Long Go past Poems
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- continued from Part 2
I Am Making More Profits
Than An Open Window Can Scope!
But More Importantly
Than Any Viable Earnings Can Invoke …
Lovely … I Am Sending Valuable-Love
… Inside This Envelope
(Isa. 54: 11, 12)
Yes, Lovely … You Are My Amethysts & Rubies
and Sapphires and Silver and Gold
and I Am The Richest Person Alive!
… If The Truth Be Told …
I Want You Ecstatically Happy
Now Surely, You Must Know
I Just Want To See Your Own
Luminous, Starry Eyes Aglow
… and Pour Drops of Soothing Oil
and Lavish-Anoint You – Head To Toe
and Smell Your Sweet, Pure Perfume
Wafting Like Incense To My Nose …
And Hold You In My Arms
and Never Let You Go
My Lovely One, I’ll Be With You Soon
Because I Love You So …
My Lovely One, You Know Me
To Be A Lover of Honor, Most Honest
The Length Between Us Is Loyal
and Getting Closer By The Moments
And You Have Your One-True-Lover’s
Word of Oath – On This (like Sacred-Sonnets)
And I Will Come For You, My Lovely One
… I Promise …
But The War Rages On
and Will Wage Worse Before Its Gone
But These Things I Have Told You
So You Have Always Known …
About Harsh Ways of The World
So Go Past Them, You Must Stay Strong
and True To Me ‘Til I Come
and Make Us A Brand New Home
(For To Me, Again – You’ll Belong
… Before Ere’ Too Long …
(Rev. 21: 3, 4)
But I Must Finish My Duty
and Complete My Timeline-Task
The Importance and Responsibility
For This Job Is Very Vast!
It’s For Our Future & To Make Sure
That We Will Always Last
and That No One Else Dare Repeat
Poisoned Mistakes From Prideful-Pasts
And After This … We’ll Never Again
Ungroup or Unclasp!
But Your Understanding & Agreement
Is Needed Now … That’s What I Ask …
Oh, Let My Words Kindle
Your Starry Eyes Like Flames!
Let The Fire of My Ardor
& Pure Force, Course Thru Your Veins!
(The Song of Solomon 8: 6, 7)
And Let This Letter Draw You To Me
With Unbreakable Mettle Chains!
and If You Must Whisper and Weep
Just Softly Echo My Name …
(Remember, You Agreed To Wear My Name)
(Isa. 43: 7, 10, 11 / Acts 11: 26 / Rom. 10: 13)
Let This Letter Be My Lips
Speaking Forth Innocence
Let This Letter Be My Lips
and Each Word A Knowing Kiss
Let This Letter Be My Voice
Telling You How You’re Loved & Missed
For Soon, We Will Be Together
As If In Celestial Bliss
I Send This Letter So It Could
Act As Your Revival
I Sent This Letter So You Could
Know I Am Reliable
(Part 3 of 4)
BACK STORY
Me and my dad used to work as a team on the Trolley Buses for Manchester Corporation, out of the Hyde Road Depot. Dad drove, and I was his offsider, collecting fares, and keeping order on the bus, like making sure people did not block the aisle, or go past the stop they had paid for. and no one was standing up if there was room to sit down, also making sure people upstairs did not bang there feet on the floor. General Spoilsport eh. In the second part, Moses was a big African fella, and his offsider was a little red headed Irishman, they usually had the run in front of us, and tried whatever they could to get us to go ahead, and take the load off them, timetables did not bother them much. I always told dad,
if it comes to a fight, I will take the little one
Trolley Buses
By Robert (Bob) Moore ©
I used to work on trolley buses, up and down Hyde Road
My dad he was the driver, and I controlled the load
Move along the bus I’d say, there’s room for 2 upstairs
that’s where you were allowed to smoke, in those days no one cared
Leave from Piccadilly, the 210 was our bus
Keep eyes on the timetable, it meant a lot to us.
Ardwick Green and Belle Vue, then on past Debdale Park
Hyde would be the Terminus, then turn and head right back
Sometimes a petrol driver, would try to make some cash
With overtime on trolleys, but sometimes they were rash
They’d forget about the trolley arm, and try to overtake
They’d see us wave and shouting, and realized “mistake”
It was all too late of course, and the sparks would start to fly
The arms were bent and waving, and the power it would die
Then swearing and apologies, and laughter close to tears
Then back to depot on batteries, for the ribbing and the sneers.
Moses was an African, his offsider was a Mick
They tried to get us to take their load, with every dirty trick
We pulled into Hyde one day, they had their trolleys down
You should be in front they said, and take the load to town.
Dad did not bat an eyelid, we’er on a break he said
you’ll have to wait 10 minutes, before we go ahead
they knew they could not wait that long, they had to make their run
so trolleys up, and off they went, we drank tea and watched the fun.
