Long Islanders Poems
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ALOHA to my friends in INDIA, I hope this message is received with the understanding that recent interactions have vastly expounded because many have participated with my sponsored contest and as such, there is a cause that the synergies, on the most part, is protonic. Those I've been communicating, for various reasons, all pertaining to poetrysoup.com, have represented the people of INDIA, in the greatest measure to overflowing. The women are pretty due to the extension of their beautiful souls, the men ingratiate their resolve with such a passionate outcome that they give rise of what makes "INDIA is great...", and due to witnessed efforts, they have added the words, "INDIA is great...and is greater!" And for your charming children, delight your shoulders, enchantingly. I wish only to meet as many Indians as possible, but alas, I have but one life. I had the privilege to shake one Indian hand, and that was with Madame Indira Gandhi, for she had brought an elephant from India to grace our zoo here in the islands, some many years ago--of course. Yes, Hawaii is beautiful I suppose, but in a way, the islanders do not exist, for it has mountain ranges for hearts to climb, flowery valleys for romance to blossom, sparkling rivers to mirror your charms, beaches with surging waters that tantalize souls it embraces, yet, you will never see me or my fellow islanders, for we have faded and became part of its scene, with the sole purpose to sustain our gracious place in a way that it was designed, just to attract beautiful people to feel our spirit's that are now part of its landscape, welcoming them with Aloha, to our souls within our shores.
Aloha INDIA
2019 September 15
MON TESA MON ARRIVING TO END MY LIFE AND RESUME MY IDENTITY OVER THE CARRIBEAN CONCERT WATER TREATMENT FACILITY FOSS PARK WHERE THE FBI WIRED INFORMANTS AFRICAN FESTIVAL 1988 THESE KILLERS WAITED UNTIL AUGUST 2003 TO MURDER ME HERE IN TAMPA BY GODS GRACE FREDLOCKS INTERCEPTED MY ASSASINATION BY GATHERING 5 VIRGIN ISLANDERS HIDING IN WASHER DRYER AND A REFRIGERATOR ON A WHITE TRUCK OPENING FIRE ON RASTA ANDREW YAGA HIS QUEEN PIN TONI HER DAUGHTER JHORE JOHNSON DRIVING HIS TAHOE PARKING AT MY DOOR WITH HIS GLOCK JHORE BELIEVED SHE COULD EXTORT. MY DISABLED AMERICAN POETRY BECAUSE I WORKED FOR THE FBI BUYING WEAPONS AND DRUGS FROM JUNKSICK COPS I WASN'T THE ONLY INFORMANT UNDER SPECIAL AGENT LEROY HEIMBACH APPEARENTLY MON TESA MON WAS TO IMPERSONATE ME IMPERSONATING AN FBI INFORMANT IN ORDER TO HAVE ME MURDERED THEY ACTUALLY ALTERED MINE AND MY GIRLS PASSPORTS TO FLEE TO CANADA WITH FREDLOCKS AND THE DEADMANS DAUGHTER KADIE IN CANADA JAMAICAN KING PINS ARE ALLOWED TO HAVE CHILD BRIDES YOUNG MULES OPERATION MONGOOSE MON TESA MON TRANSPORTED KADIE THE DEAD MANS DAUGHTER FROM TAMPA TO CANADA TO JAMAICA WHERE SHE HID WITH KINGPIN FREDLOCKS BREEDING UNTIL THE WAILERS LEAD PLAYER ARRIVED JOHNSON AND JOHNSON LOCATED FRED AFTER ONGOING ROOTS ON HIS LIFE FEARING FOR HIS LIFE OFCOURSE THEY FINALLY KILLED HIM HE BASICALLY ABDUCTED THE DEADMANS DAUGHTER AFTER KILLING HER FATHER WITH SPECIAL AGENT LEROY HEIMBACH ON IN MY DRIVE WAY BY THE TIME KADIE WAS LOCATED THREE KIDS HIDING IN A HUT LINSTEAD JAMAICA MARTHE BRAE RIVER POSING AS FREDS WIFE OPERATION MON TESA MON DIED WITH FREDLOCKS I HAVE PEACE MY KILLERS ARE NO MORE I WILL NEVER FEAR THE JHORES THEY LEFT BEHIND IT'S REALLY A NO BRAINER WHY THE WATER TREATMENT PLANTS ARE BEING ATTACKED REMEMBERING FOSS PARK WATER TREATMENT FACILITY FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION ARLINGTON HEIGHTS ILLINOIS SUBSTATION LAKE MICHIGAN TO GITMO SWEEPING SPECIAL AGENT ROBERT LEVINSON TO KISH ISLAND INTO EXILE THÈ INFORGIVEN YEMEN
ON LIKE CHICKEN BONE
BROWN FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION ARLINGTON HEIGHTS ILLINOIS
If you're sitting comfortably and have locked your mobile 'phones,
I'll tell you all a story about Indiana Jones
I met him on a wooden bench whilst strolling through a park
He was mumbling incoherently about some missing ark
At some point back in history, a loaded ark set sail
The animals had disembarked according to his tale
Instead, some coins and jewellery were loaded from the dock
But several chests were not secured and the hull began to rock
I offered him some peppermints to show my gratitude
And listened hard for any hints of track or latitude
His plans seemed very tentative but he clearly had ambition
But didn't even know the name of this ark, or its position.
