Long Chauffeured Poems
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Lear's & Lemo's
Written: By Tom Wright
1/4/99
With what we have
seems we're never content,
We reach for plastic
when our money is spent.
With more month than money
we'll figure the float,
Then like Investment Bankers
sit back and gloat.
We dream of a Lear Jet
or a chauffeured Lemo,
For we're tired of traveling
by truck to and fro.
While appearing content
we're reaching for more,
And what we can't spend
we'll invest or store.
We borrow from Peter
so we can pay old Paul,
Inwardly denying we're broke
just badly bent, that's all.
Money is at the root of all evil
I've heard it said true enough,
That must be why we hurry
to get rid of the stuff.
We return from the mall
with scrapes that bleed,
Packing all of our booty
most of which we don't need.
After an hour of unloading
with each thing in It's place,
It's painfully obvious
we need more cabinet space.
But we feel good for our part
toward combating inflation,
For while buying things on "sale"
we've helped save our nation.
But come the first of the month
we're paying bills again,
Then heading to the mall,
for to save would be sin.
So cut up your plastic,
and continue driving your truck,
Buy only what you need,
try saving that other buck.
While we dream of chauffeured Limos
and of Lear Jets to fly,
Truth is, we're extremely lucky
if ends meet and we get by.
He came in human flesh,
So He would see someone like me,
He wore the robes of pain, grief and struggles,
So He could relate to my emotions.
He took the fall,
So He could understand why I stumble,
He left his lofty throne to walk down the streets of mortals,
To show them the path to immortality,
Desirous that they would listen.
He took on the body that was susceptible to time,
So that He would conquer its recalcitrant hold,
He came in our similitude,
Bound by the elements of nature,
Bound by His creations,
So that He would return in
the volume of all that was written about Him.
He was chauffeured by dawn,
Called to slumber by the night,
Until He had opened the door for us out of darkness,
Until time laid under His feet.
May 8, 2024.
"You are a volume in the book. A mirror to the power that created the universe. Whatever you want, ask it of yourself. Whatever you’re looking for can only be found inside of you."
- Rumi
It’s written about you,
Someone sees and has a clue,
The sacred book opens the door to light,
This pierces through the night.
Go past the troubles that find their way to your room,
Beyond you is a land of bloom,
Ask what you desire,
Let the sacred truths deeply inspire.
Hope is like blooming meadows,
It lifts the soul out of the shadows,
Elucidate those wondrous dreams on the inside,
Let it be chauffeured by dawn on the outside.
Walk on the bright side of life,
It’s a door out of strife,
We’re vessels of grace,
Faith is the shoe’s lace.
I was writing a story,
A story that took place In autumn,
A story about a woman who became a shadow of herself,
A woman who earnestly battled her midnight,
A woman who was chauffeured to her past,
A woman whose past cloaked her present,
Her last days were heart-wrenching,
I remembered my grandmother,
I remembered the last discussion I had with her,
I remembered how she navigated her life's sojourn,
I could see her face,
I could hear her voice,
I felt her around,
Her reassuring words echoed in me,
Tears streamed down my eyes.
February 13, 2023.
I Felt Like Poetry Contest,
Charles Messina.
In the landscape
of melancholy,
where arctic
heartbeats linger,
I long for withered
willows to blossom
like speckled
diamond petals,
while your crystalline
silhouette strolls
through tangled tunnels
of my weathered mind.
And I question
the highest choir
orchestrating
ethereal anthems:
What if there’s no right key
to harmonize this
undying yearning?
What if love had a voice?
Would it be an
echo of melting snow—
thawing glacier hearts
to stream upon
silver lakes,
mirroring drifting
clouds of memories
that drizzle
rose-tinted flakes?
There, the crisp
air whispers
magical tales
chauffeured in
cashmere cadence.
But, like the golden
tendrils of
winter jasmine,
my fingers
stretch beyond
fogs of frozen rainbows,
sketching
sweet-scented dreams
across skies
in porcelain pigments,
as your voice
glimmers and
glows amidst
poetic pearls
resting on
your lyrical lips,
shifting through
colors of the
seasonal breeze,
serenading
symphonies
for soulmates.
So let me
undress the
wintry wisps of vanilla,
cloaking the
citrine threads
of sunrise in your eyes,
listening to
the song of the
wind that shrouds
our unsung sonatas
when we were undone.
