Best Moran Poems
Gussie Moran, a tennis star,
Created quite a stir
When she wore lace-trimmed underwear,
Created just for her.
In 1949 this was,
On Wimbledon’s staid courts;
The British folk were scandalized,
According to reports.
Designed by Teddy Tingling,
A tennis pro and Brit,
The all-white skirt (above the knees!)
Had newsmen in a snit.
They said she brought “vulgarity”
And even, more so, “sin”
Into a sport that prior
Only let the proper in.
Along with her obit, there was
A photo of her wearing
These very clothes; to us, today,
They’re anything but daring.
But bravo to this fearless gal!
Her charms she did assert
When she gave fans at Wimbledon
A shock beneath her skirt.
There was a lady that I once knew
She met her love she felt was true
He carved their initials into a tree
As she leaned closely on his knee
Trouble in paradise soon they learned
When her initials he wanted to burn
Her middle name he did not know
Until on the tree he wanted to show
Her initials spelled a body part you see
For her name was Linda Elaine Greene
When he burned it into the tree
He was concerned exactly what would be
When also carved his name into the tree
His name spelled a body also you see
For his name was Armond Raymond Moran
Now what was seen Leg Loves Arm so he ran
Form:
Lurking in my darkened mind, hatred strains
for freedom...incarcerated by sanity...ever
seething, bleeding, clawing at chains,
locked by my hand. It will sever
my soul if the key
escapes from me.
Nestled in my hidden eye, my heart cries
with such pain...adorned in white...hushed,
deep, unseen, cringing from all eyes,
protected by my wrath. It will be crushed
by Christ if I expose
myself to the murderous blow.
I walk upon a virgin sea, dawn's light
upon my hair, the breeze my breath,
the sun my smile, the sands my treasure, God my might,
the rain, my tears...life my death.
I know not me.
I know not Thee.
Patricia Langston-Moran
I am gazing - out the window,
And I see an Ivy, climbing to the sky,
I see Humanity walking by,
My window,
I don't see love.
I see seeds upon the ground - dead.
Seeds of justice.
I see a child holding ragged little arms up
to Mother,
and another,
Walking in proud hatred.
I see love passing by, walking into darkness
Of death, awaiting in time.
Aged weariness just befell my eye...beaten...
Hoping for elation of death.
Walk on...walk on.
I see a dog in playful ignorance,
Loving the Master, and the Master
In wisdom, painfully loving back.
I await eve- and night falls, entering my door -
I wonder...tomorrow will I see more...
From my window?
Patricia Langston-Moran
Erin Moran has died at the age of fifty-six.
She was special and a credit to all chicks.
She was adorable when she starred as Joanie Cunningham.
When a person dies that young, it's always hard to understand.
I learned about her death on Facebook and it made me feel bad.
When we learned of her passing, it was tragic and so very sad.
She had a wonderful figure and good looks.
When we watched her on Happy Days, we were hooked.
She died too young and her death has devastated her fans.
Sadly, we have to say goodbye to the talented Erin Moran.
[Dedicated to Erin Moran (1960-2017) who died on April 22, 2017.]
I watch myself before
This great mirror
Of the global village;
I am nolonger wearing
The blood-shot eyes of the moran-
The sun shines in my eyes,
And an enigmatic smile flames like
A promising dawn
On the threshhold of dusk;
From this great face too,
Rises the dawn in
A halo of flames.
I feel for gentle hearts in this loud world,
Ever suspect, dismissed and derided,
For long has been the shy a songless bird,
That Darwin dismissed as ‘odd state of head’,
Jane Austin gave shyness a broader scope,
Calling it a ‘moral, mental disease’,
And Freud, his fame fending for men no rope,
With sub-conscious cladding, a twist of his
That smelt of ‘displaced love of self-scored goals’,
A simple disposition framed as law,
Oh poking fun and scoring birdie holes,
In matters straight, cobwebs of gauze he saw,
And sensitive violets were on blame,
Poor things, shrunk with self-deprecating shame.
