Long Geese Poems
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Watching t.v. makes me laugh sometimes
The things people said
"What do you expect for $ 26 a month?"
about a house in some countries
- a room actually
Yeah what do you expect?
The way he said it was actually funny
I like to laugh at people
Not laughing at them
But with them
There is a difference
I do laugh at them too
I am not a saint
"You get what you pay for
You know?"
Here he goes again
Some people are just too funny
I can't help it
"It's like a hotel" he said
"Private" - too funny
And another one goes
"life is never perfect"
Yeah you learn so much by watching t.v.
and everything else too
What did you learn?
I learn that life can be funny
with all the twits and twats
with all the geese and goose
with all the goosebumps and bags of chips
It's worth living
It's worth taking
Hold it with open arms
What is it that you are holding?
A gift - my friend - a gift
On one’s own as a Christian
is it really possible to do?
the church tells us it’s not so
but many feel so not just a few
Scripture says we are all one
that we must live all in peace
but so many of us feel excluded
no better then a load of geese
God’s truth is changed for convenience
to suit man’s selfish carnal pride
claim biblical truth only is rebuffed
makes one think am I only here for ride
You begin to think am I here alone
do I only believe what God says?
start to feel like Elijah all so sorry
maybe times short in the final days
Spend time in prayer seek His answer
for seems so many say you must be wrong
but my convictions tell me otherwise
so hold on to God to always stay strong
(one's thoughts on how it is at times as a lone Christian feeling as if the church is not heeding God's word but only compromising to suit there own desires.)
Aspens and oaks embellish the dense forest
distant from the suburbia's loud noises,
all remains unchanged in such a wilderness;
I gaze at swollen clouds reaping a storm,
nobody runs to seek shelter, all creatures stay put...
who said they don't have rules and don't live by a norm?
Yesterday brightness led to wonderful sights:
shrieking geese soared the windless skies,
Monarch butterflies twittered and flapped freely
while the returning hummingbirds warbled happily!
The shadowy night advances with the pace of raccoons,
one is completely subdued by the sense of their slowness,
do our feet straddle as theirs...on those dark paths of May?
They always rely on moonlight to catch their unsuspicious prey!
I was hoping to spot the pale face of the wandering moon,
and not erase this smile from the cheeks that seek sympathy;
so incredible are the pitiful looks of cooing hawks mostly maroon,
if we seek the same thing they seek, we must show empathy!
Open spaces reveal huge meadows with drowsy flowers,
I follow the sparkling midnight stars moving along without rush
in search of a fearful moon hiding behind the pine groves;
not all sleep placidly, the cry of a woodpecker raises from a bush!
I can make a profound observation while wandering aimlessly:
nothing is timeless and truly enduring, days flee quicker than memory;
we're fragile human beings subjected to mercy in times of calamity...
our character is far from perfect, and not nearly close to godly!
The Farm ©
by Trisha Sugarek
Fields of mustard seed
as far and beyond the eye
the farm dogs return
dusted in yellow
The clapboard grey of the old
farm house stands in testimony of
generations of pea farmers,
hunters, fishermen, and cooks
Heady fragrance of a farm dinner
immerses the senses as the screen
door slaps open
The matriarchal voice sings out
‘tea party!’ A call to supper
And the city folk sit around a battered
and scared wooden table laden with
baked chicken, fried steak, mashed potatoes,
green beans and corn that hung from the
vine just minutes ago
Her biscuits and corn bread are the stuff that
dreams are made of
Later they all sit on the warped porch steps
and listen as the geese honk their way in to
the fields and their nightly time of respite
Bats fly across the moon, frogs call out their
secrets, a loon wails its loneliness
Summer on the Farm
As Related By Britches
By:Tom Wright
8/7/2006
Britches gets up early
To greet the breaking of dawn,
A stretch, a scratch,
And if sleepy, a yawn;
Old Elsie the cow
Anxiously awaits his pull,
He hopes when they’re done
His buckets near full;
Later he’ll throw
The chickens some scratch,
By then his mom will yell ”Pancakes”
And he’ll go eat a batch.
Tater peelings and buttermilk
Will make up scraps for the hog,
And while he’s at it
He’ll sail a biscuit to the dog.
Then with four buckles on
It’s off he goes to the silo,
For his fair entry’s ration
Of molasses and Milo.
The gate still needs fixin
On the property that they lease,
And his mother’s making pillows
So she’ll need down from the geese.
