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Long poem by Brian Johnston | Details

Beary Tales Episodes 15-24, More Poet's Notes

Note to Readers of Previous Versions:
There are so many new vignettes scattered throughout the poem that I hope you will reread the whole thing! There are many new GEMS, improvements to previous verses and improved footnotes as well! Trust me!


15. Duplicitous Pear Trees
A pear tree’S duplicitous though fruit IS sweet,
For its branches are brittle, it’S easy to fall,
Best to stand on two limbs with your weight on both feet,
But Bear waits on the ground as I give it my all!

One day Boy IS picking fresh fruit hanging high,
Mom and aunt use a sheet to catch pears that I drop,
There IS crack; my feet slip; I snag limb slipping by!
Bear IS tease, “You were almost the bulk of our crop!”


16. Tasting Honeysuckle
There’S long, fragrant blossom that grows on our fence,
Sweetest taste of the summer that'S not from a store,
'Superpower' provoked, ISn't subtle, intense,
Not a whisper of doubt, when it'S there, Bear wants more!

Attraction to sugar IS always quite rough,
More addictive than 'BIG' (9) it'S said, fruit of the vine,
But Bear Johnston IS ready; we mean to hang tough,
So beware honeysuckle, the plan IS to dine!


17. Tornado Alley
The wind’S very loud, but how bad no one knows,
Broken limbs lie on ground; Bear IS under my desk,
Thus, we ride out the storm though Boy'S dressed in nightclothes,
But tornado hits town and result IS grotesque.

Outside after storm, the night sky IS fire red,
My dad'S worried 'bout store, so we drive car toward town,
Trash IS blocking the streets, so I go back to bed,
Grass blades nailed (2-4) in our house! Strange but power'S not down.


18. Turtle Farms
Our Sunday farm trip IS worst day of the week,
It IS boring for kids when Dad checks out the cows,
Even though drive IS key to a splash in our creek,
"I will not be a rancher," IS oath that Bear vows.

There'S box in the trunk for the turtles we see,
Turtle crossing the road IS so easy to catch,
Don't know who'S most excited Bear Johnston or me,
But for our turtle farm, any turtle'S a match!


19. Evil Under the Bed
Our room IS both dark and cold, back of the house,
Although Bear seems indifferent, message IS clear,
If a wolf'S under bed, bloody cinch for a mouse,
There IS chewing on toes if we show any fear.

The truth IS though grown up I still have this dread,
Though Bear Johnston IS claiming bears sleep winter long,
IS there no one but me 'fraid of waking up dead?
"Hear our voice in the wilderness, Lord,” IS my song!


20. Pastel Easter Chicks
When Easter IS coming 'round, dyed chicks get sold,
It’S a feast for the eye; they’re so fluffy and cute.
It is true Bear Twins bought some but truth must get told,
Though they can run quite fast, lose if dog’S in pursuit!

Cute grows ugly quickly, chick’S chicken at best,
Color’S fade and they poop lots, lack art to engage,
It IS not all that long till Mom seethes with unrest,
So we give them to farmer, RETIREMENT’S JUST CAGE! (9)


21. Love'S A Friend Coming Over
A friend comes to play, and there'S love in the air,
Bear'S OK, never jealous, just ready for fun,
There IS sandcastle built, jumps from swing's arc on dare,
And then hoops we don't count till it'S dark! Who has won?

So palpable; Friendship IS pleasure to shape.
It'S pure joy when toy bulldozers smash "Castle Grand," (10)
Look! Box turtle IS digging through walls to escape,
And Bear’S buried by boys, toes to nose, in the sand!


22. BB Gun Jealousy
A gun that shoots BB's IS pox to small birds,
It'S why ‘Red Ryder’ rifle'S so high on my list,
It IS "pop goes the weasel," bird dies without words,
Magic ‘act at a distance,’ (2-5) in fact, IS its gist!

Don't think on it much but my choice IS kill shot,
Oh, my God, boy IS lusting, but lusting in vain,
I'd say Bear is pro-life but, in fact, he IS not,
When Bear'S lusting for honey, he thinks bees a pain!


23. London Bridge
"Oh, London Bridge IS falling, IS falling down,"
Meter’S off, but sad song IS what Bear wants to sing,
Watching’S fun; Granddad Neighbors (4) shaves soap off his face!
Though the straightedge IS sharp, Clarence feels not a thing.

Now Clarence IS dead, had a "stroke," what to do?
It'S great loss! House feels empty with Granddad not there!
Grandma moves to be near; her canary'S lost too,
"God, I miss him so much," IS what Effie tells Bear!


24. Losing Training Wheels
‘First’ bike IS for me all about ‘training wheels,’
As my friends' bikes don’t have them, there’S pressure galore,
But the starting arrangement IS one of those deals,
And Bear Johnston, (not me), IS chagrined to the core!

‘First’ bike IS designed to go slow, very slow,
It'S much harder to pump, and you’re close to the ground,
Feel like turtle at best if real speed’S what you’d know,
So for Bear and myself best if no one’S around.


