Long Far off Poems
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Far off the beaten track and trail
on quest for music’s Holy Grail
led pilgrims on biblical scale
more than can be counted.
With midsummer sun on our cheek
in tents to shelter we did seek
and pitched them at its highest peak
on a hilltop mounted
As we climbed the lean of the hill
my beer I would try not to spill
and sat with the great unwashed till
olé and adios.
It was I, El Skeet, amigo,
in my poncho and sombrero
half-cut like a loco gringo
who waved “vaya con dios!”
We lit yet another hash bong
all up in smoke like Cheech & Chong
and passed it to each one along
under the cop radars.
Till late as wasted brain cells flag
with every mind trip headfu-ck drag
I tucked in to my sleeping bag
on the hill ‘neath the stars
As music and mayhem did rage
back in next summer’s youthful age
we camped closer to the big stage
by a shallow hollow.
I’d sit and watch the crowds go by
in the hot sun and dust and dry
under a big Waikato sky
from our camp on tent row
And as I ripped in with the guys
to our grog trailer of supplies
we made a hanging chain of ties
with every pull tab rent.
Waiting for Cold Chisel that night
with a superdoob glowing bright
I was fuc-kin’ high as a kite
and lurched back to my tent
The next day I woke in a daze
and walked off my drunken malaise
when I heard singing songs of praise
in some weird sh-it I saw.
Tambourine hippies, punks and geeks
and chanting Hari Krishna freaks
burnt incense in clay painted cheeks
so I got high some more
Yet in a hot wet and wild hour
stoned in the unisex shower
I gazed many a sweet flower
in their naked splendour.
We bathed too in waters that flowed
down where the lazy river bowed
lest my head spontaneous explode
on my three day bender
That night by the stars we were led
as above a smoky sky bled
when out The Enz rocked “I See Red”
and fired a burning flare.
In the spirit of Sweetwaters
we lived among at close quarters
sons of Bacchus and his daughters
and I so revelled there
Written: November 2009
Sweetwaters was an annual three
day music festival back in 1980s.
I hail thee ruins of Indus Vale!
With scented rhyme, with scented gale
Come on from world of mortal dead!
O come and lively wind inhale!
More ancient than the pyramids
That rule on ancient Egypt land
Thy wild wild eyes, with thy soft lids
They gazed on shimmering Indus sand
I will inhale thy breath in breath
O harken me from vale of death
(11)
I mount uphill, Thy citadel
And stood for hours Stony still
I saw minarets there in row
They fail and bow, all in thy woe
O stupa speak! from yonder peak!
Thy all worshippers where they go
In fog , in sun, while needles run
Thou standing lone in midst of woe!
I haven't seen a single soul
They faded all in mist and snow
Oh lonesome temple don't be sad
They will come and I vow they will
In evening smiles , my heart beguiles
Thy silver meads lay several miles
Thy rich forests of days of yore
Thy ancient seals and gods and kings
O life stop thou, O time come back
In courts I hear the bell that rings
Oh let me breathe, let me for while
Oh fortune for once for me smile
(111)
O lower town, Why thou breakdown
Thy aging speed , may thou slow down
Thy tourists standing by thy sides
All talking of the Times and tides
Thy rooms and wards, o nature yard
All tied devotees thine with cord
They want to dwell in heart of thine
They come and stand and for thee pine
O may phantoms of bygone time
Tell stories them in tune and rhyme
With help and love of Eden Lord
Whose seraphs are thy meadows guard
( ...)
O whistling toys, of girls and boys
In graves of stone why heave thou sighs
O happy ruins with face so fair
From thousand centuries slept thou there
Forgotten by the madding race
Then thou begot a heart sincere
Who wake thee from thy beauty sleep?
From fathoms deep wherest thou live
Wherest thou sob and moan and weep!
I pay homage to Cunningham
Who found thee there in seven three
Then came thy lover Daya Ram
Who thee from heaps of mud set free
Thy lips of ice, why not rejoice
Thou gaze this world with wild wild eyes
(...)
