Long Acquiesced Poems
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The day Mitchell Malden became a hero
he had only meant to go for a drink,
paced slowly into Slimbed’s only saloon,
where he noticed an unpleasant stink.
He saw Delaney Hannigan at cards
and figured that explained the bad smell,
that rustler spent his days out in the bush,
scum like him never did come off well.
He only came to town to spend stolen loot,
and for some reason the man liked to play,
Mitch himself could not understand why,
the fool just lost all his cash in the games.
So Mitch ignored him, enjoyed his drink,
tasted fine after a day running cows,
then came a loud roar, and angry howl:
“You damned cheats, throw those guns down right now!”
The poker table then crashed, upended,
Mitch look back, saw Delaney with a gun,
“I’m tired of this bar stealing my coin,
so y’all put your hands up, everyone!”
For a moment nobody dared a move,
Al knew Delany was the type to kill,
Nobody else had a pistol drawn
So they coolly acquiesced to his will.
Delaney stalked closer, saw Mitch’s old colt,
said,”Listen close and you’ll suffer no harm.
You take that iron out of that gunbelt
and you lay it down real nice on the bar.”
Mitchel did what the bandit desired,
there was no other way he could figure,
but Mitch’s hand shook, and when he put it down
his finger brushed back against the trigger.
The gun fired as it touched the bar-top,
the slug pierced Delaney’s big forehead,
he pitched backwards, the folks looking on,
when he hit the ground he was stone dead.
A moment of stunned silence fell on them,
then came a storn of folk shaking his hand.
“Making that cool think you would go alone…
Now that there’s the play of a clever man!”
Mitch was stunned, but he said not a word,
just let the procession bring him to the street,
soon all of the town knew of his brave deed
and heralded this heroic feet.
The newspapers even picked up the tale,
earning Mitch a good measure of fame,
soon enough he found himself the mayor,
and got a pretty girl to take his name.
All though he was the smartest gunfighter,
and all his life he was a sensation,
the bar where this happened still stands today,
visited by folk across the whole nation.
It’s only I, his great-great-great grandson,
who knows the truth of what happened back then,
but who am I to tell it like it was
when everybody does so love the legend?
Courtesy viz (g)natty Thrip Pest...
This client (Matthew Scott)
availed himself at behest
of following counselor
who bares his chest
to Stephanie Dodds
(maid 'n USA name)
taught technique to minimize
ruffling feathers lest
the missus aggrieved
spending her nest
egg, thus self and missus
live destitute oppressed
as two basket of deplorables stressed
nearly every day envisioning
castles in air pipe dreams
when getting undressed
preparatory to dreams
within illusory shut eye
yours truly dons fancy vest
believe me you sold by Kanye West.
DEAR MAN skills
(feeble attempt more daunting
versus scaling Mount Everest)
embraced with zest
supported and blessedly underwritten
by loan granted from Univest
Bank ohm my dog to mitigate electric
resistance while no resistance
against kool psychological aid acid test,
whereby this husband espoused,
to help him recharge, (re:volt if necessary)...,
which endeavor now poetically expressed
concerning contentious gripe(s),
she would concur challenges we contest
beat within mine (possibly her) breast
unavoidable series of parallel events
disallows me to experience respite
as ye correctly guessed
impossible mission until
death do me part heavenly blessed,
meanwhile to maximize insight woke
involving DEAR MAN skills
with following example I attest
triggered food for thought
countless years gone by, no jest
which behavior even
eldest daughter did detest
specifically oft time ebt -
Electronic benefit transfer
i.e. food stamp money addressed
when wife spent lion's share
in one fell swoop, I did level best
to communicate while pride
hide hid ingest, wife acquiesced
yet without fail repeated offense
whereby mister diplomacy here
explained (with diminishing patience)
allocated funds sole comestible expense
then included four family members
issue got heated more emphatically
groused at my sidelined request
invariably spiking discourse
else... I threatened to divest
and stow card in wallet (mine),
yet invariably relinquished said item,
perhaps first will and testament bequest
if imposed, enforced, adhered...
would have nipped in bud
finding yours truly less obsessed,
nee furious every month
the vicious drama cycled
smoldering resentment did crest
into shouting tense match,
thus body electric lamely fleshed.