Poet's Notes:, 
(2-4) Grass Blades – Yes, it’s true! The winds in a tornado are so strong that they can drive a blade of grass into the side of a house like a nail!
(2-5) “Action at a distance” - There are phenomena we find in Nature that appear magical to mere mortals. “Action at a distance” is one of these, like a magnet pulling a steel ball to it when there is nothing that can be seen causing the action. Or a gun fires, you see nothing, and a long distance away from the gun, a target suddenly has a hole in it! It’s magic!
(4) My mother’s maiden name was “Neighbors.” So in this poem, I am talking about going fishing with Mom’s father and brothers (her menfolk), not the people next door and “Neighbors Gas” is the name of Grandfather Neighbors’ gasoline station.
(9) Cage – Many adults I think don't do enough to prepare for retirement. Imagine what a chicken must think who spends the bulk of its life in a cage laying eggs! Ha! He retires from life very early!
(10) Castle Grand - So maybe my sandcastle was not THAT grand, but it was GRAND to me!


Poem Continues in Part IV, Episoodes 25-33

Copyright © Brian Johnston | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Brian Johnston | Details

Beary Tales Episodes 25-33, Poet's Notes

Note to Readers of Previous Versions:
There are so many new vignettes scattered throughout the poem that I hope you will reread the whole thing! There are new GEMS, improvements to previous verses and improved footnotes as well! Trust me!


25. My Lovely Tree Fort
God save my tree fort that’S high up in our elm,
There'S board seat on tree "Y" thirty feet above ground,
One IS high above roofs when he climbs to this realm,
And a foe'S in for trouble, who dares come around.
 
There'S crate full of clods (grader tore from dirt street), (11)
Smiling Bear high in tree IS quite hard to get down,
Distant ammo supply IS a cinch to defeat,
Throwing up'S sign you're ill, bombers all win a crown!


26. Castles in Spain
Mom's love IS a "castle" we build in backyard,
All our building material'S trash from Dad's store.
Large appliance crates saved; what IS left to discard?
After doors, windows cut, there'S playhouse to explore.

Each panel'S wood framed, so they're easy to craft,
There IS doghouse for Tippy; Bear gets private door,
Our sloped ceiling? It’S rainproofed, has vents front and aft,
And the brick laid in patio now IS our floor.


27. Go Fly A Kite!
What heart of a child IS not thrilled by a kite?
You feel part of YOU’S flying with feet on the ground!
The design ISn’t crucial, small bears get it right,
Bear Twin’s kite ISn’t great, but rag tail makes it sound!

Where’S kite that plays music? Now that would be treat!
Perhaps sound that’S a summons to ‘BATMAN’ (not light)! (12)
Bear could signal his friends, say there’S dance in the street,
(Where the music of party IS “Bear Twins” new kite.)


28. The Fourth of July
Why IS it explosions make most males see stars?
‘July Fourth’ IS so “cool” to Boy; Bear thinks it'S “hot!”
Folger’s can (13) IS in air seeking passage to Mars,
Lucky ant den'S a blast in our neighbor's back lot.

Bear watches from sidelines; he'S shy to get hurt,
Though he'd like longer legs so that speed IS a choice,
He’S excited when Cherry Bombs fill air with dirt,
But he'S sweetest on Sparklers that make kids rejoice.


29. 'Boiling Springs'
A State Park near home’S a place Bear loves to go,
There’S small pool that'S enclosed, a spring surges on whim,
Sand IS white at pool's bottom and boils with the flow,
Water feeds a small stream to a lake where kids swim.

There'S "Blue Belly" lizard to spur youthful hearts,
Rifle range cliff IS kid's dig for bullets galore,
It'S such fun to leap off, land and roll where sand starts,
Deer and turkeys "must see," this trip'S never a bore


30. "Act Your Age!"
It'S what people say, "Adult must act adult!"
One IS tempted to smile and say, "Boy, that'S a laugh!"
But if opposite'S asked and youth’S under assault,
IS the parent forgiving, or not see his gaffe?

The fact someone speaks ISn't proof that one’s heard,
The bear twins need critique, but abuse still IS fact,
It'S too easy for big folk to say youth’S absurd,
Though adult'S unaware, he provokes the child's act.


31. Firefly Magic
Spring's firefly’S ecstatic celestial bard,
For its passionate pulse IS a troubadour’s song,
And Bear Johnston IS floored by the stars in our yard,
It seems light flash IS whisper akin to birdsong. (2-6)

It’S Grandma’s idea, “Let’s catch some in jar!”,
One’S to catch them; one holds them (my, how numbers grew),
For us 'having' IS better than 'catching,' by far,
And to sleep with night sky under bed sheets IS new.


32. Putting Out the Trash (After Dark)
To put out the trash after sun's light IS gone:
Total darkness beneath elm when foliage IS full!
So I whistle a tune, IS life's lease overdrawn?
It'S "BLACK OP" through our backyard, and that IS no bull!

Bear'S left in the house for the bag needs two hands,
But my plan'S not to hurry; afraid to show fright!
IS the end of my tune, ‘FLARE’ (14) that Mom understands?
Lead-pipe cinch no boy'S free of things "bumping" at night.


33. Bear's Song
“I think I'm a bear who'S especially blessed,
For I woke up one day - THERE'S THIS BOY in my life!
It'S for sure, don't deserve him, and this truth confessed,
Nor can tell you his ‘presence’ means life'S free of strife.”

 “If ‘GOD’ IS ‘provision for life’ He exists,
While our actions may fail us, HE'S THERE! That's my song,
Though man tries to say meaning IS what he resists,
You can take this to Bank! There'S a place YOU belong!”


