Best Sturdiness Poems
I see that acacia tree
and I get vacuumed back to the past.
When we both had
a different type of light in our eyes,
with the reflections of that clear brook
evident in our irises,
where we thought that the
sun only revolved around us, and us alone.
We thought we knew better,
or did we?
Did we truly know anything at all?
My heart gurgles a bit,
as it chokes, bleeding on memories...
I am beside myself,
and I look so stupid,
hugging that tree,
a lifeline to what was.
I envy that tree, for its sturdiness,
its roots being so deep-seated,
so much unlike us,
easily broken, swayed, uprooted.
I loathe that tree,
for it still blooms,
blushing with its bright pink flowers
so delicate-looking and beautiful.
So unlike myself.
I feel ugly now. I actually am.
With hate and guilt eating at me from my core,
how could I not be?
I am rotten.
I am corroded.
From the looks of it,
I seem to have drunk from that
brook (now polluted), ingesting the trash
strewn there
I just never knew how much filth there was.
I am not infallible.
I thought you were.
But I was wrong. Dead wrong.
You tried to pull me up, but
became too heavy for you...
I dragged you down with me,
so deep, too deeply
that I had to bury you.
Along with my heart and soul,
which have both turned into stone.
I am stoned.
Yes, I feel so heavy,
so heavy I wish someone
would bury me,
throw me in the sea
so I could sink to the bottom and be forgotten.
Or better yet,
is there a magic pill
being sold somewhere
that can make me go back—
Start all over
and do things over?
What I would give
to recapture that light,
to have you back
but I know it is too late.
You’ve gone already.
Left me...
Or so I thought.
I always had the tendency to be wrong,
and it had never felt so great.
I turn around
and a different kind of light
kindles my I(rise)s.
Like that acacia,
I bloom again.
In a drunken state I lay here in bed with my notebook and a piece of pen,
no one in my house not even family nor a rat in the den,
creating another craft from pen and ink to seek the justice that my artistic sense needs,
for my art is dependent on sorrow for there like a vulture it feeds,
My memories have become a rotten corpse being eaten slowly by my art,
cursed for my past and sorrow can never be apart,
with the winds howling outside the window,
I could hear the silence of a lonely widow,
Waiting for the man that's never going to come back ,
probably having his corpse being dragged inside a sack,
hope has found one of it's victims again,
sucking life out of once gleeful women,
Like the widow I lost a majestic bird once,
remembering her radiant face with just a glance,
at a withering sunflower above my shelf,
remembering her lying down at the concrete turning cold alone by herself,
Time is cruel when it is needed,
and my heart's sturdiness has already been tested,
the trials of losing a loved one are harsh,
to the point that I'm still stuck in this pitiful sorrowful marsh,
Nothing can ease this pain of mine but father Time himself,
petals begin to fall on top of my shelf,
one by one they fell,
with no soul inside to go to either heaven or hell,
My sweet withering sunflower why have you abandoned me?
I never thought leaving you for work had a fee!
Slowly, slowly, you are fading away,
And still Time will never stop and tomorrow will still be a new day.
October 21 Praises to God Bible Meditations Based on Luke 1
Key Verse – Luke 1:37 For with God nothing shall be impossible.
PRAISE BE TO GOD WHO DOES WHAT IS IMPOSSIBLE
Luke 1:37 Praise be to God for with Him,
nothing shall be impossible by His:
Sovereignty’s supremacy in our salvation-security
Supply’s sustenance for our satisfaction-sufficiency
Suffering’s seal along our sanctification-settlement
Strength’s support upon our service-steadfastness
Scriptures’ standard along our sacrifice-sincerity
Stature’s significance for our submission-serenity
Smartness’ superiority over our supplication-shelter
Stability’s sturdiness while in our success-shining
Servanthood’s specialization with our surrender-sobriety
Stewardship’s statutes against our stubbornness-silence
Luke 1:46-47 Praise be to the Lord for letting us
magnify Him as we rejoice in Him Who is:
Blessing always our souls with His best
Building up our strength against boastfulness
Bending our self-righteousness to bow to His bracing
Beautifying our spirits midst bliss against bitterness-blows
Bringing our supplication along our beseeching toward bountifulness
Luke 1:68 Praise be to the Saviour for blessing us
with His favour which is a:
Great possibility by His grace along our faith
Good pleasantness by His gift amidst our fruitfulness
Granted performance by His governance along our followership
Glad promise by His generosity against our futility and faithlessness
Goal-goaded propelling by His gearing guidance away from our fatalism. Amen!
