Long Beaconing Poems
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I celebrated my father's birthday this last April 4th, 2025
He would have been 75,
Yet 7 years ago, a white butterfly laid him to rest, with the rest of his family around his casket,
And my face playing masquerade among the living corpses giving me their condolences,
Not of any fault of their own,
Just that, my own brokenness could never be seen,
And between the layers of tears that covered my mother's face,
I knew,
I must be the one to carry this family's weight.
That was my state of mind back when we laid my father to rest,
Amidst the cries of those who grieved, and the white butterfly who rested its wings on the polished crimson wood.
That's what I believed would keep my family functional.
And it worked, for a season, by the grace of God, I felt His hand cocoon me from the demons that laid wait to weaken and ruin me.
And then it left - that beaconing presence that suppressed depressed presences within my soul,
Setting demons free once under control
And lessons once freeing felt stifling under the boulders that now crushed them.
I could no longer carry the weight I once bore,
Yet my stubborn spirit refused to let it go,
As if I insisted on doing 4 sets of 100 when I could only do 2 sets of 50
And I got hurt.
When we laid my father to rest, a white butterfly flew by my mother's face, and rested on his casket.
Yesterday I learned that butterflies rest during rainfall to protect their wings from damage.
Could it be,
A message spoken so subtly,
Softly whispering between the gentle flutters of each wing:
Sometimes seasons call for rest, and
OUR wings must rest.
OUR bodies must calm
And our minds need to decompress
From the raging waters within
And that's okay,
For it's just for a season,
Just as tulips shed their petals, and slowly wither into winter's cold, hard ground, they'll soon bloom again when spring finds its way around,
So, there is no shame in resting our wings,
For these are the very seasons God Himself gave His life for - the life that resolved impossible demands,
Through a love fixated on bringing me home through every season,
And He sent a white butterfly to remind me He is my reason to rest.
The Glance.
A casual glance across a crowded street
Amid all the hustle and bustle of tramping feet.
Unblinking eyes that hold...but do not stare
Twinkling hello...without a care.
Glossy lips part and pucker...at the start of a smile
But this does not form...for many a while.
Painted fingers flex and bend at the start of a wave
Then decide...I am not that brave.
An arrogant shake...a toss of the head sending long brown hair
Cascading...beaconing...and saying...just what are you doing over there.
That casual glance across that crowded street
What a shame that we shall never...ever...meet.
Proud pirate flag, peacock, pumpernickel pie,
Perfumed prairie pinwheels, paper two-ply.
Happy hanging homebody having healthy hi.
Heaving hitting heartfelt Harry hopping high.
Ballooning blissful blossoms beaconing blue Babe,
Luxurious lumberjack licking lemonade.
Merry mashing marshmallows mysteriously made.
Fine frolicking French frankfurters fearful and afraid.
It is fun to throw some alliteration into a poem like this.
My brain is laughing at the silliness, it’s like a gentle kiss.
So when you think I have no more ideas, I am simply out.
Make a list of P words, or K words, and give a little shout.
Your ready muse will be happy that you are writing anything down.
It might not make any sense at first, but it will stop a little frown.
The thing is to keep the pen moving or the fingers across the keys.
Your muse so excited, when you make cute little poems like these.
Loves Event Horizons (Choka)
Wind that fills your sails.
Sea of madness causing swell.
What is in you that propels.
That surges beneath.
Urge of invisible reach.
Marionettes under string.
We, the puppet pawns.
Those who stand with faces drawn.
Pathetic, prophetic, long.
Beseiged, all along.
Heart-gate cogs, drawn open, maw.
Waiting, spinning our heart-wheels
For that shining feel.
To take upon us it's steel.
Take us under whirlpools draw.
Thief, sage, shortest straw.
Open unto us, seventh seal.
Port cull us, then stare in awe.
At needs' muscle beach.
Greed's lusty salt of the sea.
Jason and Jill's Odyssey.
We, Sirening deep.
Eyes like searchlights beaconing.
Tide-holds-never-weakening.
07/09/2019
Jude Fernando Herrick
( MrFernando )
Image #2
FROM DREAMS OF DREAMS OF THE SEA AND ME
(FOR TONI M.)
Standing, staring seaward,
Sore eyes see the horizon resting content
On the frothing pillows of the beaconing sea;
Here I stand consumed in the web
Of lingering thoughts spun from dreams of dreams
Somehow always dreaming back to me:
Incomplete
Drifting dreams deferred.
The sun peeks out under shades of clouds reflecting
Sable apparitions: Beautiful blackbirds’ breasts
Gleam with ebony luster:
Sweet silent stares shatter.
The chilled ocean breeze conjures
Whispering echoes of screams:
Ancestral moans and groans echo
From the bowels of sunken ships;
Staring seaward, stepping sand
Backwards, I leave fading footprints.
The echoes follow.
That moment
That perfect moment
Where time became eternal
I saw
I opened my blinded eyes and saw
The expanse of your soul
To reword
To match time stricken words to an eternal glimpse
Absurd
So, I write
I write without reason
Flowing with the ink blotting the page
I ran
I ran around - all around
Into darkened corners and wounded places
I knocked down fortified walls
Cleaned up forgotten issues
Dressed open lacerations
With my arsenal of
WORDS
I SPOKE
I sang
I hummed
I belted out notes from the depths of my soul
I lit you up
And I giggled as I watched you shine
You skipped with glee at the sight of
ME?
