Long Fastidiously Poems
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My Halloween Kitty (written 10/11/2020) free verse
I had a familiar named Callie
She was born on Halloween.
Feral siblings abandoned at my door.
I took the whole litter to the SPCA.
They neutered and spayed them all for me.
The ears were notched so they’d go free
if the pound police appeared.
I brought the clowder home and cared for them
until their stitches had permanently healed,
then allowed them outside to roam on their own.
They all left for adventures beyond –
with the exception of Callie.
Callie was brindled in black and orange
with a white-star chest and white-tipped tail;
short hair she maintained fastidiously.
She continually spoke to me in cat language
and we managed a conversation of sorts.
She bid me good day as I left in the mornings
and listened to my tales when I returned.
She monitored my feelings as if a therapist
and counseled me on the course I must take
when I was feeling at my lowest.
I called her my Halloween kitty
and she expressed that was okay.
We counted years by her birthdays,
celebrating Halloween every year.
She disregarded the trick-or-treaters.
My sounding board and steadfast friend;
I miss her terribly now that she’s gone.
She remained with me 17 years, two years passed,
through sad, glad, distress, and happiness.
She was my mainstay on my darkest days.
I had a familiar named Callie
She was born on Halloween.
Penelope’s in a hopeless quandary, backed into a corner.
She enjoyed the flirt of youth. Had no one warned her?
She rejected freedom of reflection. ‘Who’s she? ...not a saint.’
Penelope painted on her face, mirror-perfection - faithfully quaint.
Platinum blonde tresses, like a fisherman’s net, she caught men.
Each quiver would fall helpless - guts and glory auf wiedersehen.*
Poison of poise and perfume - ahh, ylang ylang like chains.
With serpentine strength of a boa, in crushing the mighty, she reigns.
Caught by two knights, found unfaithful, she’s dragged to the quay.
“The truth,” one spit out. The other, “You witch!” ‘Another day
perhaps she’d do penance.’ She struck fast with doppelganger asps,
fastidiously holding them below their necks, she’d practiced the grasp.
Dear, sweet, tears - she’d developed an antivenom and a liar’s remorse.
Delicate angel, tender child - she fights fire with fire not with brute force.
She drops to her knees as the knights dive and she releases the snakes.
“Oh why! Oh why would these men leap to their deaths over me?”
The guards believe the improbable, gushing to her aid. Penelope’s free.
2/12/2021
Mind Your P's and Q's Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Michelle Faulkner
Word list:
Penance Poise Perfume Platinum
Quay Quiver Quandary Quaint
*auf wiedersehn - goodbye
At the beginning of this novel I had no idea
The hero would betray the heroine,
That is not my favorite plot,
matter of fact, it is now my least favorite.
The cover and the synopsis were fastidiously written.
Neither gave this away. I had no idea it was happening.
Two thirds of the way through I think the author thought
Damn! This has to end somehow, but how?
The next time I see this author’s name I will not
take any trouble to buy her book, as a matter of fact,
I will boycott it, thanks to this catastrophe.
Wait a second. She is turning things around again.
More later, I only have two chapters left to go.
Unforgiving Reflections
by Odin Roark
Life’s not a bowl of cherries,
It’s a comedy of errors.
Like a corpse refusing to die,
An attempted burial forever postponed,
Past mistakes appear to never realize interment,
Self-loathing, the death defying destroyer, seems forever.
How pervasive our hording of errors,
Fault’s buried-deep-admonition
Denying mistakes deserve closure,
Goading us instead to carry the extra baggage
As guilt laden badges of honor.
How tenacious the hiding…
These mirrored shadows,
Revealing how meticulously faults are collected.
From the daily shave for some,
The application of make-up for others,
All serve our self-adjudicated punishment,
Guilt’s aging toll most apparent in dry wrinkled faces,
Folds of decaying sags beneath fastidiously groomed beards,
And gray strands hidden amongst obsessively coiffed hair.
Have they no closure,
These undying blunders,
These reflections of self
That remain unforgiving?
Was Freud right?
What if id and ego’s right and wrong debate is eternal?
After all, the superego, our patient judge,
Has no where else to go,
Nothing more to do.
****…
Maybe it’s time to destroy all mirrors.
Good idea?
The eagle flies with two wings, the left and the right, working together. The right says it's good, but the left says it's better. The body is one, resting at the center, the stabilizing, driving force of both sides despite the weather.
Together, both wings fly liberally and fastidiously across the plane. As one, the bird keenly overlooks and surveys the moving train.
From the train, many look up from time to time, but around November everyone looks up for a better view and peace of mind.
O' bird, Big Bird, with that eagle's eye just flying high, surveying and guiding the moving train as it passes by.
