Best Gaul Poems
So many think about changing the whole world,
few think about changing their very selves.
Standing on the precipice, peer beyond.
Pierce your personal, privileged bubble.
View the vast vision across all beings.
In wonder, count the petals of a flower.
Be amazed, probe a chambered nautilus.
Walk backwards out of Fibonacci's Spiral
into eternal embrace with enlightenment.
Spin science's vortex, fall into art's abyss.
Through the dark to the light and back again.
A looking glass within a looking glass,
mirroring all nature, realities' rules.
It seems little opens closed minds much
but when it does, it opens hearts forever.
Buddha's "mind-heart" path, hoping all will walk.
Walking through two doors at once can happen.
Trust that quantum particles jumping
in and out of existence can be real.
Or gaze deeply into a baby's eyes
and not picture the expanding universe.
Rather, see yourself this time, finally looking out.
Enlightenment finds you, you don't find it.
As it approaches, make your mind be still
all you need is loving-kindness and a smile.
Illustration Colored Pencil By G. Gaul
To whom much is given much is expected, land of the free
For when His Light is reflected then all will be able to see
Yet His Light has gone away, as evil seems to tighten its grip
No longer knowing how to pray, that bitterness worsens with each sip
Praying for all the people in now the latest of these attacks
But as we gather together in the steeple it is our prayer that lacks
God hates the shedding of innocent blood in especially, His Unborn
Still wondering why such the flood of our Holly Father's Righteous Scorn
Calling His Name we beg for mercy, then show none of our own
Murdering Innocence with a decree and sealed with a self-righteous tone
In God there is no difference, for He has created us all
Yet, still being so vociferous about a gunman and his gaul
Will these attacks continue in what seems a quickening pace
I believe that's up to us and the next vote that we will face
With over six million lives at stake in praying to the One above
Don't make the reprehensible mistake of trying to limit God's love
Isaiah 59:7- 8
Their feet run to evil, and they are swift to shed innocent blood; their thoughts are thoughts of iniquity; desolation and destruction are in their highways. The way of peace they do not know, and there is no justice in their paths; they have made their roads crooked; no one who treads on them knows peace
THE EIFFEL TOWER
In the city of light their aspire
Was to build to a climax higher
Gustave Eiffel you see
Said just leave it to me
I can satisfy all your desire
Monsieur Eiffel seen with affection
By Dames de Paris for perfection
Of his manner de Gaul
Mais plus ca most of all
For his grand magnifique **ection
21 April 2020
Laying my head back, eyes closing,
reminiscing, the years falling away into decades ago
to the 1950s at my grandparents' grand home
for Christmas.
It was a gracious dining room.
Noontime sun streaming in.
Chair rail with deep red wallpaper, white trim.
Decorating the lace clothed "Big Table"
was a tallish 1870s porcelain Meissen fruit centerpiece
with lovers circling the stem.
Even the adults had to look around it.
Grandmother "Lil" and "Mister B"
were at their nouveau best.
All their progeny seated in good form
awaiting the traditional invocation by "Mister B".
Also seated were the ones that were to be
"seen but not heard" at our side table, the "Kids' Table."
Draped card tables for the dozen of us -
me, my brother and sisters and cousins.
Everyone all scrubbed in dresses and ties.
Mine was a clip on.
As expected, a milk glass got tipped. Spilt milk.
Besides that, we kids had great fun and
became friends again as we did each year.
The thing of it was, none of us liked
being at the "Kids' Table."
We felt lesser, unworthy, subtly so.
Even when I was ten, I knew there were
only two ways to get to the big one:
marriage or go in the army.
We all wondered what it was like to be adult.
After all, most of them smoked.
They all had drinks.
The women had figures, swishy swirls.
The men wore suits like they knew how.
At the "Big Table" they all talked like experts
about stuff we didn't understand
and they laughed loudly at Uncle Bob's jokes.
As the years moved on, things would change,
always do.
I saw virtually all my cousins
disassemble their lives too early -
marriages, divorces, addictions, lost jobs, left school -
beleaguered into inevitable submission.
My family miraculously unscathed.
