Long Higher up Poems
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A misfit in Liverpool
I think of oranges, and saw a painting by Constable of a morning sun
that looked like blood orange dripping nectar down on some
Fishermen are trying to catch eels on the dark surface in the bay.
There were sail ships too, ready to hoist sail in the morning wind.
When I lived in England, I met several police constables, most
of them, nice blokes, alas, during the miners´ strike, they became
radicalized, they had a good talking to by those higher up, and
were also promised plenty of overtime.
John, the constable, - fifteen years on the beat and no promotion-
A friend of mine refused to partake in hitting miners over the head,
He continued his lonely beat, but at the station, he was ostracised,
a lonely figure in need of a friend- He often came into my cafe after
hours and we drank vodka with orange juice, lamenting the time we
lived in. John retired early, and I sold my cafe.
In days of lore a sword was held in hand
not a vest strapped to a chest by some command
Terror a very strong feeling of fear
how far this is to what Poets hold dear
In younger days terror was contained in a nightmare
not a bomb or a threat carelessly sent everywhere
How different are they from you and I
both looking upward into the sky
They have a mother and father too
often than naught they don’t have a clue what
their offspring is up to
We may write for many a reason
though their cause is more likely to end in treason
All have feelings galore to share
even if theirs seem like they don’t care
Here I sit and lament how another explosion to prevent
looking for an answer that may be from higher up sent
So what is our role at times like this, is it to write about
happiness and bliss or those that we will miss
Is it my task to ask you to ponder and pause
or coach you into looking for another cause
Know that there is good in everyone whether you
be a daughter or a son
So my request might be to pick up a pen to deliver your message
a passage or two to get you through to removing the vest from your chest
Andreas Simic©
Let there be peace!
the door to co-existence
has not, so many keys
and creating minorities
is definitely conflict's niece.
Let there be peace!
Forgiveness and tolerance
makes all live at ease.
If discrimination is given a chance
hatred, it will lease.
Let there be peace!
why do we allow unnecessary negativities
put us under hot quiz
and unfortunate repercussions,
at us they laugh and tease?
Let there be peace!
If dwelling on differences does not cease
everyone will pay
the huge fees.
Let there be peace!
tasting the bitter fruit of war
even if it is a piece
takes away good conscience.
The plenty suffering it gives
our sense of humanity they seize.
Let there be peace!
Are we lower than the bees;
that we can't fly and create together?
Are we less matured than the geese;
that we cannot sing and dance
by the waters together?
No, we aren't!
Let's live in peace
and act higher up the Animal Kingdom
where we are,
to live void of wars, please......
Paper Airplanes
I made paper airplanes decades ago
One super creation I named Zoomo
Once my Zoomo and I took off in flight
Lift off was on the first stroke of midnight.
I was the pilot and what fun we had
If the folks had seen us they'd have gone mad
Freedom's elating, no hullabaloo
Able to do all things you wish to do.
First stop just had to be a moon landing
Though the surface was not fit for standing
The moon said that he was made of soft cheese
If we weren't careful we'd sink in with ease.
So we took off to meet Venus the star
She was so beauteous it was bizarre
Her hair was a stunning shade of bright gold
And many stories from the past she told.
She told of her romance with Adonis
A hunter to whom marriage was promised
But by a wild pig he was killed outright
Now she rules o'er love and beauty by night.
Then we zoomed higher and higher up sky
And heard angels singing as we flew by
Zoomo said we were close to paradise
So I then u-turned our speedy device.
Realising soon day would be dawning
And had to fly back home before morning
We arrived safely and I got in bed
Just as mother said "wake up sleepy head.”
*+*+*
14th August 2022
*+*
The Death of Art
He was an artist, a painter spending much of his time
in his mother's garage painting when not out drinking with his many friends who were art lovers too, although some were hangers-on enjoying what they thought was a carefree life.
His family came from an industrious group who
had investments in many commercial enterprises and therefore were concerned about the clan's reputation
they regarded his attempt to develop his skill as useless
waste of time.
One day I came into the house having spent hours in the garage trying to get the color right in a landscapes
painting and failed, the clan waiting for him
they told him how great it could be if he joined the firm
paint he could do for fun
The family won, next day he appeared in a suit and came to
the office quickly grasped the trade of making money
he was good at this and soon advanced to higher-up
waiting for his turn to be the next president and perhaps
a title and fawning respect.
To make the picture idyllic of perfection and success
he had a beautiful wife and two lovely children not
a stable with Arabian horses and several dogs, but his mother, perhaps the only one in the family was worried
she missed her son.
