Long Eighty two Poems
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33rd BIRTHDAY Part 1
December twelfth of the twelfth,
Born with wealth, kept within the internal house, no clue in eighty two,
True story here at last, I never knew my past,
Few people see within their hourglass,
Everybody’s sleeping, and it’s two thousand and fifteen,
Up down, self-esteem is what makes me a fiend,
Finding a dream, mastering a craft,
This outlasts your ignorant thoughts of the past,
Mind presence, manifested and blessed into physical reality really fast,
In actuality, blown in a rhyme confessing this,
Witnessed today, the turning thirty three and given a key,
Simplest not tricky, ways to see this in rewind,
My mind state, on a mission, rated in other ways,
Not displayed through communication,
Can’t be found within discussions,
My mission of all missions,
Knowledge is the commission,
Finding knowledge of solutions,
To control all my minds distribution,
Say what? Yeah your brain has rot,
Always saying “I forgot”…. But,
Word to the narrator,
Don’t let your ego rape ya,
It will seriously hate ya,
So stand in mightily manner,
Where he goes you go,
And where you go he goes,
Mindset of Satan and his Demons,
Streaming my flows but most are unconscious,
Subconscious automatic is turned on,
Feel the static bestowed sub atomic physics at work on this road,
Safety mode is also turned from off to on,
Upon the path rode by illusions in front of you, visions of sin,
Negativity is what it brings,
I sit beneath my own opened wings,
Cut the strings not long ago,
Now battling my ego, conditioned self-logo,
Can you go where my words want to take you?
You’re new to this game remaining forever the same?
Sometimes I rhyme the same things, but like rain it needs to fall,
Falling into your minds at this special time, then I rest
Thought you knew, your lame existence needs addressed,
Messed up in the horrors through our senses causing us stress,
I confess, the narrator, written words upon this manuscript,
I scribe to address, what the real narrator gives me to press,
Expressed through the poet on the attack,
Quincy Mac has these wise words back......
Quincy Mac
date written: 12.12.2015
I sat down to watch the radio
There was nothing on TV
I have two hundred channels
But there was sweet F.A for me
I could have watched one channel
And learned to fricasse
A chicken raised on wild grains
By a woman chef named Bea
I started checking channels
But I decided in mid flick
That I was getting tired
And I was also feeling sick
So I sat and watched the radio
Since there was nothing on TV
I have two hundred channels
But there was sweet F.A for me
I worked on through the listings
English, French and some bad ****
There were movies on one station
That were made 'fore I was born
Out of all the things I saw on there
The best show I could see
Was something shown in black and white
Made in nineteen sixty three
My TV s high definition
With cables left and right
But to find a show I'd like to watch
Was taking half the night
So I sat and watched the radio
Watching nothing happen fast
But as I sat there watching
I travelled bckwards to my past
Still flicking through the channels
Trying to find something to see
I thought I'd found a hockey game
But it was all in Punjabi
So, I listened to the music
Watched the radio, passing time
Then I thought, why do I have this?
With what I paid, it was a crime
eleven channels showed the same
times 8 networks made
at least eighty eight tv stations
That didn't make the grade
Twenty two were pay for view
The French networks were ten
Then the networks there in Real HD
And so, it started once again
Pay for **** was fourteen strong
New shows added two
Weather, sports and info shows
Now I was at one eighty two.
I could have bought alot of stuff
On informercials through the night
I could have bought Pro Active
But instead I watched the light
I turned back to the radio
With the station light in green
It was better than the tv set
And all the crap I'd seen
So, Tonight I watched the radio
There was nothing on TV
But as I sat there bathed in that green light
The music showed me all I need to see.
It is a gorgeous spring day, there are greens on both sides of the road.
The smells are fantastic, and my hair is blowing like I’m on a cycle.
I’m actually driving my new purple trans am, windows down, music blaring.
The white racing stripes might have been a bit much, but
Not for me. The sun is beaming on us with magic happy.
BRRRR BRRRR GRRRR
Should I try to outrun him?
He’s gaining on me fast. I glance at speedometer. Swear.
82 m.p.h. This is what happens when I listen to the Oldies.
I pull off, waiting, heart beating fast.
Lanky patrolman pulls himself out of car, gets younger as he gets closer.
“Hi,” I say, brightly.