Poet's Notes:
(2-6) Firefly Lights – The light flashed by a firefly is a special signal used to attract a mate. So it is like the firefly is singing to his girlfriend, but the "voice" that the Firefly uses to speak to her is not sound but a flashing light.
(11) A dirt grader is a big noisy machine that is used to make a dirt street smooth again after it rains, or a road becomes rough for example.
(12) In the Batman comic books of my childhood, the police would shine a “BAT” symbol on the clouds above to signal ‘BATMAN’ that his help was needed. But what if the sun is shining or if there are no clouds. Do the criminals go free? It would be much better for the Batman Signal to be a sound that only Batman could hear!
(13) Folger’s "Coffee Can" – A Folger's "Coffee Can" was the gold standard for measuring the power of a firecracker when I was a child. You put the firecracker you want to test on the ground, light it, put the coffee can on top of it, and then RUN! The more powerful the firecracker, the higher in the air the can will go!
(14) This verse is an actual memory. Though I was afraid of the dark in my sizeable backyard, I comforted myself with the fantasy that if I whistled all the way to the garbage can and back, there was at least a chance that Mom might rescue me if something grabbed me and the whistling stopped! No more sound would be like a warning “FLARE” to tell her I was in trouble.

 
Poem Continues in Part V, Episoodes 34-37

Copyright © Brian Johnston | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Brian Johnston | Details

Beary Tales Episodes 1-6, Poet's Notes

(Remembering Innocence)


Note to Readers of Previous Versions:
There are so many new vignettes scattered throughout the poem that I hope you will reread the whole thing! There are new tales, improvements to previous verses, and improved footnotes as well! Trust me!


1. Bear Johnston
“Bear Johnston,” a stuffed bear, IS Boy’s friend for life,
Bear shows some signs of wear but Boy’s tonsil’S gone too,
And their bond IS like steel, can’t be touched by a knife,
Unexpected, “Bear’S” there, post a trip to the zoo. (1)

There're IS's he IS, and some IS's he ain't,
Though his name’S quite apparent when (my mother asks),
And no mystery he IS to me, almost saint,
He’S an angel that'S with me through all of my tasks!


2. Search for Rainbow’s Gold
Bear Johnston, in truth, IS the best of my friends,
And adventure IS always the path that we choose,
So one day there'S a search for where rainbow descends,
Say a pot of gold’S found how on earth could we lose!

Sure! Leprechaun waits (he’S reward) 'round trail’s bend,
Camouflaged by green meadow, but here’S the best part!
There’S just smile on his face as we meet our new friend,
And shares, “Real gold of rainbow IS always God’s heart.”


3. Butterfly Dreams
Bear'S poetry's muse with his quite ‘Beary’ views,
Nature always IS good entertainment to Bear,
Dancing bee (2-1) IS a “hoot,” gives his mates honey news
Of more blossoms to share, "They IS just over there!"

A butterfly flying, IS riding airwave,
IS like leaf that in 'free fall' has own batteries,
Pirouettes, dances dance, but IS soon in his grave,
He’S great meal for a bird (more of life's mysteries.)


4. Tonsils, I Hardly Knew You
It turns out the world ISn't safe for most kids,
IS my tonsils’ removal a medical scam:
A bad doctor’s deceit whose career’S on the skids?
Some adults still are children, and BIG’S not I AM! (3) 

LIfe'S missing a manual called "Buyer Beware!"
And (post surgery) ice cream’S a treat I'd forgo,
Strange! In hospital's world, BEAR'S not recognized care,
But it’S clear to a child "we must reap what we sew!”


5. Tippy's Blues
My first dog, IS Tippy, though cousins' dog first,
A "found" pup, she IS nervous, all motives impugn,
A car ride makes her crazed, IS she fearing the worst?
'Tragic flaw' IS her urge to chase cars to the moon.

Our heart'S in right place, so we take her along,
Tippy leashed (and Bear carried) IS our kind of walk,
Mostly locked in backyard (she'S aggressive and strong),
New things seem to upset her; to her life’S a shock!


6. Fishing With the 'NEIGHBORS' Menfolk (4)
To fish with Mom's menfolk for ‘Bear Twins’ IS blast,
Theirs IS LOVE for the outdoors, and wildlife galore!
There'S ‘MY’ pole with fixed line, bobber, hook, (I can’t cast),
To ‘break bread’ with these men, IS a quite rare encore.

Bear plays with the bait until hook IS worm’s match,
He'S ‘in stitches’ as bluegills make bobber go wild,
There’S one fish that steals bait (that boy older might catch),
But boy's string (5) cleaned for supper IS never reviled.


Poet’s Notes:
Bear Johnston still exists today, and though his eyes were replaced by buttons years ago, he is really in pretty good shape. I am so lucky that my mom saved him for me. Another star for you Mom! 

Note that EVERY line of the poem uses the word “IS,” though some forms of IS are less obvious. The result is that the whole poem is present tense. Staying in the present tense gives my story a younger voice I think!

(1) Some Poetic license here. I actually can’t remember how Bear came into my life, but this explanation is at least plausible.
(2) Science stuff - Forgive me for injecting a little science now and then. I love Science and I just can’t resist at times. Though Bear might not be expected to know such things, he surprised me quite often with how smart he was! I’m certain, in any case, that this knowledge would have delighted him.
(2-1) Dancing Bees - It’s true! When a worker bee finds fresh flowers that have nectar and pollen the bees need to make honey, he comes back to his home hive and does a little dance to tell other workers where to go to find the flowers. It makes me wonder what else bees can say to each other when they dance? Does it make you wonder too?
(2-2) Star Dust – This is my favorite science fact. It is now known all solid elements, and all gases except hydrogen are created when a very ancient star lives, dies, and explodes. So it follows then that everything we see, dirt, mountains, trees, and flowers, other animals like us, even water, and the air we breathe is the gift of a dying star. We are truly all wonderfully made - from stardust! Is it just coincidence that the Bible says God made man from clay (a kind of dirt, i.e., stardust)? What do you think?
(3) “I AM” – This is the very mysterious and wonderful way that GOD describes himself in the Bible. It suggests to me that all of creation too is GOD.
(4) My mother’s maiden name was “Neighbors.” So in this poem, I am talking about going fishing with Mom’s father and brothers (her menfolk), not the people next door and “Neighbors Gas” is the name of Grandfather Neighbors’ gasoline station.
(5) A “string” as referenced here is a long nylon cord or chain with a stake on one end and a metal ring on the other end. People who fish put the fish they've caught on a string or chain so that the fish can be put back in the water and stay fresh longer. The fish can breathe in the water and stay cool as well. The stake is driven into the ground to keep them from swimming away!


