Long Fence in Poems
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Okay, I must admit - no names have been changed to protect anything or anyone! PLEASE do not turn this political and no letters from any woman who might be offended or grievances from union members, this is something that should have been addressed long ago but thankfully we have righted the ship. Just a note for clarification - scientists call them "Coccinellidae", North America calls them ladybugs, the UK calls them ladybirds (no offense to the Johnson family)...other names are lady beetles, god's cow, lady clock and lady cow (the one that might offend women) I DIDN"T INVENT THE NAME - some thankfully long deceased scientist did! Anyhow I know you needed to know this...I'm a victim too - I peed on an electric cow (no pun or fun) fence in the fourth grade.
Oh, little bitty lady cow,
our fabled friend coccinellidae,
what will they call you now?!
Bring us luck, away you fly,
quickly now before you die.
Oh, black dotted ladybird,
our lady beetle garden friend,
everywhere your name is heard;
on your help we can depend
and all the lady luck you lend.
BUT there's a problem in the air;
ladybird, lady beetle, lady this, lady that.
The guy bugs say, "It's just not fair"!
So after a beetle union chat,
on their guy bug butts they sat.
So this year everything will change-
those changes have been made before;
so Person Beetle will be the new bug name.
After all, no reason to start a war
when correctness will equate the score...
written April 2013 - still work to do
THE PERIMETER
Leaning against the fence
that divides me from them,
I gaze outward into the
landscape I’m destined to roam.
Behind me, inside the fence,
are sounds of laughter and music,
sounds that don’t exist here,
sounds that never existed here.
I wish I didn’t hear the sounds.
Though I know it’s hopeless,
I turn and start climbing,
but it happens again like
so many times before.
I climb—the fence grows taller,
I climb again, it grows again.
I climb no more, it’s useless.
I can’t get in there, I never could.
I wish I knew the reason why.
Outside the fence, in the perimeter,
is where I’ll stay, obscene rabble
cruelly shunned by the insiders
proud in their narrow virtuous views.
Out here is lonely freedom—
freedom to think,
to feel,
to create,
to live,
unbound by fetters of respectability.
Out here is where I belong.
Even the holiest couldn't know Him but a glimpse was enough
Going through times so grim life wasn't about the worldly stuff
They shined through these moments giving God all the praise
They never sat on the fence in so by following the Lord's Ways
But today it is a different story too many people are distracted
They can not see God's Glory for His Light satan has refracted
Yet His Light is still there His Glory was, is and will never cease
You should read up on His Story and not let the devil so fleece
In prison they would sing and what happened to Paul and Silas
Let's say freedom would ring, The Rescuer of all from the abyss
But many don't sing, in fact in His Name they don't even believe
And to them these words do not ring another trick up his sleeve
For either you're in or you're out yet only God knows your heart
He knows your every single doubt the very instant of it's start
He knows you so well but it is you who needs to open the door
So many picking hell when there was so much, so much more
Our two youngest grandchildren visited yesterday…Aden is 18 and Ava turns 16 in September…we opened a time capsule made 12 years ago and took time to remember.
I sat there for a moment thinking about time and how fast her river flows…as we tried to remember what we were doing a decade plus two years ago.
And I thought about my dad and words I often heard spoken from his tongue…
words I swore growing up I’d never say…four words…when I was young.
Making these kind of promises, I imagine, is something we all do when we’re young, innocent and carefree, until, one day, perhaps with our children or grandchildren we listen to ourself and think…Oh no! It’s happened to me.
We try not to show how much our pride and our ego have been bruised…as we find ourself using words and phrases our father…and grandfather…used.
When I was young, we tell our children, people were kinder…the world was not as hard…neighbors gathered and had fun together…there wasn’t a fence in every backyard.
When I was young we drove old cars…we didn’t have all these outrageous prices…
When I was young we played outside…we had no hand-held devices.
When I was young we respected our elders…and our hair was neatly combed…
When I was young if we got in trouble in school…we got in trouble at home.
Could it be as we climb the ladder of life…with changes at ever rung…
we’re just trying to hold on to a piece of our past…to a time when we were young?
Could it be we want our children and grandchildren to know they are lucky…they are blessed…for all the world has set before them…for all that they possess?
Perhaps as I’m echoing words my grandfather and father once, long ago, said to me…I’m continuing a custom…a tradition…handed down from family to family.
That’s probably why I sat there smiling…
thinking how far back life’s pendulum has swung…
listening as my grandchildren remembered…
and wondering if they’ll use the same words my father used
to tell their children…about a time…when they were young.
I never expected you to come to Australia first
Still with the appearance that I am familiar
I must travel across the ocean back and forth
And you? I wonder how could you come here?
I saw you climb the fence in our hometown
Up to my ears and blowing your horn
Then you asked me if I was afraid of
And I said: I like your beautiful song
We used to play hide and seek in a woodpile
I pretend that I don't know where you're hiding
You can't wait to stick your head out of the pile
You tell me you're right next to me with your song
I see you in this foreign country unexpectedly
Did you travel across the ocean to follow me
We meet in these wild fields when melancholy
The joy alike seeing relatives you bring to me
I always feel the coldness of the world
Many things are inconvenient to say publicly
But my heart has been filled with your love
When I need some real "friends" so eagerly
We know "friendship" already too many
The definition of them is confusing me
The Illusory "friendship" is hard to rely on
Only you, Wild Petunia, by thousands of miles
You come here to stay with me
"Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed
But then begins a journey in my head,
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
For then my thoughts keep my drooping eyelids open wide."
