Long Furnished with Poems
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Molasses summers break the sun,
chase frost to sheltered shade;
retreating youthful hearts
feel the cold upon them laid.
Seeing is not believing.
Believing is believing.
Seeing is drinking pictures.
poured from a pitcher of age.
Perception, a room in which we live.
Size dictated by histories scope,
furnished with experience and hope.
We trees, with warts of sap all bleeding;
a cataloged roughness of calculated measure.
Water, wet, exploding sideways; blessed and tested
in perfect tattooed resonance.
Piece of glass or perfect pebble,
silken grass or patch of stubble.
Dandelion seed blown free
to float amongst the fruit
of every tree.
Every word we speak is golden.
Everything we do is rare.
Over there.
Always over there.
The one I love is standing here
Ahead and to my right, so near
Not near enough, can't ever be
Until the day that she's with me
A poem I can write with ease
To play for her is such a breeze
The bluebird's nest inside my heart?
I keep it clean while we're apart
It's furnished with a comfy bed
A fluffy pillow for her head
One chair for two sits right nearby
Facing towards the western sky
So every day I live I'll get
To sit with her and watch sunsets
I'll be content, just her and I
The bluebird and the guitar fly
She carries me upon her back
I steer her on a preplanned track
Then when we land back at the start
If she looks up she'll see a heart
I am in a short deep sleep
Before you wake me.
I am in my shivering silence
Before I feel your gentle touch in my tan skin.
You know that because I am in my bareness.
You're afraid to mosquitoes and the cold.
But before that this morning, you nag me.
You throw teaspoon and fork on my back
Without saying a word,
You do that.
Your face furnished with anger.
This afternoon, you don't cook my favorite dish.
In my state, I was confused.
I keep on thinking why.
I question you why this is so?
You run and get inside the room and cry.
Yes, you're angry with me.
But I don't know the reason why.
I leave the house and breath air in the open field.
Until dusk, I went back.
There you are standing, staring into the horizon.
I know now what you're thinking.
You're thinking of love.
I know now, yes!
But wait, did you visit the comfort room?
Not yet. Then, you go there.
You came back laughing with tears.
You know why?
Today, is our anniversary. The time you accepted
My love. At the CR.
There, in that place hung the statement,
"Happy 10th Anniversary".
Why I did that so, because I want you to remind
That in that place I was imprisoned by your love.
Then you embrace to me. We laugh.
Then we ended in bed.
At eight o'clock, the cake deliverer came.
You laugh again with joy.
You slice the cake, while I sing our favorite song,
"Perhaps Love". We dance and sing,
We eat and drink.
Until we drunk and retired to bed.
Midnight, you wake me, with that French kiss
Saying, "I love you, you' re great!".
You make an Adam. As I say in return.
"You mean more to me, than words can ever say".
The night is very long.
Those were the minutes
Of contrarian moments.
Those were the seconds
Of thrilling event written,
When our hearts desire
And our youthful seems to fade.
In vagueness of the night, we mean recall,
Love is there, and we won.
Mark Twain's house befits the man
Who wrote his famous writings.
Wish I could have been a guest
At his renowned invitings.
Recently I did the tour
And ambled room to room,
Imagining his essence
Which the house may yet entomb.
His library was furnished with
A charming reading nook,
Where he created bedtime tales
Not seen in any book.
His lucky daughters tapped his brain
Then bid their dad goodnight,
Retreating to the children's quarters
Up a staircase flight.
The billiards room, one floor above,
Was where his stories flowed,
His back turned to the table
When engaged in writing mode.
I loved my time inside the house
Though it was bittersweet,
Since I live now and he lived then;
No way the Twain shall meet!
Before I go ahead and Sign
On the proverbial dotted line
and place my John Hancock
May I kindly enough enquire please
What exactly currently is the going
Rent you are charging
For this lofty elevated empty space
residing inside your head
And does it have or provide any other
benefits apart from the two holes on
either side
That seem to whistle like wind chimes
which and whatsoever the prevailing
wind doth blow
And I see it also doesn't seem to come
with or be furnished with a brain inside
either
Just a keyboard with a poster above
it of what appears to be the sign you
find on the door of most men's toilet's
Sadly and unfortunately though the
Knob looks as if it's missing too small
or been mislaid
Like the brain itself
Rising again, furnished with a bright dream
That led me to a noble path, graced with loving memories
So, i'm moving away from moment of despair
Looking to continue loving my purpose in life
For I refused to give up my treasured dream
Find meaning from every trial, with hope in my pocket
So, I had faith to keep going on, rising again and again-
-And planting seeds of hope with devoted heart
Making me a sailor with triumphant dream
Ready to move on, withstand other storms
While listening to melodies from deep waters
Charming my spirit, and making me embrace new sense of being
So, I keep rising, and rising again, love waiting on my new path
To carry me through a fulfilling journey
For I always believed, happines is forever in the midst of everything
Anytime, everywhere, it will always come to free me
My life, reduced to a theory,
written by those I once served.
