Long Furor Poems
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In Memoriam Quietly Always Close
Are they whispers, then, settling
So gently upon that slightest breeze wending
Over the granite crosses and statues of cradling angels,
Which stand in their long cemetary rows?
Stating each name of the one passed on with
There-on etched, too, the noting of time alive
And telling of the beloved, who hum there their slow laments;
Who send up colorful balloons to celebrate their love and
Take far their silent greetings in the sky.
Are they lullaby heartsongs, which
Rise on sprigs of heaven-bound light,
So tunefully sweet for love’s addressed, aided
By a league of angellic composers
In their lyrical rounds from above our earthly sphere?
Are these the places of our hushed sympathies?
The places we lay over our dear ones
All the broken pieces of the grieving heart’s still longing
To stay in some way forever near, and, so, we linger thoughtfully
Criss-crossing the undulating final verdigris
Landscape, which embraces the last remains ~
Resting on in heaven’s wait for that further journey going on.
Are these faint mists surrounding
So many hours of our own remaining days —
Which are spent summoning back the stories, the touches,
The eyes that happily cast their glance into our own —
Not truly our tears
Being turned to magnifying memories,
Prayerfully appearing with each
Dusk’s close of day and placid rise of the radiant moon?
Do see that the soundless falling is our aching?
Is a furor — burst of pure, white snow:
A flash of a blizzard, looking nearly weightless,
Landing in silence, but
Incongruously, falling heavily down, into those forming crystalline layers
To dress a seeming lace-like çover over all the stone markers
With a luminous beauty, revealing a metaphor, ineffable
~ Blessed markers of life itself set here before us
Within reach of meeting the Divine.
—————————————————————————————-
(c) sally young eslinger 6/5/2023
(Written for Jennifer Wilson & Maggie Hopkins in loving
Memory of James Hopkins, spouse, father, & friend) Also written with the inspiring power of images of the 9,000 marking gravestone crosses in Normandy, France, and sights of Arlington Cemetary, Washington, D.C.
Written to unaccompanied cello Suite 1 in G major, perfomer Yo Yo Ma
Thanks be to God…
In the glare of a stalking spotlight, impulsively he moves
As his eyes adjust to the mystery of the darkness beyond
His animated monologue flows with fervent idioms sweet
As a vintage wine its bouquet smooth and bold, and fraught
With the appreciation of an applauding audience
As his pacing intensifies so do the decibels of infectious
Laughter and for a moment in the solitude of his ebullient
Soul this escape from his own reality is painless, and his
Stage is now his only world
And on the podium of life the melancholy in the verses of
His poetry and the songs of his heart tell their own
Profound story, of a man embedded in the fabric of those who
Accentuated his quest to proliferate the virtue that is love
As his persona evolved through the episodes of being
Many knew him but knew him not
And when the social furor of onerous times beckoned
This panacea of the distressed responded with a luminous
Heart the consummate giver that he was
And when he rode the night the winds told him their stories
The stars guided him with their twinkle and the moon blessed
Him with love, he was not alone
The epitome of friendship was at his side as he exposed his
Soul unclothed his conscience, and returned counsel to his
Friend
As I remember him, I feel his presence and tears fill somber
Eyes and memories abound of the age of impulsive energy
Where his unbridled capacity for humor was honed, resulting
In the hilarious skillful and insightful stand-up routines
That flowed so effortlessly
And in the animation of the sprit I see his face and though
Not a word is uttered and no good byes are said the silence
Speaks and in the aftermath of a solitary teardrop kissing
A daunted cheek a smile is born
How I wish we could ride the night one more time again
But the lights have gone dim, and the audience has applauded
For the final time, and he has left his stage on his way to a
Command performance in the sky
This Joker this man of many visions now gone with many secrets
Of the night was my friend
Earl S. Jackson
April 2007
Copyright © 2009 Earl S. Jackson, all rights reserved.
It was in the year 2040,
in Vienna was where it all began,
folks were looking at the Lance on Longinus,
when they saw something they couldn’t understand,
on the spearhead was dried blood, from a man.
The faithful all proclaimed a miracle,
but science wanted to study this in full.
That, of course, caused lot son controversy,
some feared testing would destroy what they found,
and immigration had changed Europe,
local Islamists were soon coming around,
hating the implications of what was found,
they went to the museum, tried to burn it,
engulfed half of Vienna in a riot.
Given the conflict the discovery brought,
most realized it could not stay in this place,
after much debate a decision was made,
they would send it to the United States,
in hopes that there the lance would be more safe,
So science could find where the blood came from,
and disprove the rumors, which they thought were dumb.
