Long Dorms Poems
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Boyd and I graduated from high school
Then college roommates; we thought that was cool
Texas A and M became our new home
Bunk beds in a dorm room without any phone
It’s a military college, of course
You’re either in the Army or Air Force
And there’s a rivalry between the two
And things just might get out-of-hand, it’s true
At times, it was fun to sing songs at night
I played the uke; Boyd sang harmony tight
We acquired that Homer & Jethro sound
When singing their songs, we acted like clowns
We started writing new lyrics to songs
Making a point with words that were wrong
On day Boyd said, “I got a great idea”
A song to give the Air Force diarrhea
We worked it hard and finally got a wrap
The song “Hey Joe” changed into “Hey Aircrap”
The lyrics turned out great and was quite a slam
When our seniors heard it, they said, “Hot Damn!”
“At three AM, come ready and in-form!”
“To broadcast that song to the Air Force dorms”
We practiced the song and we were all set
Boyd said I think we’re as good we’ll get
A PA system aimed at the angle
To hit their dorms across the Quadrangle
Two speakers so big they could raise the dead
Cranked it all up till it was in the red
They said, “Charlie and Boyd, you’re on the air”
“Just give sing it into the microphone there”
We “let it rip” and everything worked fine
Woke everyone, just like they had in mind
Lights were being turned on in every dorm
Out all the doors from the dorms they stormed
With trash cans full of water; quite a sight!
An Army versus Air Force water fight!
Watched from our window and didn’t get wet
We started something that we may regret
Then we entered the Aggie Talent show
Singing Homer and Jethro stuff, you know
When we started our performance on stage
Half the audience was screaming with rage
They were yelling, “We want the Aircrap song”
We caved in and sang it and that was wrong
The words of the song were really too strong
For a Talent Show they didn’t belong
You know, I think we could have been winner
A reprimand instead for the sinner
Still these are highlights of my freshman year
I’d do it all over, let’s make that clear
And Boyd, the best roomie without a doubt
Wanted him to know, so I wrote this out
Ytb! Ytb! You understand we had a contract?
But what happened ytb?
You were such a savior to many,
A dream come true for many,
Why did you abandon us ytb?
We came to Turkey you were nowhere to be seen,
We thought you were busy but you are never free,
We looked for dormitories on our own,
Although you had promised to help,
The journey was like Winterfell at kings landing.
In the dorm, we meet angry and furious face,
You could think they were chasing dragons mother,
They gave us tea without sugar, cheese without bread,
We complained in murmuring voices like ants,
But they said “burasi turkiye”.
Ytb! Ytb! Why did you tell us before?
We went to the streets and avenues for fresh air,
But we meet, green, blue, red and brown eyes examiners,
Didn’t they ask how are u? No! No! they just asked,
Musluman misin? Nerelisin, turkiye neden geldi?
Of course, we didn’t have answers to that.
Ytb! Ytb! Our only pride was being at Tophane,
Where we meet a lovely lady called Gözde,
She was the only queen of the throne in our hearts,
She gave us hope, listening to us like john snows,
But we still waited to hear from you ytb.
The worst wasn’t over as soon as we left Tophane,
Be it in bus, train, or “vapur” we survived through suspicions,
Turkish men looked at us as if we were competitors in their small ecosystems,
They maneuvered like the Shannara chronicles with prying eyes,
Closing the gaps of their fangs as leopard crushing Zebras bones.
Ytb! Ytb! Did you know that the dorms we are leaving 4,5,6?
The smell, snoring and farting atmosphere creates ozone layers?
The “yurt mudurlar” are always praising how they offer world-class services?
Ytb! Ytb! What went wrong with “world-class experience” promises you gave us?
Anyway, we are still waiting for you our dear friends Ytb.
As I wrap up ytb, Istanbul is the best place to have your offices,
To help and motivate the “çocuklar” in our universities,
Don’t deny them Erasmus because Turkey is home to them,
And they want to visit abroad also,
Ytb! Ytb! Hope we understood each other.
Of all the things that I have lost
Perhaps what hurts the most
Is that I can no longer go
to where I once called home...
