Long Assembly line Poems
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He will wipe away every tear from their eyes.
there will be no more death or mourning or
crying or pain, for the old order of things has
passed away. Revelation 21: 4 (NIV Bible)
I AM IMMORTAL
Explode from mortal to immortal,
in one forgotten breath.
Intake of first light.
Born, through the tunnel of my despair.
First images in black and white.
Mind snaps new memories…
I’m nearly breathless, as he comes into view,
hand extended - the one pierced for my transgressions.
And funny, my heart is racing, I’m sweating…
Salty tears run down my cheeks onto my shoulders.
I’ve hit my knees, weeping, at his bare feet.
His gentle hand upon my head,
he says, “arise my child.”
I obey, and blink through torrent tears.
I don’t see, but I feel the softest cloth – like cashmere,
rub over my face, catching each tear -
not one is missed.
I hear the sound of tinkling water.
The snow white cloth, I see it now!
He wrings out the shroud, and continues to wipe away
my misery.
“Cry, my child. Let it all out.”
He speaks to me as my mother would, lilted words.
Afterward, he points to a bottle, takes out a permanent ink pen –
Oh yes, they have those in heaven!
Writes a name. I look up at him, with questioning eyes.
Someone’s name, an unknown to me has been written.
Jesus smiles.*
“I’ve named you my child.”
I instantly hear the pronunciation, and register the meaning,
which, I believe, will take me all of eternity to dissect.
How beautiful, my name rings coming from pure lips!
“Come,” he says, “come and meet your family.”
We walk together, inside open gates - pearly gates.
I feel as though I’ve entered oz!**
Vivid rainbow colors, and colors I’ve never seen before!
Happiness like chains falling off…
like heavy burdens laid aside…
like a fresh shower…
like a new found tropical waterfall…
And I see exuberant faces. I know each name,
even those I’ve never met before.
I’m treated like a bride, an assembly line that takes their time,
hugging me, kissing each cheek. You see,
I have eternity. I am immortal!
2/19/2017
*smallest verse in bible – Jesus wept (John 11:35). In eternity,
I’ve adapted mine to say, “Jesus smiles.”
**L. Frank Baum’s book Wonderful Wizard of Oz. Movie
starts out in black and white then turns to color as the
protagonist enters Oz.
9/11 Wasn't Heaven. Take it from one who was there.
Corpses, body parts, impaled bodies were most of what I saw there.
9/11 Wasn't Heaven but not because of the horror I saw.
On 9/11 I learned to hate. I never felt hatred before.
We were all instructed to bring to a certain section anything that may contain DNA.
A hair brush, make up kit, anything that may identify the forever lost in this grave.
I spent most of my time on what was known as "The bucket brigade,"
an assembly line of us passing buckets of debris with hope of saving they who were buried.
Every now and then something caught my eye.
New visions of horror never thought could be seen by I.
Someone with a heavy push broom pushing debris
and then that someone stops suddenly
and picks up what appears to me
a piece of carpet very carefully.
After my closer inspection however of checking the carpet out
I then came to realize, it wasn't a piece of carpet. What it was was someones scalp.
The buckets kept coming, never stopping, never ending
but still out of the corner of my eye kept drawing my attention.
Like a zombie I broke away from the bucket brigade
I think I was beginning to feel afraid
of what it would be
that was drawing me
and coming with every step much closer to me.
I bent over and picked up a mangled Barbi doll.
"Are you going to come across the corpse of a child?
This doll may have some DNA
of some poor child lost in all this decay."
With those thoughts I made an about face
and made a B line to the DNA place,
I deposited the doll
and then ran off like a frightened child.
I Had To Get Out Of This Place!
I no sooner got home
when guilt hit me like a thrown stone.
While showering all of the days grime off of me
I broke down in the shower and cried like a baby hysterically.
"How could you be such a coward? How could you run off on all of them?
How could you abandon all of they who aren't dead and still living?
How could you be such a coward? How could you run and hide?"
I've learned since then that I wasn't a coward. I was traumatized,
but sadly to this day
the only way
I live with myself for running away
is because it wouldn't have mattered anyway.
My presence wouldn't have made a difference. No One Survived.
Baptized in the Jordan
The preacher announced on the bus:
"We are heading to the Jordan river,
those wishing to be baptized
will get their chance."
Thoughts of being dunked
in the same water
as the real Jesus.
That appealed to me.
Visions of a wilderness
river,
just like in those bible times.
Taking my cloak off,
wading into the muddy Jordan.
John the baptizer himself,
doing the honors.
Dropping me backwards,
dying my old sins,
raising me to a new life.
