Long Astronomically Poems
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In the remote landscapes away from modernity
stand the stone-cold monolithic monuments.
One, the Georgia Guidestones, the American Stonehenge,
and the other, the Neolithic Stonehenge, the British cultural icon.
The stone slabs are roughly cut by primitive tools
and astronomically aligned with the zodiac design.
These are set in an intriguing geometric configuration,
wrapped in controversy, the megaliths incite curiosity.
The stones are systematically arranged, not as walls,
but as questions framed by the blocks of ambiguity,
leaning onto the winds of whispering mystery,
their shadows stretch longer than human memory.
It’s not yet known if the Stonehenge
marks the ritualistic ancient burial sites
or the prehistoric religious healing place,
erected as the conceptual symbol of peace.
The nameless builders of these structures are history now,
but the stones remain as the perplexing patterns
of their thoughts, now the sentinels of silence,
and the enigmatic ancient thingamajig of riddle.
A Solar trims the Earth's waistline,
while Polars bare all the segments,
Springing up those northern steppes leans sublime,
the Vernal Equinox presents,
then, on March 20th, it will shine.
The southern Pole leans the same way,
as the September Equinox appears,
on September, the 22nd day,
though terms mirror a different side as it leers,
it's Summer there, and it's their time to play.
The Winter Solstice 2025 blinks,
the northern Pole hails a Holy day is on,
December 21st freezes the winks,
as the holidays, year-end dawn,
gifts, fireworks, food, and some drinks.
At the southern Pole, they bare it all daily,
as the Summer Solstice, the sun takes sides,
the people are out and about dillydally,
swimming and surfing the tides,
on July 21st, the Cape Town and Rio rally.
The sidereal year is when the planet rounds its Sun star,
and the tropical year, they all straighten out,
though quartered as the calendrical stretched far,
they separate as seasons all about,
named Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter, they are.
Astronomically, Equinoxes and Solstices,
Metrologically, they are seasonal sources,
Astro spatial heavenly body's positioned advices,
Metro is a simplistic seasonal of choices,
pros and novices sufficiently entices.
Men cannot be trusted
emotionless and hardened,
They tend to be aggressive
Then thoughtlessly are pardoned.
Promiscuously driven
With ego swelling large,
They're loud, endowed and over proud
And in your life they'll barge!
They see vastly different
They see a girl- a prize,
Their honesty is always great
Until they just tell lies.
They'll blame you for everything
They'll treat you as a game,
They're really not so interesting
Predictable and lame.
Hence before you run away
To whatever you have lusted,
Take heed of what I say...
For men should not be trusted.
Now, I could back this poem up
With proof of evidence,
As damages that most men do
Is astronomically immense.
Though I’m sure when they do read this
They’ll hate and much resent
The honesty and forthrightness
From a poetess unbent.
Yes we need to put them in their place
Before problems rise again
Wars and violence amongst our silence
All due to stupid men.
Though I wonder Joe and all that know
Andy and Big Randy
So I’ll admit just a bit
Men can be soooo handy !
And I’m fortunate to know
Good mans’ integrity
The ones who care a very rare
And voice this literally.
Though I’ve generalised and chastised
The ones not up to speed
I’ll be fair and I’ll share
Men…I know we need.
They’re great when they are good
Respectable and kind
They can be the bestest friends
And ease our worried mind.
Baby boys so wonderful
And innocence impart
Uplifting me, will always be
Forever in my heart.
The he whose not corrupted
It’s him I do commend
And loyal I will always be
To a good true friend.
How brothers I have missed you
Through the push and shove
And I am grateful never hateful
For platonic love…
Here here I’m not so sexist
Indifferent, a goner,
As I think of he who strengthens me
'tis he, I love and honour.
I am avidly binge watching building shows at a marathon pace.
Somehow feeling it is keeping me in touch with the whole human race.
The prices are outrageous, out of my league or comfort zone.
I am horrified at the lot prices, astronomically expensive alone.
Some of these rich of the wealthy pay more for the glazing than whole houses I have owned.
They seem to start with unique ideas that sound completely new.
However, by the time they are finished they are all the same hue.
Why I have spent countless hours watching this building show,
Is anyone’s guess, but I think I secretly know.
It keeps me from mundane, housework that always feels undone.
It keeps me from mopping and cleaning, that are simply no fun.
It saves me from doing boring tasks here and there,
It keeps me from wasting time on stuff for which I simply don’t care.
So if the phone rings, or someone is at the door, and I do not answer, during my binge.
Know that I’m enjoying a new surroundings, and guilt I do not feel even a twinge.
incessant talkers bother me.
I leave the room upon their arrival,
not caring if I hurt their feelings, for I know they
do not notice, it always being about them, they
do not see others.
I do not enter the room if they are pre-there.
no sense in it, as whatever you say they can top,
and will. It happened to them sixteen times
more often, and harder, they were pulled out
of their car by two jaws of life.
it is irritating to me when I am almost finished
with a story, and one plunks down, interrupting
the punchline, with a banality that exasperates.
maybe worse, it annoys me that no one asks
me what the punchline was, so it is not like
anyone else cared any way.
I love the ones who share their money woes,
and their family woes, and their woe-woe-woes.
teaching us not to share any information with
them, possibly this is why the room clams
shut upon their arrival.
the last one never has rent money, or groceries.
always begging for money or a check, perpetually
pleading with anyone on social media to bring her
something. she always carries in a sixteen dollar
lunch from Uber, there is a five dollar upcharge.
i wish I was talking weekly.
