Long Bustles Poems
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Recalling "crushes" I admire during teen-age time
Makes me chuckle with heart-beat's chime
Remembering responses of denial-rhyme...
Now, I confess my puerile grime.
Decades ago, a lad with his unique fad made me glad
As his boyish grin resembled that of my Dad
His constant cheerful countenance exclaimed he’s not mad, not sad
Since despite low grades, he seemed not to feel bad.
Another guy likewise won my favor
He was a college classmate showing faith-fervor
Asserting Scriptures with truth’s savor
Revealing his taste of godly flavor.
As a lady of “conservative” virtue
Enclosed within social-cultural taboo
On “dating” I was innocent of the “approved” clue
As I acknowledged God’s wise view.
So, when I received love-epistles
From suitors with affection whistles
I let my parents read them against “studies first” bustles
For I trusted them in my youth feelings’ hassles.
Thus, midst teen-age delightful relationships
I’m grateful for pleasant wholesome friendships
Functional toward great adult partnerships
Engaged in great, good and godly fellowships*.
*1John 1:7 “But if we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship one with another, and the blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us from all sin.”
February 2, 2019
2nd place, "School time crush" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Faraz Ajmal; judged on 3/9/2019.
During the day
there's a deceptive lull
in the staid common parlor
when the home seems deadly dull
Stale air, disinfectant and potpourri
stirred only by the worried, hurried strides
of harried nurses down hectic halls
stuffy efficiency personified
In contrast to those, the steady repose
of regular residents
dressed up and posed
as odd antique mannequins
in fusty old clothes
like some bizarre storefront
window display
Obsolete, old folks
like aged birds perch
lean and lurch
awkward and angular
nodding and napping
half-waking, flapping
on various arm chairs
Others like basset hounds
lay the room 'round
eyes shut, drooping jowls
intermittent gentle growls
little subtle snores
comfy and carefree
bodies drowsily draped over
the sides of settees
Insensible to sound
and drooling a bit
sweetly sleeping all throughout
like innocent toddlers
with cookie-smeared faces
ingenuous and
all played out
Then eventually, nursing staff
bustles them awake
for activities, dinner
more medicines to take...
Then off to bed
as visitors leave
deluded and deceived
thinking that's all there is
pitiful old people, tragically perceived
GOD'S ONE FINE DAY
Where be God's grace
On this fine day
As you passed by
I heard you say
Hid, mourning lace
Your face within
Bustles black
A raven's wing
Satin soft
Your whispered talk
So not to wake
The dead, you walk
Through your glove
You spin your ring
Another day
Remembering
Horses white
Ribbons tied
Braided manes
You rode beside
Dames and doves
Filled glade and sky
An altar made
Time brushed aside
One wish bade
One wish would I
Lift your veil
Once more my bride
Come, lets walk
This prison's gate
I bid you leave
Here, I must wait
Wonder, walk
By stone and grave
They who share
My ghostly fate
When Sunday chimes
Your sweet bouquet
A rose, you'll lie
Now where I lay
You'll lie beside
And so I'll wake
Until, I'll bide
God's one fine day
I’m the heartbeat of salsa, the rhythm of the conga,
Where Tito Puente’s spirit still dances on Third Avenue.
My murals speak louder than words—
Che Guevara, Celia Cruz, and the Spirit of East Harlem
Painted on every wall, telling stories of pride.
El Museo del Barrio stands tall,
A testament to our Latinx heritage,
While La Marqueta bustles with flavors of the island.
Oh, you think you’ve got the soul?
I birthed the Harlem Renaissance,
Langston Hughes and Zora Neale Hurston walked my streets.
The Apollo Theater echoes with the voices of legends,
And Rucker Park? It’s where streetball met the NBA.
My brownstones whisper tales of Strivers’ Row,
And Marcus Garvey Park stands as a monument to our history.
But have you seen my festivals?
The Puerto Rican Day Parade lights up 116th,
A sea of flags and music filling the air.
My bodegas hum with reggaeton beats,
And the scent of arroz con gandules wafts through the streets.
We honor our roots with pride and passion,
A community united by rhythm and tradition.
I’ve got my own rhythm, my own flair,
From the sounds of jazz to the gospel in the air.
Sylvia’s serves up soul food with a side of history,
And the Studio Museum showcases Black artistry.
My streets are lined with stories of resilience and grace,
A tapestry woven with every face.
True, our paths have crossed and intertwined,
But our spirits remain distinct, uniquely defined.
El Barrio pulses with a Latin beat,
While Harlem’s heart echoes with African roots beneath.
Together, we form a mosaic so grand,
A testament to the cultures that built this land.
This is a journey, a trip call it what you will
It follows the footsteps of my ancestors, and allows my thoughts too spill
Firstly let me take you back, to tell you so little of my past
Indigenous I am, from the "Stolen Generations" I did not last
This is why I must make this journey, to allow me to find the real me
To retrace the few steps I made, to rediscover what my young eyes seen
How ironic that the person I'll ride with, is the son of the then official
Whose deliberation to round up us children, the scene, locale
It's now the morn of our travel, where I look I find hard to see
The peripheral of the distant horizon, is all that really captures me
The town where I grew up so young, barely to the age of five
Perth, now bustles like a termites nest, zig zagging in busily strive
Into the bush we go, to a place where us youngsters so enjoyed
Moore River Native Settlement, which soon became children void
As I walk my arid lands, patterned in the heat of this day
I recall with every step, where us Indigenous children played
We could survive on the smallest of fruit, water we could easily find
Even the son of the then official, said that we are a superior kind
He marvelled when I spotted tracks, traces of where animals crossed
Remembering back to when I was five years old, our lands always talked
We opened up as we led our horses, introduced all those centuries ago
They opened up my lands, rivers we walked, now the white man flows
This is a journey I had to make, it's called, it's in my will
No more "Stolen Generations" no more will my culture spill
"Please turn off the blinding lights"
Must close my eyes to see the brightness of my future.