Continued in "Beary Tales" Episodes 7-15

Copyright © Brian Johnston | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Brian Johnston | Details

Beary Tales Episodes 7-14, Poet's Notes


7. Playing With Fire
My mom IS quite clear on the dangers of fire,
But if boy'S hooked on flame, then it'S hard to obey,
There'S a longing for “MATCH GUN” (6) that most boys acquire,
Small'S the chance this desire won't come out in play.

Mom's plan IS a punishment fit to the crime!
Sent to bed without food ISn’t all we suffer,
First, there’S big box of matches, struck one at a time!
Now there’S fear found in match play; woodshed (7) we prefer!


8. Rocking Like a Rose
A ROSE ROCK'S unique and quite rare in God’s plan,
Bear agrees that it’S treasure more precious than gold,
Even clay’S a mixed tale, shares creation with man,
Dirt’S just stardust that’S cold (2-2); seems what ‘matters’ IS old!

Surprise IS quite often found right where we play,
ROSE ROCK'S home IS red dirt if you know where to look,
A hole dug clear to China IS Bear's scheme one day;
After hours of hard digging, we find a good book!


9. Stink Bait
A fisherman’S proud of ‘stink bait’ that he brews,
“Even mouse wants to upchuck!” but Granddad’S all smile,
But it’S ice cream to catfish that live in lake’s ooze,
There’S short wait but the fish seem to strike without guile.

Boy’S trusted with rod and reel; soon cast gets made!
But Bear’s nose sports a clothespin, for “stink bait’S” so bad,
Sunny day, lightweight chairs, three prong hook, “where’S our shade?”
Yes, each moment IS precious when we’re with Granddad.


10. Ode To An Elm (No One Looks Up)
Our favorite tree IS the backyard’s big elm,
It’S one path to the sky that for us brooks no fear,
Low limb reached from our swing, once we're there, it’S new realm,
Soon there’S nothing to see! Boy and Bear disappear.

This tree IS enchanted; it gets used a lot,
Earth IS left far behind; play with clouds when we dare,
What roams high in the sky, ISn’t caught, Camelot, (8)
There IS peace all around with Bear Twins in the air!


11. Give All Quarter (Give No Quarter)
Mom’s mom’s gift IS coin (which Grandkids celebrate),
Though it'S little in fact, candy store'S block away,
Bear and I love store treat, Grandma’s supper IS great,
When it'S time to go home, all the kids want to stay!

Boy's share IS a quarter, but girls just get dime,
These are life lesson's passed on though Boy IS just youth,
He sees life IS unkind! People run out of time!
That Love'S daily decision, not earned or the truth.


12. Hidey Holes
Bear Johnston IS privy to hidey-holes too,
Hide and seek IS our forte, tight lip IS our fort,
It’S reality check when events make us blue,
Danger’S looking, but news ISn’t much to report!

It'S scary whenever my folks get upset,
So much bigger than boy IS, sometimes forget strength,
Though when boy'S wrongly punished there'S always regret,
Belt's abuse IS worse problem than thickness or length.


13. Country Gas ‘Crew’
The ‘Crew’S’ taking gas to some farms far from town!
'NEIGHBORS GAS' (4) bright green 'SINCLAIR' truck'S ready to go,
Granddad’s engine IS warmed up, cab windows are down,
It IS time for departure and time for our show!

There’S no one we meet doesn’t know him that could,
His hand'S proud on my head as he calls me Grandson!
There IS farmer we meet who IS splitting some wood,
Boy IS taught to swing ax while fuel transfer gets done.


14. Cicadas! What a Buzz!
Cicadas lay eggs on back elm; it’S home tree,
Their nymphs hatch then, there’S fall to ground waiting below,
Now home’S soil, sucking sap, molting skins till we see,
Climbs a tree, back IS splitting, "Cicada hello!" (2-3)

There’S room for caught nymphs on porch screen for the night.
It’S a miracle moment; shell left; wings fill out,
And their 'moment of truth' IS the next morning’s light,
First there’S buzz in our hands; then they’re flying about.


