Long Contrive Poems
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Why me father/daughter relationship
important to this papa
Fourteen and a half years
since death of mother (mine),
nary one iota of communication
in general and compassion
in particular while
she lived, now wears
heavy and yokes
mantle fostering tears
indirectly sabotaging rapport
with eldest daughter
futility doth arise uttering
feeble secular prayers,
cuz interaction with mother,
whose vehemence more
deafening than banshee killdeers
exceeding threshold of
decibels tolerable these ears.
Now comeuppance came
full family circle, yes
that's her within picture frame,
when young, innocent, and beautiful,
decades before terminal
illness rendered her
incapacitated and lame.
Her second of
three born offspring,
and yours truly
that singular boy
figuratively tethered himself
to her apron strings,
which near omnipotent
biochemical bond her
rancor would destroy,
when lonesome son
failed to employ
purported adult responsibilities
solitary without any
even one homeboy
never knowing how
to maximize potential
rather totally tubular at loss
advantageously to deploy
supposed ducks in a row
always imp pond
durable feeling cast ahoy
shore lee within alien nation,
whereby village people
observe an exceptionally
unresponsive immovable
lad - qua zee decoy
analogous to stonewall,
albeit socially withdrawn
emotionally, physically,
and socially retracting
exhibiting no joy,
nor any audible,
tactile or visible life
stockstill like an
abandoned broken toy.
Silence spoke volumes mainly
I don't wanna be alive
antithetical to that basic
instinct to survive
protestations arose deliberately
minus figurative parachute,
I took kamikaze nosedive
a couple years after two times five
orbitz astride planet Earth
ne'er did amity, comity,
fraternity ever jive,
nope not even pleasant hello
would fake deaf/mute contrive
interaction between kith and kin
affection toward parents
and siblings (two sisters,
not twisted) I did deprive,
whence fast forward decades later,
a metaphorical wedge would drive
roughshod o'er kinship,
when fatherhood did arrive
though "star student" did connive
him (me) to test discomfort zones,
yet more often than not inclusive
integration abandoned among
linkedin with kindling explosive
smoldering volcano found
wicked volatility expressive.
At the last supper He declared,
"One of you is my betrayer".
They questioned Him and each denied
Then all joined in song and prayer.
Mount Olive was the next stop
They could see He was distressed,
But they fell asleep while He prayed,
Even those who loved Him best.
When the mobs came with their clubs and swords,
Disciples turned from men to mice.
Even stalwart Peter faltered
And in fact denied him thrice.
Then Judas boldly kissed Him.
It was the cruel betrayer's sign
And they took him off to Pilate.
All was part of God's design.
Jesus had to die to save us.
Calmly He accepted fate.
"Crucify Him. Crucify Him."
Love for their Christ had turned to hate.
They nailed Him to the cross and mocked Him
As He hung between two thieves.
Jesus said to His companions,
"I can save he who believes."
Darkness fell across the whole land
And at three o'clock He died.
Then the women who had followed
And His mother loudly cried.
Joseph from Arimathea took His body
Which Pilate graciously allowed.
Joseph wrapping Him in linen
Carried Him past sobered crowd.
The two Marys who had followed
And another named Salome
Watched as He was quickly buried
Then each went sadly to her home.
On the evening of the Sabbath
They brought spices to embalm Him,
These two Marys and Salome
Who had worshiped and adored Him.
Early on that Sunday morning,
The women again came to the tomb.
Unsure if they could roll the stone
To unseal His burial room.
But they found the room wide open
With an angel sitting there.
"Your Lord's not here, He has arisen."
They could only stand and stare.
Mary Magdalene, cured from demons,
Was first to see Him now alive.
She told disciples, but they answered
"That's a bad tale to contrive"
The grieving disciples locked themselves
Into safety in a room.
They felt as isolated
As was Jesus in His tomb.
To their amazement, Jesus entered
Showed His dreadful wounds and scars.
He told them He would rise to Heaven.
(Is Heaven found among the stars?)
