Long Aching Poems
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The rule of sanctity is a veil to hide the blow.
Love doves in the air, fading into the sky.
Thoughts are mixed stiff oasis and flow.
Hypnotic wizardry that's being spread away.
Love doves in the air, fading into the sky,
Magic using Alpha Centauri's moon sight.
Hypnotic wizardry that's being spread away,
Gasping the frigid breath of the frozen light.
Magic using Alpha Centauri's moon sight,
Mischievous haze covers the ghastly realm.
Gasping the frigid breath of the frozen light,
Eternal afterglows echo a motion rhythm.
Mischievous haze covers the ghastly realm.
Within the confines of the death's garden.
Eternal afterglows echo a motion rhythm.
Souls are aching and seek truth certain.
Within the confines of the death's garden,
Pain spills from the heart as a yearning drops.
Souls are aching and seek truth certain,
Stain soil with red as souls gather and hope
Pain spills from the heart as a yearning drops,
Thoughts are mixed stiff oasis and flow.
Stain soil with red as souls gather and hope,
The rule of sanctity is a veil to hide the blow.
Written: May 18, 2022
POTD of May 20, 2022
Pantoum - Old or New Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Joseph May
Frank Osgood
1870-1919
I was the great wanderlust of Whittier!
From 1890 until my last days,
I followed my nose,
And other body appendages,
To distant earthly destinations,
Both sensational and disgusting,
From the calm tranquility of a secure home,
To the chaos and uncertainty,
Of traveling with heavy bags, aching feet,
And certain fears, I, nevertheless,
Decided to break out and seek other lands,
Other people, and other vistas.
Sickness did awfully afflict me many times,
As I lay retching inside many a tent,
But always I was learning, and thriving.
To far-away Rome I traipsed,
To Paris, Venice and London too.
From the streets of Madrid to
The far-away shores of the Mediterranean,
Where The Christ founded a mighty religion,
I ventured and saw, and tasted!
I hunted on safari in Eastern Africa and
Shot a gazelle from a standing position.
In beautiful South America and Asia,
My restless feet found another universe,
Of unworldly sights and strange rituals.
My friends!
It was amazing indeed to drink it all in,
Like a cool fruit drink from Rio.
But my thirst for wandering was never slaked.
And then it ended,
Like the quick waking from a dream,
When I died at home of a measly fever.
Most ironic indeed.
And so, as for my epitaph,
This is it:
“‘Tis a heap of profit to travel.”
I find hard to move around,
dragging my aching body,
unable to do even the simplest chores...
yes, I am very sick of flu:
it's something I can't undo!
I will not go to the hospital,
lie in a comfortable bed for hours,
coughing and sneezing waiting for a call...
while spreading this virus and infecting others.
I'm missing out on brisk walks
that keep my immune system healthy,
and no blues frustrate me more than loneliness...
come spring and let joy renew itself in this memory.
My remedy is Robitussin by far,
a miraculous cure for cold symptoms,
and since I can't go out, or drive my car...
I indulge myself in the creation lyrics.
It's my first day back to work,
I'm drinking coffee, and I shouldn't,
but these headaches won't go away...
unless I smell it, sip it and dream away.
Copyright 2010 by Andrew Crisci
Sensibilities shaped and slapped and stolen. (aha)
I am indeed a borrowed man.
For where amongst my stirrings stand
priori grand?
Mission thwarted by a bell.
Noble tell.
Some soul such as mine
even, ever thus, declined.
Brokered deal appealed
in youthful fancy;
clung as clung today.
A skyward, inward, aching chance.
Once rejoiced.
A face more mine than my own.
All skin each day
the morning shone.
Bark un-burled.
Shadow long uncurled to rust.
Untrusted flag re-furled;
Scattered in what mattered, dust.
Awoke to see the joke.
First impression lasting,
reality unmasking,
I am Thee.
A fraud become.
Mashed potato brained
and stew of everyman.
Another pauper’s heart proffered
for a token:
Stolen, broken, borrowed,
a cobbled, curse of words.
No glory left ingrained
this shallow story
unrefined and rained
upon us all.
Long verse of silence,
then still.
