Long Dearer Poems
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Old lovers we:
Sleep soundly here,
Snore loudly dear,
What's left to be.
Each dearer we:
Cuddle dream mist,
In restive gist,
Feel what may be.
Passing time we:
Breathe deeply dear,
Caress dream cheer,
Love parades free.
Mellow hearts we:
Sense a deep feel,
Knowing time heals,
What else can be?
Just ancient we:
Old lovers fond,
Ducks in small pond,
We let things be.
Darling just we:
Embrace this space,
Accept each face,
Our times we see.
Our story we:
Know in our hearts,
Trace end and start,
Our art to be.
Love spells just we:
Faith and hope lease,
Truth fashions ease,
Old ecstasy.
Passage here we:
Journey quest know,
Love story shows,
What yet may be.
Message tells we:
A lovely fit,
A timely wit,
Fond poise can be.
Leon Enriquez
04 November 2018
Singapore
HE’S THE DEAREST
ALEX NELSON
He’s the dearest
The nearest
The man with
The miles
Who took
All the hard
Times
And left us
With smiles
He’s the dearest
Not nearest
For the miles
A long run
Yet when
You pick
Up the phone
The fun’s
Just begun!
He’s the clearest
My dearest
My Dad with
No cares
Just carpet
And some slippers
With black coffee
Sitting there
He’s the always
No hangups
With hands
Always tough
With get up and
Take the time
When my enough
Is ENough!
He’s been there
Not did that
Yet the length
Is a cord
Like pick
Me up
With slow down
AN did you see
“That's a Ford!”
He’s a long mile
A great smile
Yet the brush
Is not new
Like way back
With all heart's
Attached
The missed
Just a few
Like my dad
Not really sad
And happy
All the while
Like see ya soon
And not so
For a 1000 is
The miles
So line them up
The candle light
With no tests
Just the rest
Like see ya
There and
You are rare
And A
Dad
Simple Best
He 's dearer
And clearer
Not near
Yet alway fine
Like up
Here and
Down there
For a son with
A dad that is
Mine
He's the dearest
HE’S THE DEAREST
ALEX NELSON
He’s the dearest
The nearest
The man.with
The miles
Who took
All the hard
Times
And left us
With smiles
He’s the dearest
Not nearest
With the miles
A long run
Yet when
You pick
Up the phone
The fun’s
Just begun!
He’s the clearest
My dearest
My Dad with
No cares
Just carpet
And some slippers
With black coffee
Sitting there
He’s the always
No hangups
With hands
Always tough
With get up and
Take the time
When my enough
Is ENough!
He’s been there
Not did that
Yet the length
Is a cord
Like pick
Me up
With slow down
AN did you see
“That's a Ford!”
He’s a long mile
A great smile
Yet the brush
Is not new
Like way back
With all heart
Attached
The missed
Just a start
Like my dad
Not really sad
And happy
All the while
Like see ya soon
And not so
For a 1000's
The miles
So line up
The candle light
With no tests
Just the rest
Like see ya
There and
You are rare
And At
Dad
Simple Best
He dearer
And clearer
Not near
Yet Always fine
Like up
Here and
Down there
With a son
Year after
Year
He's the dearest
S/He walks in bias
As s/he thinks not of himself.
S/He has many a vice
By which s/he does more to others than to himself
As s/he feels his/her disservice to others
Makes him/her nearer to Himself/Herself.
The Modern (Wo)Man.
Full of knowledge
Sans wisdom
Lacking the tryst of self image
For s/he nourishes the advanced sciencedom
Which brought Moscow, Mumbai and Madrid nearer
But a cleavage, so dearer of minds.
So comes the external prejudice
Which reins the seminal minds
With a little or no vision.
Today has all to say
Not anything for tomorrow
The Modern (Wo)Man,
The most civilized and
The most savaged to protect
Her/Him and the burden which
S/He has promised to be obliged,
Is the confluence of
The venomous Chemistry of the mind
And
The meanest mundane of Biology
Short of Historicity and Epistemology of Time.
There is the family by blood,
There is the family of choice.
The one a work of nature,
The other born of the valued voice,
The manner and the measure
Of the long trusted friend;
From whose welcome wit we gather our souls' true treasure:
Our conduct's guide, our action's end.
Our friends define the best of ourselves,
Bringing all our gifts to light.
Sharing cares and joys alike
They complete our days and soothe our nights
With their banter and their familiar ways.
They serve us as the living mirror
To our improvement through our numbered days,
Through the act grow ever dearer.
No friends match the oldest,
Those who know and love us best.
These are the ones whose truths are boldest,
Whose honest vision stands the test
When we would fain dissemble to ourselves;
Who make us see what most needs seeing,
Whose faith in us undaunted delves
Within our depths, intent on freeing
That inner self we were born to share,
That common spirit that resides somewhere.
Though we grow old and older still
Youth's boundless strength can never fade
From out the bounds of common will
Our shared experience has made.
Let us then spend our hours in close companionship
However best we may, my dear comrade,
Reflecting one another as the hours slip
In sharing all we have, and had.
