Best Slowness Poems
Great sun, your day is drawing to a marvelous close.
The horizon seems ablaze as you slowly spill into the turning of night.
Tomorrow we shall see your return,
as you stir sleepy eyes and herald the dawn.
Your arrival brings forth the songbird's call.
Though for now, your departure delivers dreams as we wade into the ether
Knowing that you are gone, but not forgotten..
Beautiful stars, we gaze deeply into your brilliance.
The sheet of darkness dances around your perfect placements.
Wishes and wants whispered towards your travels across the silent sea.
Years and tears have you guided all towards that great shore.
As the chariot of morn arrives, for that brief moment of time
The shimmer of your shine is gone, but not forgotten...
Northern winds in your winter wear,
Whistling as you rush across the barren hills.
All have been held in slowness and slumber
You bring forth a trial of man and also the cries for the new.
As gray gives way, to the colors of tomorrow and the warmth of want.
A chapter closes for three, as your distance grows, gone but not forgotten...
For love is a treasure, one which knows no boundary.
Knows not of time, or of chains and constraints.
It is never ending...
We shall shed a thousand layers
We will hold to one another, even as this earthly realm draws apart.
Gone, but not forgotten....TAH
With the incoming sounds of spring, a resurrection of life,
the chilliness flees. Quote _ by Poet
Ready for a new season, Spring birds
Shake off winter; embracing
The bonniest warmness weather,
Babies born, and color of nature's crowns.
Scarlet Tanagers chatter, flying round,
Feasting on caterpillar’s slowness
And beetles boring away that are found;
whilst
Eternal sunlight reft through sturdy limbs
And myriad leaves of the mighty old oak;
Rapid rhythm clatter drum sounds
Of the Woodpecker on its breast shout.
A hum, a garden faintly woo a smile
At song sung by pretty red feather Robin dancing.
A sweet kiss, a seed, the male Cardinal
Feeds his blush pretty mate favor.
Yonder pond, tree boughs
Teasing the water's edge
Whilst
Little Mallard ducklings
Follow mamma to the bank.
Bluebird builds her nest
Right in the heart of the sprouting
Redbud flowering tree.
Camouflage in the red begonia
An orange breasted Oriole
With its sweet enchanting sound.
On the horizon the fire fades out,
Hush around in high perch, tiny roosting
Cold blue moon comes into sight.
2/26/2021
Poetry Contest: Spring Birds
Sponsored by: Constance La France
1
The personal is boring
as are my ruminations on the war.
What I need to do I can't try:
wander without shelter in the backcountry.
Or go deeper into the polity,
join a committee or a party.
Minute by minute and season to season
I like my life but what does it add up to, what reason
to go on? No better than a squirrel
or a spider. Spreadsheets, fake books, girls
I want too mildly, modestly or morally to have.
Can the economy and community be called love?
You can be killed and buried in gravel
Your children can be failed at school and marched to war
You can be taxed and sent to gaol for the honor of it
And there's nothing you can do about it.
Will we find the universe not large enough to hold us?
Will planet after planet be too old for us?
If you were president, what would your program be?
What one question is the key
to another's truth. How do you spend your money?
Do you believe in a god who can see
all and understand? Or is he
unable to care, a different species.
2
We take the long view
that as individuals drop
from sight, new enthusiasts
will associate. Legs
give out, lungs collapse,
but we do not let the circle lapse.
For every Aristotle
there are a million toddlers
who will advance no memorable
theories. But the mist
on trees and mountains,
sunrise over desert, are for
every merchant, traveler.
My sons will take on cares,
which toys are theirs,
as their parents grow
older. Slowness brings us
to our goal: do one thing well.
By that what is meant?
Don't be a dilettante.
Not having found the greatness
of a single, clear description,
definition, the greatness comes in
doing everyday what's known.
