Long Kicking Poems
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The "Hi" That He Remembers
With spontaneous playfulness,
her smooth leggings glided
through a swirling pile of leaves
across the high school sidewalk,
kicking them skyward
with wide, graceful strides.
Other movements would have
distracted me, as leaves
forcefully tore off
the surrounding trees,
but my eyes were bolted upon
her
floating
flirtatious
figure
with
perfect
little
lifts.
Her wide lip smile approached mine
with a thrust of energy
like the Indian Summer wind
that surrounded our passing
like a unified hug.
"Hi," she breathed in a soft smoky voice,
as that usually effortless word
was left in my throat...
until I turned around
to take more of her in,
to try to stop
that moment from leaving
like that spinning leaf pile
behind her.
She confidently continued
on her way
without
a reciprocated head spin.
That evening's Harvest Moon
seemed to pulse, pulse, pulse,
mirroring my elated thoughts,
rehearsing the scene
where a pretty girl
looked
me
in
the
eyes
and
spoke
a
word!
Light of our lives
Kicking, he came
And then our world
Was not the same
Joy of our hearts
He's innocence
Making us laugh
With his presence
Love of us all
Childish babbles
Stolen our hearts
With his dabbles
Heaven's li'l child
Active and smart
How blessed we’re
To be a part!
Sunshine that smiles
Oh yes, that's him!
Such naughty acts!
Life's never dim
Song of our lips
He's truly that
His parents' gem
No matter what!
His dad's delight
His mom's treasure
Whate'er he does
Brings us pleasure
Go, spread your light,
Your love and joy
This world needs you,
Our bright young boy.
{This poem is about my young nephew}
written on 08.27.2021
For Regina McIntosh's "The One Who Touched My Heart" contest
After Kindy
little kids
wait with mums
at the big kids’ school:
Chat-time,
there and back time;
big-tree shade,
dust and long leaves,
water in cages –
shiny bubblers,
hot black play-ground,
bench-seats
low down.
Liz is back and sobbing,
Mum says, ‘What’s the matter?
Wipe the tears.
Blow the nose.’
‘I can’t hold water,’ Lizzie cries.
‘We’re making mud,’ says Bella.
‘Oh,’ says Lizzie’s Mum.
‘Oh,’ says Bella’s Mum.
The mums frown.
‘You have to put water
in your mouth,’ says Liz.
‘And spit it,
on the dirt,’ says Bella.
‘Oh,’ say the mums.
Mums don’t make magic
in play-ground dust.
Kids do.
Drips of water
from their mouths:
dust kicking
water strings,
mixed up
with fingers
into mud
with gumnut people
jumping in,
and leaf crocodiles
snapping.
Their satchels (twenty five) within auto-rickshaw seats dumped,
Same number (small and big; fat and lean; boys and girls) tight-clumped;
Some hanging; some stamping; some hitting and kicking each one;
The driver, gliding as though great battle won with pains none...!
June, in Southern-India, has been reopening time;
With south-west winds, monsoon sets in as a nursery rhyme;
Fun on way is complete and perfect only when there be,
Splashing water-mixed mud that looks like Kerala-milk-tea...!
Some walk, books (for not getting wet), hidden within their shirts,
They're poor government school-students; studying in outskirts;
Looking at rich-kids, anger aroused, they scream, yell and haul,
Each, yet, knows, at the very outset, fate is same for all...!
Entering within campus, for all, is crucifixion,
Soon begins, within their classrooms, teacher-student friction;
Each tutor (teaching science or math) claims to be perfect,
Kick-starting, with no intro, their vast wisdom they inject...!
Games, occasional; lessons much; Little mental vent;
Frustration of being within four walls, always ferment;
Mugging-up starts; rutting, tests and exams turn punishments,
Learning through experiments gives many embellishments...!
Getting out of those jail-like cells, is glad and heavenly,
Queries of the day, though, by parents, will start heavily;
From opening till closing, all know, they'd be shuttled now,
They're masters of mysteries, yet; will escape anyhow...!
29 August 2022
Back to School Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Francine Roberts
Annabelle Albatross’s amazing aquatics astound audiences at Atlantic airshows.
Bill Beaver’s barrel-rolling barely bumps bobbing buoys.
Crustaceans crowd cramped coves. Charlie Crab cowers, camouflaged creatively.
Dennis Dolphin dives deeply dragging down desirable delicacies.
Elegant electric eels electrify everything. Edgar Eel eats extensively.
Fancy Fanny Flounder flaunts fluorescent fins.
Gigantic gems glisten, giving George Guppy giggles.
Henrietta Hippo holds hands harmoniously hugging Henry Hippo.
Isabella Ibis is inching inland. Infant Iris Ibex idles indoors.
