Best Foray Into Poems
My whole life waits, just this moment, the ink still
wet; for sunrise this clear May morning.
My shaman up already,
hair askance, dancing and trilling his flute
to the crescent moon face,
lit by the blue iron square welcoming
the sun.
The Sun appears now...my expectations grow...
A foray into the secret riverbank forest, hunting
for Morels with my hobo friend ( by choice,
wishing not to support 4 ex-wives) Clark,
he with his walking stick adorned with colorful
talisman ribbons accumulated from a life spent
wandering....me with my crafted Yucca stick
a friend made for me.
Then...off to pick-up heirloom vegetable plants
a master gardener has nurtured for me to
grow in my community plot, where my friends
are happy to see me.
Amidst all, I'll have Ma accompany me,
(not in the woods) but not far away, her
smile always eager to share in my discoveries,
a comfortable sitting bench at the garden awaits
her, the smell of fresh-turned soil enriches her.
Later, I promised her we would grill at one
of her favorite places she remembers going
with Pop, alongside Minnehaha Creek, the
water gently flowing this time of year, birds
singing and Ducks playing,
The Sun is up further now,
this poem must end,
my destiny
awaits
5/2/15
7am
The invasion of privacy…
Is an assault on personal life
A public display
Of a private retreat
The invasion of privacy…
Is an intrusion on a closed conscience
A public magnification
Of a secluded soul
The invasion of privacy…
Is a foray into isolated territory
A public attack
On a silent psyche
The invasion of privacy…
Is the terrorism of individual emotion!
Life is lived as a book, so I’m told
and we live out this story in chapters.
And we even write of the stories we’ve lived
and regale with tales of our adventures.
Our childhood is a myriad of stories
filling chapter and chapter with discovery,
wonder, angst, joy, everything in growing up.
Our teens are chapters of pain, confusion and
experimentation. Temptation. Rebellion and growth.
Young adulthood … ah, sweet love. Career, family.
First foray into independence and building a family.
Then chapters for kids, school, braces, college …
Then they grow up and move out. Weddings, grandkids
retirements and IRA’s. The book is expanding.
But this book is predictable. This is the Brady Bunch.
Where is the crisis, the divorce or the addiction?
Where is the mental illness or the adulterous affair?
Where is the poverty, the abuse, unknown calamity or death?
If life is truly a book, then we write our chapters as we go.
There is no cookie-cutter life to stamp out and imitate.
Life is fluid, moving, changing, consuming, powerful,
destructive in its unrelenting, impersonal path.
This is the end of this chaotic chapter, a fresh page awaits.
Too many of my chapters are chaotic and destructive.
While the next chapter can’t be written until it has been lived,
I will make it a chapter worth remembering.
One I will want to read again, and again.
He’s tired of himself sometimes,
tired of always being him,
thinking his thoughts,
feeling as he always does,
negotiating with his desires.
Inherently selfish, he’s nonetheless
not quite dull enough
to constantly overdose on himself
without feeling claustrophobic.
Boredom makes him curious
about the still-unexplored mysteries that lie
just on the other side of his own skin,
beyond the confines of his
unilateral relationship with the world.
He wants to stop his ears to the
lonely, masturbatory soliloquy in his head,
make an opening foray into otherness,
wade into emotions not his own,
thus, unawares, taking the
first faltering step
towards an understanding
greater than himself.
He’s tired of himself sometimes,
and, with any luck,
he may yet find a capacity for love.
Limitless as it plays in its macro structure,
On the nano level breaking new theories,
Is the big Bang an illusion of infinite design?
Reality, an illusions of consciousness to our existence.
A foray into an unending process to define the divine?
What of the God particles from a collision course?
Reinvent bench marks in our formulae formations?
Would the constants hold with the ground breaking rules?
It is the beauty of nature and the infinite will;
That aid concepts and create illusions in our being!
Am I a phenomenon of procreation, or an accident
Of birth? Arriving on my chariot of nativity I spent
Three trimesters in the sanctuary of a womb, and now
I am a child in this world of human.
But curiosity is plenty and questions arise, is my fate
Written or am I free to follow my own course on this
Journey through the enigma that is manhood, and as
My foray into maturity evolves
I find things that sweeten me, moments of childish
Enjoyment, the discovery of teenage bliss, and the
Times spent in twenty-something ecstasy, then came
The awaking of my soul,
And I find men immersed in the place of darkness where
Jealousy, greed, deceit and religious exploitation breed
Death of soul and conscience in a perverted sense of
Existence, as if by some rite of passage,
As some men live in fear of a never emerging tomorrow
Others strive to kept their dignity, but as I submit to the
Blows of fate I feel trapped in a destiny that is not my own,
Yet, as I embrace the moment I am free
As I segue through this state of being I contemplate my
Journey and come to a place of consciousness, in this
Instant of truth my fiat to live is unfolded in communion of
My heart and soul, and I hear music, and I am heavenly
So dance with me, through the rest of my being for the
Melody that is truly divine is you.
