Long Iowan Poems
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Another Senseless Killing...
IOWA CITY, Iowa
(killingly, jarringly inexplicable,
horribly, gruesomely, and forlornly),
the found exhumed decayed corpse
belonging to young
vibrant coed twenty year old
college student Mollie Tibbetts
perhaps a spurned, snubbed,
or scorned love seriously gone wrong,
she who disappeared
from her small hometown
in central Iowa sad swan song
now plays, where every
last drop of sorrow rung,
now weeping family, friends,
relatives, et cetera subjected wrack
with lifelong emotional pain,
which searing inescapable
grief twill unrelentingly track
ferociously, fiercely, and figuratively,
doth disallow recourse
to duck away
from heart wrenching quack
king unbearably, terribly, and scathingly
will fully bill leave ably
beak homing a folly,
mockery, and travesty,
sans time heals
all wounds (truly "FAKE"),
nonetheless psyche riving tragic
(irrevocable loss) doth pack,
a punch greater then any
all star olympic pugilist
straight to the ab
domain of opponent, where
rumor mongers mill and blab
how this, that, or
another potential suspect,...
whence tissues dab
corners of crying eyes,
an endless stream
of tears merge with gab
bulling utter dis belief
questioning the supposed all
mighty, or at a loss
to do nothing but bawl (at Baal)
into the fox sized rabbit hole
trying with futility
to block (even crawl
ling into every
rabbit hole) no bastion
against implacable
maddening crowded
house alive with murderous frenzy,
and a dialect (non
tickling) gentle Iowan drawl,
while once again this
affected soddenly wet soul
cannot process any (defying) logic,
asper the impossibly steep toll
the purposelessness killing,
a lovely gal (same age
as my youngest daughter),
whose missed presence,
(albeit her - slain
Mollie Tibbetts – permanent absence)
now created an expansive
infinite black sink hole.
I’ve got a girl in Kalamazoo,
sing Miller, Swing Miller, Ding Miller doo…
Moonlight cocktail anyone?
Glenn’s orchestra is on the run.
come on down. Let’s have some fun!
boogie Doogie Moogie Hoogie. Choo Choo Choo
Chattanooga if you want to know.
play something spunky and jazzy, please nothing slow.
American big band king
take those dolls and make ‘em swing
from thirty nine to forty two,
no one was finer or more fun than the likes of you!
an Iowan, like me, I am proud to say.
that old black magic has had her say.
swing Miller, sing Miller, play play play!
you are just as current as you ever were "back in the day!"
When you wish upon a star,
Pennsylvania Six Five thousand, you can’t go far!
what’s my function? Tuxedo junction!
Rhapsody in blue, how do you do?
swing baby, dance, just me and you!
Glenn Miller’s big band will never be through.
U-tube makes sure of that. Boogie Boo Boo.
Glen Miller and his Orchestra, I truly love you!
Preface:
Earlier today May 28th, 2021,
the 12-member jury unanimously
found Cristhian Bahena Rivera guilty
of first-degree murder in brutal stabbing death
sentenced to life in prison
without the possibility of parole
of Mollie Tibbetts remembered as then friendly
20-year-old who was studying
to become a child psychologist.
IOWA CITY, Iowa
(killingly, jarringly inexplicable,
horribly, gruesomely, and forlornly),
the body found July 18, 2018,
an exhumed decayed corpse
belonging to young
vibrant coed twenty year old
college student Mollie Tibbetts.
Impossible mission to deduce
senseless killing of innocent babe
wild speculation perchance
spurned, snubbed,or scorned
love seriously gone wrong,
she who disappeared
from her small hometown
in central Iowa sad swan song
now plays, where every
last drop of sorrow rung,
now weeping family, friends,
relatives, et cetera subjected wrack
with lifelong emotional pain,
which searing inescapable
grief twill unrelentingly track
ferociously, fiercely, and figuratively,
doth disallow recourse
to duck away
from heart wrenching quack
king unbearably, terribly, and scathingly
will fully bill leave ably
beak homing a folly,
mockery, and travesty,
sans time heals
all wounds (truly "FAKE"),
nonetheless psyche riving tragic
(irrevocable loss) doth pack.
Grievous punch greater then any
all star olympic pugilist
straight to the ab
domain of opponent, where
rumor mongers mill and blab
how this, that, or
another potential suspect,...
whence tissues dab
corners of crying eyes,
an endless stream
of tears merge with gab
bullying utter disbelief.
Family/friends question
the supposed almighty
at devastating loss
to do nothing but bawl (at Baal)
into the fox sized rabbit hole
trying with futility
to block (even crawl
ling into every
rabbit hole) no bastion
against implacable
maddening crowded
house alive with murderous frenzy,
and a dialect (non
tickling) gentle Iowan drawl.
Third anniversary regarding
asper the impossibly steep toll
the purposelessness killing,
aforementioned deceased
affected sodden wet soul
cannot process any (defying) logic,
a foregone lovely gal (same age
as my youngest daughter),
whose missed presence,
(albeit said slain lass
Mollie Tibbetts – permanent absence),
now created an expansive
infinite black sink hole.
Recalling Laughing Reading Learning Teaching myself
the flicker of into night with all of the to cook and how to wear
fireflies my sisters Nancy Drew books loving to eat makeup
Rainbows over Pizza Troll dolls Ping pong in Boyfriends and
Iowan Saturdays Hoppity-Hop study hall and drive-in movie
corn fields Popcorn Sundays and my bike Swing Choir kisses
Lying in grass Grandma's house The movie house Sleepovers' Dancing to
seeing at the end of with its starred chit chat live music at
shapes in clouds the lane ceiling and girlie games twilight
Hot days Lilac bushes Gaily Herman's Hermits Writing
cooling off and the big spinning on Bread and short stories -
at Weed Park Pool ballfield carnival rides 3-Dog Night dreaming awake
Snowy winters The tangled woods Endlessly Clothes bought with All the
raspberry behind our swinging babysitting wonderful things
summers first house up to the sky money of my youth
Oct. 17, 2018 for the Charlieku 4-3-2 Poetry Contest of charles messina
Words like choir, etc. checked by HowManySyllables.com
The pastel flower was gorgeous; I was fascinated by it. What do you call it?We call it Christmas cactus. I stare at my aunt. There is no red or green. No dazzling white or frothy lacy sock look about it. Arizona has curious ways Calling a pastel plant of pinks, lavenders and oranges this makes no sense to me. Seventy-six degrees on Christmas day also makes no sense to this Iowan.
pink lavender orange
why are you christmas cactus
in arizona
I once lived in an Iowan county called Appanoose.
Yes, there were women and babies, called the little Papoose.
We drank lemonade, coffee, tea, and some carrot juice
Nothing exotic like escargot, or salmon mousse
Our lives were so ordinarily simple in Appanoose
We ate hot dogs and drank beer, and made our own apple juice
We shunned saying words like healthy, glutton-free, and carrot juice
We were common salt of the earth people in Appanoose
A nice, friendly new farmer came to town, and tried to sell us his great produce
But we all had our own gardens, with plenty of vegetables, and a lot of use
Our veggies were tasty, and our red strawberries made some fine fruit juice
So I am sorry to report that he barely broke even in Appanoose
He’s somebody’s grandpa I bet, we all said.
He had wandered into our family reunion around nine.
Grandma rolled her eyes and set him in front of the TV.
He smelled like chew, his flannel shirt was a bit wrinkled.
He was unkempt but clean, a relative maybe?
No one knew, but we kept our opinions to ourselves.
He lit up a stogie and watched the news past our heads.
Grandma brought him a tray with bacon, eggs and two piece of toast.
As she turned to go he gave her a playful pat on her petootsie ootsie.
We young ones laughed; earning sharp looks from our parents.
We never did find out who the guy was, but figured he was an Iowan.
This was 1962, when children did not know the ways of grownups.
I have never forgotten the pat on grandma’s petootsie ootsie
Or the way the old dude’s face lit up when he looked at me and grinned.
I pegged him as Granddaddy’s replacement, but never saw him again.
David Morris
1840-1914
I was indeed a rich man!
A lucky man, a family man,
A man firmly ensconced in the faith
Of the Nazarene.
It is written my friends
That to live for Christ
Is the summit of wisdom,
For wise men still seek Him!
And to die for Christ
Is the absolute acme of human existence.
Rachel and I came to this heaven on earth
When the roads here were dirt in the summer
And mud in the winter.
Yes, me and the missus,
My lovely bride and me,
Found a home here in 1894
A comfortable curtained home on shady Milton Street
When the unburdened trees
Of ten thousand acres
Contained a myriad of feathered fledglings.
And so, with our own five chirping sparrows in the nest
The missus and me, we marveled at
Their gregarious growth and
Their high intrepid flight!
To the northern icy regions
Our first fragile sparrow flew.
Lizzie, my fledgling wanderlust,
Found simple salvation in a cold wooden Iowan pew.
And later, found everlasting life and love
On the frozen Arctic tundra
Of ten thousand luminescent northern lights.
As far north as Dearing Station, my friends,
Twenty miles from the Arctic Circle
Our Lizzie travelled,
Travelled with steadfast faith,
A faith so firm, so unyielding,
It put me, her proud and faithful father,
To shame.