The Maid of New Orleans
A teenage cow girl who couldn’t write
Was told by God to front the fight
the hundred Year War against the French
And cut her hair in trendy wedge
Six centuries later it became the rage
She donned male clothes to further enrage
Raising a flag along with the others
To battle by a regiment of brothers
Without a weapon, she could not kill
But controlled her men with fiery will
She took an arrow to her shoulder
Her actions by now becoming bolder
To liberate the French from English reign
And continue with her tough campaign
In Orleans with some success
But Paris was a failed attempt
When a crossbow bolt hit her thigh
She maintained her strength and did not die
The English caught her in old Rouen
And gleefully put her in their prison
With seventy charges, then down to twelve
For hearing voices, wearing masculine clothes
To face a life long incarceration
She assumed male garb in desperation
To avoid rape and intimidation
The Godly voices, she confessed
Tied to a stake, she acquiesced
With celestial eyes but consumed by flames
Thus canonized to saintly fame
T
2 600 years ago
3 Schizophrenic? Voices in the head, seizures.
4 Led French army to some victories in the Hundred Years War (Charles V11) against the English
5 Seen as a mascot in battle she brandished a flag instead of a weapon
6 Took an arrow in her shoulder during the New Orleans campaign and a crossbow bolt in the thigh
during a failed attempt to liberate Paris
7 Volatile temper. She kept the troops in check. Ridiculed by her male counterparts and taunted about
her French dialect, she always quipped back in humiliating tone
8 Fell into English hands in 1430 in Rouen (English Stronghold) and tried by an ecclesiastical court.
70 charges were made against her. Whittled down to 12. Wearing of male clothes and hearing God’s
voice when she was threatened by possible rape and intimidation while in prison
9 Burned at the stake in 1431
10 Emulated by imposters even after death
11 Pioneered the popularity of the bob hairstyle. She was told by voices to cut her hair in manly style.
She was her own person
Until she met him.
Him had another idea for her.
He wanted to mold her
Into a new person,
Someone she tried hard
To be
For him.
She tried for years
And years, hiding her
Lights under the burdens
Of trying so hard to please him.
She stopped smiling, and
Forgot how to laugh.
She started second guessing
What he wanted her to wear,
To say, and how he wanted her
To say it. She lived for him,
And he lived to train her.
This went on for
Years and years.
No one in her youth would
Have recognized her.
They would have been
Looking for the bubbly,
Gregarious, friendly girl
Who had died a long time ago.
In a shallow grave, under
An oak tree where she
Decided to bury the
Best of her, so she
Could allow him
To be the He
He was meant
To be.
He wanted
Her to wear
Grays and browns.
This was against
Every artistic
Fiber of her soul,
At first.
But she got used
To it. He chose
Her shoes; they
Had to be plain, dull.
He did not want her
To outshine him.
She started to balk,
But he gave her a look, and
She quickly acquiesced.
He was her prize.
She was willing to do
Everything to keep him.
In keeping him she
Was losing herself.
He did not want children.
She had always wanted
Them, but
She kept quiet about it
Because he was her prize.
He did not like friends,
So she gave hers up.
Some did not go away
Quietly. They were the
First ones cut
Completely
Out of her life.
She helped him
By not protesting,
Not balking, not
Doing anything
That would rile
Him up, make
Him unhappy or
Make him
Pout.
She completely
Lost herself.
Her family kept
Thinking she’d
Find her way
Back to them.
But she had
Her prize.
And he would
Not allow it,
So it never happened.
We were just
Sad that she traded
The life she wanted
For a life we
Never thought
She’d have ever
Wanted.
If you had
Known her as a
Child, you would
Have never thought
This could have happened.
She used to have an
Opinion, she used to love people,
She used to have talents. If she
Had them now, she was hiding
Them.
To suit him.
Without knowing your gender...,
(nevertheless ex post facto still flattered
genuine heartfelt kinship mattered,
hence the reasonable rhyme
across the webbed wide world
I subsequently scattered).
Linkedin to the previous poem,
(similarly written scant few years ago.
I also codified, glorified, and lamented
an unexpected cessation of communication
with he/him who affixed yours truly
appellation of wise man, which modesty
of mine gently downplays.
