Long Distinctly Poems
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POEM FOR EUNA DAVIS
A very throaty Warbler issued
Quavering Trills in a morning song -
As he serenaded the dew
drops on the grateful trees
Other birds were answering with
songs of praise from familiar days.
No one taught them
how to sing or gave them
the messages they so proudly bring.
Birds form near and far
joined in as if to say -
We will add our voices to remind you,
that we are cheerful and we sing for you.
We are aware-we are awake-
and we are awesome
chirping and singing our songs as
we bath in puddles of raindrops.
We remember the timing of the of the
golden and silver songsters.
Ruffling feathers coquettishly
as each song in the distance stirs
up fond memories of your existence.
The caw-caw, the peeps, and the chirps;
The caw -caw again and
the melodic harmony begins
Orchestrating the morning worship
in celebration of this life.
One songster descanted a high range
as he sang a louder pitch
Distinctly he told tales of ancestors
with welcoming smiles
.
The siren in the distance and the
overhead plane Threatened the calm
The plane resounded as thunder
above all the noise
the birds continued to sing.
I Listened as they go on to conclude
in exuberant delight Warblers warbling
Tweet- tweets deliberating discussions
many more chirp’s peeps and tweets
During the morning meditation.
As the world passes by
I'd listen to the bird’s serenade-
I'd listen to the clucks-
and the cackles, I'd listened
to the throaty warbler-
as he resumes the lead song.
The other birds in turn join in again.
The world rejoices in their songs
all over the universe-
the rest of my day
could never be as great as
the moments in the morning when
I'd meditate and listen to the birds sing.
A loved one closed her eyes
and made her transition;
The chirking birds know-
That the only triumph over
death is to have lived a good life.
So, they continue to sing.
I'd sit and solemnly listen to the message
that their chipping brings
I softly say goodbye.
We shall never forget Euna Davis
as long... As early in the morning
We be reminded in jubilant birdsong.
Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2013
My favourite day, was sunny
birds where in the sky
I remember it distinctly
It was a day I didn’t cry.
My favourite day, was xmas
for presents I didn’t reach
Instead I just laid there
On a warm, sunny beach.
My favourite day, you came to me
Oh my,how you did howl
this small little person
all snuggled in a towel.
My favourite day, I went to sea
on a mighty big boat
Cruising from isle to isle
I’m so glad we stayed afloat.
My favourite day was yesterday
For my family I did see
laughing as the clouds rolled by
while drinking cups of tea.
My favourite day was perfect
Believe me for this is true.
My favourite days are definitely
the days I share with you.
Page 1
1963
I sent you away from me to look for our beloved.
I watched you fade in the distant as you walked down the dusty foot-path towards town.
My dull brain craves the lost opportunity to prevail upon you of my broken spirit.
The sun shined brightly on the magnolia trees and blossom azalea bushes, but my vision is locked on your fading figure down that long dusty foot-path.
For hours I stood in the doorway until the evening sky ingest the sun.
Escaping the nuisance sting of mosquitoes, the croaking of frogs, and the longing calls of the loon, I managed to move my stiff body to my knitting chair near the water stain window.
But not a purl could I make, and so I sat consumed with illogical and negative thoughts until the rooster announced the dawn.
An encouraging thought my mind doth not bring as I watched your woeful soul kick up the dust of the foot-path with your shabby boots.
A defeatist frail of a man was you as you made those hesitant steps in my direction.
Perfervid loathing eclipsed my heart as you move nearer and nearer, closing the distance between us.
I did not care to treat the bruises on your face and body.
I did not want to caress you nor offer you consoling words to comfort you and ease your troubled heart.
No, not with an afflicted heart.
No words could explain the emptiness I felt for you.
You grab for me to comfort.
I slapped you and turned away.
A storm was raging inside of me.
Nothing was distinctly visible around me.
I resisted strongly the upsurging of unconsciousness.
No disguises of truth were acceptable.
Continue on page 2
copyright@Library Of Congress Looking At The Light From The Bottom Of The Lake.
“Ramana queried, ‘who am I’ ~
If we know not, our life’s a lie”
~ quote by poet
Of all mysteries in the universe vast,
the one of highest relevance in our life role,
is to find out who we are, before we breathe our last.
