Long Besides Poems
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Humdumpty was an analyst, a Cambridge Ph.D.,
A noted bio-atomist, whatever that might be.
Indeed, from earliest childhood it was his single aim
To analyze no matter what might enter his domain.
He analyzed his father's watch and next the neighbour's cat.
Ah! Little more was seen or heard of Felix after that.
Astounding learned pedagogues, hard pressed to keep his pace,
Humdumpty grew up daily--in knowledge if not grace.
And then at university his intellectual power
Decimated Einstein and the works of Schopenhauer.
With ease that was amazing he romped a Double First,
And yet, for all his learning, nought quenched his burning thirst.
Despite the storm, and tumult that marked his inner life,
Humdumpty found the leisure to woo--and win--a wife.
He loved her--Oh! so dearly, his idol and his joy!
Alack! How oft our dearest 'tis we ourselves destroy.
One day in stormy weather he raised his eyes above,
And posed himself the riddle: "What constitutes her love?"
One night--to angels' weeping--the dark thought seized his mind:
"By scalpel and analysis the answer I shall find."
Full soon she took a sleeping draught, and when the time was due,
He set about his gruesome task, inspired by love so true.
How tenderly, how lovingly, he cut into her heart.
With what profound emotion he set his spouse apart.
To isolate that molecule in which all love resides
He scrutinized each corpuscle, and did much else besides.
All data was computerized, and ere a while had passed,
A reasonable hypothesis was imminent at last.
How tantalizing is the truth, how far--and yet, how near!
'Twas in the corner of his eye--and then would disappear.
It dawned at last upon him, his efforts would prove vain,
Unless he somehow managed to join her up again.
Of every art that served this end he tried the whole range through.
He first tried biophysics--and his last resort was glue.
Alas, alas, Humdumpty! There is a fateful law:
Some things men set asunder no mortal can restore.
They did not need a hangman or Madame Guillotine.
Before another week had passed, he died of bitter spleen.
Now some say he's in Heaven, and others, he's in Hell.
I'm not a theologian, it's difficult to tell.
For sure, he cut his dear wife up, and who would call that right?
But was it not his quest for truth that brought about his plight?
In Nineteen ninety-six, our son and wife, Majors
In US Army, moved to Izmir, their new base.
As usual, whatever place they were assigned,
We flew to visit them as well as dear grandkids.
So off we went to spend two weeks in Turkey, this
Outstanding country we had never been before.
So much to see at Ephesus—Metropolis
Of Antique Age; The Stadium, the Harbor Bath,
Basilica, the Marble Road, Heracles Gate—
All ruins now. Were sad to see these wondrous works
Of art and architecture now in disarray
And strewn about on fields on which they proudly stood.
Of varied striking sites in Pergamon, we saw
The City Walls, the Aqueducts, Acropolis,
The Temple Dionysus, that of Trajan too.
So many ages, periods had ruled this place,
Artistic wonders, structures turned to ruins—works
Of Persian, Greek, Roman and more, in pieces lay.
Besides the many ancient ruins visited,
We were amazed that many locals spoke our tongue.
They did their best to make us feel so much at ease,
Were gracious in combined Mid-Eastern/Euro style
Of hospitality and types of food they ate
And served, like cheese, tomatoes, olives of all kinds.
Izmir, a city mixed with culture old and new,
Like modern shops and open markets, outdoor stands
With fish and meats on ice, yet weighed on modern scales.
And women with fine bread on plates held up on heads,
Who walked the streets in morning, dressed in peasant garb;
Yet working business women wore more modern dress.
We ventured to the famous city, Istanbul,
Surprised to see the many high-rise buildings there,
And streets so overcrowded with their vehicles;
Large offices and business centers everywhere—
Ladies with fashion boots, purses and western dress;
Big contrast with those living back in country hills.
Such history surrounds this ancient, distant land;
So many varied cultures ruled their sacred world.
Museums filled with artifacts from centuries,
Safeguarded and in view to honor and behold.
