Best Storied Poems
Standing here in the mind of mine
passing through and over the time
pulling out thoughts sublime:
sorrow, hate, pain, joy, love, sanity--
all the mold character of my humanity;
On the outside, my African character is evident
despite the imprinted middle passage incident,
and on the inside, I'm American born and bred...
child of the black bent backs of the ancestral dead...
still here in the land of the other misnamed: called red;
Memories are like a flowing meadow's storied river--
meandering, undulating, and splashing out to sea--
seeking to reunite with and become one with the Giver
who molded us all...making you and creating me;
N*****, slave, colored, *****, African-American,
is what they chose then and now to call mine and me
but like the river flowing to the sea, I'll decide who to be--
here in the land of the Brave, I'll be an Ameri-African man;
not your beast of burden slave--sweat and blood for the land.
Africa is...America is...and I am of no need
of an explanation;
standing in the life-long memories of the nature
of my exploitation,
and realizing I no longer need to be a footnote*
in his-story
but a complete sentence in the boldface truth
of our-story!
*(If I was them and they were us)
(and I did to them what they did to we,)
(would that not be reciprocity)
(from the true tribe of the exodus?
The former MVP pawned his very last ring
like the others, it had begun to sting
Bittersweet memories of his storied swing
that for a decade had made him King
He'd hit home runs in every park
high-arcing 'rainbows' his pet trademark
Now resting quietly in a subway dark
he rattles his cup, his rags pock-marked
I am your lord and savior,
Holding thy life in the palm of my hand,
Heed my words and know I am not kind,
I shall excuse your despicably free behavior,
And teach you to die by my stern command,
For that is the way of the respectably defined.
He was my lord and savior,
And thus he shaped my life with the palm of his hand,
To avoid such fury I obeyed and followed in kind,
I found excuses for my callously free behavior,
And learnt to die by stern command,
For that is the way generations are confined.
Moving throughh each sample she
employed a various range of sound.
Her voice moved through each octave
with her concern to how she
sounded.Rushing through each
phrase choring
to make them rhyme: one noted of
the recitive nature and how
the composition was laborious
and unkind.To the advancement of
the scheme I discovered
the plot. A story of a wishful lover:
who labored more
where others had not. An expression to
make story of then to be put to song.
A man wished to love a woman:
who would
chore to get alone.Those who saw
the drama and
but refue to provide the scripts.
Those who would
rather be audeince to the classic
script. Or those
would speak these characters in the
order might
they marry and be one. Or those
who who are
happiest to make two into one.
Standing here in the mind of mine
passing through and over time
pulling out thoughts sublime:
sorrow, hate, pain, joy, love, sanity--
all the mould character of my humanity;
On the outside, my African character is evident
despite the imprinted middle passage incident,
and on the inside, I'm American born and bred...
child of the black bent backs of the ancestral dead...
still here in the land of the other misnamed: called red;
Memories are like a flowing meadow's storied river;
meandering, undulating, and splashing out to sea,
seeking to reunite with and become one with the Giver
who moulded us all...making you and creating me.
N*****, slave, coloured, *****, African-American,
is what they chose then and now to call mine and me
but like the river flowing to the sea, I'll decide who to be
here in the land of the Brave, I'll be an Ameri-African man;
not your beast of burden slave—sweat and blood for the land.
Africa is...America is...and I am of no need
of an explanation;
standing in the life-long memories of the nature
of my exploitation,
and realizing I no longer need to be a footnote*
in his story
but a complete sentence in the boldface truth
of our story!
*Imagine this for me: if I was them and they were us and I did to them what they did to us, would that not be reciprocity from the tinted true tribe of the exodus?
In storied old ages,
He lept off the pages.
He lived on the waters;
His story engages.
Though was not intended,
His legacy ended.
He had only daughters;
His name, time rescinded.
No sons were begotten;
His seed, some said, rotten.
He slept with his fathers;
He soon was forgotten.
He lived on the waters.
He had only daughters.
In storied old ages,
He slept with his fathers.
----------
Experimenting with the Rubaiyat (aaba) by taking the 'b' from the first three stanzas to form a fourth stanza, using the first line of the poem for its 'b' line.
Kind of interesting...
...dead mice thus far do gnaw, splintered mirrors
neck and rubber yet with scant regret.
Ropes both for hanging and climbing, good grief,
bad love, honey-do-dew in a salty brew.
In my closet, pockets unpacking pockets,
string bags under closed eyes,
eulogies for the living etched on wet lips and
kitchen towels. Owls as mute as hollow urns
turn to cry their mournful why’s.
One horror story lives forever much chewed over
by skeletal moths and stray cats.
The edge of IF, the pots of peeled moonlight
guttering in a midsummer dunk, these glad me not,
yet are kept like the pickled smiles of saucy women.
In my book of lies there are truths still worth distorting,
times killed by a compulsive retelling,
fields plowed over too long
where the dead are uncovered only to dance again
on the graves of long reclining martyrs.
The drunken gallimaufry of games left unfinished,
works slackened and sent unfixed back to the
depths from which they came. The unclaimed, reclaimed
and the unnamable named.
Yet here I am, the one person, this golden spark
in a potash smutter, still blinking my way,
a mite of light twinkling its merry pip and squeak,
while majestic wings hover
to grab up my rash stash of self, and I say:
yes let them yes come, and god help those wings.