My today's reality dims the spirit of the hunt.
Overcasting shadows and shaded grays of life's blunders;
of many passions, many desires, and many shall-not-wants.
Cannot dread what madness awakes with the rising sun.
Early birds catching worms; the hustle and bustles of rush hour traffic.
Of life keeping me on the run; a rat race full of chaos and havoc.
Challenging games of lady luck; trying to turn a quarter into a buck.
Dipping into what we call... "White Magic".
Yet I'm full of hope and answered prayers, my life's a blessing I cannot complain.
Even though another day, another half dollar, another of the same.
Rolling with the punches, turning cheeks, to do or die__are noted statements and claims to fame.
They are merely facts of life and nothing to be glorified or blamed.
Far down deep in the darkness of my mind__ illuminating brightness of my visions.
Tasting the sweetness of success. I shall drink of it from a golden cup.
Not of the dreams I won't ever give up, but of my many decisions.
There, I dance the jig on star studded stages__ with standing ovations;
to the sounds of silence and in dark illuminations.
The Architecture of Time
Generations and nations repeatedly declare,
They waste away hours with no time to care.
With a laugh, they insist that their schedules are tight
But does time truly hasten and vanish from sight?
Separate time from our frenzy and strife,
Just as you sever the wants from your life.
For time never hungers, nor rushes in fear;
It bustles for no one; its conscience is clear.
Like rivers that roll from an unseen domain,
It never flows backward or hill-wards again.
Unlike human spirits; a flickering spark
Or the sun that retreats when the evening grows dark.
Unshaken by panic, it stands on its own,
Binding the future to days we have known.
A permanent anchor, beautifully cast,
Governing cosmos and stars to the last.
The only endurance designed to remain,
No speed can outrun it, no gravity strain.
A pillar where all of creation must bend,
Time travels straight from beginning to end.
Thinkers awake from their slumber to peer,
Charting the map of this infinite sphere.
What internal chime tells us how to behave?
What metric tracks life from the cradle to grave?
A silent engine where variables range,
Time drives the cosmos yet never will change.
You cannot freeze solid what already is still
Though tides may recede, time never moves, time’s the will.
Tambourines in the air;
Whistles and bustles in a
rhyme.
In the house of Khloe,
Melodies of the heart;
A reenactment in the farm house
of old rhythms.
Grand mother's tongue in cheek,
but she is gone;
Gone home to be with the lasses
Free from the pains of the masses.
The house of Chloe will never be the
same again.
Mirth and laughter gone through the
back door.
Enter the dragon, my mama with sternness
and a rod.
Not to be spared for our scrawny behinds
my mama.
The house of Khloe has changed course
never the same again.
The King
The king was quite old, but not senile,
And his problems with sex were not penile.
He could rut with the best,
When put to the test,
And got plenty of rest in between while.
The Queen
The queen wanted Sir Bruce for her lover,
But said knight had his sights on another.
She became unenamored,
When she caught him unarmored,
And in bed with Sir Frederick, her brother.
The Prince
The crown prince of a country in Asia
Loved a commoner named Anastasia.
When his parents demurred,
He said, "Don't be absurd",
And promptly employed euthanasia.
The Princess
The queen's plot was more than merely a jest,
But still Princess Winifred proved she was the best
When that small pea-sized lump
Left a dent in her rump
And allowed her to pass the "sensitivity" test.
The Duke
The Duke of Milan was an arrogant man,
Pugnacious, mendacious, and vain.
He was also a mess
For he loved to cross-dress
In ruffles and bustles and trains.
Sky looks, at this eventide, like an ocean of rainbows.
Has the almighty sprinkled his bright-dark contract of his sum aggregation of the entirety of everything and caboodle of his wholeness thickly on this evening canvas?
Birds fly beneath the skies like black jets with red-moon shine.
Are dust and broken pieces of the heavenly rainbows spread over hills and valleys? Grass clusters and meadows of multiple bouquet blossoms seem to say amen to the almighty moving and dwelling within the gentle breeze that carries him over mountains, seas, and oceans.
Herders walk their herds back to their byres and feed them with fodder and quench their thirst with feed-mixed tonic water.
Cocks and hens have entered their coops and have started closing their eyes as though in Zen meditation.
Hustles and bustles of the huts and corteges rise and fall like low and high pitches of harmonious concerts and slowly come to an end as kids start dosing their eyes and stop crying.
With my close-knit small family, I relish and nourish the simple supper prepared by million hands from the east, west, north, and south of my nation and brought to my table by the agape-filled affection of my family bond.
My heart enters in its inner shrines of conscience and consciousness and gently unites with the eternal spirit dwelling therein and lay on the laps of lady night with a loving lullaby of Pasithea, Huina, Nyx, and Nidra Devi, the goddesses of sleep.
cherubim movements
spirits, saints, and angels sail
peace in pinnacle