Long Bay window Poems
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Our long time catered chef...
prepared a meal fit for (psst... me) a king
Actually professional cook
(trained since infancy)
long a staple of our family
since... oh way before
my bubba's zayda's time
naturally became (according
to rules of primogeniture)
the feudal rule by
which whole real estate
of intestate passed
to eldest son, i.e. yours truly
automatically included:
aide de camp, chambermaid,
essential frisson gourmet hotelier,
lion tamer, jack of all trades.
Thus surprise meal of
mid/late afternoon May 17th, 2080
constituted: gluten free pasta
(celiac raged rampant
one generation to the next),
vegan cheese, V8 juice,
diced onions and garlic,
and steeped with special
ingredient – namely tlc,
not available anywhere
but, just enough
tender loving care to buzzfeed
the whole mishpacha,
which gathered from far and wide
every Sunday afternoon
since Moses parted the Red Sea.
How glorious to feast upon:
delicious smelling than tasting,
humongous apportioned
splendiferous concoction
conglomeration ofttimes referred
to as popslop,
which general household name
lacks culinary delicacy,
and honorary specificity.
The meal made manifold more appreciative
after a hard day's night sleeping
within an ornate bedchamber
comprising our lofty abode
upon groggily awakening each morning,
I betook sweeping view
out uppermost bay window
pleasant view of Schwenksville proper,
(which I accomplished
with flying colors
eight days a week)
experiencing vibrant dreams constituting
living social the life of Riley.
After adequately supping on repast
which if any leftovers got repurposed
for next sumptuous meal,
either one prepared later that same day,
or come the morrow promised taste buds
to experience out of this (Martian) world
another savory experience fit for none other
than king of schnorrers!
Contrary to popular belief
hen pecking mother goose,
nor her ilk of coterie of four
and twenty blackbirds
purportedly baked in a pie
completely groundless supposition
crust a stale rumor
circulating courtesy deluxe
twenty first century technological
and ecological (of course)
invidious rumor mill.
I am sitting in this cabin,
’twas built so long ago
up here in the wild mountains,
has a big bay window,
a vast and sprawling forestscape
greets my wandering eyes,
then comes that familiar urge
to get up, go outside.
Go traipse that hill off to the left,
I bet the view is good,
scope that meadow off to the east,
where deer come from the wood,
to climb down in the roaring gorge,
and see what I can find,
the world’s an endless treasure trove,
and no man has much time.
One cold rove for a whole lifetime,
and I do love to wend,
yet for all that I find myself
coming back here again.
I come across this sensation,
sometimes it feels quite odd,
why huddle here when I could see
the sublime work of God?
Tall mountains carved out of marble,
rivers that bend and shape,
great creatures that are unchanged since
before the human race,
shimmering, thunder waterfalls
hammer holes in the earth,
volcanos full of liquid land
always ready to burst,
and ruins of the great men past,
carved right into the stone,
building up the finest structures
that man has even known.
I know that all that is out there,
and I want to see them,
but somehow I still really want
to sit right here again.
Perhaps I am getting older
and life is getting dull,
perhaps my reason says, “Why Try?
You can’t see it in full.”
Maybe the scale is much too much
for any human mind,
maybe this space shrinks it all down
to something well defined,
to something that my mind can grasp,
that my will can control,
is the vastness how God tell us,
“Stay humble, know your role?”
Could it all just be potential
when I sit here and stare,
the allure of the mystery,
of what could be out there?
Is it a page from Schrodinger
when I look out and see,
is what might be more magical
than the reality?
Or is it quite the opposite,
do I like the surprise
of how what’s real works more deeply
than any thought inside?
Sure, I’ll go and explore the world,
like all us restless men,
but for all that, I know that I’ll
come right back here again.
Something's changed, I don't recall this door.
The mat that once read 'welcome'...now gone.
Am I lost in the night, or had I forgotten some slight..
had my address been quelled by another time?
The new curtains in the bay window seem nice,
though..not the deep blue highlighted sash you fell for.
And on that foreign floor, a sweet Labrador lies napping.
