Long Albert Poems
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At dusk, a brilliant western panorama
displayed off our seventh floor balcony.
Fluorescent colors, clouds of fuchsia, amber,
yummy yellow golden glazes across the sky.
So spectacularly spanning sentient space
a show of shows of unearthly grace.
Looming large clouds block the final moments
of light, tumultuous turmoils of my
little life reappear to slant the final view.
In contrast to my current mind of hope lost
for the future, the world closes in as I fell
into the despairing darkness of sleep that night
to awake in my dream to a gala porch party
on our balcony, attending was everyone,
my benefactors - Mark Twain, Martin Luther King,
Albert Einstein, Leonard Cohen, Rudyard Kipling,
Robert Frost, Maya Angelou and Dorothy Parker.
The "usuals" who would, could draw me close
but I'd have none of it, my mood morose.
Sullen, I waded disconsolate through the crowd
to the rail, reached in the basket I'd kept
for the long hemp escape rope, supple as a snake,
knotted it, put the loop around my neck
heart pounding, they gasped, chatter turned to fear.
Then a white dove flew under our canopy
and sat on Kipling's shoulder peacefully posing.
Clumsily confused, I climbed atop the railing
turned to look at the party - troubled, bereft,
speechless, said nothing, then jumped.
Oh the rushed flying feeling enthralling!
Soaring in the wind, all the while falling -
instantly, I was sorry it would all stop.
The dove descending on me caught my gaze
an iconic spiritual symbol that allured.
Through the dove's eyes I saw the party leaning,
a taut rope, a body swinging below.
Startled from dour slumber, back in my bed;
no breath, panting, panicked, tears trickling,
my wife up to hug me, save me from myself.
Shaken, I knew just exactly what to do
quickly to the balcony, opened the rope basket
to find all in place, then I noticed my hands,
palms bleeding, rope burned and raw,
pinned to my nightshirt was a piece of paper,
on it was this poem that I'd never written.
Bleary beyond belief, a surge force welled up,
a dove flies into the dawn sky bursting new light -
the otherness released finally from within.
I felt new found freedom from dream depths -
reborn, awake with renewed hope,
that memorable morning on the seventh floor.
A mind inquisitive will find
while looking out upon the world
that myriads of whys unwind
from raveled webs in queries whirled
by skies above and realms below.
There’s always more than we can know.
If contemplating mysteries
of life’s existence here in space
along with astro-histories
within our cosmical embrace,
the awe one feels will surely show.
There’s always more than we can know.
In famous drama by the Bard,
where Ghost is spotted ‘wondrous strange‘
by castle sentries standing guard,
mid ‘sworn to secrecy’ exchange,
says Hamlet to Horatio,
‘There’s more than you can dream to know
‘on earth in heaven, countless things
in your philosophy not taught.’
(And so begin misfortune’s slings.)
To summarize his gist of thought
in passage ever apropos:
There’s always more than we can know.
Some think that memorizing facts,
despite their changing through the years
as seen in how mankind reacts
when ruled by prejudice and fears,
amounts to understanding, though
there’s always more than we can know.
The gladiola in delight
will bloom as forces lure her on.
Bright stars o’er-sprinkle dark of night
but fade from sight with breaking dawn.
Thus Nature’s cycles come and go.
Yet there’s much more that we can know.
Vast marvels may await our gaze
beyond imagination’s ken
by polishing away the haze
to clear enlightened vision, then
shall fountains of deep wisdom flow…
There’s always more than we can know!
~ Harley White
* * * * * * * * *
“The important thing is not to stop questioning. Curiosity has its own reason for existence. One cannot help but be in awe when he contemplates the mysteries of eternity, of life, of the marvelous structure of reality. It is enough if one tries merely to comprehend a little of this mystery each day.”
