Long Assembles Poems
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The turning wheel of time
stirs up the dust of disarray,
that settles in the crumbling cauldron
of disordered life of illusion.
In the maiming moments
of disdained dejection,
truth tumbles in the mélange
of disorientation chaos.
Under the fantasy firmament
psyche in desertic isolation,
embedded in mindscape imagery,
suffering desiccated and lonely,
searches for a novel niche
in self-constructed reverie
to get a spellbound shelter
of captivating hope in frustration.
Dormant notion then invents dream,
steers mind into domain of delusion.
A thing made is destined to break,
but not by the will of the creator,
for whom the sense of time collapses,
making the frame of timeless trance,
where the dreamer assembles relentless
the shifting scenes of desire dreams.
The montage etched by the trail of mirage,
migrating in dunes of desolation,
makes collage of dream in deluded mind
against backdrop of nocturnal oasis.
The dreamer doesn’t see the dawn,
for the soul sleeps entranced deep within,
can’t escape self-built illusory maze,
until divine consciousness makes wake-up call.
Nowhere To Hide (music & lyrics by Joan May Donnelly Ellis)
Chorus:
Where does the writer go when she's lost her inspiration?
Where does the dreamer go when the dream has died?
Where does the ground meet the sky and soar where eagles fly?
Where does the heartache go when there's nowhere to hide?
Verse 1:
I know where a village weeps beneath a watery shroud.
and where silence abides and words are not allowed
I know where royalty's birthed and nourished by an anointed King.
and where a river flows into an ocean of green.
Verse 2:
I know where the Light is redeemed when the Shadow closes in.
where a Team assembles when there's no goal left to win.
And I know where Palm Trees sway to the tune of a Chinook's caress.
and where Roses feud and where children are truly blessed
“The future belongs to those who believe in the
beauty of their dreams”- Eleanor Roosevelt
The turning wheels of time
stir up the dust of disarray, past and present,
that settles in the crumbling cauldron
of the disordered life of dire confusion.
In the moments of disdained dejection,
the truth tumbles in the mélange
of disorientation chaos, intimidating the future.
Under the gloomy firmament of delusion
the mental acuity lost in desperate frustration,
searches for a novel niche
within the self-stimulating imagination
to design from the debris of discontent
a spellbound shelter for the future.
If the dormant notion then invents dreams,
they steer the mind into the distant domain in time,
making the frame of timeless trance,
where the dreamer assembles relentlessly
the shifting scenes of the collage framed by success.
From beneath the current flood of despair,
a verdant mindscape emerges with time,
attaches dreams to the unanchored psyche
to shape the future of content.
As the rising sun promises a burst of colors
on the calm canopy of hope with golden beams,
sanguinity sparkles with the spectrum of splendor
for the beautiful dreams to embellish the future
to perform the kaleidoscopic show of delight.
Sweetened dung is shoveled down
gluttonous throats with eager appetites for
alleged misdeeds skillfully spun
into a frenzy of sensationalized hype
by media-seasoned reporters.
.
Seduced by speculation and hearsay,
a jury of pseudo-intellectuals assembles
neatly with moral turpitude tied
smug and tight around rigid white collars
stained heavy with sweat and anticipation.
She stands alone as the eyes of
the court pierce through her appraising
her posture and expression while
the echo of charges being read dissipates
with the smell of type ink and old mahogany.
Fragments of truth embellished
for shock-value and dramatic effect
spill forth as vomit
from confessional mouths
reeking of rot and fermentation.
Vulturous prosecutors rise in fluid
motion squawking accusations in
expert execution of closing arguments,
pecking apart flesh, unconscionably
scattering the meaty bones of her defense.
like Icarus choking on his wing’s wax
Phoenix too laden with ashes to rise
Sisyphus stoned by rock bottom
an Angel suffocating on its halo
the witch seeks to be a Fairy Queen
assembles the mirror of Self and
seeks solace in prayer and meditation
one cannot give what has not been received
Janus will have to gather a third face for the present
looking backward and forward does not suffice
to overcome the deluded nature of an illusion
the only permanent matter is impermanence
either one honestly grasps nascent reality
or corporeality strangles immanent awakening
the Buddha can transcend without fig tree or rice bowl
not every robe has to shine in bright orange
and yet a rainbow needs sunshine as well as dark clouds
tantra means woven together and providence
patchwork for the mosaic and tapestry of life
no more threadbare rags nor shards of broken magic
in wonder and marvel lie imagination and miracles
wisdom is knowing what can and cannot be changed
humility and serenity require arduous work
to achieve some degree of spiritual connection
* * * *
I wander tonight, in a curious slumber *
My sleep is held captive by the man in the moon
He peeks through my window, while enchanting the room * Enticing my dreams, where a choir assembles
The heavens entrance me with musical rumbles
The clouds twirl around to melodious tunes
Enraptured tonight, in my curious slumber *
My sleep is held captive by the man in the moon
Against window glass, branches tap to a rumba
With the breeze blowing in, curtains swirl pirouettes
Joining in, are the nightingales, warbling duets
As showers of meteors fall into tumble
I wander tonight, in a curious slumber
Let us compose a sonata that captures the essence of spring's repose.
