Long Hesitant Poems
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Asking me if I would feel comfortable teaching PreK as a substitute
Is like asking a gorilla if he wants a chocolate covered banana.
The answer is yes!
Today was my day.
The principal was hesitant
Reflecting how well she does not yet know me.
I said “From now on, know this,
whatever you need me to do,
the answer is always yes.”
I knew there was a reason I did not start my counseling
classes the first week of school and this is possibly the reason.
I have not laughed this hard in ten years.
Nineteen three and four-year-old’s are hilariously fun!
I read them the Little Gingerbread Man book and asked them
“How many of you think nice Mr. Fox will take the gingerbread man
safely across the lake?”
All nineteen hands went up.
I said “Miss Pat, look at how many think Mr. Fox will take the gingerbread
man safely across the lake?” She laughed.
When the cookie got eaten the students laughed and laughed.
They apparently had not heard this story.
During nap time I felt God in this room, and I knew
I will probably never again be this close to God.
In the colors of laughter, leaves
Vibrant, dancing, rustling
Joyous and graceful, hurried
Blowing through the still of autumn,
Writing stories of light,
Falling so the world seems so right…
In the colors of music, playing
Energetic, pulsating, rhythmic
Gentle as the stars, glistening
Pouring out smiles
Where dazzling dreams fade,
Stirring the winds of fate…
In the colors of a shadow, sheltered
Animated, awake, radiant,
Still as a flame, burning prayers
In left over hearts, so amazed
By the gestures of a night
Penetrating souls with such power…
In colors of peace, serenity
Glowing, vivid, excited,
Willing to remember, nostalgic
As the semblance of a life,
Blessed by the stars, evoking
Stolen thoughts – sweetest calm…
In colors of hesitant leaves,
Burgundy, rust, richest gold
Raining through the silence, breathless
Risking the quiet, seeking
To defend the spirit who lives
In the whispers of autumn, the wind…
In colors of autumn, trees
Taunted by the music of gusts,
Blowing across the soul
Who knows God’s love, it colors
Everyone in a brilliant glow,
Blessings who seek the tranquil…
In colors of autumn, twisting
Turning, rising and deciding
Whatever comes, God’s the One
Who settles the griefs,
Who silences the trees,
Teaches us to believe… even though we don’t see…
Beyond the sighs of autumn’s leaves,
Beyond the forests, through the trees,
Where we fall to our knees,
Praying, praising, seeking the peace
That comes to the soul who simply believes,
The soul who believes – in the Creator’s genius!
Currently the security profit programs is hesitant
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Yet the obstructioni zing doth not permit a permit
Ye of vittles portion lacks the fortitude of good days in labor
Between Camarillo livibility lengths and Newbury Park rotations as the same
None may improvith stations whilst sista bad feelings goes into debt full idea administration worry
It was autumn
Before the round
Something shivered
Tools wasn't full
Vans change, tools out strange the work
All damseled
In respite
Shane apprehension grovel
Lost beside his print
Finding his father's name
April, too new city managers
Yorks and shires bereaved
I wasn't your only father's rent
The war counted on better rays
Rates add fits
In byes gondolas say
To write wrongs
Haven't worried sensibly
The round became my leaving board
A pond as his mother's springs
She sheltered little in life
Deathly burden to me
Manhattan Surrender my moons light
Louder than the silence
Heard beyond my heart’s echo,
Darker than the shadows
Secreted where feelings bled
Through the delicate colors
Hues of hopeful, fresh
Young faces in delicate light,
Smiles alive, aware – so bright
Louder than the stillness,
The hush beneath the calm,
Quieting the heartbreak
Feelings bleeding through
The dark, where an echo glistened,
Calling for the earlier times,
The breathless moments
History, flowing in the thoughts
Reminiscing, feelings – flowing
On rivers of childishness, hesitating
To believe –
Wrinkles, gray hair – tired eyes
Who never twinkle, delight
Gone beyond the starry skies,
Leaving only the whisper of a breathless
Moment when I spoke like life
Would never pass me by, like I would
Be the wonder who would never
See the years taking me beyond the
Hesitant feelings into the future,
Where I would leave my youth behind,
Smiling to the truth who would reveal
Time that had left me with only
A passing memory, old photos, a yesterday…
When I shoulds seen it comin’
I SHOULDA SEEN IT COMIN' Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: John lawless
January 30, 2023
RUNT OF THE LITTER
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Hilda’s in labor!” Mr. Davis shouted across the yard.
barefooted I dashed next door,
witnessing the magic, the slow unfurling
of five milk-chocolate Dachshunds,
slippery and new, squirming in the afternoon light.
they were a writhing mass ‘neath Hilda's warm belly,
each Doxie pup vying for a place at the milk bar,
a frantic, adorable scramble for nourishment.
the runt~smallest of the litter, a tiny replica,
immediately claimed a space in my heart,
a fragile hope nestled in my palm.
giggles bubbled up,
a fizzy sweetness in my throat
watching the Doxies, their eyes closed, wriggle
drunk on instinct and the promise of warmth.
then, the shift~
Hilda’s nudge, almost imperceptible,
the runt, pushed aside,
its tiny whimper lost in the chorus.
the magic fractured,
my first brush with unfairness,
a memory, bittersweet,
etched in the sepia tones of a long-ago summer.
Mr. Davis's weathered hands, a gentle scoop,
a fragile life transferred to mine.
hands, small then, cupped around a life barely there,
a sparrow fallen from a nest.
the shoebox, a makeshift cradle,
lined with a doll blanket~
inside the scent of old shoes, the tiny runt stretched,
then a hesitant yawn, a twitch of his paw.
"Why, Mr. Davis? Why would she...?" the question hung,
a child's innocent accusation against the wild.