This trip shall always hold such special, vivid thoughts
For us to cherish and remember for all time.
Of course, this one-time trip was many years ago;
We're happy we had ventured then instead of now,
For times have changed; such unrest grows within our world.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: Memorable Vacations
Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton
Judged: May 8, 2015
Iambic Hexameter
This is not a poem, this is a message for those who only come at my page to see flaws in my poem and in me, so they can make foul verbal comments. I'm not referring to my fellow poets here. I'm referring to my ill- minded compatriots.
Some even comment that its not me who makes my poems. But you can't really know or comprehend what it takes to be a poet and to make a poem if you're not a poet yourself. As Bob Dylan said, "don't criticize what you can't understand." It makes me smile to hear nonsense comments, like those saying that I copied works from other people when the poem is all about me or my situation, even containing personal details about me, especially those who comment that I plagiarize everything, including a short prose or a simple poem. You cannot apply your level of thinking or situation to that of the poet.
As you can see, every poem we make here are copyrighted the moment we make it, and many if not most of them are made for a specific competition under specific criteria set by the judges, so there's no way we just take poems from somewhere and place them here, especially if our intention is to place in the competition.
One thing that you should understand is that every poem is unique, because the condition under which it was written cannot be exactly duplicated in another time and another place. This means that except for competitions with open themes that may accept poems that were already written, poets write based on their feelings, emotion, state of body and mind, prevailing inspiration and other surrounding circumstances the time they write, which make them the only person who can explain the exact meaning of their poems. When one plagiarizes a work, he only copies the lyrics but not the essence of the work as when it was made by the writer, and definitely, the skill behind the making of the work cannot be plagiarized. That sets the difference between the person pretending and the real maker of the work. So there's no point in copying works from other people because there is no essence of self fulfilment in it.
Every poem here is open for everyone to see. If we'd be putting plagiarized works here everyday, we'd be slapped with countless charges. Besides, the admins of this site do not allow plagiarized works to be placed here. This is a site for lovers of poetry and not for haters.
December 23, 2023, PST, SPC
missing dog, Blackie. Besides the sound of our voices, the hymns playing softly in the
background, the noise made by the porcelain plates as Mama wiped and put them
away, the humming of the refrigerator’s motor, the house was quiet. No body knew
what had happened to Blackie. We were really concerned about the whereabouts
of the dog, even though Papa had assured us that he would return at some point.
Since the funeral, he had vanished. Even the old man who lived across the street
from us and who loved Blackie, had not seen him, nor had any of the other
neighbors. We had searched in all the usual places. He had never run away from
home before. As far as I remember, Blackie never did come back home.
As Papa sat in his usual chair, quietly playing with the food on his plate, the kitchen
door opened, and in walked Thomas, Brian’s best friend. They were the same age,
and were very close even though they did not attend the same school, or the same
church. The two had become friends since they met at a Junior Boys Scouts meeting
at the age of seven. Thomas lived some distance away but they maintained a
special friendship. Out of school, wherever Brian was, so Thomas would be. They’d
both turned fourteen last September. Throughout those years they still were active
members of the Boys Scout, and had risen together in rank. Thomas had been away
on the recent Scouting trip. They had traveled to a neighboring country for a Scouts’
Jamboree. Brian should have gone too but something to do with school exams came
up so he couldn’t go. Thomas had just returned from the Jamboree that Saturday
afternoon, the second week after Brian’s burial. Lena, Reggie and I got out of
our chairs and ran to greet him. It was like welcoming him and Brian home as the
two were always together. He picked Lena up as he greeted our parents. Mama
standing at the sink, turned around, took one look at him and walked briskly, almost
running out of the kitchen, with my other sister in tow.
Papa greeted Thomas, his voice almost inaudible. Thomas looked puzzled. I guess
he thought he had walked in during a family argument. He was about to turn back
and walk out because he felt a little intrusive, I guess. It was extremely quiet in the
room; very unusual when everyone was in Mama’s kitchen at the same time. And
Mama, walking
Stella Williams was eight years old, living with her widowed mother-
Happily, though a bit lonely, like powder blue skies, sans sunset color.
