Long Adapted Poems
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At first there was no alarm; these were winds
And high prairie farms had learned to hold tight
Against gale force blizzards and tornado;
Replanting, repairing after each storm,
‘Rain Follows the Plow’, the golden promise
For European settlers flush with land,
Planting in familiar ways of home,
Trusting tradition and the land agents.
Dark clouds in western skies dangled promise,
Sweet, saving rain just before they vanished,
Leaving naught but crackled fields and static.
Rainmen appeared, showers promised, for cash;
Farmers paid, desperate now, this new spring,
Watching hard-earned savings sowed into clouds;
Circus planes driven by clowns peddling hope
O’er bare fields, empty barns, forsaken dreams.
These were winds, curdled harvests of heartache,
Hot summer winds, bleaching pastures, hayfields,
Blowing dusty “heys” from Oklahoma;
Bitter winter gales, driving snow upward
To dance with black Colorado topsoil.
Four years of wind blowing down future’s dream,
Delivering drought, death and foreclosure;
Desperate winds ringing funeral bells.
[I grew up on stories of the 1930’s ‘Dust Bowl’ reaching the Dakotas in the last few years
of this devastating phenomena. My mother’s family lost everything; my father’s family
held on, and rebuilt. When the winds finally abated, farming methods were modified and
adapted to protect the topsoil, but the damage was done. Farming would no longer be
merely plowing up the land, seeding and expecting rain. Farming became a risk, a hope, a
prayer. The strong, the faithful, the fortunate remained on the land. The broken, the
faint-hearted, the hopeless were swept away.]
The Soup Is Down
Now is the winter of her discontent
It started since no soup was sent
Off into the ether, gone somewhere
I hope someone somewhere hears my prayer
Return her to her soup I beg
She cannot even get out of bed
her fix is needed straight away
She can’t go on another day
She sympathise with any addict
She is now cold turkey who could predict?
Please, please, she needs the good soup back
Her nourishment I know she lacks
She is wasting away before my eyes
Her family are scared tis no surprise
They cajole and tempt with nourishing things
But her soup is all they need to bring
Return her to it I beg you please
her family need her and off her knees
She will return to normal I know
When the soup returns you she will show.
Get well soon PD
I have just adapted an old poem for David Williams contest The soup is Down" I have changed it from 1st person to second person, he didn't like it I hope you do...
TOO MUCH SIMPLICITY IS ENOUGH*
Poem writte for "Too Much Is Enough Poetry Contest," Margarita Lillico, sponsor, August 2, 2025
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I sift through the clutter of days,
where too much becomes a weight,
and enough an inaudible whisper,
barely heard above the clamor.
I once chased abundance,
collecting positions and things like seashells,
each one a promise, each one a burden,
until excess turned into shackles.
In the clamor of this abundance,
I found myself lost—
a wanderer in the garden of plenty,
flowers blooming in wild abandon.
The weeds crept in, choking the roots of joy.
I pondered, “How much is too much,
when the heart is heavy with an unknown longing
and the soul craves simplicity and stillness?”
I breathed in, finding solace in the balance,
where ‘too much’ fades into the background,
and enough, sweet enough, stands
at the forefront of my personal revolution.
I discovered a quiet truth: enough is not the absence of desire,
but the fullness of being, the serene knowledge
that having too much simplicity
is simply enough.
Note:“Most of us have grown up with a capitalist worldview, which makes a virtue and goal out of accumulation, consumption, and collecting. It has taught us to assume, quite falsely, that more is better… E. F. Schumacher said years ago, ‘Small is beautiful,’ and many other wise people have come to know that?less stuff invariably leaves room for more soul. In fact, possessions and soul seem to operate in inverse proportion to one another.” (Adapted from Richard Rohr,?The Art of Letting Go: Living the Wisdom of Saint Francis, written for Center for Action and Contemplation, 2024.)