Not the lightning fast hound rescued from the shelter.
My key's jingle, so hollow in sound, questions me now..
whether I know left from right, right from wrong..
Two boots waited, under an unfamiliar porchlight,
neither I recollect as my own..
every sunset I knew seemed to've gone.
I stepped back from a stranger's stair, perhaps deceived by my own eyes..
retracing my tired steps from the long day, to the oak in the yard,
was it always that tall?
Surely the messages you left would offer a solution from this lunacy,
a chance at a door opening, inviting me, lovingly from this nightmarish scene.
But they had all disappeared.., save one.
Staring hollow eyed into the dimming display's abyss, I read the last will..
your last thought retraced..in taps' mournful horn.
The air in my lungs abandoned me, my shoulders suddenly
weighing so heavy, in a torn and bloodied uniform.
Somehow the night sky was no longer mine to share..
absent your side, shaking my head in my hands..
my God, how could it be?
The door and locks changed, the porchlight rearranged,
the blue curtains went too,
The scratch of toe nail's click clack.. nowhere to be found,
even the dog was removed.
Turning away from the lawn to the long sidewalk, oblivion my companion,
I laughed out loud at the fool and folly and future that lie in store.
There's a fine line between truly belonging.., and only being,
bitter lesson learned at a strange door..
Finally saddeningly, maddeningly.. it dawned,
why everything was tipped on its face.
Your last message, echo'd in my broken mind..,
'you've been replaced'.
The queen of birds Sari dear lived in the mango tree
I asked her to come down and take a saree from me
She asked wide-eyed the price of it
I said,”Sari, you’re a cute tweet”
She made faces, chirruped short, and flew to the next tree.
A saree is a South Asian female garment that consists of a drape varying from five to nine yards in length and two to four feet in breadth that is typically wrapped around the waist, with one end draped over the shoulder, baring the midriff.
Sari came down and sat on the bay window
‘Dad’, she said,’ you must chain the devil Frido’
“He is a gawky brute
Just now he ate up a coot
He needs your boot and a slap on his credo”.
Sari tweeted my wife” O mom, don’t pinch my behind”
My wife re-tweeted,” Sari, You are not of this kind”.
“Sorry to say you have no proper bum
So, Sari, how can I be a pinch bum?”
Sari re-re-tweeted, “Mom, a lie, my bum is twined.”
Sari came one day with his creaky husband Suk
“Dad, teach Suk a lesson, he must know how to cook"
"Sari, my darling, you’re a sweet fraud
Don’t crook Suk’s head with a teaching rod
Better teach him how to fly by hook or by crook"
Sari, my daughter, in mid September, gave birth to a girl
She was a ball of furry delight, eyes were pacific pearl
I said, "Sari ,you are now a mother
So you must not be antsy like other
Sari hugged her child,said”dad, no worry, she will be a whirl"
"NATALIE REALIZES HER FAITH WAS TRUE AND UNCONDITIONAL"
January fifth was the last day NATALIE saw her b e l o v e d mother,
Keeping secrets hidden was always her mother’s greatest weakness-
Looking through old photos she REALIZES she actually had a big brother,
Mother had birthed another baby, his picture full of innocent sweetness.
Natalie took a few weeks to ask HER father about the unknown secret,
Over and over again she thinks about what she will exactly say-
Pretending not to know is really the same as wanting to keep it,
Q u i e t l y she walks in his den on a cold February winter day.
Regardless of his answers she knows that FAITH is on her side,
Saving her from sadness has always been God's greatest benediction-
Troubled as a youth, He WAS the only One she could confide,
Understanding she held the TRUE meaning of the blessed crucifixion.
Very calmly she approaches her father who was always a good guy,
Wandering towards him she shows him the p i c t u r e of the baby-
Xeroxed responses in her mind she hoped to be given an honest reply,
Yet her father s h e d a tiny tear AND explained the family's loss vaguely.
