Long Bed sheet Poems
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To look back now,?to the times when I was young,?there were so many unknowns?that the girl I was ?didn’t realize existed.?I did not know?if I could ever trust a man to care.?I did not know?if I could ever be half the woman she is.?I did not know ?if I could even make it far enough to question what wasn’t promised. ?A seven year old me,?pink streaks in her hair?and a smile,?a real one,?on her face did not yet know how the world would ?funnel into her ears one day,?trying to tell her everything?she already assumed was true.?She didn’t understand?how people ever left other people?or how sadness was an actual disorder.?She thought a smile was a cure.?I did not know ?that a father was supposed to do more then leave healing wounds?and set a dinner table.?I did not know?that love is fifty/fifty only when the other is involved?and willing to say he cared.?I did not know?what it meant to feel no hunger for anything other then a bed sheet?and voices other people could hear.?Because a seven year old me?blocked out the slaps?and believed it?when she said she was crying because?her back hurt.?I didn’t know?that some days I was worth nothing more then the price?of a punching bag?or?that feeling so alone in a room full of people?can make anyone crack.?And it wasn’t until?the only man I’ve ever come to trust ?held me after I saw a girl almost get assaulted?in my house, on my own couch, on my own lap?that I knew not all men were evil.?And it wasn’t until?she told me about the sadness in our veins?being a battle I’d never get to escape easily ?that I realized I’m as strong as she made herself.?And it wasn’t until ?the winter of no lunch and ?spring of bad habits and ?summer of broken hearts?that I came to terms with the place I was trying to get to.?I have a boy who’s like a brother.?One who built a place for me to ?watch the world before joining it.?I have a mother who lived to tell a tale.?One who now discusses with me?the poet that saved my life?and the lyric that started an epiphany.?I have a disorder that some people don’t survive.?One that, some nights, is so strong,?it escapes through fingertips or ?words of mouth or ?limbs I once dangled from the edge of the world.?I have unknowns.?So many that I did not realize needed answering.?A seven year old me once saw the world?as a place for only her,?but now,?I’m just trying to find a place to stand.
That Vow, To Yet Again Walk Forested Trails
In forest deep, wondrous gems lay hidden
yet lay he there, in great pain bedridden.
Through his window he could see forest edge
hopes he had, soon became a solemn pledge.
Some day, some sweet day he would again walk
visit that forested world, with Nature talk.
Stroll among gnarled trees, roots firmly planted
vow he made, to never be recanted.
Each day he would wiggle that his big toe
sure little by little feeling would grow.
One year and he achieved use of both feet
proud of all that work done under bed-sheet.
Six months more, he could feel up to his knee
he watched that forest cheer its helpful plea.
Winter came and he could sit up in bed
sadness gone, cobwebs were cleared from his head.
Spring flew in and to kitchen he could stroll
man was he happy, he was on a roll.
June saw his first joyful step on outside
his heart filling with rapture and deep pride.
By Summer's end, he threw away his cane
with determined voice swore that oath again.
As gold leaves fell, date was set for his trek
he vowed to never look back at his wreck.
This time of year his car had struck a tree
bed confined, he thought to never be free.
That dawn came, into the forest he ran
God gave blessed hope in his Nature plan.
Walking in deep, gems everywhere he saw
all about critter tracks with little paws.
Overhead, songbirds fluttered all about
sweet bird-songs came like water from a spout.
Now in tune with life, forest vow complete
he walked home, on those new dancing feet!
R.J. Lindley
November 25th, 1979
Note. This poem was written about the car wreck and later the amazing recovery
my friend had, and the vow he made, after looking out that window and thinking of me out in the woods hunting as I once did so often.
He being a Nature lover same as I and so very at home in the woods.
We once hunted together and had great times, but life sent us down separate and far distant paths.
Now I hear from friends that he is in a bad way and has not much more time left on this earth.
Today, I searched old boxes in storage, until I found this old poem to present.
Hope you may enjoy...
Edited today only to make a uniform syllable count....