Thy fowls thy sheep, lie half asleep
In meadow green in forest deep
Thousands and thousands years passed by
My far off sky , he smiled he weep
When from thy beauteous Indus plains
The robbers carried thy remains
Thy ancient bricks, all gems of past
Continued
sensory grass
tickles your toes
soft pokes
every word is a stroke
of a blade
not a brush
a lawnmower in the distance
breaks the silence
what the hell…
the smell of fresh-cut grass
and the moisture
that lingers on its smell
you know…retains it
(like the soft and cushy handprint that
stays in the grass
in the shady part of that corner in the yard
turns the white shoes green
amongst the hedges and the borders by rocks
by that long-ago planted snowball tree
and all the love you had to give while you planted it
…rubbed the lamb's ear,
said a prayer and wished it the best of luck)
but here, now
take a nap in the sunshine
under a clouded sky peacefully
on a blanket
the winds brushing by
the rays beam through
and warm that blanket
your worn-out blanket
with scents of lingering past summers
of far-off beaches and sunscreen
dusty and musty
yet beloved blanket
(different kinds of loved-upon)
but here, now
the breeze on my toes
and the breeze on the grass
and the breeze on my face and my hair
stealing my woes
keeping me cool
my eyelashes flicker
a lazy dream of greens upon blues
upon dandelion yellows
shining
until you awake
slightly alarmed
to a busy bee
buzzing by
blinded by beauty
my tears trickle down the corners of my eyes
bleed down my cheeks to my lips and taste salty
warm and salty on my tongue
warm from the gold
of that hot-blooded sun
and the sensory experience
grateful to be alive
to soak it all in
through the skin
can you feel it?
it was a lovely dream
the smell of sweet grass
how bits and pieces float on air
tickle the nose
sweet and bitter tasty on the tongue
whisking away depression blight
peace rises
higher and higher
like barometric pressure
elevating mood and lighter weight
reflecting on purpose
reflecting on mood
through transcendence
but here, now
you can just
be
tingling sensations
just
be
feeling overcome with peaceful power
power to
just
lie
still
and enjoy the senses and dreams
that the grass brings forth
you’ll wake up
remember details
and reflect upon paper
close your eyes
and reflect upon paper
an outward pour
can’t you feel it all beaming in the sunlight?
in the mood
in the barometric pressure
in those blades of grass
breathtaking striking
blades of green grass
my god, aren’t we blessed
—American writer
It began...
One day in a far off land where roamed the fearsome Chanticleer.
There lived a mighty military man of rank, if not of prowess.
He sought to tame the wily beast to bend it to his purpose
and dress its unsavory meat with secret herbs and spices.
And so it goes, the word was passed to every town and village,
to every man of strength and worth, "Come join our quest...
and feed the hungry children."
From far away the call was heard and answered by a chevalier,
who sought his fame and fortune.
He joined the ranks of other men to best the bird in battle,
and lead his hand to take a stand for all that's good and honored.
To journey long he caught a strong and fire breathing dragon,
shining bright its scales alight he flew for many hours.
The light grew dim as the beast gave in and landed on its talons.
Soft and round they touched the ground and squealed like pigs in fallow.
Alighting from the silvery beast and eager for the challenge,
he gathered with a band of knights at a local tavern
for a place to stay and to plan a way the beast to slay,
when he saw the king's young daughter.
He stared agog like a love sick dog as he laid his eye upon her,
exotic was she with her silken skin and gentle and elegant manner.
She looked at him and he saw her grin which took his breath away.
The princess sighed and winked her eye, a different beast she hunted
Her hair aglow in soft warm tones her golden eyes aflutter.
A spell she cast to lure her catch and imprison him in her dungeon.
The knight of old, his soul she stole, his quest was now forgotten.
And so it's told of a love so bold, a man's love for another,
Her hero now with a different vow, a new quest did he follow.
He asked the king,"May I give a ring, to your lovely daughter?"
The king agreed, eager was he, to find this girl a husband.
They moved away to a magical place, a kingdom unlike others,
where kids can play and sing all day and irritate their mothers.
