Long Intone Poems
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Father now journeys
into afterlife destination alone,
October 7th, 2020 mid afternoon
with Earthlings ministration did attone
where night envelops his lovely bones
rendered devoid of any groan
courtesy Roxanol (morphine)
and Ativan finding him prone
to experience painlessness, and no
his dying wish, plus last will and testament
won't include burial and/or headstone
cuz, he wants to integrate and did intone
cremation as ecologically friendly option
scattering ashes to parts known
someday... yours truly will too
succumb to the dead zone.
Stark reminder to live fully an urgent yen
to live life fullest between now and when...
ever yours truly exits
stage door left, perhaps ten
twenty, thirty... eighty, ninety, one hundred...
additional orbits around sun
a remarkable human phenomenon
(me) courtesy mine burning ken
bequeaths modest minute man
near accursed immortality longevity totaling even
score of years counting (crows)
and father time among his brethren.
Distress unavoidable which mortality doth bring
nevertheless, tis impossible mission
to eradicate pain and suffering, which doth sting
consolation assuages grief, viz prayer
and buttressing coping with spiritual wing
profound absence augments biting zing.
Biological reproduction begetting offspring
lodging within uterine abode
subsequent in utero development
regarding accretion embryonic node
biological algorithm doth automatically encode,
nevertheless longevity invariably affected
no doubt courtesy lifestyle mode.
Random crapshoot luck of the draw offspring born
genetic blueprints also decree existence transient
parents emphatically teach progeny
got no choice must inform
daughter(s), and son(s) ineluctably forsworn
demise bound with birth certificate presents horn
of dilemma conscious the next generation
granted only so many Earth orbitz around sun.
Once grim reaper deftly
communicates I must bid adieu
eternal hasta la vista to kith and kin
please don't shed a tear for generic
germane admirable bad company crew
member, albeit healthy as an ox
never got the flu,
an atheist doubting thomas
though genealogy records
incorporate many a cynical Jew
at least one legendary antiestablishmentarian
gleaned within mine purview
shunned, ostracized and banished to Xando.
Villanelle: Whose terse lines lie entangled in the colophon
for the author - male or female, prince or pauper, playboy or priest - of the
THIRUKKURAL*, the reputed "bible" of the Tamils, the principal Dravidian race credited with having engendered the first literary heritage of the Indian sub-continent. Only one thing might be said of him with certitude:
he tamed the language like none other and was more alive to his "times" and his literary, inter-personal, romantic, religio-philosophical and political environment than any prince, philosopher or priest ever since. In my view, whoever he may have been, he was an unjustifiably oppressed individual like King Wen who wrote the judgments on the hexagrams and provided the explanations of their images and the Later Heaven arrangement of the Yi Jing, the Canon of Change.
Whose terse lines lie entangled in the colophon
Words come asunder blown on road side-table
Debris of wanton collisions intone
Long-gone ages singe the stylo his work shone
Who knows what diamond crumbs spill disable
Whose terse lines lie entangled in the colophon
Sans case-endings morphemes participial pun
Regimented feet in seven steps enable
Debris of wanton collisions intone
Who confined meaning in drumbeat phoneme moan
Lest envy upper-caste knowledge expose enable
Whose terse lines lie entangled in the colophon
None know who he was nor what age saw he sun
Savants pat cheeks his lines to render readable
Debris of wanton collisions intone
While lordly conferees seek to feather nests own
His sculpted riddles tease meaning and jumble
Whose terse lines lie entangled in the colophon
Debris of wanton collisions intone
* Thiru=Sacred; KURAL, meaning "short" or epigrammatic composition in the form of couplets (1330: ten kurals allotted to each topic in three books with a short introduction), composed and ordered according to the rules of a strict classical prosodical pattern: the "venba" metre while adhering to complex rhetorical features, such as, alliteration, assonance, initial-rhymes and ellipses. The author was known as Thiru-VALLUVAR. One of the earliest commentaries on the Kural, still extant, was made by a Tamil scholar PARIMELALAKAR during the 13th century.
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017
** For My Dear Dog Dreaming **?
As our most holy Lord from his
Luminescent Heaven might wish of us,
We’ve a model for dawns of optimism…As
No matter what occurred
The day or night before,
It is the way of dogs to greet each new day
In its now and present moment
With wagging tails,
With panting smiles,
And with what seems, a walking about
On lighter feet — ready for discovery —
The way my own many mutts and spaniels did;
The way our doxie GiGi does now
— and no matter how I feel —
At our first morning’s exchanged glance,
For her,
I will sweetly intone, “Good! Good
Morning, Little Girl! So good to see you!”
