Long Finished Poems
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2025.03.06 @ 06:06:06
Finally, two embroidery projects that I have finished.
One to keep and one to give.
A cute building appeared underneath this poem.
Inside, along the L shaped benches,
He sat at the desk, surfed on the internet,
And comfortably crossed his long, lower legs.
His second home was embroidered
On a simple white material,
The red galvanized walls on top,
Housing the Child Care Centre.
The glass windows framed with silver metal,
Located on the ground floor,
In front and on the side of the building,
The wear and tear black wooden columns,
Side by side unevenly standing in silence,
Covering most of the building glass surfaces.
On the right hand side,
A long and wide concrete foot path,
Leading to the front entrance,
Before joining the back garden.
Once inside, there are many facilities,
And well equipped amenities.
So many fond memories, engraved in my heart,
Written on my phone and also stored in my USB.
I now put these down to embroidery
To commemorate once my favorite library,
It ended since the day it went like this .........
One day young Lizzie yelled out loud,
'I want some pets. I want them now.
I want lots. I don’t care how!
'I want a cat. I want a dog.
I want a fish. I want a frog.
'I want:
One that’s big,
And one that’s small,
One that’s fat,
One really tall,
One that’s hairy,
One that’s scary,
One that’s cute to hug and hold,
One for hot days,
One for cold.
'I want all the animals in the world.
One of each. No, make that two.
I want Noah’s Ark. I want a zoo.'
So Dad and Lizzie caught the bus.
She stopped making all that fuss.
They were going to the zoo -
It was just the thing to do.
'If you can’t have lots of critters,
We can go and take their pictures.
'And …when you visit Nanna’s flat,
Hold her kitten on your lap.
Leave the cleaning up to her.
You just pat the kitten’s fur:
No mess for us – just Kitty’s purr.'
But, Lizzie wasn’t finished yet.
She kept asking for a pet.
'Thank you, Daddy, I love you.
I love our photos from the zoo,
And I love Nanna’s kitten too...
But,
Can I have a little fish?
It is a teeny, tiny wish.
'One goldfish…maybe two or three,
Because they need the company?
Please…would you consider this?
Can I have a little fish?'
'Hmm…maybe…
Okay, yes.
You can have a fish,
I guess.'
Lucinda would write songs that were dark
Too intense, probed recesses of the soul
She'd wake up with a phrase, clear and stark
Write down a few lines, get on a roll.
Pull out a meaning, get the right tone
Find where the spirit meets the bone.
Irving Berlin rose from nowhere to fame
He says a song must have longing inside
Some of his biggest hits he felt were a shame
But if I wrote "white Christmas," I would feel pride.
He gave some profits to the father of his wife
The father had disowned her, an irony of life.
Mary says the song can write itself
when that happens, it keeps her trying more
A finished song makes her feel outside herself
Like a growth spurt or letting the spirit soar.
A couple of chords, then a walk in the plain.
The guitar kicks it off; a new song learns its name.
John was asked to end an album with a love song
He drove to Big Sur, then back to L.A.
Tried to feel the ways people get along
The lines poured out, he'd made his day
"like a fire when it's cold outside, or thunder when it rains."
"Perhaps Love" became a classic, reached the halls of fame.
Some don't feel music, others don't want it to take hold
The Taliban forbids songs, treat them as a crime
I know some folk who say music leaves them cold
And public taste can flip on a dime.
But when a good song hits the airwaves, it's a nice surprise
A new way of saying what applies.
John Denver, Lucinda Williams, Mary Carpenter and more
Like art in general, worthwhile to explore.
Lucinda starts with phrases, Mary starts with her guitar
Some songs are team efforts; each way can make a star.
Must confess I would not have liked to have
gone through life without experiencing a hurricane
And when Dean came I rode it out with a bit of excitement
as the winds bellowed, the roof creaked with every thrust
And I witnessing the force of nature.
When it had finished raging
The strong was separated from the weak
as if nature had designed a scalpel
to remove the dead tissues opening an area of growth and renewal
to once again invigorate ,renew and redress
what was meant to be done,but in a bludgeoning fashion.
I then took stock, and things that had once stood proud
was shamefully, head bowed, chastened,
suffering in pain
but to start the renewal
and as time permit, the slow rebirth
then the flourish followed by its bloom
and soon I wonder,when will it come again?
Three women
with the same chin,
and same ears.
The last of the three
has less likeness to the others,
her eyes will not fit
within their glancing windows.
although she is almost,
she will ever be not quite.
One, the one with the chin
as soft as a pillow
I could speak to
and she would not understand my words,
but she would nod and smile
just to please me.
