Best Undergone Poems
Sitting quietly beneath the old blue gum tree
Flowers surround me lined in neat rows on the lawn
White and blue, tall and short placed as if by gods’ decree
My eyes mist, oh god what she had undergone
Her face clouded in pain, body still as a frightened fawn
The room white, Spartan white sheets drape the bed
Her raven black hair no more, so much left unsaid
Eyes of fierce emerald green now dull and sedate
God let fall tears the day her mortal coil she did shed
Soon again in each others arms, standing at heaven’s gate
Written 30/01/2015
On some bleak airfield on some Cambridge fen
(that awful winter – 'forty-seven, I think)
my mother, novice servicewoman then,
crossed parade-ground like a skating rink
to see the Christmas concert on the camp.
Inside, the nissen hut was black as ink
till airmen lit a feeble spirit lamp.
The snow was driving against one outer wall:
she calls to mind a smell of tents and damp
and stinging fingers, fresh from snowballs,
and gouts of steam, blown out in cloudy spurts
as people laughed. Then lights dimmed in the hall.
She now recalls a curious stab of hurt
to see the Italian janitor of the base
revealed onstage in P.O.W. shirt
when curtains opened. What had been a place
of uproar, now – faced by this threadbare clown –
had undergone some dreadful loss of face.
In dubbin make-up, N.A.A.F.I. dressing-gown,
as solemn as a high priest at the altar,
this patched-up Pagliacci, ear-flaps down,
sang ludicrously well. The keyboard faltered,
and stopped. The singer, weeping now, kept on,
quite heedless, as his clown's nose dripped tear-water.
There's something sacred in the humblest song
(with wretchedness wrought into lasting good
through alchemy of art) and, all along,
the watchers, to their horror, understood.
He sang so gorgeously of going home
because he knew full well he never would.
This Is No Picnic
We packed up the grill and my uncle took us to the lake
I was hoping for a burger, maybe even a juicy steak
Amazed was I to see the cooler packed with frozen shrimp
What kind of picnic is this? My smiling lips went limp
“Stop pouting,” said Uncle Tim, tossing me a fishing pole
“This here lake is filled with huge trout. It’s the best fishing hole”
If we wanted to eat lunch, first we would have to catch it
Seems his picnic invitation this info did omit
The hours dragged past and we hadn’t had a single bite
Our clan was growing hungry and grandma seemed uptight
So she took charge and lit the grill in spite of Tim's protests
But he could not do battle with her so he acquiesced
Mosquitoes were drawn to scents of shrimp on the barbecue
Then a horde of hornets found our camp and buzzed on through
We screamed and scurried about to avoid their bites and stings
Till Uncle Tim doused the grill and took us to Burger King
He ordered burgers to go, placed a blanket on our lawn
Till this day we still laugh at the antics we’d undergone
Written for Carol Brown's Picnic Time contest
It looked like a bleached tongue
pulled from a mouth,
petrified and incapable
now of letting a word slide over
its calcified silence.
I picked it out of the wet sand
and held it in my hand.
It had little weight, smooth
on one side and pitted
on the other. A cuttlefish bone.
It was a marvel of engineering.
My fingers followed its shape,
took in its texture, the pleasurable
feel of its form. I lifted it to my nose
and smelt its salty, faintly fishy
odor, sea washed to a clean
unsullied smell. It had undergone
a change into something
beyond life, into an artifact of time.
I kept it cradled in my hands,
held it like a sacred relic.
I have seen them too
shrink wrapped in plastic bags
on the end of supermarket shelves,
a calcium supplement for birds
to be hung on a hook
inside of a cage.
They were selling for $2.50
or thereabouts.
A jerrybuilt jumble, so shoddy, diminished;
just cubes of grey concrete with windows and doors.
It started to crumble the day it was finished.
Franco’s “solution” for gypsies and moors.
It’s called “La Dehesa”, the pasture, the grange.
The old ones say once there were orchards here, too.
It’s undergone quite a formidable change:
there’s nothing but concrete obscuring the view.
Like rabbits in hutches we live in our flats,
with neighbours on both sides, below and above,
surrounded by dustbins and children and cats,
and noises of squabbling, noises of love.
Each Sunday, some woman (I can’t tell you where)
starts singing, as morning creeps in through the shutters.
Flamenco, like woodsmoke, just hangs in the air,
and laps over drainpipes and outlets and gutters.
She’s clearly a gypsy. I can’t say I’ve seen her,
but singing is thoughtless, as easy as breathing,
and something about her, her aural demeanour,
is caught in her song, which comes seeping and seething
through windows and clothes lines, as if by osmosis.
She sings for herself. She’s not grabbing attention.
There’s no petty ego. Aesthetic hypnosis
is selfless. Seduction, without condescension.
She sings of her pain and her ecstasy. Both
can be borne on the air, like a children’s balloon.
Her art is unconscious, leguminous growth,
yet as hauntingly lovely as the light of the moon.
Gitanos, gitanas – delinquents and whores.
