Best Mayhap Poems
There was a time when I was young,
My cousin Glenn and I,
Did fall in love with one young man,
Whose face and form were fine.
He had a twinkle in his eye,
A movie star like smile,
And it was said we'd walk a ways,
To glimpse his fine profile.
He worked aft school a mile away,
From where we lived back then,
And we decided we'd walk that way,
And mayhap talk to him.
We dressed ourselves and combed our hair,
To look our very best,
To see which one that he might choose,
To be his special guest.
My cousin stole her mother's clothes,
A jumpsuit of bright yellow,
In hopes she'd catch his eye and then,
He'd be her steady fellow.
The one piece suit was very tight.
It looked like she had poured,
Her roundish form into a great,
Big, giant gourd.
She smiled and asked me if I thought,
The suit did show her figure.
She couldn't sit, could hardly walk,
"It could be somewhat bigger."
She didn't care for what I said,
And we set out to walk,
The mile to where "Adonis" worked,
And mayhap watch him gawk,
At two such beauties as we were,
As we set about a drill,
Upon the trampolines where we,
Would show athletic skill.
Glenn was first, she gave a jump,
Into the air so high,
And as she sailed aloft her suit did burst,
I watched the pieces fly.
Like a big yellow balloon it popped,
And flew in all directions.
She hit the ground and screamed and ran.
So much for grace and perfection.
I laughed until I wet my pants,
And so we both lost face.
She hid in the bathroom and tried to pin,
The pieces back in place.
With pins I got at the snack bar,
From Adonis, my face beet red;
For he could see I'd peed my pants.
We both wished we were dead.
I am trying to sleep here; can someone let the world know?
Somewhere the pressure cooker whistles,
Rises in the night air, the smell of pulao rice.
The peddler selling eggs on his final tour,
The ringing of his cycle bell and paddle distinctly heard,
Elsewhere a cat mews, finding a safe spot to rest,
Or mayhap from hunger, I shall know never,
Dogs bark at a ragged man pacing fast,
His sole hanging slippers chatter away against tar,
As he glances at the canines from the corner of his eye.
A weak twig falls off the peepal tree nearby,
On the asbestos, creating a cracking noise,
Unendearing to his ears, the toddler wails,
A rickshaw shifts gears, as I shift sides
The sound of acceleration arrives at my eardrums,
A pillow atop my ears I rest,
An attempt feeble in decibel-arrest,
I am trying to sleep here; can someone let the world know?
I sense the creator is perhaps
The conduit in this conspiracy,
A gentle wind blows,
A pair of unshut windows rattle,
A metal latch dangling beats out-of-rhythm,
The jamun trees rustle, sounding
Like sand falling on tin-sheet,
The sound of roaring cheers
From a cricket match on TV otherwhere,
Triggering the flow of my curse on technology,
At the apartment gate,
A bunch of teens giggle away,
To a cunning joke or a murder mystery,
I wonder in utter dismay.
A medley of noises, of all kinds and creed,
Can someone let the world know, I am desperately trying to sleep.
“ So It Shall Be ”
Aye... then so it shall be...
as faire lass doth so request now o'me.
A'holler so 'twas that o'which she'd asked...
In a where and a how thus thrice deftly masked.
'Tis no need ye'd wont worry...
if'n or not I'd been a bit poorly...
Fer time a'me ownsake moves with a'pace...
only in wait... another well drawn ace.
'Tis this if naught other, that which has been found...
as time for us all doth spin 'round.
A'back to there from whence it began...
'tis all can we encompass in one o'life's span.
Once a'stroll back through time's encapsulated stills...
test, trial or mayhap notion o'will...
as if watched from a'far mine own time's skill.
As oft as not... yet surely at best...
'tis all but to do a'such fondness in jest.
'Twas life that go-round oh so thought merry...
'twas we were those guided by myth sung her fairy.
Yet so 'tis then true as last o'words do be spoken...
'twas all but naught other than token.
For must well be he paid that oarsman o'dread...
When 'tis time for me dreams to be gone o'me head.
SeaWolf
©
The first flame will always be its own.
None can ever mirror it.
A second flame born of the same candle
may be coaxed to life;
but 'twill ne'er be the first.
Go ahead, grab the matches, grab the candles,
everything you need to start that fire.
Light that first flame.
Revel in its fervor, enjoy it while it lasts;
don't be too sad when it burns itself out.
Try to light that same candle, a second time;
if indeed it can be lit at all,
it won't thrill you the same.
Yes, it's still fire; it still mesmerizes,
still creates that heat, and still burns.
But 'twill ne'er be the first.
Now, take a second candle, and put
flint and tinder to that one instead.