1.
the crystallised handkerchief
of one’s span of life
your handloom-bird brings with its lips
some musical notation of the nimbus
holding that waves within the heart
how much growth does occur
to the sandal-line of a man
or
it does
fall
the blades of grasses are known well
to be vegetarian
the eyes of the reindeer
have cent per cent smelling of fish
then what translation would you suggest
for the fingers of wild titlark
the shirt
they have put on the body of this night-stone
what best word-meaning does match it
but land-lotus
2.
i’ve re-constructed
all the trees and plants
with
the dry straws grass twigs collectively
fetched by beak
and the monsoon
as well
the full-brim of vodka
is deep in the palms
in that moonlight
a sleeping-tablet
does take a dip-swimming
within her enfolding
there may be the whole works of rabindranath
from the breathing of cd-player
spreads around
the sound of horse’s hoof
there is the bed-sheet of dusts
on the anger
kept bound within the cover of rexin
it’s true
our vineyards are still
prone to stones
then it does not seem
that the boiled moon sets
into the tea-cup
3
in your songs
still lies
immense green
the bed-room is too
very bright
the walnuts
walking along the path
that touches the rain-shore
make me think likely
on a sunday
kept in an envelop
when the bedcover of the early morning
speaks frankly
what’s in its mind
to the soap-water
the ears of the horse
in the wall-calendar
look very crazy
i can remember
one day
the sun-boats would tear their wrappers
their whisper would want to discover
the inclinations and thoughts of the creepers and herbs
possessed by the lady-volunteers
their yawing would notice
so many unused handlooms
taking a run-away on the clouds
now
would the cat under the beautiful jersey
finally think of waking up
then i’ll go
to deposit the clever apples
along with
all the triangles accompanying it
to the nearest cold-storage
1.
observing the ardent eagerness of the wind
it is clearly understood
that nascent pollens are overflowing
the niche of her heart
in response to the signals of the river
she keeps on ringing
all long the month of earth-quakes
the bench of the rail-station
wants to hug her
the medicine-counter of the ***-end of the day
beckons her with the hand to come nearer
in the assembly-hall for musical demonstration
adorned with ash-trays
going on the rehearsal of her dancing and singing
she also distributes some life
to the meticulous dressing
of the magnolia
2.
let the swimming pool be fully absorbed
with its dark-room
when the feather of your fore-finger
becomes green
the merchant of venice
will leave his business of photo-coping machine
to start walking directly
in search of new earnings
evening sets in
on the boiler of the delta
putting on yellow-dress comes
the water-vessel of the paper-balloon
there is no singing bird
shivering with cold
in the fold of the dear bed-sheet
it is possible that the boldness of the metro-railway
may give some wood of tamarisk
on the expanded palms
yet oh the western page of night
do tell today
why so much tamed polythene
are here in our cohabitation
3.
after so many days
published in the wind
painted in wings
the recent heart’s desire
of the doors and windows
they have rolled up their fairy-tales
from the ignorant drawing-room that wanted
to set her mind to the hill slanting downward
they did not want to know
how much rheumatism is there
in the hands and legs of the bark
to whom is delegated
the control of the mason-made bus-journey
sleep hugs the eye-lids of the rivers
though there is no postage-stamp
within the reaching-point
then what magic is there
in the hill slanting downward
why the wall does not learn
how to swim like a fish
truly it is he from whom
those negligible moments of man-ism
itch for blue candle-stand
He cursed himself for accepting the dare. He never believed in ghosts or haunted houses. He thought it was an easy way to make a few bucks if he spent a night in a haunted house.
Now he found himself in the most deserted house of the small town, reputed to be haunted. He had lain on his camp bed and hoped sleep would come soon. Certainly, he did not relish the pitch darkness of the house or outside it.
Without any rational explanation he found himself hovering between nowhere and the balcony. He saw all the houses of the town light up in a flash of multiple lightning. It seemed to him as if the whole town trembled as an earthquake rippled below the ground. The balcony seemed to disintegrate, and he found himself falling, falling, and falling right down into an abyss.
He wanted to cry in alarm. Sweat oozed out from all over his body. He woke up on the camp bed. He tried to get up but found himself paralyzed. The darkness engulfed him like a bed cover. Suddenly he thought he saw a flash outside the bedroom in the corridor. Lightning? He had no way of knowing.
