Long Forgotten Poems
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The shears sleep heavy, lethargic and lost,
Silent on the cold wooden floor,
Covered in webs and dust from the years,
That have passed since they clicked to a roar,
With each sheep and ewe, and every big ram,
In the shed that was life on the land,
In the shed where the men shore, two hundred or more,
Sheep with their iron clad hand,
And lanolin and resin still emanate the air,
The walls are still old mahogany brown,
But gone are the men, in blue singlets and shorts,
Bought from the one shop in town,
Now things are quiet, the seasons they go,
The shearing shed has gone by and by,
And these worn out lonely shears hold all of the memories,
Under the dry burnt Australian sky.
I skipped a rock across the river
it came back in a wave.
It pounded into gravel upon now
the roads are paved.
Used to build and stake a claim
of my home enclaved.
As upon it My name to write
everlasting to engrave.
To comfort and protect many lives
to live and save.
To join the host of all the lands in
peaceful conclave.
Used to fight for our freedoms,
not to rule or enslave
In Respect of all the perils not
forgotten nor forgave.
To honor our forefathers who all
stand now ungraved.
Deciding are we to be industrial
or are we to be brave.
Whom can say with rocks in hand,
how are we to behave?
w042020
{This writing is inspired by the quote "if life gives you lemons make lemonade". So, if life gives you rocks... I see a picture of one skipping rocks, I see a picture of one throwing rocks}.
Mirror of the past
Appreciate the beauty
History's language
Ancient adventure
Personality and style
Forgotten summer
A soul of the time
Do not need makeup to glow
Threatened by decay
Dark clouds in the sky
Tears are washed away by rain
Grief, pain, loss and love
- 31.05.2017
- Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
- Copyright © All Rights Reserved
- www.howmanysyllables.com - Haiku 5-7-5
A terrible thing we had of it.
A treacherous sight indeed.
The day undisclosed longing to be forgotten.
A jobite non the less.
The death of a sinner an abomination
His death sought redemption.
Redemption!!! Redemption built on the blood of the innocent.
Fueled by fear of the unknown.
Rejected in the land of his birth.
Rejected by this scornful people.
He journey's to a land void of hate and fear.
He journey's to a land full of gold mines.
He sourjuns in land of the unknown.
He sourjuns among the Romans.
Calamity stroke without warning.
Calamity stroke with a nine mouth-whip.
Return he must to his place of birth.
Return he must to this scornful place.
He returns fearful of rejection.
He returns fearful of hate.
But finds peace in this lions den
But find's solace among this wolves dressed as sheep.
Thus, this sad tale finds a happy ending.
Thus , the life of "An Alien".
This heart~ a lovesick talisman
f l a r e s fallen sparks,
seeking Mayan glyphs of hope
amidst layered lace of halcyon,
illuminated with tears
of black diamonds,
for the empires ruined
by the self-righteous kings
throned in greed,
draped in galactic gold,
while ceremonial pyramids
adorned with copper footprints,
face the Venus star like sacred trees,
engrossed in sacrificial salt,
threading through ancient roots,
r e m i n i s c i n g
prophetic light of twin flames…
But beneath the storm
of wistful wildflowers
carrying pollen-etched promises,
there I revisit the book of soul,
with laws of lethal lies,
and ponder what
must have the
world witnessed
when mysteries of life were
mindlessly manipulated
from vermilion vines in
the vindictive valley of stone,
where civilizations were cremated
with smoke of hypocrisy,
and pages of destruction…
So, in this dejected domain of truth,
I question green-eyed dragonflies
fluttering in caves of confusion.
Will devotees of the antique moon
feel the sunrise within these words,
woven in white?
For I am the veiled bride,
wearing shells and feathers,
chained to the phasing cycles of Luna,
chasing the aura
of passing planets…
A paradise painted with rhinestone riches
and insincere ink
can never
last for an eternity,
but will be written as
a
f i n a l surrender
to roses that breathe
the forgotten fragrance
of the forsaken forest,
perhaps through
poignant tales of the past,
I will find the frayed spirit
of withered sagas,
the essence of broken vows
embalmed with
ancestral rain...