Zinnia’s lay in the front yard b l o o m i n g like it was the garden of Eden,
Astounded, Natalie sits staring out her bay window and sees a white dove-
Basking in the sun she felt the one and only thing she could believe in,
Clearly, it was the nurturing grace of the Lord's forever UNCONDITIONAL love.
* This is a story about a woman from church who found out she had an older brother who died from cancer. Her parents never told her because the loss was too hard to bear. Natalie held onto her strong faith and the Lord carried her through her pain of the loss of a sibling she never knew she had*
Alphabet Soup - Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Kim Merryman
Date Written: September 2, 2016
Rosemary's Bed
Maylands Salvation Army, Girls' Home
I am in the entrance foyer of a large house.
The wood floor is highly polished.
There is a large stairway with a turned, wood bannister.
Dad is telling my three year old sister and me
that we must stay here because
he has to work and can't take care of us.
Mum has gone away somewhere.
THE MATRON takes our suitcases and *smiles* at us
instructs us to, "come with her".
Dad says, "he will come and visit us every Sunday".
I am taken to a dormitory and told which bed will be mine.
The bed on the other side of the fire place
belongs to Rosemary.
Our beds skirt, either side of a fireplace
that is midway along the wall, with rows
of beds on each side of it,
as well as opposite,
twenty beds in all.
At the end of the room is an alcove with a curved bay window.
There is a bed there, all by itself.
I can remember being so scared in this room.
The older girls told me, "there is a man with an elastic arm"
who lives on the roof
and, "he can reach down the chimney and grab you".
Although I didn't really believe it, a few nights later,
we were all woken by a piercing scream.
THE MATRON came down to investigate.
The girl who slept in the bay window bed, said,
" a man with a monkey's face" jumped on my bed.
THE MATRON searched everywhere inside and out -
we saw her flash light beam- out there in the darkness-
her report was, " it was nothing." -
probably one of the cats that lived in the wood pile.
I always had trouble sleeping after that
and after lights out -
although it was strictly forbidden -
I would creep across and climb
into Rosemary's bed.
Although her bed was an equal distance
from the fireplace as mine
the human warmth and contact made me feel safe
against unknown forces of the night.
I slept on the edge of nightmares until, finally
I left that place.
Suzanne Delaney
From- Rememberances of an 8 year Old.
For Frank H..... I recall.....Contest
Sponsor: Matt Caliri
It is the day after Thanksgiving and I string up some lights,
Outside some blue blinking, red and green candy cane colors,
Except this year it's 55 degrees outside and not the same,
The tall green pines aren't blanketed with snow, or covered.
We bought a real tree this year not like the fakes in the past,
Walked around the lot and picked it out ourselves,
Lil' Ellie helped me decorate it the exact way she liked,
While I quietly sneak out and place the elf on the shelf.
Garland draped on the ceiling beams belonging no where else,
I cry as I pull out the village my great grandmother made,
Pure porcelain baked and cured with glaze baked in the kiln,
This moment for anything in this world I will never trade.
As the Eve arrives the family gathers for a toast,
“Cheers to the love that our family can share”,
Another Christmas day is about to approach,
Not too long and 2016 will be declared.
I leave the house key for Santa underneath our doormat,
Before bed Ellie lays the plate full of carrots and cookies,
She wrote him a long thank you note before he came,
For in the morning Santa will bring her sweets and goodies.
Morning doves came singing and Christmas bells a' ringing,
I look out the bay window and gaze in surprise,
Santa has brought us a slight drift of snow fall,
You should've seen the look in Ellie's eyes.
The day will be very busy full of many gracious gifts,
Then we will all gather around the dinner table for roast beef,
How glorious it feels for all of us to gather together,
For I must say Christmas means family, joy and peace.
Date Written: December 11, 2015
Written By: Laura Loo
She enters carefully
A journey that began so long ago
Culminating on this threshold of discovery
With the turning of the knob, an old door, of peeling paint and squeaking hinge
The house, a derelict with broken shutters
Darkness, mold and gloom,...yet a pleasantness...a sense of familiarity
Floors that creak and groan
Surveying each room...gathering thoughts, sensations, emotions
Digesting the essence of stories told
Of sitting on a grandfather's knee, and hearing of this legacy
So long harbored, like faded photographs, in her heart
A glance outside the bay window
Pushing aside the cobweb laced shade
Rubbing dirt and grime from the glass, and viewing a river in the distance
A pasture overgrown with weeds
Gopher hills the only things sprouting in the yard
Flower beds empty, except for tendrils of devil grass..
