Long Balking Poems
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There is a stranger at my gate.
He stands there watching me with his glowing golden eyes, unthreatening but ever present. I've gone to my gate to ask questions of the silent unmoving visitor, his bright eyes following me as I move. I ask my questions.
"What brings you to my gate, stranger?"
"Who are you looking for?"
"Are you lost?"
I always get the same response - silence.
I'm not afraid of him, you see he simply makes me uneasy. If I knew the reason of his arrival and perhaps his need to stay I would understand.
It's been 7 days now, and every time I approach I bring small breads or a fresh clip of jerky from the weekly hunts I must go on. I continue with my questions whenever I see him.
"Did you find my gate, and this place on purpose?"
"Have you seen anything interesting today?"
He continues his silence, odd watchful guardian that he has become. I've come to think of him as such because he is always there. Even in the night during my wakeful hours when I fret about food reserves and firewood I see him there through my doorway at my gate watching, the moonlight reflecting from his golden eyes.
Many months pass with this creature at my gate, with it's ever watchful eyes. Until one day he dissapeared as if he was never there. I was unnerved after him being here with me for so long, where could he have gone.
That night my valley between mountains was alive with sounds, bird calls, the howl of the wolves that lived upon the ridge to the north, and the balking laughter of the coyotes who roamed the bone piles from my hunts.
I awoke early the next morning to those same golden eyes that I had seen ever day, peering at me from the corner of my cabin.
"What is it stranger, what's happened? Why now this early?"
"What's wrong?"
His eyes flashed with an unearthly luminescence as he moved to the foot of my bed.
"Its time to go, I've observed you for some time" with a quick shaking breath he continued "I apologize for not responding to your considerable inquiries, but your in grave danger"
Getting up and dressing quickly, we both headed for the door, out into the pre-dawn mist, down the path to my gate and out into the darkness of the forest.
Form:
She was her own person
Until she met him.
Him had another idea for her.
He wanted to mold her
Into a new person,
Someone she tried hard
To be
For him.
She tried for years
And years, hiding her
Lights under the burdens
Of trying so hard to please him.
She stopped smiling, and
Forgot how to laugh.
She started second guessing
What he wanted her to wear,
To say, and how he wanted her
To say it. She lived for him,
And he lived to train her.
This went on for
Years and years.
No one in her youth would
Have recognized her.
They would have been
Looking for the bubbly,
Gregarious, friendly girl
Who had died a long time ago.
In a shallow grave, under
An oak tree where she
Decided to bury the
Best of her, so she
Could allow him
To be the He
He was meant
To be.
He wanted
Her to wear
Grays and browns.
This was against
Every artistic
Fiber of her soul,
At first.
But she got used
To it. He chose
Her shoes; they
Had to be plain, dull.
He did not want her
To outshine him.
She started to balk,
But he gave her a look, and
She quickly acquiesced.
He was her prize.
She was willing to do
Everything to keep him.
In keeping him she
Was losing herself.
He did not want children.
She had always wanted
Them, but
She kept quiet about it
Because he was her prize.
He did not like friends,
So she gave hers up.
Some did not go away
Quietly. They were the
First ones cut
Completely
Out of her life.
She helped him
By not protesting,
Not balking, not
Doing anything
That would rile
Him up, make
Him unhappy or
Make him
Pout.
She completely
Lost herself.
Her family kept
Thinking she’d
Find her way
Back to them.
But she had
Her prize.
And he would
Not allow it,
So it never happened.
We were just
Sad that she traded
The life she wanted
For a life we
Never thought
She’d have ever
Wanted.
If you had
Known her as a
Child, you would
Have never thought
This could have happened.
She used to have an
Opinion, she used to love people,
She used to have talents. If she
Had them now, she was hiding
Them.
To suit him.
I would speak to you of the seasons set upon this earth.
Each would make its mark ingrained when it is birthed.
Surely there is but one place to start the heart to sing
when greens come forth at the first show of Spring;
the tender shoots rise steady from the softened ground
as the seed begins to grow straight, narrow and unbound.
A babe's life begins to form like sparrows in the thicket rose
appearing like the parents, mother, father or another undisclosed
while still in its youth it continues to struggle and grow
balking and resisting of the parental taboo of no.
Spring was just a moment, a brief second in time
and quickly comes the summer of youthful prime,
slipping quickly through the lessons of young life
each slide to educational and professional heights.
The warmth and light of maturation in the brilliant sun
is a syncopated dance hardly begun;
when the years fade and disappear
into visions and dreams less clear
and suddenly we are standing looking left and right
wondering how we got to basking here in summer's delight.
Autumn falls and quickly meanders in,
just when we thought that life was ready to begin
and we find time has sped too quickly by
with thirty, forty, fifty on the fly.
Where did it go, the years so looked forward to
suddenly realized uncounted, now lay behind you.
More than half of life is spent
and marks were barely a dent.
