Long Hands on Poems
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This is the story of a real murder . . .
I was just five years old and was in my bedroom playing,
we had just moved into to this cozy little basement apartment;
mommy was talking to a man, who was yelling something about money,
then everything went quiet and I came to see what was happening.
Mommy was laying on the floor with eyes like my dolls,
lifeless, and this man I had seen before was standing there;
I ran to mommy, "wake up mommy wake up!" But she was so still,
the man told me he would take me to my daddy who lived not far.
Crying and weeping for my mommy and daddy loudly,
the man told me to, "shut up!" But I couldn't I was afraid;
he stopped the car near a huge field and pulled me out shouting,
I dropped my teddy on the side of the road and I was fighting him.
When mommy did not show up for work the police came,
they found her body and knew she had been murdered;
an amber alert was issued for me (but I was already long dead),
after three days they found my lifeless body in that rural field.
Hundreds gathered for our funeral, family and strangers,
there was music and dancing because we loved to dance;
the talkers were full of thoughts and memories and even poems,
me and mommy were united in life and would be forever in death.
The man had dragged me into the field and I was yelling,
yelling for daddy to come and then he stopped my voice;
he put his hands on my throat and then threw my small body,
as I lay there looking up with dead eyes- there was a rainbow.
I saw a double rainbow and then my beautiful mommy,
was holding me, I asked her why that man murdered us,
she told me, "because I owed him money and I made a mistake,"
our spirits will live on she said, but we will not rest in peace yet,
she whispered, "soon, my daughter we will dance again in heaven . . . "
_______________________________
August 12, 2016
Poetry/Narrative/"We Will Dance Again"
Copyright Protected, ID 16-817-954-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the Premiere contest, Through Their Eyes #2
sponsor, Shadow Hamilton
First Place
I hammered some words
Out from the quarry of my brain
They fell around in shards;
Some like boulders,
Some like rocks and rubble
I picked them up one by one.
Block on block, I piled them up
Thinking I could build a ‘pleasure dome’
But,
When it was time for the workman
To marvel over the beauty and wonder
Of his dream creation
His masonry tumbled down
Like sand castles built
By little hands on sea strands
Or dunes of quicksand sliding down
I have lost count of the times,
This has happened before.
Now I stay resigned,
Amid a heap of debris
Is there any use feeling remorse?
When Rome was burning,
Like Nero fiddling on his harp,
I sit on this pile of wreck
Piping my thoughts away
In the cusp between victory and defeat
Exacting as much ecstasy as I can
Before the truth looms large
In all its stark nakedness!
____________________________________
May.14.2022
A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
Doing crazy things
doesn't make an individual insane,
it adds spice to life;
I did lots of harmless, foolish things
to bring my classmates out of depression
and make them laugh heartily.
Eric was the weirdest kid
in our English class,
he was depressed a lot
and kept to himself,
and with his morbid looks,
one couldn't help feeling sorry for him;
I had a plan to snap him out of it.
That gloomy Monday morning
our teacher, Mrs. Armstrong,
was reading from Shakespeare's play,
" Hamlet " making us feel his madness,
how he planned to commit murder...
goose bumps appeared on everybody's skin!
Eric started to shake as if he were coming for him.
I looked at him at him and said,
" What's the matter? Eric, you don't like the play? "
" No," he answered in a sarcastic way...
" Blood makes me faint! "
" Look, Hamlet is thinking of murder,
and hasn't killed anyone yet, but wait...it gets scarier
when he freaks out and does it! "
Eric stared at me and trembling murmured,
" What do you mean by that? "
" Buddy, since you are afraid of blood,
you shouldn't be in this class,
and if you feel like vomiting , go to the rest room! "
As a lighting flashing, Eric with encroached hands on his belly,
ran out of the class room without saying anything.
" Where are you going Eric ? " Mrs Armstrong asked.
But Eric kept going, giving her a sickly look.
" I will expel you from my English class! "
She exclaimed with a maddening gaze.
" Excuse him, Mrs Armstrong...he's not feeling well,
he drank half gallon of spoiled milk and he needs to vomit! "
I screamed back with soaring anger.
Everyone started to laugh and induced vomiting.
"Not here! Not here! Everybody leave!" she yelled
with exaggerated commotion by dropping her book
on her coffee cup...Ah! It splashed by turning her white face black!
