#10: No Room At The Inn
They blossomed they did like rows of roses.
Places for lodgers, those traveling sourced,
their reasons countered their changing poses,
frequent stays and returns have been endorsed.
There will be places that might be lacking
for whatever reasons that there may be,
the people won't stay there, less foot tracking,
as sites may have Roach Motels that you'll see.
There will be double-booking caused concerns,
leaving people stranded, no way, no stay,
whereby many shorten trips--forced returns.
Trends rallied lawsuits; be that as it may,
X-X Bethlehem, then Jerusalem, He'll lay.
The soul leaves its chamber,
It goes on a voyage,
An eternal mileage,
The body is in an endless slumber.
The soul travels on a lone road,
Free from the earth's load,
Dazzling lights are seen ahead,
Not all about the place has been read.
The city's gates are made of gold,
Not any on earth has been sold,
The view is captivating,
A wonder-enchanting.
A tour of the city,
Only the undefiled can,
A home in its borders,
Not for transit lodgers.
February 3, 2023.
How Does the Soul Enter Heaven? Poetry Contest,
Mystic Rose Rose.
Coffin dodgers and nursing home lodgers,
wrinklies, pensioners and plain old codgers.
A drain on society, archaic models of piety,
bed blockers, youth knockers, paragons of sobriety.
But is all that we see, all that it seems,
the elderly, like you, still have hopes and dreams.
Still carry the baton for tomorrow's youth,
the keepers of history, the sentinels of truth.
Though the fire is out, there still burns a flame,
which, if fanned by interest, could burgeon again.
Igniting a beacon, a fantastic life force,
a living library, a priceless resource.
So, honour your old folk, cut them some slack,
for a lot of them have been to hell and back.
They've built the society we now take for granted,
so enjoy the fruits of the seeds that they planted.
Lodger in my heart
I found rather strange people in my heart,
among those closest to me,
hiding and peking true white cels of my blood,
stiling all those red one!
Then I thought to myself,
What should I do to them?
They are making me sick to my stomach,
most of all empty,
but ,
then,
I knew,
I was the one to blame
Lleting them in,
There is nothing left to do,
except maybe,
charge them with rent!
After all ,
they are lodgers in my heart,
now it's all up to them.....
When I was young, eight years at most,
I pedalled to Miss Weatherby's house...
down the street,
past salty old codgers
cheating at checkers,
past Dad's bakery,
around the bend to duck ponds with
silly-faced Buddha frogs
showing toothless grins,
past the poor shack-lodgers,
speeding by the boogie man's
house on the hill,
down a plank of brown road
to the stand displaying Ann's handbags,
across from the palette where
buttercups wag in topaz fields
swallowing golden pepper rays,
to the cow path ending at
Miss Weatherby's picket fence.
She stands with apple cheeks and
a gray bonnet, plucking roses
from vines, placing them in
plaid apron pockets, and tossing
toasted crumbs to red hens.
She gives me tan eggs and I
pay her with blueberry muffins and
conversation...then back up the road again.
Incense hung in the evening air
like the mist and the chains of prayer cranes.
Ferocious gilded guardian framed the gate
through the aged arched travelers trooped
Pilgrims all.
Monks diminutive in form,
draped in square clothes
of sacred orange, bow.
Prayer hands copped over beating hearts.
Business begins.
The business of lodging and lodgers.
The entrance holds the footwear of the prayerful;
worn, unkempt, yet colorful.
Inside the shrine futons fly to ta tami floors.
Teapots boil whistling in the mist soaked wind.
Coins clink into altar boxes before smiling Buddha’s.
Courtyards filled with fall blossoms of crimson mums.
Persimmon colored koi swim in small prayer ponds.
The bustle of the small alpine city does not intrude,
nor follow the faithful as into the moss covered
cemetery with its red cedar groves;
they walk.
Martins
cartwheel in flight
swerve,dive and then alight
to layer nests beneath the thatch-
in spring.
Unhinged at last,
so fast,the flight of parsley
colored parrots
atop the palace walls
and halls
where falcons fall
from azure skies
with cries
still throbbing
in your throat.
Across the moat,
dark lodgers scan
the plains.
A lilting tune remains
with vague allusions
to a love long gone.
A famous fascination
with a starlight harmony.
A tale of stallions
wildly racing 'cross the moon
hooves like silver knives
to slice across
the flawed and scattered stars.......
The night is ours....
a Gypsy Caravan,
poor decrepid beast,
a broken spine of
wagons full of odd
imported dreams,
a calvary of fools.....
and we go swaying past
at last,
the fools brigade
weaves on beyond the
quiet glade.....
and in the crushed blue
flowers of our trail,
the irridescent beetles
scurry by,
their grass roots religion
hushed,
yet noted by the ever hungry owl
who loudly scolds
the galaxy and Man...........
because he can.
Day
after day,
night after
night,
the lonely tall pine
embraces her many
lodgers
in her stiff outstretched arms.
And in every nook and
cranny they forage, hunt and horde
before the coming winter.
And in
return
they
flinging
their refuse
to the soft earth.