Holding on tight to what is now
dare we face winter's hours?
Winter lies close around the turn
filled with fewer days to burn,
and looking back seems mere pondering
cast with images still wondering,
if we have fulfilled our destinies
played our games and planned well our seventies.
The sidelines remain open, cold and unframed
conditioned only by our self set restraints
as we fight, resist, contemplate our age
failing to chill and sleep away that last stage.
Power v Light
Earth v Heaven
in a LeftBrain open NonZeroZone
CoArises a hybrid North/South dipolarizing flow
structure
Intuitive dynamic flow
RightBrain felt
as actively hoped for
oncoming climax summer
Great GreenTransition ReTurn
We long to Here/Now excel
at spring thaw startups
on-line mashups
standouts
and sit-ins
polyculturally combined
initiating transitional blood red
to rich green multicultural
gold restoring rules
restorying EarthJustice action.
Resilient change,
begun with win/win dialogical talking
yet also with more win/lose straight white privileged
patriarchal balking
autonomously stalking
planning persons
may repetitively,
even ritualistically, begin
Love life systems in Earth revolving Time
and slow grown jazz
restoring green spring thawing blues, left
loves matriarchal right nurturing
nutritional wombs
Instead of pushing upstream
against co-gravitating generations
of light and power
beyond win/lose accepting
humane ego sensory seasoned identification
left brain dominant denominating
steely mortal Final Transition
Into ego/eco-systemic regeneration
for Earth's still living,
hopefully thriving,
extended family tree
root systems
Pandemic climate surviving
through white winter
of patriarchally privileged discontent
providing
protecting
punishing
provoking
hard-birthing cold ZeroSum capital
incorporated Win/Lose
tricky
sticky supremacist infestments
Unbalancing cooperative
natural/spiritual
Power/Light
Earth/Heaven
in a LeftRight bicameral Brain
Midway open
Both/And dipolarizing
creolizing
hybridizing
Ego/EarthConscious NonZero-Zone
empowering co-acclimation
enlightening green STEAM
co-empathic experience,
sacred re-connecting Memories.
l.
Opening the closet of narra doors, I sweep through
organza skirts and gemmed ringlets; my hair
ruffling aimlessly upon scalloped kerchiefs
smelling decade - old hyacinth, Mom’s favorite
ambrosia: she would lift her anklets
in tiptoed hums, ”night and day, you are the one..”
Evenings touched her candle hands; hands
that soothed wounded knees from jackstone fights;
her fingers caressing a pony -tailed girl’s wrath
with piano keys rippling into a gentle moan;
“night and day you are the one…”
And i am delivered from my tempestuous rants.
ll.
From nowhere, the porcelain mirror gazed at me;
her rhythm of silence billows, cradling my nights
with each veil of her almond eyes
that enter into my irises: a serene sight
too close, much too tight I clung to her unspoken word.
Through years, I grew like a bamboo shoot: her quiet smiles
and music walked me through reality’s maze.
And how I would wail bearing the grim of hard study,
coughing late, late hours of reading toil…yet,
she stayed like a moth with charm flushed
in a wind of calm gaze, ebbing .
lll.
And only Mom could melt my temper
when my raging soul paused to wonder
at her light’s glow: oh, her feminine beat illumined
more lamplights dancing inside this rebellious head…
and now, she hovers around me.
I become her eyes, chanting, “night and day,
you are the one” ; never balking at my surreal conquests.
She is gone bequeathing warmth into my torched flights
without question; with much love dripping
from her graceful movement, straying all through
these my breaths: “night and day, you are the one…”
Best Sad Poem Ever Contest of Laura Loo
Resubmitted 8/28/2016
The Balking Mire of Fanghandrath
‘Twas late when the misted veils
Suck and drew
‘pon the reeking fetters of claxon screams
Wailing echoed dismal to
Too late for lantern to pick a path
In the trickster passages
Of the boggish marsh
The Balking Mires of Fanghandrath
Where ‘oer the shake-ed sheaves domain
The Shadow Hunter was know to claim
The souls of less fortune given men
Or the eyes of the innocent
Aye ! They told the story well
Should the hunter of shadows
‘pon your path befall
would devour all in The Balking Mires of Fanghandrath
But needs must some they need
To prove their bravery
Of foolish men never seen again
Returning from the trickster paths of Fanghandrath
Of one such a man who’s courage by beer
Was made stalwart young and without fear
Through the haunted waste he dared to travel
When the misted veils suck and drew
Not yet half way there before the chill ate his bones
And from the rear the rushing fear
Did The Shadow Hunter draw ‘pon his heart
In noisome fog the Rake appeared
Too far to hear the sounds of screams
Too lost in the mazes of dead beaten reeds
To mouth-less to utter a prayer
And beseech the fate of balking mires
No wind it was the laugh, the laugh of Fanghandrath
The hunger of its desolate seed
To feed ‘pon the soul
Of innocent and less fortune given men
‘Twas not till dawn when he reached the rim
Ashen grey his youth had gone
And no shadow did he cast in morning sun
No shadows fall on The Balking Mires of Fanghandrath
In the Shadow of Sunlight
It is one of those glaringly bright days that
make your eyes water painfully.
