Long Furor Poems
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Classified
By Franklin Price
6/7/2017
Why are some things classified?
Only for some the right to know
What could it hurt for all to see?
I think I have the right to show
What could it hurt to tell some friends?
They won't run and tell the tale
They know I'm sworn to secrecy
Know I could end up in the jail
That is the quandary that I'm in
I think the whistle I should blow
Would cause a stir on issues now
I think that all the world should know
Why it's secret is not right
Although I know that all's not known
I cannot feed the furor now
Unless I throw the dog a bone
If I let known this classified
And it starts war within a week
Won't be my fault, I thought it right
To let this information leak
Don't blame me, it's not my fault
If we look back and millions died
Would not have stolen from the vault
If there was nothing classified
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…
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.
Rampage rumbling water roars dig the shores
Heavy hard they grapple trees and humans
Tumbling turner tides glide no one adore
Frightened humans, they run! Run and run fast!
As they desire to survive ever more
From angry nimbus clouds darkening span
To merry-go-round waves muddy wet skirt
Gnawing so hungry to launch damage pert
Beeping screams a reigning train of terror
Rattling man's safety in viral bellow
The ground shut bullet rush without error
All will see an avalanche fresh fresco
the scathe and cries a full furor mirror
Waiting for hope - the sun's chrome of yellow
Abrupt sea assault bridge to sudden death
Taking all weak and anyone with breath
© O. E. Guillermo
9:48pm
September 28, 2009
*** FROM A DOCUMENTARY I watch about killer tsunami
Sponsor Giorgio A. V.
Contest Name Top Gun Poetry - Structured forms - Iambic verse II
placed 2nd
Gonna let you all in on a little secret
My real name isn't Jack at all
Charles is the name I was christened with
A late change caused a huge falderal
My seven older sisters ended up in a furor
A last minute change by my dad
Didn't go over well with the seven of them
So this joyful event became sad
His reason for making this last minute change
Was to honour his brother Charley
Who died a big hero in the first World War
Sisters thought the change was too tardy
So they decided to call me Jack anyway
In spite of dad's last minute switch
His reason for making this admirable change
Wasn't reason to change their wish
So keep on calling me Jack my good friendies
It's stuck with me for 87 years
If you call me Charles, I can certainly guarantee
Won't answer unless I've had too many beers!
True story!
For years preachers have ranted and raved to control the activities of hookers!
Well, I'm proposin' that the guv-mint control the sale and use of pressure cookers!
We've seen the havoc these lethal weapons wreaked upon Olde Boston Towne.
Congress should act, now that the furor over gun control is settlin' down!
There should be background checks on little old ladies who have a yen for one,
And there should be a waitin' period to buy one just as there is for a gun!
Even though they may be designed to hold twelve quarts when locked and loaded,
Congress should limit capacity to six quarts so as not to be accidentally exploded!
I'm really concerned that I broached this urgent matter, upon serious reflection.
I fear some politico might read this and make it an issue to help in his reelection!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
A quivering shadow shrouding a clouded pane
Shared pain scribbled in the doleful rain
Hollow words that broker heartache and disdain
A sorrowful whistle emanating from a distant train
Poorly trained recruits struggling above the furor to remain
Stridently striving nation's honor to uphold; but only vitriol,
criticism obtain
Sacrificial fodder sheared of its free-flowing mane
Pared of hope; left only with the incalculable strain
Stationed in a humid hovel that every ounce of stamina doth drain
Surrounded by enemies who fealty and allegiance feign
Fighting to defend a people tethered to a weak, tenuous chain
Serving under commanders who constantly seek fallow grounds to
regain
Sacrificial lambs whose blood the unforgiving terrain doth stain
Seeking a wily, amorphous foe in a borderless territory to contain
Reconnoitering through boundless jungles that equally beauty and
poison contain
Searching for 'guerillas in the mist', but only marauders and
malcontents detain
Scouring villages for contraband; arbitrary jury distributing pain
Showered with toxic chemicals that clear our paths but our lungs
restrain
Conditioned to violence as barbaric, torture devices many
comrades have slain
Transporting the liberal vices of burgeoning social revolution to a
frugaler domain
Satiating the lonely days; secluded nights with: booze, barbiturates
and cocaine
Surviving a hostile conflict where sanity seemed to constantly ebb
then wane
Trite conscripts whose epitaph will read, 'Every battle objective
gained, but the national will could not retain'.
A furor surely was ignited
When somebody from United
Made a bad decision
With a most unpleasant end.
A carrier with dog inside
(The flight attendant notified)
Was placed with luggage which
The family couldn’t comprehend.
The overhead compartment where
Kokito languished had no air
And so he barked, expecting
That he soon would be unpenned.
The owners begged, to no avail.
Kokito’s cries did not prevail
And soon the family learned they’d lost
Their sweet and loyal friend.
United gets a new black eye
And not a soul should wonder why
Of all the airlines, this is one
I would not recommend.
I remember his words, not that long ago
Telling of such times when crimson flowed
My Grandad, my hero, who's memories told
My bedroom window I look, it all unfolds
Neighbours fighting neighbours, why I cry
People talking yesterday now in furor
I'm young, I'm eleven, asking myself why
What's changed overnight, fueling this score
In panic surround Dubrovnik is now where I stay
Walled city, Grandads house, from Serbian tirade
Seven months endured, walls holding well
Wishing it's over ending our imprisoned hell
Again his stories unfold of countries in ruin
Fighting with Tito, heroes they one and all
Repelling the Germans, killing their doing
Repulsed he is, by their murdering thrall
Back to the present and a silence exists
Can it be that the fighting has now ceased
What I'm seeing aged eleven, people I know
Holding back tears of whom known deceased
It's now 2015, I'm a Lawyer of human rights
I've lived many nightmares, said killing sights
For my Grandfathers memories, he and all
There will be justification, when no one will thrall
.
If our love is a sin, then heaven must be full of such tender and selfless sinning as ours— Radclyffe Hall
Explore themes of love and identity
Of Stephen Gordon’s innate sense of masculinity
Since a child, her desire, ‘women’
The idea that if love is considered a sin
The unfolding of a female sexual invert
The act of loving must be a tender selfless act, revert?
Love itself is not inherently sinful or
complexities of love, we shan’t ignore
But rather the circumstances surrounding it
Misfits from Malvern to London and then to Paris!
Ira furor brevis, the frailty, taboo and strife
Fellow q***r characters, all walks of life
From the *sapphic salon hostess Valérie Seymour
To the 'miserable army' and more
of outcasts that frequents the 'merciless
Drug-dealing, death-dealing' bars of Montmartre
Written in another time, still support and solidarity to
generations of LGBTQ genre
*Sapphic is an umbrella term for same-gender loving women or woman-aligned people, including lesbians and bisexual+ women. It is used to describe topics, activities, and ideas related to same-sex attraction among women. The term can also refer to the Greek lyric poet Sappho.