An Awful Harvest
I went a hike up to Wawa in Montalban and up the mountain roads. Here I was to go past the peaks of Mt Parawagan, Susong Dalaga and Mt Lagyo plus others. The road had been improved by engineers with trucks and plant equipment. I wanted to hike a big circle right back to the beginning. This was possible a few months ago but not now due to the building of the Pamitinan Dam. It will take four years to do this and flood a complete valley near the peaks. A guard told me no entry by the construction site. I talked to a head engineer and he told me more details. The dam will be eighty metres tall or deep more than the Kaliwa Dam of sixty four metres. These are big structures. Hikers wanted to hike from Wawa to Casili by the newly improved mountain roads but the dam construction stopped this. In time a new road will be built above the dam level replacing the old road. Even if the road is built in a year the dam will still be unfinished so still no entry.
I saw a sign saying beware of UXO Unexploded Ordnance. A local man told me about this, of how the military was looking for it and would defuse any found. His details matched much of what I’ve heard before, like finding shrapnel in the soil. The sign was for the road improvement and dam construction. Sleeping shells waited to knocked awake and kill.
The digger, bulldozer and plant drivers need to be paid danger money. No joke. The area they work on is a small part of a huge World War 2 battlefield. An awful harvest litters the land with unexploded ordnance being buried in the soil having not detonated. Mortars, shells, bombs and other things; these all need locating and safely defusing by the military.
People live in the area and many have found live or exploded shells. The live shells are complete and the spent ones are in varied sized pieces. On my hike up there I was given a piece of one five five millimetre shell from a local. This was in two parts, the biggest weighed many pounds. I estimate between one in four and six fired never exploded. On the stone mountains like Mt Lagyo the shells and bombs will explode on impact if the detonators are triggered. In soil covered peaks the shells can just dig in and don’t go off. The army went up to Mt Lagyo looking for unexploded ordnance. They found nothing.
You are my life and in that I believe
Always my love will be only for you
Flattering though that sounds I must confess
My first love is chocolate - sad but true
Sensual visions to capture the feel
Bringing the contours of wind sculpted plains
Hold that thought even though I love it so much
Must let the dog out before he drives me insane
Shimmering soft on the eclipse of love
Cloudless these evenings of star sprinkled mist
Just looked - no lustrous stars in this sooty sky
But stay for chocolate drizzled cake - I do insist
I drink in your fragrance
Tasting the flavors, your moistened lips
I heard something of interest today,
Chocolate doesn’t go to the hips
Kiss me ‘midst the maples
Kiss me ‘long the shore
Kiss me o’ my precious one
Now and ev’r more
Its thirsty work I must confess
This kissing and walking along the shore
A chocolate sundae sounds rather good
At that quaint little place that I do adore?
I see, I see, in front of me
Dessert, dessert, set out for free
My! you do know how to set the mood
I can’t go past this - you do know me
The night feels right the lights are turned low
What’s this the video has stopped? Hello!!
Johnny has left the building? Just when I wanted more
No matter- my debonair poet of delight
Conjure me up some George Clooney tonight
Well set aside your chocolate pie
For Hollywood is coming by
And as you explore your favorite star
I’ll enjoy that Hershey bar
Oh Fickle Heart chocolate second placed?
From gold to silver - it’s now displaced
Footnote:
I’ve used George Clooney as he is globally acclaimed as the most favored flavor in the ratings.
Personally, I favor the more 'Bono' type - (I love his voice)
Paul David Hewson, known by his stage name Bono, is an Irish singer-songwriter, musician.
Acknowledgement:
My deepest appreciation to Chris Green, poet extraordinaire for sparing some of his wonderful talent and collaborating with me to bring you this arrangement.
Copyright © Maria Williams & Chris Green | 12 July 2017
As we rallied to the Falklands cry,
And prepared ourselves to fight and die,
Some willing, some pressed, some volunteers,
All with deep down hidden fears.
Gangways gone, Hawser sip,
Sail Intrepid, fighting ship!!
Long hard days, sleepless nights
Working hard to get things right.
Ascension passed, Falklands closing
Argentine threat, everyone joking.
D Day troops- we pushed them through,
Still we laughed, so little we knew.
For us the war was still not real,
How could we know just what we'd feel.
Sympathy, hurt, pain and fears,
revulsion, hate, horror and tears
Bombs exploding - war is raging,
Begin to realise what we're facing.
Rockets loud and missiles firing,
Heroes living, heroes dying.
"Hit the deck" we hear the cry,
Please dear God I dont want to die
Air raid over, planes depart,
All quiet, that was just the start.
Weeks go past, countless plans
Intrepid:- Battle hardened veterans
Air raids come and air raids go
British Victory? Hopes they grow,
Ships hit, ships sinking,
People hurt, it gets me thinking,
So much pain and so much sorrow
Christ: it could be me tomorrow
Now at last Port Stanley taken
Argentine hopes, all are broken,
Britain has won, or have we really?