So it was in Berkley, of all places,
that the ancient spear would find a new home,
there was all sorts of hub-bub when it arrived,
the media had a frenzy of their own,
the lab that got it soon became well known,
and Doctor Tom Wiseman soon got to work,
he doubted not the blood was of this Earth.
After six months of examination
they had isolated complete DNA,
and Tom was working very late one night
when to the janitor, Pete, he did say,
“It’s strange, the furor won’t go away.
We tell the believers it’s a normal stand,
but they do not care, still this it’s their 'God-man.'”
Pete just shrugged, said, “I suppose it makes sense,
it wasn’t DNA that made Jesus Lord.
it was supernatural, God’s presence,
the made the man so worshipped and adored,
a lot of people just seek something more.”
Tom just looked at him and said, “Petey, my friend,
I think you just helped me bring this to an end.”
He said later, at a meeting of trustees,
“I think we’ve an opportunity here,
a chance to prove Jesus was just a man,
free people from superstitions and fear.
We can finally make the truth quite clear.
I’ll make a clone with an artificial womb,
accelerate the growth, so we’ll have it soon.”
CONTINUES IN PART II.
Reindeer herd - heard clattering
Rangifer tarandus kept
this deep sleeper awake
cavorting, deer ring
escapade haint fake
dreamt only a smattering while
Santa did shimmy and shake
with ho...ho...ho...
no worry mate - everything's jake
resonating resembling thus Spake
Zarathustra jollity did quake.
Yours truly (i.e, me)
awoke with rapture
forty hooves with
four "toes" on each foot
surreptitiously, soundlessly, and simply
did invisibly bore
I noiselessly swore
sizable wrapped holiday box
with duct tape to secure
merchandise found thee missus
(Abby) excitedly tore
painstakingly, neatly, and lovingly
my feeble protest she did ignore
(think lame gesticulations)
ah... lo and behold goodies galore
unable to deter impetuous more
or less analogous to child like roar
ring with giddy excitement
December twenty fifth,
could not await opening your
linkedin holiday deliverance
including Trader Joe's gift card
to "fake" Monseigneur
Matthew Scott with dogspeed
to wish thee (Andy, Ansley,
Marley - if by ghost of chance...)
plus other kith and kin) bonjour,
and joyful new year, whence two score
orbitz will find me
newly minted centenarian, argh... your
brother not yet ready to explore
afterlife, which grave kismet unavoidable,
courtesy grim reaper conquistador
though... even now no fear arises,
when permanent sleep shall nevermore
witness generalized (anticipatory)
anxiety cease to perdure,
which bouts of panic
running rampant near winded seen yore
citizen banker (me) disgruntled
as if possessed by maniacal führer
running me rampantly ragged das
exhausting emotional furor
takes (and/or took) toll, I deplore
and decry lifelong psychological struggle
germinating while in utero,
when my nonexistence
no bigger than a spore
biological vagaries manifestation
nine months before
set figurative deoxynucleic acid
blueprint stage permanently
etched to the core
every cell sporting mutation
begetting, coding, dunning ensure
ring subsequent generations
oft times pondering,
whence final breath of relief
will signal time to scatter ashes
buzzfeeding boughs of sycamore.
Thunderous bang
Blinding flash of lightning
A loud clap
The crack of a whip on air
The storm raged on
The endless shower of the heavens
Continued to pour in a furious gush
With a staccato matched by no other
Droplets of water merged to form bombs
That dispelled the rhythm of sleep
The rain ceased to sooth
As its arrival on the tin roofs
Sounded in disturbing fashion
All sound silenced by the shimmering and hissing
The heavens continued to spit on the earth
Dust turned into mud
Streaks of puddles formed
United they raced in a furor in tune to the laws of gravity
The parched earth sucked the running water
Choked and spat out the trapped air
But the water was not to be outdone
As it rushed in a melee far from the earths surface
Into choreographed gutters, trenches and reservoirs
The rain droned on
The deepest slumbers awakened
This was not a rain like any other
The roof cracks began to pour in water not droplets
Widened and rendered the roof useless
Inhabitants were drenched within four vertical walls
The wind arrived with a loud whistle
And the loud protest of roofing sheets
As they were ripped of with extreme violence
They were tossed like leaves
Until they were suddenly dropped lifeless several meters away
The wind cracked windows
Sucked out trees from the embrace of the earth
The planted crop was carried upright and life less
On a ride of its life
To be dropped as if in disgust far from the field
Those that remained in the ploughed land
Lay flat heads and body battered to submission by the pelting rain
Then like the end of the tango
The rain slowed down with contrasting grace
With extreme haste after laying to waste
Everything all had worked for
The silence of the night returned
With all things tongue tied
The morning arrived after eternity
The pale rays of dawn
Revealing the gruesome sight to all and sundry
The sorrowful disarray
Of abandoned life forms and possessions
Then far from beyond the mountain
The thunder rumbled as if in satisfaction
Of the immense destruction and impending starvation and doom
Das papa anathema & furor he hiss toward patriarchal hierarchy
Courtesy mine eldest sister Amelie
Beth (thirteen plus months my senior),
whose maternal love equals heart as emoji,
she nsync with other kith and kin
painstakingly fleshed out family tree,
formerly severely uprooted, me
knowledge of ancestry
truncated, denuded..., bereft
any extended offshoots you see,
thus without doubt earned a priori
gene nee us award for peopling bee
silly decorative swallowtail and
wild asparagus coat of arms motif,
but particularly her artistry
paternal branch Harris and
maternal Russian limb named Kuritsky,
yet now unwittingly feel stumped
I ruminate, speculate, tabulate..., re:
garding one or more descendent did trumpet
objectionable bent with bias, decadent,
flagrant... haughty jarring averse trait
invariably patriarchal heir arch key
impossible impossible to hold figurative tongue
and rebuke stereotypical tendency
resigning, excluding, kraaling..., privileges
to any persons except Caucasian wealth thee
males, who fathered established, commandeered...
western civilization paradigm, I smart
with displeasure at gross injustice curtailed free
choice to acquire unshackled life, liberty,
and pursuit amidst avast booming population,
whose supposed inalienable rights blithely
usurped and denigrated creed, ethnicity,
and indisputably those with frizzy
hair still evident this late date two thousand
nineteen, I decry, grieve, lament,... particular lee
how women haint got no choice - chattel
to grand poobahs - to terminate pregnant sea
really irksome, when predicted on incest, rape
non viable offspring...violation this
garden variety poetaster recoils with knee
jerk loathsome, how young females jailed
if they undergo abortion
(with unwanted, unloved, unborn..., bay bee
thru no fault in their own stars),
punishment nasty, brutal and abhorrent
essentially enslaving the gentler sex lee
ving terror and horror, when peering into mirror
ogre looming ready to strangle gal lest she
obey mandate else...
Standing up on this polished stone as
A bard once upon a time
In the utopian monarchy of my lonely thought
Sharping up the plight for its prime.
As an apostate of vice
On the face of the last dime,
Announcing to the world my departure
As a ci-devant scribe free of crime.
Of misgiving, I trumpeted via dichotomy of gore
Imbued as I may, silent and subversive
This ambient resembles the inner furor
Pure, hot, melting plasma and perverse
Gratitude for incensed horn in the hand of Isidore!
I have opened this door,
Bearing the downpour of gall,
Presumption full of venom in the mouth
Of a snake wrangling the past
That brings a constant surge of drought
In the life so rough that won’t last.
Give me the strength, for I have fought
A fane carved into stone, for I have known
Give me the pith of what I crave
Like falling feathers from the pillow of love
Where I have seen the maiden
Levitating in the forests of deep, and above.
I extent the space-time to moulder my soul
In the battle that my body won’t endure
But will in self-crucifixion enter the shoal
Of far-away lands, and of peace so pure.
I have chosen you, and given you the power
I awarded you with such a gift
Look at me with your marble blue eyes
The same way I looked at you
From down under, under the skies.
I cannot force the demons floating in the shadows,
I cannot untangle mysteries and secrets
Of innocent feelings, for I have spawn,
Sipping from this streamlet I call heart,
Here is a chalice to drink up from dusk till dawn.
That husky voice I held in my ears
Like the stairway of ascension into music
Into virtue, into solemn dream-world with no fears
Where I could touch the fingers again
Gently like the keys of an accordion
For ought I know, soft and round
Untangle this knot known as Gordian.
How our choices and paths lead to mysteries
How mysteries create despair,
I will kill the serpent on the horizon
And that will make it just and fair.
A jewel in the sky
An offspring of the star
Revolving around her mentor
With resolve and passion
The mother of the mothers
gave us space, water, air, food,
Sun, day, night, clouds and rains
We returned it with smoke and flames
With myriad of turbulence and furor
She kept us in her lap, safe and breeding
With warmth, love, affection and care
We throbbed in the shadow of her eyes
The crazy, selfish and ungrateful
With ceaseless and unending appetite
Hiding wild desire to swallow all
Devoured her charm and affluence
Ever forgiving and compassionate
She continued with motherly bliss
Absorbing the stresses and strains
With tolerance and magnanimity
The ignorants may turn their mother
Into parched and lifeless land
Wiping out all her bounty
Imperiling their own existence
In the name of God, with rays of hope
Let us wait for the day
When the wisdom dawns
On the naïve, obtuse and the oblivious.
