Long Janes Poems
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To my dear daughter...
I loved you, in your sweet Mary Janes.
In all our travels that were fine and plane.
You cannot remember how I pulled your hair.
Those braids,so tangled yet shiny and brunette fair.
You won’t have the pride, I did.
Watching you from the audience at Fairmont, you on stage,
You were just a kid!
Nor, how I hurt inside, when children called you terrible names.
Those brats with no hearts and no shame!
The fear I felt, when your face was split.
I stood outside the hospital, crying salty tears, that stung and bit.
And oh, the Christmases, when I could not provide you the best!
You went without plenty, and yet you turned out to be a far more than
cut above all the rest!
You told me once, when I was hopeless and crying.
That God was always with us, to keep on trusting Him and smiling.
Each summer, without you, I was so lost.
You flew to Chicago to be with your grandparents,
Life without you, seemed hardly worth the cost!
My pride in you, like a colored sunset that never ends.
Or perhaps a gorgeous rainbow and it’s colorful, shiny trends!
You grew to be one glorious soul!
Your contributions to this society simply grow and glows!
As a wife, you are unsurpassed!
Thank you for my grandson, Edward,
I shall call him, “outstanding”and like
his Mom, cannot be outclassed.
My life, I see, comes to its close.
Thus, I leave you my poetry, I hope some with bless you,
like the dew on a summer rose.
That is my everlasting gift to you.
Just simple words and phrases, that
when I am gone, sing to you forever!
That, my daughter, I will love you, is
my lifelong treasure!
Love,
Mommy
1-26-2022
12/7/2023
No more am I your sweet little girl...
I am far past, brown braids and curls.
No shopping now for dolls and toys,
Remember when I first liked boys?
You drove me to and from school each day.
It was not close but a distance away.
You made sure my Mary Janes were clean.
I wear gold ones now, that happily gleam.
Daddy, you sent me to top schools only.
I learned God’s law, to never be phony.
You taught me top notch manners ,too.
We had raucous fun at Brookfield Zoo.
You also presented me as a debutante.
In your tails, Daddy you were so gallant!
In long sequined gown, and white gloves.
You and I waltzed as most graceful doves.
You later, fell in love with my baby girl.
Cradling her in your arms. like a precious pearl.
Your grandson, Edward, you never met.
But he is named after, you, true kismet.
My friends and I you treated like petite queens.
Presents were a welcomed, year-round happening.
And now, Daddy, I find myself as old as you.
But ‘tis not a thing that I rue but just verily true.
I will drive to meet you at the Pearly Gates.
In your gift, the red convertible, what a fate!
A girl could not have had a better Dad!
One who loved her, with all in his heart, he had.
Merrty Christmas, Daddy,you raised me ridgt.
I wish I were in you lap, this very, wintry night!
Sunday afternoons,
or Saturday afternoons,
look and feel richer,
dense relational liturgy of mundane ritual,
often more sabbath quiet.
Quiet neighborhood school playground
celebrates more solitary visits
seeking silent sensory selftalk,
muse swings back and forth,
happy slides up elational,
processional,
then downright ecstatic.
Sunday's GratitudeGoRound
of a warm winter's sun
pretexting Spring's redemptive dance,
prancing across wet jungle gyms
of mythic pirate romance,
swinging Tarzans and Janes
flying rope to rope
bar to bar
beating outdoor kettle drums
of Sunday's sacred playground joy.
This light we bring to sabbath
Sunday's sun absorbs
full resolved through echoing play,
a child again
in love's sequestered Solar System womb
giving happy birth to weeks
becoming strong,
EarthBound PlayGround
ecstatically beloved
Queen Shabbat's weekly baptism
in love child's regenerativity.
Driving through a small mining town
Angle parking in front of an old drug store
Memories flashed back to my childhood
Those days are gone forever more
Sitting on a stool at the soda counter
Large cherry coke for a dime
The place had its own kind of smell
A memory lost in time
Hamburger was more than worth the price
With a toasted bun and an onion slice
A metal Coca Cola ad hanging on the wall
For a nickel you could buy a red sponge ball
Fountain soda tasted mighty good
Floor was clean and it was made of wood
Get a prescription filled and something to eat
An ice cream soda was a special treat
They had Squirrel Nut Zippers and Mary Janes
Red hot dollars and candy canes
Good n' Plenty and crackerjacks
Magazines and paperbacks
Baseball cards came with gum inside
The owner flew our flag with pride
I looked to the sky and heard myself say
Lord, I'd trade all I own for yesterday.