The Williams lived in a rural area, with no child Stella's age, nearby.
A farmer in the valley, was the only neighbor, like waves of no reply.
Still, school hours were fun for Stella, like rollicking days of summer;
When plum sun, waltzed with stars of glitter, often going undercover.
Stella, at times, threw coins in their well, to wish for a special friend,
Besides the birds and blooms of beauty, and rolling hills of never end.
As faint rays forgive after furious storm, distant family came, finally;
In fancy days of dinnerplate dahlias, of gold, pink, or maroon vitality.
Stella lived in the house of empty rooms, that recollected sunny joys;
There the nostalgic past, argued with hopeful future, making no noise.
A purple path close to their front door, seemed painted with petunias;
In amethyst days of evening sparkle, and sunrises, the hue of peaches.
Numerous nightingales sang at hiigh noon, when new neighbors called;
In notable, precious moments, not ever forgotten-redolence enthralled!
'String of hearts plants,' trailed love petals, as 'oyster plant,' culled gems.
The rich pink, 'quill blooms,' shot daggers, like vexed queens, in diadems.
'Enchanting hostas' charmed summer moon, as 'elephant ears,' harked;
Then 'rising sun redbud' trees sang, with dawn on gloss petals, marked.
Stella still wandered to the well to wish, some afternoons and evenings,
As some yet gaze at mysterious stars, to uncover astrological meanings.
Stella was reading in her favorite spot, on a day of hot, persimmon sun;
And she looked up and saw a girl her age. A new friendship was begun!
Veronica was the daughter of the farmer in the dell, who was divorced;
And she was now living with him. Stella was invited to dinner, of course.
In time, Stella and her mom got to know, their nearest neighbors, well;
For Stella got her wish, when her mother married the farmer in the dell.
'The farmer in the dell.
The farmer in the dell.
Hi-ho, the derry-o!
The farmer in the dell.
The farmer takes a wife.
The farmer takes a wife.
Hi-ho, the derry-o!
The farmer takes a wife.
The wife takes a child.
The wife takes a child.
Hi-ho, the derry-o!
The wife takes a child.'
Forgive my ignorance
But I will state some facts
I hope you will correct me though
Since we met
We knew little of one another
I even didn’t think I could win your heart due to my joblessness
To be Frank not many women want to be associated with a failure like me
Infact leaving me might be one of the best decisions you ever made in life
Today yes I regret much
Yes I wish I handled things differently
Yes sijui if I can ever face your parents again
But I got a laughable idea
Yes there are many women out there
Most are beautiful maybe even than you
Most are also even endowed with earthly resources
Also some may seem attractive to me as well
But God didn’t choose you for me when He brought us together not knowing this
Yes out there
You have met many men
Majority are mature not like me
Many can drive not armature like me
Others got big dreams and careers like school dropout and small minded like me
To be Frank I got nothing I can mention for you to come back in my arms
Yes maybe you regret making a son with me
Yes maybe am the joke of the year
Yes maybe I even will never meet your requirements as a man
Besides who am I even to ask you back
Grace it’s okay you have moved on
But am the best you can share a secret with
Noone else knows your family as well as I do
Noone knows my family as well as you do
Yes you got your life to live
And me to got mine
But in the middle of all this we got a son
He needs me as much as he needs his mom
Well it’s easy for me to sacrifice my relationships as not much will be list
On your end sijui your decision
But I have decided to be involved in the day to day life of our son
You to have your choice
......
I am aware of the hate between our 2 families
Am aware that it may never be easy
For us to bring trust to them
But this time am willing to ensure I rebuild you back her
I want to hold your hand as we seek for God’s guidance on this journey of forgiveness
If I asked for a date this is the basis I would lay down for you
Hold my hand as we seek reconciliation both at my family level and at your family level
This is not to bring us together once more
But to ensure our own son grows up knowing peace and love
But if I do see you again in my bed let it be as my wife filled with love
*Please judge me not with harsh words but give me a chance to explain my stand*
I climb to the top of the Eiffel tower to catch the remnant of hope gliding through the skies in a bolt of lightning as it circles the three hundred- and thirty-meters pinnacle standing bravely on the hill singing songs of redemption.
