Best In The Process Of Poems
You'll find it in the crimson eyes
of a throwaway photo somehow frozen in time.
When the past painted us like demons
with secret fury.
And you'll find it in the smell of a burning memory
like melting microfilm becoming enraged
(gifted with the freedom to deny
first appearances)
You'll find it in the cedar smoke
of Tyndale's earthen cage
roasting in a bale of hay for crimes unknown.
Where the fire of his message burned mighty
through a thousand hungry hearts that day
(where ancient ink once again
took a detour into youthful veins)
You'll find it in the velvet ash
of a (just one more) cigarette
being flippantly flicked into December sky
for reasons unknown.
Where yellowed fingernails bear witness
of freedom to live and freedom to die,
leaving not an inch of space to analyze;
for the fickle flames - much like life -
waits for no one.
You'll find it in the platinum tendrils
of a Colt 45, that so quickly took a life,
in the burning heat of an eternal second.
Where curled fingers and steady stare
makes it painfully aware
freedom is a pitiful beauty, ugly as sin,
and as right as rain
(ask the victims of Hiroshima --- they'll tell the same)
You'll find it in the vermilion sky
blazing brighter than passion pure;
stopping the world gears, of rat-race routine,
and turning a thousand rusty necks Heavenward
Where minds silently unhinge (for a moment)
And fear itself begins to cringe (for a moment)
When faced with childlike wonder
blind eyes will see.
A rejuvenating spark
this freedom can be.
And you'll find it the explosion of ecstasy
like a rose blooming in tenacious time-lapse.
You'll find it in the Cherokee midnight dance,
being warmed by the tongues of freedom personified.
Where Common Sense no longer applies,
for when freedom found his heart's desire,
you know it was a compromise.
Losing his mind, and losing his life,
in the process of a martyrdom
for all things beautiful and all things temporary,
in its earthly essence
... where freedom finds the fire,
you can't tell the difference.
Written March 23rd, 2016
For the Where The Freedom Finds the Fire Contest Hosted by Justin Bordner
~ From hand to heart in rhythmic movements
... happiness is trembling in the wind ~
- quote by poet
The fertile ground of the life forces
raising his throne majestically
still absent under the down comforter
In the process of creation
of freedom and life expression
It is life in motion
under frozen ground covered with snow
Winter patiently allows itself to dissolve
Finally, the sun shines from the blue sky
The whole garden lights up with humble flowers
As white trembling stars on the ground
springs first ballerina dances
- challenges to being strong
displays divine art, just for you
~
09.04.2023
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
- 'S' Words, Poetry Contest -
Sponsored by: Constance La France
1st place in the contest
Once I had harbored complexes many.
I thought I wasn’t beautiful or wise.
With my spluttering tone and broken speech,
I feared, my words fell flat,
Never leaving an impact or impression
Now when I have learnt to accept myself as I am,
I find, there is more strength in me than I know,
And I really do have worth.
I know, even sunshine can burn,
If we bask too much in its warmth.
When our ego is shorn and our craving
For acceptance is lifted off like a piece of lead
It is then we feel lighter at heart.
Do you think this wisdom descended on me,
All too sudden? Never, it came slowly,
When passed through bitter trials, the ups and downs of life.
As grapes are crushed to make red wine,
As sunflower seeds are pressed to extract oil,
One is passed through the tests of life,
And my insights, I got through hard lessons.
Now I know I am not just a traveler in this wild terrain,
And my sojourn here is not accidental but has a purpose.
I realize I am not alone, but walk among people,
Who share a commonality of experience.
When corn withers on the stalk,
And when life gets torn from its moorings,
It signals that change must come.
When I wished to get a new ignition
And when I tried it with all my might
My leaden nights got transformed into golden days.
So, don’t fret when life confronts you like a Sumo wrestler.
Just know you are in the process of a transmutation!
I have been in utter darkness,
But burning myself in the blazing fire,
I have acquired the sheen and glitter of gold,
And how thankful I am, for I am re-forged!
Onion tears I heard mother say
As she used her apron to wipe them away
But she was in the process of kneading bread
I knew those tears were genuine instead
She never wanted us to see her cry
Alas, her tender heart would often sigh
Tears cleanse the soul of deepest pain
Clear the path for smile to follow the rain
You should get closer to the parts of her
Those parts that are boarded up
It is not a case of keeping someone out
It is more a case of keeping something in
Even though getting hurt played a huge part
In her reaction
That didn’t scare her
She will love again
She will do it fiercely
She will embrace the momentum of letting go
She will welcome the chance to open herself up again
You see, she is all about
Loving with her core
When it doesn’t work out
She refuses to become bitter
That will mean she lost herself
In the process of loving someone else
The pages you read
The chapter you walked in on
Was written with you in mind
You will not be the main character
This is her story
You had a role to play
Not in the whole book
Just a chapter or two
Don’t get it wrong;
She doesn’t hate you
That would mean she gave you
The power to alter her – and
No one on earth should possess that much control
Over someone else
@250120171341
A silk sheet of black covers my head while I am sleeping and seeps into my skin,
Reaching my brain and interrupting dreams that are far from reality’s reach.