The headland where the ark decayed was really quite remote
And the islanders with crates of gold, they didn't want to gloat
The bodies of the final crew were never, ever found
But Mister Jones was quite convinced - that ship had run aground.
The barmaid had a hunch the wreck was east of the Azores
But she had no time for banter, 'cos she had to do her chores
If she shared her speculation, she'd be scolded by her mum -
Were it not for weekly meetings, they would not be selling rum.
I never went back to that pub to meet that motley crew
Whose plans seemed quite ridiculous, I had better things to do.
If you are ever tempted to sail away in stormy weather
Steer clear of men with stubble, wide-brimmed hats and shabby leather.
Arks are ships of substance with many planks and beams
Losing one is careless and much harder than it seems
If a fellow on a park bench engages you in conversation
Stand up to him and shout “Raid an ark of known location!”
Holly Day Cheer, Oy Vey
Lemme breathe smoke free air, okay
devoid of exhaust from swarm
(bajillion) enroute without delay
Santas Clauses gas guzzling
hybridized motorized sleigh,
coordinating global deliveries,
via GPS devices with weather proof inlay,
nor without the need to be caught unaware
fall out from skies foggy gray
regarding unexpected pellet size droppings
from reindeer unless docile
creatures made out of clay,
on second thought maybe,
I best remain indoors, sing alone in dolce
and secretly lay
in wait for fictitious busy
body, and yell "HAY,"
whose charitable larding
out gifts all the way
around the webbed wide world
purportedly all done for no pay,
gives me reason (with rhyme) to pause,
and be a bit suspicious eh,
cuz there must be some
legally tendered way
hmm...maybe exploitation or unfair
labor laws he doth not betray
heavy set fellow oft
times donning spectacles—tortoiseshell gray
cuffs, white-fur-cuffed red trousers,
or skivvies flying over Bombay
wearing a red coat housing
undoubtedly sweating away
bullets with white fur collar,
now bulletproof in case
he gets trapped in an alleyway,
a red hat with white fur,
topped of with nosegay
and pistol tucked away
black leather belt and boots hide say
animal rights and sweat shop
protesters deem unethical today
so many trappings scream UPDATE
maybe there's apps that
zap from North Pole assay
ying at light speed into electronically
woven into trademark suits made in Uruguay
by natives originally from
Banda Aceh (pronounced as "H" "A")
to completing stitching outfits
in the event oven neigh
unexpected tsu nam may
as tends to happen unpredictably
this time of year wreaking havoc
leaving islanders homeless, dazed and astray.
Beneath the cobalt sky, where legends are spun,
Island life unfolds, as traced by the sun.
Amidst the palms, a verdant ballet,
A choreography of chores, in the island's sway.
Fishing boats gently bob, tales in their wake,
Nets entangled with the morning's ocean handshake.
Fishermen, weathered, their hands tell the story,
In salt-stained shirts, a testament to the island's glory.
Coconut vendors wield machetes with pride,
Husks cast away, like secrets to hide.
Sweat beads on brows under the tropical sun,
As the islanders toil, their day just begun.
Children laugh, chasing the tide's embrace,
Building dreams in the sand, a jubilant race.
Their laughter, a melody with seagull cries,
As the day unfolds 'neath endless skies.
In the market square, colors burst and bloom,
Fruits and spices scent the island's room.
Vendors banter, a lively exchange,
Commerce dancing in the island's range.
As dusk descends, shadows embrace the land,
Twilight whispers with a soft command.
Stars emerge, a cosmic display,
Over the island, where dreams hold sway.
Three, four, or six
Which one will fix
And even the eastern final score
Making sure
New York will advance
In the best of seven dance
No longer the higher seed
Knicks now need
To win away
For anyone to say
Bring on the west
Who they select as the best
Spurs or Thunder
Visitors no longer wonder
Were they going to blunder
Fumble
Turn humble
Tumble
Then crumble
Instead
‘They stole a win,’ skyscraper islanders said
Message sent
Time spent
Giving the impression
A ‘how did they do that’ confession
About simple mistakes messing
Quite a lesson
Playoffs are here
And so is the post-game cheer
Get near
Toast with beer
We are almost here
Champion is going to be crowned
Creating celebration all over their NBA town
Small Towns Revisited
by Edmund Siejka
We Long Islanders
Live near a large City
Of
Tall buildings
High end stores
Apartments with gated windows
A place where people live like strangers.