Until more silence comes
from up the hill.
mon u mental moment,
overturned by seed or ant.
can to can’t.
broken dancer’s leg,
blinded painter,
broken banker.
suicide with empty gun.
far worse than hollow
lifetime borrowed,
and chattering to gatherings as though tomorrows come with new surprises
there is only one
surprise.
and here it is.
In Memoriam Quietly Always Close
Are they whispers, then, settling
So gently upon that slightest breeze wending
Over the granite crosses and statues of cradling angels,
Which stand in their long cemetary rows?
Stating each name of the one passed on with
There-on etched, too, the noting of time alive
And telling of the beloved, who hum there their slow laments;
Who send up colorful balloons to celebrate their love and
Take far their silent greetings in the sky.
Are they lullaby heartsongs, which
Rise on sprigs of heaven-bound light,
So tunefully sweet for love’s addressed, aided
By a league of angellic composers
In their lyrical rounds from above our earthly sphere?
Are these the places of our hushed sympathies?
The places we lay over our dear ones
All the broken pieces of the grieving heart’s still longing
To stay in some way forever near, and, so, we linger thoughtfully
Criss-crossing the undulating final verdigris
Landscape, which embraces the last remains ~
Resting on in heaven’s wait for that further journey going on.
Are these faint mists surrounding
So many hours of our own remaining days —
Which are spent summoning back the stories, the touches,
The eyes that happily cast their glance into our own —
Not truly our tears
Being turned to magnifying memories,
Prayerfully appearing with each
Dusk’s close of day and placid rise of the radiant moon?
Do see that the soundless falling is our aching?
Is a furor — burst of pure, white snow:
A flash of a blizzard, looking nearly weightless,
Landing in silence, but
Incongruously, falling heavily down, into those forming crystalline layers
To dress a seeming lace-like çover over all the stone markers
With a luminous beauty, revealing a metaphor, ineffable
~ Blessed markers of life itself set here before us
Within reach of meeting the Divine.
—————————————————————————————-
(c) sally young eslinger 6/5/2023
(Written for Jennifer Wilson & Maggie Hopkins in loving
Memory of James Hopkins, spouse, father, & friend) Also written with the inspiring power of images of the 9,000 marking gravestone crosses in Normandy, France, and sights of Arlington Cemetary, Washington, D.C.
Written to unaccompanied cello Suite 1 in G major, perfomer Yo Yo Ma
Thanks be to God…
Knock knock knocking on heaven's door
my knuckles are bleeding and still,
you ask me, nothing more
Thick red solid walls erected between us
you labeled me and shipped me off to another Country ...
leaving me with nothing more
Defused, deprogramed, debugged, I walk away
from your locked-in displaced shrug
I am held in a makeshift prison of my own,
though I tell you everything, you tell me nothing more;
Knock knock knocking on Satan's door
Sanctimonious roars from a placating hypocritical God
no Pious gesture on my part, I am not conforming
this misshapen piece of bread you offer me
doesn't feed my aching belly,
I show you everything I'm feeling while you,
escort me, out the door.
ps I wish to thank Michelle for speaking such cantillate truth.
It takes many days walking the path God has given,
limping with arthritic stagger, aching unrelentlessly.
Any matter that this condition came on as I retire,
nearly psychosomatic! I must look old age in the face
and laugh. I will not surrender to the cause of death
of my youth but bravely I must ride the healing train.
When you make up your mind at sixty to get going,
the going’s not going to give up its struggle..its resist.
But God has not blessed me with a coldcock mind.
The enemy keeps coming with closed fist. Nevermind
the wretched sight of one whose wings were clipped,
kicked in the butt from the highest height, falling
into a forever nap of eternal unhappiness. My strength
comes from the Lord. I may be weak, but his ways
are truth and life. His sun and moon out of the hands
of insane man, wild beasts and devilry. The light
stays in place by royal decree. O! The Word is brilliant!
I stay the course, the narrow way, limping if I must,
never missing the step of trust. O the people and the
places where I must go, God goes first ahead of me
and surrounds me. If I fall or fail, there is meaning
to it all. I can cry if I want or bravely lift the chin.