Mr. Davis, a sage in overalls,
explained the weight of instinct and
survival's brutal calculus,
too heavy for my young heart to bear.
Now, years later, I understand~
the hard choices and love disguised as pain.
But in the shoebox, in the dust-filled summer light,
all I felt was the fragile pulse
of a life I desperately wanted to save.
It starts with ink that trembles
along the fragile page,
A gentle weight,
the hush of morning’s stage;
Like fledglings poised
upon a trembling bough,
Unsure of air,
yet certain they know how.
The pen exhales,
a breath pressed into line,
And fibers drink
the pulse of measured time;
Her soul, not form,
I trace—a distant flame,
A horizon reached
by gestures without name.
Each word ascends,
a hesitant, careful hop,
Then lifts once more,
reluctant to let drop;
A glance remembered,
fingers brushing air,
A tremor caught
in morning’s softened glare.
The epistle leans
into the patient night,
Its weight both fragile
and irrevocably right;
I whisper humour
lightly along the margin’s fold:
“sun_final, sun_final_revised,
sun_final_final”—told.
Distance tempers longing,
slow and exquisitely true,
As fledglings test the sky
before they finally flew;
Ink traces currents
invisible, delicate, slight,
Mapping hidden arcs
of thought in flight.
The room hums faintly,
cedar scent in air,
A bird shifts softly,
quivering without care;
I follow, unpressing,
letting meaning rise,
As hope unfolds
beneath unspoken skies.
At last the fledgling arcs,
its motion irrevocable,
And I—still learning—trace
each careful, measured fold;
Fingers resting lightly,
love a fragile gift,
Knowing ascent
requires both tremor and lift.
My eyes wafted toward the edge of a thicket
Where briars and sage hastened to thrive
There amid brush and bramble, a delicate face
Peeped out from the dense shrubbery and pine
Lighting my heart and reassuring my senses
That life was about to start fresh this Spring
Laughed the hesitant blooms of a bunch of
Lemony yellow daffodils chuckling with joy
Brilliant creamy flowers on stems of emerald
Danced in the flickering sunlight that whispered
Through the wood and reminded me that life
Was about to start anew, fresh as these buds
Breathing through the whispers of delicious
Intimate caresses I chose a flower for my table
And grew more hungry for their flavors than
The food that tastes so delicious to the appetite
There will be brighter flowers, more vivid and lively
Swaying in the breeze, more lovely than moonlight dreams
But I don’t believe there will ever be a more beloved
Delicate smile from any Spring blush than the daffodil
The Most Beautiful Flowers You've Seen Blossoming This Spring So Far Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: M. L. Kiser
May 8, 2021
The sun, a brass gong,
a brassy, blazing command,
it wakes the world,
with a fiery, golden hand.
The air, a hesitant breath,
in a nascent, cool embrace,
now exhales,
warming with the sun's grace.
The earth, a jade canvas,
in emerald light, it lies,
dappled, vibrant,
shimmering under golden skies.
The trees, a verdant legion,
stand tall,
reaching for the sun's rays,
in an arboreal, vibrant thrall.
And then, a slow descent,
the sun, a tilted coin,
it's light, a slanting fire,
on a canvas, now stained with wine.
The earth, in ochre draped,
hushed, in golden afterglow,
embraces the waning sun,
as shadows lengthen, softly grow.
The wind, a sigh of cool air,
brushes the twilight sky,
with the day's farewell,
as night's curtain begins to lie.
And on the tongue, the lingering taste,
of sunlit warmth,
a fading, sun-kissed sigh,
a promise of dawn, in the heart of the night.
LEGACY
If all that is left of someone are the words they said
Or wrote, perhaps – whether as a poem or a diary
Then they must be remembered for such expression
Even if it should read almost as a hesitant confession
The tone can be humble, bold, or maybe even fiery
But if written words, then they might at least be read
All the things they never said, and all that they did
Proudly sit alongside some of those deeds we recall
A life well lived, frontiers that were boldly crossed
But what of the million thoughts at risk of being lost
Don’t leave a unique voice to be never heard at all
Maybe husky in later years, but smoother as a kid
A person is reflected in all things both said and done
For many, a silent photo is sufficient for the memory
Biography in its style for some, sounding too remote
And cannot compare to what they themselves wrote
Yet harsh words recalled may be abrasive, like emery
But for all who were close, they miss the morning sun
We were deafened by ‘forever’
Defined by this love that everyone believed
And hairs rose at the sound of our sighs
We were watched,
Painfully watched
But never received
I longed for a way out of this category
I longed to be free from the labelers
Pounding away at our bodies
Marking us…branding us
Searing in the stamp of love
We can dangle on these emotions forever,
Can’t we?
Should we?
We never have to say goodbye
Because we never started anything!
It only ends where the brand can be seen
So cover your scars and follow me
Into a light you will never be blinded by
Take my hand and don’t ask why
I ask not for your trust
Nor for your love
I ask only for us
These words need not be said
For they are written inside us
And no hot iron can sear it away
Just your words…just your words
We were deafened by ‘forever’
Defined by this love that everyone believed
And hairs rose at the sound of our sighs
I smelled your confusion
And lapped you up in a smile
I tasted the foreign tongues of your past
All over you…wanting you
I never wanted it to end
But your words were hesitant
And this weakened me so…how it weakened me
Then…
You spat on me
You pressed the hot iron into my back
You branded me useless
Loveless
And everyone gasped
Because love was too low for us
We had mountains of so much more
And the abandonment surpassed my surprise
Of anything worthy of looking into your eye
I can’t look at my scars, darling
Even if I wanted to
They’re behind me
Just as love is
Just as you are