And with that happily said, she’ll
Jump up on the bed beside me
Where I’ll briskly tussle the furry, black top
Of her head, which her 12 years
Has slightly streaked with gray
— quite like mine after all these passed decades.
In each new morning, she waits for me to exclaim,
“Hello, GiGi! So good to see you!
Where were you all night? Did you run free
Everywhere without your leash? So swiftly
Over hillside grass and fallen gold leaves?
Did you chase chipmunks?
Squirrels? Birds? Find any happy
Children to join in with their giggling games?”
As if to answer, GiGi will come closer,
Nudging her muzzle under my palm, touching
For more loving, while I continue
My almost singing, “I know, Little Girl, you had fun!
Because, I saw your closed eyelids flitter
As you softly squealed notes a few times, so
Slightly near a whimper. And I saw
Your snout twitch as you likely followed a trail;
Saw all four of your legs jerking, bending
Within your night’s escapade ~
Over which I stroked your long soft. back,
Hoping to help keep your unknown,
Canine dream in peace — “
I ‘d moved then to gently lean
My head by her head with
My envying imagination over her ear to
Whisper, “Bless you, my God-sent angel,
For all your lessons and devotion,
I love you…
See you in the morning…“
The every new morning
For which you remind me to find a smile.
—————————————————————————————
(c) sally young eslinger 11/13 /2022
Thanks be to God…
The God Reset
All Hail the mega-Temple brokers!
The Heavenly stock sellers
Chomping at the bit
Who parade in their Gucci suits
Escorting you comfortably
(like Kings)
Into “the Kingdom”come.
Beware:
Its a counterfeit kingdom
Not the real deal.
(Love money, much?
(Oh, but we won’t really actually tell you if we don't think you'd be a good “asset” in “our" Kingdom--)
They seem like they know something
You don’t know-- their words seem so godly,
Their knowledge of spiritual things so impressive-but then you hear them prognosticate:
“And did you know,
A ‘powerful message’ can be yours if you only throw
a few shekels our way today?”
(of course, they don’t exactly say it that way)
Coming straight from GD!
And advocate for a Kingdom that runs on cash.
They’ll happily seat you in
The First row,
Sell you a religious show,
Put the God mirror out in front
Of your sorry old face and sell
Repentance.
And then, when you repent, (properly and self-consciously)
they’ll grab you by the shoulders,
Hug you, and then ask you if you
Want to join the church...
“Looks like a Winner”, they silently intone, as you
Reach for your wallet.
Now they’ve sold you a
False Christ.
And you weren’t even in on the deal!
You thought you were sincere!
You didn’t sign up for a
Dead-end religion that would steal your
Joy, and maybe even your new-found love for GD-
You signed up for a
New Life.
Beware of the status-quo christians,
The little”c” christians
The walking dead,
Frozen Chosen
Lack of real emotion,
Preaching a gospel
Of “Cultural Churchianity”.
It’s not the real
thing-- the Christ-centered gospel that
Calls for a clean heart, and a
Clear conscience--
A gospel that has nothing to do with
The brand of your clothes, the number
Of dollars in your Bank Account,
The car in your garage, or the paid-off mortgage!
Wake up,
Heaven Brokers!
Your “stock” is rapidly falling,
And Christ is getting tired of calling
Cuz you hung up your gD- phone long ago,
When you let greed and fame
Consume your soul.
1. Shall I narrate you a tale or may be a thousand stories,
Of a lost love and fervent devotion?
Or chronicles of longing and separation?
Mayhap I, relate both as you wish, open your eyes and give me your ears.
2. For I hear no serenade and diversion no more,
I dwell in evanescence of poetry and free verses,
Yet I yearn for a rune of praise, jealousy or even scorn,
Scythe me not, in a circle I whirl and swirl, beloved.
3. This poor heart beckons the chants of your name,
It that be bounteous, splendid and dazzling,
My lungs hymned shall intone in flamboyance,
Beloved, look-see my essence, my being.
4. Be it, am a sycophant, for your favor,
Behave the heart of peccadilloes and lapses.
Reveal to me the cryptic and the arcane,
The venal lushness of your vision, beloved.
5. You are ubiquitous, beloved,
I attest the signs and the hallmarks scattered,
Yet my caravan never reaches the apogee,
Even in silence, in solitude and slumber I journey.
6. Like the moon, sun and star scads,
Darkness and light, in their sheer vanity,
You are the whole and abound in majesty,
Behold arrogance and vanity are veraciously only yours, beloved.
7. Like a spinning wheel always in motion,
Not a second escapes a nix from your vision,
Yet foundered in my bewilderment you notice me not,
Withal, I carry on until that day when you do, with devotion.
8. Betide a sudra untouchable, so be it my karma,
Yonder I move stubbornly towards my moksha,
Let fate excruciating me to annihilation and redemption,
To my nirvana, peace and nothingness in you, beloved.
9. Importuned, the day you alight by the door,
Ready will I be, no need to knock, alas just enter,
For all doors are yours, be sited beloved while I fetch my flute,
For the flute had been seeking its reed bed.
10. No doors, no restraint in my heart, there is only you,
Always plenteous and as wide as the ocean,
No walls, no locks and no curtains can resist,
For this heart is your dwelling place, for, you never left, beloved.
Birthday feelings
Another year is back no longer can leapfrog this day
Where my body squeals on me from time to time
Melanin, flawless, caramel skin transparent
for you to view my friends,
Face ageless, mind intone to my compose poetry,
Every Nano second counting down to dust,
By the grace of the almighty:
The loud notification bell rang the old familiar tone,
From my well-wishers, on Facebook, and WhatsApp,
The thousands of unwanted gray hairs cover my silky black,
to match my aging face as I jokingly play around with my camera
My smiles seem to match well with my reassurance
of knowing that l am going to be alright today,
the loud notification keeps on coming,
I am releasing a happy energy
called I am alive and doing great
I have reached the good old age of ....
Here I am once again, unscrambling the word birthday,
Happy birthday to me.
copilot
Reflecting on our lives during birthdays holds a special significance. It’s a moment to pause, look back, and take stock of our journey. Here’s why it matters:
**Gratitude: Birthdays remind us of the gift of life. Reflecting allows us to appreciate the people, experiences, and opportunities that have shaped us. Gratitude fuels positivity and contentment.
**Self-awareness: As we age, we evolve. Self-reflection helps us understand our growth, strengths, and areas for improvement. It’s a chance to assess our values, beliefs, and priorities.
**Life Lessons: Birthdays prompt us to revisit pivotal moments—the highs, lows, and lessons learned. These experiences contribute to our wisdom and resilience.
**Setting Intentions: Reflecting helps us set intentions for the year ahead. What do we want to achieve? How can we align our actions with our aspirations?
**Celebrating Milestones: Each birthday marks a milestone. Reflecting acknowledges our progress and celebrates our existence.
So, on this special day, take a moment to look within, appreciate the journey, and embrace the next chapter. ????
2of30
My love and all that was mine, is obliviosly wound in labyrinth subservient conditions for a sane love story yield
My love and and all that was mine is tilled beneath the battle-heroic action remnants.
She says, I ought to carry the blood echoing artillery to the line of surging intonations of death beckoning lilts
Does she know, the burdening weight slowly gravitates my entire to the earth
Am no bearer of fright, but my anticipation of intrepid crush of sovereignty is n'er my lot
She lately composes self in anticipation, waits a litany of conquering tales and heroic accomplishments
But I fail her in the fair exchange, I present my merchandise perfumed with nimble laments of dullards
That she reluctantly bids with counterfeit coins of tears frothing with a vivid lustre of languid desperation.
Does she know, am innately compatible with fine eats recipes and love-making ballads.
I hold no harsh limbs to swirl her into cosmic bliss.
And lo! It's the ultimacy of her obscured fate in my forlorn cottage by the Thames
She craves to behold me standing by the watch of the horrific night, wrestle beasts like Achilles.
She wants a test of my hospitality with the blackness of the night
Does she know, a stealth rustle of the oak leafages send my adrenaline to bedlam and an ignorable reflex.
Does she know, a fine bark from a mad dog by the vicinity is brought under clandestine justice with me under a tender soothe of my old blanket
She craves for a ripped tummy, but I constantly pride in the gaiety addition of my sharp ribcages to her
One-two-three I intone pointing to my fortune in servility like a slave to his master
But her entirety flames with exasperation and closely inches as though to mix lips.
"You're a coward"
A sliver of bright light
seeps into the darkness
Echo of voices reverberate inside my head
I'm in limbo,
I can't move
Am I alive, am I dead?