October 21, 2024
whittlin' away
- an essay
I went to buy a pocketknife
recently for a preteen I know,
a small boy with wide dreams
and spaces to live in that match
The usual hardware haunt was
quite limited in its selection,
so I went online to find the perfect
treasure for an eight-year-old
There was a wide array of
overpriced stilettos and bayonets
but nothing of simple sturdiness
for boys with a woodsman's mindset
So I went to the long-established
area gun and tackle shop in search of
a small locking blade that a boy
could rub and oil and admire
The sales clerk showed me several
walls of hundreds of knives
that in all probability included
a full-size replica of a Jim Bowie
broad knife with blood channel
I naively asked if they had any
not quite so - lethal
He replied no, all they carried
anymore where "tactical" knives
I wondered what sort of tactics
a eight-year-old who might still
think little girls were "icky"
would be in need of contemplating
When I was a boy, all boys
carried pocketknives as a point
of practicality, whittlin' away our
childhood, by shavings and curlings
The thought of hand-to-hand tactics
regarded only to arm wrestling
and sneaking past authorities
meant parents and teachers - to play
Tactically bypassing metal detection
and doing terminal bodily harm
to anyone was completely unknown
to our innocence and, too, to society
"Tactical" pocketknives for boys (or anyone)
is a present-day mindset of our own
fear- and bravado-driven selves
that we would sleep better without
Nine and eleven are odd numbers
that do not add up to an even world
Even though we profess better selves,
our current example falls short
Little boys know not, and should care not,
for such murderous dreams.
I, too, care not for this.
It may be true, someday, if we, as people, will it
© Goode Guy 2012-10-13
Shrouded in grey, summer storms seem mundane;
till wet leaves turn shades of emerald green:
ordinary's, redefined by the rain.
The lion roars; clouds morph into its mane,
and lightning flashes streak across the scene:
shrouded in grey, summer storms seem mundane.
Gusting winds spin a rusty weather vane,
testing the sturdiness of Man's machine;
ordinary's, redefined by the rain.
The river rises as soggy slopes drain
and electrified air smells ozone-clean:
shrouded in grey, summer storms seem mundane.
As the clouds disperse, a few drops remain,
and the leaves on the trees retain their sheen;
ordinary's, redefined by the rain.
The monstrous storm, once depleted and slain,
sullied skies shift back to aquamarine.
Shrouded in grey, summer storms seem mundane;
ordinary's, redefined by the rain.
Years ago, the straws we used
Were paper ones, some striped.
Then plastic ones took over,
Since their sturdiness was hyped.
My grandkids love the bendy-types
In neon-colored hues,
Especially when from the box
Their favorites they can choose.
But it has been discovered
That these plastic straws pollute
And injure many animals
And human beings, to boot.
So Starbucks just announced that they
Won’t serve them anymore
And other corporations plan
To even up the score.
They’ll all revert to paper,
So old-fashioned and iconic;
Seems some “retro” things were better,
Which is just a bit ironic.
By the inspired Word of God* revealing heavenly vision-record
We’re redeemed from sin-penalty’s cord
Assured of salvation so secured from eternal hell’s discord
With His love that granted us everlasting life’s accord.
By God’s Book of heavenly vision-account
We’re shown promises so many to count
Exposed to creation wonders in Genesis we can never discount
With His miracles in Exodus to Deuteronomy we’re glad to recount.
By God’s Law of heavenly vision-empowerment
We’re reproved of our worldliness by His righteous judgment
Warned against disobedience through Joshua to Chronicles’ engagement
With His teachings in Proverbs and Ecclesiastes on self-curtailment.
By God’s Truth of heavenly vision-function
We’re driven against vain goals to pursue after divine direction
Upheld to stand upon sturdiness of Ezra and Nehemiah’s foundation
With His strengthening tests along Isaiah to Malachi’s admonition.
