Long Apocryphal Poems
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In chambers grand where words like weapons flew,
Sat Churchill, stout, and Astor, sharp and new
(The first lady MP, with spirit and with grace),
Who often met the statesman, face to face.
Their rivalry, a legend, oft-retold,
A battle of wits, worth more than gold.
Though much is but apocryphal, they say,
The tales endure to brighten up our day.
Part I: The Gentleman and the MP
Winston, with Brandy in his steady hand,
Surveyed the House, the finest in the land.
Then Astor rose, her voice a sudden sharp decree,
“To have a woman here’s like you in your privy!”
The Prime Minister, with a twinkle and a grin,
Replied, “My Lady, that is quite a sin!
But fear not, ma’am, no danger to my pride,
You’re not good-looking enough for me to hide!”
Part II: The Poisoned Cup
At Blenheim’s table, ‘midst the silver gleam,
The tension rose, a palpable, hot stream.
She eyed his cup with a disdainful lip,
And let a cutting, venomous remark slip:
“Winston,” she snapped, with fervor in her tone,
“If you were my husband, I’d put poison in your tea, you’re on your own!”
He paused, then swallowed, with a look so wry,
And gave a swift, unburdened, classic reply:
“Madam,” he said, without a moment’s pause,
“If you were my wife, I’d drink it to applause!”
Part III: The Sober Dawn
On another eve, or so the story goes,
She saw his state and let her anger show.
“Winston, you're drunk!” she cried, with eyes so cold,
A fact she felt courageous to unfold.
He looked, with a ponderous, heavy sigh,
“And you, my lady, are extremely ugly, I won't lie.”
"But fear not, in the morning, I'll be sober and all new,
And you, alas, will still be ugly, through and through!”
Part IV: The Masquerade
When talk arose of some grand, masked affair,
And Churchill mused on what strange guise to wear,
‘Twas Astor who suggested, quick and clear,
Dispelling any notion he held dear:
“Why don’t you come as yourself, Prime Minister, for once and all?”
"Or better yet,” she added, “why not just come sober to the ball?”
So went the “feud”, a lively, verbal spar,
Between two titans, like a distant star,
Whose witty words, though maybe not all true,
Paint pictures of an age that’s fresh and new.
A time when cutting insults, sharp and bright,
We were parried with a quip and pure delight.
Poetry is like opera to me.
It brings some, to your very soul’s gate!
Some poets only pen for a witty, rude
fast laugh.
I don’t think life is a bowl of chuckling human
guffaws and gaffes!
Some will never comment to you.
So what?
Make this not a popularity zoo, poetry is not akin to showing off
brand new shoes!
True friends are not like a bag of apocryphal popcorn!
Spitting philosophical gems like a dunce, all over a college dorm,
All kinds of varied, creative poets here!
Some write way too long, some too short.
Then, there are also, humble deep philosophers.
Find a few who make you purr.
Those that make your heart, stir!
**Read well known poets each day.
This is a must, a learning foray.**
These are just things I learned
since being here.
Beautiful poetry brings me to tears.
Cliches as comments should be
banned.
Empty and cold in this poet’s heart and
hands.
03-8-2022
Written 11/2021
UC Davis Hospital
She had many sad stories,
they were filed away, labeled,
color coded;
tales presented as apocryphal bibles.
He would listen as she pulled them out
of her droning breast,
intoned then as if reciting
poetry to an acolyte sponge.
Her stories festered the air
with pitiful sorrows,
scratched yet more stigmata
upon hide-bound woes.
White paper moths would fly up to his eyes
as if to illustrate her narratives;
tissue thin, he would see within them
the many skeletons of her living ghosts,
bones free now of all minerality,
fish-wet and wriggling
in the gel of a long preserved plasma.
He often closed his ears
to make his lips numb. The nasal gnarl
of her broken voice
coated his tongue with sticky commiserations,
a jejune sympathy
that had the texture of mildewed goatskin.