The Dawn
The Dawn, with enormous slowness, penetrates
Chasing darkness back behind his gates
Where, displaced, he will a while reside
Forced to retreat before the crimson tide
That creeps across the land until she frees
All from the night, she moves by sure degrees
The orange glimmer runs to thinnest blue
And on to black with ever changing hue
The heavens bow, the stars they disappear
One by one, until the sky is clear
The golden dome erupts and light she spreads
To encourage all to leave their beds
The moon decides it’s time to slink away
Out shone by mornings colour filled array
The welcome lamp arrives to please the trees
The creatures of the day, the flowers, bees
The birds awake and then begin to raise
In raptures to her glory, songs of praise
Once more the spectre of eternal night
She breaks and gives the Earth her wondrous light
Then man knows best his insignificance
Looks on in awe at her magnificence
Alone he stands upon this modest hill
And prays she comes each day
And always will.
I went to my high school reunion:
I wasn't sure what to expect.
Would those we once held so high
Retain our aged respect?
High school cliques had disappeared;
our hearts at last included all.
We understood, as our days grew short,
our differences must grow small.
The grey in our hair and slowness of step,
were the trophies of our days:
The wars we fought, the triumphs shared,
the loves lost while finding our ways.
Ups and downs and sideways of life
had been etched upon every face.
The joys and laughter and sadness
had given each an uncommon grace.
The reunion was nice, but I had learned
you really can't go home again
We were no longer those high school mates
Waiting for sixth period to end.
Friends remain pearls, diamonds the tears
but it's strangers we've become.
Faded photographs in a dusty box,
reminders that once we were young.
Lord, hear my prayer,
Get me rid of my diabetes,
listen to the little birds,
Who sing when the street lamps light up,
listen to the tram driver,
which carries so many people incapable of loving,
hear my prayer, Lord,
listen to the high school girls who make up
Before solving equations,
Get rid of the young drivers
Whose testosterone holds the wheel,
Get rid of people who ignore the slowness,
Offer me sunsets in Australia,
Lord, hear my prayer,
and my day will be better.
We all need sun, O white pulp
Pineapple and soft light, mango
Me first, then the policeman, then Solène,
We need a long Brazilian nap,
in Bahia or on the fine sand of Copacabana.
The tanned skins are full of secrets,
Vitamins, pulp and sunsets
The tanned skins know our defects,
The erotic dreams, you liked so much,
I pray my Sweet that the time amazes you,
We all need sun, O white pulp
Pineapple and soft light, mango
Lyonnais as Parisians with glasses, need it
Acidulous slowness and charming apricots,
Come on, friend, let’s go to Brazil.
On a tous besoin de soleil, O blanche pulpe
D’ananas et de lumière douce, de mangue
Moi le premier et le gendarme, puis Solène,
On a besoin d’une longue sieste brésilienne,
à Bahia ou sur le sable fin de Copacabana.
Les peaux tannées sont remplies de secrets,
De vitamines, de pulpe et de couchers de soleil
Les peaux tannées connaissent nos défauts,
Les songes érotiques , vous ont tant plu,
Je prie ma Douce que le temps vous étonne,
On a tous besoin de soleil, O blanche pulpe
D’ananas et de lumière douce, de mangue
Les lyonnais comme les parisiennes à lunettes,
De lenteurs acidulées et de charmants abricots,
Viens l’amie, embarquons pour le Brésil.
“I can't get no satisfaction, I can't get no girl reaction
'Cause I try and I try and I try and I try“
(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction by The Rolling Stones
NO SATISFACTION
Relinquishing clothes, unrestrained except for those
blankets that keep us, until our skins warm, underneath.
Tingling so close, there’s a rapture in magnetic attraction.
Mussing with hair, touching his whiskers, the slowness
of lips draped, the parting of their waves, the tongues
talking without words, unexplained beauty. Breaths, beats
forgotten, mind elsewhere attracted, until the peak of
winterscape, where the wind moans, the wolf howls,
the thunder of stallions’ throes, damp sheets in flames.
