Long Indian giver Poems
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Travelling down the rocky path
Adjacent to the river
I come upon a beautiful soul
The Old Indian Giver.
The sorrow swells within my chest
And drains my very being,
The empathetic old Indian Giver
Turns away without saying a thing.
My life was graced one winters day
With the warmest smile I’d seen,
Keeping me afloat throughout my life
More calm that I’d ever been.
We married and loved, for years on end,
Until one tragic day,
When my entire life came crashing down
Turning my life to gray.
I realize the old Indian Giver
Was just doing his job,
But I don’t think he realizes
My soul he also did rob.
A monstrosity
of misfortune
materializes
against him.
He should've
seen it coming.
He takes his girl
for granted;
apologizing
and pacifying her
with pricey gifts.
His fed-up lady
looks for love
elsewhere;
She eventually finds it
with another man.
his heart hollowed out;
dynamited
with a deafening bang!
Expensive gifts given
out of love for her,
he demands back.
--A gold bracelet
for her belated birthday.
--A ruby-red promise ring
to fuel their fading fire.
--The Pomeranian puppy
to mark their third
year of togetherness.
Someone's bitter!
gifts Poetry Contest (Winner: 1st Place)
Sponsored by: Anthony Biaanco
Date written: 06/18/2020
Anxious in Ancona (2)
The Doge has apportioned a fleet for his use,
but is proving an Indian giver.
A pope with a navy (and with a screw loose)
is no-one’s idea of chopped liver,
so Venice, delaying and playing obtuse,
is selling the pope down the river.
A Christian army, devoted to God,
is what Pius imagines he’s shaping,
but this one is riding distinctly rough-shod:
Ancona’s awash with the scrapings
of Europe: and here, where the Caesars once trod,
they are busily looting and raping.
There ain’t going to be any ardent crusade,
and Pius is dying, for certain.
They’ve all came to nothing, those plans that he laid,
and his project has gone for a burton.
To stop him from seeing his “army”, his aide
has fastened the litter’s gauze curtain.
He thought to have fought at the head of a host:
but reality isn’t like that.
We babble and squabble, we brag and we boast,
but our fantasies always fall flat.
Poor Pius was no Alexander. At most,
he was sort of an Anwar Sadat.
We curse our ill fortune and, wringing our hands,
we wail at our undeserved lot.
But is it so rare, as we formulate plans,
to end up with diddly squat?
If that’s how it goes with the Number One man,
what chance have the rest of us got?
Years ago, in Budapest,
I bought ceramic mugs
As presents for my son and wife;
They thanked me and gave hugs.
The pottery was quite unique;
I bought some for myself,
Which sits there in my kitchen
On a front-and-center shelf.
I couldn’t carry too much home
But always did regret
I didn’t buy myself a mug
(Or two, to make a set).
Yet since that time, my son has bought
Ceramics of his own.
His coffee cup collection
Has considerably grown.
The gift mugs are no longer used;
They’re stored way out of sight.
I knew if they were on display,
They’d bring me great delight.
Could I possibly reclaim them?
It’s a practice that’s taboo
(Which I’m well-aware my title,
Very not P.C., is, too).
But my son was very gracious –
Wrapped them so they wouldn’t break
And they’re hanging in my kitchen now,
Correcting my mistake.
I won’t do this again
Though I am glad I had the nerve
To speak up, for these two mugs
Bring out my smiles on reserve.
She is gone, but where, but why?
Where does that leave me:
And why did she have to leave?
"What is the real word for Indian giver"?
You give someone something, and you take it back,
there has got to be a word for that.!
Because I know that those who they wrongly
call Indians wouldn't take a gift back.
So, I need that word that means
"gift giver and retriever".
Children are our gifts given to us by
God or so it has been said, and known!
But since God took my child back,
She must have been on loan.
Because I don't know where she is-
But Kai-Kachelle, my daughter
is nowhere to be found.
She is gone, but where, but why?
She came, she saw, she conquered,
My guess. her job was done...
We miss her more and more each day:
As it has been two years nearing three.
I now overstand that God had loaned me,
A uniquely beautiful child:
After all, is said and done:
She was still Gods property ...
So, I live, I learn, I cry and hope...
To hold my gift again.
If I get another chance, to do things properly.
I will take better care of my gift;
and not treat her as mine alone.
Now knowing she was mine to care for
And a privilege of God’s loan.
Inviting you into my heart was both a blessing and a curse did you not think ?
to tell me in less reckless ways you lost yourself in this fragile dance for two
Inside this tango of passion you dipped then dropped, where was the floor ?
that swallowed me like a Spanish dancer with a Rose between her lips
Idealistic player that you are we fitted right, so what sin did I commit?
Truth be told the only one that I could think of was loving you too much
Ignoring all your calls I tried to make a life without you in it but why oh why ?
tackling all my dance moves you got me like a Flemish wounded poppet
Indian giver that you are you loved then passed it on, so why was she ?
tangerine lipped & coiffed congealed to your chest like a Minerva Goddess
Ice cream words melted from the heat, castanets clapped & where were you ?
tendencies often nothing more than Paso Doble moves for you, so you slid
Inside your wealth like a hoof. A Hexabranchus man, did you not miss?
the little doll you toyed with in Valencia while the festival of fire was going on !
August 27 2022
Sponsor Mark Toney
Contest Name 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 13