He’ll re-pen that Billy
And put the piglets with sow,
Fork hay in the mangers
And head out to plow.
He’ll spend untold hours
Following a mule named Blue,
Which causes me to ponder
Who was smarter of the two?
Britches next year graduates
Bringing news quite alarming,
That whatever life’s role
It would not include farming.
With clouds dispersing above Loch Ba,
to where would we go? And just how far?
We followed the track for more than two hours
listening to birds enjoying the flowers:
meadow pippit, willow warbler
curlew, lapwing and skylarks,
bog asphodel and milkwort,
ragged robin and lousewort,
plenty of pignut and wild thyme.
The remembrance has more value
than contriving a rhyme!
Around us the trees alder and oak
contorted old rowan and birch
all covered in lichen and mosses.
After lunch we returned along the shore
with grebes, geese a raptor and so much more.
Isle of Mull, 14th June 2024
November sets emerald leaves ablaze,
igniting flames of scarlet and cerise.
And long nights overshadow shorter days,
as Nature unveils Autumn's masterpiece.
Scarecrows are left guarding empty gardens:
as Jack Frost's brush colors the dying leaves.
And two Thanksgiving turkeys get pardons:
while Fall's brisk breezes strip the trees, like thieves.
Autumn adopts an orange undertone
as the fields are gleaned and canopies thinned.
And as naked trees get stripped to the bone,
skeletal branches rattle in the wind.
December triggers the death throes of Fall,
whereas flowers start to shrivel and die.
And the geese fly south, with a honking call:
trumpeting, that Winter will soon drop by.
I love a good cocktail party. Unlike a bar, you can talk.
After three drinks I believe in transformation.
I reconstruct myself from conversation to conversation,
editing my own footnotes like a controlled burn.
While some people arrive whole and fully formatted,
my personality just buffers, spins and refreshes.
Though I suspect everyone’s upgrading themselves in real time.
When someone asks me, “What do you do?”
I say, “I read a lot,” with no qualifiers or visible panic.
I think saying “I’m in school” makes me sound.. adolescent.
After three drinks, I like everyone
and I want to make them happy
- conversationally.
I believe that, at a cocktail party,
people should morally align with ambiguity.
No one should come in with ‘strong opinions,’
because if we can avoid fistfights -
these events feel like a success.
The worst question I can get, at any event starts with,
“Aren’t you—” because then I know they want to talk about my grandmère.
Peter, sensing wild and stormy weather, will pull me away with,
“Let me borrow you for a second.”
Sometimes, on the way home, I’ll practice my go-to cocktail sentence.
“I read a lot,” I say, repeating it like an actor trying to give it more personality
- so maybe someday it’ll be enough.
.
.
Songs for this:
Hawt Heart by Born At Midnite
Islands of Men by Geese
.
* guess where we went Friday night.
Environs are rainbow-colored, I had always felt,
Until an alternative perception is soon revealed;
Have I ever thought that midst all these a dappled scene dwelt,
Flamboyant and monochromic celluloid is concealed...?
Designs painted by the sun while peeping through bushy trees,
Harass of horses galloping in a cavalry realm;
Black-yellow-brown strips on the nectar-hunting busy bees,
Majestically strolling tiger in self-image helm...!
Peacocks, pigeons, sparrows, geese, crows, doves, and flower-peckers,
Daisies, lilies, marigolds, Amaryllis, and Hyssops;
Dunes and nature-made domes of deserts in multi-deckers,
Strips plowing through oceans, mountains, and tall baroque hilltops...
Features of Nature, each in its way, are divine designs,
Each dappled line is benign and each in decorum shines...!!!
08 February 2023
In the high valley
I make my Sit and Forget place.
(Truly, though my Chit and Regret place.)
My cushion.
My tea.
These pale wildflowers,
and the hauntings of my heart.
The silhouetted geese,
and the tauntings of my mind.
(Truly, though the dauntings of my no-self.)
The winds blow up the
slopings.
The breeze pools, cool here,
in the dale.
Each Accomplished blade of grass,
each of the thousand million,
sways now South, now Easterly...
Opinionless, the sheaves of green
whither this, whither that;
all bending, all pointing
singly, as One...
I alone, in this high mountain valley,
somewhere above the clouds,
somewhere beneath the peaks,
am delighted by my opinions;
tormented by my opinions.
I sit...
Breezes...
I sit...
To wit: