Long Emboldened Poems
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...inspired by 'Portrait Of A Lady' by T.S. Eliot
On winter days the view outside is nebulous at best,
within, the furniture is as it always was, and I am waiting,
waiting for a glimpse of you to silence my equivocating.
Somber is my attitude, the light is dim, curtains at rest,
as dust mites dance, the clock ticks unobtrusively,
marking time, the chamber maids make ready for my guest,
and dust the tables, clean the silver, place the flowers perfectly.
You return from 'La Boheme,' affected by the tragedy,
emboldened by Puccini's art, transfiguring his sadness
to an everlasting theme of hope eternal, with no misery.
A small group of confederates who seize the meaning clearly,
examine his conceptions with a true and honest face,
only those who can conceptualize his grace.
And we are bereft of conversation.
The curtain falls between our faces,
we are left with little else to say.
Gone are common talk, and airs and graces,
walls have grown, and bars along the way.
Your friends have grown in stature, tried and true,
reflecting what you feel within your soul,
and you must follow them and share their view,
as long as it will bring you to your goal.
Friendship is a bond that can't be broken,
even though you dally with your heart,
you cannot spring the lock, that sacred token,
that keeps your deepest feelings true to art.
Your friends are pure disciples of your creed,
they will legitimize your need
to pave your way to conquer and succeed.
Within the mellow of the violins,
the sweetness of the celli and the horns,
I hear a tattoo beating all alone,
the tympani begin to pound
a loud crescendo of their own.
I listen, there is something out of tone.
With cigarettes and sherry, unconcerned,
we wander through the garden unaware,
take in the sights and pass without a care,
as if our similarities don't matter,
we give ourselves to nonsense, idle chatter.
Roses now are brightly blooming,
to your friends now you are calling.
I know not of what you speak,
I cannot fathom your delight.
You say: 'Try to understand my mission,
learn to trust in things unseen,
I must find what nature seeks
and fathom its eternal meaning.
Youth will never gather roses,
never see beyond the garden.'
I will stay for now, trapped in the cold.
...inspired by 'Portrait of a Lady' by T.S. Eliot
On winter days the view outside is nebulous at best,
within, the furniture is as it alway was, and I am waiting,
waiting for a glimpse of you to silence my equivocating.
Somber is my attitude, the light is dim, curtains at rest,
as dust mites dance, the clock ticks unobtrusively,
marking time, the chamber maids make ready for my guest,
and dust the tables, clean the silver, place the flowers perfectly.
You return from 'La Boheme,' affected by the tragedy,
emboldened by Puccini's art, transfiguring his sadness
to an everlasting theme of hope eternal, with no misery.
A small group of confederates who seize the meaning clearly,
examine his conceptions with a true and honest face,
only those who can conceptualize his grace.
And we are bereft of conversation.
The curtain falls between our faces,
we are left with little else to say.
Gone are common talk, and airs and graces,
walls have grown, and bars along the way.
Your friends have grown in stature, tried and true,
reflecting what you feel within your soul,
and you must follow them and share their view,
as long as it will bring you to your goal.
Friendship is a bond that can't be broken,
even though you dally in your heart,
you cannot break the bond, the sacred token,
that keeps your deepest feelings pure to art.
Your friends are true disciples of your creed,
they will legitimize your need
to pave your way to conquer and succeed.
Within the screeching of the violins,
the humming of the basses and the horns,
I hear a tattoo beating all alone,
the bass drum then begins
to pound a loud crescendo of its own.
I listen, is there something out of tone?
With cigarettes and sherry, unconcerned,
we wander through the garden unaware,
take in the sights and pass without a care,
as if our differences didn't matter,
we give ourselves to nonsense, idle chatter.
Roses now are brightly blooming,
to your friends now you are calling.
I know not of what you speak,
I cannot fathom your delight.
You say: 'Try to understand my mission,
learn to trust in things unseen,
I must find what nature seeks
and follow its eternal yearning.
Youth will never gather roses,
never see beyond the garden.'
I will stay forever in the cold.
Inevitable; that's me, simply called discouragement...
Oppressive is my nature; you should be warned
I attack everyone; yet I'm exempting you:
Yes, you who are now despondent, broken-hearted
Frustrated, and about to quit!
Are you aware of my presence?
Can you hear my mocking, taunting reproach???
I'm challenging you, dear believer of God...
You who have been testifying of your steadfast faith
To face me; and prevail over my misery-grants!
Oh, come on... rise up and meet me!!!
Where's your courage? I see no valiant spirit...
Just sighing in despair, murmur of complaints
Loser, I leave you, wallowing in your guilt
I'll trample you midst pity-party sessions.
~~~~~~~
Do I hear you praying unto the Lord?
May I congratulate you then...