~ Shakespeare's Sonnet 27
Often, when my body craves nothing more than sleep
my mind wanders in gardens where thoughts take root.
I ponder why the fervor of poetic ideas flicker and seep
into my psyche as if I must follow the Pied Piper's flute.
I cannot stifle the waterfall's cascading inspirations
for the palpitations of my pulse cannot staunch the flow.
A chorus of whispered voices begs me to take notations,
not to be forgotten before dawn's pink skies begin to glow.
I've failed to silence the visitors with burgeoning verses.
Their Sonnet seeds are planted with end rhymes in a row.
There's no ignoring their demands with my abusive curses.
I wonder how I might convince them to be quiet and go.
Once, I tried counting sheep, but I heard fairytale lines
drifting over a fence in my head, and meowing of a cat.
I tried to drown them out with music but in the confines
of my sleepy mind, lyrics came flying at me like a bat!
I'm not amused when my muse tells me I'm being lazy.
On reflection, I must speculate that she's the instigator.
I tell her to go away. I can't write when my mind is hazy.
She mumbles words I cannot hear. Why do I tolerate her?
I've given this bane, this insane lack of sleep some thought
Usually, I refuse to give in to ponderings and stay in bed.
Battle lines were drawn, and though vigilantly I have fought,
if I'm to sleep, I will surrender and write what's in my head.
A cold front moved in overnight
and morning’s air made me breathe deep,
like an athlete before an event.
Yesterday’s humidity pushed aside,
creates a feeling of zest,
as if it’s the first touch of Spring.
But this is Autumn chasing
a recalcitrant Summer,
like the sun chasing darkness.
Following my early morning walk,
I sit in the corner of the kitchen
drinking coffee and watching the cat
on the window sill.
The neighborhood is quiet
and my eyes move to a leaf,
floating to a breeze-appointed place
near the fence in a flower bed.
I wonder how many more
Autumns I’ll experience,
now that I’m retired.
The hens from our small, urban farm,
Had wild idea, caused great fright:
Escape their pen, come to no harm,
See a show, without a blight.
With feathers ruffling at benight,
They made plans and added some smarm,
Darkened room, their intended site,
The hens from our small, urban farm.
They marched single file full of charm,
Crazy chicks, on a daring plight,
Ignoring grumbles from their tharm,
Had wild idea, caused great fright.
Forged ahead and ready to fight,
Broke their fence in one clucking swarm,
Accomplished task, without desight:
Escape their pen, come to no harm.
Sodas in beaks, seated disarm,
Screen flashing, their eyes all alight,
Snacks in wings, no need for alarm,
See a show, without a blight.
A hot buttered popcorn, their right,
They'd wielded fowl mettle from dorm,
Hid their combs to avoid incite,
They also did get their wings warm,
Small, urban farm.
March 16, 2023
Double The Fun Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May
Let the wild mustard and tansy grow
both tall and prolific, spreading freely
along the edges of the garden, seedlings from the wood.
Beneath the plum and pear, near the sycamore and cherry,
allegheny spurge known as pachysandra spread with runner vines
here and there along and up the fence in shade or sun.
Lily of the valley, once only six small plants
take over like a wave of rushing green oceans
that scents the thickened air with dainty delights and fragrance.
So much grows wild, free and un-contained
held back only barely by mason stone, brick and brush
intended to set the separation of garden and drive or walkway.
After years of carefully imagined plant and cultivation
this garden is no longer mine taking on life all its own
to grow rampant and wild, bold and beautiful despite my every effort.
It is surviving, living, growing, a picture perfect painting
envious lush greenery waiting for the proper moment
in which to flower and bloom beneath the summer sun.
You wake up to commotion, throw on some clothes.
Outside you see some bloody bodies piled on the street.
People are screaming, running in all directions
away from oncoming military trucks and tanks.
Your heart is pounding; your mind shouts
what should I do? Where should I go?
You can't head back home because now
soldiers have headed there,
collecting folks and dividing them into groups:
Men separated from women,
the elderly from the young, boys from girls.
Trucks are filling fast with the different groups of people.
You look all around and see only confused and mortified faces.
The fact that all these others share your emotions
is your only comfort.
A woman breaks loose from a line crying out for her son.
A shot rings out; she collapses to the ground.
You can see one small group of people have escaped -
perhaps unnoticed - beyond a fence in the near distance.
Another group have all scattered, and easily seen,
they scramble toward a store.
They fall randomly when intermittent shots from the soldiers' guns fire out.
You stand motionless, knowing soon you will be tagged
by soldiers herding people into trucks.
Will you try to sneak toward the fence or will you remain as you are
to face your frighteningly unknown fate?
Are there more tanks beyond the fence of which everyone is unaware?
Won't those racing for their freedom eventually be caught?
you must make the decision while no one seems to have noticed you yet:
Freeze or flee?
April 2, 2019 for Laura Loo's
'Favorite Poem From Last Week (March 31-April 6, 2019)' Poetry Contest
March 21, 2022 for
A Brian Strand 1094 Poetry Contest