You can't see everything at once but in short glimpses and peeks. Between blinks, half an image forms, blurry around the edges.
You raise your hand as a shield, squint, lean back and tuck your chin, grimacing.
You thought you heard her say your name.
Searching in stuttering snatches,
Looking in limping lunges…
like a slow motion film in staccato strobes.
She begins far away but ends close, so close that her form blocks you from the light and you see her as the shadow of sunlight. She is glowing around the edges like a phantom.
She is smiling into your eyes for a moment.
The relief of sight, of cool darkness, and then gone in a flash of brilliance once again. Balking, you ask her to wait! Wait just a second! Why do your ears depend so much on your eyes? She speaks but without seeing her mouth forming words you're unsure of what she's said…dissipating as she goes anyway until only a whisper.
“I love you darling…”
And that's when I wake up and remember she is gone. Gone for just over 20 years now. An ache in my stomach and tears prick my sleep swollen eyes. I turn to my side and tuck my hand under the pillow…try to get back to my dream.
Sometimes it is the light that blinds us to the truth and darkness that soothes the burn.
Former CIA Director
John Brennan scathing headlines
Washington Post op-ed sharply
published critical accusations
muted excoriation slams
Commander in Chief
volcanic blatant pathological lying
spews like lava his American
foreign policy boilerplate brazenly
bastardizes by banditry blueprint,
balefully balkanizing beautiful bracketed
booming brady bunch brand,
bests best-buy buffer braking balanced
bastion, bolstered beloved benighted
bequeathed bicameral bipartisan bliss,
Baptizing bacchanalian buffoonish bombast,
betokening bobble-headed Bumstead,
barmy bartered bride bravado, bizarrely
brash brassiness, blindsiding behavior,
beetlebrowed bonehead, bafflingly baldfaced,
bankrupting, blithely bollixing,
bombastically belittling, badmouthing,
banally blasting, banana-boat baseless,
bearish blandishments, beastly boastful
boosterism, bellicosely boorish, bug-eyed,
bighearted, bigoted blathering breeding
blunderbuss bloopers, bewildering
bloodletting bellyache blight,
brazenly being bandying bellwether,
blitzing bourgeoisie balderdash,
balking but beaming barbaric
berserk ballyhoo backbiting,
backslapping backstabbing
blacklisting bromides,
besetting basic bestowed blooming,
Bobbitizing bedeviling beneficial
bulwark bereft badinage, ballistically ballooning
betrayal birthing bedlam.
Once upon a time, this obstinate beastie boy
(i.e. yours truly, or none other than me)
fought tooth and nail,
(hence the reason I wear dentures)
against maturation, and sought
self starvation as modus operandi.
Adept at balking,
plus delaying, stunting and thwarting
transitioning toward adulthood
(mine spindle shank legs
to show and tell as proof positive),
yours truly fell short
(and stymied physical growth
regarding lame rascal
with size nine little feet to boot)
never to attain requisite
emotional, financial,
and spiritual independence.
When mysterious processes
courtesy puberty foisted
one garden state variety
(think generic) *****sapiens
transformed puny young slip of a lad
into adolescent long haired
pencil necked geek,
the genetic blueprint
already sabotaged prospect
for musculoskeletal framework
to attain maximum potential.
As an extremely shy,
(nay socially withdrawn prepubescent person)
strong aversion awoke toward segueing
from docile average non prodigal son
into grownup with
attendant responsibilities thereof.
Fast forward decades later
namely July fourteenth two thousand twenty,
when self condemnation
laments forsaking positive growth processes
(ordinary run of the mill bodily changes)
indeed nsync with linkedin social development.
Chinese Things
When the T v aerial gets a little wind blown the parents of the children like to
send them to the roof and they tell them to hold the aerial down and stand on one
foot and the signal comes in strong. The computor specialist was on call and the
customer was a complainer and he acted so bald face up the specialist decided
to get even and he hotwired a control to the side of the idiot’s box complete with
an active button to restart an inactive program to activate the non existence into
action. The customer came into the office and he was balking. Listen gentle
reader to the imagined conversation. “Eye wish you to fix the computor please”,
said the Chinese man, he carried a lot of money in his hand. The programmer
just smiled his fish was now at hand. “Eye gave to you the button all you have to
do is push the button every three minutes and that will refresh the program
running in the background”, said the American. Yes the button works well it is
just fine the Chinese man agreed and then he left and as he left he sighed out
loud he cried. And the American Programmer of the page refresher given to the
Chinaman laughed out loud until he almost died.