Best Gayety Poems
To say exactly what I feel,
At first seems quite unreal.
What’s on my mind to be exact.
Without forethought, without tact?
To beckon my deepest thought
Not thinking whether I ought
Well, OK I will give it a go,
what will happen I don’t know.
Thoughts sweep.
Old times creep.
Whispers remain.
Joyous refrain.
Quite unaware.
Your blissful stare.
The dense dark.
Flights we embark.
Monumental being.
No eyes for seeing.
Cradled in glad.
Surrender to be had.
The peace dove dies.
Sorrowful cries.
Sunshine streams
Waken from dreams.
Craving for a tune.
Need to hear it soon.
Remember its name.
Now it’s a game.
I must play that song.
Not heard it in so long.
Was a favorite of mine.
Memory untwine.
Must have spontaneity.
It will bring gayety.
Protest dreaming.
Anti – war scheming.
Why wont it come to me.
That beloved Massacree.
Must hear it, I pine.
A true carving of mine.
Not heard it in fifty years.
It used to bring tears.
So much laughter.
Hidden truth comes after.
Who could the artist be?
Ahh, I know – Arlo Gruthrie.
Now I know the song.
I can play it, sing along.
Revive the peace birds.
I know all the words.
Its exactly what I want.
Its Alice’s Restaurant!
SPRING NOT YET
Not quite yet
Winds humming steady even
Yet blowing in minor mode
The cloud layer vast high
Relentless with no whisper of blue
Over coffee my window view
Offers a shiver but no temptation
I sense (with fancied feet)
An Earth just beginning to squish
Yet with forbidding firmness beneath
Torn by nature’s shredder
Lay scraps of all variety poking heads
There is no hint nor harbinger of gayety
In a scene with absent southern touch
Even Tiger – my puss – is reluctant
To venture out
Spring?
I can only close-eyed visualize
What does something good mean? A person, food, toy, or Life.
All of these I think. Yet, how must we know. Take a person, with hardly any faults.
Always kind to others, sees no bad in himself or others. Does what the bible tells each day. This is good.
Food - tastes great. No msg or fattening ingredients. You will not gain weight. This is good.
Toy - something for a child to play with all day. Doesn't hurt him or her; they learn
and love it all day. This is good.
Life - with little hurts - smiles, laughter, gayety, fun, few hurts. This is good.
Love of everything - family, earth and the Creator - This is Best.
When God makes a plan for a king
It is God’s plan not the King’s
When a king strays from true purpose
As an unfavorable appendage growth
Turning asunder God’s intended nature for rule
Whereupon pompous self –gluttony bellows
Bellowing for greater power, for riches the more, or forever lasting glory
Doth not a King make unfavorable war with patriots of his sovereignty?
For as a King demands thou shall- when God said thou shalt not
What citizenry stands silent for such self-proclamations?
When the king’s words bare no desirable fruits
How doth the Kingdom’s subjects eat?
When only the influential- whose lips whisper directly into the King’s ear
Or only the Dukes and Earls with deep pockets afford the King’s favor
Doth the King’s jester make gayety the suffering of his common
And grow tiresome of the hunger’s plea , or the widow’s need,
Will not the laymen’s voice be heard above the ten percent?
As a King sets forth his intention but nay a one becomes reality
Doth not the people cry into their Lord God for a savior?
A new King!
A better King!
A righteous King for the people!
For this pompous King has short number his days like morning dew on Mayflies’ wings
Now doth the citizenry gather at the King’s gate shouting!
We of November will remember!
And purge thee from thy thrown!
Forlorn in demeanor,
Thyself with heart in tatters.
Solemn and beseeched,
I'm near the edge
Of loves rapturous foreboding precipice.
Shall my torturous soul
Commit it’s self to the abyssal unknowns
Of sacrificial acquiescence to thee?
A force neither trustworthy nor forgiving
As it warms chilled hearts
And sooths with passionate death.
Unwitting those of lesser toils within,
True to their salvation,
But blind to its deceit
And yet give reverence to thee.
Alas shall I not gaze into eyes of splendor
Nor taste passion upon sweet lips?
Forsake the essence of purity sought,
And forgo righteous happenings within thy being.
To this unknown I ponder
And thus negates my apotheosis of thee.
Enlighten my sorrowful remnants of gayety
And subservient obedience to thee
As was once remembered.
At this I shall take that leap of faith
And boldly plunge thyself into the depths
Of your infinite sanctity
Through The Keyhole of Time
The houses were made of old timber, like a Russian village
on the endless steppe - maybe I had Dr Zhivago on my mind.
But where was Lara? I was in Russia once thought it sinister,
roads without light and black limousines gliding slowly by.
Lived in a house that had rough planks for floors and no
indoor loo, luckily it was summer that year.