But they're all gone now,
"Big Table" and little table too.
All that's left from the 50s
is my brother, sister and me.
For years, I was at the "Big Table" since my brood and I
took over the Christmas tradition.
The "Big Table" conversation was
superficial and posing was prevalent.
So one year, I put myself at the "Kids' Table." Just for fun.
Yes, milk got tipped.
But oh, the wonderment and hope. A meal that truly was
food for the soul.
Now that I'm old and looking back,
with a quiet smile, mulling it,
I kinda liked the "Kids' Table" better.
Colored pencil illustration by G.Gaul
Warriors of austere adventures,
soldiers for suffering and tribe survival,
children,peasents,women & men,the penny poor & candid criminals,
proud peoples,honest heros,
we marched on all the flesh of earth,
no terrain was forbidden for the fantastic forbearence of the foriegn fighters,
campaigns on the cold clay of Europe's mountain valleys,
the smeltering sands of arid Arabia where the sanctuaries are shadows,
mundane manuevors upon the hot hills of the mutinational Meditterrain,
marching in spread points across Russia's frozen waters,
mildly marching single file through soft dirt along the massive Mississippi,
going above and beyond the shattered rock the Hindu Kush does pile,
forging fanaticaly in columns of two against angry winds that whirl and wail
amid the plateus of Peru where pain is pink and mercy mute,
motives for marching can be exquisitely egregious,or simple and sanctified
like the beating of a boy in order to make a man rather than a brute,
Hannibal climbed the hellish heights of the Alps,
Caeser acquired apotheosis by the grinding of Gaul,
the Khan of Asia killed for culture,
irreproachable rebels like Moses and Boudica fought for posterity,for legends,
Joseph Brant and Alaric broke yokes of the Imperial vulture,
Cincinatus pushed forward the march to ensure the peace with plough,
Tom Paine for freedom of expression,Joan of Arce burned for rapture,
simplicity brings relief,and sometimes joy while on the move,
oddities like bluejays & baccon,
wonders such as hawks & large wildlife,
good things like clean water & a commrades cackle,
mysterious events of improvised spiritual ritual,omens deciphered
unique to each are rife,
in the snow & in the beach,through the mud,grass & crisp leaves we traverse
to bring the battle to the enemy,
to deliver the war with might,
we march so to bring the conflict to ourselves,
we march to meet,compete,and to defeat ourselves,
we march to meet our Maker's light -
J.A.B. %
While wandering across a forest floor
Through twists and turns of gnarled trunks of trees
See insights more than one was looking for
Images born by bending weathered breeze
There is a lover's embrace bound in bark
Maybe the most natural human thing
It reveals itself in songs of the lark
Listen clearly and hear the trees that sing
Music as if it's a love tune of time
Lies dormant in humans hard to define
Woven through the woods in a metered rhyme
Set in harmony by someone divine
Bow now and think of life's love adventure
Muse and marvel at nature's pure power
Avoid the mistake of common censure
Hold tight your love every moment and hour
rhyme 16 lines 118 words
Colored Pencil Illustration by G. Gaul
Some parts of this city I should not go
too few streetlamps dampened, wobbly wet walls.
These are those parts that one ought not to know
perfect settings where dark danger befalls.
My mind has morphed the city I knew
quickens my pace from sly shadows behind.
Now meeting people who I stare straight through
turning corners to streets I cannot find.
Not belonging here only feeds my fear
searching for a near nook, safe place to be.
Far from silent steps behind me I hear
striving eyes dart, hoping no one shall see.
Tell me why, did I, venture out this day
prime pulses pounding, one hastens away.
