Long Foray into Poems
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My last foray into this arena
Had me living memories not wished to share
Here I am again, another visit
Into the elderly homes we wish not
A sunny day another gathering
Nurses working, making life happen
Elderly in wheelchairs, still smiling
Others in mobile beds, unsure of the happening
A talk by an ancient, born 1917
Strong voice begging to be heard
Wartime memories, mist is clearing
From death too imprisonment
Visions flow, must be told
Strong voice, telling of memories
Some stumbles, others not so
I look around the room
Half the listeners into their snooze
On and on the story flows
Death and glory, hand in hand
How can you tell such a sad command?
Bravery such as only you have known
Bodies of men, families memories
Story spanning for one hour
Comment from teller, time had run out
The carers sobs echoed around the room
They all knew what time running out meant
They gathered, comforting ensued
trying so hard to change the feelings in the room
I leave as in visits before, memories flooding
My thoughts, a place such as this even exists
If there is a being ruling the happenings
Messages needed, please send happiness.
My whole life waits, just this moment, the ink still
wet; for sunrise this clear May morning.
My shaman up already,
hair askance, dancing and trilling his flute
to the crescent moon face,
lit by the blue iron square welcoming
the sun.
The Sun appears now...my expectations grow...
A foray into the secret riverbank forest, hunting
for Morels with my hobo friend ( by choice,
wishing not to support 4 ex-wives) Clark,
he with his walking stick adorned with colorful
talisman ribbons accumulated from a life spent
wandering....me with my crafted Yucca stick
a friend made for me.
Then...off to pick-up heirloom vegetable plants
a master gardener has nurtured for me to
grow in my community plot, where my friends
are happy to see me.
Amidst all, I'll have Ma accompany me,
(not in the woods) but not far away, her
smile always eager to share in my discoveries,
a comfortable sitting bench at the garden awaits
her, the smell of fresh-turned soil enriches her.
Later, I promised her we would grill at one
of her favorite places she remembers going
with Pop, alongside Minnehaha Creek, the
water gently flowing this time of year, birds
singing and Ducks playing,
The Sun is up further now,
this poem must end,
my destiny
awaits
5/2/15
7am
The Antics Of A Would Be Mama's Yoyo Thief
(now a penchant with less Zionist trenchant ululation to vent.)
Not a peep passed thru mine -
aye vaguely attest
what ten? eleven? twelve? age
of following anecdote at best
guest, but no
doubt yours truly
with figurative heart in chest
scared puny meek boy
tight lipped silently confessed
to foiled attempt, sans trying
unsuccessfully to steal a yoyo,
inviting tummy prepubescent
unbuttoning, a substantially
sprawling Holy skype sizing breast
of mine upon be nabbed,
thus aye didst detest
foolish kid ploy, and
(prematurely nipping
in the bud) messed
up potential life of crime
with first and only
shoplifting heist jest
for getting caught no a pest
key yoyo, mama would
(IF FOUND OUT)
axe me no quest
chin, but whack me itty bitty
teensy weensy derriere lest
quickly putting to rest
any Robin Hood
fantasy life of
high stakes crime pressed,
and squeezed out the noggin
with apropos punishment addressed
thankfully, neither parent
got wind, nor ever guessed
their beautiful darling
boy did test
petty theft, never
matured nor didst crest
into a profitable "yoyo
string Ponzi like
scheme," thus ballsiest
dare devilish and bitterest,
and laughably noble lest
act yours truly ever attempted
immediately ceased to shelve bravest
sleight of hand find
delve during broad est
daylight, I immediately
didst shelve, when clumsiest
initial foray into
the world wide web
tubby come cleverest
lad, this side of
Lansdale, Pennsylvania
many damnedest
yesterdays ago, never
took another earnest
tempting gamble since security
detail nearly wrest
head possible zapped feeblest Ames?
to pilfer from other
Department stores if pressed
for money no matter,
I might miss an enforced
hated ballet class,
with abs salute zest!
Upon making
the treacherous
undertaking optimal
poetic theme to write
dangerous, and
arduous foray into
spooky catacomb, I in vite,
where fear doth
dill liver worst
trek to our mailbox tonight
risking life and limb
at very right
angled turn
summoning em mon ent
mettle pluck quite
for quotidian plight,
asper hiding unseen creatures
sealed in dark shadows
along the edge of night
way after deep
into nighttime hours,
I cautiously slink
with steely might
thru barely adequate light
even for this healthy
as an ox good knight
relying on a Jack o'lantern
designed jacklight
with superb vision,
and supreme insight
steadily held above
mine five feet and
ten inches average height
espy spilling thru underneath
securely eye
booked deal lee shut tight
locked heavy metal doors,
a faint glimmer
sans gaslight
possibly from blaring,
flashing, and placating
television screen se
essentially keeping curmudgeonly
aged residents company,
while reminiscent nostalgic
"FAKE" memories take flight
as such wistful
foregone reflections
upon the gift of
a watermelon pickle excite,
viz the cobwebbed
whirled wide
give "tearful", though
pained years gone by
blinkered back teary delight
a hermetically sealed story,
one will never
get ghost written, nor
affixed with a copyright
depressingly clamped
down inescapable
emotionally stagnating
autobiographical blight.