Poet’s Notes:
(2-2) Star Dust – This is my favorite science fact. It is now known all solid elements, and all gases except hydrogen are created when a very ancient star lives, dies, and explodes. So it follows then that everything we see, dirt, mountains, trees, and flowers, other animals like us, even water, and the air we breathe is the gift of a dying star. We are truly all wonderfully made - from stardust! Is it just coincidence that the Bible says God made man from clay (a kind of dirt, i.e., stardust)? What do you think?
(2-3) Cicadas - Cicadas molt (shed their skins)! They outgrow and change their skin many times before the last molt where the adult emerges and spreads his new wings like a butterfly. Then the cicada flies high up into the trees and makes those loud noises we hear every summer to attract a mate. Common species of cicadas live in the ground for three, seven, or even seventeen years before the final molt where they emerge in their winged form to mate and lay eggs.
(6) The “MATCH GUN” described here is a clever device that both lights a wooden kitchen match and shoots it 20 - 30 feet at the same time. It is great fun after dark! The plans can be purchased from the author at any time for a 12 pack of Dr. Pepper. Cash and/or credit cards are not accepted!
(7) Camelot – A mythical kingdom of peace and tranquility on earth under the leadership of King Arthur and Merlin the Magician!
(8) Remember the Tom Hank’s Movie “Big?” The intention here is to include a child’s desire to grow up more quickly and to be “free” like adults are (in his mind)!


Poem Continues in "Beary Tales Episodes 15-25

Copyright © Brian Johnston | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by T Wignesan | Details

Which paradise is not the elusive chimere

Which paradise is not the elusive chimère?
	 	 
…how long does it take to live one life…learn the lessons of a lifetime…find the time to live…find the time to sort things out…know what you did was wrong…know in whom lay the blame…what court hears your plea over your unwanted unwilled birth…who is there to tell you here is where you went wrong in the choices you made…take you by the hand and tell you this is not your making…this is all a dream…a dream that’ll never come true… what… is the maker a masochist…to what enduring purpose have you been asked to join the rest… would you want sex if you knew who you would put into this world… is there a crime more despicable than the life you engender into a world you cannot foresee… can you live as long as your progeny to protect them from the torture your genes prepare them for… can you provide for the unforeseen… for the dark that awaits you…your own faults visited on some one else you could never have conceived in thought…since the yonder is dark unknowable for all you know empty why continue… what ultimate purpose aeons from now affects you… is there a purpose to purpose…we search and search and see far enough only to be told we are getting closer and closer to the truth… nearer and nearer to the eternal truth… the one single formula to explain it all… the unified theory of theories… only to be told in between lie the dark matter the black holes three times the known dimensions of worlds hidden within unfathomable worlds of universes buried beyond sight beyond thought… all exploding colliding intermingling intersecting  in the unreachable distance that may have been but never probably was…that the infinitely tiniest world releases the infinitely bigbangish universe… who is to believe we’re going anywhere… who is to believe we are going some place…can you conceive of anything of anybody of anybeing of any self-making engine who/which can create an ounze of space let alone the mighty exploding skies hidden within the atoms… can you conceive of a plan so complex so minute so self-propagating so complete so thorough from time immemorial to time eternal from the ends of the endless space which could have inhabited some mighty self-sufficient all-mightiness…and yet it is true… it must be true…how else can you explain this eternal laila this eternal ephemeral-ness this eternal dance…nadaraja stomping twisting flailing his six arms in all six pairs of eye-directions…siva the destroyer…siva the adept dancer…siva the twelve to twenty-nine strings dancing vibrating in dimensions unseen to the eye… IT is there to be seen and be wondered at to be felt and to be suffered to be thought of and to keep thinking about to be befuddled about and to be flabbergasted by… to know that IT exists… touch yourself and you touch the IT… think you’re touching and you’re the IT thinking… but spread your fingers and cry abacradabra… no matter materialises no ready-made canvass no finished book no symphony drivels drops drips from your fingers… is this a mystery… is this a joke… if i’m part of the IT why is there no nothing at my command… are we then part of the IT… can we be part of the IT… or is the IT split into smithereens… no more the IT… no more the creating preserving destroying omnipotent IT the dancing Nadarajah the thundering Rudra the wailing Vayu the slaughtering Kali the admonishing Krishna the cool beneficent Vishnu…is the IT then in need of its sundered parts…must we all come to gather come together to save the IT and put IT back into place… put IT back in ITS self-conceiving womb never again to see the light of the Brahma Day…is the IT in need of all the consciousnesses IT split into to constitute ITS once inconceivable consciousness…is this  the Christian redemption… is this the Arabian heaven watered by streams of milk by date-palms… oases… to the sound of the singing of seventy-two virgins…nay…succulent dates…’a book of verse/a jug of wine/and thou singing beside me in the wilderness/and the wilderness is paradise enow//” …is this the Buddhist nirvana… is this the Taoist-Stoic submission to the ways of Nature…if not what purpose is there to a finalising finite world… what purpose is there to extending a quest for betterment when the Aztec sun drunk with human blood never rises again…when suns quasars galaxies universes are all doomed to be exploded out of their orbits… what purpose to so much human suffering and animal and insect and plant degradation…but gaseous-mineral stoicness….           

Abstracted from T. Wignesan. Ice in my Eyes…Paris, 2004-06, pp.  308-310.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016.

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Gerald Dillenbeck | Details

Immigrants Gone Native

I suppose it isn't rather nice
to think of us this way,
but to the squirrels
and the trees,
the robins and the grasses,
human natures are Earth's great transitioning immigrants
on this block
we call a planet.

In this newest arrival sense,
I hope and fear
we are Earth's greatest immigrant yield,
pushing transitional boundaries
toward radical landscape and even climate caustic developments
Earth prefers somewhat less infestation of,
for every animated creation's sake.

Even the rivers and lakes
and ice caps
and glaciers complain
about us,
their latest wave of high maintenance immigrants.

Cousins, maybe,
when Earth's NonHuman Tribes are in a more generous mood.
Extended family drawn from pre-historic RNA, 
then those upstart DNA, roots,
yet still evolving emergent family economies
out to uncomfortably embrace our less ecological nonsense,
causing further stress among all our natural-spiritual natives.