~ Albert Einstein ~ ”Old Man’s Advice to Youth: ‘Never Lose a Holy Curiosity’” LIFE Magazine (2 May 1955) p. 64…
The poem is written in verse, having stanzas with refrain…
Inspiration was derived from various passages from The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, by William Shakespeare, in particular the following…
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
~ William Shakespeare, Hamlet Act 1, scene 5, 159–167
Humans have long trespassed
and destroyed animal territories
Humans have poached
And selfishly encroached
upon animal habitats
cutting down trees to build
human habitations.
Now the tables have turned
Humans are quarantined in house arrest
while some lie sick in bedrest
So animals not usually seen are having a fields day
roaming upon roads, crossing the streets.
Reclaiming the once jungle lands,
that had been turned into concrete urban jungles.
It's better that busy humans now become photoholic
than forever queueing
in lines of heavy traffic.
Without human pollution,
nature is all the more photogenic
Mother nature all a creation of God
has now had many of us grounded
as she gives us a hiding
while we go into hiding.
Extraordinary turn of events indeed!!
In several countries round the world:
Discos and casinos vacated
Pubs and nightclubs evacuated
Bars shutdown for lockdown
People are behind bars instead of guzzling beer in bars
and instead of animals behind bars.
Humans compelled to hibernate
so animals busted their cell gate
Priorly animals were in an enclosure
Now they are getting free exposure
Self-centred humans cared mostly about themselves
but now the animal kingdom is the cynosure
Animals were shut in cages
and now human activity is under similar closure.
Ah, this corona crisis!
Is all this mercenary stasis
for humans a roasting nemesis?
A heavy price to pay for rapacious carelessness and arrogance
where humans acted like they are in control, like they
are controllers of this planet
and they could do anything they wish with it.
It's ignorance to think all this is mere coincidence.
Im relieved our Islamic prayers can be said any place, anywhere
to kneel and bow to the one true real sustainer of the universe.
We need to invoke and supplicate to the creator
who is still in control...
as prayer can really truly prevent fear and anxiety in such scary times.
"I suddenly realised that coincidence is a word we use when we are ignorant of the real causes." - Albert Salvadó
(I was impressed by the news story in which Kuwait had sent a special plane to Italy to specially evacuate their nationals from there when Italy was heavily stricken with the corona virus)
-Dear, Mr & Mrs Poet-
Do you ever question where it comes from?
This poem's about you, sit down and get a load off
Tranquilize your pen, take heed to the ecstatic applause
The things in life we take for granting, in time get worse
From WHICH' our lives transverse, ascends a deep poetic curse
You write almost everything, rehearsing every living verse
Embezzling words, like Martha Stewart, ---NOT YOURS!
Withdrawing from your substance,
--yielding it to others, who aren't devoted lovers
Spacing your lines, ready for reader's digest,
Educating the mind, like Albert Einstein
You paint a different horizon for the color blind,
Drop a note, forecasting the news, that brings, Spring to mind
Your adrenaline, leaves people with a feel good faint.
At this level, Poet you're better than high speed Internet,
Anything that makes you feel this is the real deal,
Today, you write like there's no tomorrow, borrowing yesterday's clay
Inspiring ink, left to right, feeding the need to breed a poetic degree
Your dramatic dialogue, deserve 'The Peoples Choice award."
I love the sweet audio, when you lowercase every word
It's done so well, hell, let's never capitalize another word
Reaching a point across, when capitalizing every letter,
This is your world, take it, manipulate it, with the perfect stanza
Produce it like a poetic film, imagery, action, CUT it like Jerry Bruckheimer
One day Hollywood will incite a roll, looking for the best poetry soup rhymer
Your tears and affection, you pour on partial paper,
Showing every word you want to enunciate
A SHOULDER-- gone cold, drowning, forgetting the normal way
Writing about the pure religion that meets your light,
A beautiful flower under the moonlight
Hear the bells, Poe wrote about, adding sprinkles to the twinkle in your eyes,
A redolent scent not meant to be forgotten, from Eden's garden
Taking nature, by course, granting her a crown, before slamming us down
I will call her out --The evil and the fury of a goddess, a beast
This is my feast, I welcome you to my jungle, and the outer bounds of time.
