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Now give me hope when books begin
to bite, when school begins to strangle me.
My worries wear on me and Satan's sin
does weave and warp Hosannah's peace.
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In stuffy days when I would dress to please
And barter for belonging with a look,
In fussy days when I would don a thought
To hide a naked need and make it prim--
I could have healed myself from expectations,
Remembering how God left Sunday school
With me when I was five, and how we both
Played in the mud and soiled our special clothes.
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Don"t
On the fourth
day of summer
The Holy Ghost led
me
to a prayer and meditation
grotto
in Mineral behind JOHN's
church
near the RR track
Most lovely place
Summer school has
already begun
I AM
A Teacher
I Pray
in tongues
What is wrong with that
They arrested me for that
Don't ask
stupid questions.
People most got corrupted
I trust few
anymore.
forgive them DAH they know
not what they do.
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My heart aches when I read poems with word play,
Like mixing all colors in painted clay.
Random images just leap out like sparks
The meaning intended misses the mark.
Some write and label their poems a nonet
While not taking time to see what is it.
Writing's a school for learning till the end
Tossed words are not salads we write and send.
Poets take time to weave their creation
Poems are born, like a child of expression.
Cynthia Buhain-Baello~~~03.19.16
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Unnumbered army etheric;
Dost thou oppose his rule?
Prefer then the nerves a-prick!
Utmost, adverse, school!
Dubious battle on those plains?
Heaven, must ye fall?
Throne afire? Wait for the rains!
Field, get rid of all!
All is lost? Nowhere I've seen.
Unconquerable will.
Only in a dream, machine!
Immortals, pay bill.
Vengeance study? Thus requite.
Courage, doth submit?
Hatred, sing in me and fight!
Enemies to quit.
Nine full days and nights ahead?
Tartarean gloom.
Tonight we dine with the dead.
Red lighthouse a-tomb.
Abashed, devil? But you stood!
Awful, history? Good!
Naga tomb, thy neighborhood.
Nether regions, brood.
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This ode's impossible, a structured mess
of playful praise, stacked serious on a shelf,
closed spheres of wit contained. I must confess
I think of it in excess to myself.
It hoards the writing room inside my brain;
it locks the door four times, once for each page.
It's taken me a year; I must abstain
from overthinking at the thinking stage.
Clichés and tired words are enemies;
they're banging on the wall, then plummeting
into that mushy high school poetry
that thins and deconstructs like rotten string.
This ode's impossible, a four-page worm.
It coils around me so enticingly;
I declare that I will finish and affirm
commitment to the art of purity.
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He died so many years from old Blue Ridge
That all we knew of roots were faded names
Renewed in happy tales and banjo songs
He carried with him through the narrowing plots.
His vision went from horse and buggy youth,
Brush harbored preachers and a one room school,
From hard work started early on the farm
To satellites and men upon the moon.
He ran away, a boy to be a clown
And brought a ready humor down to us.
He was proud and self-sufficient man
Who loved to fish and caught a host of friends.
Five generations, father down to son,
A ministry had gone; he was its last.
He claimed a pact with God had made him preach
And proved it living purer than his words.
We watched the vacant temple through our tears
Because there is no place to place a love
That final, and because we cannot know
The secret dreams denied to let us dream.
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Marina, Motherina, Baba, Mum!
Reflect upon what your life has become:
Born in Harbin to refugee Russians,
Tossed out by Mao, with mild repercussions.
Aussie girl, country girl, raised by grandmas,
And grandpa and parents (both pains in her arse).
Small school, to high school with penguin-ed nuns,
Bespeckled and bikeless - childhood is done!
Went off to college at Melbourne Uni,
Made friends, stole a goat and earned a degree.
Entered the workforce for airliner doomed,
Later a teaching position assumed.
Married a beardy fresh in from Hungry
(also a Russian circuitously)...
Moved to the suburbs - East of the border,
Had a few children (not in that order).
