Long Inescapably Poems
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My dearest troubled humans,
This is the bitter voice of Appreciation of old that
You are hearing
The one that, once upon a time, people much revered
But
The younger generations seem not even to know
My name.
-
I remember
When all of you, on your lips my name had
When:
Children constantly appreciated what
Their parents for them were doing
-
Students were thankful for what their
Teachers were teaching
-
Citizens grateful were for what their
State for them was providing
-
People thanksgivings were offering to
God and nature alike for taking care of
Their needs
And that
Statues were erected everywhere in my honor.
-
Now, my name,
As though forbidden to be pronounced,
Obliterated from your memory appears to be
Thus
Each one of you only to himself gives credit
Forgetting that
Without the contributions of those that came before you,
Yourselves wild animals would be,
Lacking language, sciences, and numbers,
Just ignorant brutes striving in the wilderness to
Survive
-
Beware,
My beloved humans,
For
If the road of ingratitude you keep following for long,
Sooner or later,
Back into the wilderness, your egotistic selves,
Inescapably you will find!
-
-
© Demetrios Trifiatis
30 July 2016
-
Days pass...
Seasons change...
Months meld into years,
And we stand looking back at our lives--
Childhood memories,
Exciting moments,
Crises,
And turning points.
In january we think of new beginnings;
In february of valentines,
First dates,
And first kisses.
Does ever a day pass without thoughts of our wonderful lives?
Surely summer evokes backseat memories of seemingly unending trips.
And don't november and december bring to mind family traditions and celebrations-
Held tightly through the years?
Like ivy on the garden trellis,
Our lives are inescapably entwined with the seasons and months of the year.
Childhood memories,
Lighthearted incidents,
Cherished traditions,
And the dreams and spiritual adventures encountered in a lifetime of living.
Days,
Week's
Will take you on a journey through the times and seasons of your life.
It makes a tangible family record to pass on as a gift to a son or daughter,
A loving memoir of written words that are windows yo a mother's and father's heart.
No matter what your age,
Memory and reminiscence open a richer,
Fuller understanding of who you are as a family.
Let this memory be a starting point--
A door into discussing and sharing the unique qualities of your life.
May reflections from a mother's and father's heart draw you closer to each other as-
You share the experiences of a lifetime.
And always cherish your loving memories!!!
George Fulwider
1837-1918
My beating-heart age,
Reached the half century mark,
When I and my “better second,”
Found hopeful roots,
And an oleander trellis,
On burgeoning Philadelphia street,
Here in this Quaker colony,
Of a thousand trees.
Our small wooded house was,
Most unfortunately,
Within earshot of the stately Union High School,
And its noisy ragamuffin minions,
And inescapably contiguous,
With the bustling tentacled trolley tracks;
Up and down they groaned,
With their loud clanging,
Every day and night the house shook,
As they rumbled on by,
Those modern moving monsters,
With steely grinding wheels,
Made ever alive by,
Those drat hanging wires,
Of killing electricity;
The doom of progress was upon us!
Oh, for the olden days!
The simpler times!
When life was for the strong and the smart,
Not like it was, when I,
Gasping for air in 1918,
Said goodbye to this silly modern world,
This long life,
This unending waiting game.
Now my restless stifled ghost,
Haunts the dark grounds here,
Roaming o’er the stones and the shadows,
At midnight when the wind dies,
Seeking still, a moment of hopeful silence, no,
An entire afterlife,
Of sweet heavenly golden silence,
Away from those modern moving steely monsters,
Those groaning grinding interlopers,
Of killing electricity;
The doom of progress is upon you!
I can't write nuttin' worth a damn on a full stomach!
Hunger pangs fuel mine poetic juices,
yours truly moost best be famished
resembling lovely bag of bones
beyond irreparable damage
wrought courtesy anorexia nervosa
nevertheless literary masterpieces
one written quick succession after another
profusely gushes forth
unstoppable tsunami surges rhythmically
metaphorically allowing,
enabling, and providing
voluminous water logged noggin
able, ready and willing
to burst infinite outpouring
at Möbius strip cerebral seams.