I tried
Oh how I tried
To climb out and walk away
I yelled - I cannot be here -
You belong to another
But you offered me no ladder
So…I…
Stayed
I played
I played with words
Rearranging, inventing, creating
New ways to express…love
It was ok
I mean…I was just playing…with love
Not your
Marriage
One day
One beaconing reckoning day
She saw your light steps
Almost dancing with your secret
Play with love in words
With me - not her-
The invader
You didn’t withhold
But you didn’t invite either
I gave her my words too
She read, fed, and bled
I stood still
In awe of my
Words
I rewrote
I rewrote them again and again
But she couldn’t play
Fear had bound her soul
Some of my words reached her
Then, she decided
To kick me
OUT
She expelled me from hers
And expunged me from yours
She tried to push me far away
I stood in silence and
~ grieved ~
Your lighted steps
Became a plod
Her concern
Entered into rage
I put myself
To rest
In my Savior’s arms
Written by Trudy Schrader on 7-6-10
Barren, sterile sky bleat and sigh
Open your canopy, enlighten our eye
Expose the boundless mysteries that in your realms lie
Reveal your majestic, azure panels on high
Bleed your sappy, snowy cisterns dry
Unmask spirits that in your porous rotunda fly
From your lofty lattitudes carefully apply
Brightly-hued colors that will broadly imply
Beauty and luster to those who your pleated seams ply
Your grand mosaic with hope and promise tie
Bond light and love to uplift hearts that on your fealty rely
Bountiful, beaconing sky so fertile so spry
Shelter our dreams and drown our cry
With our aspiring visions gratuitously ally
In all honesty
I believe Love is actually blind
That she lost her road
And headed straight
Into the mess, she lays in today
I hope we all find her, bathe her and clothe her
Cos she's really a mess right now...
Love used to be the gatekeeper
Between the legs of young girls
Keeping the invaders out in the wild
But these days,
She's more like the green lamp on the traffic lights
Beaconing every car to drive that route
Deep into 'The Virgin Close'
Love used to be the backbone of every man
The strength and blood that pushes men to fight
Work and be the better person
But these days
She's become the gravity pulling every man down
She's the pickaxe used by gold-diggers
Digging the wealth out of our young men
Leaving them broke—like some shattered glass
Love was so innocent back in the day
All she knew was just letters
Written by some secret admirer
And believe me
The shadiest part of the letter is
You've got beautiful brown eyes
That's a classical one
But these days
Love does Sexting
She's all about the unspeakable...
Love is so rusty
She needs some work done on her
She needs rehabilitation
From her figure to her concept
Especially her use in this context
She is meant to be the binder
Between us all
But sadly, Love is blind
We've gotta spit on the ground
Make mud and rub in her eyes
As we proclaim the phrase (Jn. 9:6)...
Here's Mud in Your Eye
And all will come to know that
Love is not blind
Love is not proud
Love is not self-seeking
Love keeps no record of wrong
Rather, Love is kind
Love is patient
Love is true
Love protects
Love perseveres
Love is beautiful
Just like the Sea...
Inspired by Martha Machief
Critiqued by Ess—Jay
A patriotic bunting, hanging from a porch,
black lines of a Model-T, back when we liked Ford,
porcelain sign from the 30s, somehow ad and art,
the fun and fear we got from tossing a lawn dart.
Rich, decadent milkshakes upon a summer’s eve,
chrome diner with a neon sign, hawking things to eat.
county band playing loud, line dancers shuffle round,
fire-house’s noonday whistle’s echoing sound.
Cowboy silhouette leans up against the porchside,
slender lighthouse standing tall above the high tide,
Lady Liberty upright on a license plate,
barbeque smoke beaconing, the meat will taste so great…
Biker’s clad in black leather, touring country roads,
kids muck around in the woods, searching for a toad,
bolo ties that shouldn’t work, but somehow they do,
western boots that click-and-clack when you’re coming through.
Blue jeans are the uniform, pairs with everything,
skies at night in July with bright colors burning,
small ballparks in every town, man that boy can pitch,
hammocks hung in the backyard, damn mosquitos itch!
You many not have to like a man, but you’ll like his dog,
drive-in theater with your date, somehow not yet lost,
winchester that your granddad owned, you still use to hunt,
RV cruising the country, won’t stop ’till it’s done,
cabin built of ancient logs, painted brown and green…
I love Americana, it always keeps its sheen.
Wandering out in silence
I was waiting in a section
To be transferred to a better one, I think.
They found me gentle and sober, I hope.
The other night, a girl freaked out
In our daily group meet-up
She was calm after a while, and she had to.
I was about to listen to a song
Sound of silence, a myth, I believe
Much later, than before.
Blindness bleeds in darkness, fed by silence,crave for beauty, hungry even more.
Cold places in darkness keep on beaconing a fragile, vulnerable prophecy.
Did they see Guantánamo Bay?
Flip the side, or else
Adore the silence
In an inevitable inability of communication.
7/25/2019
Sound of silence Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: John Hamilton