Through many days both bright and grey they strove to love each other
Though times were hard they made their way, their problems just a bother
She bore for him, as time ticked on, two gentle loving daughters,
and there he stayed until old age as husband and as father.
...and they lived happily ever after.
09/16/15
THE ALBATROSS
Under thunder blows a colder wind, across an endless sea,
Like a voice from the call of a far off shore in the solitude we perceive;
For ago remained an innocent age, torn away by a thousand years
Where sincerity alone is tied to its own majestic grace;
But flow on the bluest waves over the oceans deep and wide
Waiting long for things abandoned
Forsake those condemned to the early dawn, far past ten thousand year’s,
Still in all its silent symmetry, flies by a bird on wing;
Mysterious seemed that outstretched arm, in all 10 feet in span
Grasping what came from the east, bound to rays of light;
For seas are blessed by both good and bad
Waiting long for what’s abandoned
Fifty years is doomed to its own intent, lost in its own emotion,
While all that we can hold, is a time fifty thousand past;
Come see what waits is a soul possessed, holding a daylights passage
Where what seemed lost is an albatross, staring through its blacker eyes;
But all we see is the bluest sea, left under tomorrow’s sky
Waiting long for things abandoned
Crashes still those crystalline waves, warmed by spring’s rebirth,
Until we see an albatross, departing as the seasons change;
And a hundred thousand years escapes, slips away from time and place
Bound to the cliffs and bound to the rushes of a land so far away;
For over the bluest sea, is the sunlight that we seek
Waiting long for those things abandoned
Surrounded is he who waits in the shadow, lost to the rhythm we’ve created,
While somewhere stands an albatross, and drinks its salted wine;
For now is past a million years, gone to the mystery of life
Lost in the worth of simplicity and the innocents of desire;
But now the bluest sea is calm, with no sign of what is past
Waiting long for things abandoned
Escaped the thought of an albatross bound to the symbol of its virtue,
Leashed to the seas and the sound of the waves, longing a far off shore;
Hold on to the meaning of our vision, past ten million years
And hear the call of an albatross, its beauty and its wonder;
For here we see the bluest sea, in a land of lost intent
Waiting long for those things abandoned
By m.norton
We'd made a dawn start that day, following in his footsteps, as
apparently Jesus used to get up early.
Our group had gathered for a reading, and to pray, along with
fruit and cereals our first staples of the day.
The good Lord had gifted us a painted morning of Coeruleum blue,
and a warm spiced breeze flossed my smile.
I turned and watched the city for a while.
Amidst the pink and beige jigsaw of the old city, the Dome of the rock
had caught the morning rays and was now bragging about it,
shamelessly blinging,
competing with the shouts of Minarets
and Church bells ringing.
Few things can compete with an Israel morning, but you did.
Perched like an Owl on a low wall, cross-legged, your head moved
from side to side, scanning the mount, sharing our glass,
drinking the moment.
You wore white cotton, an arm hung with beads, an evil eye bracelet
and what looked like a Kara, glistening.
Styled by the Gods, with three quarters of a straw hat
wedged in the bricks.
And then I found myself before you,
Lord knows how, and I was trying to remember how my mouth worked.
Your head cocked to one side you watched me for a while
then nodded me a soft hello, and finished with a smile.
Ice broken, we gathered intelligence- you, a 'gap year Guerilla'
on a global reconnaissance , armed with just a shoulder bag and a credit card.
Me, a lapsed Catholic with an empty soul, seeking a childhood faith long discarded.
A shout from the tour guide burst our intimate bubble and I retreated,
backwards, gesturing, as if in the presence of a Shah.
She waved back, almost lost her balance, and a gust of wind would
have placed her gently among the sleeping of the Kidron
if she hadn't grabbed her hat.
And that was that.
I went back to the wall that evening, and the following morning,
I don't know why- she'd be bathed in the rose of Petra by then.
For a short time I was bereft, and stood, fittingly, before the
Basilica of the Agony, and then sat on our wall,
to watch the chosen wake up.
I think my soul woke a little, just then.