Bhutan names defy affiliating,
determining, identifying... gender,
and what a faux pas this dada admits,
when a blessed high school
student did league gully tender
benighted, gifted, ordained yours truly
with sobriquet "Guru"
alluded to in previous poem, render
ring this foolish hearty good fella (me)
falling prey to embarrassing situation,
(I did miss render
as would be expected
from this crash test dummy,
who dented his psychological fender),
vis virtual mind bender,
when an initial presumption
smarted Matthew Scott as offender,
asper online youth NO pretender
by him, aye mean the sender
communicated his admiration,
adoration, adulation for this big spender
of sincerity, viz singular poetic magi - (ha)
made presumption that
unknown messenger slender,
and female, and
upon enclosing appender
referencing person as "lovely princess"
did respondent clarify finding deface
of zee poet here -
logic chops went thru blender
as if slapped by a suspender
experiencing irrevocable shame
as though a contender
attempting to guide false supposition
playfully mistaking sexual
identity of male sender,
he (young kneeler)
bowed as winning scoring goaltender
down as mine professed
metrical feet, he who acquiesced
non Asian minor, friender
NOT seeking moneylender,
nor mistook my heart of gold,
mine apology I did obligingly surrender
and possibly chuckled to himself,
asper an uproarious hellbender
whereat my countenance turned
sixty plus four shades of lavender.
She was a little maiden, made of snow
Born of ice and cold and frost one night,
Who yearned to feel the love that humans know,
That brings their hardened human hearts to light,
The love that warms them with its fire so bright.
Her parents fashioned her one day from ice,
And that same evening, there they saw a sight,
A little girl, so beautiful and nice.
As she grew up, their little girl became
A friend to all she met there; even then
She still knew she and they were not the same,
For they could love, and she could not. The men
Would court the ladies, but the handsome Len
Wished her to court, the maiden made of ice.
She asked her loving mother, and again
Her loving mother gave her this advice:
“My little maiden, made of snow,” she said,
“If you felt love within your heart, you’d melt,
For love is warmth, and you are cold as lead;
You’d vaporize, as if by fire or smelt.
Your fate is yours alone; it’s what you’re dealt,
And though with human love you would be dead,
I will not have a child who’s never felt.”
And so with grief, her mother acquiesced;
The little maiden made of snow would feel.
She wanted for her daughter all the best,
There is no life without a love that’s real.
So soon her heart the handsome Len would steal,
And she stole his as well, and felt so free,
And with a ring before her he would kneel
And ask for her his one true love to be.
‘Twas then the maiden felt it all begin,
The death arrived of which her mother spoke;
Her heart, for love, was melted from within,
The frozen ice which made her soon was broke,
And though ‘twas only for love that she woke,
That love melted her cold heart from inside,
As if the fates were playing some cruel joke,
And that’s how little Snegurochka died.
It innocently started with that libation:
that tingling, inebrious, joyful sensation.
My foolish heart acquiesced to the temptation.
An allergy or a genetic mutation
awakened my foolish heart.
I frequently fancied more fluid flirtations,
enjoying elixirs, expressing elation,
investing immensely in intoxication,
thus, firmly establishing future foundations,
entangling my foolish heart.
I fervently favored froth-filled fermentations,
gallantly guzzling by gradual gradations,
increased intake, saw inebrious inflation,
rarely reducing or restricting by rations,
addicting my foolish heart.
My continued consumption, clearly causation:
drunk and disorderly, receiving citations,
wound up in several unpleasant locations,
spending entire nights locked up for the duration,
imprisoning my foolish heart.
You would hope at this point in this woeful narration
that lessons were learned; there'd be de-escalation.
Consumption, instead, saw inflation, dilation,
impacting my ethic, my work occupation,
depressing my foolish heart.
There were serious impacts in my relations;
it should have been time for a complete starvation.
The tiger was prowling in full on predation,
dragging me helpless to infernal damnation,
devouring my foolish heart.
What happens next is described best as salvation;
It's been sixteen years now with total cessation.
See, Christ made me a totally new creation.
He gets all the credit, my standing ovation.
He gave me a brand new heart.