Violets shrunk with disparaging shame,
And shyness drawn from society’s unease,
Scarce unto standard mould can ever squeeze,
O get condemned— a jade that could be gem.
Though sensitive nigh to a gawking gaze,
Here am I basking still in benign bliss—
A shy soul, they say, more inventive is,
And tolerant the more to worldly ways
That mistake plane shyness as being cold,
Aloof, and worse still, somewhat arrogant,
And value those that be loud, neddless bold,
I’m happy now that they were ignorant.
Let critics bask under ill-informed bliss,
I marvel, how creative this bird is.
Creative, this touch-me-not kind of bird,
Or call it a flower called violet,
An introvert of an easy mind-set,
One blessed with fecund skills, a bit absurd—
Skills lacked by too talkatively inclined,
While some greats confess to ‘fainting with fears’
Ere giving speech to some so-called speakers,
Some loners lack the skills called social kind.
I know, shyness has no one ever hurt,
But self that feels cosy under own skin.
Let shyness stay forever verdant green,
Let it never make me an extrovert,
That I live in my own solitude proud,
Innovative, gentle in world so loud.
_________________________________
Two recent books set my thinking bird brooding over bashfulness: The Man who mistook his Wife for a Hat, by Oliver Sacks; and Shrinking Violets: The Secret Life of Shyness, by Joe Moran. These books advocate that the shy should get a better deal, for they tend to be more creative. Here is the why: musing over, these three sonnets (crown of…) materialized that made me feel a bit elated.
Crown of Sonnets | 01.03.2017 |
I stood quiet, regal...in timeless innocence,
arms touching the sky, bent in the wind.
Sun caressed my limbs...my life was dense
and sheltered by Nature...never to end.
I nestled birds close to my breast,
shaded the earth...with gentle care.
Rain bathed my limbs...I was caressed
by night, and I knew no despair.
Footsteps approached my ageless shade,
a man and woman...I thought to rest.
Sun sparkled upon the shining blade,
the approaching death of my bequest.
The blow was struck deep to my heart,
seeking to take my soul and breath,
and strike me down...I would depart
life...to the darkness of eternal death.
I stood hard against the angry blows,
and sought to know the reason why,
my gentle life had gathered foes,
who held desire to watch me die.
I did not go gently into the dark demise,
alone, unloved, without pain and fear,
for standing by, the woman's eyes,
held sorrow, and a soft sweet tear.
Patricia Langston-Moran
Animal kingdom was invited to join the forest meadow
Band orchestrated by the deniable dictator, diabolical gorilla king
Causing loads of premature bragging from delighted grand-animals.
Deliriously enthusiastic orangutans began to show off their voice prowess.
Excited flocks, herds, and murders flooded to the pre-set sign up spot.
Furiously signing up offspring, and occasionally a non-mothered village orphan.
Giraffe’s heads appeared beside the treetops, sticking out willy-nilly.
Haphazardly, eagles, owls, and songbirds sat among the leafy, sparkly greening branches.
I was smoothly hidden high in the Sycamore tree with a few cardinals.
Jealous zebras began stomping and spitting, thinking they were not going to get their “due”.
Kind mother opossum tried in vain to do a little conflict mediation, wanting unity and peace.
Lackadaisical sloth took a seat in the branch ten feet above my head, making my branch shake.
Maestro Moran, the appointed organizer, a giant Mammoth gave out assigned places.
Newly arriving animals began choosing partners; not realizing band is solitary.
Old Timer Orangutans began donating band equipment they no longer used, mikes too.
Puma is not invited Brother Bear yelled, stating that Puma always caused trouble in night class
Quintessential beaver suggested we give baby Puma a chance and a few agreed.
Raccoons who disagreed began slapping each other upside the head, like the three stooges.
Sh! A few animal mothers began to hiss. Few of us heard them, as they were not loud enough.
Too many were speaking to hear, and animal chaos seemed to be the order of the day.
