Best Stanton Poems
What's the scariest book you ever read?.. Some Stephen King book like "Salem's Lot" or "The Shinning"?
For me its Kate Millett's "Sexual Politics".. Oh, man.. Now THAT will scare you to death if you're female.
I discovered a man, (overheard) at my church, who actually believes his sex a sign of power, and of superiority..
WHY am I so startled? Some childish trust not yet scrubbed off? - Or worse yet some belief, not yet strangled, in a better world?
See, stupid me, I thought this bill had been paid, by sufferance, by real people like Elizabeth Stanton, Carrie Catt and Martin King.. by entire generations who ran through those tangled woods emerging cut and bruised.. if at all.
What is it like for HIM? I see him eying us, his little inferiors who bleed with the moon, with secret, catlike distaste.. regarding female opinions as slightly impure then, with calm, God like grace, granting the form of servant to assume.
Can I, can we, be forced to accept this inheritance? I don't know..
All I know is that this prejudice, so strangely without substance, strikes me like the duelers lucky thrust robing me of attendant rights and wit.. springs that tender trap of doubt in the future and abandons me to stammering.
All tidy and neat, smelling apple sweet
Life pranced forward in an amazingly great way
Then there was a hiccup, a screech, a slap
Or something else that changed it into a foggy mean thing
For a second but most did not hold a grudge,
Reverting back to the happy joyful way it used to be
Before the event
Not all
Some held onto the hiccup and screech
Wailing and keening
Tearing their eyes out of their faces
To prove the horribleness of the slap
To retain its power
To stop living
And it all happened
Secretly in a subconscious world
Where no one else could go
No longer tidy or neat on
Stanton Street.
The Farmer's Lament
Rooster be crowin' go till your fine soil
Just no damn use for us to be ahidin'
Time now for bloody sweatin' and toil
Laziness, a farmer will never be abidin'
Crops planted,tis sweet rain we need
Hot sun about to start beamin' down
Soil is a cryin', awaitin' its new seed
We get to farmin', sunrise to sundown!
Work! Work! Work!
More food for people we are amakin'
Eating well,kids growin' so strong
Be time later for silly hand shakin'
Work needs the doin' our day is long
Dirt on faces, sweatin' in our hair
Farming calls for pain and workin'
Nobody ever said life would be fair
Hard chores we will never be shirkin'!
Work! Work! Work!
Harvest time,tis our Lord we thank
Split ground, growin' one sure thing
Money be acomin' taken to the bank
We be aworkin',later we shall sing
Bad storms come, bad storms may go
No time for any foolish idle talkin'
Hold ur mouth,good crops will grow
Our backs for breakin',legs for walkin'!
Work! Work! Work!
By Robert J. Lindley, 05-09-2015
Note: Written in my old style.
I decided to crank one out today.
Last night was thinking back to my being raised on a farm..
And how very hard it was on everybody I knew back then!
Old times, written in old style, by an old man....
My tribute to the great poet, Frank L. Stanton, that so influenced me and
wrote in a similar form but on a much, much higher level!
Currently working on a tribute poem dedicated to my friend , fellow poet and immensely talented poetic artist Peter Duggan....
Will post as soon as finished..... taking great and extreme care on this one for obvious reasons...
A Tribute To Frank L. Stanton's - Lazy Chap
Rising Early From My Bed, Close To Noon
I lay about and often just wonder why
others do not rest in the by and by
Any lazy day finds me right in tune
This lazy day sings this month of June
Rising early from my bed, close to noon
stagger into the kitchen none too soon
Eat a full plate of eggs and fried bacon
so true, I am a lazy man never fakin'
Afternoon resting under my favorite tree
I never bother work, work never bothers me
About supper time I wander back inside
if I am late to eat, wife will tan my hide
The meal finished, I turn on big screen set
easy day flowed so well but not done yet
A few beers the wife faithfully brings me
sets my sails and fills my soul with glee
Late night news tells me its time for bed
to lay me down and rest this weary head
Another day will come about ever so soon
I best be ready for that early rise at noon!