My mind set upon the white-haired lady, one of us,
who took much time to go from the parking lot
into the restaurant. She was turtle slow with her walker
in the moonlight. She was worth the wait. “Ooh…”
she’d exclaim, “I feel the Holy Spirit,” Exuberance sublime.
No clown face with red lipstick and downward plunge
of wrinkles. Happiness rode on her wave of suffering.
I wonder if she has joined the Lord yet? He was with her
all of the time. She’d learned to live in the light. I’ve met
only a couple of glowing gals, candlesticks that are alive.
Like Moses, God gave that special touch of shekinah glory.
If I pray for that manifestation, I know I must carry my cross.
I pray to love God with all my heart, mind, strength, soul -
always follow Him, no matter the toll. Blessings abound in Him.
8/7/2021
There's a few too many years on these old bones
Where my soul calls itself at home
As the lights are dimming inside of these eyes
Pulling the shades down on this house's life
With the shingles thinning on top of my head
What used to be dark is now more gray instead
With the bottom floor being aching feet
As this foundation struggles to steady me
Not to mention the pressure on these old pipes
To keep my hearts furnace burning both day and night
Which keeps the heat at a steady flow
Little wonder my hands and feet are always so cold
With my siding sagging more than it should
I'd pay for home improvements if it'd do any good
But in the meantime I'll stay bundled inside
This old house that I call my life
Can i ever forget that you
ever existed in my heart,
Knowing the pain it caused
me deep down my heart.
Each time i think of how it
all got to this very point,
Only helps to send shock
waves down my spines and
joints.
It seems the joy you
brought to my life,
Was cut short before it even
began with a knife.
It seems you lasted just for
few days,
While deep down my heart i
long for you everyday.
Wishing and hoping we can
go back to the day i found
you,
When the whole of my life
changed to brand new.
Bringing to me the
happiness i never once felt
before,
And an ebullient love i once
hoped for.
You gave me hope for a
better tomorrow,
By erasing all of my
unending sorrows.
You gave me a great sense
of humour,
Each time there is a scene
of a tumour.
You made my life as sweet
as it can be,
Even when there are things
that can sting me like a bee.
How can i forget that
amazing smile of yours,
That kept me dazzling
beyond many hours.
How about the joy you
gave me knowing that you
are my best friend,
Went a long way to bring all
my fears to an end.
And then every thing fell
apart,
The very moment you left
by breaking my heart.
First you made every thing
seems like an horrible
nightmare,
And brought to me an
emotional darkness in an
hare.
You turned every Grimes of
happiness to pain,
And every traces of love to
lain.
Making my eyes abated
with tears,
More than what my heart
can bear.
Pain of a broken heart is all
i can feel,
And the aching of a
bleeding knee.
All i have now is an empty
and shattered heart,
That needs a taste of a
rebirth.
It all happened very fast,
And now i'll try to put every
thing in the past.
And keep hoping for a
better future,
Without the glance of your
picture.
All i know is that no matter
the way it may seem,
You'll forever in my heart
remain evergreen.
(Base USO club, Zweibrucken, Germany, 1963)
Of a lazy afternoon, I sit
propped up,
Bones aching, sorely tired from
lack of work,
And dutifully read the comic
strips
With bored eyes while my mind
dozes.
I sit enveloped in my peculiar
Grayish pallor, which clings
And will not disappear,
And martyr myself to the gods
of convention.
I smoke acrid-tasting cigarettes and
Loudly chew a cud of gum, popping it
Absent-mindedly, and I turn the
crinkly sounding
Pages, one after one, slowly
and intently,
So as not to disarrange the sheaf.
The dryish smell of printed
comic strips
Irritates my nose, but I don't
sneeze --
Merely wriggle it a bit for some
relief.
My brightly polished shoes are propped
Upon the table and I lean back and tilt
the chair, and my hair
Is closely cropped and combed with care,
no strand
Out of place, pomaded and arranged.
My clothes are neat and clean
and stylish
And I brush away a nonexistent
crumb and
I slowly chew and loudly pop my gum,
Moisten index finger, moisten thumb,
And turn the colored printed page
of comics,
Snicker at the antics pictured
While I glance about.
And wonder.