Here, where we live
The land slopes downward
Towards Merrick Road
Inviting us for a walk
Along the way
It’s just like a neighbor
To call our name
We say hello
And exchange pleasantries
There is no need to say anymore.
Our families have roots here
Passing our local school
We recall that July
When fathers,
Tradesman
And office workers alike,
Volunteered
To help build a playground.
Wives worked nearby
To be home
When children
Stepped off school buses
Homes managed under their careful eye.
Near a park
Our sons and daughters played soccer
Families came to watch
Their children run like the wind
Memory tells me
It was a good season.
On nearby streets
We helped neighbors
With routine chores
Lifting and pushing the unmovable
Shiny things for a kitchen
Or something for the upstairs room
Odds and ends
We call possessions.
In return we are known here
And we take every opportunity
To walk through a quiet town
As early evening
Peacefully descends
On everyone and everything.
A spaceship called Hope... made from the future's grand mist,
is perched upon a launch pad of manic chemicals and loss.
With stun-gun emotion, Mother Earth regurgitates.
5-4-3-2-1
Her metal finger meets the button...
She releases her ballast...
Blast off!
My brain engulfing G forces.
Soon to become a mustard seed
in a speed-of-light garden.
Filled with gravid redheaded planets,
giving birth to fat-headed moons.
The stars are cheering, like starving mad islanders.
Light years have passed.
Ground control has lost contact.
(by choice or by accident).
The rations are depleting,
but I'm serene in a starry tranquility...
I've blown by a million past lives.
Apologized half-heartedly to an alien God.
Who wished me well, pointed toward a giant black hole.
Then disappeared into the vapor trail
of lost potential and cachexic hope.
It's eerily over.
There's no more virgin oxygen.
Only the stale argon of saints and tyrants,
casting shadows of black hallucinations
chanting:
"Little seed...little seed...Didn't you know this was a one-way flight?"
I gaze out a stained-glass window for the last time.
Church bells are ringing from the parched throat of time.
Four golden letters peel from the side of the star-dusted ship.
Satiating the madness of stars...
"Little seed...little seed."
Every February fourteenth,
(reference Gregorian Calendar see
High Middle Ages his Saints' Day)
which combs thee
day after morrow aye decree
Tweedledum and Tweedledee
mine near one and same
mean mein near best buddy
donning Harris tweed plus sundry
other manifold couture to express free
expression like... once upon time
innocently naive barenaked lady
Chatterley young hippy feeling groovy,
albeit (think psychedelic) swiftly tailored
Harry styled vested gentry
twills nonetheless seam, née
upon aforesaid occasion intoxicated spree
formerly honored when animalistic glee
burst asunder courtesy biological key
hormones thawing lovely frozen bones
buzzfeeding, delivering, exuding earthy
primal propensities originally
linkedin with Lupercalia
nonetheless, encompassing various
animalistic, erotic, narcissistic... needs ye
not not necessarily be apprised,
where altruistic festive folk would easily agree
to hunker down no matter
sheepishness prevalent within
wooled wide web re:
guarding Islanders at their homes
Islands named total more'n three
amidst Lewis, Harris, Uist, Barra
and several pertinences, all fertile
like lasses christened Galilee,
yet all known as Outer Hebrides.
Now really as one ewe man
misanthrope to another I advise
Cupid doth surprize
god of desire, erotic love,
hoop fully experienced
before permanent demise,
where mortals whisked no matter
sullen sensate (human and/or other) being
vainly, morosely, and futilely cries
passion play his trademark guise
plus tell tale sign tear streaming eyes
(think head over heels
lovestruck gals and guys)
willingly yoking, where
(of quartz) romancing stone
temple pilot paunches face
(case toward albeit point yours truly) applies
young and old paramours recognize
steeped within storied mythologize
as one after another arrow
(whipped out quiver) guise
nocked, molded then loosed
courtesy once taut than slack bowstring
bedazzles lovers with stars
glistening in their lovestruck blind eyes
any unspoken inapropos prurience,
I eagerly, honestly, and readily, apologize.
I was a good Buddhist jack tar,
Confident to sail this ocean of time alone,
All desire renounced and stowed away
Like smuggled cargo I pretend is legal trade.
I was well-practiced in the art of navigating perils,
Steering clear of revenue cutters, hostile native islanders,
And other such threatening complications.
Now has a typhoon struck that threatens contentment,
The swells have made me dizzy
And my sea legs seem uncertain
As I ride Poseidon’s roller coaster sick as a lubber,
An unlucky smuggler caught in the act
Of feeling long dormant desires stage mutiny
And relieve me of command of my senses,
Lusting after that other salty wonder.