Long Accommodated Poems
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He blinks in and out in a wingchair,
overhears what visitors say
when patients
can be talked about
as if not there.
People speak well of the dying,
even of dying strangers,
to him their words
prematurely shovel earth.
The terminally sick
must be accommodated,
penciled into time slots,
eased gently into oblivion.
He listens as he slips downstream
on a raft of morphine.
These last trips are scenes taken
from childhood books.
His own life story has become
absurd, it is almost as if
he is a character in someone else's life,
a Huckleberry Finn
whistling through Dantes Inferno.
What he really wants
is a rocking horse and ice-cream.
A nurse brings him ice-cream,
but it's the wrong flavor.
He wonders if anyone can see
the horse he rides upon,
his ten-gallon hat is as white
as a flying nun's Cornette.
The occasional visitors
watch the dying in dreadful relief.
Hypnotic minds drone like trapped bee's.
Frank Sinatra jets in from wonderland,
hands him a coloring book.
If only he had crayons
to fill in the blanks.
Light-beam captives dream,
Two betrothed angels with rainbows in flight
Amidst the heavenly crossroads that gleam
For earthly lovers who once delighted
Long before their hearts were blighted
With straying affections traveling in beams
The two would forever be united
In travel where the speed of light now reigns
Their essence flows in tidal creams
Their love will grow forever requited
He has his own, ancient family bloodstream
That flows onward with tearful flames in flight
With them she’s never accommodated
Rather, abruptly whisked away in airstreams
Up into the oceans that predated
Pipedreams on the crossroads, brightly gleaming
Upon lovers’ beds, they’ll be an eternal team
Of nascent ideas out-dated
Their love for eternal jet beams and streams
Their white flight into night, once delighted
No need to think of Chagall’s past art themes
When the past cannot be reignited
And only lovers fly as particle beams
Forgiving those who cruelly blighted
Their union forever ignited
Everyone in the family was sent to the corner of the yard
Dressed in autumn colors like Millie told us to do.
She is the baby of three daughters, which makes her the boss.
The oldest two rolled their eyes but accommodated her.
It is easier.
Millie ran back and forth – behind the camera, pressing a button.
Then back to the groups
Click
Click
Click
How do you set it like that?
Everyone say “cheese” she said.
I did not want to. I have lots of missing teeth.
“Say cheese, Grandma!”
She ran back. Reset the camera.
Click. Click. Click.
There is giggling as she orders us to stay in place.
She studies photos.
Okay, she says “Everyone say cheese except grandma.”
The authors and their associates wish to offer an enthusiastic round of applause to The Bywater Bone Boys Social Aid and Pleasure Club for their gracious hospitality and inspirational charm.
Welcome gentle enthusiasts of theatrical illusions and histrionic fantasias. We of the acting company, including principals, chorus, stage crew and assorted hangers-on, take delight in your presence during our current stand under arms.
As it is commonly accepted in the developed world that all sophisticated theatergoers embrace an inherent desire to remain consistent with the norms of congenial social behavior when sitting beneath the unblinking eye of public scrutiny, management requests that you please observe a few sensible restrictions while enjoying today’s feature presentation.
Restrictions, being defined as the limitation or control of someone or something, or the state of being limited or restricted, as determined by municipal ordinance and local custom, shall remain in effect throughout the duration of the entire performance.
Special-needs patrons will be accommodated according to modifications set forth in appropriate documentation that carries the force of law. Non-compliance will not be tolerated. There will be one fifteen-minute intermission during which relevant stakeholders will receive formative evaluation rubrics to document the results of item analysis.
Only flash-less photography is permitted. You must remain at least partially clothed at all times during the performance. No bullying will be tolerated, and you do not need to ask for permission to go to the bathroom. Now cross your knees and avert your eyes. The show is about to begin. Laissez le bon temp rouler!
They said, "you look cute"
I smiled and remained mute
But, Did that really make me smile?