Slowly, surely, on soft feet.
Creeping up on me, unexpected.
Chasing me through dark forests that once held flowers without thorns and birds that sang on the many Sunday mornings of spring.
Heels sinking into weak, helpless soil as it gives in to the pressure that pounds upon it again and again like a never ending migraine.
Toes scratched and bleeding from sharp, jabbing rocks that hide themselves and wait for their next victim,
And leave them with scars to line their flesh.
At night the hurt will sit with their legs crossed tight underneath them as if they are protecting them,
And their cold fingers will trace the scars upon their toes
Over and over
In a rhythm, a melody of sorts that only sounds beautiful when it can be understood by the ones who know it best.
I turn corners and pass trees that loom over me,
Old and wilted,
Threatening to fall on top of me and crush me
So I am molded into the ground below it,
And no one will find me because no one cares about the trees that fall,
Or the plants that die,
So why would they look under the fallen tree to find another girl,
Lost and thrown away in the process of trying to run away?
They chase me still as I run so fast that my legs want to detach themselves from my body and leave me lying limp.
Leaves fall into my hair and the thought to pull them out does not occur to me as the soil squishes between my toes, the wind stings my eyes and ears.
Every time I look down,
Beneath me seems to blur,
and I cannot see any of the branches that threaten to trip me as they know what I am running from.
I will fall and be stuck as weeds wrap around my ankles and wrists and prevent me from rising back up,
They will hold me down as if I am a child throwing a temper tantrum,
Restricting me from kicking and screaming.
They want it to catch me and take me away,
To conquer me,
Control me.
But maybe,
In a way that is unknown to me,
A plague that infects my body piece by piece,
Maybe it already has taken over.
In a shadow box, by the bed
another diorama took shape,
form, function
while she slept.
The whole house quiet with the ever tick tock.
Paper snow flakes in the process of falling
to a cardboard lake, frozen fast in brown fuzz and blue paint
Purple velvet ribbons in sweet white glue
an aurora borealis gone still
and two silver sequins
befitting two moons
blown in from her window sill
White tissue moths eating holes in the back
letting light in to the pin prick of stars
and deep in the corner,
the farthest flung corner
a secret on the dream lips to slip...
to be flown to the feather of whispers-
It Takes A Whole Village to Raise a Child: The Farmer
It has been said that it takes a whole village
To raise a child; How does a farmer help
Families raise the children?
Farmers live near the village; and together,
Everyone helps raise the children.
How do they help?
The farmers near the village grow food to sell.
They plant, tend, and harvest vegetable crops.
Veggies: lettuce, beets, cucumber, and tomatoes
Collard greens, cabbage, onions, and potatoes
Green beans, artichoke, peanuts, the list and work
Goes on and on and on—
Farmers hire many workers to harvest their many crops.
Products are then, sold and sent to many vendors.
Although there are still some independent farmers,
Some farmers, like those in olden days, grow on rural farms.
Families, men, women, and children working together,
Using hoes, beasts of burden and hand plows to work the soil.
Children helping along side watching adult examples—
However, these days, big agriculture businesses own farms.
They use huge machinery to operate their many acres.
Food producing farms: planting and harvesting to feed masses.
Their products, like smaller independent farmers’ products,
Are sent to markets in their homelands and abroad.
In the process of providing food and cotton for people,
Agriculture businesses and farmers alike set examples.
Good or bad, the children watch wide eyed
And ears perked!
You want to set goal
Big enough that in the process of achieving it
You become someone worth becoming
I am fearfully, wonderfully made
There are two eyes in my head with which I see
Two ears one on each side to hear birds chirp, leaves russle, that please
One mouth with which I can eat all the bounty of earth made for me
Two hands which accomplish work or play
Two feet to carry me forever and a day
He's fearfully, wonderfully made (Bumblebee)
One large body heavy in design
Delicate tiny wings thatcan carry him around
Fuzzy on his body and legs to carry lots of pollen
He helps propagate the garden
Strange creature on this earth by God's design
We're fearfully, wonderfully made
For our cells to be fed by protein power
There's a manufacturing machine inside that works twenty-four hours
It has to stretch out a chain; take it apart
Then fill up and twist it back like logos linking up
Then when its finished all the parts match
Fits together like a zipper or train on track
(This is the results of knowing about Huntington's Disease.
Flipping channels on tv on day seeing a person explaining
how our body has to be able to use protein..HD is caused
because a person's body can't use a protein on the DNA
link CAG...It is the G part that they can't use..They think
that in the process of the body fixing the protein on the
link that something is destroyed or damaged so that it
does not link up so the body can use it.)
(Same day watching religious progam the preacher used
the scripture "I am fearfully and wonderfully made".)
(Then I wrote a poem using bumblebee which we have
many of around here..There are many carpenter bees..
So I wanted information..I learned that the bees' wings
are seemingly too small for its body..Scientist say there
is no way the bee can fly with those wings but it does.)