Well, maybe – but, seeing those ravishing eyes,
or hearing The Song as it wavers and soars,
I know in my soul where my sympathy lies.
The face of America not long ago
an immigrant hard at work
has undergone a dramatic change
immigrants have gone berserk
From sea to shining sea
from California to New York
they make fists and scream at rallies
voicing opinions incredibly warped
Anti-American as they can be
protected by our own laws
it seems to me ~
out to destroy our great country
There are sad and happy days in our life, that had gone by,
Like the strong wind and storm, stricken the deserted land…
But there are few still remain in our heart and mind,
The bullies, laughter, fighter and the love teams you never deny…
Though, It’s been decades we had this kind of fun,
Believe me, these are the good memories of all time…
But even how long the years had over and done,
High school life is still the best, we’d ever undergone…
Though we are now getting old, white hairs are starting to grow,
Few became plump, bald and others remain the same…
Some are still single, searching and ready to mingle?
And others are happily married, and blessed with offsprings,
We still remain young at heart, and just the same…
And even how long the time had passed by,
The camaraderie is still the same when reunify…
I guess this is the best of all and will last long for sure…
We stained our life with good memories, and history to keep…
So this I may say, “Good ones last long, and lives in our hearts…”
If she makes the mistake
Of loving him, he will make her
Suffer terribly for her utter lack of taste
And when he leaves her
After she had undergone
The great pain of rejection
She will find another HIM
For there is no end to the
Foolishness of a woman`s heart
My lateness once more has caused me immediate damnation,
and my unstable state, a product of my lost attention.
Overcoming the limitation by doing three person's work at once
resulted to a failed manipulation
of compressing minutes' activities into seconds
just to beat time and achieve punctuality.
Reaching for the door with already aggravated emotions.
In self caution, I knew something was still missing
then I realized it's a stuff I cannot go without.
Oh My God! This means, beginning all over again.
A complication I most feared in a situation like this.
My dwelling place now seem a mansion
as even my bedroom has undergone exaggeration
which at this moment isn't as accommodating
as the habitation I once knew.
Starring at the plain surface of the mirror Table gave no answers
and already praying for the fruitful termination of this trying time,
as I searched among the cosmetic items it harbours.
My next location is obviously the wardrobe
and even with the intense frustration
I was still calm enough to suppress the friction with myself
as I searched each and every pocket of my clothing
which are all hanging in straight vertical position.
And yet, my state gradually reaching exacerbation,
cos' there is no answer.
In milliseconds, my Pillows are in two corners of the room
I prayed for any sort of temptation but not this
as the bed calmly accepts my aggressive search
of my item which suffers an ungodly abduction.
The Investigation continues with a quick scan through my shoes,
and finally leaving the room with no appreciation
which now looks like a ghetto market of a third world country,
a demotion I usually never allow, not until now.
The larger sitting room just increased my retardation
having hope of finding my "Precious" would be mere hallucination
so therefore, I barely did much other than a mere Inspection.
Yet, cannot find its location,
which simply increased the heap of burning coal on my head.
Already tired of exclaiming several holy Indignation
careful flash back and calculations of my previous movements
yielded no results.
"check the Double Seater" was my last thought.
And as I acted in submission to that command,
the invaluable material surprisingly fell off my shirt
My Car Keys!
Just a moment.....
A whale breaches the surface and soars into the air, an eagle swoops down and plucks a fish from the water swimming without care,
a woman gives birth, another miracle being on planet earth, joins the human race as we awkwardly evolve into outer space, just as an old man slips away into death's final embrace after living a lifetime visible in each wrinkle on his weathered face. ....
a child is starving as a mother helplessly watches with pain in her heart and disgrace on her face, begging the Gods for mercy and to be in some other place....
a volcano erupts, spewing the gut of history into the sky, as a young boy becomes a man with the future in his eyes,
a rocket blasts off carrying humans deep into space in a leap of faith heretofore unknown for a date with history far from home......
Moments that capture the eternal from the desperately fleeting. These are instantaneous moments of joy, exhilaration, pain, and sadness that span the spectrum and devotion of human emotion......all intertwined to form the essence of life.
We have endlessly struggled throughout time to define what we are and why. Perhaps to define, its like a fine wine that has undergone a resembling activity over time.....
our experiences and knowledge get passed on, not unlike the process of a fermenting wine.....
all the moments of our lives are each a frame of a film that takes a lifetime to produce.
Nearing the end we get a preview of sorts, a sneak peek, a sip of the wine that has defined our time. It streams endlessly in our mind, so have a seat, enjoy the wine, and don't eat too much popcorn, it's showtime, no spoiler alert, there is no doubt because no one knows the ending until the final moments have played out.
I was born at the tail end of the Goldhawk Road
Which runs through Shepherds Bush
Like an artery,
And in the mid 1960s,
Served as one of the great centres
Of the London Mod movement,
But I was raised in relative gentility
In a ward of nearby South Acton
Whose vast council estate
Is surely the most formidable
Of the whole of West London.
Although my little suburb
Has since become
One of its most exclusive neighbourhoods.