I have been longing to get there because I have something romantic to share, it was you I saw sitting in a golden chair with a diamond ring on your finger and golden septage in your hand.
You had gifts all around you and long line of people were waiting to see you and the people from Babylon walking by saluting and bowing in front of you.
It seems like yesterday they rolled the curtain away and you came out without a thought or doubt, but the villagers began to shout.
They marched in the village with sticks and stones calling on the woman of Samaria to turn around or they would send the tanker man to blow up the town.
She didn’t take it seriously until she got hit in the face and ended up with broken finger and domestic disgrace, forcing her to pull back into herself as the weapon of death wheeled over her head.
It causes her to lose some precious vote and while she was out everyone start to shout, the river monkey and the Pentecostal valedictory but the Methodist honorary showed compassion and did not voice their opinion. Pope Francois was in on it too. But his persuasion was not strong to take down the giant man.
The live imagery was so profound of everyone you meet in the town. They smile in front of you and tear your garments behind you and when they are done, they hang it on a stick and place it on top of the Eifel tower in the sun.
We live in two separate worlds, one inside of me and the other outside of you, but it feels like you are right here besides me.
I can hear you all the time but you mask your voice underneath the vine and at nights when I take a nap you play tick tack toe underneath my frock but I pretend to sleep on to prevent altercation on the land. The image is always there it comes and disappears.
I am going on the hill to meet with the daffodil; I will minister to its soul and make its body whole. I will heal its painful allergy and when I wave my hands over its face, it will remove all the disgrace and dry up all the allergies.
The daffodils will smile again from the virtue of my healing hands, so come and help me to sing this beautiful song.
Moses declares here the Lord is God
for what great things God has done
since He created man on the earth
ask all of heaven's host God is one!
In the midst of fire did any hear?
God's voice has been heard and is alive
surely not for God is the Lord
the only one that can revive
The mighty works God done in Egypt
seen clearly before Israel's eyes
who heard God's voice in their ears
to be disciplined by the Lord on high
Through this means God showed His power
by bringing them out of Egypt so great
so they received an inheritance to this day
leading them through to heaven's gate
In heaven above and earth below
God reigns supreme there's no other
obey His commands and life will be well
with Jesus HIs son your elder brother
(The Lord Alone Is God)
“For ask now of the days that are past, which were before you, since the day that God created man on the earth, and ask from one end of heaven to the other, whether such a great thing as this has ever happened or was ever heard of. Did any people ever hear the voice of a god speaking out of the midst of the fire, as you have heard, and still live? Or has any god ever attempted to go and take a nation for himself from the midst of another nation, by trials, by signs, by wonders, and by war, by a mighty hand and an outstretched arm, and by great deeds of terror, all of which the Lord your God did for you in Egypt before your eyes? To you it was shown, that you might know that the Lord is God; there is no other besides him. Out of heaven, he let you hear his voice, that he might discipline you. And on earth he let you see his great fire, and you heard his words out of the midst of the fire. And because he loved your fathers and chose their offspring after them[c] and brought you out of Egypt with his own presence, by his great power, driving out before you nations greater and mightier than you, to bring you in, to give you their land for an inheritance, as it is this day, know therefore today, and lay it to your heart, that the Lord is God in heaven above and on the earth beneath; there is no other. Therefore you shall keep his statutes and his commandments, which I command you today, that it may go well with you and with your children after you, and that you may prolong your days in the land that the Lord your God is giving you for all time.”)
Deuteronomy 4: 32-40.
Laying my head back, eyes closing,
reminiscing, the years falling away into decades ago
to the 1950s at my grandparents' grand home
for Christmas.
It was a gracious dining room.
Noontime sun streaming in.
Chair rail with deep red wallpaper, white trim.
