Long Eighty nine Poems
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Through God's Grace
(with love for Barbara)
By Franklin Price
02/26/2023
Has been more than a year ago, when I lost you in my life.
I will never lose the memories. You are my dear departed wife.
The year we met each other, miracles would greet us soon.
God put us both together, and let man go to the moon.
Your life had been a little crazy, when you were young, and just a teen.
Your parents were divorced, and both, not often on the scene.
You grew up, and way too early, a shot-gun wedding was not fun.
You had a child, who died of SIDS, with husband number one.
He went off to war without you. That's how it was back in the day.
You traveled home from California, back to Florida to stay.
Your mother had remarried. Your step father was a jewel.
He loved you, as his very own, was supportive and not cruel.
The times, they were a-changing, and free love was everywhere.
I had been to Vietnam, and was divorced while I was there.
You were then with husband two, who was nothing but a cheat
When we met, you weighed but eighty-nine, was depressed and did not eat.
Your cheating husband worked with me. You might say he was a friend
I hated how he treated you. You got divorced, as was the trend.
We were attracted to each other. I know God pushed us along.
Before the year was over, we had sung the marriage song.
We were married in a baptist church, neither of us was a member
The preacher did not want to marry us, that's the way that I remember
My family is baptist. He married some of us before.
Some had ended in divorce. He was looking at the score.
He did not have to worry, for we did as we would vow.
Lived together, till death parted us, over a year ago from now.
For more than fifty years, we had, love given through God's grace.
Then Jesus called you home to Him, where you look upon His face.
My love for you will never leave me. We'll meet again on Heaven's shore.
I thank God for all the years we had, wish so much, they had been more.
I still have our daughter Dani, and granddaughters Bell and Lil
Also your brother Danny, in our hearts you're with us still.
Love always, Frank
Invisible Door
Sometime one day somewhere one when
Maybe Friday or September two thousand and ten
Or nineteen sixty five
Someday I’m not too sure
It must’ve been then
I stepped somehow
Or miss-stepped someway
And through and into the invisible box
I didn’t realise it at the time
I couldn’t see it or when
And where ever I went
I moved inside and with it with me
We moved and were together
The invisible box and me
And in my sleep with my dreams
While waking
Slowly I so slowly I slowly vanished
Inside the invisible box
Slowly so very, very slowly
My thought became quiet
More words less than complex
And mouthing silence
I slipped from the mornings
From the mirror
And wandered nonentity
Through the toy town late at night streets
And my heart became more secret
As did my language
So my eyes became more veiled
And recognised no one
Steadily surely disappearing into nothing
The …….. ness of something inside the invisible box
And time passes in the invisible box
The years drift and life continues
A daily invisible and hourly incognito
So ………………………. ?
Now ………………………?
Who am I ?
Where am I ?
Though I know exactly these things
It makes no difference
As I continue existence
Inside the invisible box
Am I happy ?
Am I sad ?
Are my hands searching for the invisible door
Of the invisible box ?