Remarked they, saying, you are beautiful, adorable and kind
"You are someone who's hard to find"
Are these the only adjectives, to which we woman are confined?
Isn't it a bit unkind?
We don't want to be deftly defined
Why are we personified with a flower?which could easily be blown by the wind
Why are we personified with the fictitious moon?
which shines bright in someone else's light
Why are we personified with the water?that could be accommodated in any ordinary vessel
Why not with the fire? having it's own existence
We are epitomized with the soft winds but never the devastating storms
We are epitomized with the dazzling moonlight but never the sparkling sunlight that knows how to ignite
Ever heard a man appreciating a woman's terribly spoken, yet sharp mind?
Apart from adoring her hairs, lips and those eyes blacklined?
Tell us something new, we aren't blind
How about "She's ambitious, intelligent, rational and a mastermind"?
Our pride lies in being brave and fearless
And How we still made it up when it was all mess
How we made through the times, when patriarchy tried to suppress
suppress those dreams, the only thing that we possessed
How the Jane Austen, in us who was quiet turned to Virginia Woolf who knew how to fiercely express
So next time when you meet a woman
Apart from admiring her charismatic appearance and the dazzling dress
Forget not to cherish her success
Cause, no matter wherever she is today
Through the thorns, she has made her way!
*Image of Mom Playing the Organ by My Family Pics.
Songstress Sings Songs
The Doxology chorus though widely sung owns a verse that
accompanies, although, beyond seasons past, ought of considerable
length be, my wholly FAVE song remained scarcely practiced by the
Christian congregations, albeit, my mother, a gospel composer,
having written many testaments accommodated songs citing
directly from the holy scriptures and being a multi-talented
player of musical instruments, such as; accordionist, pianist,
organist, guitarist, drummer, and ukelele extraordinaire, enriched
her abilities to create a fanfare of adored admirers long after her
passing. Sobeit, a tribute to my mother and her once upon a time,
kids of our former church who have perpetuated her visions in song
as grown adults.
His Name Is Jesus
"There's a name you can call when you're in trouble,
There's a name you can call when you're alone,
There's a name full of Grace,
There's a name to be praised,
There's a name you can call every day,
Je-sus,
Je-sus,
A name you can call every day,
There's a name full of Grace,
There's a name to be praised,
There's a name you can call every day."
*From a mom with Aloha...
2020 August 15
*1st Place*
A spiritual wisdom download
~~Unseeking Seeker: Judged 2023 January 16
Cuz while ya steel got
moxie, don't nix chance if only a dot
before death finds
flesh rotting alot.
A self-actualized fringe benefit
as I racked up
orbitz round sun -
with increased measured,
(albeit neglected) ragged, and
shot thru tattered (turn shroud) -
regarding chronological yardage
brought to my dimming wattage -
sputtering third eye blind, sans
hindsight surveying extensive
emotionally frenzied groveling with
a lifetime penitential wreckage,
whence urgent critical (update)
foisted upon formerly entrenched
hermetically sealed voyage -
sequestered self wrought fallout,
viz long stretches of
time irretrievably gone with the wind
found me averse toward
commingling with village -
peopled within sin king
precincts of Lake Woebegone
joyus kneaded livingsocial
natives, now visa
vis (nee this past
and present atheist)
discovered the healing power
of powder milk biscuits,
when accommodated within Norwegian
bachelor farmer vicarage),
qua pained obligation now
imposed kickstarted mandate
to pay dying wage
clearly written along,
the sub weighted psyche walls
(over time) easily read
across my wrinkled visage,
where former cumulative
years of existence
pitched yours truly
figuratively teetering upon
precipice of abyss gave vantage
written in telltale creases
countenance spelling umbrage,
against me - asper tonnage
schlepping psychological Matthew
Scott Harris "baggage,"
wrought from decades
worth of uncultivated tillage
cuz n'er did I gather rosebuds...
during prime mortal teenage
stretch, thus present
day agonizing suffrage
yawning chasm miserably houses
bleak (Dickensian) testimony,
sans recovered anorexic
(NO...NOT... NEVER
bulimic), but feebly
endured desultory stage
punctuated quasi (moat)
towed riddled rattle trap ship
of state into deadly scrimmage
defies propped up
moxie succombing unrelenting
weathering, unforgiving savage
nasty, brutal and short sabotage,
wherein futile - short
changed growh opportunities
forfeited developmental stage
opportunities introverted
vehemence doth rage.