" One man's junk is another man's treasure" - author unknown
To some, old collectables and antiques are nothing but junk,
even heirlooms kept safely in their grandmother’s old trunk.
They say antiques sales are diminishing and not as popular today,
but I believe antique collecting is still an interest and here to stay.
It’s fun to go antiquing on the weekends for old forgotten treasures,
buying trinkets to discover their provenances by researched measures.
Exciting to imagine the energy and stories the antiques may hold,
and delightful when finding collections of history so rare and old.
An old empty apothecary bottle that once held medicine to treat the flu,
or helped saved the life of a sick family's toddler when he was only two.
The old handmade quilts and lace doilies that are now dull and faded,
some kept as cherished family gifts and some bartered and traded.
The beautiful Currier and Ives fruit print I found today for sale,
with foxing and colors not as vibrant and some getting pale.
I wonder the story it holds, was it in a mansion or a small home,
displayed as a collection of art or in a shack on the wall alone?
Garage sales are popular places today to find antiques and old junk,
seeing the large number of people who stop can’t be debunked.
Antique collecting is here to stay and will regain popularity,
and still exciting when finding a treasure that is a known rarity!
3/4/23
Contest: Writing Challenge -" J " words Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Ives Michael Rasmussen
1892-1919
So, there you are, my friends,
And here I am, resting, nodding off, in the cool dirt,
Of shady and forgotten Mt. Olive Cemetery.
There are many of us here, sleeping, and waiting,
As you are sleeping and waiting, up there,
Above the grass, and the old mossy tombstones.
We all know now what life meant,
We all know now that life was a serious matter indeed.
We all found out that every person must make a choice,
The choice of eternity… here, where we are.
We the dead know now, that life was just a test,
A simple test with an easy answer.
But I am dead now, and so, don’t ask me.
The truth must come from him, the Master,
For I am nothing, absolutely nothing,
Just dust and atoms lying askew, here in the dark,
Of shady and forgotten Mt. Olive Cemetery.
So, there you are, my friends,
And here I am, waiting for the final trumpet peal.
Waiting for something no one can possibly imagine,
I am waiting for my savior to open up the big skydoor,
And I am waiting for the tremulous toppling,
Of these old mossy tombstones.
Remembering the days way back when
Baseball was what made life tick
Lived and breathed that wonderful game
With the Babe, Ted Williams, and the Mick
Jackie Robinson breaking the colour barrier
Sweet memories inhabit my brain
Jackie was the absolute first hero of mine
Brought equality to this time honoured game
Stan Musial, Bob Feller, and Joe DiMaggio
From a much simpler era, these names
When salaries hadn't yet become astronomical
They played for the love of the game
How many remember the powerhouse Yankees
Every year the cream of the crop
They were always a perpetual Series contender
Seemed like the Yanks were always on top
Those days are gone but sure not forgotten
In the recesses of this old mind
Can still see Ted hitting one over the fence
In my mind, it's nineteen-forty nine
© Jack Ellison 2013
Around this same exact time,
Exactly one year ago.
I wrote a really mediocre poem,
About 7th grade moving "slow".
But, boy, was I wrong.
8th grade is full of waiting.
I've been at my school for 11 years,
This month is just frustrating!
Luckily, there's some "fun" ahead,
Including our 8th grade trip.
Yea, it sounds kinda lame, but still,
It's one whole day we can skip.
Everyone's forgotten we have finals.
In only three various subjects!
I guess we can study for the next week,
Let's not forget all the projects!
I think all that I want to say,
Is that I'm super antsy to leave.
I got that scholarship for high school,
Let's go, Falcons! Whoo-hoo, DC!
To know and not know.
Red moss, crimson blood of a slaughtered calf
I knew seen it before but could not recall
where and when.
Like seeing a landscape painting in a valley
of cobblers where children ran barefoot on
summer grass and scents of wildflowers.
Unpasteurized milk had laughter in the breeze
I know this to be true but do not know why.
I think of raindeers, will they eat red moss
used as they are of the grey variety?
The sun keeps shining like a Spanish orange
so full of juice ready to burst.
The good earth is dry waits for rain, plenty
the red moss is forgotten as a love affair
if I sit still enough, perhaps I will remember