I cannot roam with childish glee
Down through the leafy grove
Nor play with snowballs, dance is snow
Then thaw beside the stove
I cannot use pink muhlberries
To paint my childish lips
I cannot eat the greens I've picked
Right down to soily tip
I cannot brown my little legs
Beneath the blazing sun
Or slpash in cold and icy pool
Until the day is done
I cannot play my hide and seek
With gateman's little kids
Nor drink the flavored Persian tea
Chase dreams through drooping lids
I cannot rub the walnut skins
And stain my fingers black
I cannot gorge on cherries sweet
I can't bring one day back
I cannot pick the blubell flowers
Or swing from walnut tree
I cannot gorge on luscious fruit
Those mountains, I can't see
I cannot run through fresh green grass
Nor bask on asphlat walk
I cannot run through classroom halls
Or tire from childish talk
I cannot show off gardened home
To foreigners and say,
"This place is really paradise
That none can steal away"...
I had a dream last night that I was back in my childhood home in Tehran, Iran. We lived in a walled, gated compoud that was the property of our church. My father was a school principal and the administration building and dorms were on our campus. We were situated in Shemran, at the foot of the ELBRUS mountain range. The compund was green.....beautiful. We'd swim in the icy cold pool then lie on asphalted walks to warm up. We had a cherry orchard, walnut, apple, apricot, plum, muhlberry, and almond trees. It would snow in winter, and My brothers would jump off the roof of our house into the snow. I can't describe the ache in my heart at not being able to go back. It was an enchanting childhood and no one can steal my memories. After the revolution in 1979, the government took over the property....but they can't take My dreams. I've shared this....painstakingly written on my phone because my dream was so vivid. I needed to share...
After chewing shoe leather they called steak,
in the Pencey cafeteria,
Mal, Ackley, and I enjoyed a winter afternoon on campus,
on the bus, and in a restaurant.
We walked across a puffy white quilt
as students conversed, laughed, and threw snowballs.
I held my snowball until the bus driver told me to leave it outside.
We had intended to see a comedy with Cary Grant,
but Mal and Ackley had already seen it.
We hung out in the restaurant played pinball and ate burgers.
Arriving back at our dorms at a quarter to nine,
Mel left for a bridge game
and Ackley shoved his acne ridden face into my pillow
until I told him I had a paper to write.
I couldn’t write what Stradlater wanted.
I couldn’t describe any rooms without elaborate furniture.
I couldn’t describe sporty rooms
with trophies on dressers and pennants on walls.
My brother Allie played baseball.
He wrote poetry on his catcher’s mitt with a green pen.
He stood in right field and recited verse from his imagination,
in his mind.
He died from leukemia very young.
I fell into a depression,
a garage,
a gym with windows to punch out.
I broke my hands against our station wagon’s windows.
I cannot make a tight fist.
I curl my fingers enough to type excerpts of Allie’s poetry
for a paper that will never be appreciated.
My red headed brother Allie,
such a good natured kid,
he had a good combination of extrovert and introvert,
avoiding anger.
Sitting on his bike fifty yards away
with his hair shining in the sun
as I teed off,
hoping to make a distant green and shoot under par.
Mom had scored a hole in one with him.
I still try to overcome unidentified handicaps
on a hazardous course.
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If you are intrigued by this work read and review G. D. Master’s book, “Interpretations,” free in PDF format on SmashWords.com. Enter “gd master” or “interpretations” in the search bar of SmashWords to find it.
I have seen men carved from stone
rising above the Black Hills,
I’ve seen ancient trees born back when
Ceaser still worked his will,
felt a thundering water pound down,
and from four Great Lakes drain,
I have known the prairie silence
that can mess up the brain,
I have seen a bright desert sun
that’s murder on the eyes,
I’ve seen so much in this great land,
but am not satisfied.
I have lain with Asian beauty,
traced touch along her curves,
and I have brawled with drunken foes
over something absurd,
I have toted nephews around
perched high upon my head,
with good friends I have painted towns,
they look better in red,
I’ve worked with people whom make sales
seem effortless, sublime,
learned much from all these folks I know,
yet I’m still not satisfied.
I’ve bashed-up on the broomball court
’till I can run on ice,
skied mountains faster than my car,
arced passage on the white,
ridden horses ten times my weight
and let them know who’s boss,
hiked along a thin cliff-edge path,
somehow made it across,
it seems that almost everything
I am willing to try,
but victory fades oh-so-quick
and I’m not satisfied.
I have read classics quiet profound,
Montaigne and Adam Smith,
earned myself an advanced degree
despite profs quite leftist,
in dorms I’ve stayed up half the night,
argued philosophy,
I’ve called out politicians’ crap
pretty much constantly,
critiqued the deep corrosiveness
of media and their lies,
I’ve read more books than I can count,
I’m still not satisfied.
