Long Handing over Poems
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There is never an ending
to the spending
a world of paper
and plastic to collect
and horde
clothes
and cars
and homes
and jewelry
and fine wine
and paintings
stocks and bonds
vacations
and expectations
entire vocations
devoted to
disguising the numbers
the Caribbean masquerade
to volumes of recorded
purchases and voices
of invoices
making
discreet
choices
all
to extend
the accumulation
of dates
and names
places and faces
communications
and connections
at breakneck
speed
must fill the need
must fill the need
a shouting browbeating
broadband
handing over
fistfuls of cash
to make sure
make certain
only the best
the finest
the rarest
of air is not available
for
the underwater martyrs
the silent box dwellers
the empty bottle collectors
the wheelchair drifters
the SRO limbo sellers
the workers at
the bottom
of the
fast
food
chain
and the indigent gamblers
who line the halls
to knock on doors
of government departments
crippled by reckless
and corrupt state
administrations
choking the dwindling
sources
and resources
that have
nothing to do
but
count the days
and ways
to disappoint
disarm dismay
dispute the reputations
and applications
held in sweaty palms
eager
to begin living
to end the doubt
to end the not having
the counting of pennies
the slow heroin erosion
the unbroken hollowness
the whiskey-soaked
ravages of vacant histories
better-forgotten memories
of cold emergency rooms
to end being
in a world
apart
a world
of resentment
of fear and hate and anger
of dark empty streets
empty recriminations
empty promises
made to themselves
by themselves
harming themselves
or
arming themselves
to rob to steal
to maim
to take whatever they can
for as long as they can
to approximate
the wonder and magic
of having what you need
when you need it or want it
to not have to beg
to not have to humiliate
or be humiliated
to not have to watch
the ease of others
who have a casual
contempt for misfortune
and respect for nothing
but their own wealth
of deception
to breeze through
tall golden doors
to an unbroken string
of shiny bright todays
and tomorrows
to not have to
lunge for hope
and
never grasp it
in all ways
and forever
just out of
reach
Now Jericho, besieged by Israel,
Had shut its doors, and none went in or out.
The LORD told Joshua, “If you’ll believe,
We’re going to bring these walls down with a shout.
His mighty men of valor are inside;
The king of Jericho also awaits.
You and your men of war shall march around
The city once a day, outside the gates.
For six days, thus you shall just hold the line,
While seven priests before you bear the ark,
But on the seventh day, we’ll mix things up,
And march around the walls from dawn till dark.
Yes, seven times around we’ll go that day,
And all the time we will not say a word,
But when the final circuit is complete,
The priests will lift their horns and make them heard.
And when the people hear the trumpet sound,
They’ll shout a mighty shout with one loud voice.
This fortress, Jericho, will see its end.
The walls will simply fall; they’ll have no choice.”
Now Joshua was faithful to the LORD,
And honored Him by bringing this report,
But one can scarce conceive his fighting men’s
Response to battle planning of this sort.
But wonders also work in people’s hearts;
The plan unfolded as the LORD conceived.
For faithfully, the LORD had led His flock,
And so they heard their leader and believed.
So for the days that numbered one through six,
The vanguard, ark, and priests all went around,
Encircling the city with their march,
They made no noise except the trumpet sound.
The seventh day arrived; long was the march,
For seven times around those walls, they went,
And when the priests set lips upon the horns,
The host cried out: one voice without relent.
And lo, it came to pass just as God said;
The walls of Jericho fell, tumbled flat.
Devotion to destruction happened next;
We’ll have a bit more to say about that.
For God had looked on Canaan as a judge,
And found them guilty of a great offense;
They gave their children over to false gods.
Incensed, His wrath against them was intense.
And so, in handing over Jericho,
He gave to Joshua a harsh command,
“You must destroy, yes, every living thing
To rid the evil in this promised land.”
So Joshua then did as he was told;
The Canaanites, once giants, now ran scared.
But he made good; Rahab befell no harm,
And her entire house, he also spared.
