Long Eavesdropping Poems
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Forbidden fruit they had eaten
At the bidding of the snake
New ashamed that they were naked
They had to cover up, for Heaven's sake
"Adam, lets sew ourselves some fig-leaves."
"Sounds good to me, dear Eve."
God paid them no attention
Had he a trick up His sleeve?
Instead of random eavesdropping
The Lord did something eye-popping
He searched for Adam as if He had no clue
Then cried out, "Man, where are you?!"
Did the All-Seeing not know Man's whereabouts?
Did He need resort to a primal shout?...
Within God's question lies a lesson
to which some choose to adhere
God does not want man to eavesdrop
~ Do you hear?
December 11, 2019
Listening In Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Julia Ward
Four characters that we know well
have problems they all want to tell
in therapy group.
To get all the scoop,
let’s eavesdrop, for all is not well!
Believing no more in himself,
sits dear Santa Claus and an elf
who is hating his work.
Santa says, “What jerk.
I should put you back up on your shelf!”
The elf, in a huff, then fires back
(for confidence HE does not lack),
“I believed in you once,
when you weren’t such a dunce.
Old geezer, go stuff your own sack!”
The anger inside the room grows
when Rudolph, who hates his red nose,
screams, “Don’t say such stuff.
St. Nick’s work is tough,
and MY job, dear elf, frankly BLOWS.
You elves get to go to the mall
and smile at the children and all.
No one’s calling you names
as you play reindeer games.”
The elf yells, “At least you’re not SMALL.
You think you have woes? Look at ME.
I’m called silly names constantly.
There’s a song about YOU
and your red nose debut.
Geez, a hero you’ve now come to be!!
An elf is an elf all the same.
Kids don’t even know my real name.
Reindeer get names like Cupid.
Well, your name should be STUPID.
What I would not give for YOUR fame!”
A snowman sits stoically there.
He turns to the arguing pair.
“A carrot’s MY nose!
To death I have froze,
yet I’m melting right now in this chair!”
I will steal a million star kisses
from the farthest point of the abysmal sky
Pluck them like the strings of my guitar
then lay them at your feet in a basket of thorny wilderness
wild and laden with blood and lavender
as an atonement of my surrender
I will melt you in scented gardens
among resinous flowers strapped in an opium cradle
woven with the golden sheaves of Elysium fields
filled with sweet honeydews
pleasured with dark perfumed cherries
tasted on the lips parted like Orchid’s bloom
I will billow around you
wrapped in the winds beneath swans wings
woven white with the purity of fine linen
to be swept in fitful breezes of your embrace
eavesdropping to the tender warbles of angelic choirs
sighing through laughing leaves quivering with tenderness
I will dust your body dripping with fruitful pollen
from golden buttered sunflowers tall and towering
painting the sky filled with choirs of yellow canaries
so I may fill your shoes with happiness
in the swarm of brim-filled honey bees feet
so you may shine in the night with the darting of fireflies
I will call upon all the silent stars to adore you
With the brilliance of irresistible light in their affection
to illuminate your smile as you wake to the moon
that lavishly glows to gather the love light
which conjures orange blossoms in your eyes
and turns to fire
April 26, 2021
The Mystical Dream Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Anouchecka Gangabissoon
A good man is hard to find, just as my Nana always said. That day, I witnessed tears in her eyes as she firmly stuffed the monthly tithe into the envelope and headed to church that Sunday morning. Earlier, she had been rightfully screaming at my granddad for hours. She was furious with the old fool, and for good reason. It was the same day I uncovered the shocking truth: my beloved grandpa was having an affair with the widower Estelline Beckley.
“Ellie, you’re the only woman for me,” my granddad claimed. But my Nana wasn’t having any of that nonsense—she slammed the door in his face. I remember feeling scared and confused by this family feud, so I took refuge under the table and prayed for the chaos to end.
For weeks on end, my Nana devoted herself to prayer while my granddad busied himself destroying her pots and pans, boiling water and brewing coffee. She would tell the neighbors that those shameless harlots, with their enticing figures, could cause a man to scale mountains without proper gear. That statement continues to perplex me to this day.
Years later, I encountered my mother’s half-sister, the spitting image of my mother, yet she embodied my granddad’s spirit and expression. So much for eavesdropping and the complexities of family affairs.
With peals of laughter rushing from
The basement of my writing soul,
I penned that letter.
With the warmth of early August, I summoned
The joy to welcome restless fingers that write,
That scribble —oh, that empowering flame of youth
That rages within us young tendrils who hide
In fragile, lily-livered shades
From the scorching heat of reality!
Hmm!
I wrote all day and all seasons, cramming words
Extirpated from the gardens of the four seasons together
Into the walls of serrated sheets of paper, just to prove a point.
And I had begun with the word Dear, like all
Who had written before me, including Shakespeare —observing all
Protocols under the spell of the eavesdropping sun.
But the letter got astray in the post.
Vanished in the naked air, with the enormous weight of its
Titillating message.
Hiding between pillar and post, and with
A postage stamp licked with spittle of expensive love,
It strayed forever and ever.
Gone.
The post office swears allegiance to its innocence
Posts run free when callused hands rough-handle them,
Leaking swarming, pillaging sweats underneath.
“But this is serious. Seriously different,” the postman insists
“It’s lost indeed. But have you searched your soul?
Did the words ever leave the confines of your soul?”
I battle the scrimmage within me —of people and letters —
Scattered and rearranged . . .
