Long Crushing Poems
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You see them parked by the base lodge,
often still in the bright of day,
big, tracked machines that will ensure
the snow is nice when you come to play.
A wide-arced plow across the front,
and broad tank-treads on either side,
large windows mounted high above
in the cabin where people drive.
A roto-tiller on the back,
or a long and carpet-like sweep,
with weight to crush through any crust,
to find the ice, then slay and reap.
Most skiers just call them groomers,
though that word has…connotations,
and every day (save powder days)
we show our appreciation.
Turning a lumpy, windblow mess
into the smoothest corduroy,
grinding blue ice to granular
so it no longer can annoy,
and crushing through the skiers bane,
the woe we call ‘breakable crust.’
These vertical Zambonis do
make it quite nice for all of us.
They started as such little things,
truck-sized with triangle tracks,
they lacked the weight and lacked the tech
to mount that much of an attack.
But they grew into behemoths
that still can turn fast, on a dime,
only once have I ridden one,
shocked by the smoothness of the ride.
Though they sometimes smell of diesel,
and come as shocks to novices,
most skiers soon are thankful for
all of the service that they give.
Be it carving out halfpipe walls,
pushing big snow piles around,
lugging skiers to back-country,
or smoothing the bunny slope down;
it’s all thanks to this big machine
bringing all the white stuff to heal,
and yes, I’ve asked, their insurance
won’t let customers take the wheel…
crushing defeat
in
abyss
of
nostalgia
for
overnight
reminds me
of
you
& city lulls
tumult
of
memories
from
neolithic
times
to
celebrate
words
of
believer
of
love
& soulmates
listen
to
chirping
of
birds
mellifluous
sounds
in
perfect
balance
of
angst
& blithe
similar
to
heartbeats
when
colliding
of
love
happens
&
dusk
unhappens
smiling
teasing
holding
hands
in
belatedly
yin
& yang
in
Edenic
dreams
psalms
of
spring
breathlessly
blossom
beyond
blurred
verses
&
cursed
cravings
covets
kissing
&
erupting
under
elysian
edging
achings
drip
in
gold
& cream
to
smitten
singing
a
name
with
brilliance
& limitless
pleasure
Written: April 04, 2023
2nd place contest winner
A Brian Strand Premiere No 1206 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
NOTE::THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' (intuitive cadence)& so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
"In the Arctic Ocean, the echoes of loneliness are silenced by the stunning beauty of its icy waters, a living testament to nature's delicate balance between isolation and vitality." by Jami Patterson
"No, the Arctic does not yield its secret for the price of a ship’s ticket. You must live through the long night... You must have gazed on the deadness of all things to grasp their livingness." — Christiane Ritter, A Woman in the Polar Night
Arctic Depths
A sorrow sinks into the deep abyss
The crushing cold, a heavy, marble shroud
Where the faint sun forgets to ever creep
And whispers are not meant to be aloud
The water tastes of ancient iron, old
A bitter, sharp tang upon the tongue
As the deep secrets wait, forever cold
The immense weight of pressure, sharply flung
The narwhal glides in velvet, endless black
Its ivory spear, a purely ghostly gleam
Along the deep sea trench's lonely track
A silent, solitary actor in a dream
The ringed seals exhale a vapor white
Their large, dark eyes reflect the fading gray
A fleeting warmth against the endless night
Before the heavy darkness pulls away
A mournful silence fills the aching ear
A sensory, profound, and deep despair
For every sturdy creature dwelling here
Breathes in the ice-cold, heavy, chilling air
The mighty Greenland shark moves slow
A cold-blooded phantom, old and vast
Observing everything below
A living relic from the past
Its body is a dense and frozen thing
Moving through the current's icy sweep
No joyful sounds the deep can ever bring
Just endless, chilling slumber while they sleep
The Ocean floor, a vast, pale sheet
Where slow-motion currents gently flow
A rhythmic, cold, and soundless beat
The profound, dark truth the deep must know
I am crushing on you !
Impossible to ignore
your firm personality alluring attracting me.
I am crushing on you Dear!
I am almost certain, you won’t hear
throbbing beats of my wobbling heart,
but I can’t restrain myself being tempted
finding immense wealth in your mind.
As love is blind, even if you be unkind
I am crushing on you, Dear!
I am swimming and sinking in dulcet dream.
Emotive urge surging, bubbling blood flooding,
passion piercing pricking, ardent ardor whirling,
I am spinning on axis of non -response,
swinging on pivot of confusion.
I am crushing on you, Dear!
though your inertness is almost clear!
'Almost' means ninety-five percent,
as such five percent faint hope is still left.
Can't explain 'how?' or why?'
But 'Perhaps' may justify!
Dream pulls me to soar high.
Reality pushes to drown touching abyss
causing five percent hope to disappear!
Yet, I am crushing on you Dear!
If men were gods
Then horses will fly
If men were gods
Then no one will die
To mold the
destinies of many
With a wand in my hand
And turn a swarm of bees
To a matching band
To live a thousand years in the eyes of the mortals
And a second in the presence of his fellow immortals
I wish I could command the obedience of nature
And have the gift of
seeing through the future
I wish I could command the winds to stop
And I say to Lazarus
Hey you get up
I wish I could save
the lives of many children
And be the shining light of all my brethren
I wish I could hold
the stars in my hands
And fly on a magic carpet
To distant lands
I wish the world belongs to me
So that I could
foretell
What will be
In history
Like a Leprechaun
I hold a pot of gold
Which I shall give to that man who is bold
I wish my voice was
as powerful
As thunder
And aeroplanes would
clash as the sight
of this wonder
I wish I could
project my power
To the world with a spell
And turn
incalcitrant nations
To a living hell
With fireballs and brimstones raining
From the heavens
like cats and dogs
And insects jumping
around the fields like toads and frogs
And if my power was meant for only good
And I vow not to abuse it
Understood
And angels would bow at my feet
Crushing my foes bit
by bit
With laser beams
Blazing through my eyes
As I lift off the
ground
To the evening skies
Stung with the absence of his father, he excruciatingly rumbled deep inside of his mother’s womb.
He stormed out already filled with disappointing void.
The mother’s joy was of uncertainty.
Memories of her husband, flashed back right in her face once again.
She could feel the exhaustion of a lifetime encircled around her and the weight and magnanimity of raising the beautiful baby on her own.
Two years creeped by and the bond between them was legendary.
The love was so constant and consistent, like the sun will rise.
Their friendship thrived through the encroached stormy desert.
Her wings unfolded like an angel, extraordinarily patient as a lion hunting.
The fondness between them was as phenomenal as THE SERPENT GOD at chichen Itza, that he was unceremoniously detached from her.
A devastation of a 4-5 year old separation to a foreign land, felt like an erupted-never-ending-volcanic-nightmare.
The purpose of that crushing disconnection, was feeble.
he was starved off of food, shelter and raiment.
Apportioned milk from animals became the only privilege given.
The purest and cleanest form of consumed water, was of a residual of donkeys streamed through the shin of an old dirty black slave man.
An occasional feasting on birds, caught through invented-trapping.
With innocence, he’ll apathetically rip the head, feathers of the little creatures with bare hands, bury them in the sand of the mountain top desert, hours later, it’s BEANO.
He was deprived of even just a glimpse of his family for all those years, he wimped in loneliness.
And on a dark frightful night, came the growl of the famous fox, but he survived.
Life is fickle and comes without no warning and can’t be anticipated.
Survival can not be measured by *echoes* of preventions, it is destined and destiny is not always a gift.
The tale unfolds in hardship, a narrative woven through the threads of resilience and survival. The bond between mother and child, tested by separation, echoes the unpredictable journey of life—a journey marked by both strength and vulnerability.
At 6 AM, when the smartphone’s harsh alarm rings,
The world that will soon unfold before me waits.
“Come forward, my believers.”
We stand in a long line
Before the gates of the temple.
Some smoking, some sipping coffee,
And others caught in hurried phone calls.
At last, the temple gates swing open,
And I desperately gulp down coffee like holy water.
The boss enters the meeting room.
With a report in one hand, and an invisible crucifix clutched in the other.
His sermon is long, but the conclusion is always brief.
(The conclusion: “Repent!”)
Praise is as rare as a printer’s paper jam,
But criticism is as precise as an alarm clock.
Success bursts into flames under his holy name like lightning,
While mistakes must be reflected upon with tears of repentance.
Meetings drag on like endless worship,
And our notes pile up like sacred scriptures.
The moment he asks, “Is this the best you can do with a report?”
My new goals are hollowly reset back to the beginning.
His questions are like the Riddle of the Sphinx;
The answer is always hidden on page 6 of yesterday's minutes.
Yet, if I dare propose a brilliant idea, he smiles and says,
“Ah, I have been thinking about that since long ago.”
Lunch supposedly offers freedom of choice,
Except we must whip the speed of our own tongues
To match the frantic rhythm of his throat,
And the loud, crushing crunch of his chewing.
Still, I think to myself:
I am not truly me; I am only an existence meant for you.
Today again, bound by the shackles called his “Vision,” I march forward.
When the clock chimes for freedom, the temple lights dim,
And we prepare to return to our own small universes.
“Ah, I must hurry home to see my baby kitten!”
The very moment I lift my heavily crushed seat from the chair,
The boss proclaims:
“We have a team dinner tonight. Attendance is mandatory for everyone.
Consider it an extension of work. Your performance review is coming up soon, isn't it?
Ahem, ahem.”
‘I prayed so hard today, yet I am cast into hell after all.’
“My Lord, why hast Thou truly forsaken me to this inferno?”
And so, only in my wild imagination, do I cry out:
Oh, my dearest boss, in the name of the Lord,
“It is you who must repent!”
Have I Ever Told You That………
Although I hated the ground that you
walked on
I hope that you have walked on green
pastures of love.
Have I told you that…….
Even though you tried to break me I
didn’t break
I hope that your spirit crushing days are
a thing of the past
Have I told you that……..
I wished with all my heart that your days
were numbered soon
Now I hope that you have a loving a fruitful
life
Have I told you that………….
When I stopped loathing the ground you
walked on is when……………………
I really started to live because I let get go
of the hate that had me bound.
Have I ever told you that………..
When I replaced hate with love I was able
to forgive you for the pain you caused me.
And now I’m walking in freedom.
Inspired By The” Have I Ever Told You That”
Contest
11/11/2029
In this groaning wreck we dare to call a country,
the destroyers still walk among us, unashamed.
Babangida once swaggered in khaki terror,
his iron fist crushing tomorrow before it could breathe.
He ruled as tyrant, blind to every future seed,
power in his palms, yet the nation he bled and looted dry.
A servant for a season, he and his circle served only themselves,
then retired to stolen mansions, fat on the marrow of the land.
He hounded honest tongues to the gallows for daring to speak truth,
while arrogance dripped from his lips like poisoned honey.
Millions he impoverished, helpless souls left to rot,
their dreams ground into dust beneath military boots.
“Maradona” they called him, but never a name of honor,
only a slick trickster dribbling the people’s hope into oblivion.
Now he bows his gray head in the quiet shame of Minna,
too afraid to flee the Nigeria he helped murder,
where criminals like him are strangely shielded by the same broken law.
Destruction has not paid its dividend; the ruin stares back at him daily.
He dares not walk the streets his regime never bothered to pave,
among the multitudes he defrauded and left in chains of want.
Men without vision, who stalled a giant with guns,
turned promise into mockery, greatness into jest.
Obstructers became our leaders through the barrel’s threat,
institutionalizing corruption like a dark, evil genius.
Systemic failure took root, and still it spreads its venom
in this same mess we stubbornly call a country.
Babangida, where are the guns that once ruined us all?
Are you happy now in your twilight silence?
Can you stroll freely among the ghosts of those you killed,
or do their shadows still whisper your name in the night?
Boneheaded barrack boys, drunk on docile masses,
apprentices without brains, idols of every profligate thief.
Generalissimo of morons, bearing arms against hope itself,
you looted the Gulf windfall and left us beggars in our own house.
Detestable men and their fickle friends, protected still by guns,
afflict this land till this very day.
In this groaning wreck, this mess we dare to call a country,
the destroyers live on, and the wound festers.
I often pause to question the tale:
What if his ambition was to fail?
I have wondered how the story turns,
And what the modern world from Icarus learns.
If Icarus had flown too low,
To drown beneath the undertow;
We wouldn't call him Dreamer, bright and bold,
Just a pathetic failure, sharp and cold.
He'd be the villain of a reckless flight,
A fool who chose the endless night.
I know this judgment, and now I agree,
Because that alternative Icarus is me.
I chose the ocean's massive size,
And due to this, I drowned in lies.
I flew too close, too lost in commotion,
Drowning in the sheer, wrong misery of the ocean.
Not living myself, not truly free,
I let the water overpower me.
I sank. Not in a blaze, but in a shameful quiet,
The wings, someone else's, had started to riot.
They dissolved like mist, the frame was failing,
Feathers around me, darkness prevailing.
I hit the floor. I knew my end.
But broken things can always mend.
One day I am gonna grow wings.
And forget the pain that sorrow brings.
Wings of my own forging, made from the core,
I will leave this cold, dark ocean floor.
I will choose the fire, though it brings the end,
For the sun's high grace, I will gladly contend.
I will burn just to show I can.
To finally test my new wingspan.
I trade the coldness of the crushing depth,
For the last, bright gasp of my burning breath.