Best Exposures Poems
We ask God’s blessings for food we eat;
those who toil to grow it deserve our prayers too.
In 1985, Farm Aid musicians took their beat,
rocking in donations for those who grew
in debt, not just crops, as mortgages came due.
Mellencamp cried out, “97 families lost 97 farms!”
Just the local tally of the Reagan years' unprecedented foreclosures
that threatened the nation’s bread baskets, sending out alarms.
Farmers’ financial disclosures
were bloodied by high-risk exposures.
We ate the fruit, but cursed the price.
Bounty still filled the market’s produce section,
even as running a farm became a roll of the dice.
A Kansas tornado would have had less convection
than growers who were denied debt protection.
Bailout money was tossed to the auto maker,
where corporate jet vacations sparked ire.
But farmer suicides climbed, blood on each acre.
A national famine might have transpired
if to save farmers, rock musicians had not conspired.
Inspired by John Mellencamp’s Farm Aid song “Rain on the Scarecrow.” An Indiana farm boy, Mellencamp recruited Neil Young and Willie Nelson to organize the first Farm Aid concert in 1985, raising awareness about the loss of family farms. The Farm Aid concerts have remained an annual event over the past 29 years, and as of 2014, the organization has raised over $45 million to help farmers. I chose this song because it demonstrates the social consciousness of rock musicians.
Song is at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=joNzRzZhR2Y
*Poem written November 8, 2014 for Kelly's "I Love Rock and Roll Contest.
Click
In the dimming light of her bedroom,
a child sits facing the wall in her bad chair.
She has to go potty, but she doesn’t dare.
So she stares at the wall in the gathering gloom.
Click
Her mind is swirling with fear as the curtains billow in the wind,
lightning streaks the night sky like a strobe light out of sync,
clipped exposures of the little girl shaking on her chair,
waiting for what’s coming with the thunder.
Click
The doorknob turns . . .
A wedge of light blinds her.
The witch stands outlined in shadow on the wall before her.
The child is no longer there, gone in the wisp of a blown out candle.
The wind and wickedness pursue her into a vileness she cannot bear.
Click
Circling in the broiling sky
is the nightmare that haunts her dreams,
Her little legs move as though caught in an undertow, dragging her back . . .
Screams choke in her throat.
The evil comes,
riding its burning broom on the thunder - screeching her name like a banshee.
Click
Screams pierce the night.
She promised herself she wouldn’t this time,
but the knife embedded in her back –
it’s the same every damned time.
Click. Flash.
Thirty years have passed and she has beaten the dream.
The spectre has left her and she is no longer afraid to sleep. . .
. . . except when the curtains billow in the wind
and lightning streaks the night sky
screams pierce the night.
The lone coconut tree that dared
to lean towards the sea,
gave shade to her friends while
playing on the beach.
Running half-naked so natural
to those blossoming teens,
mother's lagoon fishing straddling
the sea so blue and pristine.
Water glistening on her bare breasts
with ti-leaves as a skirt,
father hunting in the bush,
tanned and muscular without a shirt.
Other than a t-string,
he was completely nude
culturally, he was fully dressed
in a traditional tattoo.
Then the missionaries came!
Pagan worshippers too many
idols, so they said
And their One true God
Did not condone her ways.
Erotic moonlight dancing,
the young's cultural right but
like nakedness, was labeled
the devil's own delight.
They cut her hair and
she woke up wearier,
found everything foreign
was then superior.
The young's wild spirits,
broken like tamed fillies
brown skin covered
from head to their Achilles.
Mother's long tresses
made to hide in a bun
head to toe dressed in cotton,
in the heat of the sun.
Father's tattoo was a mark
of the devil's blood rites.
Respect meant wearing suits
with matching ties.
Many years later traditional dress
covered all except the face.
Confused why bare flesh in a hot place
could be such a disgrace.
Then came the tourists,
lovers and sun-seekers to paradise.