Though more and more I realize
this might be a good thing,
if people ever were content
then they would stop pushing,
satisfied with just what they have,
their tech, their jobs, their mind,
they’d never trek that extra mile,
to discover and find,
that would just be a slow decay
until the day I died,
the truth of it, I’m glad to say:
I’ll never be satisfied.
We’re not meant to be satisfied.
…we’d just get bored of it anyway.
Why A Poem Is More Than Ink On A Page
Why a poem is more than ink on a page
its heart, soul and sweet treasure at any age
can be expressing sorrows and deep rage
or gems of wisdom from a brilliant sage,
a singer that lyrics so sweetly move
or artist that dares to share cool groove
a magical huntress, for true romance
a bold gambler, willing to take a chance.
Why poems are more than just paper ink stained
they are truth, often from those painting, deep pained
they are treasures, from those with braver hearts
or valiant cast dreams from across star charts,
a warrior, singing of courageous deeds
or farmer, planting hope and true word seeds
a sailor, sailing through turbulent storms
a paper kids sitting in college dorms.
Why poems are gifts that the reader rewards
they are aces in life's hands of living cards
with wins that can benefit one and all
or valiant words sent to answer a call,
a lost soul, asking for some great relief
or sinner unburdening darkest grief
a lover, horribly lost in a maze
a phoenix rising from hot, fiery haze.
Why a poem is more than ink on a page
its heart, soul and sweet treasure at any age
can be expressing sorrows and deep rage
or gems of wisdom from a brilliant sage,
a singer that lyrics so sweetly move
or artist that dares to share cool groove
a magical huntress, for true romance
a bold gambler, willing to take a chance.
Robert J. Lindley, November 9th, 2000
edited, July 13th, 2006,
March 7th, 2020
Note: We write because we must, we write because we should,
we write because to not write is a heartache, we write to unburden
our souls, we write to give to others, we write to record we existed,
we write to say we are imperfect, we are loved, we are forgiven, we are hopeful, we are dreamers, we are artists, we are painters, we are craftsmen,
we are fighters, we are lost, we are found and we care about more than just ourselves, etc..
wicked is how i feel about now.
wanna go to sleep but i have no clue how.
it's 3:42 and sleep is long away.
tomorrow WILL be wicked workin zoomin will i stay.
i'm up then down wanna sleep then wanna play.
thing's r blue then they're grey.
my mind just keep's seemin to stray.
when will it be tomorrow day.
wicked is me.
i can but can u see.
i feel peaceful swayin like a tree.
n my mind a FLOWER i could be.
n the cloud's with the bird's how peaceful n free.
i'm shakin like the limb's when it storms.
i wanna rewind the clock 4hours n be n they're dorms.
i sleep so well when the rain just pours.
wicked has opened alot uh door's.
wicked is what i took at 12:30
now i'm alone n flirty.
my mind is like blurty.
i know that's not a word but right now it is to i.
on my face is a smile n my ALL i do is cry.
i ask n wonder 2myself why?
wipe the tears now they're dry.
the tissue's just wickedly fly.
wicked is what my mind is like about now.
take this pain some1 i wish u knew how.
to YOU i would bow.
because i want peace like the earth n the tree's.
i wanna be the BEE's knee's.
SOME1 HELP ME PLEASE.
i'm feelin wicked what m i talkin about GEEZE.
then i freeze.
come back to reality n all the pain.
wish i could wash it away like the rain goin down the drain.
on my heart's uh stain.
can't get my grammy off my mind it's such pain.
wicked would have been my dad every knowing his baby.
but drugs were all that was on his mind lately.
n lately i mean the past 20 years of my life.
never met the guy but wouldn't think twice.
to let him c the wicked ME his daughter but know's nothing of me.
i had my gram n mom all my life they made ME ME.
without them nothing i would be.
GOD please just set me free.
like the peaceful tree.
or just let me escape n fly like a bee.
any1 readin this mayb 1 day u'll see.
KEELEY.
Form:
The rented hall ways so surreal.
Cheerful alumnus ranting sex appeal.
Forgive my dropping a time bomb.
Taking Mother to the prom.
Our student body didn't shake.
All others escorted steady dates.
A proclivity prom, above all others.
Our band encrypted, "The Righteous Brothers".
Bobby Hatfield's introverted eyes, somehow.
Deeply scanned the milk punch bowl.
Imposter bandits, smuggled from Jersey.
Spiked the punch bowl, with laced heresy.