You're now moving toward championship
Actually, smiting me is never impossible
Vanquishing me is easy when you trust in God.
Since you're stirred-up* and fired-up against me
Place yourself in the right position to thank your Creator
A heart of gratitude blocks my entrance I confess...
Did you get me! Is manifesting thanksgiving difficult?
Sure it is if you remain to be selfish, arrogant, discontented.
With worshipful heart, keep cheering yourself
Remember David** in the Scriptures who encouraged himself?
Well, you should; thus, abide in the infallible Word of God
Thru that, you'll be enabled, empowered, emboldened
Ready to exalt God, and to minister to others with love.
Unbeatable!!! Yes, that's you, child of God whom He upholds
That's you, soldier of the Lord whom He guards
Indeed, that's you seeking Him with His grace
Sure, that's you humbly yielding to His power
Fighting me, discouragement, with the Sword of the Spirit triumphantly.
*2Timothy 1:6-7 Wherefore I put thee in remembrance that thou stir up the gift of God, which is in thee by the putting on of my hands. For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.
**1Samuel 30:6 And David was greatly distressed;...but David encouraged himself in the LORD his God.
February 23, 2019
Edited on March 27, 2022
1st place, "A BRIAN STRAND 1097" Free Verse Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand; judged on 3/27/2022.
Perplexed by riddles and betrayed by Time,
The lonely spirit travels far adrift
On the horizon’s dim and distant line,
In search of other souls, both strong and swift.
From the eternal temple of the gods
Come roiling forth three dark and ruthless birds,
Which carry in their beaks three magic rods
Upon whose sight the dread of men is stirred.
The golden rods are dread, despair and death,
Which haunt all men throughout their mortal lives,
And whose dark curse is borne with every breath
By these three harpies rising from their hives.
Descending from the heavens they converge
While circling round and round the mountain top,
Where in the dwindling light the senses merge
And even Time itself comes to a stop.
The vast expanses of the earth divide
And, with loud thunder, fiery lava gushes out
While mountains and the seas are torn aside,
Allowing clouds of sulphur smoke to spout.
The birds of prey unchain the lightning storm
Onto the mighty mountain’s snowy side,
While from the depths of Hades there takes form
A demiurge of human shape and stride.
Emboldened by his grip on death and fear,
He rises tall, walks forth and calls to fight
The ghastly legions of the deep, who cheer
As mankind contemplates the growing night.
Olympus watches from above, unseen,
But worries not, for humans are no match,
And Jove’s revenge against all men has been
A treasured scheme which, finally, can hatch.
The helpless crowd is beaten and dispersed
While darkness and despair engulf the scene
And servants of the ruthless lord become well versed
In hunting men for whom fair Hope is queen.
The world is turned into an endless maze
Where men are lost and wander all alone
While braving hunger, thirst and heavy haze
In search of hidden tunnels leading home.
They search in vain for what cannot be found,
Encouraged by false hope and blinding thought.
They rush away, bewildered and unbound
Along dim paths where rummage comes to naught.
Such was the day when man became a slave
To petty strife, to agony and death,
The day Olympus sentenced to the grave
All those on earth who labor and draw breath.
Find my poems and published poetry volumes at www.eton-langford.com
As we search the river’s source,
It jumps the banks of our twisted past,
Set sail for the uncharted,
The pale flickering of the pole star,
The ever present circle,
Surrounding, unfolding, revealing,
Where mere words find their ending,
My being extols with creation,
As the unseen manifests,
My heart glows at the hope of promise,
Wings of protection above,
Passover and Pentecost crossing,
The sentient creatures converge,
The fluxing pulse of the Comforter,
And I marvel at the care,
That she left the Teacher’s feet for me,
Within His radiant love,
Lives the sustenance of our spirits,
Behold the divine order,
This ink is the blood of the prophets,
The words that come unbeckoned,
To every thief emboldened by grace,
To whom pardon is granted,
Pension within His magnus opus,
New senses are awakened,
All the expanse of ether alive,
The tongue of my muse proclaims,
The Logos who is Lion and Lamb,
The cloud of saints angelic,
Ever spreading the incense of prayer,
Those sown in humility,
Are the heirs of the royal bloodline,
This is the message of love:
“Tend the spark within; fear is no more”,
So hearing, I am entranced,
Imbued in spinning perpetual,
Beyond the evanescent,
Dreams coalesce in truth triumphant,
On this plane surrounding time,
Reverence is felt in shades of silence,
Communing I am aware,
Our souls form the structure of heaven,
Grafting to the woven chord,
Volition found in acquiescence,
Eyes set to the horizon,
My love drinks in a dawn without end,
The well that will not run dry,
Our longing, His signature sincere,
Washing in resurrection,
With the sign of victory christened,
The Light Incarnate burning,
Baptized by fire, our eyes perfected,
Perceiving that great storehouse,
Where moth and rust could never be known,
There every blessing returns,
In harmony transposed to healing,
Upon her visage reflects,
The Illuminate everlasting,
Burning from our countenance,
The remembrance of locusts and lies,
Latent instinct intrinsic,
Drawing us to our intended home,
Confident in obtaining,
Beatrice kneels before the I AM,
Eternal Author of time,
Whose character fills the Book of Names
Seventeen thousand special K
vanished into thin air
in one fell swoop life savings
fraudulent fiend did clear
yours truly duped
courtesy scammer with consummate flair
rowdies in peanut gallery doth jeer
raucous insult to injury outware
any remaining shred,
where peace of mind concerned
unraveling threads feeling victimized
Harvey Specter's lobbed hand grenades
fractured, exploded, destroyed... psyche
how mean spirited and unfair.