Finally, he found he could move his hand and grasp the bottle of rye. The liquid seared his throat. It was not easy to drink as he laid flat on his back. The heat was now intense, and he sweated profusely. He tried in vain to pull up the bed sheet to try and wipe his face. The only thing that moved was his heart that was pumping away like mad. Relax. No ghosts about. It was only in the mind. Tomorrow he would gain those extra bucks.
It was then that he felt something moving over his body. In the pitch darkness he could not see what this could be. Suddenly a pair of malevolent eyes glared at him out of nowhere, seemingly without a face. Then he heard the growl. He wanted to scream but could not. Sweat poured down his face and his heart pumped away like a rocket propelled to hell.
His friends found him next day, cold dead, a small cat sitting on his chest.
In ye old days of yore on Malaga's dreary shore
An untidy castle rimmed by salty moor
Housed a lonely, oft-drunk matador
In briny marsh grazed no sheep, but wild pigs three score
Staggering oft around soggy, muddy estate in boozed, dazed state; prating conquistador
With fitted bed sheet he dodged each, wild, voracious boar
On one fateful eve a rabid boar did his flabby posterior gore
Now ambitions stored, bedded his dreams, salved his sore
'Til one morn, a damsel in distress swooned at his door
Bereft of virility, but saddled with tales of chivalric lore
A hearty tonic the prone maiden he did pore, and spouted tawdry tales galore
Unentranced by availing circumstance, his rambling advances she did ignore
Intoxicated by her lovely essence, her father's residence did implore
Confounded by his incessant inebriating pleas, she fell to the floor
Mistaking her bended knee as fealty to be, he let out a drunken roar
Enraged by his licentious intentions, she yelled, I will not take any more
Mind numbed from numerous droughts, he heard, I am your whore
Giddy, his infertile, limp shaft tried into her sweet mound to bore
But his drooping shaft could not breach her silty core
Frustrated the horny goad reversed positions. riding her till both were saddlesore
Finally breaching the chasm, his spent rod found reeling a chore
But her tapped well gushed and she yelled encore
Now understanding his riding days were over, he cried and swore
His ripening virgin unsatiated bade his pallid pilot her canyon explore
Now contrite, he explained fertile streams no longer from stagnant fount could pore
Giving due penance, purged the dross, and from her steamy vat tore
Forevermore an unfit paramour, jilted matador; who no longer his tainted cape wore
Today, even the hills seem blue.
Unhappiness is just happiness ~
being torn to shreds by you.
Bartleby: "I would prefer not to."
Lawyer: "But Bartleby, you've got to.
Pull yourself together, somehow,
and make a copy for me. Right now.
It's your sad lot to."
Bartleby: "I would prefer not to."
Someone stomped on my heart with their feet.
There's the red blotch ~ on their soiled bed sheet.
Doesn't look like a heart anymore ~
more like an open, festering sore.
And ~ I'm not waiting around for a repeat.
You know what I wish for the most?
That we could drive once more up the California coast,
listening to Emmylou Harris, Gram Parsons, and John Prine,
with me holding your hand, and you holding mine,
and not stopping ~ till we had safely crossed the fault line.
Here we are, finally at our loose ends,
with no more possibility for amends.
Our love's edges just got too frayed
for anyone to be able to come to our aide ~
no elf or fairy ~ who sews up, patches, or mends.
From Barcelona, she shipped me boots of Spanish leather,
with a note that said, "So you might get to understand Bob Dylan better."
And that's the last word
from her I ever heard,
and sadly, we never listened to Bob Dylan again together.
I made an appointment with me.
I was in need of some clarity.
I needed to know why it was
I felt like I was a lost cause.
And boy, did she act snottily.
The old tree on which I carved your name? ~
during last week's windstorm, down it came.
That staunch, indomitable oak,
that saw you prod and watched me poke,
is firewood now, ready for the flame.
morning of new day of the Year-2020
I don't find the bed-sheet of fogs around me
this morning is not new to me
this fairness of dawn is not new
everything and everyone as usual activated
last night 11: 59 minutes brought nothing
heard some carefree musical sound
enjoyed a birthday cake for new day of the Year-2020
danced enjoying the snow beer
and then I find this morning
my master of soul has come and asked
how are you?