I am saying this is rhyme because I don't know what
else to call it..Sara
While watching the expansions of cities I felt too sad one day. In order to create more roofs and houses, Green fields were slaughtered to meet the passions of the builders and our politicians.
The places where there used to swing in air, the branches of dancing mustard and linseed flowers were weeping with tears in their eyes. I kept moving from one field to another and I found the same story everywhere.
At another place a small water stream was in the process of elimination and concrete pipes were laid beneath the ground to make the entire place on a level. The builders were about to celebrate a party, as their building plans were in the final stage of taking a shape. New shining houses with lots of street lights will soon be there, where Nature was spreading its smiles in the form of flowers and buds, grains and harvests, brooks and streams, orchards of Mango and guava. The old trees and wild flowers with hanging creepers and their smiling little buds would be wiped out as the old order changes giving place to new.
I thought for a moment that perhaps our new generations would never know why the beauty and music, which lurks from the yellow Mustard and purple Linseed flowers, when their crops swings and dances in the months of Fagun* (Feb. and March) inspires us to write Poems and Songs. Perhaps the new generation would be too busy in exploring new stars and planets in search of some water and air. As by that time the Earth would be empty from such blessings of Nature.
THE POEM ON SPRING WILL BE HERE VERY SOON
A rhyming thank you written in verse
To the wonderful women and men who work as a nurse
They do so much more than just first aid
Considering their responsibility they should be better paid
They assist in the process of creation
They are even responsible for drug calculation
In crisis situations they aid in evacuation
Nurses need to be treated better across the whole nation
They are faced with the challenge of an ageing population
They work overseas and help the poor
For those incapacitated they come to the door
They are on the front line during times of war
They have a duty of care legislated by law
On a daily basis they are faced with death
They are with a patient for their last breath
They work long hours without adequate pay
They face trauma and grief day by day
They have to work at a rapid pace
Often having to rush from place to place
Due to cutbacks they are often short of staff
In some areas staffing is less than half
Our healthcare system is in a state of demise
C’mon you politicians give nurses a pay rise
They deal with patients who are disorderly or wild
They provide comfort to parents of a child
They encounter various problems with people’s health
They don’t discriminate the poor or those with wealth
They assist in the prevention or destruction of disease
They are expected by some to do this with ease
They are ordinary people doing extraordinary acts
Don’t question them unless you know all of the facts
They deal with issues that cause stress
They treat patients who are in distress
They deal with patients who want to fight
They deal with patients who sometimes bite
They help patients who are deaf or without sight
They work seven days a week both day and night
They assist a patient who has lost their mind
Their mannerisms are generally pleasant and kind
Only recently have they been given reasonable superannuation
The government must do more and increase remuneration
They are highly educated, instructed and trained
When facing trauma their uniforms can get blood stained
They deal with cuts, abrasions and breaks
Constantly they have to avoid making mistakes
Nurses without a doubt do a wonderful job
They are the blood supply that keeps our hearts a throb
I am so proud that I have a sister who is a nurse
To you my sister and your peers I give you this verse
In baseball there is an unwritten rule;
Whenever a pitcher is in the process of pitching a perfect game:
A game in which he has yet to give up a hit, has not walked a batter and no errors have been committed
His teammates do not talk to him; he does not mention it; and, everyone leaves him totally alone
For fear of jinxing the situation and being the cause of the end to his perfection.
Do not mistake my silence for contempt
Do not mistake my lack of self promotion for disdain
Do not mistake my isolation for loneliness
It is just that I am in the process of pitching a perfect life
I am in the late innings of my baseball game
I have been fortunate enough not to have been batted about by any opposition
I have not experienced the misfortune of having anyone walk all over me
And my mistakes have not resulted in someone advancing freely to another base
My perfect game is in tact
My only hope is – I have not jinxed that fact by writing this poem.
Batter up.
The very softest forms
Of martial arts
Tai chi
It’s very similar to a dance.
You’re a dancer who dodges.
And aikido
for when things get a little rougher.
These seek to do no harm to a predator
To disarm with the least amount of force. This woman does aspire
Chi point strikes are more dangerous to your opponent, and fellow being.
If you choose to learn them, okay. That’s your choice.
You are always in the process of gathering tools.
It sickens me to hear of advice
Of gouging with keys
And other flimsy
means.
How are you supposed to take care of yourself?
Or worse, seeking to do the most harm with the least amount of effort
S. I. N. G.
That is not a type of “singing” I’d EVER endorse.
It boils my blood. That stupid coincidence-
That is laziness
And inability to feel empathy
Plain and simple.
“Miss Congeniality”
Sandra Bullock
She punches and beats up that man that did NOTHING.
There’s nothing congenial
about targeting someone’s genitals.
And then teased him
And everyone LAUGHED.
Who’s the sociopath now?
Or the SADIST???
If a man punched a woman anywhere
And then taunted her
You would be baying for his blood.
Like lionesses who wolf down dogs cowering
You are not that different.
You’re the same species.
Sheesh.
The Old Home
in the process of becoming.