----------
*I would call this a monorhyme with the additional
feature that each stanza has a short refrain tail.
for the My Foolish Heart Poetry Contest
sponsored by Milt Hankins
written on 04/03/2022
No Way Out
By Rick Rucker
As recently as a year ago,
I knew not, which way to go,
From financial ruin, to likely cancer,
I could not seem to forge an answer,
I went to work, all depressed,
My problems, largely unaddressed,
My problems seemed to overwhelm,
I could not seem to grasp the helm,
Then, out of the Blue,
I decided what I would do,
That rather than “going out,” sad, and lonely,
I no longer wanted to be “the only,”
Rather than being alone, at the end,
I would rather share the time left, with a friend,
I thought that my search would be a Quest,
But, I found it one of the best,
Times in my Life,
A Mission, with potential, rife,
From that time on,
The funk, that I had been in, had gone!
Like snagging Victory, from Defeat,
I got a bonus, an Angel, sweet,
While it may seem to be remote,
Those Dragons from my Mind, she smote,
The end of my Life, once forecast,
Was incorrect, it would last,
Far longer than my doctor thought it would,
I decided it was due to my Angel, good,
I knew that I could not let her slip away,
I did not want to go alone, into the Fray,
As she had already changed my Fate,
I beseeched her to become my Mate,
She finally acquiesced,
Rather than see me grovel, she thought it best,
In the course of our Romance,
I found that she is a genius at finance,
I thought that money would be a concern of my heirs,
With a longer lifespan, it again was one of my cares,
I am but a silly Man,
So, she put me on a savings plan,
One that will do what is all the Rage,
To have money, ‘til The End, at any age!
So, if you want my prescription for a Life, so fine,
Find an Angel, but you cannot have mine!
Her time is already spoken for,
For the next hundred years, or more!
Throughout the years of bars and fences, several things kept me from falling
My Faith in God, My Mom, My Writing...and, that Freedom Was Always Calling
The nightmare started in "93", shipped off to do a second bid
I knew my mother was hurting deeply from all of the pain her silence hid
Downstate was another dagger, the lonely days, the nights, the "Draft"
In times of peace the seagulls shrieking...and, I could have sworn at me they laughed
Then came Green Haven/the pain continued; those forty months in just a cell
Abundant vermin, to live determined...where most Co's were scarred as well
College courses would keep me focused, mixing with others who sought degrees
To be well rounded my reading varied from Og Mandino to Sophocles
All was good, then times grew darker, by "95" my health had waned
Some forsook me while others wondered how my Trust in God remained
On bended knees I prayed this daily..."Not my will be done, but thine"
Then I was showed One set of "Footprints" which I knew could not be mine
Deliverance came, yes things got better; I thought my sorrows were finally gone
Until I left to live in Fishkill, which in truth was Matteawan
Intellectually I was their equal, they had no choice, but to grin and bear it
For, I knew their books, their words, their history...and many things deemed esoteric
Bogus tickets, the box, harassment, they thought I'd fold from all the stress
Still, what would I be if I didn't suffer?...a spineless man who acquiesced
People have asked me how I survived it, a prison life sometimes appalling
I inhaled deeply, and finally told them...That Freedom Was Always Calling
Freedom Was Always Calling by Poetiq1der aka Don Simmons
In a barren apocalyptic landscape,
under a withered, bare, and grossly malformed weeping willow tree.
Lies a lone stone which reads: There is no escape From the house of the dead.
The stone, in pristine state, stands as a testament to all who enter there.
The interloping tendrils of a wisteria vine, have encircled and strangled all in its path. Except for the stone, which emits an eerie glow, as a lighthouse beacon in a fog laden ether.
THERE you will experience true solitude.
Approaching closer, you feel the frigid breath of the cemetery breeze, enveloping you and drawing you nearer, t’ward a single oblique whisp of a specter as she floats ominously over the stone.
Her once great love left her for dead, and
from the depths of sorrow, she acquiesced.
Since that day, she has clung to the life she once had.
Her happiest days were spent in the garden behind a house where no one else played.
Laughing, singing and running with her once great and true love they spent endless days together.
Now, in her current form, she lists as she sways, her tattered ghostly shroud swipes against your leg.
The window curtains’ lace whips wildly through the night air, flicking against your feet and wakes you sharply from your sleep.
Opening your door, as you head down the hall, in the corner of your eye, you spy a translucent figure. Turning to look the shape disappeares.
Was this a dream, forebodance, a warning of some future catastrophe? Mark me, and heed these words well......There IS NO ESCAPE FROM THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD.
February 21, 2021
Poem written for Constance La France
Ghost Poetry contest