-"I'm fine" I've replied
Happy New Year-2020
-"Same to you"
where is 2019 in your watch?
-"Passed away"
oh temporary everything and everyone.
-"Yes"
what did you do last night?
-"Enjoyed the passed away and coming moments"
what did you learn from your enjoyment?
-"This life is impermanent"
and?
-"Human can make this life permanent if he wants"
how?
-"By doing munificent and benevolent deeds for all without indiscriminate"
ok, what's your resolutions for new year?
-"I'm old love for everyone and I'm old peace"
what do you know about your love?
-"My love is blind by born. It knows no law to do good always wherever it comes whenever"
and?
-"In the dictionary of my love has no hate"
great! but do you know-
love is prison cell in the freedom chain of life!
love is an eternal intoxicating drug!
one sided love for truth is the drinking hemlock of Socrates!
-"No"
ok, no more today. note these-
be good with good but don't be dog with dog!
the Happy and Unhappy by born twin feelings in the immature love of mind!
-"I noted; Thank you"
what's your first work of new day of Year-2020
-"To read a poetry"
but what's poetry
-"Don't know"
(smiled)
poetry of self is nothing but an eternity of wisdom!
best of luck, bye.
-"Bye"
-January 01,2020 CTG, BD
An amber light from a flower lamp,
Shrouds the room,
With a missing a petal,
The 75 watts bulb pierces it like a stigma,
There's an old mattress lying on the floor,
The brown cold floor with the smell of cement,
A purple bed sheet and a smelly old duvet,
It’s got flowers as part of its decor, too,
The room is full of furniture and artifacts,
Carrying impressions of flowers,
There’s an old mosquito net, you can tell it was once white,
It’s got a few holes, big enough for my head,
A man, he is boy when sleeping, is curled up inside,
He doesn’t snore, but he grinds his molars,
I know how the air between his enamel feels;
To be under a strange force,
The boy is thin and brief, but not inconsequential,
Like an ampersand.
The mosquitoes and ants woke me up,
Maybe it was the conditioner in my hair,
Or the sugar spilled on the cold cement,
He didn’t bother to sweep,
Some superstition about night and sweeping,
The cement does not know how the strokes would feel,
I know how fast careless strokes feel,
There’s a pregnant cockroach that is eating his finger tips,
I let the mother nourish herself,
Explore his skin with its antenna.
I smelt fish on his hands,
And lips.
He turns on his back and exposes his black skin,
Impressions of ribs and pelvic bone,
The anopheles dances on my skin,
I let it suck life out of me,
Careful not to interrupt,
There’s another pain superior to the bite,
It’s kept me awake for hours,
As I let another proboscis takes a part of me.
The boy sleeping under the mosquito net,
Will wake up in the morning,
Find me curled up next to his arm,
Smiling, he will tell me under the bad breath,
'You see, I told you it would be easy'.
I planned a trip to tropical island
accompanied by a group of close friends.
On way, one night we were compelled to spend
at rest house for a party that ran grand.
Sumptuous tasty food ! Each to relish.
Twelve guys with five young girls and seven boys :
Fountain of champagne with cheers ! Loud noise.
Whiskey, red wine, cocktail, mocktail : all finished.
Entertainment reached peak touching summit.
Against will, forced to drink lot turning tipsy.
Soon failed to open eyes , feeling drowsy.
Needed help to lie on bed , I admit.
As I woke up, my friends dragged me to shore.
When we arrived at island , I couldn't recollect.
Felt grateful to those who were to select
such a nice place to enchant and allure.
They told, how they carried me half sleepy.
All ridiculed me stating last night's event.
That's a part of clean fun and enjoyment.
Sea waves thrashed on beach ! Feeling so happy.
Wished to extend visit , staying alone,
for a longer period, few days more,
not only for scenic beauty but to explore
the tropical island turning each stone.
They left me on the solitary beach.
Slowly I was embowered with mist and fog.
Got alarmed on sudden howling of dogs.
Ran and ran to escape out of their reach.
Chased by dogs, tumbled, rolled and to slip !
Breathing heavy to run in hazy mist :
Had a great fall wrapping the thick bed sheet.
Woke up from the hang over and deep sleep.