Forsaken, abandoned it is today,...but she can picture it then...
She can see the geraniums in bloom as if it were yesterday
She walks the hallowed rooms imagining the family
The father coming in from the fields
Covered with the red soil that he cherished
The mother, apron clad, gathering her children
Yes....it is over there where they would sit...
Around the table, the Bible resting on the shelf
Waiting to be read by evening light
Just as the giant oak in the yard
That shouts and tussels with the wind
With deep roots which cling so intimate with the rock below
In this journey, she clings...
To things that are deeply rooted
Family, love, life, death, that which is...that which has been..
No longer are there only sepia colored stories
Stored in a shoe box on a closet shelf...
This is a journey that continues on and on...
And like the oak...it reaches deeply...searching for constancy
These are her roots...
___________________________________________________________________
Happy Birthday Delightful Daughter of the Dawn
~Designed from the embers of my mind~
Pull down the shades of your blue eyes
Drifting towards evenings soft lullabies
Supportive bunny pillow 'neath your head
A fable story that I read
Snippets of cuddling as I tucked you to bed
Moments shared stitched in my heart
Of your precious life that I did chart
You were so much older then your younger then that now
Funny shadow figures on the wall
How we made them look so tall
A puppet show outside, bay window as your stage
Until you fell and puppets accidently plunged
That expression of sheer outrage your face did engage
When your tiny head suddenly accusingly lunged
I laughed 'til I cried as I intuited your desire to expunge
You were so much older then your younger then that now
Bubble baths, Pig tails and worn melted slippers
as you sought warmth from forced hot air
On chilly mornings standing atop the simple heaters grill
As I viewed your nightgown floating up, such a thrill
Precious moments etched in time beyond compare
Simple cans for telephones with knotted plastic wires
As you and your sister shared your different desires
Embers of love that fuel my minds fires, sweetness inspires
You were so much older then your younger then that now
Pummel horse, beam, bars and floor
so many things you wanted to explore
You danced and sailed through the air
So many proud moments we got to share
Index cards for spelling bees
You were always eager to please
Snippets in time we can not freeze
Yet when they circulate from time to time
My minds eye is genuinely appeased
You were so much older then your younger then that now
~ I LOVE YOU~
Our night was to be a long one, yet he was a tough tree,
one of strength and resilience for being so tiny and petite.
For years he has been the most giving fir tree to me,
“o, my sweet Piney, I am so grateful we did meet”.
He was just an old tree I found on grandpa’s street.
Though he was a real fir, he never died after the holiday.
After Christmas we stored him in the attic still lit
so that he could still see and play in his own way.
For that warm attic was the most perfect fit.
By that ol’ wooden bay window he always did sit.
This year will be eight years since my sister died,
Piney too was close to her, but this year was hard.
When I strung his lights and hung tinsel he cried,
for her loving heart he had the warmest regard.
His needles starting to wither, yet his top still starred.
So I sat under him and we talked for awhile
about what we would be when we get old.
He looked at me with a sincere laugh and smile,
said, “thank you for bringing me out of the cold.
If not for you I don’t think I’d ever be sold."
I went to bed sad that I had to leave him upset,
for he was so special and I wanted to stay up all night.
But I knew Christmas morning he would not fret,
for it was finally his day! A happy one not contrite.
When I awoke I saw the most beautiful sight.
My sweet boy Piney had grown three times his size!
To this day I still don’t understand just how.
But it was a Christmas miracle right before my eyes,
and I knew he was happy again someway, somehow.
He realized the meaning of Christmas…to Jesus he did bow.
Christmas Tree Poetry Contest
Shadow Hamilton
December 14, 2018