~*~*~*~*~
A little girl with dark brown braids.
White blouse, gold-colored wool skirt
and patent leather Mary Janes.
An only child with a wired haired fox
terrier that lived with Grandpa,
Mother and Father.
Her Mother, sweet, who saw to it
that she had ballet lessons, went
to a private school and Mother read
her poetry for hours.
A book collection she did have and
loved to read even before she really
could.
Playing with friends, riding her bike,
loved sparklers on warm, July Fourth
nights.
Saw men proud to wear a uniform,
who never came back from the war.
She did not understand when someone
stole her Teddy Bear during one of
many blackouts during the war.
Whoever would do such a thing?
No TV, no technology, just cut-outs,
crayons and she was taught to salute
the flag, because she lived in the land
of the free.
Children were safe, could go on the
train downtown.
But she cherished it the most when
hiding like a cub, under her Mother's
warm coat. The snow sticking to train
windows, peeking in.
Swimming at small lakes in summer how
she loved that the most. So suntanned,
she, the color of warm toast.
The girl knew song lyrics, she never forgot.
They live in her mind and heart and cannot
be turned off.
Years passed, the autumns and summers.
Family now almost all gone, yet somehow,
she remains young.
Always desirous of being herself, you won't
find the braided girl wanting to belong to
any crowd.
The music, the dance, her life, somehow
made her become a poetess.
Surely, not the best!
Being genuine is the gold standard for
all she writes. It must past this test!
She does not write to impress with great
finesse. Just to keep it simple as can be.
Thus~you will experience her poetry!
September 12, 2020
8pm PST
I once walked with you on Lombard Steet.
Little Maria~with the the western golden sun
Highting your long, shiny brunette hair.
Your tiny patent, Mary Janes, blessing the San
Francisco Streets.
It is all now just a foglifter's dream.
Dreams past and gone too fast!
Now you pat my head and hold my hand.
Assuring me my hip will definitely heal.
And with me ~ you will always stand.
Me, wishing, we were on Lombard Street.
Climbing the hills, on Cable Cars laughing.
But time has its way with us.
Never knowing what's coming our way,
A new day, a new surprise!
What a daughter, a hundred percenter dream
of a woman!
You must know by now, Maria, that you are..
My rainbow, twinkling, heavenly star!
Twinkle, twinkle, my little Maria.
God be with you, wherever you are....
June 14, 2020
10:00 pm PST
Poem # 1, 242
~Bells of Saint Mary's~
Oh, the joy of being young!
When those phenomenal bells
so joyfully rung!
And I, in patent leather Mary
Janes,
Ate Tootsie Rolls as if in a now
forgotten dream.
Staring at the mosaic, stunning
tall window panes.
How we loved playing games so
divinely innocent!
But now, by His Majesty,
"Political Correctness",
To the bin of "Forbidden" have
all been sent.
Do I think the world is better
today?
Not from me, will you ever hear
a boisterous, "Hurray!"
Most joyfully we buried God and
His commands.
Instead, we fall on our knees to
adore sparrows and men?
We cheer for all manner of
witchcraft!
As to how to live, besieged
online like moral sieves.
Not realizing it is we destroying
this world, with godless incantations.
This demon's footprints show
up in our poetry, alas!
When we adore the most foolish
things.
As for us, no time for the Creator
do we have.
And in our Poetry, we are careful
of His name, not to sing.
Some do not know this world
has an end date, just as we.
They think there is no Judgement
Day coming!
So they worry about things they
cannot control!
When it is their very soul at stake.
We are free spirits who deride
any God connection,
Most don't want it, as they
made themselves gods.
The mirror and their works,
their morality, is never in
question.
They have with pomposity
Hung God out to dry.
And honor only a moon and the
twinkling sky?
I'd love to hear the Bells of
Saint Mary's again.
When God s words were valued
far more.
Than those that come from my
mere mortal poet's pen!