Robert J. Lindley, 02 09-2015
note: Frank L. Stanton my favorite poet, a simple man that wrote
beautiful and simple poetry. I have now started to write a few tributes
to his great poetry. My friend Peter Duggan's poem inspired me to
pay homage to my favorite poet before I pass on. Thank you Peter!
She asked me if I had a goal
She asked me if I had
Fantasized
Being the
Hunter
Or
The
Hunted
For
Four
Years
I had crossed and re crossed the big cats tracks
Across a
Riverbed
Always measuring the pace
Speed
Weight
And
Distance of he and i
She said
He has dismissed you
So far
When
He is hungry enough
He will eat you
For four years
I have been doing what I thought was
a
Dance with
The
Lion
She said
No
He
Was only pissing
On your
Footprints
When I reviewed my films
Of the prints over
The years
His over
Mine
Mine
Over
His
I noticed
That there was a slight
Wet line
Over all the
Prints
a
Car
On the road
Somewhere
Ahead of you
Recently
There
But now unseen
Laying
Down
a
Thin
Dark
Fresh
Line
Of
Oil
Just ahead of you
And you know that the engine is dying.
An Old Battlefield , by Frank L. Stanton
The softest whisperings of the scented South,
And rust and roses in the cannon's mouth;
And, where the thunders of the fight were born,
The wind's sweet tenor in the standing corn;
With song of larks, low-lingering in the loam,
And blue skies bending over love and home.
But still the thought: Somewhere,-upon the hills,
Or where the vales ring with the whip-poor-wills,
Sad wistful eyes and broken hearts that beat
For the loved sound of unreturning feet,
And, when the oaks their leafy banners wave,
Dream of the battle and an unmarked grave!
Frank L. Stanton
------------------------------------------------------
My tribute below, to this great man and his fine poem
quoted above.
Where Now Sings The Sweetest Morning Lark
The morning dew falls upon the ground
precious soil, where blood was laid down
Fine men, hearty soldiers one and all
upon this battlefield they did bravely fall
Silence now , no loud cannons booming out
no screaming in an agonizing painful shout
Bullets once whizzed onward to hit their mark
where now sings the sweetest morning lark
Morning mists now wrap the towering hills
where war took so many with senseless kills
Courage so true, could still save no man
not if cruelest Fate had a different plan
Death raced about in the air with glee
sad was every blood soaked dying plea
Of brave men that fought and valiantly died
leaving behind family that forever cried
The setting sun casts a saddened glow
on this once bloody soil covered with snow
No victor's glory can ever stand to replace
these fallen that lost their greatest race
No laurels given at that deadly finish line
no great banquet to celebrate and dine
Only quiet and forgotten memories remain
of this great battle and its bloody stain
Robert J. Lindley, 02-12-2015
Hoss, Hell Ain't Full Yet!
Dark deeds done in dead of night
Eventually, all come to the Light
Watch your step, hedge your bet
Careful, Hell ain't full yet!
Set your excuses completely aside
Evil takes you on a deadly ride
Think, grab all that you can get
Careful, Hell ain't full yet!
Badly mistreat an innocent child
Think, such is nothing but mild
Hoss, that desert just ain't wet
Careful, Hell ain't full yet!
Force a woman to give when she won't
Think, you skate but Hoss, you don't
You'll face a judge you have not met
Careful , Hell ain't full yet!
Steal from others to satisfy greed
Destroy all around like a nasty weed
Think, you get by, your life all set
Careful, Hell ain't full yet!
You murder, take any innocent life
Spread misery, evil seeds of strife
Think, no damn time for any regret
Careful, Hell ain't full yet!
If you murder, steal, lie or rape
Think, a path exists for your escape
A fool's errand , a darkened mindset
Careful, Hell ain't full yet!