Two in-laws out back, who helped with offspring,
Replaced by her mum, who started writing.
Son and two daughters, she raised to adult,
Some better than others - not all her fault.
Each offspring took flight, with their other half.
All but the youngest, who forged her own path.
Some grandkids were born, they grew up a bit,
Throw in some church stuff and that's about it.
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I never ever see them move
Except a lone bicycler cruise
Window shut shutters glued
I swear upon a heart so true
Someone's Peeking out the window
People moving to and fro
To the market and back they go
From school with kids in tow
Mechanical garages mysteriously close
Someone's Peaking out the window
I see a bicycle upon a fence
A house closed with no offense
Nothing else happens then
Occasionally they come or go
Someone's Peaking out the window
Out of sight they walk around
And climb a fence without a sound
Or go in the back if its allowed
The lawn is often carefully mowed
Someone's Peaking out the window
Out of the corner of my eye
Cross my heart and hope to die
An image jumps, leaps and fly's
Destination quite unknown
Someone's peaking out the window,
No one would ever believe
They come and go without reprieve
Know no work or morality
When I garden on my knees
Someone's peaking out the window.
Very soon I pray to leave
No memories to forget or grieve
No friends or loves to hold or see
Forced to leave without ample means
Someone's peeking out the window.
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I never ever see them move
Except a lone bicycler cruise
Window shut shutters glued
I swear upon a heart so true
Someone's Peeking out the window
People moving to and fro
To the market and back they go
From school with kids in tow
Mechanical garages mysteriously close
Someone's Peaking out the window
I see a bicycle upon a fence
A house closed with no offense
Nothing else happens then
Occasionally they come or go
Someone's Peaking out the window
Out of sight they walk around
And climb a fence without a sound
Or go in the back if its allowed
The lawn is often carefully mowed
Someone's Peaking out the window
Out of the corner of my eye
Cross my heart and hope to die
An image jumps, leaps and fly's
Destination quite unknown
Someone's peaking out the window,
No one would ever believe
They come and go without reprieve
Know no work or morality
When I garden on my knees
Someone's peaking out the window.
Very soon I pray to leave
No memories to forget or grieve
No friends or loves to hold or see
Forced to leave without ample means
Someone's peeking out the window.
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Misty lived on the tracks on the other side;
What was perhaps a nice home in thirty-nine.
Now a decaying shell of mortar and wood,
On the gray banks of a foul, polluted creek.
Windows now boarded, with a loose, hanging door;
Inside was dark, bleak, an austere barren shell.
Electric been shut off for many a year;
Only its doleful ghosts to shed their sad tears.
She lived with her father, a homeless old bum;
They lived off the welfare and a few begged crumbs.
At night she'd come home from her studies at school,
No one the wiser, Misty had them all fooled.
Only just nine, the acumen of a teen,
Her studies she'd do in the light of the lamp.
Her father a shadow of a once proud man:
Old and now lame with but one reason to live.
This sad man, out begging on the streets til' dark,
He'd stay, until all the people had gone home.
The Mission people came that terrible night;
Whisked Misty to the Orphanage - not a word!
Misty never knew her father's sacrifice;
She never knew, how close they'd been to her door.
She's now thirteen and her new life is on course;
Though she yearns for her boarded home on the creek.
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I think of distant things and start to cry.
Why must my heart be grieved by many miles?
To place where I was born, I will not fly,
for I don't want to lose remembered smiles.
The land which I have loved has changed, and now
it does not bear the mark of honored grace.
I must be covered, and I don't know how
to hold back tears from streaming down my face.
Where is the school? Where is the gentle stream?
With what audacity did they assume
that they could confiscate our land, our dream?
They took and now our sorrow does consume.
Where is the pool? Where are the orchards fine?
Remembered are the times we'd swim and play
We'd feast on all the fruits and feel sublime
No one to harm or take our voice away
My country now is not a place to be
For freedom is no longer part of life
Were I to go, the weight would burden me
And I would weep with thoughts of all the strife
So distant from my heart my land remains
A land that in the sacred Word is praised
My childhood memories, this land contains
It's flag of freedom in my heart is raised
For the Distant Things Contest
Sponsor: John Lawless
June 12, 2016
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It’s normal to feel a dark cloud’s shadow
Rise above us every once and a while;
And to feel as though the sun has faded
Behind a mountain we can’t seem to climb.
To choke in the icy, blue waters of
Sadness; struggling for gasps; struggling to grasp
A hold; to relieve of that depression.
And somedays we wish we would just drown;
But breathe, still, no matter to the struggle.
So we harm ourselves to satisfy needs;
To feel a control over our own lives
And unoppressed by the world around us.
To remind us that we can hurt ourselves;
More grievously than the world can hurt us;
More courageously than our friends hurt us;
But with scars shallower than on our hearts.
Depression emanates real bravery;
Where in rain an eagle soars above clouds;
A sad survivor does so without wings.
This is a poem I've written to remind me when I'm at my lowest
that it's okay to be down and out; that I'm not a coward for not
feeling "normal". I was bullied a lot throughout my school years- through all of
them in fact- and with depression sometimes you're on top of the world and
sometimes you just want to dig your own grave.
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I called my mother the other day- just to listen to her voice
She answered dear Steve – yes this is me- how are you this day
I said I was fine- it has been some time- I searched for more words to talk
She cantered a bit then came to a halt- as I began to say
Mother dear- this is Mark- how are you today
Mark she replied- I have a Mark- he was the oldest of three
How is school - are you making good grades- are you coming home real soon
I told her I would- If only I could- would she know me anyway
I visited my mother the other day- at a home for Alzheimer patients
Her stare in the air- made it be known- that she could not remember
I sat by her side- we nibbled on crackers- we looked out the window pane
Then I was father- she told me she miss me –I cried a thousand tears
She reached for my hand- I did not resist- I was blessed to make her happy
How are you Tom- I said I was fine- The kids will be home soon
I told her it’s time- I must go home - I have to work tomorrow
I took her hand- I’ll see you soon- Goodbye Steve she told me
As my Mother slips away today- how precious are my memories
For after this world –I can hardly wait- for my Mother to recognize me
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Twelve-year-old Cliff was moaning in his sleep.
Again--bad dreams of Bob the Bruiser who
lived right next door. Bob was a thug, a creep
who picked on smaller kids like Cliff and knew
on Monday mornings they’d have cash to steal,
lunch money for the week. He’d take it all.
Till after school, these kids would get no meal.
The Bruiser ate his fill and had a ball.
Bad Bob saved up a pile of loot and bought
a bike. He told his victims what he’d done.
He jeered, “You’ve got no proof. I won’t get caught.
Tormenting all you losers is such fun!”
One day the bike was lying in between
his yard and Cliff’s. The Bruiser wasn’t there.
Cliff was outside. A man he’d never seen
said, “Let me buy your bike. I’ll treat you fair!?
Cliff’s conscience stirred, but then he thought of how
he’d been abused and robbed. He said, OKAY!”
The stranger said, “Two hundred?” Cliff yelled, “WOW!
That’s just right, Sir.” This was Cliff’s lucky day.
Bob’s parents would deal wisely with their son
when neighbors told them just what he was like.
They’d see he made amends for all he’d done.
They’d NEVER know what happened to that bike.
January 12, 2018
entered in Eve Roper's There's a Brighter Side Contest (picture 1)
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How much of fate is shaped for us at birth-
how much is figured to be circumstance?
A story now I share with you has worth
to show life may not be a game of chance.
Months old, she clung to books as her best toy,
and while Mom read, she'd hyperventilate.
Her baby arms would flutter with the joy
of hearing words; for each new page, await.