Decorating the lace clothed "Big Table"
was a tallish 1870s porcelain Meissen fruit centerpiece
with lovers circling the stem.
Even the adults had to look around it.
Grandmother "Lil" and "Mister B"
were at their nouveau best.
All their progeny seated in good form
awaiting the traditional invocation by "Mister B".
Also seated were the ones that were to be
"seen but not heard" at our side table, the "Kids' Table."
Draped card tables for the dozen of us -
me, my brother and sisters and cousins.
Everyone all scrubbed in dresses and ties.
Mine was a clip on.
As expected, a milk glass got tipped. Spilt milk.
Besides that, we kids had great fun and
became friends again as we did each year.
The thing of it was, none of us liked
being at the "Kids' Table."
We felt lesser, unworthy, subtly so.
Even when I was ten, I knew there were
only two ways to get to the big one:
marriage or go in the army.
We all wondered what it was like to be adult.
After all, most of them smoked.
They all had drinks.
The women had figures, swishy swirls.
The men wore suits like they knew how.
At the "Big Table" they all talked like experts
about stuff we didn't understand
and they laughed loudly at Uncle Bob's jokes.
As the years moved on, things would change,
always do.
I saw virtually all my cousins
disassemble their lives too early -
marriages, divorces, addictions, lost jobs, left school -
beleaguered into inevitable submission.
My family miraculously unscathed.
But they're all gone now,
"Big Table" and little table too.
All that's left from the 50s
is my brother, sister and me.
For years, I was at the "Big Table" since my brood and I
took over the Christmas tradition.
The "Big Table" conversation was
superficial and posing was prevalent.
So one year, I put myself at the "Kids' Table." Just for fun.
Yes, milk got tipped.
But oh, the wonderment and hope. A meal that truly was
food for the soul.
Now that I'm old and looking back,
with a quiet smile, mulling it,
I kinda liked the "Kids' Table" better.
Colored pencil illustration by G.Gaul
A hiding place, a warm and darkened room,
A lit doorway, bright against the dark,
Cold against the warmth, a frame for odd
Assorted stranger-forms whose faces loom
As quarrels over (what?) convulse and rend them,
Leering laughter giving in to vicious
Sneers, bared fangs, silent snarls
Of wretched, clutching, atavistic mayhem,
A terror once removed. Inside that hole
Distant from the proximal horrid window
Where twisted evil shadow-puppets fight
Peculiar faint amusement seems to roll
Like waves around the cave, detached and born
Of safety via distance, of certainty
That out would never be in, that warmth was safe,
That war above, so far away, forlorn,
Could be watched as from a languid seat
Far recessed in a darkened empty theater,
Nestled snugly, listening to the voice
Which comments on the raging battle heat.
From somewhere up, behind, not left nor right,
But from the center, voice and fight both
Directly sensed, as if they each occurred
In a vacuum, touch and smell, sound and sight
Being interchangeable and void.
The fighters jab and poke, madly gouge,
And neither gains advantage, being justly
Matched, as both are faceless, the man
At left pitted fair against the shrewish
Plot of his opponent, evil woman.
Both in turn appeal for judgment, turning
Away from fighting to glare and wave and hiss
Silently for a verdict on the ghastly driven
Feud which now has stopped, as it began,
Abruptly, and receiving none, for in
The silence no answer can be given
(Besides which, being taken by surprise
And overcome by sudden fear, aware
Of change in circumstance) the watcher is mute,
The murderous woman lunges at his very eyes
In deadly assault, bent on maiming, killing,
Groping fiercely at his open throat
For no apparent reason; and the comfort
Of the soothing voice utterly halts.
Words without sound fly like spears between them
Accusatory fingers gesture madly
And spittle from their half-crazed livid mouths
Wings through air in visual acid anthem
To this grisly deadly tandem fight
That seems the worse being set in relief
By the rectangular hole that serves as both
Window and door, divider of dark and light,
No protection, as threshold battle threatens
Him within, as blind hatred rages
In deft slashes of lengthy fingernails
While foe from foe extracts macabre debt.