If you ever question where it comes from?
Sit down and get a load off, listen---Where's the ecstatic applause?
I'm not afraid to say, -----I'm Proud to be A Poet Without A Cause
by;PD
I do it for fun
Look at the floor of heaven
Laid with patterns of bright gold
For us, they are but little orbs
But in his motion
Like angels, they sing
So many songs of harmony
To the souls of immortals
And while this muddy vesture of decay
Does gross in them
We mortals cannot hear it.
Hold your fortune for your bliss
A gentle scroll
A diamond ring
All gone
Loss upon loss
Life upon life
Death upon death
Pain upon pain
A man of the people
The villainy the beasts taught him
That he executed
Until things fell apart
Judge him not
And mourn him as a legend
Chinualumogu!
For whose sake
The Arrow of the gods granted justice.
Christopher Okigbo called them beasts
David Diop called them vultures
For me
They were weeds on our soil
Colonial masters
Who awakened our sleeping lions
Achebe threw the bomb
And died before it exploded
This cooled his friends
And awakened his enemies
They laughed at his losses
And scorned all his gains
He sought no revenge
Yet his silence scrapped all nations
Thwarted their bargains
And with two heads of fools
He repaid them for one
And then There was a Country
He chose not what many men desired
And rejected the barbarous multitude;
Crystallized the inferiority complex
And fought back to back
For Africa.
No ill luck stirred at first
No tears but of our shedding
No sighs but our breathing
Various creditors sprang
Enemies arose
Yet he'd give up nothing for the wilderness of monkeys
Nor for the generation of wolves
An ambassador of love rarely seen
His pleas were for the taunted and corrupt
And with his graciously seasoned works
He obscured the shows of evil
What damned error!
But some superior would bless and approve it with a text
Hiding the grossness with faint ornaments.
Look on beauty
And you shall see
It is purchased on the weight
Often have you been told
That all that glitters is not gold
Farewell, the hope of Africa
For now, your suit is cold
We love and miss you
But our prayers with you shall be
Oh, Lord!
Arise and await
For his gentle spirit
Unto you dear God
Commits itself to be directed
The Beautyful ones are indeed not yet born
But the born indeed are most beautifully precious
Adieu Albert!
his human name was Albert Francis Simmons
he was born in Detroit
his mom was a devil worshipper ... his dad was in sales
Albert was intelligent
he became a decorated Marine Officer
and joins the Secret Service
later, part of Central Intelligence Agency
the NSA, NSG and a skilled assassin
Albert was married to Wanda Blake for many years
very happy but with no children ... just a dog
and they accepted that
however, their destiny would take a dark turn
on a secret mission Albert is murdered
he is set on fire and is burnt to death
and is sent to Hell
where he makes a deal with the Devil
he agrees to become the creature Hell Spawn
and returns to earth after five years
he wanders confused and haunted by flashbacks
his body covered in scars
he finds out that Wanda has remarried
his friend Terry, he visits their home in disguise
and becomes their protector
only because of Wanda ... who later gives birth to twins
Spawn becomes a cruel, sadistic anti-hero
and has battles with Heaven, Hell, and Earth
his suit is made of Necroplasm from the fires of Hell
and his massive flowing red cape ... his protective wings
his huge right and left legs are heavily armored
a mask covers his burnt deformed face
he is a dark force with superhuman strength
immortal, skilled fighter, demonic, healer, mind controller
Spawn helps Terry when he is trouble with the CIA
he finds their daughter Cyan when she goes missing
he donates money anonymously to the hospital
where Wanda is creating a children's wing
he has battles on Earth, Heaven and Hell
those battles far to numerous to be retold here or
to list in this poem but they are many, many
oh, beware for Hell Spawn dwells here on earth
when God informs Spawn that Wanda is dead
and in Hell ... he goes back to Hell to save her
and her unborn child who are being held by Satan
their only chance is if he trades his protective suit
does he ?
his earthly grave is empty .. his wife terrified of him
for he is truly a dark spawn of the Devil
but, somewhere in his fragmented memories is love
for his wife Wanda
_________________
March 28, 2023
Written for the contest, Spawn
sponsor, Robert James Liguori
We’d just buried poor old Peter and we’re back now at his wake,
and of course it’s sad to see him gone but it’s great we can partake,
in giving comfort to his widow now that the hardest part is done -
funerals are really small reunions - for kin and friends less one.
