Long Desperate Poems
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In his mid-30s but still a boy
Given $14.50 an hour and 12 hour shifts
Six days a week
His driver’s license confiscated
For five slung beers over a night long ago
Cost him $10,000
Contributed to the system
Of judges bailiffs lawyers and Presidents
All residents
Of the lakes and new mansions up north on weekends
Five years it will take him
To pay them for his sin.
Out here on the way to work
There are no buses
So the boy joins a line of third world refugees
Walking an hour and a half a day
Each way
Through the sweat of summer
And the snow of winter
From Greatdale Apartments
To the soda pop company’s bottling plant
He limps down the shoulder of King’s Road
Texting a screen scream to his desperate dad
“I can’t do this anymore!”
This
The only demand the son can manage
While Escalades
Roar by him
Side mirrors whisking within inches of his elbows
The thought of the American Dream
Or even the idea of a violent union revolution
Pouring out of him
Like his 10 cent returns
After work at the Party Store.
These darts of love fly from our eyes
Adrip with passion's poisons clear and sweet,
Our aim that of another heart's defeat,
Its mute enslavement to our sighs.
Love blasts holes of unexpected size
In our defense; no wall will be respected.
The briarbarbed fence of self-content
Is breached, and trampled, with perspective.
Passion paints its fell directives
To our sniper's scoping of the front,
That field of victims fair,
To take down and devour in the hunt.
The wounds of pride will bear the brunt
Of soft assault upon stern self-control;
Desire stabs the shuddering soul
Until its thirsting edge grows blunt.
Thus we conspire to murder our sleep
While surrendering self-rule
To serve another's purpose
As captives of the deep
Dungeons of our needs, and keep
The key clutched tightly in our hand,
Afraid to lose the sweet ache of love,
Loath to let complacency sweep
Devotion from the stage, and weep
The loss of desperate, mutual need
That grows within, that intoxicant weed
Of victorious love we rush to reap.
You can't imagine what its like to march on a sacred city,
to plunder and pulverize a Peoples' promise to Deity,
demolishing centuries of lavish labor, wasting offspring of ancient heredity,
destroying flesh, scriptures and stone with a savage Roman military synergy,
a discipline determined in it's destruction of dissention, inspired by ancestral victory,
politics was not our purview, methodical punishment was our specialty,
We were War's royalty, we were Legio XV Apollonaris,
monsters of Mars, messengers of Apollo, the juggernaut of Jupiter,
along with 11 other Legions led by General Titus, 60, 000 cuts of glory we stood,
for 3 and a half years we fought through Jewish guerilla ambush
asymetrical urban warfare welting our progress like a pirate pestilence
district after district, hell spell after hell spell we bled with chilled maneuver,
the Zealots were pyromaniacs, burnt sacraficers, their zeal and our bodies zesty wood,
in the Kidron Valley they flooded the streets " knee high " with oiled water
as the Cohorts waded through the lanes leery, a torch was tossed, flames rose in rush
240 men perished like spazing stars trapped in a box, our grief agape with a horrified crush,
as reprimand, Titus made the Legate sit in a tent with his chopped off ring finger
smoldering like hot sand in the hand of a marooned man aware of error in his plan,
the insurgents had men we called Fox Tails, desperate demons who knew how Hell began,
as a skirmish succumbed to our skill and number they would run into apartments,
dragging the fury of our blades into rooms of Hades revenge, these were fire entrapments,
the buildings would blaze like windowed volcanos, screams salting us with panic linger,
It was not uncommon to discover a missing Brother Legionary
castrated, and decapitated with a headedless eagle carved upon his chest,
don't speak to me about morals and mercy for I have seen and dealt the damage of rude death
hate becomes your Father, vengence your Mother, aggravated murder your cause
when everything you revere and fear merge to make a leviathen of life,
the " Chosen People " of God became the chosen target of annihilation,
Mount Moriah, mansion of Yahweh the Pariah would become capital of Divine crucifixion,
J.A.B.
This poem has been entered into the Roman Legion Contest
to honor Ancient Rome and the Poet who sponsored this historical subject.
Oh! God where would I go and what would I do without you?
Nowhere at all! Nowhere at all!
I would be drowning into the deepest sea
of misery. Lonely and lost as I could possibly be.
Drifting far away from the safety of your shore.
Losing sight of your lighthouse's light.
All alone late and night. Crying out in pain.
Calling out your name. But you do not seem
to hear my desperate pleas for your tender
loving mercies.
