Long Inside(a) Poems
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Views on life are highly slanted
When you take it all for granted
Thinking that material things
And the happiness they bring
Is the only way to be
Fulfilled, glad and oh so happy
But you need to change your ways
Every hour of each day
Is already passing by
You should look around and try
No notice things can be nicer
If you were a little wiser
With the attitude and notions
You don't need the tender motion
Of something real and true
Wood, steel, fabric and glue
Make things that;s sold in stores
Decorating walls and floors
But what is the purpose of
Nice things with no one to love
Blankets keep you cozy warm
But can't hold you in a storm
Wrapping arms tightly around
Cheering you up when your down
Music coming from big speakers
A love tune that always seeks her
Heart for singing a duet
But your are dense and clueless
Pictures hanging big and tall
Covering each room of walls
But their fake inside a seal
No lovers face that's true and real
Think about what I am saying
Soon you'll be happily laying
Next to someone alive in 3D
Loving and caring she'll be
I dreamed I was inside a bulb—
a cathedral of filament and glass—
not dead
not born…..
but shumming**.
Glass walls curved like time
sealed but translucent
my fingers curled around voltage
like a secret
God was transcending.
The socket hummed a lullaby
of static.
Every breath of mine made sparks
the air electric
with grief
and longing.
I saw myself outside the bulb
in a room wallpapered with eyes—
each iris twitching
like a seismograph.
They watched
as I shimmered like an angel
in a jar of fire
as if I were proof
of something
too holy
or too hideous
to name.
The room beyond
glistened with wallpapered surveillance—
each gaze a blink
each blink
a test of identity
a hymn of entropy
and wonder.
I touched the glass—
cool as frozen memory
thin as a promise—
and the world on the other side
shuddered
like a dream woken
too soon
My thoughts turned tungsten—
spiraled
stubborn
resisting
the spark of enlightenment
or extinction
I spoke
and the words bent back
like boomerangs
buzzing
with static regret
A child approached
barefoot
real
impossibly tender…..
She looked like someone
I might have loved
if time had taken pity.
She placed her palm on the bulb—
her skin against my sorrow
the warmth of it
startling
as mercy
a forgiveness.
“Why are you in there?”
she asked
or perhaps
thought—
her voice the color
of candlelight.
I tried to answer
but my vocal cords was hardwired
my tongue
a fuse
My words came back
distorted
looped
charred
as if language
were combustible.
For a moment
I flickered
between purpose
and obliteration
Then
the ceiling cracked open
like a wound
and light poured down—
not to reveal
like revelation
like judgment—
to burn away
the questions
And I understood—
not everything illuminated
is meant to be seen
not all vision
is freedom…..
Some truths
are meant to flicker
fragile and holy
inside the bulb of the soul
unspoken
unchosen
alive.
================
**Shumming: Shimmering Humming
Lost and Found
Be quiet quiet quiet
Yes quiet as a mouse
It's nobody else's business
What goes on inside our house
We like our big little secrets
All disguised in pretty bows
These things are just between us
It is best that no one knows!
The little girl she listened
Held that burden of belief
Pretended with eyes of happy
But inside she held her grief
Losing her voice to a sorrow
That she wasn't allowed to show
Inside a numbing awareness
and no safe place where she could go
She kept on being quiet
Those around her thought it weird
She tried so hard to form her words
But her voice had disappeared
She lived within the shadows
until one day she made a choice
No longer would she be silent
She prayed "Please God give me my voice!"
Some answers don't come easy
But God helps us when we try
Her voice started as whisper
Yet on words she learned to fly
Her message spoken clearly
big little secrets shouldn't be kept
The girl became a woman
and she earned her self respect
Within light thoughts are shifted
She's not afraid to be seen
Truthful words tell her story
Others know where she has been
Her voice reveals her beauty
She knows freedom in her heart
With us she shares her secrets
As she transforms pain into art!
Dedicated to the girl who lost her voice,
and the woman who found it. Freyja Jensen.
Salem Village, Massachusetts
May 11, 1692
Of evil works in league with the devil, I am accused.
Spit upon, bolts tethered in chains, I have been abused.
People mardle I cast spells of palsie to make them twitch.
Blinded by fear, they labeled me a sorceress, a witch.
Superstition is to blame for blinding their eyes.
I claim innocence when affronted by boisterous cries.
"Burn the witch!" they shout in frenzied outrage.
Until tomorrow's trial, I am to be kept inside a cage.
These Puritans are wrong to think they do God's will.
Christians should not have such an urgency to kill.
There is no talk of banishment. That would be a blessing,
but the crimes they say I committed, I am not confessing.
Other women in the village are facing this tragic fate.
Pity that our lives will be in the hands of the magistrate.
Sorrow fills me knowing I will meet death on the gallows
and tossed in a grave, not worthy of ground that is hallow.
I am already convicted in the minds of those who leer.
My pleas of having done nothing wrong, they do not hear.
All of a dudder, I hear them say, "She is a witch possessed!"
"Forsooth," I will cry in court, "to witchery I have not confessed!"
Somewhere from outside, I faintly hear a church bell clanging.
Then, a hoard of voices screaming, "It is time for hanging!"
I write these words before the mob comes to take me away.
God, please keep me in your heart. I will not live another day.
