Long Inquiries Poems
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*Long long ago there was a very rich father who had a very large family. He built a large house anticipating his family. His children were normal and grew up with the standards that their father set. Occasionally, one or the other would step out of line, but they all respected their very understanding father.
But there was one who often stepped out of line and became more rebellious by not only disregarding his father's standards but by starting to make his own rules. The self-willed son finally grew up and went out on his own, making his own decisions and managing his own life and livelihood with the wealth he had obtained through his father's good graces. Quite often he had to humble himself and request the aid and wisdom of his father. This went well as long as the father would grant him his desires without questions.
When the father made inquiries so as to better assist his son in becoming self-sufficient and independent, the son became angry to the bewilderment and sadness of his father. The father was patient with his son but began to be at a loss pertaining to how he could really help his son. The father was not overbearing nor one desiring to control his adult son. He simply loved him dearly and wanted to see him become successful and happy as he pursued his own life's purpose.
However, matters at times grew from bad to worse, especially when the son would shout out what seemed to be his favorite demand of his father, "I want you to stay out of my business!". Why, the father could not understand such a demand, because he never was a volunteer, but rather was always recruited or drafted by his son into his vast array of adversities and conflicts whether they were financial, marital, or parental. It's sad when a son wants his father to be "in or out" of his life on the son's terms alone.
03252018FBPS *America, my great country, reminds me of The Prodigal Son story in the Bible. This is a fictitious description of America's rebellion against God.
Those who live an artistic life are genuinely soul-aware.
It is as vital to the human spirit as is the air.
Artistry, sculpture, and landscape design are creative,
That's around spiritedness that pulls and is probative.
Bury my heart in the wounded knee where even harm,
Battered gallows have histrionic gems and charm.
A ghost wrapped in a thicket of death rug toss,
Eigenvector fade marble eye fabric dross
Slap my lips with a cudgel, ruminant, spewing mere,
Apathetic brows cursed with sin shudder with fear.
I clasped my hands, viewing fake hooks and blows spare,
I may sleep freely on the rope or walk as drifting in the air.
Free from obscure sights, free from guilt,
I translated the chain that bound my spilt.
Each time the human spirit is apathetically ground,
Somewhere in the cold, an answer can be found.
Victim of its erratic walking and constant cold,
Lost and bastard, inquiries are permitted to be trolled.
You stay stoical and equanimous under a dearth,
You, the human spirit, are the nucleus of the Earth.
Yet, I took this mystery with me to the grave,
As of now, please note that I crave to rave.
I believe that fair things will win out for people,
When I dared not be the one to be motile.
Milk is insufficient for acts of human kindness.
The stomach can churn and be mindless.
Milk and whey used to derive cheddar or skim milk.
There are various choices for insights ilk.
Written: September 17, 2022
The Human Spirit Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mystic Rose Rose
What is the nature of the affection you claim to possess for me when your expressions of love are accompanied by detachment, distance, and uncomfortable silences? I find myself engaging in internal monologues in an attempt to alleviate the emotional challenges that we vowed would never arise between us, akin to the familial dynamics we observed in our parents and their siblings. Yet, as history tends to do, it repeats itself. I am disheartened by the realization that as we age, we also grow apart, mourning the presence of an individual who is physically present but emotionally distant. Whose responsibility is it, I wonder? Is it mine for hesitating to respond to inquiries such as "what troubles you, my dear," possessing a deep sentiment but lacking the ability to articulate an intellectual analysis of the situation, thus resorting to a nonchalant, indifferent response of "nothing... nothing is wrong," revealing my inadequacy. I implore you to elucidate which factor would lead to your emotional breakdown amidst the company of loved ones, feeling more isolated than when you were physically alone in a dimly lit room, fixated on your phone, yearning for a different scenario where words were spoken differently. I beseech you, when did my siblings become unfamiliar to me? When did we transform into the individuals we vowed never to emulate?
My muse is veiled by clouds of mystery
She steals my thoughts and dreams both night and day
Allured yet vexed with curiosity
Frustrated by the wicked game she plays
My words are music, she begins to dance
With coyness, wiggles out of inquiries
Seducing me to take another chance
To once again explore her boundaries
But she has shown the beauty of her heart
And I have felt the pureness of her words
So heavenly, just like an angel's harp
I'll solve the mystery surrounding her
I think of all the wonders I've been shown
Such beauty lends itself to none I've known
an original poem by Daniel Turner
Come with me to the lost and found
Come with me, RIGHT AWAY!
For there is something you have lost
Oh, find it now, TODAY!
Come with me, dear, and hold my hand
There's no time to delay
If we don't find the LOVE you lost
Your heart will go astray
Leave it to me, inquiries
I know just what to say
We're looking for this man's lost LOVE
the one he did betray
For yes, it is your Love for me
You lost along the way
So to the Lost and Found we go
Hold tight, dear, do not stray!!!
Oh, here it is, your poor lost LOVE
My HEART you used for play
So please, dear, pick it right back up
Or there'll be hell to pay!!!
Eileen Manassian
Special license plated signing of $197 million dollar events;
Political confess rich ones have not;
Dredge the have nots includes Revelations protected children;
Government is an artificial expedition such,
it's a witch hunt;
Process uncomfortable;
Administration pursued multiple;
Challenges poverty iniquities;
Political inquiries;
Let's find out where we went wrong;
Correct the problems;
It's not about socialism;
Help the poor in the spirit revision;
And the soul first teach them to fish;
Don't just give them the fish;
Let's find out where we went wrong;
America!