Some,
like rattle snakes and scorpions,
seem quite riled up 
about our Beacon on a Hill attitudes
toward them,
our originating hosts.
It is, after all,
one thing to become grateful immigrants,
and quite another to become entitled supremacists
and racists
and sexists
where patriarchs rule over,
and too often against,
our matriarchal lines of Earth's Original Instructions,
embryonic Golden Rule mentors
for native multiculturing thrival,
which survivalist "us-or-them" recent immigrants
to the White House, not to name names,
reduce to food chain narrow-minded nonthinking,
not noticing
Earth chains of nutrition are also lattices,
circling spirals of eco-immigration
journeying together dynamic cooperative systems
of mutually becoming.

Healthy nature networks
have exegetical advantage
seeing and feeling this lattice structured system
of each new species' generation
producing new immigrants from our wombs
and harvested,
although not necessarily planted, 
health wealthing seeds.

New immigrant generations,
young ones,
may better know and sense
our mutually emergent immigrant status,
circling back toward Original Golden Rule Instructions,
to enfranchise all life
as liberally
inclusively
graciously
polyculturally
as mutual positive outcome possible
to better sing and dance
our proudly shared immigration histories;
co-celebrants interdependently polypathic
and polyphonic.

More than just a humble postscript,
this play of natures
across Earth's immigration stage proclaim:
If natural and spiritual reason supports democracy
as healthy,
and totalitarian WinLose ecopolitics as pathological,
for human natures emigrating toward health
including happiness
including prospects of co-operative wealthing outcomes,
then Earth's historical evolutionary grace
kindly invites us to recall
by reconstructing,
What is good for human nature
must remain good for all Earth natures,
animated becomings,
or our native host species
never would have given residency to us,
this last great transitional wave of vulnerable immigrants.

Just because these older waves of immigrants
can't talk our democratic talk
does not mean they don't walk
our health and pathology walk.
When in doubt about such radical co-franchisement
ask fading glaciers
and polar caps
how they are voting with their melts
while human natures continue
to stomp our immigrating feet,
hold our newborn breath,
until we hear more blue-green matriarchal,
turquoise regenerate cycling for some
who study emigrating bilateral spirals.

WinLose temperature elevating tantrums,
holding nature's collective breath captive,
waiting for rebirth of co-animating choices
as Earth's Tribes of EcoImmigrants
flowering spirals,
effective spells
inciting this one last great co-immigrant transition
into reborn matriarchal,
also cooperatively-owned partner patriarchal,
full-living color,
inviting each and all
to never fade out
to all Western NorthernWhite Capitalists
pursuing monocultural supremacy 
of WinLose entropy,
empty dissonance,
white noise of Other Absence.

Squirrels and trees,
robins and rivers,
have chosen us to emigrate from past times
with them
toward our mutual co-enfranchisement.
So, no fair anti-ecologically disenfranchising them,
our native healthing
happy
prosperous democratic hosts.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Teppo Gren | Details

Initiations of love - Part 1

INITIATIONS OF LOVE – PART 1


In the hours of twilight your star brightened my shadowed dream,
long since faded from the youthful beleif of reverie.
In you I mirrored distant memories of childhood INNOCENCE,
beauty of love in it’s early bloom, to ripeness, yet with depth of sensation,
discovered only through the pain of yearning, hearts suffering.

Through the clouded haze I felt the dream once more,
with wisdom born through nature’s falseness of sullen existence.
A long gone vision of a mind once so hopeful,
whose desires were numbed, dreams shattered yet TRUST beheld;
a yearning heart turned into a core of solid gold; hard yet frail.

Where love once flowed in a heart so frail,
eagerness of will echoed in the emptiness to find a way through the dark.
The mind found PATIENCE to fulfill the desired image,
a promise of love, realization of a long-felt need,
thoughts and emotions sacrificed for mortal gestures.

Whispering winds of silence, blowing yonder an arduous past,
with a quiet wish for a reflection of bygone times of tranquility,
to encounter the warmth of serenity through FORGIVENESS.
Forgiveness, not only of injustice and treachery,
but for the disbelief in love’s worth; and destiny’s reason.

Yet you appeared in an angel pureness, a vision of white;
through time to understand the meaning of eternal love
which is not tied by wordly needs, by shallow desire, or pleasures of the flesh,
but of AWARENESS of love’s deepest form of ensued knowledge,
a realization of love’s eternity; at the level of the soul.

In your eyes I saw the depths of forsaken desire,
and the pain of love’s initiation, yearning, love’s sorrow.
When I saw the teardrops running down your cheek, I knew.
I knew you retained the depth of FEELING as did I,
to behold the tenderest appreciation of love’s virtue.

In appearances of disguise life exists, as does love.
Dreams mingled with charm and enticement of reality,
in submission of togetherness to end a lonely heart’s search,
to earn love’s fondness by DEVOTION to its existence,
yet with reverence to retain the purity of the souls longing.

Released from chains of amorous passion, false desire,
I hold you in my heart, gently, with chastity of innocence.
With enlightenment I renounce worldly pleasures,
and enjoy the FREEDOM given, for love to grow,
reach the ripeness of eternity; freedom to aspire endless love.

Delight of divine inspiration to encounter love’s ECSTASY,
its wordly passion fulfilled, and continued by nature’s gift.
A gift more precious than love itself; newborn to love once more.
Love exists in forms of many; passion to unite as one to give new life,
perceived by nurturing care, kindness of the heart; true love’s zeal.