Appearances aren't everything.
There are feelings too and appearances of feelings which, really, are a direct result of appearances.
Appearances and feelings.
Thank God for design.
Design is God's gift to us.
With design we can mold our appearances which, in turn, mold our feelings.
Genius, really.
Should I wish to have a good feeling, for example, I can design, by God's Grace, an appropriate appearance.
I can shave, cut, pierce, and paint myself in any number of combinations.
I can rotate combinations endlessly, for a frenzy of feeling.
When it was finally discovered that one could actually design the appearance of feeling there was the appearance of great jubilation.
Suddenly design could really shine.
Eventually the appearance of feeling became indistinguishable from either appearance or feeling.
The great golden age of design emerged from the confusion.
Annoying philosophical questions became marvelously rococo hair styles or complete face reconstructions and clothing to match.
Hours of design time for a moment of simulated feeling.
Soon, however, the designs and simulated appearances of feeling lost a bit of furor.
It began gradually at isolated dinner parties or parades.
Try as they might, they couldn't regain their original simulated exuberance.
New paints, hair shavers, mirrors.
Violent encounters.
Humiliation. Cruelty.
All forms of abomination design could muster.
In the end it was all they could do but pretend that they were truly simulated.
Their pretense became the appearance of design.
The appearance grudgingly allowed them the illusion of apparent feeling.
And so it went.
Appearance, feeling. Designed and simulated reality.
Life remained somewhere in there.
Some designer will figure out how to simulate the appearance of it.
THERE IS BLOOD IN MY TEARS…….MOTHER INDIA
POKRAN AT PULWAMA
YESTERDAY MY CHILDREN HAD STARS IN THEIR EYES
TODAY WITH ME THEY TOO HAVE TEARS IN THEIR EYES
DID I SAY TEARS, ONLY TEARS, OH NO! GOD BELIEVE ME
THEY HAVE BLOOD IN THEIR TEARS AS ONLY I CAN SEE
‘CAUSE IT ISN’T THE ENEMY TO THE COUNTRY WHO DID IT ALL
TRAITORS AMONG MY OWN COUNTRYMEN WHO MADE IT ALL
MY HUSBAND A VERY BRAVE MAN WAS ON DUTY’S CALL
HE JOINED MANY OTHERS LIKE HIM FOR A DISTANT CALL
IN A CONVOY OF BUSES THEY DROVE THROUGH ICY ROADS
SOME SLEPT AND SOME SANG HAVING MIXED THOUGHTS
AS THE TREES WERE BARREN AND WINTER SO RUDE
ALL HAD A FAMILY TO CARE AND NO TIME TO BROOD
ONLY THE PRIDE OF NATION THEY CHERISHED IN MIND
AND TO WORK FOR ITS GLORY THEY NEVER DID MIND
I PROUDLY SENT MY MAN WITH ALL HIS MIGHT TO GUARD
THINKING MY NATION WILL ALWAYS TREATED HIM AS GOD
LEAST WOULD HE HAVE IMAGINED HE WOULD BE NO MORE
FOR SUDDENLY FROM NOWHERE ITS A FIJAYIDIN FUROR
BOMBS BLEW BUSES AND BRAVE MEN TO SHREDS FAR APART
THERE WAS ‘POKRAN IN PULWAMA’ AS BODIES CAME APART
ITS ALL OVER TO ME AND OTHERS AS 44 MEN WERE LOST
ALL OF A SUDDEN MY MAN IS DEAD, HOW LONG WILL I LAST
ALAS TRAITORS IN THE COUNTRY DID IT IN THEIR MADNESS
IN HATRED AND SPITE, HEARTLESS TERRORISTS KILL
THIS COUNTRY HAS MANY HEROES ALL OF WHICH I BELIEVED
THERE ARE MORE KILLERS THAN BROTHERS I AM NOW BELIED
NEVER DID THEY TEACH IN SCHOOL, COUNTRYMEN KILL
MY PLIGHT IS SAME, AS THAT OF MANY AS TIME STANDS STILL
OH MOTHER INDIA, WHERE WILL I GO? AREN’T YOU MY MOTHER?
TO WHOM SHALL I GO AND CRY? MY CHILDREN HAVE NO FATHER
ALL OF US LOST OUR HUSBANDS, WILL THEY COME BACK EVER?
LET MY COUNTRY PROMISE REVENGE FOR DAMAGE DONE TO ME.
THAT’S THE LEAST MY COUNTRY CAN DO……..