(from Joshua 6)
A rhetorical question finds me asking
(to no one in particular) why I recall
the names of grade school teachers
approximately fifty years ago (whose
names listed below), when the need
to retrieve necessary information due
ring examinations (less time ago)
often found me seized with sudden
inability to remember any vital ants
sirs (even including my name), thus
grudgingly handing over blank test paper
analogously surrendering a vital
document gracing terms of defeat
into the scaly claws (zen nay), sans
first to sixth grade Precambrian relic
(Missus Batson, Missus Rittenhouse,
Missus Wells, Mister Stout,
Missus Shaner, or Miss Rinderle).
Invariably majority of first thru
sixth grade accorded accredited
ancient authenticated creatures.
They freely exercised diabolical
churlish beastial animalistic zeal
us yakking, wickedly unprintable
upon (unprincipled urchin) at
receiving end of fiendishly grue
some hellish instructions. Assign
ments buttressed with ultimatums
harkening back to Jurassic period
earlier in dawning primate con
sciousness. Lesson material kindled
with justifiable license in league
with garnered insignia. Heft
to bring pupils to heal predicated
via warp and weft woven wonder
fully. Wrought writs welcomed
whips with warranty whenever
recalcitrant ruffian refused
respecting reptilian rubric repre
sentative rattling (The Idler Wheel
Is Wiser Than the Driver of
the Screw and Whipping Cords
Will Serve You More Than Ropes
Will Ever Do), which loosely
rendered regularly warbled
wishy washy verse curmudgeons
freedom granted to interpret
as one decrepit, hawkish insignia
certified one beaming Eve and/
or stud deed brute soffit. Education
often relied on the weekly reader,
and letters to and/or from Aunt
Emma. Nefarious mean linkedin
kickstarter jawboning torturous
treatment tolerated, asper imps
of the pervert, mutant Ninja
Turtles duty bound antsy
youthful yokel yodelers
weathering ululating sing-song
and quintessential precepts.
A rhetorical question finds me ask
king (to no one in particular) why I bask
with recollection the names of blank
exclamatory staid grade school crank
key teachers approximately
42,0480,000 breaths aye drank
fifty years ago (most whose names frank
lee listed below),
when the need to access
and retrieve
immediate necessary information
analogously interleaved
among coaxial bracts
during examinations relegated
as hopelessly lost
into interstitial invisible cranial cracks
irretrievably buried
during examinations, which age
(feels like a million years ago)
often found me seized and caged
with sudden inability to remember
any vital answers as gauged
evidenced by nothing writ
ten on paper (even including my name),
thus loosely similar as aye sit
to compose poetry,
and/or prose tempted to quit
asper defeated by resignation,
and sinking sensation in the pit
of my stomach (more so regarding orbit
ting like an unsound garden
black hole son around cold (mit
ten necessary) awful days grudgingly
handing over like a lit
till insignificant being,
a test paper devoid of academic grit
analogously surrendering
(while feeling fit
tubby tied, sense internally emit
ting abnegation sans chafing at the bit,
2.
yet no sooner did buzzer indicated test
time over, then (of course),
an instantaneous pest
that blocked chunk dramatically
flowered gloriously invoking nest
head treasured mother lode
of learned information invest
ment accounting for principle ball lanced
formerly figuratively barricaded facts
suddenly at my behest
ironically retaining to this day
dogged details amazingly,
now gracing lix spittle fist size gray
dictating academic failure
forcing laying down pen hay
for ma forgotten requisite thoughts may
king skepticism about self thrive, ray
zing mailer demons impossible to slay.
A rhetorical question finds me ask
king (to no one in particular) why I bask
with recollection the names of blank
exclamatory staid grade school crank
key teachers approximately
42,0480,000 breaths aye drank
fifty years ago (most whose names frank
lee listed below),
when the need to access
and retrieve
immediate necessary information
analogously interleaved
among coaxial bracts
during examinations relegated
as hopelessly lost
into interstitial invisible cranial cracks
irretrievably buried
during examinations, which age
(feels like a million years ago)
often found me seized and caged
with sudden inability to remember
any vital answers as gauged
evidenced by nothing writ
ten on paper (even including my name),
thus loosely similar as aye sit
to compose poetry,
and/or prose tempted to quit
asper defeated by resignation,
and sinking sensation in the pit
of my stomach (more so regarding orbit
ting like an unsound garden
black hole son around cold (mit
ten necessary) awful days grudgingly
handing over like a lit
till insignificant being,
a test paper devoid of academic grit
analogously surrendering
(while feeling fit
tubby tied, sense internally emit
ting abnegation sans chafing at the bit,
yet no sooner did buzzer indicated test
time over, then (of course),
an instantaneous pest
that blocked chunk dramatically
flowered gloriously invoking nest
head treasured mother lode
of learned information invest
ment accounting for principle ball lanced
formerly figuratively barricaded facts
suddenly at my behest
ironically retaining to this day
dogged details amazingly,
now gracing lix spittle fist size gray
dictating academic failure
forcing laying down pen hay
for ma forgotten requisite thoughts may
king skepticism about self thrive, ray
zing mailer demons impossible to slay,
Wanted: Slinger of Mirrors,
Tessellating lungs of fulcrum
Wading into scorn’s yellow Spring pond
We are flying to the airway Of. I hunger for our old hunger.
We dealt our Hand and every Star
Only one pond my reflection’s gunning donned
To see bullets’ sound is bedlam
Every pothole in my ear. Another night—come away from there.
That mixture will do no harm, I
Jolting flies.
Happiness arcades.
But if midnight settles down about my knees, about chest-high,
you must be this high to ride
Molting lies.
Effortless charades.
I never thought you would want me to shoot you again. Close your eyes.
Open your mind. Open
something degrading. something small something ready. Opening your eyes, y’know what I call thought? Deadly. Transmuting the world: Deadly.
Do you believe it will change a thing? Can’t.
And you know. The worst essence of mankind opens; jumps out of the garden.
Make a garden wave goodbye,
and wonder if you will ever see that hand, handing over blood
driven mad, stop
at a gas station and whistle to the ancients. Play a song that fulfills
every heart. Play me yours,
Talentless bouquets.
Every try.
My voice is a mirror I am Satan in the morning in the mirror cannot free what I wish not to be
Poisonous parades.
Speak until wine.
Every bullet hole through Vegas in my migraine headache vice grip orchestral jacket unsewn
sewn. As though the knitting of cruelty into facets of time were designed
in hopes that you and I
would not be overflowing with...oh, it evades me, I looked in the mirror
I should have looked
The bullet tore; bled laughter; silver; more
we dealt with spires of Fear. We built here. Seeking to speak.
Left and Right became unwound beneath the planet's rotation.
At the airway Of, my old wound sings the blues of the gun shooting
Wanted: Slinger of Mirrors
I didn’t miss the snub
Your fancy social club
Will just not be requesting my application.
But joy, as it turns out,
There is no shred of doubt
That I too feel the indifferent sensation.
One time I wished to be
Something others would see:
A social star, or at least in someone’s orbit.
But inside lurks a streak
To be my very own freak
The membership committee does not approve it.
I suck at being untrue
Reflecting you to you.
The flimsy cardboard cutout you want me to be:
Strutting like you walk,
Echoing like you talk,
Ergo my general lack of popularity.
Should I covet the prize
Esteem of aping eyes
You bet your perfumed patootie that I’d win it.
But I’m not a good monkey.
I sure like being punky.
For a certainty, my heart is just not in it.
I’m just not going to fold,
To give up what I hold.
Plaid club tie, gate pass for handing over my mind.
The things I’ve found are true
Are not for sale to you.
I’d rather cram a sharp stick straight up my behind.
Why don’t I act my age?
Why don’t you leave your cage?
Maturity does not equal constipation.
There’s no need to insult,
You’ve all seen my results.
Now stop it with all your silly self-inflation.
See, I like things that matter
Not cocktail chitter-chatter
Throw on trail shoes, or write another sonnet.
See, I’m the best ‘ol me
The world has ever seen
Bet your life--just like everyone else’s--on it.
Yet perchance we could meet
On a flat, open street
There could be no end to the things we may discuss.
Connection is sublime
Through movement, prose, or rhyme
Just don’t waste my time with juvenile games and fuss.
2/26/16
(Mostly hexameter, not sure if this is in any particular form.)
*** Poet’s Greetings ***
(Written for Victor Buhaglar)
Does the Malta shore pause its gurgling rush
Of roll-over waves to hush
In appreciation of your hand brushing its ending, foamed
Touch over the sand, which is the greeting
I’ve sent on to you, dear poet brother, as I do most every day.
