Long Frequenting Poems
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As a teenager, I was so lean and lanky.
My mother worried over my physical stature.
She believed that all the nutrients in my diet,
were rapaciously devoured by my hair.
From childhood onwards, I had long, thick hair
that cascaded down my back like a jumping cataract.
Each time I got ready for school in my uniform,
my mom had trouble plaiting it into two pigtails.
After school, it took much of my time to tease apart the strands,
release and unbind, what my mom had so neatly done.
She wanted to cut my hair short, I too agreed
as it took so long for me to have my hair dried after every bath.
(It was a time when we had not even heard of hair dryers!)
When I conveyed my mom’s decision to my friends,
they said in unison- “Your long hair is your sole attraction,
we are all jealous of you for it. If you cut it
you’ll be like a sheep after its fleece is sheared,
Oh, so ugly”
My hair was straight like stick, black and glossy without even a curve.
I was so upset about it as curly hair was what everyone preferred,
in a village without the ‘refinement’ and sophistications of urban life.
After every long journey, I had to spend hours clearing the tangles of my hair.
When I entered college, my hair became my distinguishing mark.
All referred to me as ‘the girl with long hair’ and it became my identity.
Girls from cities had begun frequenting parlours for straightening their hair
I was happy I had natural straight hair without recourse to artificial means
Thus, for the first time, I began feeling proud of my hair.
I spent hours before the mirror, admiring my hair and tying it in styles, varied.
Also started wearing it with my chin up and flaunting it unabashedly.
When I joined college as a lecturer, I could hear exclamations of ‘wow’
from my students, whenever I turned to the black board to write something,
and my silly feminine heart fluttered in vanity like a peacock.
Before long, silver threads began to peek here and there.
When they came in one and two, I plucked them away.
But Time, like a mischievous imp began to play nasty games.
In a couple of years, I was all grey and now I thrive on hair dye.
Indeed, a messy job! To make things easy I have cut my hair short.
Sad, my mother is not there to see me in short hair!
I started toddling at seven months,
Walking the roads as from twelve
Shaping my feet from sands and mud upon bumps
Frequenting the paths to hell and into which I delve
From the spittle of the seas to the flayed clay of aging silt
It’s the same old story frequently told in tears
Moaning and mourning are kinsmen in the compound of guilt
Where ancestral rocks and whetstones gather moss in pairs
I have journeyed on, night and day, stumbling
And falling, rising and schlepping determinedly ahead,
A bag of sorrows on my back, encountering no nibling
It’s a one-man tiring journey accompanied by dread
When the road is bifurcated, I gamble on my choice of route,
Searching stars at nights to guide me on paths of clearer lineage
I borrow the gimlet eyes of crickets to seek out wedges to uproot,
Knowing well what I desire in my pilgrimage
So far, it’s been one Hell of a road
So frighteningly long and sinuous —tumultuous
Harbouring wildernesses, dens and gold,
Yet those who tread on it are serious and sensuous
It plies mountains, rugged and brutal, with sweltering breeze blown
On flat land and deserts, it hurts and fries the naked feet
On rainy, starless nights, you’re on your own.
Above restless crests of sea waves, it’s like a wet, riotous street.
Trust me, it’s one road upon which I’d hesitate to tread again,
Even if the lights of the sun and the moon promise to accompany me
Oh, no, I’d prefer to board the wings of a tern, even in rain,
And keep warm with the feathers above the knee.
He was a very handsome man,
not filthy, unshaven or ashamed...
once he held a cardboard that said,
" Help me with whatever you can! "
Yesterday around the corner, he held out an empty cup of coffee
without saying a word, but his sunken eyes of beggar
had no strength to remind others of his unfair destiny...
eyes that told a sad story to friends frequenting the local bar.
He told everyone sipping a drink that he was forced to beg for bread
when his bad health became the curse of Hell,
then he lost his beautiful wife and children...the ones he happily held
to his hilarious heart when everything went well.
" I will rise from the ashes! " he solemnly promised himself,
" But in the meantime, that cup will get me the money to survive...
some folks will give me dirty looks, walk away and laugh:
who wouldn't give me a quarter or a dollar to keep me alive?
At night he slept in a shelter down the busy block,
and he always carried a pain-killer to relief his headache...
he wore a wooden shining cross around his droopy neck
and kissed it twice when money dropped in his cup.
Today he looked totally different: well-groomed, wearing suit and tie;
he greeted me as I tried to hand him ten dollars for a chicken pot pie,
" Thanks, buddy for your kindness, I no longer need your money...
the Lord has finally healed me: I am bound for prosperity! "
Natural calamities have been
With man since time immemorial;
Frequenting the earth's face,
Standing as one tall trial.
They ravage places at random,
So unpredictable;
Like invincible enemies,
Wreaking havoc so powerful.
Nature unleashes its wrath
In many forms;
Volcanic eruptions, wildfires,
Extreme heat and winter storms.
Other types are quakes, tsunamis, tornadoes,
Hurricanes, mudflows, flashfloods and landslides;
Claiming not only properties,
But even human lives.
All these among others
Are nature's way to remind;
Man's frailty and helplessness
Make his life lay on the line.
El Niño weather phenomenon
Is another grim warning;
It brings extreme drought
As well as torrential raining.
Nations make information campaigns
And disaster preparedness programs;
Anticipating possible effects
Attributed to nature's harms.
Following the experts' advice
Is a good way of coping;
Take contingent measures,
Brace ourselves for what it might bring.
Yet above all these,
Trust in God Almighty;
Whose hand designed the universe,
His power is great inexorably.
He gives rain on the earth,
Countless are the things marvelous;
He turns into blessings
Man's most feared foes.
