Long Cramming Poems
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Your index is still in grip than your appendix.
Your words are still in repulsion of mirror, consciously.
It does kill, I think, both ways. indecision as a pill cutter and anti-cutter
Three subjects wide ruled lines, even though
the very first one did not melt, so far.
Yet, these days, they do come again, as long-lost sun lights.
Once a study table with a glass top, used to believe that.
there was a student.
sweating to study,
harder and harder in watching lives, passing by, finetuning and fines and dues.
and tuning in the farthest try than in nearer sigh,
happening democracy in the pressing opposite
cramming the fine paper space in an obscure awkward offset
Where words fall short to heed or hide
or make a duo in understanding altogether.
Looking inwardly, I am too
Or else, it is better to let go
Truly it is far better to let go
than to hold back a strenuous good bye
That should end at least half an hour ago
Peculiarly, blossoming at the doorstep, once again!
With peals of laughter rushing from
The basement of my writing soul,
I penned that letter.
With the warmth of early August, I summoned
The joy to welcome restless fingers that write,
That scribble —oh, that empowering flame of youth
That rages within us young tendrils who hide
In fragile, lily-livered shades
From the scorching heat of reality!
Hmm!
I wrote all day and all seasons, cramming words
Extirpated from the gardens of the four seasons together
Into the walls of serrated sheets of paper, just to prove a point.
And I had begun with the word Dear, like all
Who had written before me, including Shakespeare —observing all
Protocols under the spell of the eavesdropping sun.
But the letter got astray in the post.
Vanished in the naked air, with the enormous weight of its
Titillating message.
Hiding between pillar and post, and with
A postage stamp licked with spittle of expensive love,
It strayed forever and ever.
Gone.
The post office swears allegiance to its innocence
Posts run free when callused hands rough-handle them,
Leaking swarming, pillaging sweats underneath.
“But this is serious. Seriously different,” the postman insists
“It’s lost indeed. But have you searched your soul?
Did the words ever leave the confines of your soul?”
I battle the scrimmage within me —of people and letters —
Scattered and rearranged . . .
Written or unwritten, did the letters form one imaginary line
Like the Equator, which divides the writer and the receiver,
North and South?
Or did I write in haste and afterwards posted through the anus of
A hurricane?
Not every Christmas card arrives during the Yuletide;
Some arise and shine through the line of birth of the New Year,
Equal to the crowned-initiation of a reformed destiny.
I console myself.
But how long shall I wait for the response from a missing letter —
In my case, a lost letter?
Missing within me.
Lost in the vaults of my consciousness.
A friend sent me a spinner
Which turns gently in a breeze.
It needed some assembly,
So I got down on my knees,
Removing all the pieces
From the box where they were packed.
I looked at the instructions
And then noticed that I lacked
Part D, which had connectors,
So I couldn’t quite begin.
Without those parts, the spinner
Wouldn’t even get to spin.
Although it came from China,
It’s through Amazon and so
Returns are pretty easy,
Which I’ve lately come to know.
My friend got me the code
And I will head to UPS,
If my cramming-in-the-carton skills
Are met with some success.
learned nothing from the past
by faces drawn in a smile
we're spinning over it like on a carousel
and again, each time it makes us vomit, we remain stunned
we're leisurely starting to resemble like hamsters
cramming into our gob more than we can handle
ignoring reality frantically spinning in that wheel
now
the stores are closed
playgrounds are enclosed
how little did we appreciate small things
by social distance
desolate supermarket shelves
and respirators reserved for the younger ones
they have put a price tags on seniors' heads
(thank you for your service)
it is defeating that online shopping holds lessons from morality
(thank you amazon and eBay)
it is defeating that without us our home is healing, rebuilding
(I'm sorry mother for I have sinned)
order to keep our social distance at 2m
revealed all the distances in our personal spaces
(the dead are always giving the lecture to the living ones:
regret is a measure of life)
we will survive medically
but socially
we all live our choices
putting on a mask as an escape from death
made us envisage
that piece of fabric is a metaphor
for words left unspoken
for words that shouldn't have been spoken
for smiles which didn't have the weight
for smiles hidden from aerosol
(life is reduced to breathing)
governments are screaming:
this is reality
this is reality
every now and then a new projection flashes in cyberspace:
it's Chinese
it's American
(Americans blame the Chinese, Iranians blame the Americans: During that Russian roulette, Italy got shot)
it's G5
it 's micro-chipping
it's nature
it escaped
it is here
I can see how paths of our society bifurcate
(it's almost palpable)
will we choose a rightful trajectory
or
pave the way for some new prejudices,
some new conflicts
Just a moment, time does fly
We’ll be in the classroom,
Beyond Mother’s eye…
Just a moment, soon we’ll try
Breathing secrets – into the ear
Expectant friends shall hear
All of our riddles and wishes
Dreams that arise from summer
When our hearts did forsake
All the reading and writing
The endless studying – revising
Cramming our minds with facts
That don’t claim to be pleasing
Yet they give us degrees, victory
Just a moment and we’ll find
Hidden away, beneath the smiles
Hearts who long for the summer sun
The kindness of laughter, the hugs
From such an abundance of joy
Hearts seem to echo with satisfaction
Feelings so intense they inspire us
To bring back to school with us…
The highlights of our summertime
Adventures in life that delight and inspire us
Back to School Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Francine Roberts
August 21, 2022
Two months after graduation I dialed her number, 8 - 1 - 8,
I paused…
maybe Sue's forgotten me?
well I'll never know if I don't try
we spoke of our college days
of late nights cramming for music theory exams
of songs we wrote (together)
for her beautiful soprano voice
"Would you like to have dinner sometime?" I asked
she paused…
"I'm in a relationship" "Hey, I'm happy for you" I lied
and went on with my life
34 years went by
Oct 7th, 2016
I had just finished loading the dishwasher
she dialed my number
it was her 56th birthday she was alone
we spoke of our careers
of late nights watching classic movies
of songs we wrote (not together)
one of hers made it on the radio: 'Hold Me In Your Eyes'
Sue said she wrote those lyrics thinking of how I used to look at her
so intently, never looking away
she paused…
"Would you like to have dinner sometime?"
I paused…
"I'm in a relationship" "Hey, I'm happy for you"
Views For Poems Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Funom Makama
The following are to be included in the poem -
My most viewed poem: Hold Me In Your Eyes
Number of views: 818
Poetry form: Lyric
Date published: 7 October, 2016
The alarm clock sang out, my dad jumps up
rushes me into the kitchen, today my love
is indeed, a very special day for you, my eyes
wide shut, as he continued, explaining civil rights
Cramming memories, into my little head I mean
I'd remember sitting, on my Nona's lap as,
Martin Luther King was killed in Birmingham
my entire family, regressed into deep sadness
Aging over night perhaps, so did I ,our last names
were Parks and King, let me tell you, during the
60's in Chicago, if a riot broke out our names,
were instantly called, over tornado speakers
Sound off Mohammed speaks, we were rushed
into dark sedans, being slowly driven down,
Roosevelt road this was 1969 first grade
I was preparing, to visit Lincoln's home,
and tomb mom combed, through my curl's,
my grandmother ,rubbed Vaseline on my face elbows,
and knees ,this big fuss over me, I was actually named
after Martins daughter, well Miss. Yolanda king
you get to sing, on the steps of Lincoln's memorial,
Marian Anderson's hymn, sometimes I feel like a
motherless child, afterwards the Supreme Court Justice,
we were mourning ,with happy tears, these brown face's
doting on me, five generations in my mist
standing in line, to give me a big kiss
Written by Mrs Yolanda Joy Nicholsen
Written: February 1st, 2024
________________________________________
I propose they should read a poem
Set it in light and let it serve as a totem
Similar to a kaleidoscope display
Alas, listen to the beehive and sway
I quit
writing love poetry
ever since that day
I saw starlight
suffocating
to death
in a smother
of cindered dreams
and the moon burying itself
under the wings of
immigrating pledges
I
waited
for dawn
to usher me
through the dark
rummaging the
clouds for a
remain of
sunrise
dot
to dip my feather in
its shine just to find
blank blackness
cramming the horizon
so I stopped writing of
l
i
g
h
t
I'm struggling still
to grasp
your susurrations
to be used to
the rhythm
my fingers shiver with
at the sound of
their echo
in which letters oscillate across the page
akin to sunflowers swinging in the hand
with a sense of a spring breeze in a cage
Blows between the lines in another land
twilight
of
musings
as ink drips
shimmering
in a rainbow aurora
and poems blossom
back to life
drenched
in
morning dew
When late August turns its leaf
As lovely as were the summer days
Can’t help but breathe sighs of relief
Endless frivolity we aimed to raise
Barely surviving its absurd craze
We’re exhausted as can be
From cramming all that fun
Into four months of festive spree
Willfully living on the run
Now we’re tired and so done
A cooler sun transforms conditions
And fun takes a backseat after all
Back to dreams and ambitions
With open arms we welcome fall
As the pace slows to a crawl
AP: 1st place 2020
Submitted on March 23, 2022 for contest A BRIAN STRAND 1095 sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 1ST
tear-filled eyes
sweaty palms
a horse voice
weakened limbs
a quickened heartbeat
how could I speak?
"others" have called poetry the medicinal god/goddess of the 21st century
- but not me.
lately
poetry hasn't been feeding me
lately
poetry hasn't been the thirst-quencher
yet I never starve or desire to drink
it is not even about my reaction to his poetry
(and yes I wrote a poem titled "My Reaction to His poetry")
it did not cut me as deep
yet I bled, well I bleed
it did not color anything for me, my personality and temperaments have not changed
yet I can see these beautiful dark green trees, well I am slowly seeing
- i love being surrounded
embraced by a chilling breeze
yet i am running out of the forest of my mind screaming
the constant screaming is why my voice is hoarse
yes, that is why my eyes are tear-filled
being coerced and manipulated and deceived by the happenings of love
this explains my faster heartbeat - it skips, no it gallops, well it sprints
and then my weak limbs..
as my desire and "say so" grows
other parts of my being, mainly my limbs, become weak
here am I (according to "others" vulnerable but not naive
blasting music, cramming for exams, and venting to strangers about him)
but I am.
his love
the effect
affected me... (according to "others" infected me)