For you and I,
we are like
jewels in the azure,
ruminating in rhymes,
quilted in a
secluded igloo,
as chickadees
of the night
chirp in sync
with the moon,
mimicking hymns
from the
hypnotic lyre of Orpheus,
to which Eurydice waltzed,
even the waning stars
would unravel
a sequined staircase
to the gardens
above the highest spheres.
For I would die
a million
deaths to
rewind and replay
the dulcet chorus
of this
immortal romance.
Mountains are part of life’s journey,
They’re obstructions that separate us from our treasures,
They’re impediments that divide us and the meadow,
Mountains are signposts to greener pastures.
Each day I see strengthens me to move mountains,
Each night I’m chauffeured through pulls me up the mountain,
The closer I get to the Father,
The higher it takes me up mountains,
The deeper I dig into His Word,
The better cliffhanger I become.
Though some mountains are recalcitrant,
They’re restraints to keep me on track,
They’re pride pruners,
They remind me that I’m not superhuman.
Visions aid me to move mountains,
The future I see strengthens my feeble hands.
February 11, 2024.
In a dream
being chauffeured
to where? I do not know
where? the silence stifling
still as the night,
stars glowing…
but the chauffeur, driving
heedless to my faith –
Jesus is dead, he speaks
like a bullhorn
going off in my mind,
grief surrounds me
but the dream comes to life…
“He is ALIVE!”
I say it, my voice amplified
WHO IS THIS MAN?
my mind enters the war
with his spirit – evil words
a dark that won’t heal
a world filled with sorrow
pain and so much horror!
“HE IS ALIVE!”
my voice doesn’t tremble
I am at war, the shield will defend me.
“He is ALIVE!”
“He is ALIVE!”
“HE IS ALIVE!”
And, that is how it ends
I wake up, speaking, announcing
to the dawn…
He lives and so I can smile!
the chauffeur is a liar…
His love invigorates my life
His light flows through the dark,
quieting the fears,
wiping away the tears
He’ll always be here – always
He is ALIVE and I can survive
because He is mine,
this Jesus who will never die.
Oh, how that chauffeur lied!
I stood in the field of the lost,
Called from my slumber,
I found myself in this forever field,
They walked in silence and serenity,
The wounded, the wearied and the troubled.
Snatched by the hands of time and clime,
They were taken out of sight by the night,
They had walked the last mile of their sojourn,
The midnight train had chauffeured them to the beyond,
To a sanctuary of solace and solitude.
I wondered why they had come to this field,
Did they come to seek the unwritten?
Did they come to find answers to their troubled existence?
Have they come to fellowship?
The field looked fallow and faceless.
A wind blew and I was taken away,
It was a vivid vision,
One of the deepest I had seen,
One that left me amazed and awed,
Life has segments where nothing sounds when it falls.
April 17, 2024.
I once met a man, in the forrests of Tibet.
His counternance was pale yet his name was Robinette.
Past the clearing of the Belt and down into the bottomneck stream
is where he lived in isolation with a gift of crafting dreams
With just a scroll and his ink he could conquer Goliath
a GIFT THAT enscribes him a legend, a self-imposed pariah
His mind was unhinged so the words were unhindered,
never once did he blink,lest his memories squandered
he would wield that pen, the greatest painter of minds
would surrender each soul with the lies he devised
he would keep an accounting of the words in each page
in all of those scribbles, were worlds to be named.
Those words made me sleep, guarding my peace
rendering this beast to a ransom release
The sentences were a rhythm that I could breathe
the punctuation of which, was smooth-calm light breeze
As I browed, frowned into the pages that were
So too the the vast letters my eyes chauffeured
mY senses mangled, my vision blurred
this was more than a vision, this was my life's metaphor
So the PAINTER MINDS,did paint me a dream
scratched out my boundaries and stroked in a stream
created new paradise, and new heavens unearthed
but the later was not to be, and the former re-emerged.
Freed from the tendrils of the night,
I want to walk on a path that's not distant from the light.
Out of the turbulence of the sea,
I want to know quiet waters.
My door closed to the uninvited,
Serenity sits in my abode.
I want to be out of the monster's nest,
I want to be perpetually at rest.
Out of the night's highway,
I want to be chauffeured to redemption.
I want to find a way to a tranquil room,
Swept clean from the gloom.
The person I want to be is beyond the pages,
I know it will take unrelenting stages.
I'll walk on the path that leads that way,
Until the night's chariot comes my way.
September 21, 2024.