Long Insisting Poems
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For Silent One's - Mamma Poetry Contest
Where is the love, Mamma?
Through broken Louvre blinds, you're ever watching
Rosary beads clicking prayers on repeat mode, uttering
Your plethora of Faith keeps me steadily striving
Though, frustrated when peace will be arriving.
Under cover of the midnight moon, hookers seducing
Shady men with illicit wares aggressively peddling
Of changing our situation, I'm forever idealizing.
Enduring every day's trauma, just surviving.
Seeking direction from above, when is enough enough?
Tell me, Mamma ~ Where is the love?
Collective immorality still existing.
A ticking clock morality meekly resisting
Corruption, greed, and deceit still abounding
This life where goodness seems to be drowning.
A depraved degradation of insanity still insisting,
Death, broken hearts, crime persisting
In the chaos, qualms never ceasing.
lawlessness above the muck and mire rising
At the kerbside, a holy man piously preaching
Should I turn my cheek, still beseeching
Amidst their plundering and their leeching?
NO !!
Enough is Enough ~ Where is the Love?
Beyond-repair abhorrence, I'm escaping.
Fervently, I'm hoping and praying.
Please God, Mamma, be safe while I'm gone
I'll be back for you before long
In the eerie darkness, emotions imploding
Sirens blaring, with the sound of guns exploding
My shallow breath quickening, turning back with throat thickening
All the while, I'm screaming
Where is the love?
Back through this hellhole, I'm rapidly racing
All through the panic, still hoping and praying
Please God, Mamma ~ Be Safe, Be Safe, Be Safe
Neon blue-red lights flickering and flashing.
Through my open front door, I'm madly dashing.
Looming through the haze, I hear them saying.
'Sorry, Miss, yet another random shooting
Your Mamma just got caught in the cross-firing.'
The last thing I hear is my own voice crying.
MAMMA ~ THERE IS NO LOVE! THERE IS NO LOVE!
Inside the room
where everything is too still
as if even air has agreed to behave
She stands in green,
deep weighted,
deliberate
like a thought that has been
stitched into fabric
so it cannot escape its own meaning
He stands across from her,
not touching,
not moving toward or away,
as if distance has been arranged
with crescent care
and called love
Above them, a chandelier holds itself
like a paused sangria sun
its empty candles
insisting on presence
without giving light
A small dog watches from the floor,
simple and certain,
as if loyalty is just another object in the room
that no one questions
And then there is the mirror
I do not notice it at first
the way you do not notice being watched
until you already are
In it, the room folds inward
The couple repeats itself
in miniature truth
And behind them someone stands
I realize then
it is not only a portrait
It is a record of witnessing
And I am not outside it
I am already in the glass
Words prance down onto a napkin, a slip of paper, a receipt, a sticky note
Willful words, led by whom? I doubt it is me; I would like to rest sometimes.
Yet, writing insists on her own way – in the car, a restaurant, at a ball game.
Poetry is something that comes naturally to some of us.
Insisting on her own way, throwing herself onto a computer screen.
In my case, she has a will greater than my own. I cannot slow her down.
I cannot dissuade her or entice her to bother someone else.
It is me she is after. She wakes me up with an ending line.
Not daily, but more often than not. It is up to me to honor her wishes.
She is my task master, my instructor, my muse, my power house.
Her words form into a secret surprise, every single time.
I never know where she is going to end up. She rules me.
I write because I cannot NOT write.
Poetry is an outlet for my creativity that makes me happy.
She inspires me, treats me, and treasures me.
I am her puppet.
INDIAN ROCK - AND HOW IT WAS TAKEN
They came to the hills with intent,
Offering worship and praise as they went.
The rock with two hands
On my grandparent’s lands
Held a mystical song, most reverent.
One year the museum man came
From a place with a big, fancy name;
He ordered the stone
To find a new home,
So east went the rock with acclaim.
My Grandma, both worried and stirred;
To the people, she couldn’t send word.
In the spring they appeared
Holding gifts as they neared,
‘Imminent Domain’ a term they’d never heard.
That summer, when she heard their soft knock,
She told them how she tried to block,
But the men most insistent,
And oh, most persistent
Served papers to take charge of the rock.
Now the rock sits away from the sun;
Children gaze at the hands, but no one
Kneels before it in praise
Feeling summer’s full rays,
Giving thanks for all that God’s done.
[This is a true story. In the early 1970’s, a rock of pink granite, with two carved hands facing
the rising sun, was removed from my grandparent’s pasture by people from the Museum of
Natural History. It was to be part of an exhibit on Indian Culture. And yes, they had papers.
Grandma cried the following summer when the people appeared on the day before summer
solstice. She cried when she told them of the rock’s removal. They did not cry. They held
out gifts, insisting Grandma accept. Then they left. They did not return again.]
I always considered you littered my home,
Small knickknacks adorning overcrowded shelves.
The marble statues you bought from lovely Rome,
I leave them there, a memory of ourselves.
And in gay Paris, you just went mad with joy
Those miniatures saucers, jugs and a vase,
Insisting each was her special lovely toy,
Dainty trivialities, there's no more space.
But without Limoges, can one live a true life?
She packed them carefully thus to take back home.
Porcelain I had to pay for my dear wife,
How tired I was, each elegant shop to roam.
Such charms, rings, bracelets, miniature houses
Lured by magnetic charms, earrings and pendants,
From Upim*, Milan she bought tens of blouses
At Lafayette, I waited in attendance.
She's left me with all these little ornaments
Beautiful up to a point I must admit;
Shall I cherish them for what each represents?
Give to charity or leave them in my writ?
NB Upim is a superstore in Italy.
He speaks of what he knows
Each line expressing in flow
And it touches on what can be grown
Learning how to sharpen a tongue, to hone
Is something I’ve watched brothers fail to show
Not that it is something to hide, to stow
God’s great leaders have had that bestowed.
I though have found myself in different trenches
Struggles have frequently felt to me as benches
Little league coaches telling me I can’t hit
Elite intellectuals telling me I don’t know s**t
Taller people insisting height matters
Thin people insisting regular weight matters
I have found judgement flows freely
Not that it has ever helped in healing
Good people can say hard things, well meaning
God and time grant true mending
Of course as they are the only ones tending.
(Written in response to/inspired by Gordon McConnell- Just Be What I Am)
To have a happy marriage
Is every couple's dream;
Let the husband and wife
With wonderful future brim.
Never be both angry at the same time,
Never yell or shout at each other
Unless the house is on fire,
Let arguments be won by your partner.
Do criticize lovingly,
Never bring up past misdeed;
Neglect the world rather than each other,
Never go to bed with issue unsettled.
At least once a day
Try to say one of a kind
Or complimentary thing
To the mate that you did find.
When you have done
Something wrong or amiss;
Be ready to admit it,
And ask for forgiveness.
It takes two to make a quarrel,
And the one in the wrong side
Is the one who does the most talking,
Insisting on something to decide.
No longer two but one,
They face the odds with courage;
Always wanting to keep
For themselves a happy marriage.
The moon leans down with silver grin,
correcting me on where I’ve been,
insisting I should roam again~
the moon has far too many views.
It tells me clouds are overrated,
that sunsets leave it underrated,
that stars are show-offs gold-plated~
the moon has far too many views.
It scolds the tides for being late,
debates the wind on matters great,
and lectures night on how to wait~
the moon has far too many views.
Yet still I listen, charmed each night,
to lunar gossip, soft and bright,
because its meddling feels just right~
the moon has far too many views.
We cannot mend the Yesterday—
It is a finished Thread—
The Needle dropped—The Seam was set—
The Hand that sewed—is fled—
The Past—an Iron Landscape—
We cross with tender Feet—
Each Memory—a sudden Stone
That bruises when we meet—
Yet Survival—is a quiet Art—
No Trumpet—nor Parade—
A Breath preserved—a Pulse held fast—
A Choice—to not be stayed—
The Wound remembers—what it was—
But learns—to let Blood cease—
And Life—still knocks—at broken Doors
Insisting—on Release—
We do not conquer—what has been—
Nor silence what it said—
We simply rise—each trembling Dawn—
And live—though scarred—instead—
For Hope—is not a backward Look—
Nor Pardon—fully won—
It is the Courage—to remain
When Change—is over—done—
Tumultuous skies of molten lead,
Ominous air thick with dread.
Rotation begins its deadly dance,
Nauseous swirling spurring its advance.
Allied together hail, lightning, rain,
Drop from the sky with thunderous refrain.
Out of the clouds the funnel descends.
Whirling dervish hits the ground,
Alarms go off, sirens sound.
Raging monster churns and spits,
Negating everything in its grip.
Indecent destruction follows its wake,
Nightmarish scenes so hard to take.
Grim-faced survivors survey damage done,
Strongly insisting that the storm has not won.
For Nathan D's Best of the Best contest