In time, at preschool, her big wish was made;
when she grew up, a teacher she would be.
All thru her grade and high school years relayed-
to teach kids love of English, was her plea.
Not only that, she hoped and prayed she'd be
a teacher at the high school where she went.
Four years at college earned her prized degree
in Education, English- time well-spent-
because within a few months after this,
her home school district hired her to go
teach at her high school; now she proudly sits
head of a class where she sat years ago.
How much of fate is shaped for us at birth;
how much is figured to be circumstance?
This story that I shared with you has worth
in showing life is not a game of chance.
Sandra M. Haight
~2nd Place~
Contest: You and Yours, Let's Get Personal
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Judged: 07/11/2019
~3rd Place~
Contest: Screwed XVIII
Sponsor: Rob Carmack
Judged: 05/10/2018
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When as a young boy attending grade school
and I first learned about Custer's last stand,
why did I experience déjà vu
and sense so keenly that far away land?
When as a young boy attending grade school
and I first heard about that manmade hell,
why did I experience déjà vu
and sense so keenly, where many men fell?
When as an adult on that death pocked hill
I finally did chance to walk and stand,
why did I feel such a strange eerie chill
on that bright summer day so warm and bland?
When as an adult on that death pocked hill
looking out over that parched rolling ground,
why did I feel such a strange eerie chill
and silent desperation all around?
When walking down Cemetery ravine
and by a nameless stone I chanced to stop,
why did I sense a dark visage unseen
and terror felt by that trooper who fought?
When walking down Cemetery ravine
and upon ascending the low divide,
why did I sense a dark visage unseen
and feel akin to that trooper who died?
The answers to these things I do not know
nor to many other veiled things I feel,
or how it is I sense just where to go
to locals on the field that seem so real.
I will not try to speculate or guess
by acquired knowledge some might suggest,
but a different reason I confess
might to some others seem actually best.
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"You showed me the courage and strength
to achieve all things- I hope you are proud."
by Poet
A simple man was he, one child of ten,
who lived and worked the farm with family.
But stardust fell on him, time and again,
he hid away to read his books to see
what life could offer him, and he'd give back,
if he would leave the farm to chase his star
with talents that would keep his dreams on track.
And so he left to raise his future’s bar.
Concerned for family and what he’d done-
one son of three now gone, and only two
remained to work the land beneath the sun;
but still, he followed stardust trails anew.
No school beyond eighth grade, he still pursued
production of the tube-based radio,
in nineteen-thirty, when its parts were crude
yet intricate- and he became a pro.
The stardust led him to a higher plane
whereby in time he owned a factory;
employed so many workers who would gain
good living in a time of poverty.
Oh, Dad, you hushed the stars- you did not fail.
With inner strength, you followed their bright glow,
to choose this path, which led you to prevail
and help so many people live and grow.
This gift of courage you have offered me
to follow and make use of dreams to share;
to let our stardust paths lead on to free
the will to seek the best on this life’s stair.
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Traditional poetry has rhyme and metre
Which determines the way it is composed
These features make it a simple matter
In distinguishing such poetry from prose
A lot of writing now is in free verse
Where the main focus is on the content
The thing that now really matters the most
Is true capture of the poet's intent
Some free verse strive for a sense of metre
By carefully managing line layout
Some focus on painting a word picture
For that's what their poetry is all about
Prose rich in sentiment and imagery
Can also be rewritten as free verse
Would it then be described as prose poetry
Or should it be labelled poetic prose
What new poetry forms will the future grow
It's time alone that will give the answer
For poets may come and poets may go
But poetry shall continue forever
As a child, growing up, most of the poems I learned at school were of the traditional type. Memorizing and reciting them, which I enjoyed, were part of the learning exercise. Free verse, a modern form of poetry, was a new experience for me. Over the years, I jotted down some of my thoughts on things, especially, on Nature topics. I always considered such writings to be prose.
