Long Good natured Poems
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Today a mountain memory that goes back to a time
when our children were younger…more carefree
when out of Grandpa’s garden Ali picked her Sweet Potato Manatee.
We live in Florida…where many a manatee can be found…
but we never saw one that far north…
or for that matter…buried in the ground.
We joked as a family as to how much this treasure might be worth
after all Ali had discovered the smallest manatee on Earth.
Since it’s known as calm and well tempered and as friendly as a mammal can be
that summer Ali decided to adopt her sweet potato manatee.
It’s a summer in the mountains none of us will ever forget…
when Ali, an animal lover, kept a sweet potato as a pet.
“Are you going to eat it?” She was asked by many an amused and smiling stranger
to which Ali would roll her eyes and answer, “We can’t…manatees are in danger.”
The problem that I’m sure has dawned on you…as it did to this reporter…
a manatee can live for 60 years…a sweet potato’s life…is shorter.
My memory’s a little fuzzy as to that manatee’s final fate…
but I do know that is one sweet potato our family never ate.
I suppose in the end that was the good natured playfulness of fate…of destiny
leaving us…among others memories that summer…one of a sweet potato manatee.
Saved a kind soul that was falling
with nothing to lose
just one abdomen, no sharp fangs
but huge.
And what's worse
the carton I called home,
my dark universe
upturned
just a moment ago..
Uprooted now, I went crawling
trying my best to live
running from certain death
knowin it may arrive
wondering why..
always such a test
to survive..
Was it all for naught
to flee such an attack
an octet onslaught
crawling this way and that.
The sky lifts now, feeling of flight
so frightened..
yet never so alive!
Found myself being gently placed
a tissue'd touch down
in a new universe.
'Never too late, never in vain'
thought a subtle, good natured arachnid mind
who found heart in a two-legged fangless one's reign
so divine.
"A life is never squandered"
another life pondered
in a good deed, a kindness repaid
perhaps it's just this
how kings and queens are made.
Letting a flame of hope burn
means bringing light to that
obscure dream falling apart;
can something of exceptional value
be built from the ashes that have burnt?
Can we fix a broken vase with glue
and think it is as good as new?
All these assumptions have a specific clue:
when choices are many, not few!
Is a mile an actual mile,
or an approximate length defined by space?
Is our perception as lucid as a mirror
in which we see those traits with a flair?
Do all of our virtues reflect honor or disgrace?
Are our tempers good-natured or vile?
Letting a flame of hope burn
gives a new shape to an abandoned dream
thought to be as vain as ambition
not felt more than a beating heartbeat,
or awaiting a miracle to happen
in the midst of troubling times that gleam
on gruesome faces of anger and defeat...
when trust is spurned in taciturn scorn!
Is imagining a life abundant with deserved joys contrary
to the orthodox creed one must spend it in solemn prayers?
Is sacrifice a duty or a choice determining one's destiny:
whether our prospective is victorious or fails expectations?
Buddy is a gentle giant of a dog.
As good natured as any animal can be.
Nothing rattles him or makes him nasty.
He never loses his patience or his joy.
Sophie is a grouchy, mean, old crone.
A cocker with a blind eye and a snarly disposition.
She gets irritated with Buddy’s pure happiness.
If he moves too fast, she growls a warning.
Buddy is all love me, love me, love me please.
Buddy is “I’m happy, I’m happy, I’m wag-my-tail-happy!”
Sophie is snap, snarl, snip, nip and growl.
Sophie’s attitude is, “I’ll bite your eyes out!”
My best friend came for the weekend.
Sophie was growling and snarling, warning Buddy again.
Friend said “Joe, Buddy has your disposition; Sophie has Caren’s”.
This is my BEST friend?
Thankless job, I think watching
as Thurman tries to teach the young man
The lad sitting up
on the tractor
like a proud young pup
is full of piss and vinegar
half the time not listening
and half the time telling Thurman
how much he already knows...
As Thurman patiently slumps
his still-sturdy but ungainly frame
against the tractor
fingers strumming his red suspenders
a good-natured grin
slowly spreading
across his grizzled face
gleaming behind think glasses
I see a glint of soft amusement
at this grandiose greenhorn
Thurman has lived through
the Great Depression, and then
the horror of hand-combat
in World War II
one of three from his unit
to make it through-
so there is nothing this little ingrate
can possibly do or say
to break Thurman's composure today
he remains uncommonly calm
and utterly unflappable
a small chuckle slipping out
every now and then
And while the young man boasts
and blusters on about
his plans for next week
Thurman is mostly quiet, until
at length, asked about his plans
“Lord willing-
and the creek don't rise...”