Coming out to the sound:
"This is my son,
in whom I am well pleased."
That appealed to me.
We got off the bus.
The wilderness was not
all that wild.
The Jordan had been turned into
"Baptisms are us."
Complete with deli and gift shop.
Apparently six other buses
also had been led by the spirit.
Our spirit's time was
between 4:00 and 4:30.
Ten dollars got you a towel
and a white sterile pullover,
barely long enough to cover
your glad tidings.
Lockers and showers were optional.
Our group was in zone 4.
Who knew rivers had zones.
As one of a hundred white
clothed sheep, I felt like
the newest member of a cult,
like the Hari Krishnas,
but without the fancy haitcuts.
We were herded down concrete steps
that led to the river.
The Jordan was cold.
Baptizers were in the water,
ready to go.
Henry Ford would have been proud
of that production line.
Baptizing had never
been more efficient.
Two every ninety seconds,
like pistons, up and down.
When it came time for me,
I didn't get a "Thank you Jesus"
out before I was whipped around
and plunged beneath the crimson flood.
I almost got whiplash.
I dripped back to the locker,
glad tidings and all.
I think I was baptizee #41.
For five bucks,
you can get
a DVD of your sacred event.
I bought ten,
they oughta make
great Christmas presents.
I went through the gift shop.
I bought a set of John the Baptist
steak knives,
Virgin Mary placemats,
and a couple of Holy Ghost
candle sticks.
As I got back on the bus,
I thought how far we've come
in 2,000 yrs.
We've made God's job so much easier,
assembly line salvation and baptism,
with steak knives thrown in.
Would Jesus be proud?
That did not appeal to me.
9.7.17.
Santa Clauses were to be molten and reshaped into Holy Cross bunnies
on a mega 3D printer but then the app somehow went wrong
Chocolate trickled and trifled and mixed with fake season’s greetings
King Kong and Godzilla leaped off the assembly line with
Witches on lolly pop brooms and then the whole show went viral
Mephistopheles aliens with marshmallow ears danced merrily
Suddenly truffle snakes in seductive icing sugar bikinis tested tempted
cotton sugar candy apples as big as paradise vowed and allowed
They all swirled swished and tumbled to cacophonous tunes that had
to be labelled as retro and neo-modern-classical rap-sorties
At the exit of malfunctioning malls the Easter display went a tad pear-shaped
as soon as the rabbits slipped out of their hats and mounted the chickens
The mistress and master of ceremonial clangour had at problem at hand
and some egg on their faces thus they squirted and squinted
They pondered and squandered with no solution untouched for the task
how to make more profits and be politically correct just the same
‘Megalomania’ and ‘Mega-High-Money’ the respective CEO’s of ‘Turn water into
wine’ and the start-up ‘Chocolate Merry Go Round for the Soul’
Could not fail in this venture as not to have their heathen bonuses
dissolved into cocoa mousse splash
After meetings and brain storms pilot studies and polls they decided to craft
a whole new religion (the Independent Unseasonal Reformed Epiphanists)
Fortunately the United Philistines of Consumption were too busy to notice that
the newly created faithful were simply rehashing an old dogma of money
What a shame that those lovely chocolate coins have gone out of fashion and
That Buddhists would not want their spiritual model to melt under the fig tree
09th April 2018 Written for the contest Easter 2018
Did your mother ever tell you,
Did you know?
(Some of us have a penchant for the inscrutable)
Did, your mother ever tell you
(These bonds are primordial and immutable)
In one of those intimate conversations
Between mother and child
(Mostly wasted on superficiality of dopamine significance)
About your origin and your age?
(Neither carbon-14 nor red shift light can date us)
I supposed
With your superior knowledge written on official paper
That provide the data of your birth
You think it not worth the bother
To have such small talk about origin.
Mothers knew the world before the big banging bang
Or you measure your life with time like baking flour.
Trivial, trivial, three scores and ten is distorted denial.
Did your mother ever tell you
About her memory of tomorrow?
Did you know
That every child comes mass produced from heaven
The female foetus has 7 million oocytes to begin
The tomb stalks us from the womb because of sin
Death comes early to siblings we forget tomorrow
When the memory of the future fades
She is born with only one million eggs later on
O that I could tell the brothers or sisters in one year we lost
That by puberty only 400, 000 eggs are not gone.
Was that random love
Or the beginning of my purpose driven life,
O mother, will you remember now?
Did you hear
The whispering of my siblings telling me "go first!"
I was Jacob, coming last despite my bossy siblings
Who 7 million with me were only potential until my birth;
This perhaps, the Electra complexity eluding Freud
Matters not, mother knew
I never took orders very well
That is why on the Wanderer I was not in the hold
But many many died in the wretched womb of our beginning
When slaves grow green and slavers search for gold.