Bridget Bishop,
Falsely accused of being a witch
Our country is a shooting gallery
Ten cents will buy ten shots at infamy
Just shoot a cop, you'll be on Fox
Skin color now is really hot
So far five out of ten's the best we've seen
Mass shootings now are really all the rage
Like hunting birds locked up inside a cage
High schools are cool, theaters rule
Or you can kill a nightclub full
Your face will make the newspaper's front page
So hurry and go buy yourself a gun
They sell them on the street corner for fun
Don't take no static, get an automatic
Pretend to be a religious fanatic
You'll have to kill a bunch to be number one
an original poem by Daniel Turner
Remember when the ink, a writer’s tat, like a cobra spiralling ‘round fingers and arms, wielded power. Splotches, balled up, thrown into the basket hoop, flooding the creative canal. Ideas danced like mad flames, charming, rhyming, flipping, flopping, finally happy, no crossing out, neverending editing, feathers flapping, inkwell splattering, until the words must be kept.
Eyes the color of dawn, never set. The romance never kept. Captivated by the sea, trees, and wolves. Hair like a cape ‘round the shoulders, as the cold swirls about, as the fire almost goes out. Only then does the poet gather her skirts and wood, and nibble a biscuit, pour herself into bed.
Her dreams and nightmares will be channelled into tomorrow’s inkwell. She lives inside a warm womb, in a butterfly's cocoon, in a bear’s hibernation cave. She spins fairytale gold.
If you don't sleep
and eat at the right time
you tend to live a short life
you can do what you want,
but you also have to make
the people around you happy.
With smoke billowing
and cigarette after cigarette,
you fool—
you're hunting for diseases
not only for yourself,
but for everyone around you.
Hey, Thet Wai,
if you want to do
whatever you please,
then go live alone on the moon.
You have no impressive education
to make people admire you,
no respectable income
to earn people's respect,
and not even the gift of speaking
in a way everyone would like.
Just a man
stumbling over his own thoughts,
tripping himself up
and lying there.
A degree,
but no job.
Too ashamed to take this job,
too embarrassed to take that one.
So you sit over a cup of tea
until your ass goes numb,
sometimes shutting yourself
inside a room,
feeling as though
something is about to happen—
as though
one thing might happen,
or maybe two.
It's hard, Thet Wai.
Hard for people like you.
You treat writing poems,
writing words,
as though it were
some great responsibility
the world had handed you.
As though you're helping.
As though you're giving advice.
As though you're pointing things out.
As though you're offering comfort.
As though poetry itself
were some kind of medicine
for wounds.
Yet you're no use
to your friends.
You don't earn money
for your family.
The country
doesn't recognize you.
No one looks up to you.
You're hardly famous at all.
And yet you keep
making something out of the fact
that you can barely write
these little poems—
a man forever
trying to make it seem
like it amounts to something.
If you don't make money,
we don't want to admire you.
That man—
that poet
they call **Thet Wai**—
if you see him,
tell him this:
How much
is one of your poems
really worth?
He has left the world.
A half-made bed creaks still.
A life left elsewhere,
not here in this blue rat-tailed viewing.
Display the cold hands,
the musty suit newly buttoned.
Teeth wedged tightly
inside a cosmetology mask.
Earwax continues.
A smile sheens on formaldehyde lips.
Outside, a spasmodic rain quivers.
Never before has he been this ready.
His pockets bulge still with balled-up notes
a linty jot and tittle left unsung.
Damp mourners ebb away
dabbing milk-less eyes.
A soft hat sags from a paint-chipped hook
dripping like a nose.
Half-washed dishes are his legacy.
Close the door quietly least they rattle.
They say, just there beyond the valley, that
there lived inside a house a little cat
who never went outside to run and play;
she chose to spend her time indoors each day.
They named her Hairless Cat. Her owners called
her that because their little pet was bald.
She was a different breed of cat, and true,
her skin was bare- on Hairless no fur grew.
Some days a while back, she’d gone outside
but never stayed out long, came in to hide;
the kitties tried ignoring her, and so
would not befriend her- would not say hello.
Now, Hairless Cat, aware that she was shy
and different from others that passed by,
began to think of special ways to cope
and make them friendlier- so there was hope.
She thought and thought, whatever she could do,
to let them know beneath her bare-skin view,
there lives a nice, smart kitten hoping that
she could be friends with each and every cat.
That night it came to her within a dream;
come morning, she began to smile and beam!
Her owners left the door somewhat ajar
when they left home for shopping in their car.
Her bowl of yummy dry food in the room
was filled up to the top, and very soon,
she carried dry food nibbles, one by one,
out through the door onto the porch till done.
She stood beside her feast, began to eat,
and soon the cats came by, did not retreat-
but closer to the porch they came to see
that Hairless Cat had planned a cat party.
They came to share the feast each, one by one,
and Hairless Cat was happy they had come!
Her lonely days were over, she had won,
and every day, from then, with friends had fun.
"The moral of this story is: if you
are lonely, and you need a friend or two,
you must reach out to them and make them see
what a good friend to them you want to be."
September 20, 2015
Contest: Fabled Musings
Sponsor: Joseph May
She walked in fluid nature of her own romantic sighs
Tranquil vibes ebbs dim candlelight from the starry skies
Stuck inside a dream, a victim of the moaning sea
of the air I breathed, I hunger and buckle to my knees
Caused by her ambience waves of deep vibrant royal blue
surroundings and enchanted silent creeping through
Amphitrite the goddess – queen of the sea unfurl
her children around her neck each sealed in each lustrous pearl
So striking in a twilight blue silk gown like the night
fits perfectly against her slight curves quite a lovely sight
Silk open toe stiletto heels lace up her legs with grace
layered long hair along her sun kissed heart-shaped face
With a smile she entwined her arms with mine and out the open door
When morning came, to leave me lonely as before
Poseidon, I see why you were captivated by her exquisiteness
always by your side in your chariot drawn by fish-tailed horses
5/5/2017