These are the times to catch up with the mates from long gone days,
and it must be nearly thirty years since Bert and I had chased the crays.
The mists of time have swallowed up Dick and my working situation,
but now the three of us are once again indulging in a conversation.
We laughed about the characters who once graced us on the clock,
and we brought up Union matters that gave the management a shock.
So with a few quite beers now in us we’re neglecting the deceased,
until we were joined by what I’d call the roving friendly Priest.
And tête-à-tête that we’d indulged moved back to poor old Pete,
with questions laced with afterlife when God turns up the heat,
especially after what we’d heard in eulogy that filled the kirk,
about the splendid life Pete lived before descending to the murk.
The Priest had listened quite intent, then with I s’pose a sombre tone,
he put a question to us three about, the day St. Peter’s on the phone,
“When you’re lying in your casket with family mourners gathered ‘round.
What would you like to hear them say before I place you underground?”
Dick rubbed his chin a mite, responding then with his desire,
“I would like to hear them say that, because I stoked the boilers fire,
the factory had the driest steam in any plant for miles about -
Yeah, I’d really like to hear them say, I’m the greatest boiler man no doubt”.
All ears then turned toward me, intent on hearing what I’ll say.
So I took my time to bumble over what I’ve done in me day …
“I would like to hear my family say Dad, it was as smooth as silk,
and we really miss your lunch box filled with that A-grade powdered milk!”
Albert laughed but looked embarrassed, thinking it’s a shot at him,
for every day his Gladstone bag was filled up to the brim,
but then he frowned and gave a nod and moved away from his disproving,
“I guess I’d like to hear them say - ‘Gee whiz!’ Albert’s flamin’ moving!”
It was in eighteen eighty-six in the streets of Chicago,
where the greatest miscarriage of justice people would know
transpired in an infamous labor-police rendezvous.
Albert Parsons led eighty thousand people on revue.
The strikers marched down Chicago’s Michigan Avenue.
The Knights of Labor were sponsors for the work stoppage venue.
Demands for shorter work hours and no child labor were made.
This would be regarded as the world’s first May Day parade.
Thousands nationwide would join in with the activities
In the next few days, the striking workers stopped whole industries.
On the third, some strikers and police engaged in melees.
These actions resulted in two ill-fated fatalities.
The struggles also caused some severe hideous injuries.
The fights took place at the McCormick Harvester Company.
Many held the police for murderous culpability.
Organizers from the Knights of Labor held a mass rally
at the Haymarket in Chicago’s West Loop vicinity.
They would assemble there in the early part of May.
Thousands crowded there peacefully on the month’s fourth day.
Leaflets were passed noting the police for murder to the crowd
as anarchists urged the mobs to join forces and shout aloud.
A bomb thrown at the police catalyzed an altercation.
One officer was killed and others hurt in the explosion.
Matthias Degan was the officer fallen in duty.
Seven other policemen died later from an injury.
The police opened fire on the people immediately.
At least eleven of the strikers were shot at fatally.
Eight men stood trial for the death of police officer Degan.
They were Parsons, August Spies, George Engel, Samuel Fielden,
Adolf Fischer, Louis Lingg, Michael Schwab, and Oscar Neebe.
All eight were tried and found guilty by a judge and jury.
Neebe got fifteen years; the others got the death penalty.
Schwab and Fielden were commuted to life; then got clemency.
Lingg took his own life before his scheduled execution.
The remaining four men were hanged in public exhibition.
Since then, there have been enacted many labor reform laws
The men who died are considered martyrs to a noble cause.
I thank wikipedia.org online encyclopedia for the information I obtained to write this
poem.