Setting alumnus minds; off and reeling.
We never, "Lost that Loving Feeling".
Alas, by now you must have guessed.
A convert Baptist to Catholic to Buddhist.
Thanked and Blessed.
Times worn quickly it seems.
I betrothed the crowned prom queen.
If begets lead to further begetting.
Trumpet in the table setting.
Now, before I forget to mention.
I'm Chief Commander of the United Nations.
The priestly Buddhist Monk is my adjunct.
No!!, pundits from paltry pulpits Shout.
No needed pouting, I'll get put out.
Covetous opponents horns, a' Blow-in.
I hold cards, but none are show-in.
That female candidate, can she insist.
A real, lopsided bubble purist.
Piling coals upon my trouble list.
She never, "Closes Her Eyes Anymore when Her Lips are Kissed".
Dear Jesus, may I adorn my Bobby Hatfield headphones.
Appreciating a, past on, baritones gigs.
Someone strummed an evil trick.
Thank You, for Your promised Rainbow.
One end of the spectrum, birth and mirth.
The other end death, it seems much worse.
"It Makes Me Just Feel Like Crying".
"You are My Soul and Highest My Highest Inspiration".
Pressure doesn't bother me at all.
What casts my craw into the fiery jowl.
How all my works got twisted.
As tho, I took your Mom to the prom.
Hoped betterment of bastion dorms.
Face radiance of holistic norms.
Is "Something Beautiful Dying".
Form:
Believe it or not, their ubiquitous webs
Are everywhere; they are the dictators
Who kidnap, maim, torture and kill teachers,
Poets, ordinary folks and babies in their cribs.
They rob and ransack innocent citizens,
Steal elections and after a lifetime in power,
Categorically refuse to leave the tower.
Very often, they do everything to muzzle the chickens.
Monsters are constantly in disguise,
They are well dressed, they wear uniforms,
They know how to blend and to socialize.
Monsters, at every turn, want to control the dorms,
Manipulate the data, fool the media,
Hire henchmen and spread false propaganda.
Monsters behave like manipulative magicians,
They suck the air out of the innocent bystanders,
Befriend desperate and impoverished musicians,
Surreptitiously inveigle the nosy neighbors
To exteriorize their feelings, and they spy and lie,
At every opportunity; and at every occasion,
They bury their preys alive in the dungeon.
Believe it or not, monsters are like rats,
Their appetite is insatiable; they crawl under the mats,
Bite babies, steal millions, and hide the money in overseas coffers;
They rape young boys and girls, and destroy the future of many.
The revolution was not done right ‘cause the kidnappers,
The pick pockets and their accomplices are still under the tree.
Those raccoons, those bedbugs don't go away easily.
They outlive the exterminators. These goons are really bright.
Be cautious, because they are out there day and night,
Operating at every meeting and at every party.
Believe it or not, all bad things must come to an end:
The lies, the crimes, and the arbitrary executions of the church band.
Copyright© February 2012, Hebert Logerie, All Rights Reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry books:
They only have a few ingredients…peanut butter, a cake mix…oh…and chocolate chips
yet no one will ever forget the feeling when Nana’s cookies hit their lips.
They are in the house when family visits…she’s sent them off to college dorms.
on road trips they’re a must… you’ve gotta try them when they’re warm.
right out of the oven when they’re still fresh and chewy
when the peanut butter melts inside your mouth and the chocolate chips are gooey.
They taste just as good the first of January as they do the last day in December
She’s been baking them for our family and friends for as long as anyone remembers.
As we replenished her ingredient supply the other day in the aisle of a store
I thought it’s not the ingredients that makes them special…it must be something more.
I mean anyone can combine ingredients and mix them with a beater…
Perhaps it is the love that passes…from Nana to the eater.
Perhaps there’s more to these cookies…more than the eye can see.
Perhaps she’s baking more than cookies…she’s baking memories.
Perhaps she’s teaching us about tradition, about family and giving
Perhaps it’s not just a recipe for cookies…it’s a recipe for living.
She’s passing down a tradition…one every family member knows so well
and long after Nana and I are gone…they’ll have a story to tell.
They will remember the aroma, the taste, her smile as she greets them at the door
Yes, Nana will always be remembered for her cookies…
for her cookies…and for so much more.
I just realized as I fill my face with cookies
and my cheeks get chipmunk fat
that I should end this poem before it gets too dull
But as we all well aware…
it’s much too late for that!
HAPPY CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE DAY