A hospitable host for the poets all over
Decorated with the festoons of poems
Disseminating the aroma of knowledge
With eye-feasting and insightful portraits
Serene and sweet music of audio clippings
Ragas of divergent genres with positive vibes
Free from the constraints of domestic walls
Cognizance of rich inputs with impartial judgements
Supportive dais for classic and novice poets
Sharing of different beliefs and traditions
A storehouse of passions and emotions
Bringing myriad thoughts across the world together
A lovely platform that has accommodated me
Poetry Soup – A new world of linguaphiles!
Place : 2nd
I am humble, He said
But what of being honest?, another asked.
I am gentle, He yet professed
No, what anent honesty,
That shapes one's integrity?
He was again questioned.
I am friendly, He proudly said,
Seeming to have the world by him accommodated.
No, are you uncorrupted to them,
And corrigible to all men?
The other retorted.
What got I to do with corrigibility? he queried.
For none could in any way be honest perpetually;
So we do have to compromise at times.
No, no, no, that is wrong! the other began.
Honesty is the best virtue
In which all other virtues prevail
The evidence of man's generosity.
For an honest man is an hundred times better—
Than a benevolent man in wonder.
He pays Peter in Paul's coin
And steals from a man and do it a good to another.
What if the world were only generous,
With no sign of honesty,
Would it stand it?
For it brings the worlds to a world
And peoples to a people.
But many lack this golden efficacy of life.
Yes, with it all other virtues prevail!
Shirt you often wear, now faded and weary
Cloth you never tear, colored like cherry.
Sleeping with it, three times a week
after washing and drying
Like a best friend, sitting beside you
while crying
Dining with it anywhere outside
Whenever you feel alone, eating out by your side
Playing outdoor games and get dusted
Wagging your precious shirt so loved and invested
Shirt you once found in your closet
Wondering if it's a family member's gift
out of pocket
Or maybe an older sibling's remembrance
From a close friend well-loved without
repentance...
Days and months passed by and you still wear it
A shirt you slept with and kissed without
lending it.
Years and more you go out and travel
with your cherry shirt
Unironed, but well-kept over any dirt
A decade passed, you decided to frame it
Inside your small room, displayed on wall and pictured yourself with it.
Funny to recall all your jolly and silly moments with your adorable shirt
Laughing and getting wet under cloudy skies without hailstones and tears that hurt
One day, you met your friend again
Fronting you, wearing an identical cherry shirt you just framed after a decade of rain.
That one rainy night you were asked to give a shelter
Your small, cold room you offered with your sweater
Two cherry shirts gifted to your friend
by a grandparent --
One for your friend whom you accommodated
And one for you as a remembrance when your friend left
While you were still sleeping and dreaming of someone else like Heaven-sent
The story is still alive until this day...
You and your friend, keeping the identical shirts you treasured with gay.
You wear it again right after you were visited
Taking out the cherry shirt from the frame
pinned on your wall for a long time
never painted
Now, you and your friend are communicating on the cellphone
After long years of unseen and unfelt connection
You asked your friend, "Why are you still single?"
Your friend replied, "I'm still loving the same person who never saw me after thousands of moments we shared and mingle!"
The two cherry-colored shirts
faded, but never bend.
Gifts from a grandparent
and from an unforgettable loving friend!
HAPPY GRANDPARENT'S DAY!!!
(Prosebite)