By God’s Oracle of heavenly vision-possibilities
We’re restored whenever weakened from varied difficulties
Realigned toward Ruth, Samuel, Esther and Job’s spiritual priorities
With His counsels in Psalms, filled with glorious sensibilities.
By God’s Testimony of heavenly vision-consistency
We’re exhorted to pray with earnestness midst urgency
Recharged through the fire of the four Gospels about His mercy
With His power in the Acts demonstrating early Christians’ fervency.
By God’s Covenant of heavenly vision-blessing
We’re sanctified within the bounds of His standard’s cleansing
Inspired to serve according to what Romans to Jude-epistles are expressing
With His joy for His coming kingdom expressed in Revelation’s praising.
*Isaiah 40:8 The grass withereth, the flower fadeth: but the word of our God shall stand for ever.
January 27, 2020
I awoke a clock and watched it countdown towards known silence,
I arose and given the floor the reason for its presence,
Day spent amidst the greenery moored to tawny sturdiness,
Morning sun entice the blooms their ascent upping with success,
Gains a brighter hour taking a lapped route through a calm beach,
I swam and watched as a respite sun nigh zenith's grasp for breach,
Afternoon orange glow descends as I bunched up withered leaves,
Mild breeze brushes and excites facial pleasures that it achieves,
Dusk has placed the meal so great, that cast against the candles glow,
Cools the bite of night, snapping up a full day's engaging show,
In the folds of warming, it hadst journeyed me towards my keep,
Weights of my eyelids, flights a bird to unfold, wake whilst asleep,
'Tis events enthralls life's richness that made me so compliant,
'Twas morn to night, mastered was four seasons, truly triumphant,
Song: Angie Baby - Helen Reddy
Date: 05/07/2019
...inspired by 'Goodnight' by Seamus Heaney
From dark to black they staggered,
felt for familiar surfaces,
they groped until the lantern flickered,
faint glow resurrecting shadows.
Cold and flaggy floors uneven,
up and down they skittered
like two drunkards on a binge,
finding legs and sturdiness.
Gaslight blue-flamed 'neath the kettle,
blanket grabbed, the bed was ransacked,
tea was swallowed gratefully,
with a twist the lamp gave up the ghost.
From light to black, not even starlight
gave relief to weathered eyes,
huddled 'neath the self-same blanket,
wide-mouthed yawns and muffled sighs.
On the edge of a tear her world is bungled
so is her love life yet she feels alive
She doesn’t recognize what she’s feeling
Sadness deep in her throbbing heart
She senses her aloneness her loneliness
Surprisingly good in some strange way
There’s a certain sturdiness about it
Or maybe that’s only her cynical core
Being proven right again
Makes her almost chuckle
She feels to the depths of her heart
A tenderness of no parallel
She’s somehow happy to realize
her heart not totally turned to stone
She’s actually let someone in so deep
She can be touched even stirred
Did she ever tell you
She doesn’t really believe in love
It’s for the chosen few
For others, not everyone, not her
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Entwined in perfection
Entangled in love
Trapped in dreams
Ensnared like a dove
Perfection that no
dream can have
Sturdiness like no
reality can provide
Safety with only
love as a guide
But the knot came undone
the perfection was gone
The dreams all disappeared
The dove was strangled
All that is left
is love
Suffocated, trampled bleeding
Begging for release
Just as clear as a whistle
Hear Her words of wisdom
Though it is but a whisper.
Just as clear as the Caribbean Sea
See the depth of Her charisma
Though it is but an ethereal plea.
Just as clear as the sturdiness of trees
Feel the strength of Her purpose
Though it is but a stir in the breeze.
Just as clear as a bolt of lightening
Feel the charge of Her bold energy
Though it is but a jolt of reckoning.
Just as clear as the azure sky
With her, be on the path of a sure future
Though it is but a luring light.
By CarolineCécile
Copyright © 07.09.10
Mother would patschke
early that day in the kitchen,
and recruit any guest, who
blindly ambled thru front door
suddenly trapped unwittingly
squarely (triangulated) into kitchen
forcibly impressed to help
set up buffet tables
and/or given carte blanche to prepare
some mysterious dish,
(a hodgepodge of ingredients),
that suffered no shortages of compliments
unfortunately could never be duplicated.