Earl S Jackson
April 5, 2011
Copyright © 2011 Earl S. Jackson, all rights reserved.
My last foray into this arena
Had me living memories, not wished to share
Here I go again, another visit
Into the elderly homes, we wish not
A sunny day, another gathering
Carers working, making things happen
Those in wheelchairs, still smiling
Others in mobile beds, unsure of the happening
A talk by an ancient, born 1917
Strong voice, begging to be heard
Wartime memories, clear as a bell
The telling of a visit into hell
Strong voice, sharing memories
Some good, others not so
I look around the room
Half the listeners, into their snooze
On and on, goes the story
Death and glory, hand in hand
How can you tell such a sad command?
Bravery, such as only you can understand
Bodies of men, only families know
Story goes for one hour
Comment from teller, end is near!
Carers sob quietly, hidden words
Room is quiet as never before
I leave this place, memories flooding
If there is a being, ruling the happenings
Make me safe, send me happiness
The Antics Of A Would Be Mama's Yoyo Thief
(now a penchant with less Zionist trenchant ululation to vent.)
Not a peep passed thru mine -
aye vaguely attest
what ten? eleven? twelve? age
of following anecdote at best
guest, but no
doubt yours truly
with figurative heart in chest
scared puny meek boy
tight lipped silently confessed
to foiled attempt, sans trying
unsuccessfully to steal a yoyo,
inviting tummy prepubescent
unbuttoning, a substantially
sprawling Holy skype sizing breast
of mine upon be nabbed,
thus aye didst detest
foolish kid ploy, and
(prematurely nipping
in the bud) messed
up potential life of crime
with first and only
shoplifting heist jest
for getting caught no a pest
key yoyo, mama would
(IF FOUND OUT)
axe me no quest
chin, but whack me itty bitty
teensy weensy derriere lest
quickly putting to rest
any Robin Hood
fantasy life of
high stakes crime pressed,
and squeezed out the noggin
with apropos punishment addressed
thankfully, neither parent
got wind, nor ever guessed
their beautiful darling
boy did test
petty theft, never
matured nor didst crest
into a profitable "yoyo
string Ponzi like
scheme," thus ballsiest
dare devilish and bitterest,
and laughably noble lest
act yours truly ever attempted
immediately ceased to shelve bravest
sleight of hand find
delve during broad est
daylight, I immediately
didst shelve, when clumsiest
initial foray into
the world wide web
tubby come cleverest
lad, this side of
Lansdale, Pennsylvania
many damnedest
yesterdays ago, never
took another earnest
tempting gamble since security
detail nearly wrest
head possible zapped feeblest Ames?
to pilfer from other
Department stores if pressed
for money no matter,
I might miss an enforced
hated ballet class,
with abs salute zest!
Hovering, eyes so keen they see
the imprint of DNA run through
its unsuspecting quarry
Muscles ache, the wait unbearable.
Each crystallised moment of time is
a chapter, wrapped around a scented
taste of cloudless sky
On the ground a cautious proboscis,
bristles and explores, its owner the
protector of tight young bellies
demanding their next meal.
These incentives, become the lure for a
short foray into the outside larder. And
tendons help stretch half-filled pouches
of seeds, packaged ready for the table
Hovering above, nature's instinctive neurons
release a calculated dive. Casting a Centre-point
shadow of increasing consequence. Followed by a
swift snatch, the chapter closes and normal time resumes
In talloned grasp and on winged journey,
the struggling proboscis has time to make
peace with herself, empty her pouches and
gorge one final meal
Limitless as it plays in its macro structure,
On the nano level breaking new theories,
Is the big Bang an illusion of infinite design;
Reality, an illusions of consciousness to our existence.
A foray into an unending process to define the divine?
What of the God particles from a collision course?
Reinvent bench marks in our formulae formations?
Would the constants hold with the ground breaking rules?
It is the beauty of nature and the infinite will;
That aid concepts and create illusions in our being!
Upon making
the treacherous
undertaking optimal
poetic theme to write
dangerous, and
arduous foray into
spooky catacomb, I in vite,
where fear doth
dill liver worst
trek to our mailbox tonight
risking life and limb
at very right
angled turn
summoning em mon ent
mettle pluck quite
for quotidian plight,
asper hiding unseen creatures
sealed in dark shadows
along the edge of night
way after deep
into nighttime hours,
I cautiously slink
with steely might
thru barely adequate light
even for this healthy
as an ox good knight
relying on a Jack o'lantern
designed jacklight
with superb vision,
and supreme insight
steadily held above
mine five feet and
ten inches average height
espy spilling thru underneath
securely eye
booked deal lee shut tight
locked heavy metal doors,
a faint glimmer
sans gaslight
possibly from blaring,
flashing, and placating
television screen se
essentially keeping curmudgeonly
aged residents company,
while reminiscent nostalgic
"FAKE" memories take flight
as such wistful
foregone reflections
upon the gift of
a watermelon pickle excite,
viz the cobwebbed
whirled wide
give "tearful", though
pained years gone by
blinkered back teary delight
a hermetically sealed story,
one will never
get ghost written, nor
affixed with a copyright
depressingly clamped
down inescapable
emotionally stagnating
autobiographical blight.