He avoided his friends, no, he didn't want to talk about his art it was for passing the time. He now had a calling to make the business selling fertilizer products worldwide, but we saw in his eyes his deep desperation, a soul crying in the night
One morning the horses were neighing, dogs barking
he hangs from the rafter in his stable.
He got a stately funeral, flowers, and wreaths from afar
his mother was sad she had lost him so many years ago she had been crying
Your day starts in disheveled chaos:
you shower, skip breakfast, and eat on the run.
Chasing down a crowded bus:
you gulp down a cold coffee,
and follow the herd to work.
You gripe and curse city life:
while, all the while, you love it.
Like a rhythmic heartbeat:
the pulse of the city;
lets you feel you're alive.
And through veiled anonymity
in the shadows, you enjoy peace of mind.
And modern amenities;
make city strife all worthwhile.
Here, one can dine on chef-inspired cuisine
or choose to eat at a fast-food joint.
Each rung higher up success's ladder,
brings your dreams one step closer to fulfillment.
Opportunity seldom
ventures far from the city:
that's why you choose to stay
despite fighting the traffic every day.
A misfit in Liverpool
I think of oranges when I see a painting by Constable of a morning sun
that looked like blood orange dripping nectar down on some
fishermen trying to catch eels on the dark surface of the bay.
There were sail-ships too ready to hoist sail in the morning wind.
When I lived in England, I met several police constables, most
of them, nice blokes, but during the miners´ strike, they became
radicalized, they had a good talking to by those higher up and
were also promised plenty of overtime.
John, a police constable fifteen years on the beat and no promotion-
a friend of mine refused to partake in hitting miners over the head,
he continued his lonely beat, but at the station, he was ostracised,
a lonely figure in need of a friend- He often came into my cafe after
hours, we drank vodka with orange juice, lamenting the time we lived in. John took early retirement, and I sold my cafe.
Lets take off to see what we can see, up above so high. Maybe we can even touch a cloud or two, as we fly up higher. The clouds look like cotton candy, let's grab a handful. Now higher up into the big blue sky, we are having so much fun. Did you see that bird looking at us, yes~guess we do not belong up here so high. We need to come in for a landing, I hear mom calling us for dinner. Guess our paper airplanes and fun are over for today, brother tomorrow is another flight day.
Date Written: 8/14/2022
THE HORSES
There was grassland with a river crossing, a natural barrier.
White horses on one side, and muscular brown horses on the other side.
If one looks well, there are foals of mixed race, they good genes and will
in time carve out their land, higher up, near the hills and water.
When farmers wanted a horse for ploughing, they lassoed a brown horse,
for lighter work, like driving the ladies to the church in a buggy, a white horse
was chosen mainly because they were malleable to handle.
Tragedy struck, developers bought the land, houses were built, filling
the grassland with noise streets and polluting the river.
The horses fled to a sparse mountain slope on the grass, and many
starved, their life span short, and the puma was a constant threat.
The horses mixed freely they had to when their survival was at stake.
On my way down to New Jersey
to take care of business there,
I pulled off and up to this place,
where I got out to stand and stare.
This was the Kutchingkord Hotel,
the heart of the old Borst Belt,
looking at the ruins now,
you can barely even tell.
I came here once when I was four,
way back in the mid eighties,
even then, amidst its decline,
it left an impression on me.
They had a daytime kids program,
back then I thought it so fun,
though now I see it kept us busy,
so our parents could soak the sun.
I remember the restaurants,
and the cool covers on the each dish,
they put them atop fine Kosher meals,
and I’m not even Jewish!
But now it’s just a concrete pad,
a weathered hole once was the pool,
there’s broken seats from the nightclub
where comedians played the fool.
Fences still up on the tennis court,
now cracked and without nets,
the pool-house is standing roofless,
haven’t brought the ball there yet.
Over there is the old ski slope,
all two hundred vertical feet,
maybe not the Matterhorn,
but once good enough for families.
Surrounding it all is tall grass
on what was a grand golf course,
twenty-seven holes and sprawling,
nobody plays it any more.
It saddens me to see it so,
but the trend is nothing new,
these are not the first resorts
that the Catskills have burned through.
Once in the nineteenth century,
higher up in the rolling hills,
the Mountain House and Kaaterskill
tourists once proudly filled.
Now there are just displays there,
telling hikers of how it was,
that thought just saddens me more,
and the reason is because
I know next time I’ll see one,
explaining that on this spot here,
a place once called the Borst Belt
welcomed guests for so many years.