Robert J. Lindley, 08-18-2014
note: Inspired by a poem I read long ago
authored by Frank L. Stanton ...
This my original reply to that great poet's
message and poetry form .
The Mocking-Bird
He did n’t know much music
When first he come along;
An’ all the birds went wonderin’
Why he did n’t sing a song.
They primped their feathers in the sun,
An’ sung their sweetest notes;
An’ music jest come on the run
From all their purty throats!
But still that bird was silent
In summer time an’ fall;
He jest set still an’ listened,
An’ he would n’t sing at all!
But one night when them songsters
Was tired out an’ still,
An’ the wind sighed down the valley
An’ went creepin’ up the hill;
When the stars was all a-tremble
In the dreamin’ fields o’ blue,
An’ the daisy in the darkness
Felt the fallin’ o’ the dew,—
There come a sound o’ melody
No mortal ever heard,
An’ all the birds seemed singin’
From the throat o’ one sweet bird!
Then the other birds went Mayin’
In a land too fur to call;
Fer there warn ’t no use in stayin’
When one bird could sing fer all!
by : Frank Lebby Stanton
------------------------------------------------------------
Mockingbird Sings Again -- My answer and tribute!
So sweet were those purty notes
hitting the misery we totes'
floatin' upon nite's sweet airs
vanishing our worries and cares
The other birds went their way
to other lands so very far away
the mockerbird chose to sing on
with all their beautiful songs
With each and every rendition
making beautiful the condition
increasing the beauty of song
singing the day and nite long
Soon the world heard this sound
moon and stars beamed on down
other birds flocked back around
song notes joined sky and ground
Now a melody stirs man's heart
divine poetic notes from start
from a bird singin' and pleasin'
gifted us for a joyful reason!
Robert J. Lindley, 07-28-2014
Thank you Peter. Your poem and tribute to Frank L. Stanton's magnificent
poem (Jest A-Wearyin' Fer You by Frank Lebby Stanton )steeled my resolve to
man up and tackle this which I had previously so feared to do. FACE YOUR
FEAR, MY DAD ALWAYS SAID. I sat down, asked my Muse for her help
and this popped out....
Pulp fiction had nothing on him. He was a man’s man. A protagonist
of his own making, self-reliant, and self-assured. Marlow kept his wisecracks
to the bare minimum when meeting a new client. Dames were not as compliant as they used to be, and they carried their own derringers now.
More dangerous than ten years ago. He leaned back in his chair, enjoying a swallow of nicotine from his favorite cigarette. He had heard this woman was stacked. Mrs. What? He reached for his paper. Mrs. Stanton. She sounded stacked, a real femme fatale. A harsh knock came on his outside door.
not a woman’s knock, and yet, there she was.
“she’s a murderess
This mattered not to him now
Private eye smitten”
Written 4-29-2019
Contest: Pick a title, volume 4 – Haibun
Prompt #2: The private eye and the femme fatale
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Mrs. Stanton
In a little adobe bungalow
On the back of a lot in old El Paso,
Behind cacti and sand in s fantasy land,
Lived Mrs. Stanton, a writer.
Her days were spent among papers and books,
Dressed in calico and pinned white hair,
She hummed and expressed smile and frown,
As she imagined what stories might sell.
A curious next door nine year old
Timidly knocked, hearing her typewriter.
“Hello, dear, will you have tea with me?”
Little Nine stands straight, a “grown-up”
For Mrs. Stanton.
She enters that cluttered paper-filled room
And Mrs. Stanton notes her expressions,
As she bounces a plot or two to little Nine,
Observing her child’s reaction.
Happy days passed as the little girl asked
A million questions of the lady,
Someday she a writer would be
For the love of Mrs. Stanton.
Do you know
about the U.F.O. ?
Have you ever seen
a strange flying machine?
Questions to ask.
Answers that mask
the unknown, the mystery
of otherworld history.
Man cannot fly
was once the cry.
The world is flat.
Now ... imagine that!