I felt a lift,
a thermal high
and out the corner
of my eye
saw angel wings
recalling angels fly --
thinking myself to give
it a try; no halo, of course,
just arms and hands
nor feathers for glide,
yet sensed a certified
flying-couch on each side
offering me
a heavenly ride~
higher and higher,
into ever dearer
light – beyond our sun
we flew out of sight
zooming passed stars,
red, blue and white...
planets and moons
far smaller yet bright,
each one, its own guardian
of great mystic, celestial
might --
(seeming less to matter
which wrong or more right) --
back home, in my easy
porch-chair, the morning
dawn bringing our usual breath
of clearer fresh air – feathers
fading from my sleepy
morning inner sight
an old man, blind, rocker-bound,
out for a night --
The further I traveled from
me, the closer I came to you –
found myself nearing with
such found release...my heart swelling
sweet generous nectar; sensing no loss,
but, in fact, more abundance
for sharing and receiving. It is the lesson of love,
the ripening of heart's dearer agents through selfless caring –
Indeed! Love is a nurturing school...of small little
chirps, purring, and needy cries; it is cold dark
forced out by the graceful warming of heavenly
pairing: The rests minimal, and pianissimos
ever brighter: Shakespeare was not so overly theatrical
about the world being a stage, nor Poe too
speculative, about all seeming a dream
within a dream – for love is dreamy, magical
and mystically deep – The Universe shouting,
Encore!~More!~applauding endlessly such
Divine Sleep....
3. At the Cabin
("Noh" is an ancient Japanese style of
drama, broadly similar to Elizabethan
tragedy. "The Wind in the Pines" is
my version of a well-known Noh play.)
(The Chokugan = a shinto prayer.
The priest is protecting himself from
the ghosts.)
BUDDHIST PRIEST
Do you live here?
MURASAME
Why do you ask? Who are you?
BUDDHIST PRIEST
Just a traveler, benighted on my journey to ...
MATSUKAZE
What you request is little enough.
But our cabin is sparse, unfurnished, rough.
We are ashamed. It's far too humble. See?
We cannot offer hospitality.
BUDDHIST PRIEST
I am not looking for feathers or feast.
I am a simple, unassuming priest.
A fog is gathering swiftly around:
Please don't ask me to sleep on the ground.
MURASAME:
I am sorry. You cannot stay ...
MATSUKAZE
Wait!
The fog is freezing, and the hour is late.
The moon sails out from the refuge of a cloud,
and I see the form of a man who has vowed
to abandon all license. That, I admire.
Approach, holy man, our wretched fire.
BUDDHIST PRIEST
I am grateful, ladies. Yukihira,
the much-lamented young poet,
put it thus: "If anyone
should ever ask for me,
say I'm in paradise, and I know it:
in Kobe, enfolded by green sea,
and fine women, to dote upon:
no place could possibly be dearer".
MATSUKAZE
Aieee!
BUDDHIST PRIEST
What's wrong, young woman? See,
I prayed this morning, by the tall tree,
two-trunked and handsome. Nothing bad
can come this way. You look so sad!
MATSUKAZE
You have mentioned the name of our dead lover.
BUDDHIST PRIEST
A peasant told me of two women from here,
who both loved a Kyoto nobleman.
He composed exquisite poetry,
but sickness took him, in the prime of youth.
MURASAME
Aiee!
BUDDHIST PRIEST
I think I have stumbled into the truth!
You are the girls who live in the tree!
You gave your hearts to Yukihira,
and now you're ghosts! The Chokugan!
There once was a family named Keets
They spoke in a series of tweets
Goldie was yellow and slender, of course
Blueboy was puffy and had no remorse
Together, they’d swing or gaze in the mirror
And watching them peck could not have been dearer
Their house was a castle of plastic and wire
That echoed their chirps, an avian choir
It always sat perched on Grandmother’s table
And that was the start of this family fable
You see, she would often leave open their door
They could fly freely or even explore
But one day, not seeing the window ajar
She sighed as they both winged their way to a star
Blueboy returned but Goldie was free
How Grandmother cried as she did decree
I’ll get my girl back , I’ll call the police
Thinking for certain, they’d listen at least
When asked to provide her name and address
With no second thoughts, she muttered her best
She lived on Byrd Street and this was no joke
They did not believe her, had she misspoke?
Sure lady! They said, no time for a game!
Grandmother and Blueboy were never the same
The horizon line is smudged
between here and eternity,
the sea between, a vast domain
across which vision strains
toward a distant shoreline, undefined.
You sailed away long ago,
leaving me here, grieving,
my eyes grown heavy with not seeing.
I am waiting.
Are you waiting, too,
looking back toward me
from the other side of the sea?
Is your vision clearer,
dearer than all else to me,
dearer because others are here
and you are far away.
Do you see a wider perspective,
around or above the waves
that rise and pound against my shore?
You who know both sides now,
I wait to come to you.
You wait no more.
Copyright, September 9, 2015
Faye Lanham Gibson