Long Comstock Poems
Long Comstock Poems. Below are the most popular long Comstock by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Comstock poems by poem length and keyword.
Daisy Magill
1889-1919
A person knows when she will die.
I knew it.
My uncle Harry knew it.
And my consumption knew it too.
My dying day was a sunny one, my friends.
As the July sun bathed my garden flowers outside,
I felt my life force slowly ebb away from me,
There, inside my lilac-filled bedroom on Comstock,
And I knew, all the hours of that dreaded day,
That I would soon be buried in my cozy coffin here,
In this weedy tract of Mt. Olive Cemetery,
Under these friendly walnut trees.
And while struggling to stay awake that last hour,
From my final sleep of death,
I thought back in painful anguish,
Back to my youthful carefree days,
When I was seventeen,
And my long auburn hair was in braids;
When my friends were all alive and happy,
And when life was good and free under the sun!
But Time took control of the reigns,
Of my coming days and years,
And more often than not,
Left me weeping for the past.
The past, when I had my time of incredible magic!
A single rapturous moment of utter bliss!
With him!
Roscoe Settle and me that day!
Meeting secretly at twilight time,
Embracing and kissing wildly,
Under these friendly walnut trees,
Here in weedy Mt. Olive Cemetery!
Jesse Forbes
1893 – 1911
Black Canyon.
Now, there was a place to be!
It is true I was born a brute in a Quaker Town.
Born a bad-tempered brute of a boy
In the two-room digs on Bailey Street and Comstock..
My father fathered two other families,
Unbeknownst to his wife..
And I was the first one disowned.
But my father was a great believer,
And I loved the man like a fool.
I took up the milkin’ business at fourteen,
And made my morning way from Orange Drive down to Penn Street.
Delivering the dozens of clinking milk bottles.
Delivering the dozens of morning salutations,
To neighbors and friends in the glad and dismal days.
I had but one romantic interlude in my short stay,
Just one futile attempt at Carpe Diem.
But was left slapped and standing by a disheveled Ethel Hurst
There in the dark shade of Black Canyon
That inauspicious August day in 1910.
Ethel Hurst did not accept the entreaties of a 17 year old brute.
Did not accept my wild stares
Or my insanely puckered lips.
It was to my surprise that I died.
Died so young and so unready.
Still desiring the perfumed kisses of Ethel Hurst,
Still desiring her heart-quenching embraces,
There, in the dark shade of Black Canyon.
Luella Bufkin
1872 – 1891
Do you remember me?
Does anyone remember the Bufkin girl of Comstock Street?
I was the girl who read her Bible every Sunday
In the forgiving shade of my father’s Elm Tree..
Maybe not.
Because I died young… way too young.
And I was a smart pretty girl too.
No one ever knew I spent many waking moments alone.
Alone and staring into the parlor room mirror
Staring into my own blue eyes;
Imagining they were the eyes of my galloping Knight.
Eyes I had hoped to use
In capturing the “devil” by his tail.
I knew how to cook and sew
And clean house and milk the cow.
I made the butter and the bread
And my mother always said
”Now Luella, don’t forget to add the yeast.”
I cleaned and scrubbed and scoured
And even cut the firewood on occasion.
It was all I knew;
My life with rags and strong soaps;
One continuing, unending back-breaking episode
Of hardwood chores
And ever-growing laundry piles.
And it was a brief,
Oh so painfully brief life,
Of cleaning, praying and… dreaming.
I wanted to go into nursing
And find a suitable man to be my Noble Squire.
But my kidneys flamed up and I started to pee blood.
Come to my lonely grave sometime, my friend.
I’m off in the corner here.
Forgotten and covered in the ivy.
I lie here in my casket in the dark
Please visit me here in the shadows,
So I can hear you breathing.
Planting seeds of life - growing self awareness...
(Subtitled: kudos beloved Amelie Beth)
Dilly gents gal lore spellbinding
metaphorically exhuming, ferreting, gleaning...
insightful handy dandy blues clues
unearthing treasure trove motherlode,
(and father lode) eye opening discover re:
visa vis our family of origin ancestry.
Painstaking efforts undertaken
courtesy thee i.e. eldest sister
(age difference between her and yours truly
thirteen months and twelve days)
ye (figuratively) dug deep
within plethora of genealogical database
mine insight piqued
following genetic revelations.
Raw bits (nuggets - comstock
rivalling wealth of Croesus
sowed countless generations ago)
enlightened this protoplasmic broth heir,
(a biological composite dada
elicited factoids ginning
humongous, illustrious, judicious...
awareness, that allows, enables provides...
knowledge linking me deoxynucleic acid
with forebears, whose good n plenti
inherited characteristics, desires
(under the elms), mannerisms,
predilections, quirks, urges,
yearnings, et cetera contra dance,
flickr, golong, kindle, shutterfly...
within mine contemplative,
intuitive, reflective...soul asylum
explaining, informing, liberating...
natural inquisitiveness percolating within,
not necessarily to excuse
deleterious, egregious, infamous...
(hyperbole for poetic impact)
behavior (mine), nonetheless
delighting, educating, fascinating...
assimilating, bridging, semen ting
heritage invariably jumpstarting
dormant desire to acquire
increased comprehension whereby,
I experience surge to learn
greater familiarity affecting
heightened awareness, where
countless questions once incubated
regarding spiritual communion,
where lovely bones of mein kampf
feel linkedin with spirits
of thee dead ancestors.
Hence awesome accomplishment
piecing together (with assistance from relatives)
once puzzling enigma shrouding
past lives (not sainted)
comprising Harris family of origin.