Hyperbole employed
regarding above attestation
regarding conducive bodily
state to whip out
acceptable, passable and
reasonable rhyming creation
to experience and
witness poetic emancipation,
whereby until the end
of time modest glorification
endowed upon me who
imbues vast majority inspiration
of contemporaries, plus unborn peoples...
imagine renowned said
author wannabe just for kicks
(sinks false teeth
into verboten rotten apple -
oohing and aahing yum zuck)
subsequently vicious rumor affecting
millions future generations
debauched learned primates
inescapably slide into behavioral mosh pit
analogous to eventual
senescent cellular detritus
sloughed off vis a vis keratinization
anyway figuratively swinging around
deftly cycling back thru
imaginary infinite jesting loop
unlikely neither chance fame nor fortune
promises me financial materialization,
nope, not even until hell freezes over,
nor when grim reaper feasts upon
*****sapiens obliteration
witnessing every flora and fauna
molecular repurposing quantification
simulates signifying universal recycling
umpteenth big bang occurrence
erasing all cosmic consciousness
nary trace left behind
encompassing collective satisfaction
since genesis wrought life forms
wherein primitive organisms
begot reproduction fast forward bajillion years
madding crowd punctuated
planet Earth avast urbanization
essentially branding oblate spheroid
viz totally tubular vinyl city westernization.
What is the ultimate goal,
To be happy or healthy
Sexy, powerful or wealthy?
What about something beyond
Conception or expression,
Something beyond
What you can have
Or ever, even hold?
We all know what the ultimate goal is
Because it is our true nature.
And yet obliviously we stumble on
Forward ever forward
Into an ever progressing
Idealized progressive future
That bears no resemblance
To our true nature.
What is our true nature?
The something
That is a nothing,
Ineffable and yet known
Inescapably
Within our bones,
Within all our bones.
A something that is a nothing, that is us.
(11/4/25)
("And Dream of Sheep", 2018, original encaustic)
Time stretched out to fill decades
Within just the blink of an eye
Time stretched out to fulfill lifetimes
Who am I now?
Who was I then?
Alone I rummage around in memories
And in dreams my loneliness
Is crowded out with so many others
Each distinct, often unknown
And I a view absorb it all
An old man living in isolation
Yet each night filled to overflowing
With others
I know my time is numbered
Yet each night I get a glimpse
Of what really is
Just a long strange continuum of lives
Lived in love, inescapably in love.
(6/13/26)
I unsteadily
Drift away on an air balloon
Vibrantly glancing at the crowd below the surface,
Sharing my utter enthrallment
I unbelievably
Cascade into the stomach of the churning ocean
Ceaselessly infusing my bleakness at the crowd above,
I disclose my utter frightfulness
I inescapably
Collapse into the bottomless paradise
Intensively eying the crowd before me,
I conceal my devastation
I face
A confrontation between life and demise
I trace
A pathway that unsteadily drifts back to reality
I glimpse at an air balloon released in the swaying wind
And I hope urgently to drift back into ecstasy,
But it’s above the surface…reaching for the universe
And I hope appallingly for another tranquil lifetime
Mein Das-Stilled Vintage Spirits Score-Hitched...
From Bottled Up Rage
Daily app pair rent
revelation, observation, and
intimation invariably concludes,
this aging baby
boomer (albeit youthful)
inescapably lock up
(until death me part)
inside complex edifice
re: guarding self made trap
rocketing into orbitz
of mine twilight years thrusts,
upon this pop (sic) crack
kill forcibly to snap
attention back into
the present, yet unable
to shake off feeling dismayed,
viz hit ting head
with bleak recap
cha regular basis finds me
reassessing, reliving,
and reviewing
psychologically pock
marked scarred
psyche indelibly mapped
e'er since this narrator hapt
tubby a little boy at
tender preschool age
his esprit de corp
joie de vivre analogous
to a rat locked
in an undersize invisible cage
devoid of emotional, physical,
and spiritual equipage
with 20/20 hindsight, I attest,
he seemed bereft
of empathy gauge
as attested by donning
slovenly swiftly tailored,
unkempt harried styled
appearance, a foiled image
that any stranger, family
member, or classmate
could discern, sans
intuitive knowledge
Hawaii didst poorly manage
thyself and island
did self smoldering
wool worth deadly sabotage!