You were in the rear view mirror of my life
That one chance encounter to last a lifetime
What a wonderful day it was
Frolicking about the pool two strangers in a foreign land
The ocean waves beckoning us to foray into unknown territory
Sea urchins, star fish, and shells waiting for us to join them in dance
The heat of the day matching the rising temperatures in my heart
Overhead the sun baking our skin like a toaster set on high
Glances were exchanged but only for a moment
For any lasting looks into those deep brown eyes and…
All clean fun our laughter speaking for itself
Until the setting sun and a waiting plane ticket ended it all
Back home my thoughts would return to that day and you
Though I knew the city you lived in I didn’t know your name
Or the street you resided on but the memories remained
Like a haunting which would not go away, a ghost only imagined
On that rare occasion passing through your town
A watchful eye for the woman who now held my heart hostage
But it was for not, the years multiplying like an adding machine
Days would fade into night but not thoughts of you
Of that moment in the sun when all felt perfect
And then…it happened
A twist of fate
A phone call from a friend
A dinner
A date
And everlasting love
Andreas Simic©
We set up our bivouac of life
by the world's battlefield,
It befits us then
that we live not in peace
nor die free from strife.
There’s got to be more to life
than work, marriage and kids,
Life can’t be there just for tackling tasks
and achieving goals,
It’s got to be more than just
wooing fortune and fame,
It all seems so mundane--
Life can’t be there just for living and dying.
Life cannot only be of love
or of absolute faith,
It’s got to be more than
the trusting heart
or the fanatic fervor,
More than dogged devotion
or persistent prayers.
The idea of heaven and hell
oh, seems too far-fetched,
Life cannot just be the good and the evil,
It cannot just be for lauding the lord
and damning the devil.
Nor it seems is for life
to foray into the unrelenting
realms of the heavens.
There seems something of life
too close to us to seek,
too familiar to identify –
Like our hopes
Like our dreams
Like our thoughts
Like our will to live...
Too precious to own
Too elusive to grasp.
~"How Precious Life Is" contest
by Line Gauthier
He’s tired of himself sometimes,
tired of always being him,
thinking his thoughts,
feeling as he always does,
negotiating with his desires.
Inherently selfish, he’s nonetheless
not quite dull enough
to constantly overdose on himself
without feeling claustrophobic.
Boredom makes him curious
about the still-unexplored mysteries that lie
just on the other side of his own skin,
beyond the confines of his
unilateral relationship with the world.
He wants to stop his ears to the
lonely, masturbatory soliloquy in his head,
make an opening foray into otherness,
wade into emotions not his own,
thus, unawares, taking the
first faltering step
towards an understanding
greater than himself.
He’s tired of himself sometimes,
and, with any luck,
he may yet find a capacity for love.
Rich man’s blue
A problem when a person meets someone
seriously, they lose their logical sense when
the rich person speaks to them or smile
They are ready to agree that the person says
is the truth, if we accept what he says
He makes mundane of going to Mars
we know his timeline is wrong
but what the heck, he foots the bill
I think of Elon Musk, who has become
the new Shreck role Putin had
But it didn’t sit well as old Putin looked cultural
Wear a nice tie and is a dog lover
His foray into German politics is brave and timely
the AfD can lift Germany out of the hole
she is in now and is making Germany strong again
As for his intemperate opinions about the UK
one can say they stirred up the reaction that
one thinks the British public was in favor of
if not the political leadership in that country.
We can ignore Elon Musj when he tramples
on our precious dignity
like the Vatican, he has no army divisions.
From a dream
Midnight – the Witching hour, when they have the power.
They romance us, They in trance us, They enhance us.
Midnight – the Witching hour, when they have the power.
They hide from us, They guide us, They sometimes confide in us.
Midnight – the Witching hour, when they have the power.
They find the man in us, They brand us, They stand by us.
Midnight – the Witching hour, when they have the power.
They are kind to us, They are not blind to us, They entwine us.
Midnight – the Witching hour, when they have the power.
They believe in us, They leave us, They bereave for us.
Midnight – the Witching hour, when they have the power.
They are a friend to us, They will defend us, They end with us.
Midnight – the Witching hour, when they have the power.
They are strong for us, They will wrong us, They are a song for us.
Midnight – the Witching hour, when they have the power.
They will sing for us, They will bring life to us, They are spring for us.
Midnight – the Witching hour, when they have the power.
They, with a song for us, They long for us, They will belong to us.
Midnight – the Witching hour, when they have the power.
They end the story for us, They foray into us. They see no glory in us,
B, J. “A “, 2
March 15, 2025
My last foray into this arena
Had me living memories, not wished to share
Here I go again, another visit
Into the elderly homes, we wish not
A sunny day, another gathering
Carers working, making things happen
Those in wheelchairs, still smiling
Others in mobile beds, unsure of the happening
A talk by an ancient, born 1917
Strong voice, begging to be heard
Wartime memories, clear as a bell
The telling of a visit into hell
Strong voice, sharing memories
Some good, others not so
I look around the room
Half the listeners, into their snooze
On and on, goes the story
Death and glory, hand in hand
How can you tell such a sad command?
Bravery, such as only you can understand
Bodies of men, only families know
Story goes for one hour
Comment from teller, end is near!
Carers sob quietly, hidden words
Room is quiet as never before
I leave this place, memories flooding
If there is a being, ruling the happenings
Make me safe, send me happiness