He says, “License and registration, Ma’am.”
He is carrying his ticket pad, and a pen.
My hands are shaking as I start stammering nonsense.
He studies my license a second, says, “Just a minute, Ma’am,”
Walks back to his car, slides in, sits down, spends an hour or two in there.
I get worried I might have accidentally handed him my big-limit Visa card.
My heart is thudding, as I watch him laboriously walk back to my Trans Am
Who is not feeling so fine and foxy now. “It’s your fault!” I tell her. “You did this!”
“You were going 81,” he tells me. Eighty-two, I wisely don’t say.
“I am giving you an opportunity to slow down, and today, I’m giving you a warning,” he says.
No smile. No expression. He could give a mannequin a lesson in subtle.
I cannot help it. “Why?”
A glimmer of an ant’s smile starts in the left corner of his mouth, for a second, but he quickly snaps it off.
“Here’s the deal, Ma’am,” he tells me. “I stopped this car yesterday, on this same curve. I wouldn’t feel right about giving you a ticket on the same corner, at the same speed after letting your 17-year-old daughter off with a warning.”
In my head I picture my adorable blonde daughter who was wearing white hot-pants yesterday.
As a last hurrah he says, “I’m going to be out here for another two hours, Ma’am.”
We both smile.
This is the best warning I’ve ever had!
isn't it? kent fog burger faces driving in a motorised saucepan.
A nine foot rod is better than a three foot stick and a three foot stick outsmarts any microfiber jewel encrusted steel bow when attempting to cast over to catch, kill and consume. Oh pearly pink mushrooms and cheeses, must you sway so and must the writings writhe upon the wind and ground to create such chaotic interruptions and vibrational discomfort. Well it is most hampering really. Hampering to effortless sweeps through the air with lines through the atom less sky. This is no automatic controlled playlist. And nor is it a bacon sandwich jumping out of the pan and leaving the camping stove at high speed metronome roundabout weaves. Like tick tick tick tick tick tick tick. Oh go ring a bell then. Rather irksome. I however will spin and cast and spin around on the ground. After waiting several hours it will then be pull then gutted then head chopped after a short collision with a little rock to break the breath of life. Exciting expunging experience explosive explicative extract even eight eels. And eels are not wheels nor turning on tubular tree pipes whose drone knowledge spans the scented breezes of the triangle lake. At dusk. Variant variable vary. And a whisky and cream pie with a fragrant jooos is neither a dilapidated delicatessen nor a dragging depopulation curve on a Swiss cheese map of syrup shreds. Beam then break then alight the cable cars with ten trotting ponies, fifteen mugs of beer, a fortune cookie with nice long legs, an elongated pile of flamingos weighing eighty two thousand kilos and a small tie pin grinning. Now go up to the apex over there and admire the view with that crew. Then set up the tent on the highest peak and bake a culinary delight. Of over eight courses. Heavenly and divine and rather outstanding too. Cloud clings climbing cups. Z precautionary Z at nine moomins to eleven left handed chest of drawers. Xxxxx Z
Form:
Could be any day now,
waiting for that last breath and a peek,
an opening, of glazed orbs once blue.
Wanting him to stay forever
even though his body laughs at me.
Each consuming cell eager for his parts;
each consuming cell seeking malice against him.
Time rips away
as cafeteria food tears apart my stomach.
I churn altogether with labored breaths we share –
One, two… three, four… neither of us ready.
I hunger for a smile from ragged ends of lips,
holding a crushed pastry in my hand and looking
on the first man I ever loved.
Down sterile hallways and up to floor three,
past gleaming instruments waiting for purchase,
where days ago he inched forward, struggled, bending,
working at leaving there –
Twists and pulls and penicillin and Jello.
“Getting out of here tomorrow.”
Yet room 3220 never released him.
Eighty-two years, some tattered, some fulfilled,
his face before an enchantment of warmth.
I kiss him and his cheeks dampen and he cannot hear me
because the whispers devour him in such a small room,
poised to yank grandfather away from me.
I yell, surprising myself, worried about his safekeeping.
And they tell me the angels’ surround him.
But I fear giving him over to strangers
and question everything then, right then,
while mourners touch him, all eyes able, all mouths perfunctory motions
Of grief and despair that only I should share with only him.