Unification nowhere in sight, I stayed put, hoping I was fully hidden. The Zebras were still grumbling.
Very intelligent leaders assess things quickly, and Maestro Mammoth was no dummy.
“Walrus, wolf, toad, and beaver will pick out instruments for students first through 6th,” he announced.
“Xylophones for all of the kindergarten students.” Cheers went all around the forest meadow.
Yippee for the music teacher! Someone yelled. I am not sure if it was a wolf or an orangutan.
“Zebra’s choice!” Maestro announced. Band practice had begun!
THE MORAN
Dreadlocks running down his shoulders
So red to pass for a bloodbath
But traditional beauty veins deep
My brother the great Moran
His eyes black with strange look
Not fear but ready to strike
His white teeth gives bright smile
My brother the great Moran
Too strong to carry loads and kill
Black strong arms ready to crush
Broad dark haired chest indeed healthy
My brother the great Moran
Up high they jump across the air
Brown traditionally beautified legs
Keep off track lest they pass for metal rods
My brother the great Moran
The white beaded shield always at arm
The long spear his weapon his hunt
The lion smell him the deer he feast on
My brother the great Moran
Its not bedtime don’t query the sheets
They make his clothing hide his nakedness
Two birds with one stone, they serve purpose at night
My brother the great Moran
I have a companion
in my house
who doesn't talk,
eat, drink or move
No, don't think it's
an apparition
or a television....
....don't think it's
my rusty-aged bicycle
that's about to head
to the recycle
plant.....
Yes, it's my Maasai
Moran sculpture,
beautiful in nature!
Though I eat, drink,
laugh, think and dream,
my companion's
smile gleams
with radiance that
will last throughout its
sculpture life
A smile that will never
in any single age
turn into a frown,
solemn or angry expression
A smile that
always will be
as steady as the Sun,
and as dazzling
as a rainbow
enveloping a waterfall....
NB: Published in my book, "Painting of Life in Poetry"
I must be mad...I wonder
if ants get tired as the weight of a
crumb bears down upon them...
for survival.
I wonder if dogs think...I wonder
if houses weary of their occupants.
I must be mad...I wonder
if houses weary of their occupants.
I must be mad...I wonder
if trees yearn to move - or do they
never long to stretch their roots...
See a city.
I think too much - abstract thought
that gives life to a rock.
A flower is more than
an ornament to a vase...
Perhaps I think of ants and trees and
dogs because they are so quiet.
A tree never kills...
The ant carries a crumb
never complaining.
Yes, I must be mad.
Patricia Langston-Moran
I wish I were a child again - I would
tell my mother how important things are,
Things like hot chocolate on a cold night,
mud pies in the sun, learning how to skate,
I wish I could wish - as a child should,
and blow out a candle on a cake, have a cookie jar
in the kitchen filled with good things" bright
curtains letting the sun in, a white fence, a gate.
I wish I were little again - and I would
tell my father to smoke a pipe, sit in a big chair
and hold me on his lap, tell me a story,
and throw me up in the air, play games with me.
I would go back - if only I could,
and wish I had a father and mother to care
about the important things - the glory
of childhood is
Being a Child.
Patricia Langston-Moran
Love freezes within broken hearts...
Remains tall, insurmountable - an
Iceberg against the cold sky,
Never melting,
Never growing.
A benigh tumor lying dormant
Between Heart and mind.
Seeking a warm touch
To transform it to flowing
Water
Love only touches love.
Patricia Langston-Moran
The weaving, sightless fingers of time
Reach out to touch my relentless climb
Toward peace.
Coldly winding round the warmth of youth's peak
Shading the sunlit road I walk as I blindly seek
Silent peace.
The mountain is touching a star.
Time whispers to me - it is too far.
Rainbows fade as I race toward the end,
Universes wither with age as I ascend
Toward peace.
The fingers tighten now - I stand before a gate
viewing one small splinter of a cross - too late -
For peace.
Patricia Langston-Moran