Beaches were the destination;
brown,tanned skin the ultimate prize.
New trendsetters, a see-thru blouse,
a bikini top and mini skirts.
Worst of all were the logos
"God is Dead" on their t-shirts.
They swam in near nudity
and lovers embraced on the shore.
Oblivious to bold writings in brochures,
of things banned in Samoa:
"Please respect our Culture;
Sunday only for God to be adored,
No Flesh Exposures and do your Kissing Indoors."
Even though bent neck on the book
gives a better and worthy outlook
knowledge without virtues and principles
Is a knife used constantly against humanity and life.
School itself gives mentally sound stability
but to overcome challenges, social molding gives the ability.
It’s beyond the bigotry of classrooms
rather, a system which opens an inventory of exposures.
Mental development has no gender
the blouse of civility and trouser of productivity it renders
to a society where tolerance is secretary
and good reasoning its lifestyle and a human notary.
Instincts may tell to give stupidity its medicine,
openness on the other hand is its ultimate vaccine.
Development and improved living, literacy’s only fixtures
giving the diseased skin of humanity a final smooth texture.
She was an abstract woman in a clinical world
theoretically reasoning her notions were perfectly
discerning midst-chaotic sensibilities,
whilst her inane whimsicality kept semblances of
insanity eye-leveled twixt reconfigurable ideologies'
over-share & objectionably designated delicacies of
exothermic exposures pseudo-psychic phenomenons,
therefrom she found divinities were misaligned
with governmental expansions as an alternative to
spirituality and hypotheses of butterfly hurricane frolics,
'twas indubitably manifestations of poetically piddled
calculating escapism artistes & scoffing con-conspirators
Is it a butterfly out in the blue,
poised in its daintily delicate flight—
nebula N G C six three oh two—
offering rhymers a poem to write?
In our galaxy, that is the Way Milky,
with structure bipolar in particular,
appear those elongated wings so silky,
from the gas that’s spewed forth perpendicular
to the doughnut-shaped dust ring pinching its core.
Talk about outer space distances far,
this butterfly stretches two light-years and more,
half the distance from Sun to the nearest star,
which is Alpha Centauri, to be precise.
This fairytale picture, a magical treat
like sugar and spice and everything nice,
doth awaken our childhood senses sweet.
Found in the Scorpius Constellation,
it’s known as the Bug Nebula as well.
Yet in this versified celebration
its Butterfly name suits the tale to tell.
With dust belt that gives it an hourglass mien,
though appearance deceives and perceptions can spoil,
one conjures up quite an impression serene.
But cauldrons of heated gas furiously roil
within each planetary nebula wing
of the butterfly that it’s resembling.
The gas tears across this immense outer space
at six hundred thousand miles an hour!
Imagine a butterfly at such a pace
frantically flitting from flower to flower!
So Butterfly Nebula’s not as it seems.
Like the bubble, bubble, trouble and toil
in nightmarish witch Shakespearean dreams,
it is seething in inner and outer turmoil…
And with dying star center five times mass solar,
no wonder that poor butterfly is bipolar!
~ Harley White
[Inspiration for the poem was from the article, 'Butterfly Emerges from Stellar Demise in Planetary Nebula NGC 6302' ~ Image: NGC 6302 (Butterfly Nebula, Bug Nebula) ~ The image is a composite of separate exposures made by the WFC3 instrument on the Hubble Space Telescope. Six filters were used to sample narrow wavelength ranges. The color results from assigning different hues (colors) to each monochromatic image. ~ Image credit: NASA, ESA, and the Hubble SM4 ERO Team]
So nonchalant, beyond dull care life seems.
Unveiled beneath, a broken heart that bleeds.
Torn by remorseful reoccurring dreams.
Of love once pure, besmirched through wanton deeds.
A furtive glance, a fine romance that strayed,
In dalliances chains enslaved by lust.
Deflowered knave in shallow trysts betrayed,
A precious love, now crushed bereft of trust.