At a café, the woman who ran it looked as a woman I loved,
and never lost my longing for. I visited the place, there were
accordion music and much gayety, but the woman I loved
looked at me with dislike when prancing around with her two
lovers who were junior officers in the red army and went to
the gym every day lifting dumbbells; impotent rage, thought
of assassinating them. She, the woman I loved, had not aged
I was now forty years older than her.
When the music stopped she dismissed her lovers I asked her
why she had left, she said it was because I was boring and had
no sense of fun. When the music began, to prove her wrong,
I danced to show her how much fun I was capable of, but I fell
on the floor and for once people laughed.
Knew I had failed her and could not understand what more
I could do to make her love me. But I had been blind, outside
a woman smiled, a warm African smile, it took me forty years
before I met her again and mourn the lost years without her.
Victory !!! – Bitter Sweet
A David and Goliath day !
I got to see and feel a just way
handed down by a court of this land
as questioning – evidence presented by this hand
lead the judge to find in my favour,
against I.C.B.C. - lawyer Karen Curtis – to savour
the taste of this win left very little flavour,
for I felt that it was a hollow victory
as I walked home feeling no glory.
My Past hangs .
In eight by tens, upon the four walls of my room.
In three and a half by fives, on pages of my books of history,
accompanied by notes, letters, cards that soon
will reach seventy three volumes, telling the story
of experiences, of memories, of life one once did live
in the dreams of light and the nightmares of dark.
A life, in which, little did I have to give.
The desire of the dream and reality, in comparison, very stark
The Future ???
Images rippling across the distorted surfaces of mirrors
that are hidden behind so many closed doors,
that lie buried before the eyes of one’s life,
as time slices into tiny pieces, with its keen knife,
the rainbow colours that hang in the sun, like spider webs
as the shadows, the light, drift in and out, ebbs
and flows towards places no one knows
and on and on… and on it goes.
These veiled dreams of ones days, hope for gayety of ones heart,
a desire for change, for gain, to find a brand new start.
The Present .
Silent, empty moments, flashes of brilliant light reflected
upon the corneas of the mind’s eye, seldom, if ever, detected,
a brief glimpse of, – then quickly vaporized – that is infected
with viruses from the past, the future, the present passing by.
Which is it that finds me ?, and just where ?, stands I ?,
as thoughts about take wing and sour on high.
B. J. “A ” 2
April 2nd 2003
A long time ago,
A boy met a Lady, They Danced and drank and met up daily,
Laughter filled their lungs, as they acted a little crazy,
Soon time began to fly by lately,
Although in their 20s they dreaded turning eighty,
One day a ring appeared in the boy’s hand, rather shaky,
Please my darling girl marry me Baby,
The wedding was merry, and full with friends and family,
And of course the best matey,
The boy became a man the day he held his first baby,
Life was grand and as sweet as the ocean and sand,
Although the couple prayed daily life became rather racy,
And here we are my dear husband, Mi. Lady,
Although a few memories have become a little hazy,
They remain each year in my heart filling it with gayety,
And my love remains like the blooms of a fresh daisy.
Pulling joyfully their curtains wide
Allowing love's rays her, beauty's light
New Radicals, you've got the music in you
Seraphims escorting serendipity's twenty-first
Century his jinni appears gayety her garland pastel
Mesdemoiselles their colours rich as oils this Helen of Troy
Menage menagerie; resilient, these spirits the child, whom believes
Wearing flash floods but hey we do it in style: jill, an infant's Messianic retreat.
Darkness passes on forever, like a shade without position,
Night times symphony echoes a thunderous raw, digesting destiny with foul play.
Ruthless sombre drowns the silence, into dumbfounded surrender that gives awakening to pain.
Forbidden tears are strangled by the blade that appears worthy, and is all too clear,
Insanities beckoning, whispers as if possessed by the devil, yet by dawn they disappear.
Marooned Shadows loom like vibrant beasts, assertive in their find,
Reuniting in battle, yet by dawn they disappear.
The dark abysses aggression denies spirits access, within its rage of fury in the gayety
of night,
As the eluded reprisal is driven by imaginations delusion, a scream aloof to sight.
Night times bumps is an illusion, a fear of being found
To again become accustomed, a need to be precise in remembering every sound,
One hears outside at night and Yet by dawn they disappear.
Darkness provokes emotion, the will to kill or cry, or simply feel a marvel in the
mysteries of the night.
Nothing hears clearer then the solitude of night, it hears you wail within your prayer,
It sees your sorrowed tearful stare.
To the stars and moon our feelings give way, to darkness that listens but never gains the
praise.
In the moon theres magic, in a star a wish, but night time who just listens, just fades to
disappear.
When I was a child I thought as a child, reasoned as a child, spoke
As that a child; but when I became a man, I left childish things behind....
Too many 'I's,' we find; tis not my thing this me inside, these eyes ? Mirrors
...."In Progress." *