Beneath smile exotic, gleaming moon’s delight,
We embraced romance of a passionate night,
Whispering deep secrets of moments sublime
Unveiling sweet story of undying-love in prime,
Of promises eternal, pledging together forever,
Journeying through life’s endearing endeavor,
Vowing to traverse through oceans of ardour
Eying abode amorous, vying tomorrow’s shore.
Alas! love soon turned errant, choosing to detour,
Straying from accords youthful, but immature,
Rejecting once enamored elation of evermore,
Opting bliss in yonder beyond passions of yore.
In solitude we bid goodbyes to love gone awry
Lamenting wistfulness frequenting pensive sigh
Saddened by bleak story, woefully incomplete,
When dissonant forlorn vibes, accepted defeat.
Yet, we found pathways renewing our dreams,
Reinvigorating assonance of past broken themes
As fervid interests, on divergent paths aligned,
Rewriting ending of story, destiny had designed.
Hosting moments solitary, as I often think of you,
Rekindling in your embrace, love we once knew,
Reminded I am, how memories have feelings too,
Though melodies they strum, no longer ring true.
noisy toys and building bricks
girls and boys in football kits
playground fights homework books
summer nights disprooving looks
growing pains and butterflies
test and gains that qualify
leaving school hunting work
breaking rules going berserk
frequenting pubs getting drunk
discover love and have a bunk
find a spouse and settle down
buy a house outside of town
have some kids start to fight
hit the skids stay out all night
get divorced loose your job
feel remorse become a snob
find yourself loose the weight
discover wealth start to date
love again this time for real
hide the pain but start to feel
watch your kids have there own
building bricks and a noisy zone
grow too old and then retire
feel the cold and loose the fire
close your eyes then drift away
as life dies the memories play
of all the joys the one that sticks
is noisy toys and building bricks
You will see me alone, dining.
Always near a window
Watching people hurrying outside,
Or well-dressed patrons
Frequenting the five-star diner,
My favourite eating place.
Alas always alone.
Still one lady, impeccably dressed
Always visited the place every Saturday.
And always with a different escort.
I wondered who she was,
But I could hardly ask her, could I?
Her escorts seemed rich and elegant.
Not that I was shabbily dressed.
But I was not the handsome type.
Then one day she came in alone.
She had no escort as she ordered her food.
What could I do? I approached her meekly
And asked for her company.
"Finally, you came," she smiled.
We never dined alone from then on.
FICTION
He wore a leather bomber jacket and a redskin hat and would engage with people where ever he was at. He wore two hearing aids that often whistled like a kettle and as he aged out in our three homes he did settle. A world war II vet he served in the navy and once out he married and they had three babies. Dad had been a lawyer and eventually became a judge. He was not a snooty person and seldom held a grudge. Dad was always most particular about where he chose to eat, only frequenting four star restaurants with the more elite.
At church his voice would bellow as he sang out every hymn. Most days he'd burst into a song if he felt the whim. Dad had an Irish temper but wasn't easily provoked, in order to get it simmering it had to be stoked.
Even in his older years he was still a flirt and would turn his attention to a pretty face or leggy skirt. Dad had a strong work ethic and worked til age 75 and would probably still be working now if he was alive.
At age 81 as he lay counting sheep, my dad gently slipped away, dying peacefully in his sleep. HAPPY FATHER'S DAY TO ALL THOSE GREAT FATHERS OUT THERE
How dare goddamn Laura divorce him
After thirty years arduous pre dawn sacrifice
Menopause made her dismiss marriage on a whim
Told Rod he'd not have true love twice
Victim adamant to prove prowess
To construct his dazzling platform
Marina tower apartment, salesman finesse
Enamour for strawberry blonde, he'd perform
Abattoir visits supply excess meat
Too good to discard, soon crows found
Raw morsels upon sunny balcony heat
Slowly rotting, sixty metres above ground
Pleased frequenting feathered friends
Swoop hungry, hot tiles smeared in grease
While his platonic blonde sidestepping pretends
She's not ready to consummate their needs
Shimmer photoshoot illusion windswept strands
Whip her dazzled face in gold to behold
Pristine boat grid below, his meaty hands
Suddenly clamp her jugular, slowed blood cold
Duck egg irises fear increases, dance shoes slip
Held up by Rod's determination to murder
Strangled finally to submission in his sausage grip
Remote controlled bird saw and heard her
Floating microphone, struggled inhale caught
Quad propellers wing nimble, zoom eye snaps
Amor of flaxen haired dancer he sought
Filmed before her fatty floor collapse
Cocky Rod knows how to remove her corpse
Platonic blonde diced by cow carcass blade
Churns through her chaste, chest flesh warps
Chuck steak beak struck, friends caw unafraid
20th July 2022
Written for Contest: Start Sleuthing
Sponsor: Natasha L. Scragg
What would Dickens think,
If he could walk the streets of today.
Would he be fooled by the pretty facades,
Or would we find him frequenting back alleys and side streets,
To see how far we have come.
Would he think the lot, of women so much better?
And would he notice a smaller gap between the rich and the poor,
The rich still with open cheque books and charity work as the
Answer to the world's woes,
And the poor still selling their bodies and souls for their upkeep,
Or drowning their sorrows in drink or drugs or both.
How would he rate the lot, of children in the 21st century?
With so many still mere playthings, at the mercy of adult whims.
And not having to look far to find one to pick a pocket or two.
Would our longer life expectancy mean anything to him,
Given the number of those still miserable and lonely.
Yet there is still one thing that should give him some hope
And let him rest easy
His books are still in print
And they still touch people's hearts
Inspiring them to strive for something better,
A small miracle within itself.