Her words mechanically ticked off
every injustice and persecution
ever heaped upon a martyred mind.
Eventually though, her deep well of mopes
dried to a blubber of sighs.
Then all those emaciated moths
would flutter around her
anointing her echoing skull
with a seeping urine-like substance
she called love.
I peer quite nervously about,
to wonder at the goings on,
how much of what is said,
is speculation on my part,
and how this dwelling rose,
from a clouded past milieu,
tales of the apocryphal I’d guess,
imagination stirred off course,
uncanny gothic motto purblind,
blue ink mist curtain veil stoke,
vivid mind’s black night visual,
amulet of congested fantasy,
macabre plot on the strain,
what surreal restlessness within,
dormant interregnum cast,
yet one seems drawn toward,
that dim lit swirling sight,
nest for midnight dervish,
and other brazen species,
dare I enter from afar,
perforce I court danger,
when nosey to a fault,
but therein lies the trap,
to be fascinated is one thing,
to stray beyond another,
why would one be so tempted,
by an entity with dark omens,
superstition is a term used,
to smear that which is unknown,
it is however justified,
when carefully used methinks,
a shrouded raven perched,
stoic, solemn sage as sentry,
ravens circulating chimney top,
symbolic ghost appearing numb,
somehow I cannot summon,
pluck up that innate gumption,
to confront a crippling fear,
before it duly swallows me,
now I feel driven without rein,
zany impulse at the whelm,
enigmatic pathway underfoot,
reluctant step a heavy booth lurch,
shattered eaves, torn leaves,
giant concrete slab tumble,
frail broken window smithereened,
taut ghoulish splinters glisten,
I dash against elemental angst,
when peeping warily into the void
In an old vineyard
When Jesus was just a lamb
His coat eight years old
Working with the chaste Joseph
His father and guide
As the beloved Mary
Kneeled and prayed to God
In their small and humble home
A visitor came
Golden and shining brightly
Like beams of sunlight
Shooting through the home’s window
Shooting from heaven
Shooting down from the clear heights
Mary beheld him
Thinking he was her young son
Putting off his coat
With gentleness the child said
“Where is dear Jesus
My dear brother and brave twin
I want to meet him”
Mary never responded
In fearful blindness
Thinking he was a phantom
From the lightless depths
Rather than light from the heights
She seized his right arm
And tied his arm to the foot
Of the worn, torn bed
Not wishing to scare her more
He remained at peace
Not saying a single word
During this event
Jesus held an empty branch
Observing the wood
As if it were a mirror
Soon he heard Mary
Jabbering in confusion
With tears raining down
In this dim storm of wailing
Jesus heard the words
Breaking through the whirling clouds
“A phantom has come
Dressed in golden apparel
Dressed in bright lightning
Saying “Where is dear Jesus
My twin and brother
I desire to see him”
Joseph please help me”
Only Jesus saw the light
And heard the thunder
For he had wise eyes to see
And had ears to hear
He proclaimed with holy strength
“Mother, where is he
So that I may see the light
Or should I wait here
Waiting for the bright sunlight
To break through this storm”
Jesus said these words in joy
Joseph was startled
Mary wiped away her tears
They entered the house
And found the spirit at peace
Still bound to the bed
Both the parents looked at him
Then looked at Jesus
And found them to be the same
Mary walked further
And unloosed the child angel
He bowed to Mary
He and Jesus said no words
For they were brothers
They hugged with their gentle arms
Gave a holy kiss
The angel child disappeared
For he and Jesus
Became one white pearl of light
Thus the empty branch
Bloomed with delicious almonds
Bloomed with holy life
Thus this town was sanctified
Crowned with golden, shining grace
Poem based on the account from the ancient apocryphal book The Pistis Sophia, Chapter 61.
(“Citadel of Light Merit Badge”, 2016, original pen and ink)
The Great Debate
The great debate in buddhism
Specifically in ancient Tibet,
Was between the sudden and gradualist schools.