Correct the problem spells resolution;
Government
I don't need your political monies give me your prayers teachings and helps;
Show me how to fish and help me keep my breath;
4/1/21
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2021
Wow! As we would colloquially put it,
You are really one man of grit!
You seem to be the only guy
Who’s got no time even to cry.
Just imagine, in a day
Everyone wants to know your say.
You’ve got to speak, you’ve got to write –
Are you the only one who’s very bright?
And you’ve got to be present everywhere
Especially when your boss’s there.
In a jiffy you’ve got to speak
Why is that you tend to squeak?
Legal matters, contracts, too,
Inquiries, finance - are statements true?
Then open files and through them pore;
Are there skeletons behind the door?
God help me! I’ve erased a file,
Tensions rampant, vanish’d’s the smile.
Oh Lord Almighty, let me out of this mess,
A real tough job – I do confess!
Form:
I stare at the stark darkness ahead,
My hands squeeze the steering wheel
While a simple trepidation musters its way to my heart
The road is long, my headlights keeping shadows in check
I see the smooth path, intrigued by its uniform contentment
My tires and many tires before have moseyed yonder upon it
In the dark and light alike, with perspectives all their own,
Had they once thought, in the dusk or in the sun,
How much more will this road tolerate?
How much harder will the sun beat upon it,
And will the chilled darkness one night crumble it to nothingness?
There is no answer of course,
For they are silly inquiries, dimming campfire talks
And really, questions stem from a lonely mind blabbering alone…
The road moves unobtrusively,
Or am I moving?
Pressing this car with privilege to play its role,
Bravely contacted with the cold
Running steadily
Through the friction of the tires
This road, it will crack someday, in all the usual places
Dulling, eroding, becoming near-natural
Just to be made new and safe again
Ready for man and roadkill…
I will ask one more time for solitude’s sake,
Why is it so perpetually smooth?
I expected a bumpy night in this desolate stretch
But we should not have the ability to expect what disturbs us…
I am reminded that roads do not mean to satisfy little wonderments
Can care less for these zooming contrivances
That we sit in comfortably, turning on the radio to drown out the mutability
Tonight I bask in it, and though I am not fully lost in the night,
The road and this car keep me feeling secure,
Even when surrounded by wilderness
It occurs to me a lot—
How can one feel so human?
In the comfort of a car, we escape the darkness of the wild
Only barely,
And the road behind me,
Well it is abandoned, forgotten for a while
Till more wheels spin across its surface some other day
It is so smooth,
Barren and ordinary
Not existing to dream its own existence
But it is gracefully real, and getting realer
As I continue to gaze through the glass
Without question or words, I am alone tonight with you, writing.
A menial task, at least.
If mine eyes were like the Sparrows', they would march out off and grab you. Today, I fuel these mean, tyrannical things.
If mine eyes have but bought the answer, the answer to Mine own pure heart, I would have sought out refuge in places zero, finding it; zero repeating it.
There are no words for which I can say that echo my thoughts as I read and write about my feelings on this cold, October morning. No words mentioned?
A hollow glass of timer shoots low upon my belly, it is made out of coal, and it believes it knows me.
It is brass and silver; It is my old, long-lost violin, the 'Scarecrow'.
Perhaps there's more to life here than meets the everlasting paths of divine entities. Yiuth being one of them, faith being one of the few.
I cannot reason with my thoughts if I am alone with those other inquiries, only fathom them. May they never sleep at night. May they never fathom...
Monet's Impression, Sunrise
First impressions leave memories
that can linger for a very long time
and give a sense of peace and understanding
that rewards the solitude of the mind
with satisfaction in contemplative reflection.
This may be deceiving and can mislead one to believe
that which is right may, in fact, be wrong.
Graciously accept the artist’s shared perception
that there is no ambiguity, only a warning
of the impending storm threatening prevalent reasoning.
The ascending sun, with its reflection on the water,
highlights a sense of direction as the rowers row
across the harbour at the break of morn.
Past cranes and derricks and ships at anchor
beneath a smoke-blurred fiery sky, accented
by pastel shades of blue to create the sombre mood
that expresses Monet’s "Impression, Sunrise" painting
and shares with the onlookers his representation
of nature from an Impressionist’s point of view
in the Industrial Age, heralding in the revolution.
That begs the question, “Where are they going,
and why blood orange?” (Oh, but I’ve seen that colour before.)
Day-to-day inquiries are asked of one another and strangers.
Monet incorporates an art form using oils on canvas,
forcing the audience to observe with curiosity,
thus presenting a sliver of time of life’s tranquillity at sea.
This provocation of thought chinks the consciousness
of seasoned connoisseurs who see change as frightening
and challenges their manipulation of artistic output
(to act like mechanical agents thwarting creativity).
“Will they reach their destination? Will it be as they hoped for?”
Hurry! Though calm, the waters will soon froth in labour.
***
Note:
“Monet’s Impression, Sunrise” is an ekphrastic poem referencing the painting “Impression, Sunrise” (1872) by Claude Monet (1840–1926).