Watch it, live with it, savor it -
and when that one too eventually dies down,
riddle me this one question.
That first flame is oft times the fan favorite,
but which, in the end, is truly more precious -
an attempt and mayhap success, at a second,
imitation flame,
or a fresh first, with a different candle?
Make no mistake, on rare occasion that second flame
of a first candle may even be better than the first.
Yet, even were it more ardent than the last,
every single fire is unique -
and some small part of you will always remember that first flame.
Any others may be
more wonderful and fierce,
may be slovenly mimicry,
or may be raw magic in their own right -
but 'twill ne'er be the first.
In blood-washed canyonlands a stallion stands,
soft eyes trained on a fire-hearted mare.
Watching her nervously circle the sands,
prancing forward and back; she weighs out his dare.
He's seen her run, heard her cry out with joy.
She wears her bright soul like her shadow mane.
An arrow of light free from ev'ry ploy -
Fate decreed he'd try if he would stay sane.
What does she think of his strange, silent way?
A rose grown in secret, till it bloomed true.
A gift, mayhap unwanted, brought to day.
Red riddle of romance, asked with no clue.
The stallion stands silent, waiting to see -
will she come to him ... or will she run free?
Don't be such a snob, my friend,
Looking down on others who,
Haven't done single thing,
To cause such pain to you.
Because perhaps they're new in town,
Not part of the social scene,
Or mayhap they're not with it, smart,
Not beautiful, fit and lean.
Perhaps they're just the quiet type,
Mayhap they're just shy.
Maybe they just don't fit in,
No matter how they try.
Maybe they're quite friendly,
The thoughtful type and kind;
But you just won't accept them,
If so you're out of line.
Don't cause problems for someone,
Who hasn't done a thing,
To harm a single living soul,
Or to some life might bring,
Any kind of happiness,
Or any kind of joy,
Just because they don't do things,
The way you might employ.
Put yourself in their shoes,
For once think how they feel.
You'll find they're really not so bad.
It's really no big deal.
Oft times the path we choose in life
Be it the wide or straight and narrow.
We think we're traveling all alone
But God knows of the falling sparrow.
While on this path we oft succumb
To the world and it's sinister ways.
We meet those that we grow to love
In which we share our lonely days.
Together while enduring the valleys
We gaze toward the mountains tall.
Wondering if we'll reach the summit
And who will catch us when we fall?
Mayhap we think of some friendship
That due to path was neglected or wasted.
We do our utmost to reclaim the years
To restore that which once was tasted.
But life is a Smorgasbord of alternatives
So divergent path's, make life, you see.
I pray that if our paths never re-entwine
We've both chosen the one meant to be.
Dedicated to a special friend, Shirlene
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oLCHXfkGOIw
Perhaps if we were to take apart grief as we unravel life
one single moment unstitched pulled out of time
we'd begin to see that death is only a silent passage
and we need not bear the loss alone,
The memories of our coverlet years of love
will drive us home *
Perchance, mayhap, we can take it by the hand like a seer,
"we were born to exist and disappear" said the Mysticeer
and I for one believe that death is the encoding of life;
The silver threads of Mercy are weaved inside God's blanket
big enough to warm each widow, grieving parent, and child
As long as we love well, while we are still here,
death cannot take away our loved ones, nor their time on earth.
In Love And Light, Your Mystic Rose
"Heart sets up vibration echoing wordless intent, mind translates in symbols
the flight of our soul’s ascent ! "
Where does the wind blow through when the soul is having its drink?
Intent on learning, living, giving, receiving, how does it come to glow?
If the stirrings of the soul are mayhap God's way of conferring, lets sink
into the abysses of His love agape and sip from the fountain of His know!
Does ascension of the soul happen while on earth or does it begin up there?
Are we aiming to grow like wild weeds, between the cracks of a sidewalk?
If the waterwheel of life is being turned by an invisible hand from thin air,
then we must be Kenetic energy, just like the water that falls by the clock.
Oh how our lives glow when we choose to take one single step for mankind
Oh how our hearts grow wise as we choose to live through Avian connection
Where does the wind blow through each time we are being loving and kind?
If stirrings of the soul mean ascension then we better give it good direction !
Each of us has one;
each alone may see it,
and none is ever touched these days.
Its content, though, is real enough.
There little blocks of memory
are carelessly assembled,
rudely left by time to gather dust
that filters in to gently cover them--
not quite enough to cause
an aging child to close the lid too soon.
Mayhap a friend who comes to play
will bring along his own to share,
though I would never trade with him.
My blocks are worn; the edges rounded,
and now my hands retrace
the tumbling journey of their history,
those moments of surprise
when blindfolds were removed,
and gushing bursts
of sorrow, sighs and ecstacy
came to me alone.