With each note and chord, let nature's beauty unfold,
As we embark on a musical journey, untold.
In the graceful dance of a short-lived lily magnolia,
A crescendo of chorus unfolds, delicate and ephemeral,
Petals adorned in hues of pink and white,
Whispering secrets of beauty and delight.
With each gentle breeze, their melody sways,
A symphony of fragrance, their love displays,
Their essence lull, a fleeting moment in time,
A chorus of life, so serene and sublime.
The spring assembles an ensemble of musicians,
The thrush and songbird trill with delicate notes,
Tulips line up with trumpets, Daffodils sway with violin,
Wildflowers dance in the melody, cheering up the Spring arrival.
Golden rays, sunflowers enchanted,
Pansies, trillium, hellebore, hyacinth gleam,
Strings, brass weave like flowers in bloom,
Nature's resume in a portrait, glorious theme.
The gentle patter of raindrops on rose petals and leaves,
A rhythmic percussion, a soothing reprieve.
The melody weaves through the showers' embrace,
As nature quenches its thirst, at a gentle pace.
And finally, the grand finale, a chorus of life,
As nature awakens from its slumber, free from strife.
The sonata reaches its climax, triumphant and grand,
Embracing the beauty of spring, throughout the land.
Neighborhood
Dawn rises touching the hilltop - new light swelling with the smell of coffee and bacon. Eyes blink away the sandman’s residue, loud yawns like lions, footsteps in pj’s resound on staircases – breakfast - weekly allowance burns holes in jean pockets as neighborhood gang assembles on the first day of the weekend - our gang on Saturday.
the weekend routine
our gang gathers for a quest ~
allowances saved
Our street tries to sleep in on the weekend before raucous voices shatter the stillness at the home base telephone pole. Allowance in pockets, a noisy horde moves like locust swarms towards nirvana – free movies at the museum, sliding down granite lions from a Pharaoh’s Egypt, staring at relics from Amazon jungles.
rare artwork displays
jewels treasures of the past ~
wide eyes wondering
Not done yet! An hour for burger and fries. Race down the hill to the Roycroft event. Tickets a quarter, one box of candy – popcorn shared with a best friend. Booing the villains. Cheering Lone Ranger, Number One Son, stealthy Green Lantern, the Shadow and westerns – sheriff saves the damsel, proceeded by Elmer and Bugs. Can you guess who is on first? Just enough quarters left for a bus ride home!
superman batman
saturday at the movies ~
break for tired parents
9-2-20
Let the Pens Flow - Haibun
Sponsor: Jenish Somades
It is five o'clock somewhere
And the porch is still there
There are cocktails, and the a swing that still sways
With the wind and the whispers
We will all meet here
With our memories of those yesterdays
At the end of West Road
We watch fireworks explode
From the porch on the Fourth of July
Now our children are grown
We thank God for His gift of new life
We share pictures and days tell
Of memories we won't sell
On the porch until the middle of night
From two months to ninety
The stories get mighty
On the porch that assembles the time
Through our lives and our eyes
We had a guide in the porch light
That shines on and through each passing year
On Sunny Hillside Farm this day
Family takes their place
For another photo on the porch wresting time
You might not remember; it was so long ago.
Our memories devise tricks to flush away pain.
But I walk here in the alleys of remorse
During the darkening final days of the year.
I seek to atone for my neglect, all my plunder.
Our life was torn asunder; all my hollow thunder.
I hunger now for any light; it is true.
But I taste your ghostly wounds in the night stew.
Some of my stages of shame perpetually replay.
No amends, no expression of regret relieves them.
Hedonism never realized its promise of pleasure,
A sugarcoated cereal deadening life’s flavor.
Roaming alone through twisting backstreets.
Survival crawled by irritable, temperamental, impersonal,
My sharp edges and dim wit drove me out of bounds.
I was a delinquent turned out at all the sanctuaries.
I lay in exhaustion, my head in my arms.
Something pealed, yes, some sort of carillon
Again, again, chiming, crystal tones climbing.
Notre Dame, Westminster Abby,
A chorus of cathedral bells tolling, extolling
Clear harmonies rolling, springing, showering,
Towering, overpowering, a new belonging,
A new donging, a new righting of wrongs.
Here, spontaneous essence self-assembles,
Deepest being chiming, dinging in time,
The flood and flurry of bells rain down on me.
I can never repair my failed fragments
Returning like a tiresome uncle.
But perhaps I can thrive, fully alive.
Ringing and pinging, singing of my new self.
For all I have failed to be,
I celebrate my outpouring of love,
my season of rapture.