Exposures shame was losing self-respect.
A humble life that suffers extreme pain.
When shadows fall on manners circumspect.
Suspicions running rife, apprise again.
Until ascetic doctrines renounce sin,
Inveigled by temptation deep within.
1/ 19/ 2018.
We live as gamblers
monumental exposures
Karma camera
A genuine hero isn't one that's flawless
Arguably not the one garmented with
Absolute forfeits but one who is purely
Accountable in securing relationships
Amiably without trade of another life.
Fantastically feeding through the
Flickering lengths of surfaces
Flawlessly demonstrating, yet exploring the
Fatal ends of the earth
Formulated with his hands.
Firmly confronting unknown demons with
Frictions slipping through the gutters
Flourished and aided by true
Friendship with an unending ink.
Mr. Fantastic.'
Invisibly sewing through the storm
It's amazing how universal laws
Illuminates patterns bearing geniuses.
Intrepidly matched with foxes and foes
Incognito, still dooming through the runs
Inexorable the heiress that jogs through walls
Infallibly without a pause for blockages.
'The Invisible Woman.'
Humbly joining the waves in a path
Haven to show light in reflection of
Hazardous challenges and adventures
Hurtful exposures but the
'Human touch' burns through
Heartily thrives not drowning in power
Havoc stricken but banked on
Hopelessly sticking to what's better than potatoes.
Family!
'The Human Touch.'
The Thing that Grimm's do is
Tactfully take souls to the other world full of
Turbulence but he possesses a crushing strength
Tenaciously draws the souls back to life
Triumphant discoveries without boundaries
Topped against gravity and human deposition
The sailors enemy isn't the dreadful
Tenebrous storms but the ignorance and absence of
Tough likeminds that can generate a tunnel.
'The Thing.'
A fantastic four!
* / // *
* * Moon * //
\ Stars - Galaxies
// Infrared exposures *
A supernova explosion
* See the universe as a whole \\
// An exciting exploration of space
)) ((
** > - (*) - < * * //
* )) ((
* * Notice the star in the center *
// Beauty from the starry sky
* Heavenly - Stunning
\ * Solar system * /
Gigantic
/ * Dust and /
gas *
* \\
* *
*
// /
03.06.2019
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Covered Dishes
1
The password is… password, shhh...
Try to remember if possible,
this sure-fire way of getting through the door;
Entering indeed, as with all lithesome ladies,
and their dithering dogs, after
entreating the big dude at the entrance gate,
with licorice sticks and cauliflower juice on ice,
and leaning over long enough to show off the planets,
those spinning orbs of a mathematical universe,
now turning madly and centrifugally, sucking
out the eyes of the pleading fools,
dressed in rage, and wont to feel the ancient eclipses,
those silent but grunting interludes unseen,
all dressed in satin boredom, all flummoxed
as with clowns, dressed in neon failure,
who now offer smiles and winking winces,
to the sad-eyed pedestrians, and
the red-lipped ladies with the wide-brimmed hats,
out to tease with nylon exposures,
around the bleakly lighted doorways
to dark entrances, without eyes to feel.
You were sitting there with legs crossed,
a cocktail dangling from your frozen fingertips,
like a fainted ballerina in the splitting moonlight.
In front of you, on the table, covered dishes
covered tureens, with surprise taste delights simmering,
shouting out in mute languages of the multitudes:
What is under the lid of this blue dish?
What is beneath the cover of this steaming tureen?
I turned to see other dishes and other culinary settings,
and instead, I saw you among the bon bons
and the flaming surrendering soufflé.
You wore that same translucent skirt with
the lightning stripes and the chiffon protestations,
and as you rose from your chair with howling legs,
there was no hell and brimstone in what I saw.