Oh! God where would I go and what would I do without you?
I need you in my life. Your free gift of everlasting
life. Do not revoke my future pardons. Due
to my habitual life of sin. Turning it all
over to you. I have not lost my
everlasting life!
But to feel your redeeming love and matchless
grace. Not becoming part of the lost souls
of the unredeemed human race. When
your roll is called up yonder. I want
to be there. I am tired of life's
vanity fair. This world is not
my everlasting home.
I will faithfully try to remain close to your
side. And not look outside the box
of my Christian faith. Being
saved by your redeeming grace. Redeemed
by your shed blood. Your child now
and forever more I am.
Love in Christ Jesus!
Roxanne Lea Dubarry
Roxy Lea 1954
Roxy 1954 1954/ October Country
March 16, 2020
Thoughts of last year turn to the quickened beat of my heart
to learn that my grandchild was ill, and we lived so far apart.
"Mom, can you please come to us?" That's all she had to say.
Two hours later, I told my desperate daughter I was on my way.
She greeted me with flowing tears, with a hug she held on tight.
She told me of the illness that kept the baby screaming all night.
Blisters on his tongue, inside his little mouth was raw and red.
Nothing soothed his pain. It was much worse then I dared dread.
A viral infection; hand, foot and mouth and a low grade fever.
Poor little baby and my daughter, I knew I couldn't leave her.
Nothing to do to help him, it just had to run its course in time,
but doing nothing made me feel like I was committing a crime.
No food could he consume and with great effort he drank water.
To quicken his healing I would have given up myself for barter.
Two days before I arrived, this pestilence held the child in grip.
My daughter stressed from worry, her own health began to slip.
Three long days and nights, we tried our best to keep him calm.
Thankful for the moments he slept when we held him in our arms.
The morning he smiled, he must have wondered why we cried.
Prayer and faith in God got us through the time we had to abide.
________________________
January 9th, 2016
My Abiding Memory Contest
Sponsor: Viv Wigley
Soul's Cry
My soul is crying out,
A silent, desperate plea.
A cry for understanding,
For peace and harmony.
The world is full of turmoil,
A sea of sorrow and pain.
My soul is crying out,
A call for change again.
I see the suffering,
The turmoil and despair.
My soul is crying out,
For someone to care.
The pain is all around me,
It's suffocating, so.
My soul is crying out,
It's yearning to know.
To know the reason,
The purpose, the plan.
My soul is crying out,
Can someone understand?
The world is full of beauty,
Of love and of light.
My soul is crying out,
For the darkness to fight.
To fight for what's right,
To stand up and be strong.
My soul is crying out,
With a hopeful, bold song.
The song fades,
As a shadow looms near.
The darkness falls,
And my soul's cry is gone.
I feel the emptiness,
The void that has been left.
My soul is no longer singing,
The silence is deafening.
But in my heart,
I know the truth remains.
My soul's cry may be gone,
But it's left its mark, unchanged.
The mark of hope and faith,
The mark of love and light.
These marks are in my heart,
And they will never die.
Though my soul's cry is silenced now,
Its legacy will last.
The echo of its song,
Resounds in my heart, at last.
My soul may be quiet,
But its song will always be.
A song of strength and courage,
A song of you and me.
©® Coker Favour A.
The loud fastest growing
non-thinking hand-it-over
flowers are abrasive
to some who feel they are truly weeds,
just messing up us real flowers
Their gnarly appearance is
off putting because they
are not the approved people, they are clover.
They look different, they dress
different, they advocate giving
away stuff to so-called poorer flowers.
They are way too giving with our flower seeds.
This is our seed; we made it.
You cannot take it away from us.
Our gardners purchased it online or in stores.
it is ours until we throw it in the garbage.
We do not like the
abrasive irritating selfish
non-thinking hand-it-over
flower weeds who
are screaming for our seed,
who want our well-earned pollen.
Sit in the sun yourself, you poison ivy leaves!
These give-it-all-to-us weeds sometimes become
abrasive in our gardens. They are overbearing,
disrespectful, trotting over us flowers in a mean
and arrogant way.
We are so irritated with them,
they are covering us up quickly and thickly, loud and proud.
We stick up our noses and try to push through their
hard-headed, do-it-our-way-and-give-us-everything ranks.
Then when we are mortally wounded, and we see
little hope, when we lose our fight, and become weeds
ourselves, our perspective changes. We become the
arrogant and rude take-over types, tromping over each
little marigold and lavender slice, silencing them.
