Long Amuse Poems
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Signs
everywhere in Asia
you see strange variations
of English
Japlish, Konglish, Singlish
the street signs in Okinawa
are all in Chinese, Japanese, English and Koreans
the bus and train announcements as well
Hard to get lost
even when you want to
but the random encounters
with English words
puts a smile on my face
as I drink my “boss coffee”
wondering who is the “boss”
and why is smoking a pipe?
and many years ago
I saw on a menu
at the old Kimpo Airport
Baked Rick
and in Korean grocery stores
one can find
corn flights
I look forward
to many more years
of linguistic confusion
as I travel about Asia
Dream 1074 Visit to Okinawa Aquarium
Whenever I visit an aquarium,
zoo or wild life park
I am reminded of a prison
the prison is filled with animals
who amuse us for their food
I am sure that the animals
hate us humans
who are watching them
do their animal thing
but looking into their eyes
the eyes of the sea turtles
swimming back and forth
in their prison cell
in the Okinawa aquarium
filled with hatred
for the humans
who had imprison them
and hunt their kind
and don’t get me started
on the dolphins and killer whales
who preform acrobatic feats
for their daily meals
and the sharks
the king of the ocean killers
they too
if they could
they surely would
escape
their prison cell
screaming
Death to all humans
as they flee
back into the ocean’s depths
Okinawa West Coast Road
Riding down the west coast road
of Okinawa
echoes of other beach roads
fill my head with memories
I am reminded of Hawaii
and driving along the Oregon coast
east coast beach towns as well
and Barbados
and the Caribbean islands
all the roads
are lined with tourist resorts
beach views and restaurants
all very similar
yet different
and as the beach towns
fade away
behind us on the bus
my memories
of all the other beach towns
I have visited
fade away
into my memory hole
Like dreams they pass along
Unnoticed like a shadow seen
For days to become, they begone
Un-notice if to remember a dream
And felt… are days always to come
A blessed gift enriched of light
Are there not those from many of some?
With an after touch, bewitched of night
Nights as always… misused to abuse
A summary for all dark deeds be unwind
Unlike days as always… appraise to amuse
Is it not a wonder, why someone is always behind?
These are nights… perhaps I let be
For those of days… when I cannot see
That of light… when found wasn’t me
For others to only say… “Who is he?”
Like dreams to pass along simply
To notice for even a shadow be seen
For days will come along… naturally
Unnoticed if to remember but a dream
Ars Poética (Life’s Ingénue)
I always wanted to die like a hero, but I was never helpful enough.
So I switched to being a genius,
but my time ticked away with the infinite scroll.
I developed a talent for acting and so you casted me
as your life’s ingénue.
Now I’ll be remembered for my endless stream of verses about feeling unmoored.
To live like a poet means to hide the insurmountable
behind shades of gray,
so behind every anaphora, assonance, and ballad
there’s a little bit of you, the pièce de résistance.
And did you know poets weren’t merely entertainers
in the olden days?
If I were a man in Anglo-Saxon times,
I wouldn’t be your royal buffoon.
Instead of being a court jester, I would be tied to the oracle.
So while i dream of dying like a martyr,
my biggest concern shouldn’t be to amuse.
Unlikely to think that you’d suffer upon my departure, my lover,
my owner, my muse.
And when I run out of illusory verses and come to my senses,
lover, you’re on your own…
Vincent was misunderstood as a child, but that was okay.
He sat down with his ideas, and painted out his heart.
He is so strange, some said, thinking he was insane or worse.
A beautiful soul, he decided to reach them through his art.
Never appreciated in a monetary way, during his lifetime,
He painted his sadness onto canvases with flowers, clouds and trees.
There was nothing Vincent liked better than to set up his easel
And listen to his inner thoughts, as he created in a summer breeze.
He threw ragged men in ragged clothes into his insistent canvases.
They did not know the blues he was using were going to become them.
He had an eye for things that others could never see, a beautiful soul.
His striving to be like others fringed on insanity, said his cousin, Jim.
Vincent would be surprised and possibly amused to know his legacy.
The paintings he was obsessed to create his way are now selling.
Not for hundreds, but millions of dollars, which would amuse him now.
His soul for others to see, his story now gracefully, poetically telling.
You left before the twilight turned to night.
For there a heart was torn and meant to die,
In dark, before the coming dawn's new light.
I sit alone and ask the question, why?
The love I shared was from the purist gem.
I gave to wanting hands of yours to hold.
Never knowing my gift would be condemned,
And left in darkness that is very cold.
You cried outloud for taking love you used,
and swore you'll always be someone to trust.
To know my love was something to amuse,
To take your power for desire unjust.
I left your body silent on the hill,
Buried upon another, my hands did kill
contest Poem With a Chilling Twist
I watch it grow from a plant into a tree, I watch it grow to rescue you and me, I water it with my sweat and nurture it with my breath and in the early morning I absorb its substance in my knee.
See them growing in the wild bearing the penalty for that painful sacrifice; they are there to shelter you and me from the sun, the rain and the miserable pain, and when life gets troublesome and the tides rises above your head, you can reach for its branch to take you across the land.