Then as with a silent hungry leopard,
setting exotic eyes on my stilled soul and quivering body,
you took my hand into yours, as easily as one might,
and with straight-staring certitude, we politely exited
from this quiet pedestrian grille,
this obscure café under the yawning stars,
hidden behind festooning flowers,
draped on hungry trellises,
for the hopelessly outraged.
There’s a new style of gown
That’s begun to hold sway
In which boobs of all sizes
Are there on display.
I’m not talking of cleavage,
Attractive and chic,
Where the bosom’s tucked in
And you just get a peek.
No, the styles I refer to
Are cut to provide
Full exposures of breasts.
(Just the nipples can hide.)
So you stare and you wonder,
Since bras are in doubt,
What will happen if one
Or the other pops out.
Such a wardrobe malfunction
Would cause lips to purse
But the way these gowns look
It would not be much worse.
*inspired by the Academy Awards
Partnering with hotels all across the planet.
Cendyn helps so trip organizers can plan it.
Managing data and guest information.
So travelers can plan their best vacation.
Aiding resorts in dozens of nations.
Boosting their online reputations.
Creating great proposals for best perception.
Getting visitors in the hotel guest reception.
Managing displays online of the menus.
From cell phones visitors can peruse.
Guests can easily see what dining to choose.
Relying only on costly paper displays will amuse.
Merging with competition to boost the hotel industry.
Fighting for deals will be a thing of NextGuest history.
Working with resellers like Amadeus.
Delivering the services on behalf of us.
We hear the struggles from COVID closures.
Of hotel employees facing varied exposures.
Our contacts have been wearing many hats.
As we’ve learned from our checkup chats.
We are here to help them weather the storm.
Adjusting our postures and changing our form.
Making changes together to adapt and stay strong.
Collaborating to make the relationships last long.
We are not completely out of the weeds.
But we’ve been cultivating dynamic seeds.
We’ve taken a hit and weathered the pain.
Empathizing the hotel challenges to maintain.
Using the tools to outsmart a global recession.
Helping resort staff handle their role succession.
Reaching customers to get dynamic outcomes.
By collaborating to reel in some profitable sums.
Last year we cried poverty but now we cry for joy.
Helping staff play with the tools as if it’s just a toy.
Innovating for the future and adapting to the fight.
Only success for Cendyn and clients is what’s in sight.
I need not touch your bleeding heart to know of your love
For your deeds are great in the eyes of your Father above
Nor do I pierce a finger from the jagged thorns
that upon your earthly crown adorn.
I need not soak my towel upon your blood drenched face
For I know that your image will remain imprinted in my mind forever
The vivid exposures of painful sacrifice, time cannot erase
They live on, within the abyss of mans chapter
I dare not burden my shoulders with a heavy plank
For my soul is weak, weighed down by sin
Nor can I drink from the cup from which you drank
I thirst not for the salvation of others but for my own selfish means
I shudder as the banging on the nails echo in this barren hill
For with each hammer drive, a dagger pierces deeper into my heart
Knowing that I was one of the many voices that cried”CRUXIFY HIM!”
Your innocence, I should have fought for, from the start.
I know not of the intense pain you may be feeling at the moment
But I know that your mother’s heart bleeds as she stands beneath the cross
Forgive me for not testifying on your behalf, before they passed judgment
I was weak, as I have always been, as I face man’s greatest loss.
“The life you have lived was not in vain
For it was part of your Fathers grand design
Man’s sins may be erased and eternal life he shall gain
For we who are the branches, live by you who are the vine”.
Madness..
The faces of unknown..
Lurking ..
Hiding behind the shadows..
Madness tucked underneath destruction..
Exposures withheld..
Mysteries not unfolding
As desires to unfold arises..
Madness succumbs to wickedness..
As sinister plots carry on ..
Secretive manipulations lures all..
A thirst for justice
A hunger for truth..
The freedom to allow..
To..
Await the wrath of madness to subside..
Where wishes brings forth hope..
Brighter tomorrows ...
Quenched is a thirst for justice..
A hunger for truth is satisfied..