Even though the event is apocryphal
And never actually happened,
It’s a good and relevant story
Because it is the debate that happens to this day
Between students and teachers,
Dharma brothers and sisters
And within our own heart,
Because it concerns the nature of actual enlightenment.
You see,
The two schools view and conceive
The nature of reality,
And thus nature of ourselves,
Fundamentally differently.
The gradual school says life is like a dream
While the sudden school says it is a dream.
Disregard for a moment
The popular row row row your boat song
Which somehow inexplicably
Gave us all in the West
The sudden school lesson,
The vast majority of spiritual aspirants
Are of the gradual path
While only the very few are sudden types.
But the bottom line
Is that everyone is a gradual path type
Until they are a sudden enlightenment type.
(8/11/25)
When apocryphal bedlam spreads its crazy pinions
Fake news holds court in the newspaper's dominion
Incessant lies convert to self-righteous 'truth' in print
I light a fire with a fact check stone cold sparky flint
Surely I respect pluralism and free speech for everyone
Search for opinions and do not object well put clever pun
But when evil misinformation threatens valid certitude
I wish the evil propaganda would be null and void and mute
Yet what can I do I'm just a humble poet with a tiny quill
Can shout from nanoscopic roof tops or the window sill
Reach deep into a shallow ink pot with my fountain pen
Cannot compete though with the glitzy giant liars' den
I won't bow to how the big shots misinform and cheat
Challenge crude populism and reject unopposed defeat
Call out to fellow writers' voice to heed the call of obligation
Will not be handcuffed or straightjacketed within my narration
Honesty holds virtue and ethos can be clothed in rhymes
Rhythm dash meaning and figures speech onto the lines
When right becomes so very wrong duty is to write until
I'm bound and gagged knowing the skewed battle is uphill
04th April 2020
All children of a lesser god,
Someone somewhere has spared the rod.
Disobedience led astray
Where iconoclast await to prey.
Apocryphal the unaware,
Their secrets juveniles don't share.
Subversive action that relies,
On innocence through child like eyes.
A fountain of all knowledge, yet
Corruption roams the internet.
Projecting images and sound,
Leaves immaturity spellbound.
And adolescents with stupidity,
Lured into vile iniquity.
Recriminations, who is to blame?
Those children taught to kill and maim,
Or radicals, wherever from,
Who leave misfits to plant the bomb.
4 / 9 / 2020.
I had the worst terrors last night
My mind was in a gruesome sight
The ‘ol apocryphal scene
Insighted by the new regime
Migration bill stirs fear among
Farmworkers chant that It’s Wrong!
Phone app saves Honduran journalist
Can’t go back she’s on their death list
Can’t walk ‘n get food without stress
ICE is cold, enforcing arrests
Or anywhere, nonetheless
For a green card is meaningless
Now a tourist destination
Gaza's newest sensation
Take over plans for a Riviera
Palestine people’s tierra*
Taken; territory sovereign
New rich owner YOU ONLY gain
Who be the beneficiaries
Billionaire contemporaries
For undoence he’s called a hero
Those sacrificed their life for, zero
Those fought for everyone’s freedom
In vain forgotten in this new kingdom
Unbeknownst me how it plays out
Living in the USA, peace-out
When at last we go silent
deep within this internet hive,
will the delayed surprise
travel more or less than a minute or an hour?
Did she or he die, or were they always
apocryphal names written on dead air?
If we ‘pass’ known only to a few
who knew our covert compulsion to speak
to the invisible, to write to strangers,
(a secret we may take to the grave)
shall we miss being so mislaid?
Will a minor fame, a little flame,
die with only an ethernet epithet
knowing it left a mark so digital
it could be deleted by a fingertip?
When we go silent will they suspect,
assume that we are just gone away,
or imagine they hear once more
a phantom voice on distant lips
some other day?