For God had left me with a little bit of love.
Unrequited, but worth hanging on to ,
worth building on.
It's been thirty five years, and in those occasional quiet places
I still think of you
For contest 'Love in a far off place', sponsored by Frank Herrera
22nd July 2015
the first move made was the worst move
played---making like the sky had parted &
somebody was watching over, somebody
was lighting a candle for the struggle, as if
it was over by a long shot---for getting things
back in order was the name of the game &
keeping a steady job impressed her &
getting a decent apartment impressed her &
staying out of trouble for the time being,
it all impressed her & oh the things that a
horny man will do, imagine if that horny man
falls in love---so as it happened the time
went by & she too began to fall for him, as
she began to believe that he had changed &
that all the time that had passed, really had
passed, as now it seemed that he had begun
to walk the proverbial straight & narrow---
yes, the two of them started to have a
scheduled time to sit & eat dinner & they
had “appropriate holiday get-togethers” in
which they met each other’s family & ne’er
was a mention of the years before, in fact
the past seemed as if it had all been a bad
dream & so the two of them began to make
plans together, now that they both had picked
each other up individually---now pooling their
ideas, they saw a big ceremony in the future,
they saw a honeymoon to trump all honeymoons
& for a split second, the two of them swore
that real happiness wasn’t that far off---
all their ducks, it seemed, were finally in a
row---
but then the old habits that take so very long to die,
roll back inward & things once unsavory begin to
look tantalizing again---ah yes, what could
be done with such a vast amount of moola & all
it would take to get it is a little teensy weensy
bending of the law (in fact it’d be so very teensy
weensy that you know, nobody would even
notice) & the street would always be there
welcoming one of its own back with open arms,
so deep in his heart, he knew that if in fact she
did have a problem with what was going to go down,
there would be another that could take her place---
she didn’t see things as crystal clear as he & when
she found out about the coming adventure, she
bolted like any good upstanding citizen would do
when they see or hear about a possible crime ensuing,
yes, she was a good little girl & took her separate ways
prior to the *****going down---
the ducks were no longer making their way as a family
one by one through the park anymore---
the line had been broken.
FOG HORN ON THE NEVA
Fog horn on the far off Neva dock
A canal bridge to open and unlock:
Today I heard its sound
Unmistakable note found
Implanted down in my head,
Coming today a word long unsaid
Across the railroad tracks it calls
To me through cracks in walls
And half-closed lattice windows,
Across the shadows and meadows
From far away in the salt water -
An ocean-bound huge transporter .
Took me back to porridge oats
And blanketless beds with cold coats,
Sharing a pillow with gran and mum
In a cold unheated tiny bedroom -
But warm as only a mother’s arm can be -
Listening on foggy nights with me
-To horns open Tyne’s swing bridge old,
And in foggy winter days cold
-To lost ships off Cullercoats moan
Trying to find the walls of stone,
The welcoming piers of heaven:
Sandy river’s saving haven.
I was taken aback to be taken back
Thus, on my hustling life’s track
I forget the real roots. I need
To recall from what did I proceed,
For often does my boat get tossed
And in the fog I am sometimes lost.
The Horn’s lament is familiar
Like a family voice or a prayer,
As a bird recognizes its mate’s call
No need to ask what it is at all.
It is friendly. To it I return.
To hear it I yearn.
Like my mother’s laugh,
Like grandfather’s cough -
I Know it like my own face,
It is easy to retrace.
As I walk on Nevsky Prospekt
Turning back the pages of neglect,
I hear it in the depths of my heart.
It reverberates as a note apart
And I feel it in the mist
Of time. It insists. I have missed
Its plaintive call for so long.
As a salmon returns where he belongs
To his birth river on the foam
I am drawn inexorably home.
Bustling Tyne ships are now gone.
Only pleasure yachts that leisurely yawn.
No battleships or tankers to see,
No river smells of sweat and tears salty,
But the horn’s fossilized lament remains
In sand-banks and sea-lanes
And memory banks retraced :
Memories never to be to erased.
Life’s mist becomes too dense.