he begins, knowing how
much could change by then
to be everyone we see we wish to be
spoilt infidelity was the fragrance
of our tragic continuum century
of longing longing thee
favored face dressed in
tailored knit smiles on Tuesday’s sin
oh father are we seen
as the misery kin
ants rise on Lilies
in the teary meadow land
we shall remain oh rightfully damned
Blistering coils of copper tension make haste
tangy veins peel back their mantle
to self inject a poison of good-natured taste
shudder of the mind
with fine paper cut wrinkles
we make fingernail grind to season the sense
breaking spoons for chains and stakes
head loss of screws
We should shatter the bones within him
And break the ill-tempered man
As we once found
Ourselves
Broken
Ditsy blonde mother of Red Riding Hood
Sent her little girl alone to the wood…
Once upon a present time
That would be a heinous crime,
Mom and grandma for neglect would be sued.
Cinderella story, of poor and rich,
Used and abused by stepmother, a witch!
The orphan’s mere breakthrough -
Lost and found crystal shoe,
Another parable of system glitch!
It gets better with a Snow White story,
Her dear stepmom’s nothing short of gory.
Epitome of chill -
To kill or not to kill.
A horror or a fairytale glory?!
And last not least, Hansel and Gretel grief,
Against good natured humankind belief,
Parents, biological -
Utterly illogical,
Kids saved by their own wit! What a relief!
For my very last poem
I'd like you all to know
I used to live on wanderlust
Though now it doesn't show
For my very last poem
I'd like here to confess
That for too much of my too short life
I didn't try my best
For my very last poem
I'd like to set the record straight
The guy who sometimes made you smile
Didn't always treat his family great
For my very last poem
I'd like here to admit
I missed my share of deadlines
The final one ~ this 'last poem contest' is it
Yet for my very last poem
I still hope that you think
I'm the type of good-natured fellow
With whom you'd like to have a drink
Yogi is a Newfoundland Dog
A big black cuddly chap
He’s rather large, 150 pounds or so
His size means he cannot sit upon your lap
With a majestic head and four webbed feet
A gentle giant of a friend
Very loving and gracious
Really true to the very end
His temperament is gentle
But he likes to play a while
But although he is so big and strong
He will make you beam a smile
Affectionate to all around him
As a watchdog he’s pretty smart
One you have set your eyes on him
You will never want to be apart
He can live to almost fifteen years
His life is full of fun
He’ll take you for many long walks
He will certainly make you run
Standing very close to two-foot-six
He is certainly a magnificent sight
His bark is rather loud and deep
And gives unwelcome visitors a fright
A docile gentle type is he
The friendliest and good natured type of dog
When he bounds around the room
The whole area he seems to hog
He likes to swim down at the sea
He’s a lifesaver to boot
When he’s saving those out for a swim
It really is a hoot
It’s his natural instinct
Protective to the end
He really is a champion
The lovingest kind of friend.
YOU ...
small, furry,
soft, warm, joyful,
sweet little creature,
came to me in a shadow ...
a time when my heart ran cold,
kicked far down the road by sorrow,
and lost as any hobo without a compass.
I had given hopes and dreams their pink slips ...
shown their sorry, deceitful little selves the door,
and told them where to put their accursed optimism.
Then YOU ...
you who had
been so neglected
and abused by others
of my race, others who had
seen kittens as something less
than themselves ... something for
their twisted amusement ... something
meant for the focus of their ire and hatred
and evil intent ... something at the mercy of the
dominion granted them by their so-called "acumen" ...
YOU, Sugar ...
had come with
such a simple name,
a name I had every intent
of changing to something far
more artistic, or worldly, or cute,
or extravagant, and yet as the time
passed those first days with me, as you
worked your gentle, loving, tender, amiable,
precious, good-natured way deep into my heart,
it was more-and-more evident that whoever had given
YOU your moniker,
had somehow, through
their sinister intent, STILL
been unmistakably affected
by your pure and precious spirit,
and had out-done my best intentions
and wholly self-lauded creativity, (as well
as trumped my attempts to attach a name to
you that others would feel obligated to soak with
feigned praise), by giving you a sweet epithet which,
in its absolute simplicity and virtue, was nothing less than
PERFECT.
YOU, my sweet
little Sugar, abide
the very essence of
your name, and you have
not only sweetened my days
beyond measure, but have saved
my life in ways that I'll never be able to
impart you. Who knew that the dark clouds
of my heart would be rent by such a fuzzy little
face of sunshine - that all I needed was a little bit of
YOU.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "My Companion And Close Friend That Never Complains" Poetry Contest, Eve Roper, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 5th Place ~ in the "Just A Little Bit Of Sugar Poetry Contest", Debbie Guzzi, Judge & Sponsor.