Colored Pencil Illustration by G. Gaul
8/26/21
a bee
invaded our car in
nineteen fifty four
while we were driving
to the jersey shore
flew in my open back window
of our two tone ford custom
pea green top black bottom
hurtling down the highway
four kids two adults
doing sixty
our kid arms outside the windows
flailing and pushing the wind
no cares
must have looked from above
like some giant green beetle
lotsa wiggly white legs
once the bee was inside
it was havoc
screaming and screeching
kids curled up in fear
in the rear
mom and dad barking out orders
we knew it had a stinger
it wanted to get us
stab us
never really saw its sticky spear
scary when needles are near
it buzzed all about
for a minute or two
up to the windshield
back near my ear
mom tried to thwack it
with her home journal
but missed
it disappeared
we all wanted to kill it
that is what you do with bees
waited and waited
no bee
then in a fury it came out
from under the front seat
hiding in a sea of springs
plotting for its moment
its chance to escape
we must have gone twenty miles
with it in our car
so out it came
buzzed a bit
then flew out my window
gone
we all took a sigh of relief
the villain excommunicated
after the yapping stopped
silence for a few miles
then i got a slow sadness
how will it find its home
it was very very far away
i thought if i was the bee
maybe i would feel lost
i remember when mom
found me in wanamakers
in toys
mom leaned over the front seat
and said
his home is everywhere
huh
that was enough for me
even though i had no clue
what it all meant what to do
my first lesson in empathy
taught by a teeny thing so wee
a bee
free verse 74 lines 326 words
Pen illustration G. Gaul
of Russell's Nymph
the rendered spell, the nymph can tell,
distraction never changes,
i too have been caught as well,
the nympho re arrangement,
i swore by Gaul to end it all,
would run into the ranges,
but quick as night she pinned me tight,
don't ever make love with strangers...
good one Russell mate...
Don
CLERIHEW REVIEW
Sir Isaac Newton
Though genetically close to an Orang Utan
With his larger cranial cavity
He discovered the law of gravity
Atilla the Hun
Was a man who liked innocent fun
After a day of rape and pillage
He played cricket for his village
King William the Conqueror
Breeding not from the very top drawer
Put that with the deeds of a dastard
He was known as Bill the Bastard
Julius Caesar
Was a really imperious geezer
Though he headed for a fall
You must admit he had the Gaul
King of France: Louis Quatorze
Loved to dress in silky drawers
When asked “Do you feel that’s alright?”
He said: ”Yes, when they’re pulled up tight”
She calls herself Bunny Boucher, but she was born Veronica Chermak. She’s tall and leggy with a body that looks tidy, yet lived in. She’s high and tight, but flexible like a strong rubber band in a tricked out pinball table. She reminds me of that actress Tracie Lumbar playing the actress Fern Hall in that old movie Iguana Sunset. Her topography leaves no room for global climate change. Her tropics are seductively torrid, while her poles remain perpetually cool; makes you want to straddle her equator with your meridian. She’s been to Mussel Shoals, Shucked Oyster, Bearded Clam, Moose Knuckle, Camel Toe, Beaver Falls, Cottonwood, and Rabbit Patch, just to name a few of her more well-known hangouts. Some would say she looks Greco-Roman, but I’d describe her as looking more like a Hellenized Phoenician who emigrated from Trans-Alpine Gaul, or maybe she looks more Etruscan, with a hint of Minoan when you see her by moonlight. They say she’s as pure as bloodstains on a purloined letter. She traded in her Biblical name soon after she left her home in Mississippi and never spoke of it again. It may be just routine housekeeping, but who could blame a girl for sweeping off her back porch. She recently had a front end alignment. They say her rearview mirror never lets her down. After arriving in New Orleans she passed her bar exam at Vaughan’s on Dauphine and kept the circuit judge disrobed till way past last call. She’s a sexy banshee when she’s in the catbird seat with her cherry basket swinging from a bungee cord. Last I heard she was sharing a dump with a couple Guatemalan dancers. Her room ain’t worth a dollar, but it cost a pretty penny. She pays the rent with a pickup truck full of contraband. She says she needs the space, but not the distance. Like most women, nobody’s ever been able to figure her out. But there is one thing I know for certain, her smoke may sometimes offer you a tempting indication of certain possibilities, but her fire has never been known to lie.
Gray shrouds cover my way
sets the tone for the day.
Our silent sun sends
rays running round corners
slowly beams burn off -
melting morning misty mind.
As I tread these stone slabs
rapt in wonder of this awe,
great stone bones in it all.
Metropolis makes stirring sounds
anxiously awakens around me.