Head looks to God
with eyes closed
Smiles on the ground
beneath muscular riptide
Knees no longer ache
Arms prepared to lumberjack
Dreamy eyes
flutter
Brunettes’ hair askew
Blanketed cool flesh
No satisfaction explained away
rock’n roll our way
11/2/2020
Only birds know,
The Nature of Time,
The merle, the seagulls,
Everyone knows her,
The snail also knows
The nature of time,
Slowness is very useful,
The beautiful deer, too
know this nature,
He mates every season,
The elephant also knows
The nature of time, which passes,
He controls his power,
The turtle doesn’t like it
Let us have manners,
She’s nodding her head,
The butterfly, finally
Knows his misfortune,
His days are numbered.
Only the man runs after Time.
hell fire desires running wild
like a passion driven hot rod with burning tires
scorching licks of frenzied lust
whip raw touches that spontaneously self combust
pressurized slowness yielding euphoric smoke with every thrust
finger flicking flickery teasing and pleasing pink pleasures
peeping erotic natures in search of lost wet treasures
hardy hints of intense mixed sexual scents
resurrects the untamed within to go instinctively hell bent
standing tall like a hairy savage walking erect
smooth cruise control piston pumping action
X-rated planet transmitting listen to deep space orgasmic satisfaction
naughty nude bodies being slapped by massive tide waves of ecstasy
forever love fantasies pulverized into countless particles
and scattered across the endless galaxies
extreme tenderness under a ripe mythological moon
indulge on each others spirits using a soul stealing spoon
They always made me happy,
The camels of the wise men,
The slowness of their footsteps,
Their self-sufficient ben.
Camels meant there was time,
For the three wise men to think,
To ponder upon their task,
To review their role as a link.
They were required to assess,
The child to be called god’s son,
To see if he could be a doctor,
To the poor, and to be the action.
Mary and Joseph were important,
To their question of universal worth,
So they prepared themselves well,
With questions surrounding his birth.
They understood that environment,
Is a factor in child development,
So endeavoured to contextualise,
The place of the baby’s commencement.
They predicted they’d be rejected,
By townsmen all along the way,
Spat at, maybe jousted with,
By loitering agitators arbitrarily.
Especially at the door of the inn,
There’d be jesters and jostlers alike,
People shouting “Don’t go there!
Avoid them, and get on another bike!”
And equally importantly, with respect,
They thought of their theology,
That their own actions may be vital,
To improving others’ sociology.
They considered their belief,
In an immanently coming messiah,
And renewed their vow to choose,
A protege who would take us higher.
So by the time they reached the inn,
They were very much prepared,
They could talk to each other freely,
About the saviour that’d been blared.
And the camels facilitated all this,
Preparation and consideration,
And gave the magi their pondering,
Upon seeing the configuration.
They enabled this baby to thrive,
Gave his family his manifestation,
And felt spent entirely at their visit,
Worn out by careful deliberation.
In the late 1970s I was a bricklayer, and for about half a year we worked in a new housing allotment along a state highway in Ohio. There were towns in the area, and a small city about 10 miles away, but at the time this was still countryside. 15 or 20 of the houses had their lots right on the highway, and across the road was a cemetery. As we worked, we could see all the traffic going along the road.
One guy we saw every day. He was a small man, an older man, though it was hard to say if he was in his 50s, or 60s or even 70s. In the early afternoon he'd come down the road, and turn into the cemetery. After a time - usually about an hour - he'd leave, and this was 7 days a week, regardless of weather. The easy guess was that he was visiting his dead wife's grave.
He sat absolutely still in the car, and the car made almost no sound. It was a small, light Plymouth or Chrysler, colored gray. Must have had a small, smooth engine - you could hardly hear anything. He always wore a hat, a light tan color, and his shirts were light gray or off-white. He drove slowly, staring straight ahead. That's what I really remember about him, the sense of slowness, quiet, an almost infinitely light touch upon the world.
I love your gentleness,
How your hands
Move like early Spring...
When you kiss me,
It is as if I am a dandelion;
All delicate spider-web
Gossamer threads and
Finespun silk fragility-
Your fingers on my cheek
Feel like the spring thaw,
As if I am ice only just
Learning how to move
Like water again...