Peace has been paid for, very dearly.
Thousands of lives have been lost,
How can one start to count the cost!
Shortly, back to Britain will be the course,
Set by the victorious:- Task Force!
Into the arms of the waiting newsmen,
To be out on page one to page ten.
But when the publicity has all passed,
As I'm sure you know it cannot last,
Who'll remember the fallen lads,
Who gave their lives for the Falkland Islands.
The distant land no-one recalls,
Except when they bother to take a slight pause.
So take heed Politicians, look back over history,
And forget the Chivalry and the Glory.
They don' exist - lest not in this age,
Or can they in any future war we may wage.
Before you set forth on any crusade you may persue,
Remember the servicemen, you need to back you.
From this Epitaph, let one thing remain,
Don't even let one man have died in Vain!!!!!!
AEM(M)Clifford
20.6.82
Form:
Mark Allen was ten years old, and his favorite things were trains;
Like teal moments after the storm, when colorful beauty remains.
Mark had a shiny, toy train set, and he was frequently adding cars;
As people often have dreams of travel, underneath jewelled stars.
Mark's Papa was a train conductor. He loved to manage the train;
And Mark liked to listen for its whistle, while playing in Green Lane.
Dinah was Mark's little sister, and she'd give her toy horn a blast;
As she looked out the window with Mama, to see the train go past!
Flashing stars began fading away, in the mystic aura of fruity sun;
And fascinating friends came to frolick, when skies turned lemon.
Fall finally faced the cruel fact, that beautiful flowers were dying;
As fervent family flew in with kisses, in purple dawn sun, shining.
Mark lived in the house of motion, in the halls of going someplace;
And redbirds visiting sunny window sill, like summer at the gates.
Stars shivered in sad winter, although they were sequestered afar;
On the street of spectral beauties, intense and somewhat bizarre!
New neighbors observed social niceties, as necessary as nostalgia,
Sharing their notions into nighttime, like aurora borealis of Alaska.
'Rainbow rose' still cried dewy tears, as 'inky fingers' wrote forever;
And 'chocolate vines' caused temptation, in velvety hours of leisure.
'Money plant' jingled its coins, when 'aeonium superbang' exploded;
And 'shoebutton' plants got fastened, in sunny glaze, sugar coated.
Mark dreamt of being a railroad man, like the father he so admired,
One coral day, when fully grown; for golden time never grows tired!
'I've been working on the railroad,
All the live long day.
I've been working on the railroad,
Just to pass the time away.
Can't you hear the whistle blowing?
Rise up early in the morn.
Can't you hear the captain shouting?
"Dinah, blow your horn!"
Dinah, won't you blow,
Dinah, won't you blow,
Dinah, won't you blow your horn?
Dinah, won't you blow,
Dinah, won't you blow,
Dinah, won't you blow your horn?
I plant no seeds in soil bare,
But in the unseen breath of air—
Where roots of dreams reach deep, unknown,
And blossoms grow from seeds unsown.
Each learner walks a secret path,
Winds shaping sails with gentle math.
No single map can guide them all,
For some must rise, and some must fall.
I weave the light through shadowed space,
With tools of play, with time and grace.
A dance of minds, a whispered call,
To build, to break, to stand, to fall.
The garden’s heart is not control,
But freedom’s gift to every soul.
Where creativity takes flight,
And darkness births the softest light.
I tend with care, yet yield the day—
For growth will choose its own true way.
Each question, pause, and quiet gleam
Becomes the thread within their dream.
Some bloom with color fierce and wild,
Some take the time of a wondering child.
Some lean toward sun with open face,
While others rise from shaded place.
I do not rush the growing root,
Nor force the tree to yield its fruit.
I offer soil, I offer rain—
And wait with joy and not with strain.
I read their stories, line by line,
Unfolding truths in word and sign.
Their laughter writes the morning breeze,
Their silence shapes the evening’s peace.
They do not always understand
The care I hold within my hand.
But someday they may look behind—
And see the garden they did find.
The lessons here go past the page,
Beyond the rule, the score, the stage.
They live in how we pause and hear,
In how we hold another near.
For teaching is not just to know,
But how to let the spirit grow.
To guide, to witness, to step back—
And trust what flowers in the cracks.
This work is more than craft or art,
It’s tending life’s eternal heart—
To kindle wonder, still unknown,
And leave them rooted when they're grown.
So let the world outside be loud—
This sacred work need not be proud.
It hums beneath each breath I take,
The garden I am blessed to wake.
The element of water is much needed to survive,
that's 2 parts hydric oxygen for breathing deep inside,
all scents of Mother Nature dwelling in between your
thighs, with you I'm Maya Angelou, a touch and still I
rise.