Rails screech like prehistoric birds,
wind whistles through tunnels twirling,
chatter and honks and hums.
Hear humanities' street symphony.
Parkways sever city canyons.
I cross white striped asphalt rivers,
pass primal Ponderosa stone spires.
Wary walls of glassy eyes glare at me.
Watch my droll daily drudge passively
through towering hollow statues.
I arrive to hug my office door,
seeking some soulful signal.
This inner city, my sentimental friend:
now I'm fearful this soon will end.
Put my face flush on its stone skin,
felt a mounting tear in my eye,
trickled out down between,
turned my head to kiss its skin.
Felt raspy, tasted of grit.
Like kissing a corpse.
Then pulled back and looked up
its everstill edifice to the sky.
Poses the query who am I?
And there I stood a while and thought.
How can we be one?
How can it be me?
Color Pencil illustration G. Gaul
Free Verse Philosophical look at inanimate
stone city structures and the
universal concept of oneness.
11/17/2019
P S IT’S POETRY WRITE ON WRITE ON CONGRATS TO MY FELLOW POETRY SOUPERS PART 9
Many thanks to you selected poets; Of sharing your whispers from God, tho you didn’t know it; Each letters and each word; Reads so very dear and well; Joys of your souls cheers; Covenants of choice, reading your voice; Blessing peace be still; Please keep writing your skills; Rhyming verses blessings of course it’s… P.S. Congrats and thank-U my fellow Soupers
• Gary Radice 170, 253, 260
• Gary Smith 167, 419
• Geoffrey Brewer 132, 340, 98
• George Schaefer 310
• George William Clever 446, 140
• Georgette Johnson 292
• Georgia Kereopa 117, 134
• Gerald Tanjang 456
• Giti Tyagi 346
• Gloria Shell Mitchell 447
• Gordon S. Wolf 17, 21, 237
• Graham Alexander Devenish 410
• Graham John Howes 332
• Greg Evans 321
• Greg Gaul 176, 311
• Gregory Joseph Firlotte 395, 447
• Gry W Christensen 170
• Hannington Mumo 386
• Hans-Christian AleXander Melschau 182, 228
• Hariom Sharma 272
• Harry Biosah 411
• Hara Chaudhary 347
• Heather Green 356
• Heather Rodwell 453
• Heidi Sands 150, 156 36
12/13/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2020©
Waiter waiter!
look!
but monsieur
you ordered a minnow soup, n'est pas?
Waiter waiter
Not one swimming
around in my soup
a brown minnow full of brown poop
I don't want minnow poop
in the soup
why look, its a bald beady eyed minnow
waiter! I swear this minnow is drunk
ah Monsieur, we give all our minnows wine
before death
Waiter now I know why Greeks
throw dishes at walls
I swear than damn minnow tried to write
a poem, what gaul!
Plato must be going mad
in his grave
Monsieur , can we offer you some Coock & Hen whiskey
to drown out this bad taste?
No comment
I won't begin to list his jobs
because we’ve heard them all,
from confederate raider to stick
up man, he had a bad man’s gaul
His fame spread with noteriety
across the Yankee plain, but he was
just an outlaw man, he don’t deserve
no fame
But in them days, imagination ruled
the newsman’s pen, and outlaws were
the magic, that ruled the why and when
Some said he was a Robin Hood and
helped the wretched poor, there is no
record of this game, Cole Younger
new the score
While home one day in leafy fall
he moved a picture on the wall,
Bob Ford shot Jesse’s 45, trustful
friend did not survive
And for his efforts, Bob “the coward” got
a shotgun to the throat, cos folks were
getting downright tired, of the back-shooter’s
sickly tote.
And though we like the stirrin turns we think
a bandits life, give thought to poor Zerelda,
Jesse's sad dear wife
Lost in shame and washing clothes to make
a cent or two, she died in rotten poverty
as Jesse’s legend grew.
But Jesse was an icon, his” adventure” we still crave,
and in today’s confection, still we think him brave.
And now they’re lying side by side, in St Joseph’s
cemetary, and if you mused where they’re took,
their waiting Hades ferry.