Written or unwritten, did the letters form one imaginary line
Like the Equator, which divides the writer and the receiver,
North and South?
Or did I write in haste and afterwards posted through the anus of
A hurricane?
Not every Christmas card arrives during the Yuletide;
Some arise and shine through the line of birth of the New Year,
Equal to the crowned-initiation of a reformed destiny.
I console myself.
But how long shall I wait for the response from a missing letter —
In my case, a lost letter?
Missing within me.
Lost in the vaults of my consciousness.
Black velvet night with lacy fingers
Parted the curtains from my eyes
They sat huddled there in solitude
Twirling lemon water in this sizzling heat
Are they talking about me?
Swinging under the leaves like grass
I can see their lips move
Screaming softly, a waltz thru sore throat
Eyes glance my way
As the world turns slowly watching me
Strumming my hear strings
Take me on the back of a bird
I need you
Cold building, cold shoulder
Emotions ripple thru me
Midnight has finally come
Talk over, they depart
Forehead ablaze, I chose to sleep
For Debbie’s ‘ Stream of Consciousness’ contest
There is a need for quietness today,
I listen to my neighbor's toilet flush,
it takes a long time for the sound
to drain away and refill,
I hold seconds inside my mind
between that rise and fall.
There is space for listening,
the trash compactor chews on
when switched off.
I hear conversations
filtering through the air conditioner,
words both distinct and garbled.
Yesterdays hurried meal
speaks still, moments explore
newly opened pocket.
This is not silence
sound moves upon carpet slippers,
yet steps are heightened
by being audible
in a lower registry of depth.
It is I who creates this lengthening,
this processional unwinding of
of unremarkable moments,
a distance between
and marked by blank labels -
every note,
an eavesdropping deliverance.
There is a need for quietness today,
time drapes itself in velvet curtains.
I must move aslant if anywhere needs
to be somewhere.
I listen to my neighbors toilet flush,
It takes a long time for the sound
to drain away and refill
and I dream between that rise and fall.
There is space for listening dreams,
the trash compactor chews on longer,
when I switch it off
bellows breathe in and out
yesterdays hurried meal
speaks on, moments explore
newly opened pocket.
This is not silence
yet sounds move upon carpet slippers,
not muffled
but heightened by being
more awake
to a lower registry of depth.
I guess it is I
who creates this lengthening,
this processional unwinding of
of unremarkable seconds,
yet the distance between them explodes
into acronyms,
labels
for each
eavesdropping deliverance.
Cloistered within the restroom stall
eavesdropping on my peers
soft whispers echo off tiled walls
revealing secrets, hidden tears
Somehow this restroom has become
a sordid confessional booth
a place of refuge, safe for some
to air their inner truth
Co-workers cluster, confiding things
they wouldn't want the boss to know
nasty hangovers, weekend flings
soap-opera worthy woes
Some speak carefully, checking stalls
noting unfamiliar shoes
while others quickly unleash it all
like they have nothing to lose
“That ratfink took credit for all my work
but I'm gonna wait and be patient-
'cause I've got a plan to fix that jerk
next week while he's out on vacation!”
Young woman details a wicked trap
to catch her mortal foe...
while on the door, the impatient raps
of another who's “got to go”
Next there is an angry mother
scolding her wayward son
something or other (he did to his brother)
the fussing has just begun
“Listen Mister, I've had about all
I can take from you today
Oh, now you're sorry, no- don't you bawl!
I wasn't born yesterday!”
Then tripping in, catty office girls
meowling with purrs and sighs
pretend to freshen their faces and curls
while sniping and scratching out eyes
“...Lovely green sweater you're wearing, my dear-
wherever did you buy it?”
She means it looks quite awful on you
“Here, this smells good, you should try it!”
“Gangway girls- I'm comin' through!”
woman bellows, bursting through door
the others pause, and then continue
nonchalantly as before
Eventually they all trickle out
and two teenage girls traipse in
whispering about poor What's-Her-Face
and all the trouble she's in
“She's only twelve, and such a shame
tried to kill herself last week
they said she's crazy, that she's to blame
a loser, misfit, freak...”
“So they had her institutionalized
and she sits, spaced out, and stares
while they tell her the abuse was 'made-up lies'
and she knows that no one cares”
Sooner or later, there's silence
as the restroom door swings closed
then after a flush, a wash, a rinse
I get myself composed
Finally, I'm all alone here
in this magical, comforting place
voicing my own insecurities, fears
to my mirror-image face
Eavesdropping**
"A good man is hard to find," my Nana used to say. I remember the day she said it, tears in her eyes as she carefully put money into an envelope for church on a Sunday morning. Earlier that day, she had been yelling at my granddad for what felt like hours. She was really upset with him, and I later discovered that my hero, my grandpa, was having an affair with a woman named Estelline Beckley.
“Ellie, you’re the only woman for me,” my granddad insisted. But Nana didn’t believe him and shut the door in his face. I was scared and confused by all the fighting and, in a moment of panic, I crawled under the table and prayed for the shouting to stop.
For weeks, all Nana did was pray, while my granddad busied himself in the kitchen—burning her cookware and making endless pots of coffee. Nana would often complain to the neighbors about all the “harlots” out there, who she believed had a way of leading good men astray. Even now, I'm puzzled by that expression.
Many years later, I met my mother's half-sister. She looked just like my mother, but she had the same fiery spirit as my granddad. It made me realize that family drama and secrets can follow us through generations, no matter how hard we try to avoid them.
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