Truth you must face
of an alien race
may mean
man is not supreme.
Project Bluebook did not deny
that many strange things over earth can fly.
It only said that none were a threat.
So, after forty years we get
perfect resistance
to explain their existence.
Thanks to Betty and Barney Hill
and Stanton Friedman who still
with thousands of other sighters
remain government fighters
that someday we may all know
the true reality of a U.F.O.
There once lived a lady in Scranton
Named Elizabeth Cady Stanton
She dared to promote
Women’s right to vote,
‘Tis said she threw many a tantrum.
written January 14, 2022
Having been up for thirty six hours;
I went to bed early.
Noting the summer lightning
through closed eyelids
little did I know
how my life was about to change.
The heavy clock was not even
located over my bed.
The very short but violent
rumble going through the valley,
managed to shake it loose.
It fell sideways onto the small shelf
rolling over the headboard,
to land bluntly on my head.
All this was later explained
to me very carefully.
"……… Rod !
Rodney wake up. Rodney - - - !!”
Rodney?, he thought,
Who is this. God, I can’t see.
“Rodney, Listen to me. You have been hurt.
You are very lucky to be here.
You almost died….”and he interrupted.
Who was she? His mother she explained.
Why could he not see. Again, your head is bandaged.
“My mother?” as if the thought just soaked in.
“Yes, your mother………. Martha Stanton.”
Confused he admitted he did not know her.
“And you called me Rodney”?
“I’m sorry it’s all so fuzzy…….as he went back to sleep.”
It went much the same for the next three days.
He woke up each morning to the voice of Mrs. Stanton,
and this morning they were to remove the bandages.
He felt much better physically, not so sore in his neck.
His head, a different story, throbbed steadily.
When the time came the doctor was very delicate
as he snipped, cut, unwrapped and
commented continuously.
They adjusted the room light
and removed the last few wraps around his eyes.
He saw not a soul whom he recognized.
Knowing the only one not in uniform to be his mom,
he turned to her and said, he was sorry.
But he just did not know her.
He then startled the doctor.
”Bring me a mirror - - - -please”,
almost a plea.
They adjusted the light upward and he peered
long and intently at himself.
He saw the tear welling in the corner of his eye,
as he exclaimed, that it seemed today
would be the start of a new life.
For Catie's free verse contest
Stanton Macdonald-Wright
synchronised abstract was his light
Colours of the fragmented rainbow
of his work not many know
As women we still have to fight for what’s ours now a days,
Because some men believe we should still be stuck in the cooking and cleaning type of phase.
Like we don’t have it rough enough living in a mans day and age,
Because when we’re missing is the only time we make the front page.
Having babies while we’re babies and these men not giving a damn.
No job dropped out of school now we depending on Uncle Sam.
No future to look forward too so we look up in the sky.
Church on every Sunday praying and asking God why.
Being a woman isn’t easy especially a strong one with a head on her shoulders
Basically we’re pins in this world and life changed the bowling balls to boulders.
Double standards to the point where man belittle who we are.
Then they take advantage of us until we’re open like a bar.
Emotionally attached to see the finer things in life.
Cady Stanton wouldn’t stand for just being a mans wife.
In 1848 she was one of many who put up a fight.
Picket signs the whole nine battling for women’s rights.
More money in their pockets and they’re taking our jobs.
Then they screw us over twist and turn like we’re just door knobs.
Some men call us out our names then beat us like we’re a slave
Emotional and mental abuse until we can only cave.
We struggle to stand on two feet then they knock us down to one.
When we can’t take it no more we scream it’s over and some are quick to pull the gun.
We let these men take over our lives and control who we are.
No more shinning light because they turn us into a dimming star.
WE work hard to prove our selves every second minute and hour.
Fighting life’s battles and wars and until we obtain uncontrollable power.
Mother’s telling us what doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger.
With all this we have to strength to keep the fight going longer.
As long as we stand up straight and remember any problem can be solved
Because anything is possible when women get involved.