And these angels… are they good enough
to take his hands turning blue,
and his second-hand hearing aids?
At three a.m. I cringe at my own suspicions
and with the fifth breath I believe in that place, for him,
anything (even that) I will believe, for him.
His prayers are mine as long as the pain ceases,
though my angels are morphine and the twelve-hour shifts
of Margaret and Sam and Betty,
who have known him three days and call him “sweetheart”.
Grandma, The Farm And The Silent Young Cat
Before soft golden rays the roses slept
Night, its slumbers had not yet bid adieu
From its barn perch the young, silent cat leapt
Upon the old farmer's empty brown shoe
And from the farmhouse, breakfast call rang out
Grandma had no time for late sleepyheads
In her sternest voice, she gave warning shout
"Up and at'em, all rascals out of bed"!
That ringing throughout the place came alive
The cat swiftly raced to the backdoor
Soon as it opened in it would dive
To chase away mice was its daily chore
Table set with coffee, eggs and pancakes
Surrounded by those hungry mouths to feed
So delicious like only grandma could make
Out we went to fed livestock and plant seeds.
Midnoon her roses glowed vibrant red
Each paid homage to life and mother sun
Decked around the porch and the old shed
Grandma watered them having such fun
That garden and her kids her pride and joy
She still agile and spry at eighty two
With sweet memories of her three young boys
Each new day she thanked the good Lord too.
Before soft golden rays the roses slept
Night, its slumbers had not yet bid adieu
From its barn perch the young, silent cat leapt
Upon the old farmer's empty brown shoe
And from the farmhouse, breakfast call rang out
Grandma had no time for late sleepyheads
In her sternest voice, she gave warning shout
"Up and at'em, all rascals out of bed"!
Robert J. Lindley, 6-29-2021
Rhyme, ( Those were the glory days of youth )
Note:
As was promised, I wrote this new poem today,
using the phrase, the silent cat leapt-as was noted
from the haiku in my new blog, title-
"The Image, The Inner Reaches Of The Mind"
Thank you, James Marshall Goff for noting it
as your favorite line of that poem….
I promised to write a poem using that phrase
and have now done so.
Now, ol’ Twister Tom he was quite a cowboy find—
A real rock hard cowpoke, though the question begged—
Some say that he was a legend in his own mind,
He’d a been six foot six if he weren’t so bow-legged!
But standin’ five foot two he was a dryin’ breed,
So he took up wordin’ and became a poet!
At eighty-two years all the big world he had seed,
So he was a master bard before he knowed it!
So Tom the bronc twister he done went on a tour
And he read his poems at cowboy gatherin’s—
They liked his gravel voice and his odd looks for sure
And they loved all his colorful palatherin’s!
But there got to be so many versifiers,
That it started to seem lots of folks didn’t care—
So they all turned into cowboy verse deniers—
It was so dern crowded that nobody went there!
Tom joined the ranks of Barker, Kiskaddon and Clark,
Chapman, Morant, Fletcher and his great Knibbs—
“It shore beats singin’ ta all them cows in the dark,
And I don’t like wearin’ those overalls with bibs!”
And rarely in recitin’ did Tom make a flub,
But there was a lot he lacked in propriety—
They said he was so dern good he should join a club,
Like the famed Dead Cowboy Poet’s Society!
But with Twister Tom that just didn’t set too right—
Said, “I don’t want ta be in no society,
What takes in any ol’ buzzard just on his sight
And would accept as a member that likes of me!”
But they swore that he’d be a perfect candidate,
Yet he then said, “It seems there’s somethin’ you ferget—
Before I is one of you cowboy poet’s, mate—
They’s just one thang you overlooked – I ain’t dead yet!”
So ol’ Twister Tom he kept makin’ him a name,
He read his verse smooth and with no anxiety—
And when he was dead wound up in the hall of fame
And in the Dead Cowboy Poet’s Society!
Jessie James was a fine young lad,
When he joined the Confederate troops.
He learned his craft as a shootist and spy,
While traveling with this group.
His commander was one Capt. William Quantrill,
A man with a checkered past;
And under this man he learned hit and run,
Leave your enemies standing aghast.
After his death in 1865,
Quantrill's celebrity stayed,
And Jessie and Frank used what they had learned,
And found guerrilla warfare paid.
They formed with their friends a wild outlaw band,
And looted the banks and trains.
