
Matthew 26:52
For Dana's History Contest
Snowfall so heavy in 'eighty-two
reproduced a Christmas card view.
A biting wind swirled in one foot drifts
over hanging in bridges..makeshift.
The fields flooded into skating rinks
into which each footstep sinks,
cracking under body weight so
not the best place to skate.
Thawing February brings twitching noses
in tussocks of awakened primroses.
Rummaging on hazel boles,hibernating mammals
poke from the holes.
Leafless hedgerows where buds now form
a carpet of white corm,
Badgers forage for food near their sett
renewing their bracken scented couchette.
Sparrow and robin pair off in twos
as lengthening days come into view.
aconite open in rays of sun
below yellow catkins with tails fine spun.
Osier shoots in green corn camomile
as early Spring mornings begin to smile.
If you have ever suffered from stress
Be brave and see it addressed
For help is out there
Honestly, some people care
Looking back you'll be fairly impressed
Away back in nineteen eighty two
I was one, it could easily be you
So don't be ashamed
Before it's ingrained
Believe me with help, you'll see it through
When I was just a little boy,
Attending Sunday school,
The story of Methuselah
Outshined the golden rule.
He was just like Rip Van Winkle,
A kind old gentleman,
Who lived more than nine hundred years;
The oldest living man.
And so I closed my story book,
Assumptions grew from there.
I wrote an ending in my mind,
And sealed it with a prayer.
But looking closer at the facts,
Something else emerges.
And here is where the fairytale
And the truth diverges.
His age was one eighty seven,
At his son Lamech’s birth.
One hundred eighty two years more,
And Noah graced the earth.
He was three hundred sixty nine,
When Noah joined the game.
And in Noah’s six hundredth year
The deluge waters came.
Scripture says Enoch and Noah,
Walked with God all their lives.
So God spared Noah’s family,
His sons, even their wives.
But what about Methuselah,
Was my assumption right?
Did he not also walk with God,
Into salvation’s light?
When the Lord said unto Noah,
In reference to mankind,
That their hearts were always evil;
Like each thought in their minds,
Was Methuselah excluded,
From God’s picture of men?
Did God call him a righteous man,
Whose heart was free of sin?
My assumptions were proven wrong,
The evidence was clear,
Methuselah’s death and the Flood
Occurred in the same year.
No scripture said he walked with God,
Or was a righteous man.
No word about a peaceful death,
Or any divine plan.
We just assumed the best for him,
For he had Adam’s blood.
We hoped that God had spared the man
From dying in the Flood.
The one who disregards the facts,
Clings to their presumptions.
And their beliefs are built upon
Incorrect assumptions.