Long Burgeon Poems
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This Congratulative Poem is dedicated to Ahmseg Concepts on her 20th Years Anniversary.
It's an honour to stand on this podium,
to recite my poem in front of dad 'n' mum,
brother and sister, friend 'n' lover in this hall,
hence, happiness covers my face like a coverall.
Now, listen to my intriguing lines and rhythm,
that smells like rose and chrysanthemum.
Ahmseg Concepts is like a garden of eden,
like a wellspring— creativity flows under it now and then,
like a brobdingnagian mountain it stands taller than bremen,
into Europe, Africa, Asia, Americas, Antarctica you burgeon.
Ahmseg Concepts you're indeed a prophet in creativity's field,
your preaches cease not circulating; among human it's unconcealed;
intelligentsias, ignoramuses and fools—you have healed.
many companies have faded like morning stars— yet you never yield.
Ahmseg Concepts, can you please tell me your shield?!
Today we aren't just celebrating an anniversary,
but rather a day to harvest the fruit of our patience and bravery,
in times of the scorching suns, the heavy rains, the tempest and our worry.
hence, let's wine and dine to give gratitude to God for this history.
But, before I leave this podium, can you permit me please?,
to greet my boss for his endurance whilst his committees,
for the success of this great event and also the dignitaries,
for their presence in our 20th year anniversary,
may Allah guide you all to your abodes as you join one of our beautiful memories.
Yisa Qudus Olamilekan
Qoys, Noble Versifier.
Ida Oaks
1827-1919
John gave me a good home.
Not one with plumbing and power,
But one with a solid slab, and a full well.
And while living in this Quaker homestead,
We found that life was precise and persistent.
But it pleased me to provide good food, and
Medicinal solace for my meager family.
Through those unyielding years we learned
To accept the twists and turns of fate,
And to continue the never-ending bows to prayer.
Death was a returning customer indeed, but
We learned to be silent, stoic and still,
When sovereign Lord Yeshua silently paid a call.
But we had indeed found paradise out west,
Out here in tranquil Whittier town!
Where it never snows at winter,
And the hills here burgeon with wild flowers!
But God was good to us,
And John worked hard to provide a good life for me.
But, Oh! To smell again, just one more time,
The wonderful heavenly fragrances
Of ten thousand Valencia blossoms,
All crowned with white dancers at springtime!
I burgeon its beating wings
To give me a purpose to bleed.
Bleeding through a fury
For one needn’t worry.
But so tiny as fragments of broken glass
Piercing my feet in grass full of bees.
That is why it needs my attention
Or else I’ll fall
Into the painful sorrows of another dimension.
Without my worries
I will forgive too quickly
But then will my anger not dominate me.
My worries could find their peace
Away from the pits of Hades
Into the sweet gardens of Gaia
Blessed by the sensitivity of Siddharta.
But my worries are too strong
And my discipline too weak.
So leave me be
To my rooms of hatred
In the depths of my loneliness
Through the cycle of my tormenting nightmares.
Leave me to my small worries
As I will leave you to your peace.
Hell-and-gone, my dreams are the bane of angels
Crimped with light, yet ceded to swim in shadows
Darkened wings that tremble with aching portent
Yesterday's heaven
I'm the fool that wandered the Van Gogh grasses
Just a jest, with love made there in the meadow
Callow flesh, thus burning for more than sunlight
Merging in madness
Bright and light, on toe-shoes a girl came dancing
How she twirled, with tempo to set my heartbeats
Dark desires through waterfalls and the moonlight
Joined at the marrow
Life did cleave us, bound to a course its choosing
Washed and swept by fates to a distant shoreline
Breaths and death left nothing to us but distance
Partings, unspoken
'Leave them gone', those angels now softly whisper
Broken dreams are nightmares so left unspoken
Turn your head to sight your eyes on the moment
Wisdom's sweet burgeon.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Sapphic Stanza With A Jux" Poetry Contest, Craig Cornish, Judge & Sponsor.
Acts of contrition, on knees if I recount
Beatitudes, eight, sermon on the mount
Charity given, is blessings received
Dalai Lama, a Buddhist deity
Ecumenism, it understands and unites
Fascism erodes individual rights
Gaia, Greek goddess of our mother earth
Heresy, one's belief, another's mirth
Idolatry, the worship of false gods
Jehovahs Witnesses, the sidewalks they trod
Kama, Hindu god of the erotic
Lex talionis, is somewhat exotic
Mary, Christmas holds that she was a virgin
Naturalism, this belief seems to burgeon
Orthodoxy, keeping with old traditions
Penance, requires sin and admissions
Quaker, informal for Society of Friends
Ramadan, are you relieved when it ends?