Meet me—by the abandoned houses—>there
not here<—, for it’s a danger! to be seen
in such ill company as I__I mean:
if strangers knew how strange was our affair,
they’d **** us!—meet me when night has grown fair,
bring gifts (flowers) (for nothing’s more obscene
in such situation as we are keen).
Though I’m well loath to leave you unaware,
you’ll must need hear silence ‘stead my full name;
—(it’s customary practice;)—tell me not
yours either; I want to know as little
as possible,—so to go without blame,
and still to lick the flame:to spill the plot:
to linger - - - on your delightful spittle.
“Youth has no age.” – Pablo Picasso
As She Found A Way To Dearest Life Meet
As she woke, Light streams down
Dawn then spoke, Love your gown
Rise to day, its glory sweet
Find a way, to dear life meet.
As she rose, morn gave call
Her bare toes, long cold hall
So alive, Love asking more
Born to thrive, sumptuous score.
As her heart, beat in time
Day's start, her life sublime
Never late, Light's softest gleam
True her Fate, passion her dream.
As she sang, soul did rise
Music rang, no surprise
Red sun came, its glow so sweet
Love no game, its truth she greets.
As she knew, eyes were bright
Her Love grew, hours of night
When sleep came, Love its gifts gave
Sought no fame, his Love did save.
As she woke, Light streams down
Dawn then spoke, Love your gown
Rise to day, its glory sweet
Find a way, to dear life meet.
Robert J. Lindley, 4-11-2020
Rhyme, ( Basking Within The Light Of Truth And Love )
Syllables Per Line:
6 6 7 7 0 6 6 7 7 0 6 6 7 7 0 6 6 7 7 0 6 6 7 7 0 6 6 7 7
Total # Syllables:156
Total # Words::: 144
Note-
First stanza of this poem came to me
in a dream last night. I woke 1:42 am,
got up and jotted it down, then rose this morn
at 5:30 am to start to compose the rest of it.
I recall writing poems in the 6677 syllable form
back in 1972. Maybe a dozen or more poems.
Those poems were stolen and burned in 1975.
So this is a rebirth of a youthful foray into creating
a new form to play in.....
And yes, the "she" in the poem was a real person
that I once knew and once so truly and deeply loved...
Hope you may enjoy reading this new piece..
My last foray into this arena
Had me living memories not wished to share
Here I am again, another visit
Into the elderly homes we wish not
A sunny day another gathering
Nurses working, making life happen
Elderly in wheelchairs, still smiling
Others in mobile beds, unsure of the happening
A talk by an ancient, born 1917
Strong voice begging to be heard
Wartime memories, mist is clearing
From death too imprisonment
Visions flow, must be told
Strong voice, telling of memories
Some stumbles, others not so
I look around the room
Half the listeners into their snooze
On and on the story flows
Death and glory, hand in hand
How can you tell such a sad command?
Bravery such as only you have known
Bodies of men, families memories
Story spanning for one hour
Comment from teller, time had run out
The carers sobs echoed around the room
They all knew what time running out meant
They gathered, comforting ensued
trying so hard to change the feelings in the room
I leave as in visits before, memories flooding
My thoughts, a place such as this even exists
If there is a being ruling the happenings
Messages needed, please send happiness.
This is my last foray into self expression
There are things that I don’t mention
But if you look closely
You will see that I am broken and lost
No matter when you see me
If I have a smile on my face
I am lying to you
I am in excruciating pain
What became of her
What has become of you
You are slowly slipping into the void
And you just don’t know what to do
There are days when you cannot wake
But the sun has risen above the hill outside your window
And you’re tired of this ordeal
There’s no reason to start the day
You miss the brilliance in her eyes
Which used to lead you through each hour
It pierced through your outer skin
And led to your inner tenderness
And now it is all gone
You can’t pull yourself up
You have been leveled by her leaving
And your maker has turned against you
She is the ghost that haunts you when you wake
The shadow that stalks your as you move through the city
And the one you long for your in your slumber
And separated by the stained glass at night
You can see her clearly when you shut your eyes
That day you were barefoot in the sand
At that Carolina beach in the twilight
Feeling whole, by the lifeguard stand
And her voice breathes in your ear
It has brought you to your knees
It shakes you at the core of who you are
You feel the gaze upon your eyes
And your imminent decent as she turns her back and walks away
It is now cold and silent here
You are truly alone in the haze of these days
It never played out like you planned
I wish to sleep forever
Where she will meet me in my dreams
Cause even if she won’t speak to me here
At least I can see her