But I think though I am not sure
It takes another hand
Someone else’s hand
To open the invisible door of the invisible box
For a long, long time now nothing has entered
And nothing leaves
A series of moments
Seen through a window or is it a T.V. screen
Though I think
Though I’m not sure
I remember everything
Funny but I can’t seem to recall just when it was
Someday one time one where some when
Maybe it was Tuesday or February two thousand and twenty
Or maybe even nineteen eighty nine
I must have miss-stepped some way
And walked into the invisible box
And time runs out and nothing you do
Goes beyond repeating
A slow steady sickness as the world forgets me
Inside the invisible box
The invisible box
Inside the invisible box
I am
nobody
Bendy old whales taste like snails doing a backflip. But swarms of over eighty nine peonies are closely followed by nine bulls, an elephant tribe, a beetle colony and a party of laughing butterflies. Whose aerial display party was angled to the left in the sky with a north easterly breeze catching the cute curtains and shifting the might of the beasts in airborne state. Like undulating flights of the uniquely formed umbrellas. With wingspans measuring over two thousand kilometers. And kilometres are neither kale nor kaleidoscopic kitchens. So watch out for the breeze block ballet which often entertains sand at high tide. But disposable barbecues can be used as a hang glider if sufficient cello tape is applied to fix the wings. And the throttle can only ever be made by a six foot horn of a walrus. Stifle no swamp who is attempting a speech. And speeches by swamps are very very important. They tell the people not to drop nail polish in bowls for the bowls can get upset and cry which then causes creaky creamy bowmen to sink apples and donut cakes with piercing shots. Such a playful pudding is playing pivotal ping pong in a very talented way. It really is quite acrobatic you see. And a maze on a plate can only ever be cleared with a salt shaker and a hooded pepper grinder whose antics in the woods please the woodpeckers who have a six hour break from peck peck peck to watch the scenes in bemused contemplations. So the little pretty whale is in a flowery dress today. Good. That will please Mr shark whose love of female forms could stem from a wild neolithic neem but not a norm. Really not. Chasing skirts round and around. Wow. Interesting isn't it? And a foregone conclusion is skin to a fox falling over a peanut while a crispy wafer laughs. Hahaha drooling drive deciphering dreams. Hahaha mist in a bath of gravy. Xxxxx tyrannosaurus training teacups. Xxxxx organizationally z z z z z z z at a left over left-handed angle of a righteous right-handed rigmarole rink. Z 46% plus 293 degrees is a delightful sunbathing pan of whipped cream. Z z z z
Form:
Along luscious green acres banks steep grade
(in close proximity to
Petticoat Junction) naturemade
Perkiomen Valley watershed,
verdant landscape displayed
yours truly, (a garden variety
proto human) arrayed
solely donning birthday suit,
whose fifty plus shades hair gone grayed,
i.e. one infinitesimal measly mortal
whiles away hours, laid
back days of his life as
the world wide web turns
comprising second decade
of twenty first century
civilization, where
coronavirus veritably waylaid
furlough afflicts populations feeling betrayed
entire fabric *****sapiens staid
threadbare existence now best describes
chock full of endemic ennui proliferates,
where vast majority of people afraid
to leave their houses lest COVID-19 played
greater havoc, whereby society already upended
unemployment factor at record high since...
Great depression witnessed
courtesy somber parade,
eighty nine years ago benchmarked
from May 11, 2020,
an invisible oppressed heaviness weighed
down the madding crowds
aghast how stock market trade
hit rock bottom making paupers,
ill fate clobbered breadwinners
circumstance none could evade
October 29, 1929 haint no charade,
when Black Tuesday hit Wall Street
bitta bing bitta bang bitta played
bitty bitty chitty chitty bang bang
linkedin with irrational exuberance portrayed
American economy supine splayed
versus March 11, 2020 characterized
coronavirus outbreak as pandemic
by the WHO subsequently signaling
Trump cited "fake news" and not dismayed
to expedite drastic measures
none would impede golf, nor Mar-a-Lago
leisure him sipping lemonade
acid test teetotaler - tee zing 'bout
not quaffing electric kool-aid
without getting his doggy dimples in a bunch
he grudgingly complied and obeyed
purveyors (governors) and Anthony Fauci
complete United States government shutdown
approximately mid/late March 2020
which undertaking generated brisk business
grim reaper experienced
(still does) protracted heyday.