My first school was a kind of nursery
Held locally on a daily basis
At the private residence
Of one Miss Henrietta Pearson,
And then aged 4 years old,
I joined the exclusive
Lycee Francais du Kensington du Sud,
Where I was soon to become bilingual
And almost every race and nationality
Under the sun was to be found
At the Lycee in those days...
And among those who went on to be good pals mine
Were kids of English, French, Jewish, American,
Yugoslavian and Middle Eastern origin.
While my first closest pals were Esther,
The vivacious daughter
Of a Norwegian character actor
And a beautiful Israeli dancer,
And Craig, an English kid like myself,
With whom I remain in contact to this day.
For a time, we formed an unlikely trio:
"Hi kiddy," was Esther's sacred greeting
To her blood brother, who'd respond in kind.
But at some stage, I became a problem child,
A disruptive influence in the class,
And a trouble maker in the streets,
An eccentric loon full of madcap fun
And half-deranged imaginativeness.
("Born on the Goldhawk Road" is a versified version of one much reproduced in various forms throughout my writings, although it bears little resemblance to its original, which first glimpsed the light of day in around 2002. It's undergone much modification since then, including the alteration of all names of people and places for the solemn purpose of privacy.)
Hey, you all new cowboy brides
Listen, what my cowboy is…..
There are no Pizza Huts nearby
So got to cook in great quantities.
As there are no perfect cowboy jobs
Don’t be surprised if to live in a new ranch
Maybe your third house in one year.
When he returns home listen to his tales
Of every drive, every bronco ride
And every spree he has undergone.
If you are tired of this moving life
Buy heavy and costly furniture and
A piano or a cabinet and of course
Have a couple of kids to weigh him down.
Take care that his horse never stumbles
Spurs never rust, guts never grumble
Boots never pinch and stays out of jail!
Prefer the company of cowboys
Because they have not been educated
Sufficiently to reason incorrectly.
+++++++
April 20, 2014
Form Free Verse
Dr.Ram Mehta
Fifth Place win
Contest:Howdy Pard by Shadow Hamilton
On a sunny day, I encountered a caterpillar
in the midst of curry leaves.
I escorted it and kept in a transparent box.
Feeding the caterpillar had become my daily work.
I gleefully did it.
One day it started spinning cocoon.
I was scared by seeing that.
It had undergone a tough transformation-Metamorphism
I was said that the butterfly will come out within a week.
It was the eighth day.
There was no butterfly, rather I noticed some changes in the chrysalis(Cocoon).
I was anxious and thought it was dead.
The next day morning my mom squeed"Hey,there is a butterfly inside the box".
I was at the height of bliss by hearing that.The moment I would like to cherish for lifetime.
It was a swallow tail butterfly. It walked on my arms, kissed me.
After a few hours it flew away but the happiness would not be forgotten.
Since that day I decided to raise butterflies. So far I have raised 50 butterflies.
Now our garden is full of a kaleidoscope of butterflies.
After all,happiness lies in the little things.
Life on earth is a large platform where people show the highness or lowness of spirits of their lives. A queue in time bargaining for the much-awaited satisfaction in life. Just like in litigation, we all undergone proceedings in order to determine our unalienable rights --from conception to birth--judgment has been made whether to preserve or to abandon a life. Is it the longest day of waiting to be born on this earth? Not until we begin to crawl and cry weakly; run and stumble many times; stutter while trying to express the feelings, and get the needed fostering from parents that we realize all these as part of the stages of life. Is it the longest day of molding life inside the house? Not until we are brought up learning under the doctrine of the school to get further knowledge that we see a brighter future. We struggled hard to the academic discussion--from shapes, numbers, reading and into writing, we learned and been guided coherently. Is it the longest day of waiting for commendation? Not until we stepped out from our alma mater and into the challenging workforce that we feel the test of life. We faced many setbacks and blows but determination made us choose to get on it until we gradually climb into the targeted rank. Is it the longest day of the tiring effort to make a living? Not until we retired from work and have seen the fruits of our effort that we begin to feel good enough. As growing old is inevitable, it is about changes in yourself and life. Eyesight begins to dim and hearing fails, agility has turned into weakness, and health deteriorated until you sigh, “It is time to lay all worries to rest and maneuver myself into an open fluorescent green field.”
For all we know, it is still not the end of waiting until we see our next generation coming into being and deserving to be treated as such.
Noel N. Villarosa
12 February 2013
I came to you because I loved you
I stretched my arm of friendship and you warmly welcomed me
And since that day, my life had undergone a metamorphic change
Renewed for the future with a focus of unwavering concentration
I gave you all I had for that moment
I told you all I ever knew and been through
I was committed to the friendship because I believed in you
Always saw you as some kind of heavenly angel on earthly assignment
But along the way I found out I was alone
Though I could find your body around
But your spirit and soul were far gone away
I knew I was caged because I had given my all
I needed someone to set me free
Who would set me free? For I was drawn in the ocean of love
I had withdrawn every other thing except my heart of love
It kept longing for you, more, more and more
Who would set me free? Set me free.
(c) 2009