PASSIONS
On the deck of his life’s boat
In a state of confusion
Was he sitting
Gazing at the horizon of
The unknown
Dark clouds of doubt were hovering
In his puzzling mind
His thoughts in disarray were venturing into a labyrinth
Of faint speculations
The dilemma was his, knowing not where to go
The roads of virtue and that of vice before him
They stood:
Equally appealing
Equally accessible
Equally demanding!
He tried to pierce the veil of life’s mystery
With his wondrous, enquiring eyes but
Every effort is a sound failure:
The riddle persists
The obscurity endures
The enigma remains.
Impatience enters now his troubled psyche and
Horrid panic becomes his constant companion.
Suddenly, his choleric aimless, and violent passions
Snatched the rudder of his life’s boat in their needy:
For control
Hungry for rule and
Thirsty for power
Arrogant, reckless hands and
In their eagerness to rule over his
Disorientated mind, enslaved
Reason: The illuminated helmsman
Hand-cuffed love: The tender-hearted captain and
Tortured understanding: The knowledgeable pilot and
Threw overboard benign compassion and
Holly mercy.
Shortly after, the humane crew of lofty virtues,
Subjugated to the newly established tyranny was:
Ruthlessly deprived of its power
Violently derailed from its course and
Brutally twisted in its meaning,
To fit passions’ newly adapted schemes,
Of infamy
Of turmoil
Of inconsideration and
Of shameful vice.
Then, as the sails of vanity and blind temptations
Opened wide and
The craven wind of uncontrollable urges rushed to
Swell them with corrupt impetuous desires,
His shaky boat unguided drifted to the open rough sea
Of self-destructive indulgence,
Through the hurricane of obscure ignorance,
Towards the perilous sterile rocks of despicable lust
Where it crashed and sank into the abyss of filthy appetites,
In the graveyard of lawless souls at which
Murky desperation eternally reigns!
Ah, if only he had chosen the path of virtue!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
18 January 2013
They were watching always watching
Although he didn’t even know
As he lived his life from day to day
He was the star of his own show.
They watched his every move,
How he lived with his mate,
How well they both adapted
To their isolated state.
They seemed to cope so well
Never seemed to have a care
So long as each of them knew
The other was near somewhere.
They made love so delicately
With lots of tender sighs
Unknowingly watched eagerly
By hordes of alien eyes.
Any offspring was awaited.
A hoped for event.
A rebirth of the species
Was the watcher’s intent.
It was prime time viewing.
Every single hour of their play
Being watched and edited
Before selected airing every day.
The programme always started
With the sign on their enclosure door
*****Sapiens (Cloned Versions) -
Not extinct anymore;
DNA extracted from fossils
Found on the ruins of the Earth
Destroyed by this very species
That didn’t appreciate its worth.
They were watching always watching
Although he didn’t even know
As he lived his life from day to day
He was the star of his own show
That big house was built in the seventeen century when the faith in God was strong,
it told many stories of men with bruised hands and chiseled faces;
they built it with craft and embellished it with stained-glass windows;
girls in their pretty black dresses looked outside and contemplated sunsets for long.
I bumped into a frail woman leaning on a cane, she stared at it with much emotion
and sobbing, " Their youth is wasted, They are the orphans rejected by society! "
" Why is it so? " I asker her puzzled." They should be adapted by somebody
and get out of there before they are too old! " Her voice expressed a great concern.
And looking in those tearfull eyes I answered her, " I must disagree! "
" Do you want them to be entrusted to strangers who won't love them as
their parents? " Parents! They have none! They are the daughters of drug addicts! "
She raised her voice which showed anger while she rubbed her injured knee.
" Madam, why are you crying? Does someone dear to you live there? I questioned
her improvising the answer. " My granddaughter ! My poor granddaughter! "
I continued the conversation " Is it a children's care center?" She solemnly replied
wiping her flowing tears with a soft tissue, " It's an orphanage! It's real hell for her! "
The friendly woman told me a story a few people knew: the story of that forgotten
orphanage where newborn were taken in by nuns who did it for love, not for gain;
" On Cherry Road, this house is looked down as a scourge! Sins of their mothers!