He bade them to tell His story
And to spread it through all lands.
The faithful disciples did so
And the world now understands
That we sinners killed our Savior,
But we know we'll be forgiven.
If we believe in Him and trust Him,
He will gather us to Heaven.
Written: March 31, 2015
Narrow and shallow shining laser focus
into chasm while teetering on brink
akin to scurrying thru microcosmic burrow
of microscopic Manhattan skyscrapers
wink'n nod and blink,
this ace of spades heart (diamond
in the rough) poet digs club billy shallow
sometimes forced to spelunk
thru crawl space chink
hunting down gamesome dodging
catlike whim elusively outpaced,
yet webbed, whorled wide net
nonetheless doth cap cha alive
agile adept idealized rat fink,
which unseen quite quiet mouse notion
gives hardy fellow run for his money,
within scrunched brow mental chase
possibly connected to a preceding pondering
or appearing randomly
viz, non-sequitur conscious kink
said quarry i.e. whimsical thoughts
frequently vanish without a trace
quick as mental cogs and wheels
generate snapchatting, riveting, twittering link
process allowing, enabling, and providing
albeit easily distracting ability
to grasp awesome zinging, lightening,
fleeting brainstorm within windswept
mind space *****sapiens to think
shimmering insight cognizant ability
likening ode on Grecian urn vase
frieze depicting elusive capture
thought process lifespan shorter than a wink
via third eye blind of
comfortably numb beatle browed face
to locate source giving rise
king inducing minor frustration at inability
to nab (albeit painlessly) shimmering zinc
like inception, deception, taking wing
within fifty plus shades swing
and conception of consciousness stir ring
nanobyte size quisling
gray matter housing chromosomal ping
pong pin balling genes summons King
kong of Leon intrigue, jing
gull ling, where disparate
ideas linkedin fling
pollinated neurological network ebbing
and flowing, sans during
writerly blitzkrieg thread ding
provocative point of pinterest bing
proclimation emancipation pensive predilection
to contrive a means and ways
to corral mischievous mental minions
who seem to vanish without a trace
holographic after effect or image evoked
from virtual reality, the latest modality
to pair dime a dozen stray cats re:
untamed cerebral creatures tempting
contemplation to occupy hours.
Telling "White Lies"
My mother got born November
thirteenth, nineteen hundred thirty five
within poverty stricken household
of Canarsie, Brooklyn, the youngest
(most mollycoddled) of four siblings,
experienced grinding poverty, no
matter maternal grandfather (Moishe
Kuritsky), a tailor he lacked drive
(and felt neutral about stitching
together gainful employment)
to support his family two parents +
remainder offspring, he helped sire
lacked positive role models, none the
less gumption taught her to strive
at tender age livid with rage to escape
caricature living poor, thus sought
employment when/wherever sheik hood
if necessary fibbed to survive
plus rash of healthy nurturing, and
absolute zero constraints, perhaps five
or thereabout years old attested
much later, suspected her papa did jive
with unspeakable improper behavior
(nobody dare discuss taboo issues),
yet intuition awoke within immoral
conclusion Harriet Kuritsky did arrive,
and perhaps resorted to stretching
the truth (fibbing a "white lie") the only
recourse available plied sweet innocence
knowing little or nothing about birds
feathering their nest, nor little about
buzzfeeding activity in beehive
naivete flirtatious coyness advantage worked,
I bet young thang did connive
and probably never did contemplate,
deliberate, generate and wrongdoing,
where mother of necessity spurred
angelic demureness strategy to contrive
securing bare necessities, hence fast
forward, when unsolicited advice given
to this sole son, or either sibling, (an older
& younger sister) tactics upbringing did deprive
ma mum of positive role models, hence
only blueprint to acquire essential needs
serendipitous series of unfortunate events
before Lemony Snicket did derive
school of hard knocks, (I do believe
formerly called Abraham Lincoln High)
rather than impugn, judge, revile, et cetera
kernels/nuggets of wisdom memory did revive
within my mind for rhyme, nor reason
blunt honesty, not always best policy
despite ten commandments
to husbands with many a wive.
Life lesson learned meant blurred line
between mendacity and truth
courtesy upbringing mommy dearest
if repeatedly drummed into me noggin
brutal honesty will bring nothing but bupkis,
or if you prefer the Yiddish spelling bobkes.
Both of their eyes locked hard on one another.
The sheriff needed to talk with this grieving, vengeful brother.
"Have a seat and a drink with me," the sheriff said to him.
"I need to explain to you what actually happened,
but before I reveal anything to you
I need your word that this stays between me and you.
If word of this gets out your brother is as good as dead."
The brother paused for a moment and then he said,
"You killed my brother," he said fighting not to cry.
"No I didn't," responded the sheriff, "He's still alive.
I killed the wrong man and claimed it was him.
Your brother is on the run, but he's still living.
All the residents of Fort Sumner are in compliance with me.
They don't want to see your brother get caught or killed
so they've sworn themselves to secrecy
and have all signed affidavits certifying that the body
buried at Fort Sumner is your brother. Your brother is deceased officially.
This is your brother's last opportunity
to go underground and live his life more meaningfully.
He has agreed to go
to Old Mexico
and leave his beloved country
where he was loved so
by all who would know
the company of he.
Before he left though he gave to me
this letter for his brother Joe to read."
The sheriff handed him the letter, shook his hand and left.
Joe opened the letter and this is what it read.
"My Dear Brother Joe,
I am still alive.
Don't believe everything those newspapers write and contrive.
It's so very difficult to let you all go
but I'm starting my life anew in Old Mexico.
Please know that loving thoughts of you will always be with me.
Forever your brother,
William H Bonney"
The above is a fictional write that I did.
Sheriff Pat Garrett did kill Billy The Kid.
Joseph Antrim was Billy the Kid's brother
and both he and Sheriff Pat Garrett did encounter each other.
When Joseph was approached and asked what Garrett said to him,
Joseph would always simply respond, "He explained to me what happened."
This coming from a man who once lost in his grieving plight
swore that if he ever encountered Sheriff Pat Garrett he would unmercifully kill him on sight,
but who knows, a loud mouth coward may have been Joe,
but I prefer the above pure fictional scenario.
In any event, we'll never know.
Enea's Pope! (2)
I suppose it’s common knowledge
(and not tedious, I hope!)
that two-thirds of the Sacred College
must concur to elect a pope.
With eighteen cardinals gathered,
twelve was the number to get.
They were nervous, preoccupied, lathered,
for there was no favourite yet.
Day One turned out quite indecisive,
Calindrini accomplishing five:
Enea’s vote, far from derisive –
his five kept his prospects alive.
D’Estouteville’s position was healthy,
and he lobbied for all he was worth.
It helped to be fabulously wealthy,
and promise the voters the earth.
“I don’t want to sound like a critic,”
(thus whispered d’Estouteville in private)
“but look at him – pauper, arthritic.
There’s something you need? I’ll contrive it.”
The gist of the cardinal’s sermon
was that Enea worshipped Apollo,
and was anyway almost a German,
dire consequences were certain follow.
A cardinals’ caucus at midnight
convoked by the frenchified faction
made it seem that the tertium quid might
take a piece of the Rouenais action.
D’Estouteville himself was a teller
when they voted the very next day:
they’d do better to pick Helen Keller –
one of Enea’s votes “went astray”.
Now Enea’s on nine votes, and leading:
a silence descends on the throng.
D’Estouteville is far from conceding:
this process could well be prolonged.
In silence they sit in the Sistine,
feckless, faineant, forlorn
(the chapel itself is still pristine:
Michelangelo hasn’t been born.)
A shout comes from Borgia (Rodrigo,
that’s Cesare’s father-to-be),
“I’m switching to you, mi amigo!”
That’s one of the necessary three!
And then speaks Tebaldi of Naples:
“I’ll go with Siena as well!”
It’s looking decidedly papal,
as friends of d’Estouteville can tell!