My toy box is a treasure I may never share.
Storage is no problem; it is always there.
I do not outgrow it, for it comes along with me
throughout this life--beyond I do not know.
The toys are magical, and never change.
And, you know...they are much more
than keepsakes; they are just like life.
In fact, it streams from them
and never mind their age,
it does behoove me now
to give them better care.
So please. I find
I rather love the toys within my box.
Dust or no, I mean to keep them all.
~
The sun was high, the wall was warm, its orange hue'd bricks looked a treat..'
Soon basking there without a care, was Humpty; disposition 'sweet'...!
He didn't sense the untoward....) Yet treachery was afoot
In a silent bound without a sound; the dasterd deed took place,
And all our poets cried, aloud ' who did us such dis-grace?
There were many of the 'souper band' who gathered his shattered shell,
His golden yolk they sadly interred, as heart's did heave and swell..!
Who could the perpetrators be? are the thoughts going around,
Now he lies deep within our portals and thoughts; yet nevermore to rise..'
The days now more drear; to me appear, since this characters demise.
He came from the land of fairy-tales, where fables disport & play
Trusting no harm could befall him here, where talent holds the sway,
Yet some there were, who did him down; who mayhap he'd thought of as friends.?
Now we bid him our true goodbyes, trying not to consider the worst
We should be aware, what happened when from the shadows his killers burst.!
In maudlin verse his tale was told,
Of sailors, ships or captains bold.
Naught for us but fancy seemed,
Thought mayhap 'twas what he'd dreamed.
Of sea or song or adventure grand,
We listened well all us of land.
As wind caressed our mountains old,
In maudlin verse his tale was told.
In hope of journey without end,
We all to him our ears did lend.
Thus we found our hearts he rent,
In maudlin verse our day he spent.
His eyes were clouds upon a sea,
His voice cold wind of yesterday.
We found his tale more a plea,
In maudlin verse so swept away.
To us he spoke of sights so seen,
Of wonders imagined in deepest dream.
Of times of riches or days of lean,
To us his tale real did seem.
As he spoke dark clouds did gather,
Wind once swift now grew slack.
Sky once blue took hue of black,
In maudlin verse his tale he'd rather.
Worlds unknown yet discovered,
Moons above us the while hovered.
Maudlin was his tale that day,
Our very hearts so did he stay.
SeaWolf
©
Some sacrificial fonts are filled
with sanctified water
others overflow with blood and bile
all but for the rose petals camouflage
dare we know the difference
A holy child who in devoice distilled
lest in innocence mayhap confront such sanctimonious alter
collectively strangled by guile
for say not to us such criminal reportage
but prefer to consecrate our ignorance
In dissonance are we worse revealed
and laid sightless to truths encounter
be us then the factious rank and file
conversant only to a fools salted mirage
a dummies page of prophetic words rallying our compliance
When little CJ comes to visit
She asks me for her "colors,"
The bright, fat crayons that "nanna" keeps
In a recycled butter tub.
We share the color book; CJ scribbles
on the left, the crayon squeezed tightly
in her tiny fist.
I color on the right, carefully converting
the puppy outline into a masterpiece
of paper art.
The puppy must have chocolate brown;
The grass and trees need green, of course.
I stay within the lines, modeling correctness.
CJ helps me--smearing first a purple nose
on her kitten's face, trailing to my page
to add a purple splash to the tail
of my puppy.
I never am quite finished
when she decides it's time
to find new pictures and begin again.
I doubt we'll ever finish those we leave behind,
but I haven't the heart to tell her
she might be wasting pages or coloring them wrong.
Mayhap, our lives would be none the worse
for errant purple outside the lines
or a few pages left unfinished.
" Pirate's Kids "
Pirates bein' such the noisy bunch~
'Twouldn't surprise me 'twere true my hunch~
Bein' o'course all Pirates once were kids~
So oft then were findin' better use fer fids~
Linin' ship's decks in such orderly a fashion~
Pots pans & buckets a'taken from the galley~
Kids o'those ships with fids would be thrashin'~
On these collections known then as trap alley~
Now in this day of technology supreme~
Kids o'the kids o'those kids are still seen~
Their decks may be a'ship or even in house~
Yet that fearsome noise still does all crew arouse~
Me now havin' found a great collection of traps~
Does so now imagine if'n a special kid mayhaps~
Who's a kid o'some sailor & so inclined to make noise~
Would he I wonder in such play find his joys~
Black as pearls Polynesian & of Pacific so deep~
'Tis now the color of these traps I then so do speak~
Aye's though a question must be mayhap set aside~
'Til a time when stars apart do no longer collide~
SeaWolf
©