But what is love without HUMILITY; modest humbleness?
Selfish contentment of desire; satisfaction of bodily needs
prone to temptations of deception to be drowned by lusts amorous lure.
Be it not the beauty of Venus or Mars, but that of awareness,
to feel the depth of meaning by lessons of life; and of loneliness.

Witheld from touch of the flesh, or minds wordly eagerness,
PURE love reigns, untarnished, blessed with innocence,
to fathom, and to feel the infinite tenderness of love once parted.
Love needs no proof for its existence; no words, no kisses, no promises.
When love has grown to ripeness, its existence remains with enlightnment.

Is there no easier way to find love’s eternal FULFILLMENT,
then to weather the wrath of love’s pain, fallacy of deception,
rejected hearts loneliness; lonely days followed by darkened nights.
Be it less to weather lightning of the heart to see the light of life.
But how to comprehend the light of life without a sight of darkness?

T.J Grén


Inspired by astrologer Linda Goodmans book „Love Signs“ and it’s concept of initiations of love, whereby each sign of the zodiak has a lesson of love to teach and to learn.
Lessons to teach: Love is: innocence, patience, awareness, devotion, ecstacy, pure, beauty, passion, ho-nesty, wisdom, tolerance, compassion.
Lessons to learn: Love is: trust, forgiveness, feeling, freedom, humility, fulfillment, harmony, surrender, loyalty, unselfish, oneness, all.
For me all this means that LOVE IS ALL. 

Copyright © Teppo Gren | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Andrea Dietrich | Details

The Instincts of Innocence

I reflect upon a word -
   Innocence
To understand more fully what it means,
I think of what it conjures up for me -
childhood times -
 those times when I believed all I was taught
from silly things like Santa Clause
 to sacred things
            like God and true religion.

The way I accepted and then reacted to 
my mother’s definitions  of what was wrong and right
  I think is how I might define 
           my instincts ….. of innocence.
Having learned well right from wrong in my youth,
            my instinct was to feel shock or dismay
when I saw others doing      things I deemed immoral,
especially when the doers were those that I looked up to
           inside the parameters of my own church.
However, my tolerance for others’ evil doing 
  increased year by year, 
            Even in my youth, I never judged them outright.
Those girls and boys that slept around through high school
              were judged inside the silence of my mind.
       I never shunned them.

A few more decades passed. 
      Religion’s walls around me were wearing down.
  I never did cement the cracks in my walls’ foundation
      as did some others in my community -
               others who sought to strengthen their own walls
    with instincts of innocence espoused inside
                        the sanctity of chapels.
When was it I let my childhood instincts  totally crumble?

Generally more tolerant than many of my friends
  that I grew up with, I saw “other” people
with eyes that rarely blinked  at what I deemed to be audacity.
Those with different customs, or with strange new religions
          I have accepted in my life and tried hard not to judge.
Some things, however, I cannot tolerate.
             Societies that put their women down and 
people who abuse the weak, emotionally as well as physically,
Never will those actions I accept.

Now I ponder this: Are the instincts of innocence simply tied
          to what we learn as children?
I have seen select groups of people shunned
            by both the religious and the non-religious
simply for the fact that they are different!
And from whence comes the idea in a child’s mind 
to make him think that someone should be shunned?
Do our instincts of innocence simply come
from that time of life
when we looked up to our parents as our Gods,
accepting their every teaching as Gospel
and feeling fear to ever go against them?
Many things we learn are for our good, and
societies would turn to chaos without some guidelines
akin to the ten commandments.

On the other hand,
as a child, I was innocent.
    My instinct was to trust in strangers.
              Then I learned better.
My instinct was to cringe but say nothing   
   the time I was inappropriately touched.
Thankfully, since then, I have learned better.
In some instances, I would say, 
our instincts of innocence
                                                should be laid to rest!

For a long while now, I’ve been seeing
a small but significant segment of the population
that differs in their sexual orientation or preference.
Those who taught me in my youth
 that I ought to be as meek as a child
         still point today to ancient Scriptures
                  as the way for all to keep their innocence.

But my walls have fallen down.
    I stand here in the rubble
              unsure that I've done right or wrong
         in letting many of my childhood  ways of thinking
                   collapse so utterly.
The instincts of my thinking adult mind tell me that
     I am not wrong to stand with those who want their right
                to the pursuit of their own happiness
despite the fact their actions are denounced
         by the very teachings on which I was raised.

Can we ever really lose completely 
those thoughts developed from our early teachings, 
which led to the instincts of our childhood innocence?
At times, I cannot be completely at ease
in what I have let go of and in who I have become,
for the instincts of innocence 
     still dwell           in the caverns of my mind.

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Therese Bacha | Details

Punished

                            ~ Punished~
                        
One evening with her dad she met this man at a bar very
handsome well mannered visiting from England.
After a few visits she started feeling him approaching her 
with nice compliments.

His attention made her fall In love with him
For months he took her out running to the beach 
shouting out loud I love your body i love your eyes
you’ll never belong to nobody but me.
 
On a moonlight night he was holding her so tight 
kissing her lips caressing her tits expressing his 
desire to light up the fire that was burning in their
entire body and soul.

As he was her first this is what she thought at the 
beginning she was very reserved yet she liked the 
fire she was feeling they were new to her his kissing 
was sensuous he smelled lovely he was caressing her
hair while sitting on the sand she was so taken by her
thoughts suddenly she heard.