Ooooh wow...a nice classy fortified wine dressed in a milky white dress. Shimmering for all to see. Injest not the erosive clatter of a purple frog. As it is far to dangerous. One may end up quacking. Or shivering in a bikini on a desert floor at three am. After midnight loopholes are often embellished with sounds so one can use a curly stick to jump into and over the many plates who arrive with handbags edged with carefully extracted silver. Who sounded the hunting horn of Thor? Not I said the fourth dimensional rune stone.I am happy to keep my inscription in this lovely luxurious box. Tinder cartoon it be not. I will wait for the wind. Erotic cries of Freya balancing on cymbal clouds. Exonerating falsities with wisps of sunlit hairs. Box shut. I marvel at the eighty nine acres of a moonlit street. Standing in a sinkhole. Sunken jag. Sunk not a beetroot though. They are very pleased in a jar whirling. Questionable is the beak of a large lobster flying. Often disguised. Disguises are unnecessary and unneeded and often the cackle of a candle can evoke a wandering godly orb. Orbital sound then. Oh good. Injestion and resulting in synchronized delivery in a swamp. Turds are often great for expulsion yet a turnip can be quite quick to move. So tread very carefully in a vegetable patch to avoid scarring. A mist in a mountain is a dew ball but free-falling with a thousand foot golden baseball bat is akin to holding a sword to a heavenly cloud to release acronyms and cones of very charismatic mind orbs. Viewed in orbicular centimetres and carried on the breezes by the caterpillar planes. Planting painting properly posted placed characterful colourful clown club visiting iron rays of dome. Sap seep swept sweltering swelling serpentry sent son. Sun. X and now I will have a sit down on the appropriate asteroid. And drink a large cup of air. Under Up under Up xxxxx
Form:
The nucleus of a pin cushion is akin to the internal mechanisms of a sausage. A big massive drama but don't tell Dalai Lamar and the turtle doves will sing and swing in the breeze. A damsel in distress is a fruit pie filling times ten. Or perhaps twenty? But never pickle a grape drop from a left handed swing. Pin pom pom poppy head exploding erosive calamities. Haha eat a stew of dust and concrete with petrol fumes in a finest case. In a tunnel. Chop chop chip and a choooo choooo chooo but no luggage. Baggage is a drink driving drapery. And how cool is a Gatorade and how interesting the scatter of seeds grabbing a garter in an elevated garden in a bypass crawl. Xxxxx now eat. Pardon no patron. And mind no mind levels. It is to integrate to separate a chord from an elbow and fuel in a soup travels great distances in a leavened bowl. But bit no bite and break no bustier. In a negligee perform aerobatic circumferences across lights. Weeee weeeee eeeeeee reeeeee and a radio grinning and smiling from two little eyes of green. Greek goddess getting gods gratefully grating garbage. And an earthenware bowl. Dancing. Flotation. Footstool prancing in a nine acre field and answering a phone at this time is nevertheless seemingly stamping. A stomp thought. Not necessarily reflecting a wide angled view of beautiful sunset lit sceneries. Hahahaha but no hahaha. Now bake a cake ball and clap loudly. Then snore. Wow. A whoooooshing ball. Arriving. Boing boing boing. Great. Fabulous isn't it. Shoot score snorting shaping sharks shapely. And a green epitomized giant dancing around and around and around with 900 bikinis, a dress, a fish tank and a pile of misshapen leaves. So now play a nice game of croquet with eighty-nine frogs who have elevated seats. Haha dusk. Nice. Wow. Xxxxx travestational. Z z z z z
Form:
Darkness seeps through stately pines,
outside this home-made, tar-paper shack.
It’s two AM, and I cannot sleep again,
so I gaze out into the black.
I feel a relaxing sense of peace,
and while it may be no normal thing,
I’ve always found the embrace of night
to be strangely comforting.
Came up with my brother and a mutual friend,
tomorrow is this year’s opening day.
The tree-stands have long been built,
waiting for deer to come their way.
My family’s owned the land fifty years,
grandpa built this three-room hut,
and he chose well because this land
has yielded some monster bucks.
I know every inch of the acreage,
all one hundred eighty-nine,
but night’s stillness brings me back
to a different place and time.
Starring into the darkness,
familiar landmarks shaded and gone,
makes you wonder what hides behind
every single leaf and frond.
Is Bigfoot lurking in the dim,
staring with almost-human eyes?
Is the ghost of a murdered pioneer
still haunting where he died?
Is a trapper dressed in furs about
to step out and hail the house?
Will an Indian come in to trade,
wanting blankets for fresh-killed grouse?
Will spirits of an ancient time
let loose with unearthly wails?
Will a forgotten hermit soon emerge
to tell us the old forest tales?
Does Wendigo stalk amongst the trees,
desperate for a taste of flesh?
Do skin-walkers wander endlessly,
unable to gain a needed rest?
These things were once very real,
when my eyes were only young.
Now they’re impossible to envision
after the rising of the sun.