Sabbath, is it Saturday or the day after?
Talismans, sometimes, subject of laughter
Universalism, bring us together?
Values the thought of happy ever afters
Whatever your dogma, does it really matter?
X amine your heart, reject idle chatter
You should maybe contact your Spirit Guides
Zenith of acceptance with us resides
beautiful photo of the church taken by Jackie on Instagram @jacci_eo
I …
am provenience …
the heel of my father’s foot -
the damp of his brow
and his burgeon …
I am my mother’s bloom
sown in the soil of her intentions
seeded with wonder
and promise …
but some petals unfurl only in
the dead of night -
haunted gardens tended by
half-wished ghosts
phantoms …
frozen to their duties by the
mists of recollection -
icy arbors of regret and time, passing …
if I could but daub that lintel
with my blood -
force the reaper’s honed, desultory edge to
pass over those most dear
but …
too many I’ve walked homeward, in hand
too well he’s learned my face
too deep and numbered I’ve plunged
that oily, arrogant eye
and far too many times I’ve cursed
that endlessly esurient appetite …
I’ll find no pity, those deep pockets, his
nor a nip of banal bearing
it’s too late for tears -
the winds, far too wet for weeping
but I know him too
and he shan’t catch me dawdling
no - he’ll have to swing wide for this vine
else I greet him running and
wrap him snug -
strangling, like kudzu on catalpa …
for my roots reach deep
and are family-firm,
tended …
with love.
( photographic art created copyright-free at Gala AI and manipulated with filters at Prisma )
SIX
To join the angels in joyful repast,
Where is no shame, nor overeating e’er,
Is her least gift, ‘tis given at the last…
Before, they stroke their golden dulcimers rare,
And sing like rivers babbling over rocks,
And sing like trees that whisper in the wind,
And sing like birds, a-winging in their flocks,
And shine, like mighty folk, who never sinned!
There, for her, burgeon green, and growing things,
There, poor folk feed each other, free from envies,
There, service is the measure of all Kings,
Wherever they do go, their only envoys
Are streams of butterflies and honeybees,
Which bless the kings, and glow (which each King sees!)
You can't call back the things you've done,
Nor stop the words you've spoken.
Accusing one another now,
Will not mend pledges broken.
The past is but a memory,
Of old things done and over,
Merely shades of times gone by,
That cannot be lived over.
One cannot live one's whole life through,
Beneath a darksome burden,
To hurl dark spears of wrath o'er long,
Will cause a fearsome burgeon;
A growth that kills the good in life,
And leaves but empty shells;
It's best to leave the past alone,
Just memorys on the shelf.
Judy Ball
"FOR WHERE ENVY AND STRIFE IS, THERE IS CONFUSION AND EVERY EVIL WORK."
James 3:16
It's a lot easier to hurt someone who cares about you than someone who doesn't.
For A Fragment Of Life Contest by Constance LaFrance - Aug. 20.2011
(The Kyoto Protocol, an international
treaty signed in December 1997, commits
member states to reduce their carbon
dioxide emissions. The United States is
the only First World nation not to ratify
the treaty.)
Spend it, squander, swill down, swallow,
waste it, wassail, welter, wallow.
There's no "I" in America.
(Well, maybe one.)
Billow, burn up, bloat and burgeon,
Don't stint (see stomach-stapling surgeon).
There's no "me" in America.
(Well, maybe one.)
Blow up. Bulge. Indulge your senses.
Guzzle, grab, gorge - don't heed no fences.
There's no "crime" in America,
no restraints, no consequences.
(Well, maybe one.)
We all celebrate the dead
each year with pomp and flair –
purple, orange, black, and red
streamers blow from here to there.
Time for haints and spooks and witches,
vampires, zombies, and ghouls.
Samantha laughs, then twitches
her nose, turning stones into jewels.
Ol’ Jack is laughing with evil gnarl,
his pumpkin face twisted and cold.
His voice between growl and snarl,
his face frightening and bold.
Cruella is beginning to cower,
she is no match for her twin.
Maleficent is twice the power
and confident that she will win.
The Sanderson sisters are extra chic
and searching to find their virgin.
Their success looks mighty bleak
until a young child should burgeon.
Count Drac is debonair tonight,
his search for blood his mission.
But first a kiss to seal his plight
as a first-run neck audition.
The clown with painted face
puts on a fabulous show
until he quickens his pace
and blood begins to flow.
Chucky is having a jovial time,
such voodoo magic on him imbued.
He’ll laugh and pretend and mime
as he sees his knife protrude.
Every year we have such fun
Please come in and join the fray!
And if by chance you come undone
upon your doubts and fears we’ll play!