Furnished with tales of honour
and shame, they summoned me,
tried me unfairly,
and shot me at Hango Hill.
For hours, I bore in agony and anguish,
until the burning pain turned
to death’s icy chill.
I often wonder if that fatal shot
condemned me as a traitor?
Because one could rightly argue
I have the status of a martyr!
That bullet may have stopped my heart,
but my name shall prevail!
For I, Iliam Dhone am Mann,
Leader of Manx Rebellion,
I am the state.
As Receiver General, I lived
to serve my people.
Their struggles, my own;
they, a divided nation,
Was I the driving force of evil?
Or was I a glimmer of hope for those
in depths of despair?
Struggling with death and damnation,
they turned to me for hope.
Can hope prevail without faith?
Hark Ye! Some had faith in me!
Was their faith misplaced?
Now, you decide - I, Iliam Dhone
Am I, hero or villain?
It's insane how much has changed.
From never talking-
to talking every single day.
I am more attached to you than I am my phone
My 2 addictions combined
Infused with my blood
It is a good thing that you would never lie, right?
My heart has stopped.
Frozen in it’s tracks
When I am down in the dirt, it is your hand that pulls me back
The hand is made of arsenic, little did I know
Slowly poisoning me, while I beg you not to let go
You’re my 2nd addiction.
The only other thing I couldn’t live without
The weight of my phone in my pocket and the weight on my chest when you are away.
I want to break the glass prison that you hide in,
The one that surrounds your heart.
The shards from the glass would shed my skin and I would keep the blood in a bottle,
One that I would keep on your altar while I pray at my knees.
I would use my hair as a rope, one forever attached,
I would tie it around your heart so that you could never leave me again
I would use my tears to boil my eyes so no one would ever question if i have eyes for anyone else
My skin as the carpet of the room I furnish for you with my bone.
But now there is nothing left of me.
Just the pieces I gave to you.
The ones I hoped you would treasure
But you really dyed them blue.
You took the parts of me that I let your arsenic hands touch,
You boiled them blue until I was exactly the kind you liked
You left me there,
Blue on the corner-
Begging you not to drive away.
Not to let a stranger pick up the pieces that you tossed in the waste
Those letters and poems, i filled my notebooks for you
I would have written until my fingers fell from my hands.
One-By-One. Use them as fuel for a fire to keep you warm.
Pick my nails until they bleed.
My blood, all for you.
I would let you drink my soul
And chew on my bones
My heart was left dry-
Thrown out with your junk
Left to rot and cry
I thought we were tied.
Mine heart to yours
But you cut my hair and used it to climb the wall
The one of the room I built and furnished with my bones.
You used my hair and my veins as means for escape
To get away from all I gave away
Now I burn.
My exposed muscle and organs
They thrust for oxygen
But I could only get my oxygen from you.
UNDER THE GLASS CEILING part 1
Mary and Angelica ,ladies of great renown
Painters extraordinaire in Ol' London town
Still life,portraits & history on a grand scale-
Left out of a group painting because they were not male !
NOTE Mary Moser & Angelica Kauftmann help to found the R & A but were left out of the 1770's painting of Academicians .There were to be no other women members until 1922.
UNDER THE GLASS CEILING part 2
Forbears,Edie,Kate and Ann
furnished with brush and pan.
Each a Victorian 'Miss'
tied in service's abyss.
NOTE Upstairs and down stairs ,no in between,just thirteen and just there to please as Master and Lady take their ease.
THROUGH THE GLASS CEILING
Deborah,God annointed Judge&Prophetess
a matriarch,overseer of men,..no less;
Mary,at Jesus feet,studied...just as a man
in Christ there is no gender ban
I think I just experienced first hand
Consciousness
Cradled in the bosom of epiphany
Inspiration expunged from my fathers naval wake up call
Calling all hands on deck make a break
My call to arms each day
Formative dream educed sleep filled eyes oh sound awake
Was our lesson this
So long as we power the will to awake
We have been gifted the opportunity this day again
The chance to make our wrongs right
I don’t believe tomorrow comes furnished with any guarantee
Maybe just maybe today be my end of days
The moment fate hath predetermined
Today to late yesterday spurned
Departing such sweet sorrow
Non the wiser
Lesson not learned
Humilities bridge burned
Reduced all but to a desolate bed of frozen smouldering ashes
The End