The shower water's beating like a drummer go
insane, it drizzles as it bangs and brings to mind the
pouring rain,
we ride the ganja leaf as I begin to tour your frame,
the steaming mist envelopes us, we fly like soaring
planes.
A drenching kiss that makes us slip, we're goin
under too, the sky's alive, the lightning strikes and
brings the thunder too,
my legs collapse like Autobots to slide up under you,
your right leg's now on my left shoulder, aint no
runnin boo.
The 1st lick of your nether lips exhales your breath
away, the 2nd through the 30th go past like
yesterday,
and minutes after fastening my mouth to man your
boat, a liter's worth of candy jam goes slamming
down my throat.
Your hips do grind and so do mine except some
time has passed, you hold for dearest life, you're like
a vice, so tight to stab,
but once the motion activates we form like Wonder
Twins, which has me quartered safe in you like I
was Gunga Din.
The shower nozzle's open to a full blown water blast,
the way our skin is smacking loudly, it just oughta
splash,
you throw it back like Brady when the Pats and
Dolphins clash, or moreso like you walk the streets
and look to ball for cash.
It feels like Heaven's open with the angels washing
down, but even heavy shower water can't wash out
the sounds,
of passion resonating through a frosted wall of
glass, my seed does not impede with speed, into
your walls I crash.
A 2nd wind of stamina embraces me like fam, I'm
like a stick of granite still, that's just the man I am,
who don't mind puttin in extra work that'll leave us
sore with pain, the shower's like we're outside sexin
in the pouring rain.
The element of water is much needed to survive,
that's 2 parts hydro oxygen for breathing deep inside,
all scents of Mother Nature dwelling in between your thighs,
with you I'm Maya Angelou, a touch and still I rise.
The shower water's beating like a drummer go insane,
it drizzles as it bangs and brings to mind the pouring rain,
we ride the ganja leaf as I begin to tour your frame,
the steaming mist envelopes us, we fly like soaring planes.
A drenching kiss that makes us slip, we're goin under too,
the sky's alive, the lightning strikes and brings the thunder too,
my legs collapse like Autobots to slide up under you,
your right leg's now on my left shoulder, aint no runnin boo.
The 1st lick of those certain lips exhales your breath away,
the 2nd through the 30th go past like yesterday,
and minutes after fastening my mouth to man your boat,
a liter's worth of candy jam goes slamming down my throat.
Your hips do grind and so do mine except some time has passed,
you hold for dearest life, you're like a vice, so tight to stab,
but once the motion activates we form like Wonder Twins,
which has me quartered safe in you like I was Gunga Din.
The shower nozzle's open to a full blown water blast,
the way our skin is smacking loudly, it just oughta splash,
you throw it back like Brady when the Pats and Dolphins clash,
or moreso like you walk the streets and look to ball for cash.
It feels like Heaven's open with the angels washing down,
but even heavy shower water can't wash out the sounds,
of passion resonating through a frosted wall of glass,
my seed does not impede with speed, into your walls I crash.
A 2nd wind of stamina embraces me like fam,
I'm like a stick of granite still, that's just the man I am,
who don't mind puttin in extra work that'll leave us sore with pain,
the shower's like we're outside sexin in the pouring rain.
©2011
All the lonely people, where do they come from…
All the lonely people, where do they belong…
These are familiar lines from a Beatles’ immortal song…
Makes one wonder why so many people feel lonely as in a song…
You have the telephone and the internet, various forms of media chats…
Yet the media world is awashed with stories of lonely hearts and conned jobs…
Makes one wonders how a lonely heart reaches out for its counterpart…
How does one get started along the path of true love that matches hearts…
With all the false starts and puppy loves that catch many unsuspecting hearts..
Many a lonely heart pine in silence and in solitude, as time inexorably go past..
This latest article that describes the profile of a typical lonely hearted woman…
Her biological clock in overdrive, on the lookout for elusive love as a woman..
A chance acquaintance over the internet and before she realises the danger…
She’s another lonely hearted woman under the spell of a suave cassanova …..
The daily papers regularly highlight cases of internet love gone horribly wrong….
Fortunes lost and love betrayed, happened yesterday and money all gone …..
Such sob stories happened yesterday, happen today and will happen tomorrow…
Lonely hearted people, desperate for internet love are tailor made for sorrow….
When desperate clutches for Cupid’s arrows are fraught with unseen dangers…
Lonely hearted men and women, in answering their hearts they are endangered…
Fortunes are lost, they are soundly conned of their golden nest of savings…
All in the misguided belief that theirs is the only true love worth pursuing….
All the lonely people, it matters not where they are from...
All the lonely people, in looking for love they risk being conned...
http://www.theantdaily.com/Main/All-the-lonely-women-where-do-they-all-come-from