We are now the desperate, take-over weeds,
screaming for our due. We become the bullies.
I have no idea how to rectify the approved
flowers with us weeds, but we weeds soon
get our own way, we become
incensed, and crafty, and our dendrites kick in.
Some of us dandelions have developed magical powers.
We figured out how to look and sound less weed-like.
Some of us are running for political office,
telling the loveliest most naïve flowers what they need
to hear to get onboard and give us their seeds.
Knowing they will soon be joining the world of
weeds, and loving the knowledge we have done
it with little bloodshed, only craftiness and stealth.
Oh, it is fun to be on the bad side.
Hope
Hope is a seed
that once it is sown,
holds fast in its angst
for a chance to be grown.
It hides in our heart
like a secret to bear
and gathers more strength
each time that we share.
It wanders through wishes
and pours in our prayers,
dwells in our daydreams
caressing our cares.
Like a compass it guides us
each step of the way,
giving us strength
to hold on one more day.
Life's many hardships
leave many in need,
hope helps us through
if we'll just plant the seed.
The world can be dark
and a cold lonely place,
paths made of light
is how hope leaves it's trace.
Some say that hope
leaves us deep in despair,
a loss felt so deep
it's not worth it to care.
They do the work
of the thief in the night,
discounting faith
as they walk with their sight.
When given the chance
of a lifetime to choose,
our hope is the treasure
our hearts cannot lose.
The last place to turn
when we're desperate to cope.
What will become
of a life without hope?
- Jeannie Minor
Along the outer border edges
there lies the imprints and images
of every footstep of humanity that waits
knocking, shouting, screaming at the gates;
some with their children by the dozens
some with wives, lovers and husbands,
few with aging parents to reveal or tell
the allegiance lost or never held
most, healthy, young on the run
infants in their arms, daughters, sons ;
some their own, others not
some distant cousin, niece, nephew, tots
some, no connection at all
some an excuse to cross the wall.
The numbers steadily grow
more and more each day they come and go
they come for escape to slip away
wanting in, this America to stay.
They want us to see their plight
why they cannot stay at home to fight;
seeking freedom, hope and promise for living
what lay back at home is unforgiving.
The images are played, rewound and replayed
tearing our hearts open each and every day,
we see their tears, their desperate cries
willing to give all without question of why;
and on dirty shadowed concrete sidewalks of the city,
sleep the destitute, homeless citizens, families lost, without pity,
forgotten in the media blitz, our very own, indigenous
disappear lost in protest to open doors for all immigrants.
We crossed the streams where the fool's gold gleams as we joked and told our stories
And each man spoke of his love and home when work's all done this Fall
When the work's all done this Fall
We hadn’t made it halfway up with Bill still trailing badly
When Johnny said to Pete and Joe let’s stop here and eat dinner
We'd be home in time for supper
Slide Whistle Ike said a plan I like presents itself most handy
So I went back down to round up Bill my beans and biscuits waiting
My beans and biscuits waiting
I turned my mount back down the hill an eye peeled for Bill’s pony
When it caught my eye upslope in the bye near a shaking quakie standing
A shakey quakie standing
That’s where my knees like the trembling trees moved in the breeze a whisperin’
But it wasn’t the wind left the bone and skin above my boots a'shakin’
Surely, I was mistaken
Young Bill had tied his horse to a sapling down where the trail was bending
And climbed up high framed in the sky behind him dark as midnight
What happened to the daylight?
A ghastly glow surrounds him so like embers from the Devil’s campfire
His eyes and face had greatly aged and he smiled like the rage of the Talon River
The raging Talon River
For there stood Bill on that cursed hill his eyes ablaze like lightning
Astride a stream that'd turned to steam under where Mad Bill was standing
Right where that Bill was standing
It hissed and moaned and turned the stones I swear to molten metal
And swept more stones that broke like bones as they tumbled down the mountain
That wretched cursed mountain
He was on a ridge above the boys still laughin' with their dinner
They couldn't see for a line of trees hid their eyes from doom impending
All Hades was descending
I shouted up, "Joe grab the boys and ride to where I'm standing!"
But he couldn't hear me and my desperate plea was lost on that black mountain
That black and burning mountain
Then Ike first heard that sound not found this side of the river Styx
And he barely had time to shout the names of his saddle mates and home
"Home boys! Head for home!"
But there was no time to clear their mind and comprehend what's coming
For who could know what terrible blow upon them was descending
All Hades was descending
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