It seemed to work out just as they planned.
To them it seemed quite a good game.
The money came easy and life was good,
And Jessie took him a wife;
Deciding to settle down for a while,
And lead a respectable life;
But two men were killed in a robbery gone bad,
And the governor wanted his life;
And one of his friends thought he'd turn him in,
And get paid and save himself strife.
Dead or Alive made no difference to him,
The reward would still be the same,
But Jessie was fast and his aim was true,
So it seemed to Bob Ford it was plain,
Jessie would have to be caught unawares,
If he would celebrity claim,
The honor, prestige, reward and glory,
As the man who shot Jessie James.
April the third, eighteen eighty-two,
Robert crept up on his friend,
Shot him in the back as a coward will do,
And that's how his story ends;
But Robert lived on in shame and disgrace,
As a low down, back stabbing coward,
Who betrayed his friend for money and fame,
On the day that he shot Thomas Howard.
"AND JESUS SAID UNTO PETER,'PUT UP AGAIN YOUR SWORD INTO IT'S PLACE FOR ALL THEY WHO TAKE THE SWORD SHALL PERISH BY THE SWORD."
Matthew 26:52
For Dana's History Contest
Two score and a decade have past
It's time to be reflective
To take account of all I've done
And put it in perspective
All my wild oats are sown
The grain is in the bin
Sometimes I wish I had a way
To show just where I've been
I map out my destruction
So those who come will know
The roads that I have taken
Are not the way to go
I've climbed the tree of life
And sampled all the sins
The good ones and the bad ones
I've set foot on every limb
I've bathed in pools of sorrow
I've danced in pleasures rain
I've walked through fields of glory
And suffered human pain
I've battled my afflictions
I've embraced the joy of love
I took what I was given
And thanked the Lord above
Not everything was happy
Yet all was not that bad
I'm grateful for the journey
Through the life that I have had
So now I sit in retrospect
Of all my living days
Writing down my words of life
To put them on display
The echos of my mothers words
Still linger in my head
"Don't mess around with all those things
Or one day you'll be dead"
My father lived to eighty two
He drank and smoked and cussed
My mother lived to eighty one
And never touched the stuff
He sat there at the alter
Of his favorite bar and grill
Drinking sacrificial booze
And giving up his will
She was pure with heart of gold
She never went astray
Yet life left her a decade with
No thoughts of yesterday
Alzheimers was her reward
For doing all things right
Bed ridden in her final days
Until she saw the light
Who's to say how it will end
Or where that place will be
A gutter in the streets of life
Or home where I should be
So as I sit and contemplate
These moments of my past
I think about the road ahead
And how long it will last
Rockman :-)
Thursday, December 31, 2020 signals conclusion of latest leap year
Whether alphabetized, digitized,
homogenized, marginalized, satirized... place names
from "A" to Zaire
Thursday, December 31, 2020
signals conclusion of latest leap year.
The Pacific island of Tonga first
to ring in New Year 2021
glad tidings dispersed
celebrated at 10 AM GMT December 31 -
making tiny island nation
first to head into a fresh year.
Second to last
will be American Samoa 11AM –
just 558 miles from Tonga,
where locals and visitors
celebrate a full 25 hours before.
Earth's orbit around the Sun (year)
and rotation on its axis (day) where
latter not perfectly in line there
by necessitating
smooth functioning of Gregorian calendar
(also called New Style Calendar)
which did premiere
fifteen eighty two courtesy king's spear.
Ever since 1752, whence
in the modern sense
the first leap year implemented
madding crowds reportedly rioted
most likely uttering expletive
than "what nonsense"
reportedly riots erupted
courtesy chaos did arrange,
when England made the change
spurring some citizens
demanding immediate compensatory exchange
they get their 11 days back home on their range
from the government haint so strange.
To determine whether a year is a leap year,
follow these steps without Fanfare
For The Common Man
the famous title of Aaron Copeland air:
1. If the year is evenly divisible by 4,
go to step 2. Otherwise, go to step 5.
2. If the year is evenly divisible by 100,
go to step 3. Otherwise, go to step 4.
3. If the year is evenly divisible by 400,
go to step 4. Otherwise, go to step 5.
4. The year is a leap year (it has 366 days).
5. The year is not a leap year (it has 365 days)