When you kiss me,
It is with all the warmth,
The tender slowness,
Of early morning sunlight-
When you kiss me,
It is as if I am nearly
As insubstantial as sunlight...
But eventually even a dandelion
Wants to be blown away-
When a frozen waterfall meets
The Spring thaw, it does wake
Slowly, soft as Sunday morning-
It rises up like a roar, plunging
Down through space until
It is pounding like a heartbeat
That never stuttered for
Even a moment-
The seasons can teach you
That sunlight is anything but
Insubstantial;
It is heat and passion and
Faster than the sound
Of the shifting winds gasping
To keep up...
I love your gentleness,
How your hands
Move like early Spring...
But sometimes I wish
That you would kiss me
Like late Spring-
I want you to kiss me
Like a dandelion on the wind,
Like a waterfall waking up,
Like sunlight burning through
The dawn like passion;
I want you to surround me
And beat down hard like an
April rainstorm- to breathe
Me like petrichor and hold me
Like raindrops clinging to
Blades of grass, like raindrops
Soaking into the ground
Until there is no closer...
I want you to make me
Feel like I'm coming to life.
Lights come up slowly to reveal a bare stage, undressed except for a backdrop on which is
painted the impression of an orchard; the painting is so light that it suggests a
water-colour. Two men enter, a young man dressed in a plain white robe, the BARD, and a
considerably older man dressed in a robe of six colours, the DRUID. They walk slowly to
STAGE CENTER, the slowness indicative of the older man' advanced years and the younger
man's respect for him.
BARD: Must the actor always play a role?
DRUID: What is an actor?
BARD: Must the actor always play a role, even off stage?
DRUID: The apple trees look sore tired this season. I've no longer the strength to prune
them properly.
BARD: Oh. Aye, aye. (Pause) What of the actor's contention that we are all actors, that
all intercourse whether within the dyad, the community, or merely with ourselves 'tis but
an act?
DRUID: Who put the words in the actor's mouth? The 'wright?
BARD: I think it was extemporaneous, miLord. (Pause) It was an improvisation class.
Her screaming
Yet somehow i managed to see her death in my mind
Just to be reunited with him
I curled and rolled in bed
Missing and wishing
Crying and regretting
Stupid girl, some girls never learn
Repeating same mistakes over and over
Yet i lay there motionless
Unable to hear the beat of my heart
I had to check
Anxiety, emptyness..
I needed something but i didn't know what
I needed to escape but i didn't know where
I needed out of this body
I needed God
I had to check my spirituality
When was the last time i felt Him
Working in me
I've been so disconnected
Somehow my world feels unbalanced
I am so worried
It's killing me
My health is killing me
Mental health
Here comes the frequent topic again
The one thing that is now defining those close to me
I look at us and i see anxiety, depression, abuse and addictions
All those combined
All those at once is a recipe of the obvious disaster
Maybe am alone too much
Or maybe i shouldn't observe too much
Maybe i should just close my eyes and listen to the slowness of my heart beat
That always worries me
And instead of thinking of it and other things
I should just focus on the inner strengths
Those tiny fibers in there that haven't been tainted
Those little wires in there that can still fire a positive atom
Like today i thought of giving up on poetry
I feel so tired, am no longer interested
It's the same stories all the time
If it's not love it's dark, if not dark its sad, if not sad then maybe some happiness
Same stories just told differently
Nothing new
Maybe i should just take the antidepressant and call it life
If i have it, i have it
If i don't have, then i can't force it
Or should i wait for the breakdown
And then check myself in...so sure people will talk...a psych..place
Because i know it so well
Maybe i don't, it's my mind
It's the worrying...i think i inherited it
It's the sugar...i can't control myself
Yet i know the imminent danger
It's the fear of love
It's the fear of being loved
It's an emotional battle that i never win
It's wanting to hide but also wanting to be seen
It's wanting to be held but also wanting to be shunned
Can't please it
I don't know me