" Run, everybody, run...she's another crazy Hamlet! "
And jumping up for joy, I was happy to have made everyone laugh!
1942
She snapped her static line
onto the anchor cable
and listened for the sound of the engines throttling back.
One other before her had nodded
and jumped into the dark night.
She felt the bag on her leg,
put her hands on either side of the opening.
She looked straight out to the invisible horizon,
even though it was dark.
And pushed herself out the door.
A night jump.
Before she counted to three
she floated and felt the cool air all around her.
She felt her heart beat
strong
and free,
her body a weightless toy.
She even hoped she could use the safety chute-
just this once-
but she was jerked hard,
upwards.
Her mission below
depended on a safe landing fall in a farmer’s field.
She howled into the air.
At the enemies anywhere.
For her camarades de compagne below.
Je suis libre! Je viens!
I am free! I am coming!
The air.
It has freed me!
Again.
She dropped her supply bag to her boot,
touched the pouch with her mission papers,
saw the few fires below marking landing space
and felt for the rushing ground
to meet her.
1966
She jumped off the dock,
her yellow sun suit pressing against her,
the air cool,
the kids in the pond laughing, playing.
She would join them!
She floated and turned,
weightless, nothing,
arms out like wings.
Turning, turning.
Then,
something grabbed her suit
and suspended her,
and brought her back.
Even after the scolding-
You can’t swim, you’re too young, don’t ever-
-she still floated and turned
and turned
and dreamt of jumping
again and again
into air.
There will be a test, three questions, my spirit guide told me. I heard the first one upon entering the astral plane. “Who did you love?”
A fuzzy gate was less than ten feet away, gleaming like the brightest white sun ever made, I had to shade my eyes. I could barely see.
Everyone, I thought. I loved everyone. My traitorous heart laughed. It began showing me a series of photos, of everyone I had stopped loving, or given up on, or cast aside. I gasped. Would this mean they would not let me in?
A second question immediately flew into my head. “Who did you help?” My mind went completely blank. My heart began beating loudly and irregularly. I pictured myself in the bowls of hell, and expected to be there in two seconds.
An angel who looked more like Mother Theresa than Mother Theresa walked toward me. She placed her hands on my shoulders and said “Rest”. I felt an immediate almost overwhelming love, an indescribable, absolute all-knowing God-love, and I fell onto a cloud, my eyes shut, safe.
When I awoke I heard the final question, and I knew it was the real one. “How precious is life?” As precious as love, my spirit-soul answered. The only reason we agree to live another earth life, the ONLY REASON we agree to live another human life is so that we can experience the most precious things with our most precious and revered soul-people, who are our “real” precious things.
The gates flew open.
Colors I had forgotten and souls I remembered only in my dreams were standing to greet me and hug me and love me and sooth me.
I was the prodigal daughter, and I was home!
Written 10-08-2018 Contest: How Precious is Life?
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
The city workers had torn up the street,
but now were gone the weekend had arrived.
Still no break though from the sweltering heat
as walkers on the boulevard still thrived.
A sudden cloudburst dropped a foot of rain
it seemed, at least enough to fill the trench
before it left. The water didn't drain
and soon the children raced into the drench.
Tank suits came from nowhere to the street
as children leapt into the cooling wet.
The grown ups smiled and laughed most indiscreet
and stood as far away as they could get
from splashing waves that flew over the sides
as boys kicked up the water and girls screamed.
Still no Coney Island with all the rides,
we boys jumped in and in the chaos beamed
for we had never had a swimming pool;
such wonders did escape those of our class.
But now the sky had opened for us fools;
we barely noticed water warm and passed
the afternoon as though a miracle
had come to us. Throughout the closing day
we came to love the freedom lyrical
that God bestowed upon us just to say
we were his children, though too young to know
that blessings soon will pass. In fact, the street
would be repaired before the falling snow
in the next week. We would return to heat
for several weeks. Now I don't recall
what happened in the coming, cooling clime.
I just put hands on the thrill of it all
with photos of that once upon a time.
May our friendship be the kind of friend that sticks closer than a brother*.
We are FRIENDS through stick and THIN, FOREVER TOGETHER and united.
With hands over my heart, you have my support from start to FINISH.
With my two hands, I'll fight with you until your foes are VANQUISED.
From my heart, with all my being I shall be PULLING and ROOTONG for you.
On sea or land, with these HANDS and heart, with you I'll take my STAND.
Let not 'your ASKING' become TASKING, because I respect you, and I am honored. In public or by STELTH, in poverty or in WEALTH, in sickness or in HEALTH, we are forever friends.
1009921PSCtest, With My Hands On My Heart, Mystic Rose Rose *Proverbs 18:24
Little Miss Take would steal anything
She’d steal from a pauper, she’d steal from a King
Don’t show her a bell if it goes ding a ling
For when you’re not looking she’ll half inch its ring
Little Miss Take does not like to pay
She knows what she likes and she’ll whisk it away
She’d steal the moon as it slept in the day
She’s barred from the grotto, she nicked Santa’s sleigh
Little Miss Take if she needs to be fed
Will nab eggs and bacon and butter and bread
And getting it cooked won’t befuddle her head
She’ll just nick the camping stove out of your shed
‘Little Miss Take is my name,’ she once said
But she wasn’t named as a thief, but instead
’twas only a quick drunken fumble in bed
And her mum and her dad hadn’t planned to get wed
[If Adam Hargreaves would like to get his hands on
this material (or to sue me) I can be contacted through
Soup Mail... or any half way decent lawyer]
A Whaling Tale
by Gabriel Magno
The whaling ships approach as I stare into the bay,
today I said by short farewells, to friends who pled I stay.
A whaler I have dreamt to be, since I stood three feet tall,
my name appears among the list of worker’s on the wall.
I grab my heavy backpack, and board the pungent ship,
as whalers celebrate with wine, a long successful trip.
We sail under the moon light, as we brave the crashing waves,
and as the morning sun appears, the ocean now behaves.
The captain calls all hands on deck, to start the daily hunt,
he points and shouts “there she blows”, the whale we’ll soon confront.
Harpoon in hand I spot it rising, as we meet briefly eye to eye,
with trembling hands I cannot throw, and watch the peaceful creature die.
The captain shouts “throw hard, throw true, before it swims away”,
instead I dropped this lethal spear, and prayed it lives another day.
As I stood watching, another whaler did his duty and it was cast,
but as the Northern winds blew hard, it missed the whale who fled at last.
The captain’s wrath I took in stride, I count the hours until we land,
and no more do I dream of whaling, against it now I’ll surely stand.
God’s creatures one and all, are born like you and me,
to dwell in this a wondrous earth, longing to live peaceful and free.
The Hierarchy of Darkness
Not the bleeding flesh is the enemy that bites in sleep, but thought—
archai on high thrones where light is forgotten shadow.
The principalities don't wear crowns, but carry the age in their palms,
sit on thrones of celestial ash, luminous from so much night.
Exousias—physical power is shadow that is light,
and minds are empty temples where gods sleep in chains.
Orders flow downward as springs flow upward,
and who carries the scepter carries the wounds of the voiceless one.
Kosmokratoras—masters of the world that doesn't exist yet,
coordinate darkness like a symphony of extinguished stars.
Saraba choshekh—princes of night conduct light in chains,
and in heavens below they live, in depths above they breathe.
Pneumatika—evil spirits are angels with pure wings,
ben-beliyyaal, sons of Satan, with saint's hands on man's forehead.
Shedim in epouraniois—fallen in righteous elevation,
shamayim is hell above, and hell is heaven untouched by clay.
The hierarchy falls upward—Satan is the root of the inverted tree,
fallen angels are branches that grow in heaven's soil.
Political leaders, religious ones—leaves that tremble from wind,
and people in the chain of command are dew that climbs back up.
Each category executes the orders from below,
for the pyramid stands with its peak in the deep and base in heaven.
Who fights against flesh fights with his own echo,
the true enemy is light that pretends to be darkness too well.
In the heavenly places where heaven is earth and earth is ether,
live the spirits like bodyless people who wear faces.
Vazdukh shamayim, earth eres, depth sheol—
three worlds in one single, the shattered mirror in three whole pieces.
Melancholy isn't sadness, but lucidity without cure,
to understand that the fight is lost before the triumph begins.
Paul prisoner in Rome knew what stones also know:
freedom is a cell smaller than the prison that liberates you.