But sometimes in the still of night,
when I come up to this place,
the legends and monsters walk again,
and it puts a smile upon my face.
Mysterious Tower
From top of a tower I am watching Sun about to set
Western sky is ready to display twilight at best
Spectacular color patterns started to display
by reflected, refracted and diffracted Sun ray.
Leaning on the railing
I am also observing
turbulent sea waves whirling, rolling
and thrashing on the sandy shore
Sun has descended the horizon
I am whispering an orison
to God of Ocean
Charming twilight got saturated in dark
Sun rays left no single spark
All the viewers are getting down
I am the loner at night of No Moon.
I felt, now I am to leave the tower.
Already it is too late hour.
When I climbed, i counted the steps as hundred.
I started counting steps again as I am to descend.
One, two,..........twenty- four .....fifty -nine, sixty
Sixty-one......seventy-three......eighty-nine, ninety
ninety-one.......hundred, hundred-one...........two hundred
two hundred and one........five hundred........ No end.
I am descending and counting, counting and descending,
I am going down and down, steps are going down unending.
07/04/16
Vostok 1
Within the time allotted
of eighty-nine minutes,
to orbit the planet
at 17,500 miles per hour;
The Russian Cosmonaut
inside the Vostok capsule
espies the distinctive
features of earth,
from two hundred miles above
its surface.
And reflects upon
the physical violence
of energetic movement
that formed terra firma;
Then watches the sun’s rays
penetrate the atmosphere,
and thinks of the warmth
inside the magnetic shield.
He sees the beauty of the blues
deposited from frozen comets.
Out here, it’s so tranquil
thinks Yuri Gagarin,
first person in space.
“Cedar to Dawn,
I see earth. The visibility is excellent, over!”
His message relays
to the Soviet command station.
Then, the Vostok retros fire over Africa
for gravity to force re-entry,
and readies himself for ejection.
Four miles above the Volga River
basin drainage system.
***
Notes:
April 12, 1961: On April 12, 1961, Yuri Gagarin aboard Vostok 1 launched from Baikonur Cosmodrome, Kazakhstan, USSR at 6:07 am local time. The total mission lasted 108 minutes. He was the first person in space, and the first person to orbit the earth.
In order to escape gravity, the capsule needs to hit 7.9 km/s or 17,500 miles per hour, which is orbital velocity (approximately 20 times the speed of sound).
Vostok: means East in Russian
Cedar (Kedr-Russian pine): Gagarin’s call sign
Dawn (Zarya): Launch facility call sign
On May 5, 1961, Alan Shepard was the first American astronaut launched into space, and John Glenn became the first American astronaut to orbit the earth on Feb. 20, 1962.
Youth, having deserted them long ago,
They had little to look for in life
Than making the remaining days joyful
So the octogenarians- Tom and Sam
Together formed an intimate league
Every day, they would, without fail
Meet at the country park in the evenings
A ritual, they had religiously followed
And enjoyed more than anything else
There they would sit … chatting for hours
Sometimes feeding the pigeons that landed in flocks
Or watching the children’s mirthful play
Or feasting on the beauty of the setting sun
One day Tom didn’t show up as before
Sam conjectured, he was unwell
As days passed with no news of him
Sam felt anxious and lonelier than before
But having no means to contact him
And not knowing where he lived
He suppressed his commotion inside
As time moved on in its grinding wheel,
Sam slowly grew reconciled to the fact
That he had lost a bosom friend
Whom he would never again see
But one day as a bolt from the blue
Tom made his appearance at the park
So excited was Sam on seeing his friend
He asked what had happened to him
Tom replied calmly- “I had been in jail”
“Jail – What in the world for”??
Sam couldn’t hide his shock n’ wonder
“Well”- Tom asked “Don’t you remember
That cute little waitress at the coffee shop
Where sometimes together we would go”?
Rummaging his memory, Sam dug out her face.
“Once having grown a little amorous
I had flirted with her for a little while
But she filed a rape charge against me!
At eighty nine, I felt so proud
That when I got into the court
I pleaded guilty, and that damn judge
Gave me 30 days of imprisonment…. for…… PERJURY”!