The morning comes alive with the grinding machine in my ears bellowing through the wall and penetrating my ear drum, while the music shouts from the top of the hill.
The black bird mating in the coconut tree flies into the ackee tree and then back into the coconut balling out with a wired sound that I could not figure out .Although they were mating they were trying to tell me something but I could not understand only a bird watcher could tell me what it is about.
Today is a special day and I hope that blessing will come your way. I keep all my thoughts together and try desperately to figure out this chapter before the next natural disaster.
There is a special time in space that is flying all over the place, they have not gotten the grip of time and it keeps slipping on the ship. They must focus on the lightening and the thunder and the wind will come after, then the message will be clear on the direction and the position that is hanging over there.
You didn’t do it right this time or everyone would be standing in line, with a plate and a dish looking at the horizon and the rivers breaking its banks.
There is a little hole on the side of the space station, it looks like a valve that can open and close, when its open you get the wind and when its closed you get the water., you have got do it all over again for no one will be speared except mercy flow from heaven. they will never change unless heaven breaks through the gate.
Two days wrapped in one singing a happy song, two hearts joined together listening to the weather. Come and amuse me today.
When I was little my mother and father took me to my grandparents place
The reason was they had school and work so they dropped me off and took haste
My grandmother who was always writing had brought out a case
I always wondered what it was that made her heart beat in an odd pace
Little I did not know what she was smiling so much about
So I watched her run around making snacks all out
I was little and about to touch the case, but I heard a shout
When I heard her she had a look that made me pout
My grandmother smiled and said to me that machine was special to her
But what was that machine because it was odd looking, for sure
As a little child nothing looks more interesting than a new figure
Finally she sat down with me by her side and a cup of coffee to stir
With a big smile she told me a story and first it was on paper
As she spoke I heard her voice with ticks and taper
I could not concentrate because of sounds and I was looking at her
She spoke with kind words and words that I will know in the future
I giggled when she said a word, because it made several noise I heard
My grandmother smiled at me and really knew that I like the sounds that occurred
Little things are not so little she smiled and looked at her coffee and stirred
She pointed at the machine with paper rapped in it with a pattern that lured
As she spoke to me I watched it snap at the paper with precision
I was kinda amuse on her finger making a quick decision
The machine was so fast and her fingers was too, I could not use my vision
She was so happy to see that I was starting to understand the occasion
After a while I got bored and she put me down on the floor
She kept smiling and making music beyond the door
When it stopped I felt empty some how to the core
She stopped it was just because she could not find words no more
I ask grandmother what is that machine you are using as I was griping
Grandmother why wont you play with me as I was smiling
She said that she was doing some stuff, I guess she was not done working
But the thing was she was so happy as she said the machine is a Typewriter for typing
April 18, 2013
Approximately twenty years ago
I met the lady down the lane. I’d see
her once a month, and well I got to know
this lady whom my church assigned to me.
Each woman’s duty in my church it was
to visit other sisters – just a few-
to make sure they were doing fine because
it was a helpful Christian thing to do.
“My lady” was the term I liked to use
referring to this woman twenty years
my senior. In my visits, we’d amuse
ourselves with tales of children and careers.
She’d had a lot of kids and they were spread
from California to the great midwest.
For more than fifty years she had been wed,
and now with many grandkids she was blessed.
A journalist she’d been – so sharp; so kind!
Things changed. She disappeared from down the lane.
Five years ago, dementia stole her mind.
“My lady’s” tales I’d never hear again.
Dedicated to my friend, Sister Marcella Walker. May she rest in peace.
March 23, 2020
for "The Lady Down the Lane" Contest of Craig Cornish
They were photographs of younger days
protected from dust in a shoe box,
sense my trepidation opening it;
impatience fustrates, anxiety overwhelms,
lifting the untaped top is a paradox...
have the pictures remained intact?
There must been a hundreds of them or less,
so dustless and neately packed and held together
by a yellow ribbon I bought for a returning soldier
who never got to see it wrapped around the maple tree;
what made me decide to open it with cautiousness?
Did I think that opening it, all memories would flee?
To my surprise it turned out to be quite the opposite,
as I untied the stiff ribbon, the resurgence of images began:
faces with youthful smiles reawakened moments of a lifetime,
that ended up into oblivion for reasons I can't explain!
Now, they are hanging on the hallway wall painted in green,
I've plans to perserve them and display them in a museum
to attract and amuse keen visitors with their momentum;
I'm glad that I saved them from deterioration and been seen.
Apply sure craft with passion bold,
Mind knows the feel of heart that seeds;
Urge mellows draft as thought unfolds,
Sense a firm will that sculpts wise creed:
Echo a voice that fashions poise.
Glimpses of wit now splurge fond say,
Reach for fine choice to purge mad noise;
Align deep fit as words fund pay,
Nurture deep stuff beyond mere things,
Dance finesse clear that strange and true.
Meet sure enough a joy that spring,
Use feelings dear for sparkling cues;
Sound spreads swift stay upon these shores,
Expect verse play to frame much more.
Leon Enrique
01 March 2016
Singapore