All scriptures without exception affirm we are a soul
but how may we believe, unless we clearly see,
by unravelling this truth, mystics extol?
In bondage to desires, we are not free
and moreover transient is joy, lingering is pain
and we stand not erect, until head and heart agree.
Enslaved by cravings of ego, all our efforts are in vain,
for we see not the light, said to be aflame within;
our life wasted, measuring material gain.
Religion terrifies us, speaking of man’s sin,
a condemnation that in heart does not ring true,
so if we discard holy books, how then are we to begin?
Noticing fearsome fears and dark desires stick like glue,
these spiralling apparitions are fed by our mind,
thoughts which we unendingly renew.
Silence sets us free from ego’s bind,
wherein, in stillness, we feel pristine presence stir
and in timeless time, we’re graced by divine caress kind.
When formless awareness chooses with love to concur,
we distinctly feel polarities within heart merge;
boundaries between God and us blur.
Beholding living light from within emerge,
we know without being told, this is our true essence,
definitive wisdom graced by God if our heart we first purge.
Let light of Self burst forth as a sublime effervescence
For this oh worthy hermit, is our quintessence
Anxious in Ancona (2)
The Doge has apportioned a fleet for his use,
but is proving an Indian giver.
A pope with a navy (and with a screw loose)
is no-one’s idea of chopped liver,
so Venice, delaying and playing obtuse,
is selling the pope down the river.
A Christian army, devoted to God,
is what Pius imagines he’s shaping,
but this one is riding distinctly rough-shod:
Ancona’s awash with the scrapings
of Europe: and here, where the Caesars once trod,
they are busily looting and raping.
There ain’t going to be any ardent crusade,
and Pius is dying, for certain.
They’ve all came to nothing, those plans that he laid,
and his project has gone for a burton.
To stop him from seeing his “army”, his aide
has fastened the litter’s gauze curtain.
He thought to have fought at the head of a host:
but reality isn’t like that.
We babble and squabble, we brag and we boast,
but our fantasies always fall flat.
Poor Pius was no Alexander. At most,
he was sort of an Anwar Sadat.
We curse our ill fortune and, wringing our hands,
we wail at our undeserved lot.
But is it so rare, as we formulate plans,
to end up with diddly squat?
If that’s how it goes with the Number One man,
what chance have the rest of us got?
It was 2 in the night, and I was watching
a reaction video on my phone. It was 2
in the night, so I let my mind go and let
it roam freely wherever it wanted to. It
had been on the leash the entire morning.
It was 2 in the night and I didn't anticipate
what might happen.
I remember distinctly that I was breathing
fine. I was breathing fine, a moment and
the other I was racing along with my
thoughts. It wasn't too late, and my body
started racing around my room too. It was
2 in the night, so I decided to not wake
people up. People, what people? I'm alone.
Sometimes I wish to sleep this feeling away,
but if I sleep now, I'll be caged in my mind
where my sleep demon awaits my arrival,
and I am not ready for that rendezvous.
Hence, I'm awake. Trying to breathe, trying
to sleep, failing at both.
I clearly remember, meeting him, them, when
I briefly closed my eyes. It happens, not a lot
but in the night, when it's 2, that's the only
thing that my brain does. When I see them, I
don't see colors, I don't hear their voice, I
see them and I see myself through them.
When I look at myself, through them, I see a
sack of blood and flesh, lying on the bed,
Immobile and frozen. I see a pathetic body
not even trying to fight it, using the 21
seconds rule as an escape to not move. It's
almost as if she wants to stay in this state
forever.
When I see myself looking at me, I feel
frantic. I hate myself at that moment, but I
can't, I just can't move. I know if I stood up
right now, I'll fight it. I'll fight with everything,
I'll run away, and I'll be gone and if I lay there
all night, without moving, my judgement
would stare me down and leave me in my
misery.
They are getting closer with each thought
that chokes me. I want to break the barrier
and just hide in the bathroom. Why am I
resisting this? They are here, reaching out
to me and there's nothing more for me to do
than join them and live in this vulnerability.
I took an aging friend out shopping the other day
There was an Anne Summers shop, a new one by the way
“Oh come on there’s underwear," she said, "they may have my size."
My answer was “No dear, I think you’ll get a surprise.”
But as she slipped my grasp she nipped in before I could stop her.