Why don't they go to visit them, hug them and give them Christmas presents? "
After years of grad school, I decided to get married,
My parents found a beautiful girl a few years younger than me,
After the arranged wedding, our love life began,
She came to USA from India when she was cute young girl.
Getting adapted to the new environment was tough,
Everything was new, and different, she was lost,
English was as new to her as the new surroundings,
I advised her to watch soap during the day to learn English fast.
To my surprise, within six months, she could communicate in English,
We will go out in the weekends, enjoy the great outdoors in States,
Take pictures in slides and prints, to take it to India when she visits,
Still, she found lonely as she did not find many friends to keep her happy.
I tried to get her in yard work and backyard gardening,
She would happily help when I was around,
Still, she found this boring, the produce was cheaper at stores nearby,
The next excitement I thought would be shopping to keep her happy.
She would go to malls. spend hours looking for outfits
I made sure I appreciated what she chose,
An appreciation she loved more than making Taj Mahal for her,
Sometimes she will spend more than the set limits,
She will say, don’t worry I will pay when the bill comes,
When the bill came, she would say,
You pay; you control all the money.
Life was evolving, she found many friends,
She loved two baby girls and a boy, we were blessed with,
It was an enchanting era to watch the kids grow,
Their birthday parties were full of excitement, I still remember.
In the early days before videos came, we would go to the theaters,
I must remind her at least a day in advance to get ready for the show.
If we must go to a wedding or anniversary,
A week's reminder was barely enough to get her ready.
In the old days, when GPS was not around,
Going to new places used to be adventure many times,
She will be the navigator with road maps,
Hardly knew how to read it properly.
Still, life kept on moving,
She came late and left early to heavenly abodes,
The fun moments we had,
Still lingers in my mind.
No matter what, there is no place like home;
wherever it may be, it is the best.
Be it nearby, or distant lands we roam-
no other place can top our at-home test.
A home is shaped by how we love to live;
our nest, adapted to each day and night.
With ambiance and comfort, it will give
a special feeling that we know is right.
When shared with family, new guests, or friends,
home wraps its arms around to warmly greet;
its aura of acceptance surely lends
for us to share it as a welcome treat.
No matter where it is- be large or small-
home is our best- and lasting port of call.
It's only a paper-mache
moon, they say, too cool,
too full of interstellar space
to sympathize or stress about
lovers, kings and fools.
Or is it? According to Deutsch
the so-called final ignition
into outer space
is a product of man's meditations
moving, as if via gravitation
the magician to the other end
of the expanding universe. Sure,
in yr computer. Meanwhile, nursed
in a nursing home, mewling and peeing
as accurately predicted by Shakespeare
my old Marine, an ex-sailor, bitter
at life's ending, waited
too long to dispatch with dignity.
All alone, as in Corbiere's poem,
old soldiers are fated
to fight unnecessary wars
as we all are. Except for the fact that
every helium and hydrogen atom
ever born or made (whatever you believe)
has taken positions, passionate
and predetermined as republicans and dobermans
over eons and epochs. Thus
I don't think it behooves us much to care
if we're getting too little clean air or
bacteria are better adapted than us. This
obsession with identity, survival
a name and a leg of lamb is lame
even uninspired. The entire universe
including the professional baseball season
is canceled when yr dead. No blame.
I adapted to my pain
And felt it's existence no longer
Sometimes facing the unknown
Makes it less a wonder
My mockery became my amour
And yes! it shielded me
For in the absence of the sun
The moon must learn to shine
A thousand times did I crawl
In the dark
And collided with unseen objects
Still now I run in the same darkness
And need not any light
In this scar was a flesh so broken
I never thought could heal
In this night i was once asleep
And never dreamt to be awoken
But of all things said and done
And for every hurdle come
I have put a foot ahead
And steadily I count my steps
I was that seed buried and forgotten
I was that onion that once was rotten
Yet in my rot did I germinate
And out of the ground I propagate
BY: Adams O Elizabeth
Lizdiamond world of poetry