It was only after I learned of free verse, that I saw that they could also be viewed as poetry with a slight variation in the line layout to create a sense of metre. I referred to such writing as poetic prose and labelled some of my earlier poems as such.
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Not long, but clear and strong, came Dad to me.
Gone six months now, grief still filled me empty.
One day he helped me avoid tragedy.
Scared, so scared, I left work for my son's school.
His epilepsy was being cruel -
school said .. hot .. red .. damp head .. remote .. no fuel.
Driving, Dad's voice clearly called out to me ....
he repeated my name with somber voice
until I was a good listener by choice.
Then, once, twice, thrice he spoke four words to me.
(no, no, no this cannot possibly be
I am desperate to be worry free,
to believe it, my sanity has quit.)
Five times more he delivered the four words.
Seemed he would say it 'til I believed it.
Directing my moves using Dad's four words
enabled my son's health to be restored.
Epilepsy left and spirit had scored.
Dad gave me proof that death invites no fear.
Souls ebb and flow, roll like ocean's own tide.
Death must be two doors, one souls pass through,
and one love-sealed to hold humans earth bound.
When flesh life dies, one's spirit life remains
on journeys aptly mapped for souls' growth-gain.
Each soul endures umpteen human lifetimes
'til spirit consciousness shines light divine.
Now mortal senses hold the universe,
when spirit senses would spare us our worst.
In race and gender, many are fast wrapped,
yet death shakes gone both sad, human rigged facts.
Misplaced emphasis could be what ends us.
When spirit sense outweighs human nonsense,
we shall seal heavenly wrapped, peaceful traits.
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I hear the women crying, I hear the children scream
I see the sun’s fiery rays, each and every glowing beam
I feel the wind blowing and then my hair gets in my eyes
I try and wipe my tears away as I silently say goodbye
And up above is Jamie, as he stands upon the roof
His clothes flailing in the wind, his eyes completely aloof
He told me he’d be leaving. I didn’t think it would be this way
If I would have seen it earlier, maybe he could have been saved
Instead, I’m watching him above, starting to accept
The fact that he can’t overcome the complete lack of respect
His father told him he was worthless, his mother told him to die
I curse them both for not being here now as their son stares into the sky
The drugs that Jaime had turned to had helped him for some time
But side effects also included Jaime losing his mind
Jaime would cry and then he’d smile and then he’d lose his cool
He’d tell the world he was enjoying life before getting in fights during school
The principal said he would go nowhere, the kids said he was crazy
The police said he was just a minor, the teachers said he was lazy
And now together, we are all watching, begging him to take two steps back
But Jaime has already signed his deal, he and death already made a pact
In his eyes, I know he’s gone already. He isn’t nervous, anxious or scared
I know that he can’t hear me, but I don’t really care
“I’ll miss you with all my heart, my friend. Goodbye,” I choke as I call
And just right cue, Jaime smiles, spreads his arms wide, and falls
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Long ago in the short-time lively spring
In the grassy plains of a small island
Came from nonexistence a young sapling
Nurtured by the love of her mother’s hand
The world accepted her newfound nascence
Fueling her a love for joyfulness
Beaming out from the depths of her bright heart
A Happiness no being could contest.
With the blessings from the sapient world,
She quickly discovered a lifelong friend.