Is your extension of my sent greeting from
Half a world away, some pleasant handing over of a day’s friendship,
Where my good-night wishes
Greet your morning breakfast?
So, I fall asleep to your waking —
A walking into a new dawn’s possibilities…
Unless we both bypass time
To give up on rest and remain awake to welcome
The poetry that stays stirring, hunting
A bare recording space through our fingertips;
Unseen one to each other and all, but still present
In one far away place to another — catching
The gasps of wind gusts, or swallowing the ominous
Shadows of pre-dawn and pre-dusk, where
We pause to fill the separating disdance between
Your shores there and our mountains here,
With sprites peeking over our shoulders, and
Faeries dancing for their morning teas or night sherry —
Expecting after all these years, the sent messages that the heartfelt
Poetry being voiced between us and danced over the world’s
Extended beaches, will continue still,
Waiting, holding onto plates of thick, iced cake
And cut, lushious, fresh fruit, which we will enjoy together
While hours apart.
——————————————————————————————————————————
(Written for my poet brother Victor Buhaglar), 5/5/2023)
Thanks be to God. Grateful for the slow but steady
Improvement of my health. Have missed all here on PSp
during recent trials while hospitalized.
18.7
“Seeing everything is imagination,
knowing the Self as timelessly free,
the sage lives as a child”
18.8
“Knowing himself as Absolute,
knowing existence and non-existence
to be imagination only,
what is there for the desireless one
to learn, say or do?”
Employing conscious thought to choose meditation
Then handing over the baton of awareness to intuition
Intuition resting in the stream flowing Divine connection
Rests allowing manifestation of ineffable blissful elation
If the point we miss
The learning is this
Just be to become
With Divine Love one
In childlike innocence
Without resistance
(23-August-2019)
~~~
Verse 18.7 to 18.8 revisited on 12-January-2022
What is the underlying noumena
Birthing all manifest phenomena
Self-hypnosis in the hall of mirrors
Fears and desires giving us shivers
Being but illusions we did manifest
Akin to a lucid dream playful jest
At day’s end we slip into deep sleep
Thoughts fade, bliss sinks in deep
We awake each morn sans memory
In stupor continuing our life journey
Yet while awake if we opt for silence
We reclaim divinity of our innocence
Oh worthy lama, cessation the way
Fearless, desireless, given to play
In monk mode embrace and release
Free flowing like the morning breeze
Presence within but not of the world
Sees with each breath, joy unfurled
Mind-body that hitherto was subject
Shifts into the void, thus an object
Pristine awareness free from thought
Devoid of thought, is not fear fraught
That that remains our soul presence
Blissful love and light luminescence
Daily Poetry #70, April 8, 2017
Word:Nonsense
“Hahaha, it's always so funny,”
This endless world I can see.
“I'm so special, I am me,”
Try believing that for an eternity.
Another endless rant you go on,
I'm already tired, but let’s ramble till dawn.
With a mind of a child, speak so bold,
And with a soul so stupid, act so old.
You don’t even realize your words are cold,
Handing over my money, for it’s already sold.
“Hey, you're not listening,” you accused,
But my will to care is what you've abused.
Time and time again, people cry,
I can't help, so I'll just try.
“On this rooftop, just let me die,”
But in the end, I'm the one to say goodbye.
No one died, so I guess it was a good day,
Since I can't be alone, I'll find another way.
“He said he loved me, I guess I was wrong,”
But at least your family loved you all along.
“No one notices me, I might as well be gone,”
But you made it through, so you must belong.
My ears are tired from all your stupid tales,
Whenever I'm seen, someone always wailes.
But then I found someone that just wanted peace,
Someone who just wanted the stories to cease.
Taking off their blue jacket, leaving a crease,
Then jumping off with a sigh, one, two, release.
“Wait, don't do it! Please!” Now that I see,
No one will ever truly take me seriously.
There's no one here, so today is the day,
All your stories and stupid tales will end this way.
Taking off my blue jacket, I've got nothing to say,
I smile wide at this nonsensical world's play.
No one to cry, I’ve fixed your stupid calamity,
One, two, jump, this girl will now be free.