She stood with her mouth open and asked me what they all were…
“What do you mean dear?” I asked my face was going red
She was holding up a vibrator and swinging it over her head…
“Look at this a mixer, why is it in a foundation shop?”
I grabbed her by the arm saying “A mixer and foundation shop, it is not.”
There were some undies with no crotch, she picked them up and said
“I think there should be more quality control, these are missing on some thread.”
“Come on dear” I said, as I dragged her through the door
“This is really a sex aid shop” I was leaving before she said more
“If this is an aid shop do we have to give contributions then?
And what are all them pink things that look like worms but say on them ‘Hen’
“Come on dear it’s time to go, this shop is not for you,
I was distinctly embarrassed now and feeling a little bit blue
I told her it was time to go; I wanted to leave before we were seen
I heard her say "you’re joking love
“I’m getting the big one there in green……..”
He looked at me as I worked in a store.
*A hasty glance and still my heart leaped up.
The features of his angel’s face – divine!
Such manly beauty I’d not seen before.
My heart was racing when his sweet brown eyes
looked up again, distinctly meeting mine!
A little shy, I hoped he’d speak to me,
and when he did, how pleasant my surprise!
His accent was as sexy as his smile.
An angel with an angel’s voice was he.
To be with him I wanted more and more
as he stood talking to me for a while.
With one week in my town, he had stopped by
my place of work; it made me want to cry
to spend such little time with him. . . then bye.
Forevermore Guy lives in my mind’s eye.
Feb. 22, 2020 for Joseph May's 'Lines to Awaken Your Muse' Poetry Contest
Line 3 was used: * “A hasty glance and still my heart leaped up” - Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Rhyme Scheme: abca, dced, feaf, gggg.
(we got to have one memorable date; this is probably my tenth poem about Guy, pronounced in French as Gee.)
"Lo! the dolphin dotes laughs
My passion is the maritime coast
'Ocean!' said I, 'thing of seawater.'
Oceans dolphins
In a kingdom full of coastlines
Eagerly I looked for the seaway
I crave the marine, more mare
That up bound jellyfish - that unbound jellyfish
I felt compelled to sniff the territorial waters
I am shorn of my catfish
I discovered the riverbanks
Suddenly, I heard some tiding
Rise, fly mighty dolphin up through the skies
And its eyes have all the ponding
Resulting and resulting with my pacific
But in the fact that it was fluttering
I had dreamed of ribs cluttering
Only this and a ameba
The west water whaling
The dry dock smiled
How they were curtailing, prevailing - derailing
I discovered the crayfish
I crave the marine, amidships maritime
Ah, distinctly I was swallowing
Rise, fly mighty dolphin up threw the skies"
11/19/21
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2021©
Going Home
I went home again, at last
just after the mid March winter blast,
as many years had slipped into the past
lost too often to both time and memory aghast.
Roads no longer seemed that familiar
sight and scene made me quiver
so much had changed, empty and dissimilar.
The old haunts of my time long gone
torn down and replaced for a song
erased and today unknown, so wrong.
Ah yes, some things, some markings remain
with distinctly different looks and names.
I guess nothing ever stays the same.
Perhaps the old saying is more than true
and there is no going back
for every me and you
in search of what we miss or lacked.
Even the old homestead looks bland
one of the few memories that still stand,
remodeled, repainted, reshaped by newer hands.
So swift the years have raced by,
autumn, winter, spring, summer skies
moved like picture shows with us aside.
Some places go unrecognized
trees removed with nothing left to hide
only strip malls to fill the wavy tide.
The buildings long displaced
covered by graffiti and defaced
with views of the traffic stop go race.
How often have we bid goodbye
to the youthful playgrounds of our lives;
and as the veil is slowly lifted
we finally find
how blessed we were and gifted.
All the places of those last fifty, sixty, seventy years
once brought both happiness and tears
is but a memory well marked in time right here
within the heart loved and cheered.
If I close my eyes, I can still see
my grandmother standing beneath the tall Christmas tree
at the foot of my home’s steps waiting
waiting patiently, for me.
Though many years have passed
and the scenes change far too fast,
the memories are a lasting gain
are the rewards for which I aimed
in having seen the world as smaller
taking in its lessons learned by scholars;
home is what we most treasure
and it is the ultimate goal by which
our lives are measured.