Guests harkened far and wide
word of mouth boastful rantings and ravings
superseded culinary Michelin Guides
to dole out seven stars,
which wordsworth meant "exceptional cuisine
promised hungry visitor
a special satisfactory journey."
"Time to eat" (usually bellowed courtesy father)
generated an orderly stampede to jostle in line
and commence maximizing capacity
testing sturdiness disposable plates could hold
scouting, shoe horning, staking...
place to become comfortably numb with satiation.
Amidst various and sundry masticating jaws
(with each respective mouthful
of food glorious food -
cue said Oliver Twist song title)
followed by draught of spirits
ejaculations of delight issued,
and punctuated the sound of silence
when not additionally interrupted
courtesy sibilant crackling
popping, and snapping
wood burning stove,
which aforementioned heat source
lulled well fed tummies
whereby heavy eyelids drooped
while heads sank into chest.
No matter hunger pangs quieted
evidenced by casserole, glass, pyrex...
scraped clean rumors heralding dessert
quickly awoke wine weary souls
analogous to sluggish animals
awakening out their hibernation,
when self anointed maître d'
showcased good n plenti desserts
(pies, ice cream, cookies and cakes galore)
she made house special
comprising secret ingredients.
Upon being stuffed to the hilt
(dear kith and kin mother
all counted as family
think taxidermist specimen
readied for mounting)
all pledged a unanimous
New year's resolution
vouchsafed to start on diet
come January first.
The greatest deception men suffer is from their own opinions. By Leonardo da Vinci.
In a chasm of hate, shards descend,
Crystallized thoughts; their paths now bend.
Splintered and cracked in a furious fall,
Merging, dreary roads white lines extend.
Evil spirits spew out an obnoxious bawl.
Minds split, mixed with a malignant appall.
The emancipator, a beacon of brightness,
His vicious grin tightens, he is eager to crawl.
The edge of a hewn sword is uprightness.
Might is evoked by the blade's fold tightness.
When challenged, demons flinch in fear.
The sturdiness of iron arms is their politeness.
A sword, from its sheath to its gilt hilt, appears.
A valuable emblem that shines luculent clear
Advancing onward, atop an equestrian beast,
Angels sing with lyres, trusting God's sheer
Fear hunts out the wicked, trembling at least.
As the lark sings, fetch a dull cloud from the east.
The emancipator, craving God's healing, is brave.
All day long, one's life is a sumptuous feast.
In this chasm of hate, shards break the wave.
Crystallized beliefs: all paths lead to the grave
But whilst their entirety, they are on display.
Defying the darkness, smashing the deprave
The fight betwixt right and awry is still sway
As the emancipator clashes, his goal will fray.
Hope revives with each swing of the sword.
And the devils fled and were spurred away.
1st place contest winner ??
In the cool of the drink-drenched, wine-soaked night
He searches the streets for a friendly doorway
To hold him through his sleeping hours
As he totters, stumbles, and finally collapses
Onto a wooden bench placed in his path.
Lying on his side
He crooks the solid bulk of his sleeveless arm
To form a pillow for the grizzle-grey
Of his tousled head and bearded face;
His barrel body hints at a former sturdiness
Skin a burnished hue to match the wood he's resting on
One leg supported by the seat
The other dangling to the ground.
Underneath are stacked his worldly goods
In brightly-coloured plastic bags
Together with a single lace-up shoe
Stout enough to be a legacy of working days
And now discarded from a painful foot.
Unknown to him he sleeps beside the intersection
Of a busy walkway and a major road.
Not only does he dream the night away
Hours later when we cross that road again
Still slumber-soaked he lies there undisturbed
Oblivious of traffic or the people passing by
And heedless of the scorching mid-day sun
That’s surely travelled with him all his life
Is he nothing but a painful memory
To wives and lovers, children, friends
Or are there happy stories to recall?
Do they speak of him with lowered voice
And wonder if he’s still alive
And do they hope one day to see
The familiar gait
Come shambling up the hill?
Perhaps his son is on the tractor now
Working the fields of barley or of wheat,
While in the distance
Sunflowers – oleander - lavender
Splash their bright colours on the countryside.
Maybe the lad will take his lunchtime break
under the olive tree his father’s father
planted long ago
Close to the vineyard whose abundance
Yielded a sad and broken man
Product of a dire and damaging indulgence