Desiccated mice thus far do gnaw shreds of scant regret.
Good and bad love, honey-dew in a salty brew.
In my closet, pockets unpack pockets,
bags billow under closed eyes,
eulogies for the living etched on wet lips and
kitchen towels. Owls turn to cry
their mournful ‘why’s’, more kitchen towels
to mop tear stained flops.
One horror story lives on, much chewed over
by skeletal moths.
Pots of peeled moonlight inhabited creaking lungs,
their beams slowing curdling.
I still store a few pickled smiles for saucy women.
In my book of lies there are half-truths worth more distorting,
fields plowed over far too long,
fallow earth where the dead are uncovered
only to dance again on the graves of the long entrenched.
Those drunken gallimaufry of games left unfinished,
great works that now slack and dodder, sent unfixed
back to the soured whirlpools from which they sprang.
Yet here I am, this spark in a potash of smuts
a mite of light twinkling its merry pip and squeak,
while majestic beings hover
to grab up my rash stash of tawdry self;
and I say:
Yes let them come, and god help these,
my patched and paltry wings.
Isn't it amazing how two real lovers
Can read each others thoughts
Every nuance, every twist of a phrase
The other can surely spot
Really a sign of a very deep passion
No matter where you look
Where the bond is as strong as forever
Love they write about in books
What makes an affair so solid so true
Without ever a hint of betrayal
Could it be these lovers were destined
For a love that's storied and fabled
In my thoughts every single moment
A complete mastery of my soul
No one's ever captured my heart like this
Your love has made me whole
© Jack Ellison 2014
Nature
Appears as
Everything..
There's
No end to
Everything..
Not one
Or many
Things..
No thing
At all..
Nature's
Storied
Beauty...
Bygone recollected reflections while perched atop storied roof...
years gone by now with a poof
constituting one garden variety generic goof
bolle yours truly sprawled himself aloof
The celebrated sailing frog
from Montgomery County
went a court'n, or so the tale iz toad
to a grand ole mansion built around 1910,
and e'en 'pon
being razed ~2012 ah no dummy
sea worthiness still plainly showed,
twas February 28th, 1968,
when my father
bought the house at 324 Level Road
majority thrice score plus deux years,
rush back with unfettered exuberant zeal
this aging elf spent psalm tranquil
May days sung sotto voce
atop memorialized, prized,
shingled out, ship-shape valued,
venerated, vip voted faux vulgar demesne
"Glen Elm" named private
100+ acre wooded common weal
many a pitch perfect spring day
found yours truly
frankly basking atop the spacious roof
oft times begging the cosmic force
irrationally lyft ting this Earthlinked bing,
this uber dreamer (uplyfted Dharma) bum
willingly taken with "poof"
(magic amazing dragons)
presuming my absence,
would not be missed and whereabouts
no cause for alarm,
but the usual antics of a contemplative goof
ball, and aware
a minor for hair (Sunkist) gold
Helios innocently beckoned,
this then sole Sol tanned
within the solar raised fold
surrendering while atop
the multi acred roof where any cold
melted away, whence became bathed
like a bronze statue of auld.
Zip pose zing the weather forecast
donned wafted air
fragrant with flowered flora
visibility for miles
if ether crystal clear,
this high da way countless yards
off the ground presented flare
approximating pristine floral display
with powerfully poignant immunity
against cackling, jeering, scowling,
parents or other nemesis with glare
ring (smoke emitting nostrils),
an idyll escape for this heir
to the throne of the mountain king,
(lion share of original tract
kept by Donald Neilson empire)
this make believe verdant submerged lair
unwittingly left a gaping hole,
when Gambone Brothers
industrial machinery voraciously
made clean sweep,
without a trace of former imp pier
real resilient stately structured heart
of "Glen Elm" could no longer rear
the well built “grand Etta face dame”
helplessly, holistically humbly
brought to her knees (gory detail aye will spare),
nonetheless more than one pearl jammed shaped tear
trickled down chafed
sad reddened cheeks,
whose head must veer
away asper thine subsequently
blotted out never never never land
eclipsed by transient rubble,
thence vinyl city (dis) graced sacred space,
no doubt a great ache,
when Saint Nick sought
sought in vain for
324 Templed throne everywhere!
The storied "I"
Is the I
The only I
And cannot be known..
Yet life seems to be
Attempt after attempt
To find a hint of truth
About the storied I...
In my deaf and time-closeted
pockets unpack pockets,
string bags hang under the closed eyes
of all-seeing watchers.
Eulogies for the living
are etched on wet lips and kitchen towels.
Owls as mute as hollow urns
turn to flute their mournful why, what,
and who’s.
The edge of IF, is most hard to see;
‘if’ is a lobster pot full of moonlight
woven to waylay and trap the long drowned.
Gutters coughing in a midnight summer
these glad me not,
yet are kept like the sly smiles of devilish women.
In my book of lies
there are truths still worth distorting,
times killed by a compulsive retelling,
fields plowed over too long
where the dead are uncovered
only to dance again on their own graves.
The drunken gallimaufry of head-games
left unfinished
pace back and forth,
yet here I am, the one person,
still blinking my way through a black-light sky,
while majestic wings hover over
to grab me up;
yes let them come,
for all glad gods have wings.