*The Boy Who cried German*
Although Ikeh was as nervous as ever he still gathered a little guts to address those sluts. He always did walk around in a jumpsuit like that suitor who visits Bisi everyday. His Igbo accent flourished with pidgin diminishes his English when ever he spoke giving room for the linguist in our school to use as a case study when talking of mother tongue nonsense.
His fanta face and coca-cola leg mama Nkechi describes as a factory error of the producers of caro white. That bow leg of his Malam Audu mai shayi laughs at privately but still hails him as the next Ahmad Musa. Even the father of raggae Bob Marley would have given him an award if still breathing, he always allowed the brown village dust to cover it giving room for lace n dandruff. What of his lips? Forget about its tattered looks, the village girls gossip saying his girlfriend must be crazy to kiss those, its huge structure like the camels in the movie "The Mummy"
Yes! His girlfriend Franklin
Only God knows where she got that name from. By birth her mama n papa called her Omoshewa Ajoke Babatunde but ever since she visited the city on her arrival changing everything concerning her heritage but that fool forgot to remove her Yoruba tongue always putting a "H" in place of an "A" she loudly calls "Abigail" "Habigail" or "Again" as " Hegain"
A perfect with him.
Alas!
He dressed in an America suit trying to adjust the tie he never wore, his huge feet in a rubber sandals trying to have mutual understanding with the rough village sands using his handkerchief to wipe the excess dust the white men vehicles left behind. His nose like the back of papa Michael 190 showcasing his mighty nostrils like the twins well beside Adaobi's house. He waved at the passersby to show he just brushed his brown dirty teeth.
Now in the podium I sighted Ikeh talking with Albert the German. The microphone was now handed to him
"Oh Lord" I said closing my eyes because I know he will make a mess of the presentation bringing room to the downgrading of our village. Then in seconds my heart sank on hearing his German English. The crowd in amusement
*So Ikeh can speak English fluently?*
" ... full blast ...."
357 is a great tale to tell...
Tesla saw the steps
so invented his call
And then in the silence
of Olympian ground
"...I heard you rang?..."
Said d;Meter to them all....
"A cosmic gun" was just for fun
But He's challenged a.dove
To find her way home.
so here we go...
#masons #toolshed #cubit #numbers
N. TESLA
"Fragments of Olympian Gossip"
While listening on my cosmic phone
I caught words from the Olympus blown.
A newcomer was shown around;
That much I could guess, aided by sound.
"There's Archimedes with his lever
Still busy on problems as ever.
Says: matter and force are transmutable
And wrong the laws you thought immutable."
"Below, on Earth, they work at full blast
And news are coming in thick and fast.
The latest tells of a cosmic gun.
To be pelted is very poor fun.
We are wary with so much at stake,
Those beggars are a pest—no mistake."
"Too bad, Sir Isaac, they dimmed your renown
And turned your great science upside down.
Now a long haired crank, Einstein by name,
Puts on your high teaching all the blame.
Says: matter and force are transmutable
And wrong the laws you thought immutable."
"I am much too ignorant, my son,
For grasping schemes so finely spun.
My followers are of stronger mind
And I am content to stay behind,
Perhaps I failed, but I did my best,
These masters of mine may do the rest.
Come, Kelvin, I have finished my cup.
When is your friend Tesla coming up."
"Oh, quoth Kelvin, he is always late,
It would be useless to remonstrate."
Then silence—shuffle of soft slippered feet—
I knock and—the bedlam of the street.
Nikola Tesla,
........
and so I replied...
fragments of O
While listening on his cosmic phone
He caught the words 'Olympus blown'
A newcomer, being shown around
was guided there by way of sound
" she's listening " Archimedes found
to steps been laid upon the ground
Sir Isaac, while upside down
gave Albert a turn
saying "change that frown!"
Kelvin's finally finished his cup
and our dearest Tesla...
is about to wake up!
.
.
it's a matter...
of transmutable
#369 #vortex #74 #888 #1776 #1872 #577720 <-- oh yes, this one too.