Long Day after day Poems
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It's gone. All gone...Probably forever
It didn't melt like an iceberg
It still exists in name but only in name
Technically, it's still viable
but realistically it's not the same
Gone are many that once kindly ladled
bowls of words that were delicious
replaced by 'things' that have no heart
By 'those' who don't appreciate the art
of holding their own pen in hand to write
By 'some' who think we've a blind eye
to their sudden scholarly wisdom
Nothing is the same and who is to blame
On most days I take a pass on visiting
the place where once I found pleasure
My measuring cup is empty and there are few
neighbors whose doors I would approach
I've no desire to 'borrow' their poems
only sorrow for what used to be
and is no more
Bored by changes and the rearranged pots
and pans. Everything has been shuffled
except the muffled cries of days gone by
The new knives have dull blades
and everywhere I look is a new escapade
where even the cooktop is turned off
Scoff at the recipes where something's missing
It's the lack of flavor that I once savored
It used to be tasty but I'm weary
of cookbook titles that sound so dreary
What a waste of pure vanilla when a fella
or a dame pours it in beef stew
That cannot be misconstrued for poetry
Or when Ms. sous chef displays her version
of soup de jour, but burns it with the same
bitter taste day after day
Tables have been moved around in what was once
a restaurant on hallowed ground
The new menu is frightful...
the old one was delightful
It's gone and I don't hold hope of a resurrection
I'd call pest control to eradicate the premises
if I felt the place could be saved
but it feels as if it's dug its own grave
The lilting music is gone, too
No longer does it play sweet melodies
that make my feet want to dance
Keyboard keys don't rattle beneath my fingers
to open the door and enter
It's become humdrum, a chore to find
a valid reason to visit more often
It's gone and there's no joy to be found
in the ploy of the hoi polloi
Nothing is the same and who is to blame
With pain I gasp but something must be done,
I need to breathe again soft, dewy dawn,
Not grieve alone upon a setting sun,
Whisper and pray that sadness will be gone.
I have often tried to utter goodbye,
I tried my best to forget the past, but
Thoughts murmur “All's lost”. My heart and mind sigh.
Change seems impossible, I'm in a rut.
Day after day, this soul breaking routine,
Gone are sweet days of happiness and joy
Many events have happened in between
Our love, I assure you, none can destroy.
Yet time has come, leave sadness and enjoy,
Walk, dance, swim and behave like a young boy.
28 April 2021
Writing Prompt - Breathe - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Syllables Per Line: 10
Placed 3
Your world as you know it
can suddenly change overnight
So you rise the next day
to begin your fight
You keep on moving
There really is no other way
Your broken heart aches
a tired soul longs for rest
But yet you give all you have left
just to do your best
You keep on moving
Hoping tomorrow is a brighter day
You give it your all
even when you want to give up
Yet you constantly manage
to pour from an empty cup
You keep on moving
I admire the fact you do it day after day
You will sometimes think
that's it ive had enough
Just you remember though
it won't always be this tough
You keep on moving
Sending hope and strength directly your way
That men have no emotions is a misconception
But we drop them with little reception
So we bottle them up inside
Ironically finding the bottom of the bottle to confide
Men are taught to be strong
And that any weakness is wrong
But in my 28 years I've found
These are lies and the truth might astound
Take for instance the little boy with skinned knees
Who happened to fall while enjoying the breeze
Maybe comfort that little boy when he feels weak
Instead of making him feel meek
Men get so used to holding it all in
Until their soul bursts from within
And they lash out in violence
Because they've suffered in silence
And I'll be the first to say it shouldn't be that way
Not day after day after day
Men are taught not to talk
And yet when they strike out we simply balk
At the idea that maybe the problem is institutional
And we might have to move away from the conventional
When men have a higher rate of suicide
And men are more likely to be victims of homicide
There's a toxicity in the foundation
That doesn't fit the narrative of the news station
We're just taught that's the way men are
But this damned lie has been spread too far
To get rid of violence
You must eradicate silence
And some will argue men have every opportunity
But tell that to a young man in the inner city
Who is so used to a cycle of drugs, thugs, and crime
Perpetuated by the media all the time
He's just trying to survive
In a world that will never see him thrive
But as a poet I feel there's something strong in verse
And this social construct is something we can reverse
And I don't condone murder and rape
Just that men need a safe place to escape
And no place is safer than the written word
So encourage your sons to be written and heard
Give them outlets to express their pain
And that it's okay to think with their brain
Instead of resorting to their fists
When they're lost, afraid, and pissed
So that we know men having no emotion is a misconception
Maybe next time give them a little reception
I can't imagine my heart so callous
As to pass you by without a second look
Not a soul stepping up to lend a helping hand
Down on your luck with no where left to turn
Day after day deprived and lonely
Hungry and dirty from cruel rejection
I can't imagine my heart so callous
As to pass you by without a second look
I see here today a man who climbed out of his rut
The rare one who escaped and somehow found his way
How many of you are out there on the streets
Resigned to live without hope for salvation
I can't imagine my heart so callous
As to pass you by without a second look
Those faceless people out on the street have souls
And like you the right to dream to be set free
I can't imagine my heart so callous
As to pass them by without a second look
AP: 2nd place 2021
There’s crabs in the bucket, lice in the cream –
Throw it on the bonfire
No one partakes of this particular dream –
Throw it on the bonfire
Insecure god wants a baby to raise –
Throws it on the bonfire
I’ll play my banjo to the bright L.A. blaze
And throw it on the bonfire
Some big-ass astronaut gets slung off to space
(Throw it on the bonfire)
Who foots the bill for this wild comet chase?