The other
the one with ears that match the first,
is wise, she sits on a lotus leaf
like a scintillating frog-angel,
or a green Mona Lisa.
I could speak to her and she would nod,
repeating my words verbatim.
The last lady will be the first.
Her eyes are not quite left or right,
she is dissimilar.
My interest in her is impurely plutonic,
I listen, unseen sex pods,
pop all over her nubile body.
I never see any of this,
mind hides its picture shows.
Late at night or early,
we build a tangled love nest
out of all the same things
we can think of.
though, like that Shubert symphony
It never gets finished.
Always, some old, odd twigs
cannot be woven together,
no matter how hard we try.
Your lifestyle is vibrant and restless
and from tiny towns to big cities
your search for human images
to paint very realistic faces!
And while you don't have the unique touch
of a Davinci or of a Caravaggio: you do excel,
many strangers from far places ring your bell:
they spend hours posing for a silver brooch!
Earning money is only for essentials,
no passion is more satisfying
to glance at your finished paintings
and wish they'd be talking!
Painter of realistic faces,
immortalize them with your magical brush!
Those men's stunning, hard bodies;
those woman's seductive, soft curves,
don't need any correction or a final touch:
your artistic talent amazes!
Luella May Poland
1907-1922
The ocean sings my sad refrain.
Sings as the lapsing afternoon
Turns to twinkling twililight.
It sings the polyphonic notes and harmonies
Of a life at once wondrous and magical
And then tragic.
The soft but harsh music of ebb and flow
Of loving, living and then, simply dying.
It sings masterfully the pleasing chords
Of desire and curiosity and fantasy.
It sings the distant aloof music
Of forgotten memories in the gloaming sundown,
Of lost minutes in the stunning shadows,
With the only boy I ever kissed,
The only boy whose trembling touch I allowed
Upon the small of my back,
There in the caressing shade of infinite arousal
There in the absconding darkness of thrilling intimacy!
Indeed, the ocean sings my sad refrain.
It sings now and forever.
It sings the soft music of the stars.
The magical wondrous harmonies
Of ebb and flow,
Of wind and time and space.
It is finished.
I am done, finished, I am going now,
It is getting a bit sore, hurting now!
I come here poets, simply to make more friends,
write Poetry, with life to make amends!
Poetry is expression of my thoughts,
come in abundance, somedays do not,
I wish to share them with you in this place,
please do not make this some kind of rat race!
So do you win more often than I do?
Poet of the day, contests , what have you!
If it pleases so much, you can have mine!
I shall continue to write, just be fine!
Each poem comes with its own fingerprint,
same thoughts but said from different precincts,
In them see a reflection of my mind,
when they write better, I shall stay behind!
so when you win next, give yourself a pat,
I shall stay behind and raise you my hat,
True happiness lies not in being best,
but having the heart to applaud the rest!
I shall love you and leave you with a bow,
For token prizes let’s not have a row!!
Written 24/04/2021
Judge not lest ye be poetry contest
John Lawless sponsored
Sonnet 10 syllables each line
5x4+2
I used to be a poet
Topics I knew nothing of
Got so slow it
hurt, I once wrote about love
Love was never a guy
And I know you want me to say
"Oh because love was I"
But I was an ashtray
Where love ends up
After it burned a flame so bright
You could put it out in a cup
But unlike water, I never did fight
Light airy ash piling up
Like the abandoned thought of me
The addiction is never enough
Yet smoke you can never see
My glow slowly crushed
Before I could fully dissappear
Your skin is so flushed
Keep her far but I'm always here
A cough won't make me leave
Lingering in your breath
Somebow even I can't breathe
Corrosion until death
I sit in this place
Things are finished not started
Adrenaline of a high speed chase
His breathe and his voice slowly departed
It's like chasing smoke
You can't catch what's not there
Don't forgive me if I misspoke
You would know, this isn't supposed to be fair
Now love feels so warm
Ashtray cold, old, discarded
Craved the heat now I'm torn
Burn marks so deep I never restarted
Recover
Bring back the shiny silver tray
Oh lover
To a God you don't know, just pray
Pray until your knees fall to the ground
Pick up the cigarette I never got
Click click, the lighter, that sound
Fire the bullet you never shot
The canopy of leaves
sieves the morning sunlight into beams
as if from an opaque, porous sky,
laying bright polka dots on the forest floor.
The hiker slaloms around the shafts of light as he goes,
crosses an imaginary finish line,
arms raised in mock triumph,
unaware he has finished last behind a field of
resident elves, gnomes and fairies
racing him unseen.
[“Komorebi” is a Japanese word meaning the
sunlight filtering through tree leaves.]