Sometimes the left will appear better while the right is lesser, or vice versa. But the direction is always the same because the body is at the center for sure.
A SPIRITUAL SAINT'S STRENGTH AMIDST STRIFE
Fortitude for half a century, giving God all the glory,
The Foundress of Holy Family lived a humble, godly life,
St. Mariam Thresia - a stigmatic saint's story
Filled with many troubles, temptations and strife,
From Puthenchira, an Indian Syro-Malabar Catholic
Consecrated herself to the Lord at eight or nine years,
Modest and meek, serving the poor and the sick,
She was disciplined, obedient and different from her peers,
With childlike simplicity, charismatic charity and Christian chastity,
Fastidiously following Father Vithayathil's fine footsteps,
The "virgin of pains" was for Family Apostolate, the model entity,
Nursing the sick and dying by visiting them at their doorsteps,
Burning with intense love for God, she was a mystic soul,
"Whose Heart was aglow with fire and whose feet were winged",
Enduring her sufferings for the sake of Christ was her goal,
Her patient, divine spirit was with radiant sweetness tinged,
She had fervent trust in God's immense providence,
Her spiritual ecstasy was hours of prayer and meditation,
The "Apostle of suffering", she strived for her continence,
Wiping the tears of the broken hearted was her consolation,
Her gracious gift of goodness guides us all in giving
Care, concern and compassion to the comfortless at all cost,
Her lasting legacy left behind still leads the living
To show His love, shine His Light and shelter the lost.
Form: Rhyme (abab)
10.23.19
{This poem is about St. Mariam Thresia, who was canonised on 16th October, 2019 by Pope Francis in Rome. She is the Foundress of the Congregation of Holy Family, Puthenchira, Kerala.}
Politics is about power.
We have over-powering competitions,
so we also have disempowering
lack of being competitive.
And, we also have power with.
Cooperative power.
In game theory,
these are WinLose political strategies
and WinWin co-empowering local
through global politics.
Political correctness
is about correct use of power
for political health,
political wealth of system-wide power;
Political incorrectness
is WinLose disintegrating power
while WinWin integrity
is about growing more powerfully correct,
erect,
resiliently interdependent
together--
more of a hand out
than a stick up.
Those of us with the great good fortune
to be guests on this Earth at the same time,
more or less,
share our personal empowering journeys
A power pilgrimage
from past unfortunate incorrect events,
rooted in WinLose competitive power-over habits,
habitats sometimes including inappropriate humor
at the expense of those who can least afford further abuse,
on toward democratic equity
and interdependent power resilience,
cooperative solidarity held and nurtured.
Political correctness
is not necessarily fastidious,
nor ritualistic
nor mechanically calculating and mendacious;
We could more correctly settle for some healthy accuracy,
about what leads toward robust mutual empowerment
and what leads in the other Have/Have-Not
business as WinLose usual direction.
For example,
we can probably not successfully
or even correctly
wage an overpowering war
against many things,
but we most certainly cannot correctly succeed
in warring against war.
That's like declaring
You win!
before we all lose even more.
On the other hand,
We also can never successfully fight for cooperative love,
For in this fighting
we have already lost the only thing politically
accurately
even fastidiously
correctly
healthily worth living for.
FLAWLESS
lingering
habits
impressions
in
unfamiliar
&diverse
outlook
fastidiously&
relatively
descriptive
happenings
meticulously
rendered
&conveyed
with
economy
sweet
lines
lazing
minds
elsewhere
burst
with life
sun-strafed
neath
strong
shadows
the
immediacy
of
ordinary life
in
subtle
&eloquent
detail
unimpeachable
&alone
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Mrs M was a teacher with a clean desk
there was only one pencil in there
it was always sharpened
and a pink eraser that looked brand new
I never saw an ink pen
the top of her desk had a small plaque
with her name starting with Mrs. of course
Even though she was divorced
She never wanted the students to know about it
We all did
She was fastidiously neat and fussy
staying late to sterilize desks and seats
she inadvertently taught me one big lesson
I never wanted to be like her
She was too punctilious; cleanliness was her world.
Students were probably twenty-six on her priority list.
Inside me shrieking like a banshee,
dark shadows hold an accursed grin;
Old wounds are licked fastidiously;
Always wreaking havoc painfully,
squirming below my butter soft skin;
Inside me shrieking like a banshee;
My darkest demons they run madly
and feed on that deeply buried sin;
Old wounds are licked fastidiously;
Any who harbor them would agree
it’s easy to tell where they have been;
Inside me shrieking like a banshee;
They taste just like insecurity;
You can feel it before they begin,
old wounds are licked fastidiously;
No matter how I try I can’t flee
they’re that part imbedded within;
Inside me shrieking like a banshee,
old wounds are licked fastidiously.