Oh my darling let me love you my way let me make you 
my woman without any delay I beg you to give up and 
stop the fight I am promising at the same time to marry 
you very soon I will ask your dad that you will become my 
wife next Sunday at soon.

She wanted to believe him her head was spinning her heart
was beating to the sounds of his powerful movements
she was reaching the sky so quickly sensations of ecstasy 
she was feeling with his compliments whispering his love 
to her out loud while she was dreaming of the marriage 
as being lifted up on a carriage listening to the horses 
tapping on the course to the hotel room where they will 
spend their honeymoon as she will become that bride 
at noon.

Before even her dreams were over she felt him suddenly 
role over and ran away with no delay she could not understand
why ? Why? Did he leave with no good-bye.

Not realizing she was undressed hurried to get dressed ran to look 
from side to side asking herself why did he hide he promised me 
to be his bride? even if she was yet a child.

She sat where they loved each other looking at the ocean maybe
he will come back he must he told her he is in love.

Already it was dark in a low voice having no choice she ran 
home straight to her room wiping her running tears and fears
covering her feet to feel some heat and fell asleep not to see
her dad as maybe tomorrow he will come back with an 
explanation to his act. 

Hoping not to be deceived and very soon to be relieved
when he ‘ll knock on their door and swipe her off her feet 
tell her dad to fix their marriage.

She waited for days and days but that day never came 
she knew then it was only a game and she`ll never see 
him again and will never be the same.
                          
That early morning she woke up before her dad to cheer up 
herself for him not to doubt she had maybe made a huge 
mistake.
Having her coffee she pulled the newspaper and screamed
Oh Oh the man she loved was an addicted rapist being 
searched from the Interpol in England, he had convinced 
everybody doctors and nurses that he was cured.

Continuing to read she read his history that he was battling 
addiction of raping teenagers for the past twenty years. Lived
most of the time in jail.
She cried and cried she was raped by an addicted rapist who
was never cured.
                             
She could not eat or drink not knowing what to think 
while running to the sink that’s when she found out 
but couldn’t shout that she was carrying a rapist child. 

Where are you? She thought you were honest
But you were only an ordinary man still battling
your addiction.

Forgive me Oh My God! Her dad
forgave her out of love to his innocent daughter.

She had to keep her child and trusted herself
to bring him up not like his father.
And she did her son became an international lawyer.

   Therese Bacha
      27/5/2013
Contest for PD....Any Poem Goes.

Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2012

Long poem by Ir0nic ZiNk | Details

HUFFING PAINT IN THE MINI-VAN

Baby birds tweet as their long skinny necks stretch towards blind faith. Somewhat frantically; newly born; next to dead; fragile existence; protected with life. Regurgitation from the same embodied mouth that an egg came from. Hidden from the world in a tree of life and chosen by the universe, without choice. Bound by instinct, life's purpose is to live. Feather light with a solid frame; wings for flight flap for unexplainable reason…; decomposers prey on the dead. Predators’ gifted with unmatched naked eye site; take life. Meaningless meanings that explanation is interrogated by; comparing this ability to fly with freedom. Arguing its merits as well; baby birds incubated from eggs rely on instinct…; unable to see with their eyelids stuck shut. Definitions define with answers…; created by a man. Facts become law. Acceptance leaves out the option of debate; born into this world with instincts and long necks…; only to rely on blind faith.

Feb.2015

I have a special place in my heart for this poem. Naming a poem ‘Huffing Paint in the Minivan’ just randomly popped into my head upon a recollection from my teenage years. My closest brother (at that time of my life) made a comfortable living selling twenty bags to all my high school friends. He bought a big blue van that we called the Smurf Mobile because we removed all the seats and lined every inch of the interior with super thick foam and we lined it with camouflage blue. And it was a full-size van; not a minivan. For whatever reason, huffing paint in the van just doesn’t have the same ring to it as Minivan.
The idea of the title originated in roughly 2002 when I was up early one Saturday morning. I was packing for baseball training camp in Omaha, NE, when I noticed the Smurf van rocking and I heard whispering voices. When I ripped open the back doors I was greeted by my two best friends and they were, in fact, huffing paint in the mini-wan; gold paint…
The two of them, complete idiots getting caught, looked like baby birds trying  to flap their armsd like chicken wings. I laughed and then aided their secret huffing society by shutting the doors, left with a mental image that I won’t ever forget. 
About the metaphor that this poem most surely is, I am pointing out the innocence of newly found life; in general. We are dependent on our guidance; vulnerable to life at the most fragile level possible. This inability of the baby birds to see is an imagery tactic that is extremely versatile in regards to relatable on a majority scale. It is my poetic mission to point out the options of our ignorance. Ignorance as a stigma rather that definitive word and has a great deal of hype attached to its meaning; ignorantly misunderstood. As we all are born ignorant and clueless to life we look to our closest role models for answers to what’s right and wrong; true or false. As we eventually become of age to freely think about life and begin forming our own opinions and establishing beliefs that we can only deem as self evident. I mention the food chain as a reminder of the circle of life. And through this is an entire seemingly naturalistic poem, about baby birds that rely on blind faith in the ability of their caretakers to provide as an instinctual behavior; without question. Logical led belief would be that we put faith into the ones who love us. Ultimately reliant upon faith in a higher meaning to life, truly believing that life is a blessing no matter how bad things may be right now, deep down we know in our hearts that we have a special place here on earth. This positive life outlook is the most effective way to achieve our ultimate life goal; happiness…

Copyright © Ir0nic ZiNk | Year Posted 2017

Long Poems