I don't feel any pain,
I don't feel much of anything
But there's a sense of dread foreshadowing me,
an unease that I can't seem to shake free
I want to scream,
but I'm disoriented thoroughly
My eyes move, that's all, nothing else
So I glance around,
I see white lab coats, and black body bags on metal slabs
An antiseptic smell permeates the air,
masking the scent that death lives here
The voices are slowly becoming clear,
and what I'm hearing brings horror to my ear
They're talking very dispassionately about dispatching me,
how there's no need to contact next of kin, given I'm government property
I give a silent scream: somebody help me please!
My lips can't move though,
I'm paralyzed completely
What happened to me, how did I get in this predicament?
Memory is foggy, with only one mental flash coming in and out
A battlefield with sounds of gunfire and bombs,
I must be a soldier no doubt
But those cold, rational voices intrude on me again,
and I get more terrified by what they're saying
They say they want to remove my cybernetic limbs,
download the memory in my positronic brain
Place it in a new prototype version, then scrap the remains
Burn all the evidence,
incinerate any signs of their illegal activity
I want to scream I'm alive
Listen, listen to me!
I sense movement, wheels rolling swiftly
Now I'm descending into a dark place,
towards a room aglow, with a sign above it that says:
Ye who enter, abandon all hope
I let out one last silent scream
My eyes widen as I approach the flames, but I can feel no heat
I hear my inner voice intone a final notation ...
RCN unit #0247895
has been summarily sentenced to a premature cremation
This is way the flesh ends not in burning or dust
Not in a whimper but a scream
As you see I am an Artiste and such,
Not in paint but flesh and blood, bone
Hearing the voices talk, words of wrath and greed
I feel their call, crawl deep into my mind, I intone
Burrowing like maggots into my spine
This is the way the flesh will end in the cry of the damned
Oh the pleas, such sweet music my victims make
Crimson on my delicate fingertips, I taste
Oh what a rush don’t you think
I’m just an artist a traveler in spirit really
On my way to the holly-caust
To see the pyres of some mad American empire
Turn to ash and dust
My blades cast a fine rust
This is the end of flesh and bones, souls
Crimson is such a good color on you
Tis stark against your pale flesh
Delicate like China's pure white dust
Oh how you scream so
Hush that delicate mouth
This is the way the flesh will end
In the rhythm of my blades
Fresh crimson spins, crushed
An Artist of flesh n bone, blood, & still-life
Don’t you think this glorious, such a trip
Oh to think I’m just a passenger on his ship
Of life, can you hear their screams?
This is way the flesh ends not in burning or dust
But in the lines made in flesh, silver sharp blades cut
Can’t you see I am an Artist
Not in paint but in flesh blood, n bone
Hearing the voices talk, words of wrath and greed
Oh the sweet screams
I feel the call, words burrow deep into my mind,
Piercing like daggers deep into my spine
This is the way the flesh will end
Not in the whimpers of the meek
But the righteous scream of the powerful
Oh the pleas, of my victims
Crimson on your delicate lips
Oh what a rush don’t you think
This is way the flesh ends not in burning or dust
Not in a whimper but a scream
As you see I am an Artiste and such,
not in paint but flesh and blood, bone
Particularly pronounce abscess,
when rites of spring accursedness
prevails, asper testament, sans swell
scored psychological achiness
recording minecrafted history,
viz secreting acridness
permeates profusely predicated puberty,
akin to ambling au naturale adulteress
plethora plush plumage plus perfume
presage prickly profuse inauspicious pre/
post pubescent and adult affectlessness
propensity poisons primary predilection
pummeling poking pillorying
perpetual purgatory with aggressiveness.
Now translated into bumpy
layman's/woman's terms, aye
communicate, albeit stylishly campy
adhering, colluding, and choppily try
trending without trademark obfuscation,
nonetheless, a feeble
attempt might still defy,
an honest to dog ambition to express
how blooming in the dales less
sons glee aware, how lovers press
lips close together, when yours truly
shuttered himself in bedroom
of boyhood home to cope with stress
thus denying, depriving,
and destroying bone
a fied hankering,
asper this pooch hood doth hone
ache, never to experience puppy love
til pooch later in life,
when he became at present
male version, sans crone
revisiting, reliving, and
reflecting being alone
without ever touching, savoring,
and rubbing smooth cheekbone
of a lass - see, this thy reason
Matthew Scott doth bemoan
observing young bucks,
who liberate kickstarter jangling hormone
he oozes with envy those whippersnappers
gathering rosebuds while they may intone
enjoyment, qua the vitality, virility, and victory
before youth fleetingly passes versus millstone
weighing heavier with each passing year
before the grim reaper doth phone!