Amidst din in noggin
analogous to tower of Babel
meaningless mysterious cable
enclosed holding key
to deliver remuneration
bringing tears of joy
and Hollywood ending
to torturous surreal fable
decrypted applying
following conversion table
7.15 6.21.14.4 13.5
fiasco from fraudster
(fiendish) frazzles father
would elicit flickering salvation.
I still haint reckoned with reality
and shake me head in disbelief
mourning forsaken legal tender
while yours truly merrily
strolling along information superhighway
unexpected encountering grief
sorely missing nest egg
linkedin with devilish scheme hatched
when computer hacker
impersonating Apple technician
lured me into a virtual net.
He (who spoke
with a clipped English affect)
his trust earned,
though no questions I asked him,
thus never double checked
truthfulness of authenticity
regarding his being credentialed
by Apple Computer Company
only after the fact painfully learning
checking and savings accounts wrecked.
Expertise with fleecing
sheepish folks like me
most likely found him laughing
all the way to the bank
donning poised demeanor ernest and frank
allowed, enabled, and provided
being emboldened, empowered
to pull off heist,
which legerdemain possibly refined
playing many a boyhood prank
pull the wool over my eyes
and extracting legal tender
he slyly, knowingly,
and deftly did yank
key personal information
compromising willpower to remain alive,
whereat suicidal ideation
(via prescription medication overdose)
teases as modus operandi to escape
death by a thousand cuts
unsure how I can weather insolvency,
a bitter battle to survive
and bear witness to monies thrive.
I rejected form.
I rejected meter.
I rejected editing.
I rejected reading.
I'm a flash in the pan.
I'm fueled by emotions.
I'm emboldened by scars.
I'm challenged by time.
I wonder how far I could go
if I took the time to study.
If I sat down and honed my craft
and took pride in my words.
I'm certainly no prodigy.
Every verse came at a cost.
Perhaps I'm finally paying the price
by stagnating in my growth.
I let my fingers write.
My mind is actually blank.
It's just a silly white canvas
that never blossomed.
I never once toiled.
I never once struggled.
If it was hard I just gave up
and deleted the verse.
I'm told I write prose
rather than true poetry.
Maybe I don't understand
what the difference is.
I never had any talent.
Writing was my safe space.
Now I have to wonder
if it was ever safe at all.
Admittedly I rejected effort.
I didn't want to actually try
When the minimalist approach
seemed to work so well.
I'm not a prodigy.
I'm not a genius.
I'm not gifted.
I'm not published.
I dreamed of the glass ceiling
but I never dreamed of breaking it.
Maybe I'm just damned to always look through it
and see writers much more dedicated than I.
I made omelettes without breaking eggs.
I created houses with no foundation.
I sang songs without reading the lyrics.
I baked cakes without a recipe.
I don't want to sound entitled
but my writing deserves to be better.
In twelve years I should have accomplished more
than using these poems as tissue paper for tears.
In 2007 I was just a kid
writing five to ten poems daily.
That effort got me noticed
and I shared my verse with crowds.
I was driven by ambition
and fueled by emotion.
All I wanted was adulation
when all I had known was the gallows.
This is the last flash in the pan.
Fleeting emotions can't guide my pen forever.
I do not know what the future holds
but no longer will I be complacent.
I am a writer.
I am a poet.
I am a lover.
I am a fighter.
This is the swan song
of my old poetic style.
With eyes on the horizon
My pen will ever be furious.