Guide me in the fog thence.
Lead me to back to reality.
The horn is searching for me
From the past through the cracks
And lattice of my old bridge tracks,
Opening my mind to echoes of the past,
Holding my soul sound and fast.
Some folks believe it. Others do not. The legend told in the Bayou Cannot. The only witness who can swear that it's true, are the creatures who live in the bayou. The owl told the gator, the gator told the frog, about the horror filled night that changed their home in the bog. Far off on the mainland, miles from the marsh, in a large city, where living is harsh. A man's world invention sprang into life. A breath of fresh air to man's world of strife. A new deisel engine, queen of the line, would make it run for the very first time. The sunset limited it was aptly named. Gleamed in the station waiting its moment of fame. Boarded by folks going south, some headed out west, none mindful of anything, but each's own quest. New York to L.A. via the southern run. So it was, the trip had begun. Back in the bog, things were happening too. A barge made its way north with its captain and crew. The day had been hot. The night had turned cool. The fog roiled in, with its blanket of dew. The captain steered his tug, painfully slow, caution was key to safely deliver the tow. All of a sudden there was a scrape and a jolt the barge floated free, not held by a bolt. Panic seized the crew! "We've lost the tow!" "MAYDAY!" screamed the captain over the radio. Amid the chaos and moans of disdain, another great jar, "We've got it again!". Back on land not far down the track the Limited sped with a clickety-clack. Approaching the tressel no one noticed the shake. Who could blame the poor folks; the hour was late. Midway over the bayou came the tressels demise. A great shiver another great quake, tons of speeding steel, folks met their sad fate. Days went by weary and sad. Rescuers agreed none worked a wreck this bad. Twisted and bent the engine was pulled from the muck and the slime. "102" came the final count, the coroner spoke and noted the time. A weary voice shouted "Wait!" "Sir, I disagree!" Tired eyes turned, what did they see? A weary man held in his arms a child about three. Today believers say "an angel wanders." "A tiny spirit" Others agree. On foggy nights when no moon can be. A tiny light flickers so you will see. "It's a firefly!" Say the skeptics of haunt. The creatures disagree and murmur their taunt. They know the spirit of the child now lives in their swamp.
Written by my grandmother Sandra Burch
5.
is it true love
or i do take it granted
that i’m in love
or i do love to think
that i’m loving
and there is
neither any welcome address
nor any opening song
in my love
my experience with heat of fire
and with burning pain
in the flames of water
is nothing less
6.
in course of burning
i look around
the chilly-plant in the tob
planted in my won-hand
producing green-chillies
oh-ho how sweet they are
it is no chilled-body
that has earned
my life or death
no remarkable mark
is endorsed
on the lotus-leaf
now easily some words
can be written
on you
i don’t know whether
those would be at all
some lines of a poem
7
someone falls in loves
someone makes love
love comes to some another
there is the far-off
whispering
at first she constructs me
then destroys rightly
i notice her
for the first time in six weeks
the love
that writes
in the footnote of the tennis-ball
a desperate struggle for existence
within our skull
there is the love
or the midnight of the orion
the little squirrel asked now
are you in your seventies
or eighties
those houses with the coating of
the sky the air the light-and-shade
provide me with the presentation of
a wig and
a set of artificial teeth
8.
the love
that touches the hand
in drizzling
the love
that gets lost in the brandishing
grasses
would they want to inform
that the flowers don’t have any skyscraper
in the layers of the flesh and blood
of the detergents
as if a whole human civilisation has been suffering
from suppressed pain
within it with the dry spell of
anger and cough
the time
had there been no feeding from the love
does the human civilisation stagger
9.
do you think those words
or it’s myself
whatever may you say now
i’ll travel within a great death
to die
rather after my demise i may tell
i’ve informed everyone …look
beneath the large evergreen flower tree
the game of light and shadow continues
beside those simple households
besides a high-head mobile-tower
what else would you like to be
is it a bath in the ganga-river is it a leaf
of the water-lily or it’s a king-cobra
tell me
i would now make love
with that idea from you