I am talking daily.
I wonder if her grandmother who is still working at age 71,
and sending her check has any idea about these
astronomically expensive lunches?
I think of you now and again
Out half a world away
On the other side of the globe
Here it’s midnight and for you midday
Somewhere on a Himalayan mountain
How can I possibly relate to your reality
Far from anything resembling a city
With no infrastructure of any kind
No cars no shopping centers
No electricity no electronics
None of the luxuries I take for granted
How can I relate to your reality
Your wealth is a goat some seeds and hope
A little schoolhouse relatively close
As your best prayer for a better future
The gap between the haves and the have-nots
Is nothing less than astronomically absurd
And there’s no trusting the middlemen
Greed keeps robbing those who have less than nothing
Seems there’s fewer godfearing people left on earth
Not many believing in justice and universal equity
I can’t relate to corruption
Concepts of karma swirl through my head
Death remains the greatest equalizer
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Degree work again! With Aberdeen University,
Long distance, so not in strange surroundings,
This time in the subject of my choice and tenacity,
For posterity, so as to keep above the drownings.
It’s Christian Studies, or I say theology or religion,
And psychosomatic is the word to deflect and bat,
Which loudly venerates in the divinity selection,
Where divinity scholars attempt that requested slat.
Psycho-so-matic, or “the mind” “by” “motor action”:
“the mentality” “using” “cognitive brain structures”;
“the mental” “through” “neurological muscular motion”,
The psyche so as to do with events, people and cultures.
But why don't theologians see psychosomatic analysis,
As astronomically colliding with that transcendental verb,
In which god apologises for that divine interference,
When anytime, god changes your clarity into a muddy blurb.
As a disabled child in physio, for sure I truly understood,
The word “psychosomatic”, ‘cos my bible-loving dad,
Thought the word was academic trash, not white nude,
Because it validates contextual sociology as the comrade.
So did my arm and legs movements all depend on god?
Or on psychosomatics - if my parents had sent me out full?
On happiness, psychology, mood, highers and fine kin squad,
On settings, sociology and environment, and not on bull.
Surely the discussion in theology class should entertain,
Really straight, whether the bible fits into the normal tap,
Where you march, join, journey boldly through the terrain,
Of a richly humanly authored character splayed literary trap.
When we gaze up at a starry sky…stars with a variety of names…
the distance between the stars and us…makes all stars look the same.
But that doesn’t stop us from letting out a contented silent sigh
when we marvel at their beauty as they shine across the sky.
Most stars are made of hydrogen and helium…
they form their core…their crust…
with trace amounts of carbon, calcium, nitrogen and iron
which the astronomers and poets call stardust.
It’s interesting to note…even though they spend most of their time
with distant planets …like Jupiter and Mars…
when it comes to our entire universe…we are children of the stars.
Because we are mostly made of stardust
let me astronomically explain:
There is calcium in our bones…iron in our veins
carbon in our souls and nitrogen in our brains.
In fact an astute astronomer might be happy to proclaim…
how we’re are all stars upon this earth…with a variety of names.
Which makes me wonder…
Perhaps there is some meaning…in how we’ve found a way…
to see all the stars as beautiful….when we gaze at them from far away…
Perhaps the problem lies in these human eyes of ours.
Perhaps we look too closely at all the children of the stars.
Perhaps the best way to view us is to take a step back…
to where we don’t see our many differences…in our colors, shapes and names…
far enough away…to where we all look the same….
Far enough so, when we view each other…across this world of ours…
we only see the beauty in all the children of the stars.
Call me crazy I dare you,
This is madness at a new level.
Our president has lost his mind,
It’s appalling just read the signs.
The numbers rise astronomically,
Don’t tell me Trump is the Calvary.
I believe Biden will help stabilize,
A nation that’s politically spiraling.
If you can’t bear my words,
Then move on from my work.
I’m not here to please you,
I’m here to speak the truth.
Chaos and turbulence are ambient,
In a chaotic pandemic environment.
The lack of seriousness and leadership,
Is appalling and unfathomable to believe.
Refusal to accept and concede,
Eradicating the purpose of democracy.
It’s sad to see America in disarray,
When faith and change are in dire need.
The first to arrive, the first to offer help, the first to say “I’m sorry.”
She is a tiny woman, half my weight, but mighty in the power department.
She is my mother, farm-born, one of ten children. Seven survived.
Born twenty years and eleven months before my twin and I arrived.
She is the last one to eat, but the one who brings the most food
To every family reunion or church picnic except her eightieth surprise party.
People love to make her laugh, because she has a keen sense of humor.
She has taught Sunday school for over sixty years; she does this weekly.
She has exercise classes for the “old people” where she lives.
They are ninety-seven, and ninety-two. She is only eighty-eight.
She and my dad were a formidable pair; they always had a united front.
Backing each other up in every situation. He has been gone nine years.
She reinvented herself, got rid of her astronomically large home,
Moved into a small one bedroom apartment, and began a new life.
She acts as an assistant manager, bingo caller, and social chairman.
Weirdly enough, she has never played Bingo in her life.
Her calendar has six to eight things to do a day.
She delivers packages in her building, and Meals on Wheels.
She volunteers all over the county. Almost everyone knows her.
She is a whirlwind, a wonder, a woman of God, my mother.