His solicitude for her unbounded,
They were surely a match made in heaven
They always walked together as one,
Carrying each other through life’s sojourn
Truly did the love between them abound
But all good times must arrive at an end
Her childhood soon sped by before her eyes
The novelty of memorable times
Fading into the dark depths of her mind
Pleasant memories like leaves in the wind
Her transition into adulthood near,
Deep concern for her friend’s future life flare
Taking no heed of her own life troubles,
She does what she can to help him succeed
At the zenith of springtime season’s bloom
She invited her dear friend to a club
A group of three girls all connected by
Their adoration of books and poems
It pleased her heart greatly to see her friend
Forming and bonding with new companions
Yet, unknown feelings of jealousy formed
As her indulgent desire for him grew
Like the swirling typhoons of the oceans,
The tsunamis that wash away cities,
Doubt flooded into her mentality
Confusing thoughts fogged rationality
She bottled up her true feelings tightly
Suppressed the complex emotions duly
Only ever showing her happy side
Wishing to see no concern from her friend
Each passing moment spent in the classroom
Watching his relationships with others
Deepening, evolving, and ascending
Left loneliness to consume her insides
For three days she tried hiding her sorrow
No longer could she veil her emotions
Despite her friend’s kind attempts to console
He only shatters her heart into shards
The following day, lying in her bed,
She looks up at her room’s ceiling and thinks
“Why get out of bed? Why am I still here?”
She recalls her friend, breaking into tears
That day, Sayori never came to school
Leaving her friend worried and bewildered.
In his concern, he traveled to her house
Only to find her hanging by the noose
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O to tune in to good times of childhood—
To re-live gone-by years, not just to brood,
To lighten dust-laden baggage’s dead tare,
To unburden mind of deadwood afloat,
To fast-forward to dusky days of old,
To turn over life’s leaf now withered brown,
To try see if it looks green once again,
There’s not like reliving school memories.
So, let me leap back all of six decades
On my mind’s time-travel machine
To arrive at the days of middle school,
Let not my old age misunderstand me,
The happy me, I’ve nothing to complain,
But let me just take a random re-look,
Heed to hidden hints here, a hard guess there,
To reinvest in childhood’s restive days,
The right age all life to be in—
Be it the first childhood, or the second,
For, when the ‘first’ is far beyond my reach,
Wise it is to enjoy the second itch.
So, here I go unwrapping days from warts
From my fleeting past’s event-filled raw years—
The coolest time of life that warms all hearts;
And I remember three schools and three cheers,
Three times three harmless mirth, and time so cool,
I recall here my second change of school—
To a sleepy town, to a far off date,
Nestled ‘tween two hills, on a dusty road
Patched up and tarred to cover up pot-holes,
A school retaining still her princely charm
In a small town of an old princely state,
A hilly terrain of Aravalli range,
The hills posing no mean tempting challenge
To adventure seeking few boys and girls
That always looked for joys of thrills sans lulls.
More than hills, tempting fruit trees beckoned us
When its fruits were in season and copious,
Yet, more luring than fruits was the challenge
To complete the task in limited time
Of school recess, bare hands whatso the clime,
But there was something in it that was strange—
Perhaps, coming tops was no lesser bet,
For, the raw fruits, once plucked, must be buried
To ripen, for, ripe ones were hard to get;
It mattered least marts were flooded with fruits,
But such is the lure of venture-filled loots!
I was one of the ace climbers of sorts—
Whatso scriptures say, we did fox for fruits,
Life does beckon with such tempting resorts
When man cannot forget fruits for the roots
While weary still of what-if of the life,
A venture it was strewn with stumbles rife.
When wisdom dwells far off to weigh you down,
Innocence when rule, be heavenly bliss,
When care and concerns of life look like clown,
That life shows all its charm so hard to miss.
It’s when today looks like pathless wonder
To which all past and morrows surrender!
I’d any day love climbing verdant hills
Wooded with lush trees all so inviting,
Fruits or not, let there be rainbows, and frills
Of looking back at things left in making;
If we manage, be a child all age,
Let old age rage the worst of its rage.
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The school that the poem talks about is one of the schools I studied. The town is an erstwhile princely state. The fruits referred to Timbhers (not timber), greenish hard husk when raw, getting a brownie tinge when ripe with juicy sweet pulp inside, bearing a tomato-like greenish crest as if it be the king of fruits. Yea, to us then it was. I’ve never seen this fruit again all my life except once when I visited Mt Abu.
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Reminiscing | 11.10.08 |
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