August 24, 2019
Form:
The Circus gongs excite the Throngs in nighttime Never Land –
They swarm to see the destiny of Freaks at their command,
While Acrobats step pitapat above the shifting sands
And Lady Fat sits down to chat and oozes charm unplanned.
The Dwarfs in suits, so small and cute when marching with the Band,
Ask crimson Clowns with frozen frowns, to hold a mutant hand,
While Tamers’ whips with withered tips, throughout the winter land,
Lure Cats entranced through hoops enhanced with flames of fires fanned.
White Elephants in big-top tents boast black-tusk contraband
To regiments of Sycophants who overflow the stands,
But No One sees anomalies, and No One understands.
At night’s demise, the dither dies, the lonesome Crowd disbands,
Down dead-end streets the Horde retreats, their tattered rags in strands,
And Janes and Joes reweave their woes, for thoughts of change are banned.
To play a part in Three-Ring Art, I thought I’d try my hand –
I mastered skills, I felt the thrills, I breathed and seethed firsthand –
But destiny denied to me to taste a lifetime spanned
With tightrope walks and trapeze chalks ... excepting second-hand...
For alcohol provoked a fall, as if a reprimand,
And now, a heap, I sometimes keep the ticket office manned...
The Bishops bathe in Babylon
while Princes, prancing on the lawn,
watch Queen deflowered, pale and wan.
The King dares not defend her.
The Horsemen, holding broken reins
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
sigh “it’s no use, it’s all in vain,
the Saints will soon surrender”.
They wonder why they ever came,
they have No One whom they can blame,
they have no face, they have no name,
and even less, a gender.
The empty-handed Vagabonds
smoke stale cigars, stroke faded Blondes
while waiting at the walls beyond,
but kneel as Chaos enters.
They’re gazing through the window panes
in hopes that distant Hurricanes
will twist and break their iron chains
defying life’s tormentors.
The Fantom of the Opera frowns
as feeble minded Cleric-clowns
mouth hollow hurdy-gurdy sounds
when blessing doomed dissenters.
The Pirate wields a wooden leg,
with pupils dull and visage vague,
and if by chance he spreads the plague,
it really doesn’t matter.
His Princess, pale, no longer feigns,
foresees instead (down ancient lanes)
the coming of the Hurricanes -
the Stones stir, staring at her.
And Jackals scrape the river bed
as Savants soothe the underfed
and Crows, collecting scattered bread,
adorn, with crumbs, the platter.
The Jokers Wild and One Eyed Janes
weep, winding up in rundown trains
mid whispers of the Hurricanes,
and Priests refuse to christen.
They’re fleeing from the Leprechauns,
the cuckoo birds, the dying swans;
while pitching pennies into ponds
their eyes opaquely glisten.
The spectral Clocks with spindled spokes
remind the Mimes to tell the Folks
the time of day and other jokes,
yet No One looks to listen.
The Hunchbacks with contorted canes
galumph before the Hurricanes,
in melted sleet, in frozen rains,
in bruised and battered sandals.
Their Groans engulf the land of gulls,
the land of stones, the land of nulls,
and lurk between the blackened lulls,
for Nighttime brooks no candles.
Their prayers to Dogs and Nuns and Dukes,
(and other long forgotten Spooks)
are more than random crazed rebukes,
though taunting to the Vandals.
Continued in Part 2
While midnight bats are gnawing gnats and feasting free unseen,
a toddler’s fed from garbage sheds an elegant cuisine.
Along the trails in distant dales a lonesome wolverine
feigns appetite on fogy nights and days of crystalline.
The circus gongs excite the throngs in nighttime Never Land –
they swarm to see the destiny of Freaks at their command,
while Acrobats step pitapat across the shifting sands
and Lady Fat adores her cat and oozes charm unplanned.
The Dwarfs in suits, so small and cute when marching with the band,
ask crimson Clowns with painted frowns, to lend a mutant hand,
while Tamers’ whips with withered tips, throughout the winter land,
lure minds entranced through hoops enhanced with flames of fires fanned.
White Elephants in big-top tents sell black tusk contraband
to Sycophants in regiments who overflow the stands,
but No One sees anomalies, and No One understands.
At night’s demise, the dither dies, the lonely Crowd disbands,
down dead-end streets the Horde retreats, their threadbare rags in strands,
and Janes and Joes reweave their woes, for thoughts of change are banned.
Continued