Long Given(a) Poems
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She's such a smooth talker
She could talk the rust right off of a nail
Given a chance at a Saturday dance
She could talk the slow out of a snail
I saw her wake up one morning
And talk the sun into sharing its shine
Then she went into the garden
And talked the melon right out of its rind
We went down to the ocean
Where she talked the blue out of the sea
That's the day I remember
She talked the love straight into me
My girl, she could talk a flower
Into giving its fragrance away
She could also talk the words out
Of a mute man with nothing to say
I took her to the park
She talked the kanga right out of the roo
That's the day she talked me
Into saying I love you
I've even seen my baby
Talk an ant out of its picnic lunch
One day on the side of the highway
A hitchhiker gave her his thumb
Whenever she plays storm chaser
This girl talks the wind out of its breeze
But she's not the only smooth talker
I talked her into marrying me
Given a box of old, lost things I’d loved and enjoyed
which somehow, somewhere in my youth
vanished mysteriously from my life,
I feel thrilled to look inside where first I find
fun troll dolls with colorful long hair.
Also I find my first attempts at poetry – cheesy lovesick poems
which I never knew then foretold the passion of my older self.
Also I come across my beloved pink teddy bear, so worn out,
some niknacks, and a huge pile of brightly colored clothing:
mini-skirts, cute blouses, hot pants, all reminiscent of the 70’s.
I laugh to see the two-piece hot pink outfit I struggled with in sewing class.
Eagerly I rummage through all the clothes until . . .
Oh, my, I spy my old blue denim bell bottoms
of which I was so fond – the ones with patches
sewn onto the pockets for me by my sister.
Through my mid-teens and then on through my early college years
I had worn that pair of pants so distinctively extra-flared.
Even today I can fit into them. Why oh why did I abandon them?
At last I can touch them and not just have to view them in old photographs.
It was the night I met my dream boy when also I’d been wearing them.
I hold them up to my face and inhale the memory of him against my skin
and that first most wonderful kiss of bliss.
I am a woman
Just like other women
That speaks with sagacity
And encompasses understanding
Not only for self alone
But to other women as well.
When speaks, words are wise, and gives instructions with kindness.
I am a woman
Like all women
We are given a gift
Of tender touch
A caring heart to
our child or children ,
Those whom
We treated as our
Children ,
And people
Who are
Around us.
I am a woman
A woman clothed with
dignity strong, valiant and fearless,
Not afraid of challenges
Along the way
Because we have the
Spirit of brevity .
I am a woman
Equal strength
Of mind and skill.
I am a woman ,
Not just a woman,
But a woman
That a universe need
that completes
HUMANITY .
Written Nov. 10, 2012
Gail’s Note: Not for the Faint of Heart
Rated PG-13 (Poetic Grossness – 13 out of 20)
What part of this is true?
Answer posted at the end.
I was at the hospital.
It was a quarter past two.
I was waiting for my husband.
There was nothing to do.
The emergency was over.
His gall bladder was out.
He was coming back home
Better off, no doubt.
The next day our daughter cooked
A special meal for her dad.
To celebrate the ending
of what could have been sad.
Instead we were all at the table
Treating my hubby like a star
When he eyed the counter
And asked, “Where is the jar?”
My daughter’s eye caught mine
And she instantly knew
That this was no ordinary
Meat and Potato stew.
She ran into the bathroom
Her face turning green
As she quickly zoomed
Bypassing her scream.
And while she was retching
I quickly followed behind
And while she was queching
I spoke to ease her mind.
“Your meal is bladder free.
The jar’s on the garage shelf.
Come, look with me.
You can see for yourself.”
And when she saw the jar
Her eyes met mine.
I could tell she was beginning
To feel just fine.
She went back to the kitchen
And I did some retching myself
Because I had just fibbed
About that jar on the shelf.
The bladder in that jar
Was an old one of mine
And dad’s had been cooked
With potatoes, carrots, and wine.
So the moral of this tale
Is to say, “Thanks, but I’ll pass,”
When given a memento of yourself
From the hospital staff.
Answer: Person who had the gall bladder removed was my cousin. The hospital really gave him his gall bladder to take home in a jar. He really set it on the kitchen counter. (Ugh!) His wife made him move it to the garage.
You're encased and protected
like a medal of gold,
embraced with a handshake grip
that never leaves
one's hand cold.
You're given a charge,
and now you're in charge,
superseding
the best friend,
the favorite pet,
the work ethic,
and even the prospect
of the opposite sex,
unless a tool for conquest.
Your scroll is spread
like bread before the bored.
A thief of time,
you cease to afford.
Windows of electrifying
mystery reveal
a stroll through
history's collected knowledge,
yet the conscience
drifts, given a mirror to vanity
and a need-it-now mentality.
We claim one
for every family member,
Even the youngest,
especially
the most impressionable.
The day begins with the usual drill.
Plans in readiness, we will fulfil.
Crouch under your desk and stay quite still,
Keep your eyes down, use your skill.
Don’t look up, this I must instil.
Try to be as quiet, not a sound if you will.
We practice this drill not to give you a chill,
It’s so important to do this safety grill.
If a shooter comes in, we know to do nil
We learn this so that we will be safe until.
The scene has been given a clear bill.