I came long after laughing
And could not believe what birth certificates taught in writing
Did they not know the entire universe is one age
That God rested from all his work and his creation that he made from then
That time sequenced us like products on an assembly line
That all eggs existed simultaneously
So that I age vicariously and erroneously
Mother said nothing to me
So I beg you, talk to your mother again.
The heat soaked day drags on: each daisy sweltering
every buttercup melting into the dry ground,
a golden oozing of petals. I watch them through the window knowing
that I could not be ready, this I that’s still unknown
plucked before the first blossom. The hum of the sun
repeats like an assembly line, robotic, in essence,
clawing its way into the conscience
and residing in the mind like a panther. I, too,
am reclaimed by the ground.
It seems to pulse, reaching and breathing me in
dragging my limbs into its dark depths.
I let it go on from the white bed, sterile- so I’m told.
Even the sky dulls me with its aqua face staring vacant and shallow,
its vague features too-sea-blue for me. The seed that’s cracked inside disintegrates,
the doctors say, “it is no threat”.
But I feel the leaking egg rise in the heat
trying to engorge itself like a cat eating its tail.
I want to grasp a handful of the straw-grass
covering the ground like a yellow wound, to watch it
infect the air and bleed into the wind.
My hand reaches for the stomach,
cupping the heat that steams from my skin, unstretched- as far as I can tell.
I know when it happens, I knew when it fell,
feeling the red spots, all the blotches of myself
costume my insides like a cracked cauldron, the unhatching complete.
A sea of suicides, as the dark lump rises to the throat.
If water is life, I gargle and spit its corpse from my mouth
like a cactus. I imagine the tumour deflowering,
its thorns still jagged like teeth or as black as a squatting toad.
Before the window, out of captivity, the flowers’ faces all resemble death,
each seed trembling with my pulse, afraid to look into the eyes
of the lifeless that forsakes being. Dead trees with ringless bones,
boughs bent into unnatural contortions
like deformed ballerinas performing offensive dances
I watch with blindness. I rise and leave withered shell remains,
the parasite shrivelled and discarded like old skin.
In the window view, the snow rises once more as the sun turns to bone
whilst the wind passes through me. I am a mine, full of black on black
atrocities, that has dead birthed the unknown.
Uncomfortable confronting
your continuous consumption to which you're accustomed,
the crunch, the chew, it's all you do,
most munch at lunch while you the whole day through,
can't get a grip like a hug holding you
but when you sip it's a diet brew
no added sugar and calories are few,
but many saturated fats are stacked
impacting with gross growth of fat sacks,
so you boom take up too much room
and stay still through sore joints you feel
as you can't conceal spare tires that spill.
You've an ahss with a difference
surpassing any ahss in existence
by a significant distance
with its significant distance
disappearing in the distance
to France and French Resistance
wanting removal in an instance
with intense insistence .
To lose weight you need to move mate.
Eat less move more, it works for sure,
though at first a chore
instead of bursting out you'll once more
fit through the door,
and not resemble a dinosaur,
the sore-thighs-and-a-sore-ahss-eyesore-osaurus.
All four storeys of your inglorious
girth awkwardly bulges before us,
taunting as you pass us at speeds
outclassed by a passed its best tortoise,
a daunting and torturous sight
for our poor eyes that sore
at size you can't ignore
as your broad and soaring baggy core
drags flab and more flab along the floor.
To dine all the time like an assembly line
from 9 to 9 makes you the widest of mankind
with a need to wear a wide load sign on your behind,
eating on repeat
until you can't see your feet
or get out of that seat
while hoarding heat
roasting in rotation
as a gravitational orbit results,
these insults should install motivational mass
to counterweight your morbid oversized ahss,
… so yes your ahss looks fat since you asked.
Realise she hates guys that tell lies, she cries,
so I told her she's oversized and learnt lies are wise,
don't tell her she's wide from side to side or in her thighs,
cus her size cry makes her lies cry look a lie, lies are wise.
Puddin Day
Christmas Begins
they come on a Saturday
in November, the Puddin People,
brothers, sisters, nieces arrive.
family with their arms full of parcels
sacks bulging with ingredients
and of course the maestro to orchestrate.
bags of raisins: sultana, golden
tins of spices from distant trees
grown in exotic lands,
flour white as the snow
sugar and carrots by the pounds
and an new bottle of best Brandy.
on a cold and frosted morning
we gather for another year
snow or no, our spirits are tinselled
bells tingle from the sleeping garden
we carry out a tradition formed
out of our love for Mum and the season.
Christmas pudding created each year
since the first, exploded onto the walls
and ceiling of the kitchen on Clinton street
ever since nineteen forty four.
this is our day when we
remember together.
an assembly line of merry alchemists
forms around the table in the warm kitchen
chopping, measuring, mixing and tasting
telling jokes as old as Methuselah.
laughter rises up on scents of steaming
cinnamon and nut meg
old stories, each year slightly different
depending on the teller, regale us all
with Brennan history spilling into
catch-up conversations
about kids and their lives
those dispersed to the far corners.
the pressure cooker,
one of Methuselah’s wive’s,
perks happily on the stove
its own Christmas song of
whistles and hisses
producing the sweet dessert.
the day stretches out unnoticed
by the flour daubed
some what sticky crew
popping in batter
pulling out fat round puddings
enough for everyone’s celebration.
we part in the dusk for another year
Holding close our memories like gold
and pudding of course all brown and moist
soaking in its first drizzle of Napoleon.
at Christmas dinner, no matter how far apart,
we feast on Puddin and remember.
In the workshop of my waking hours,
I am the maker of my own day,
Crafting moments with a DIY attitude,
Twisting fate's threads with hands unbound.
At 6 AM, I pick up my tools,
Coffee grounds and ambition,
Mixing the elixir of caffeinated dreams,
Stirring in the alchemy of determination.
The clock ticks, a relentless metronome,
11:11 winks, an angelic muse,
As if the universe has a sense of humor,
A cosmic jest in numerical ruse.
"Make a wish," they say with a smirk,
As if dreams were granted in seconds,
But I'll forge my own destiny, thank you,
With sweat and grit, not ethereal reckonings.
No celestial arithmetic can guide these hands,
Turning the wrench of daily toil,
In the cacophony of self-made symphonies,
I dance with chaos, a rebel in the coil.
Lunchtime, a respite from the assembly line,
Sandwiches wrapped in brown paper,
I nibble on the crumbs of inspiration,
Savoring the taste of self-made capers.
The afternoon sun spills its golden ink,
I dip my pen into the daylight,
Scrawling plans on the parchment of possibility,
Mapping out a future, bold and bright.
5 PM, the whistle blows, a release,
Yet the DIY Day is far from done,
For in the studio of the evening,
I sculpt my leisure, a masterpiece begun.
Dinner is a feast of flavors and reflection,
A banquet of self-appreciation,
11:11 appears again, a cosmic wink,
Mocking the notion of divine intervention.
"Make a wish," it whispers with a smirk,
But I've outgrown such whimsical fancy,
For in the sweat of creation and the grind of will,
I find my muse, not in numbers but in the dance of circumstance.
So, here's to the makers of their own destiny,
The dreamers who wrested the real from fantasy,
In the DIY symphony of moments and minutes,
We find our purpose, our own sweet serendipity.
Born in Madrid, in fifty nine,
A military Kid, 3rd of 7 in the assembly line;
They named me Michael, but I answer to Wedge,
A Master Sergeant’s son—not much here that's cutting edge.
I grew up a runner, and I wrestled some,
I was a skateboarding brawler and a surfer bum;
Didn’t try very hard in primary school,
Laziness, not ignorance—I was a bit of a tool.
Then I met this fine girl, long hair just like copper,
Who took me to church, sweet, innocent, and proper;
At Wood’s Grove on knees, accepting Him for long haul,
In 1978—just weeks before Uncle Sam called.
In a flash came the Navy, Marriage, college, and kids,
A submarine, 2 surface ships—I was a bit of a squid;
On to Chapel Hill, where I taught Midshipmen,
By ’94, farewell my Navy—I’m now a businessman.
Life moved fast from the crib thru each grade,
For Mom & two girls—my female brigade;
Growing up we did lots, mostly travels and school,
Plus church, school sports, dance and piano recitals, how cool!
Today, they’re gone—our empty nest in their wake,
New lives, with spouses, and pups—and new names.
So I paint and I hike—while my soulmate sews and she reads;
And we both now teach high school—sharing Christ as He leads.
I’m grateful my Navy recalled this old goat,
To lead men and women, ashore and afloat;
Retirement and selection, to teach young Cadets,
A large pain in the butt—but I have no regrets.
After 60 odd years, I’m modestly content,
With where my life’s been, and headed—once spent.
But mostly I’m thankful—family, friends and great health,
And for wonderful friendships—the source of my wealth!
Some say sixty's getting old,
Creaky knees, aches and pains, hard hearing—all told.
And I contend, aging's NOT for the faint hearted,
But most who know me know—I'm just getting started!