One vote is now all that is needed,
one vote and he’s pontifex max:
one vote and he’s finally succeeded:
one vote is the one thing he lacks!
Colonna gets up from his cushion:
d’Estouteville and chums know the score:
unseemly, the shovin’ and pushin’:
they bundle him out of the door.
The spectacle can’t be called splendid.
“Enea, I’m making you pope!”
The greasy pole’s now been ascended:
It’s time for the slippery slope!
(a salvation for my then junior high school youngest daughter afflicted with cognitive dissonance, who over the intervening years (mor'n half dozen Earth orbitz ago), I dashed off this poem witnessed nothing short of miraculous transformation evinced and witnessed by profound learning displaying significant aptitude cognition).
twas spawned fondness
for above named young lady,
when she got assigned
to thine offspring
a glint of genuine virtue grew
into shimmering orb
of brilliant radiance
if accorded sound - would ring
the tune of countless angels,
which imagined beatific,
Democratic, fantastic...sounds
generated via many wing
heavenly music filling
cosmos with joy as august aural,
choral, epochal...tones
would zippily zing
from across universe
spurring one me silly mortal
to contrive this verse
attempting to capture her
aura, charisma, enigma...purse
sue wing dynamic link
with progeny did nurse
emotional and spiritual value
dedication she did immerse
latent social services skill
plus natural radiance
a blessed hire
at Central in Norristown, Pennsylvania,
whose visits i miss lyre
plucking voice
stilled concern for precious Shana Punim,
who aspires to challenge and grow
this father may spill tears
his lessoned fatherhood role
n'er did aye tire
and glad fate that though our paths
will probably not criss cross
curiosity will gnaw within noggin,
and possibly rub raw minor loss
viz, the persevering
maiden USA touch of Kim
lichened to moss
in her rooted cultivation of care
toward biological lass a lucky toss
of the genetic combination
from Matthew
and Abby Harris our jewel
shimmering facets of luminescence
reminding me human
gem stone a kool
aid - priceless staff member
of human league,
whose golden presence doth gently rule
without doubt a beloved
unbridled priceless counterpart
some lucky guy
pledging his troth yes – she yule
see stars in her eyes
no doubt disappointment
felt by other guys
envious of he,
who snagged Kimberly Hartzell
so worthy and wise!
The embodiment of her Avatar was a distinct manifestation,
it seemed her incarnation was a marvelous creation.
She became an infinite savior full of metamorphic personification,
and began the most intimate challenging transformation.
It was the day of her funeral when her soul began to leap
out of her body; she was in a trance like in her sleep.
Her appearance was nothing short of a diety full of light,
to all the other Avatars she was the most beautiful sight.
All the wrongs on earth she seemed to make right,
she was finally filled with courage, strength and might.
No longer would she be filled with heartbreak or pain,
now only joy and happiness shall always remain.
Her skin was all shades of the rainbow like a kaleidoscope,
filled with passion for the afterlife, mercy and hope.
She had this strange ability to learn how to cope,
and saw the world through a tiny loving microscope.
She thought it was heaven, but it was not after all,
it was actually a new utopian world, then she heard a call.
It was her time to teach the others about how to survive,
so a lesson plan on this new world she began to contrive.
She now understood all the reasons she was again alive,
it was to educate with passion, for her time did arrive.
All the other Avatars listened with excitement and zeal,
this was the time to make this strange reality real.
She craved information to expel to all who needed,
as the other living Avatars begged and pleaded.
As they entered this utopia she floated there and greeted,
and raised up all the ones who were tormented and defeated.
For she was the ultimate savior, the one who saved this world,
as the darkness faded and the hate began to unfurl.
Now she lives in peace and releases ease to the collection,
raising up in light from this magnificent resurrection.
With all of her companions she made a connection,
saving all those who needed a path towards correction.
She was beauty and compassion infinitely combined,
she was the savior of Avatars… body, soul and mind.
AVATAR CONTEST
Line Gauthier
December 9, 2017
I’d mowed me lawn and chopped the wood, I’d even done some weeding,
And when I told the ‘missus’, she said, “Oh gosh my heart is bleeding”.
‘Okay then’ I sort of thought, her smart remark needs a reply,
So I grabbed a dozen stubbies and didn’t even say goodbye.
I didn’t really feel like drinking, down at the river on me own,
So I pondered as I drove around, who might be home alone,
Well ‘round and ‘round the town I went, trying to contrive,
On who might need a morning beer. Next thing I’m in Beechey’s drive!
I’d just caught ‘Bee’ in fact for he was walking out his door,
But when I held up a stubby, where ‘Bee’s’ going he’s not sure,
For he’s got a choice of knocking down a half a dozen beers,
Or surrender to his loving wife, whose been drumming in his ears.
‘Bee’ said if he took the top off one he won’t know when to stop,
And he had to get some birdseed for his budgies at the pet shop,
So I put the stubbies in the fridge, and joined ‘Bee’ for company,
While we went to get his bird seed, and satisfy his Mrs. ‘Bee’.
We walked amongst the parrots and zebra finches in their cages,
Hearing red canaries whistle that I hadn’t heard for ages,
Guinea Pigs were hiding in the straw; mice tumbled on a wheel.
‘Bee’ shook hands with the owner, who was his mate I feel.
‘Bee’ didn’t have to ask for seed, the bloke knew its budgie food,
So they started telling dirty yarns and some of them were crude.
All the while they made me laugh, then the owner said to ’Bee’,
“I’ve got to duck down to the bank, can you watch the shop for me!”
A little girl of maybe five made her entrance through the door,
And she carried in a shoebox that she placed upon the floor,
Then with the sweetest little voice that only angels could address,
She asked ‘Bee’ if he kept rabbits, and of course the answers yes.
‘Bee’ led the girl down to the hutch, to find a ‘bunny’ now for her.
Was it a pretty brown one? Or a cuddly white angora!
Or would she like a ginger one, or one white and black and buff.
The little girl just gave a shrug “My python couldn’t give a stuff”.
©2002 Lindsay Laurie
Singers and dancers,
artists and writers,
philosophers and poets,
academics and health professionals,
parents and teachers,
actors and contemplatives,
grandparents and children,
live and die between Heaven and Hell.
Between Heaven's interdependent sensory Enlightenment
and Hell's individual secularized Industrious-Militant Revolutions
Pathology and sin result from severing healthy spiritual tools
for development
from degenerative denatured fake-wealth weapons
for destruction.
Heaven's tools restore peace
where re-tooled weapons
without divine mercy
redistribute Hell's sure-fire punishments.
Sacred tools,
like bicameral hearted minds,
were
and are
for hunting,
gathering
harvesting
cooking
serving
cleaning
recycling
composting
regathering,
impressing
not trangressing,
health-restoring FuturePowers.
Weapons were
and are
for killing
threatening
hating
condemning
judging
repressing
depressing
suppressing wealthy MultiGenerational Matriarchal FlowCycles.
Technological tools,
post industrial,
have evolved from
WorldWideWebs of Heaven
for cooperative social health information
Too often devolved into propaganda weapons
against WorldWideWalls for self-ghettoizing Hell
promulgating competitive anti-social disinformation.
Sacred tools, verbal and non-verbal,
derive from
and help build
heart-paths toward progressive liberties in love
and conserving equitable and responsible compassions.
Secularized weapons
contrive from
and help destroy
other paranoid
rabidly bipolar
mind pathologies.
Sacred tools serve immortal life.
Secular weapons serve up violent death.
Just as word choice
is the smallest detail
of communal win/win communication,
Weapon choice is the smallest
and also least cognitively wealthy, part
of commercial and residential conscious win/win choice-making
well-tooled
politically healthy
true-wealth conserving co-investment,
Articulating
incarnating
re-creating
sacred life evolving in-between
LeftBrain's ideas of Heaven
and RightBrain's experiences of lose/lose Hell.