We know we must not cry or let out a shrill.
Teacher says chances of being hurt, are nil,
If we do as we are told and all be very still.
I had told you long, long ago
That I can be no genius;
Still, you never wanted to know
Why I had to say it thus.
Such a grinding sense of regret
Haunts me often, pretty often;
Be it at sunrise or at sunset,
My Manna becomes Leaven.
Well, I know; yes, I do know
That nothing can be true here;
When it tolls, I must go;
None can ever, ever endear.
This toy house pains too much;
What was I made for?
There’s the final freezing touch
That causes my pallor.
It seems easy to see the others;
Grinding is its experience;
All such ‘sisters’ and such ‘brothers’—
None is given any lenience.
Then I was a little child,
When my grandpa left me;
He looked pretty and too mild;
Is this called destiny?
Then, one day, I came to know
My granny would depart as well;
Death is freezing just as snow;
It gives no chance something to tell.
Now, I have to guard my parents;
Please, leave me not alone;
You two are my prettiest presents
That I have ever known.
I swear that I would remain calm;
O Mom, O Dad, I promise;
Please, no more remain so mum;
I need your gentle kiss.
If I could be given a chance,
I would keep you forever;
I would sing and I would prance;
I would flow on like a river.
Am I so little? Am I so little?
Why can’t I still win against demise?
I pledge I won’t remain brittle;
Can’t I your lives optimise?
If everything is so untrue,
Why then do I survive here?
Mom and Dad, I need solely you;
You can drive away my fear.
I promise, Mom; I promise, Dad;
I will become a good girl indeed;
Death is heartless; he is too bad;
You are the only ones I need.
I had told you both long ago,
“How can I be a genius?”
Still, you never wanted to know
Why I had to say it thus.
dainty gossamer wings
automatic fluttering
savoring the meadow
faerie magic afoot
on this summer’s solstice
breeze feels her presence
keeps it to herself
understanding faerie’s privacy
suspecting her mission
wanting to witness it for herself
baby butterfly yawns deeply
settles down for the night
tosses and turns, finally gets back up
Has an urge to head for the meadow
the faerie council is waiting
Cheering as she flies in
I knew she would sense them
breeze thought, glad she had made it.
She was instantly crowned queen of the faeries,
given a new body, sceptre and crown.
Breeze went home thrilled, knowing she had done her part.
“I guess you helped them choose a new queen?” her husband guessed.
“What did I do?” she asked, trying to be innocent.
“Do they know you always rattle the wings of the one you want?”
“Sh!” breeze said. “Go burn up a forest or something.”
Looking no older than thirteen,
sitting on the street corner
on cold wet concrete,
cup in hand for coins,
lit cigarette in the other,
eyes vacant and parched from old tears,
skin weathered way before its time...
What or who went wrong?
Was no one there to protect you
What of your childhood curiosity and joy?
When was the last time you were free to
laugh wholeheartedly or dance exuberantly?
What injustice or bully stole your youth,
abused and violated your innocence?
All too many futile useless questions ~
Hats off to the earthly angels,
to those who roam the streets
seeking out youths who are ready to
accept help to turn their lives around
and find purpose given a second chance ~
AP: 1st place 2022, 3rd place 2020, Honorable Mention 2026
Submitted on March 24, 2018 for contest SOCIAL JUSTICE FREE VERSE sponsored by JOHN HAMILTON - RANKED 3RD
Do not judge bird with black coloured wing,
“ugly looking thief that cannot sing!”
“snatches from others so it can feed!”
A bird linked to death, darkness and greed!
How prejudice clouds our timid mind?
Is it fear of darkness, makes us blind?
we fail to see the beauty inside,
dark the countenance,black the hide!
Many there in Corvid family,
Crow, Raven, Rook all look same to me,
But one I write about is our Crow,
we love him dearly, his heart we know!
Our deep bond is of unmeasured years,
For destiny links us through our tears,
Pain of loss brings the hearts together,
body with skin or one of feather!
As family grieved good old granny,
Of her love, humour, virtues many,
Amongst the sobs and tears in the group,
You heard a crow who let his voice droop!
Our memories linked us, as events do,
are no limits to love, if it be true,
as family, he shared our sorrow to cry,
A black feathered kin who could fly!
He was not caged in a love prison,
that deny freedom, rob life’s mission,
set his own limits of existence,
Sky and earth with God’s benevolence!
Homely crow was not given a name,
to tether label would be such shame,
In arrogance we do humanise,
Gauge others by what we think is nice!
Crow is amongst intelligent birds,
on a measuring scale, rest are nerds,
He knows best when new spring begins,
Against his caw no weatherman wins!
He is in garden whatever springs,
Hunting down the rodents on swift wings,
He waits some days by busy roadside,
Using cars to get to flesh inside!
Condemn him not for the way he kills,
Nature in wisdom gave him his skills,
To use modern tools, he is clever,
a measure of our crow’s brain power!
If you accept crow and black image,
In wisdom’s book you have turned a page,
Should you come to our house, see a crow,
don’t ring the bell, he will let us know!
Date written 11/07/2020
4th placement
Bird poetry contest
Sponsor Constance La France
reentered for Chantelle Anne Cooke’s
The Colour Black contest