(Throw it on the bonfire)
That tin can of a rocket implodes at separation
(Throw it on the bonfire)
In high resolution and neat devastation
(Throw it on the bonfire)
Day after day, in place after place
It’s the credo of each woman and man:
If we can’t have it, you better believe
Ain’t nobody else can
The races collide in the stadium of night
(Throw it on the bonfire)
The system grid goes down in a fury of light
(Throw it on the bonfire)
Cheerleaders portend the static of woe
(Throw it on the bonfire)
And rally crucified halfbacks from ten centuries ago
Then thrown em on the bonfire
In better times, Anders Throne once was
a good husband and loving father,
married to his sweetheart, Rosie Smith,
who’d grown on the Chesapeake waters.
He worked as a lawyer, was well renowned,
had a little boy by the name Chester,
if fate were just he would’ve lived out his days
and saw his happiness never perturbed.
But when the war with the north broke out
to his country he was compelled to stay true,
he said good-bye and stole away north,
marching to war with the boys in blue.
His father-in-law said "Good riddance!"
and moved his precious daughter away,
to a big mansion deep in Richmond,
where he felt she could safely stay.
The war dragged on, and in the end
Richmond found itself under siege,
all in the city knew things were rough,
that there was no real hope of relief.
Day after day the big guns did roar on,
a crashing hail of fire and shell,
until one April day when the Union struck
and the town of Petersburg fell.
Unable to hold Richmond any longer
General Lee led his army to the west,
but Anders, arched into the fallen town,
hoping somehow to find his dearest.
But cannons and not the most precise of things,
and when he reached her father’s home,
he saw cinders scattered, shards of broken glass,
from the hallway ceiling’s grand old dome.
He found an old slave who explain it all,
that whoever had been inside no was dead,
a cannon-ball had ignited a great blaze,
and they died of the smoke in their beds.
Anders collapsed when he heard the news,
and roared out his agony and pain.
He railed at God,”I fought to free people!
And as thanks you go take her away?!”
Bereft of his son and his dearest love,
he walked away right then and there,
deserted the army and wandered off,
if they hanged him he did not care.
He aimlessly started heading for the west,
and as he walked along he wound find
the ‘truth’ of it all, so clear and so crisp,
took over his grief-battered mind.
God cared not for the trials of men,
nor the world that he had once made.
The beasts had it right, take what you can!
Destroy any who gets in the way.
The only rules that mattered were anarchy,
laws of the jungle, ever cold and cruel.
He was done pretending that there was a point,
manners and honor were lies for the fools…
CONTINUES IN PART II
a cool evening moon glows
she peers with sudden intent
the stars glisten as the wind blows
the clouds flew swiftly as they went
her mind strains with blissful wonder
the moment so fleeting yet cherished
trees bent over as she looked under
oh, that moon wistfully vanished
smiling she pondered the gift
her heart rejoiced as he spoke
her soothed mind gave her a lift
her love so strong in her awoke
ah, romance dwells sweet
our spirits are uplifted
praising each other we repeat
how blessed we are and gifted
said he “you’re beautiful and fair”
smiling she received his praise
his love for her transcended there
she hugged him after a gaze
their walk continued near the beach
the sun reflected on the water
a precious moment they did reach
as their love welled warm and softer
day after day they walked along
sharing their hearts’ desire
mending wounds in silent song
eternal union to inspire
With a huge geometry of bones and ribs
my father stands amidst us,
like an age-old iron pillar,
high durable, tensile and unbrittle
he is, the lonesome cantilever.
Though I know not,
perhaps he could be in immense pain,
or suffering from his terrible wounds;
but neither I feel nor touch
as I fear;
may be I his last crutch
or be the solve of sandal paste
on this body for ever.
Though I know nothing,
perhaps, for the sake of ‘oil and salt’ world;
he’d be even ready
to sleep on the bed of thousand arrows
and at the same time
he hides every sensitive worldly elements
within him, as far as
a star fish does every time
when it comes across a danger.
And always, I cannot move over
to his world of desires,
it’s the same show
the same grief
day after day.
The foot prints of his journey through life
are not lost in the sand storms of poverty
and in my mind as well.
Like the third bank of ever flowing river
Like a lonely Oar of way lost solitary boat
Like a distant star in the dark sky
Like a defiant soldier in battlefield
My father-
with dry tears and black blood
in his toil and lethal hands
continues his combat fight
against treacherous time
and treadle fate.
And with a twingle of hope against hope,
I feel every odds of life
and promise to myself a thousand times
‘I can be a nearby dawn
to remove the everlasting dark night’,
as my thoughts don’t go
with the distanced sun.
My porcelain mask is heavy on my face,
A failing smile secures its fragile place.
Beneath the glaze, the deep-set fractures show,
A structure built just for an outward glow.
Each passing day, a weight I cannot lift,
My mind exhausted, utterly adrift.
The air is thick with words I cannot say,
Choked back in silence, day after day.
I long to say "I'm not okay" out loud,
To pierce the silence of this lonely crowd.
Nothing is fine, I need them all to know,
I’m barely hanging on, with nowhere left to go.
I'm at the edge, the drop is right there now,
One final push and I wouldn't care how.
To stop pretending, finally reveal,
The pain and deep exhaustion that is real.
The proper words won't form to capture the storm,
I hope they get I'm going over the ledge with form.