Labyrinth of Sighs
Wondering through a labyrinth of sighs
More platitudes with attitudes that never question why
A litany of afterthoughts about where we go when we die
An emboldened range of rude retorts refuting the reasons why I cry
A canon blazing wartime over a century ago
The night sky spent stargazing, wondering what we really know
A multinational conglomerate just phasing out more duplicitous advertisements that “flow”
A hungry orphan on a street corner, with nowhere else to go
Self-aggrandising promotion everywhere I seem to look
The wealthy uprising causing commotions, celebrities writing books
A typhoon on the island coast, Turkey on the day the earth shook
A morbid day that hurts the most,
An undignified Capatalist crook
The arrogant certainty of western superiority
The way the monotony forms around typecast minorities
The precedence of material goods conspiring to take global priority
The contradictions of individualism that consume the vast majority
The medical anomalies and surgical advancements
The incredible atrocities of cosmetic enhancements
A formidable ferocity of genetics and semantics
An incredible philosophy of frenetic theological pedantics
A sincere gaze of solidarity into another persons eyes
A mere phase of different polarities that use scientific graphs to signify
A Purple Haze of creative improvisational genius that cannot be quantified
A confused daze of inconvenience as another witness is proven to have lied
Returning to the central point of a theoretical discourse
Concerning a fundamental joint possible hypothetical recourse
A burdened soldier after war suffering the agony of remorse
An ancient boulder from the shores of civilisations geographic historical course
A curious mathematician, an inspiring original think
The spurious contradictions of a political candidate on the brink
A furious proposition concerning a scandalously placed eye wink
Human connectivity and the endless search for the missing link
Copywright Elizabeth Moroz
I’ve brought this up a few times before…but again I have to share
how there is a kind of magic imbedded in this tie-dye bucket hat I wear.
There is something welcoming in this hat…something safe and kind and gentle.
And, having just returned from England and France…it’s appeal is intercontinental
It’s hard to imagine all the wonderful conversations this little hat’s begat…
and I long ago lost count of all the people who stop to say, “I love your hat”.
Perhaps they understand when they see its bright colors draw near…
that from the person underneath this hat…there is nothing they need fear.
Take the other day for instance…I had an encounter I won’t soon forget
when I found myself in a conversation with a man I’ve never met.
We began talking about a stove Deborah and I were about to buy then quickly and with ease…
the conversation turned from this stove to our families.
This man felt comfortable sharing that his daughter was transitioning…
It had to be the hat I thought as I lovingly touched its brim
as this man was proud to tell me now his daughter now looks a little more like him.
I wish every one in this world who is prejudiced and bigoted…
who have a distorted and misinformed point of view…
would understand that 1 in every 10 people they meet is LGTBQ.
Which means the most die-hard bigots out there…if they opened their eyes would see
there’s probably and LGBTQ member hiding in their family.
Hiding from their hatred…developing lasting scars…
afraid to let the world know…exactly who they are.
But there are people who acknowledge and accept people the bigots don’t
who offer them safety and love…where prejudice people won’t.
A place where they are not only welcomed…but emboldened…Imagine that…
which makes me wonder if that is the beauty, and the power and the magic of the hat.
And makes me wish more people out there…
more parents, politicians, world leaders and diplomats…
would one day wake up and discover…
the kind of magic that’s in my hat.
A handy dandy family thing, I did not know from Adam
Monstrous disembodied giant hairy hand...
reached out thru Macbook Pro
Lenovo external screen
"no way can this be real,"
I muttered to no one in particular.
Bug eyed, slack jawed, yours truly froze
petrified as an insidious wrist took rat -
manifested arm - matured
into huge fingered palm meadowed beast,
reached out thru cyberspace,
the likes of which garden variety club
roguish poor trait pal mystery,
aye never saw before since
which can easily cast spell.
Immobilized with fear
hypnotic trance
rendered me immobile
nsync king fast into
an hub bomb bin hubble
likeness of very same entity.
Entire body electric (mine)
courtesy dark shadows
suddenly rendered me into
phantasmagorical multi dimensional
gruesome garden variety golem,
no longer cowardly (lion of course)
bear with me, and play along,
and also bull eave tigers
live in Tony neighborhoods.
Actually spookiness made
avast improvement upon
mine former physiognomy,
this flickr ring quick
assessment surmised courtesy
hesitantly exploring, qua tactile
alien features comprising faux paws
linkedin to Neanderthal being
over laying inferior features (mine)
plus pluperfect poetic opportunity
without rhyme nor reason
(ugh questionable place
the word palimpsest fits).
Thus Spake Zarathustra
yawping, plucking,
engendering... binary rhythm -
imagine dragons chiming
2001 a space odyssey theme
and protohuman (actually disguised actor)
appearing within opening scene.
Chewbacca look alike
or his doppelganger,
(albeit pint size version
standing seventy inches),
nonetheless stark improvement
versus geeky, nerdy, ugly...
born this way poker face chap
emboldened to frighten
bully wannabe and/or their ilk.
Damn, another daydream
proved "FAKE" thus
dashing hoop dreams
and condemning one lone
deplorable basket case schlemazel
to experience nightmarish gallery
courtesy outer limits of twilight zone.