Jeremiah Jellyfish jests joyfully. Juvenile jellyfish join Jeremiah.
Kibitzing Kingfishers keep kids kicking. Katy Kingfisher knits knickerbockers.
Luminescent ladybugs land lightly. Light-hearted, lily-white lizards lounge leisurely.
Many manatee move marvelously, making mini musical masterpieces.
Noone notices ninety needlefish nestled neatly near nets.
Oscar Octopus ogles Ophelia Octopus openly. Ophelia observes Oscar’s oddities.
Pretty Penny Platypus playfully poses.
Quirky Quincy Quail quickly quits quacking.
Racy Rhonda Rattlesnake ran races ‘round round racetracks.
Sassy Sammy Salamander snoozed silently, snorting sand.
Tarsiers traverse terribly tall trees trying to track tiny termites.
Unique umbrellabirds update unclear unicorns under umbrellas.
Voiceless vultures vacate very vivid vegetation.
Wally weasel watches walrus’s wade, wisely waiting.
Xena x-rayed Xyli Xenops.
Young Yuri Yak yelled “Yuck! Yogurt!”
Zombie zebras zip-lined, zealous zookeepers zig-zagged.
Started July, 1996
Finished Feb, 2018
Screw the rules is the motto I live by
Too old to toe the line
So sue me and then just try to collect
Won't be alive to pay the fine
I'll be kicking up daisies on a hill out back
As you tear out all your hair
Sure had the last laugh you **** type people
So break the rules if you dare
Rules are made to be broken I've heard
Love to see the reaction
These sillies go nutso and red in the face
At my blatant infraction
Oh for the days when we burned our garbage
In a fire pit behind our house
And just for a little excitement sometimes
We'd throw on a little mouse
Barbaric you say, I learned from the best
Daddy taught me all about life
Said “never take life too serios, my son”
You don't to go around twice
© Jack Ellison 2015
Teacher:
Let’s write a poem.
Kids start to fidget, tongues stuck in cheeks,
bums wriggle on seats.
Teacher has lost interest; she doesn’t really care.
Our scribbles will distract us for a while
while she marks term-papers.
I am ten years old. All I can think of is Superman,
So I wrote:
‘I Love Superman’ three times.
Teacher with her head down, eyes gone blind to us,
ears listening to music in her head.
We kids dancing all over our bodies, seeking
this inconsiderable alien thing called a ‘poem’.
The sunlight and clouds
slapping on notebooks and pencils
creating fleeting symbols
we could not hope to name.
A wall clock punctuating words dripping
out of leaky pots. Little girls giggling,
boys sulkily kicking desk legs.
Eventually most of us kids write something.
I suspect the teacher
didn’t even look at them. She marked all, ‘good’,
even mine,
Superman left the classroom with all the other kids.
Perhaps he feared a kids poetry reading session;
pure Kryptonite for a superhero.
On one count in our world where remedies are wanted
Yet vessels are found with no still soul
So much Pain is communicated in silence within the nation
but only among the likes that can understand its notion
The birds are crying for their safety yet standing on a dying tree
The fetus is kicking in the womb of a mother seeking a hideout at gunpoint
The children are struggling to sleep while their parents stand and watch
The authorities are calling for votes from a hungry nation with no peaceful homes
Where do we go from here?
What can we do to end the suffering and instill peace?
How can we stop the crying voice with a heavy heart?
When will the day stay forever?
Tell me the remedy to a painful heart where laughter can no longer make it smile?
Spell out the remedy for those wet eyes that beauty can no longer stop its drop?
Can you tell the remedy to a sad soul that music can no longer feed?
The rhythm is lost, yet the heart keeps dancing endlessly.
Let’s match the tone of love
Love can make the poor forget who they are
Let’s match the tone of love
For love can put away pride and the taste for violence
Let’s make this place our home again
By standing for others and standing with no ulterior motive
For the world revolves around and tomorrow is unknown
UNSPEAKABLE SADNESS
I dream of a porcelain-skinned baby, newly expelled from my loins.
Giggling, singing, chubby hands extended, feet kicking in unending joy.
She sings simple tunes of love
To the one who makes her happy and chases away the boogey man; to mom.
I awake to the truth that my baby is 23, and the boogey man has a new name.
Frightened glances shoot my way from damp eyes, while shaking hands reach out for support.
But mommy can't chase this away with a band-aid and a lollipop.
This boogeyman, named Lymphoma, scares mommy even more than her frightened cub.
I am helpless. My body is that of a blow-up clown weighted on the bottom so I always bounce back. My exaggerated mouth is painted in an unnatural blood red smile.
The cancer is growing. Her hair is falling out, but I bounce right up
With my unchanging, gleeful expression.
I only hope someone pokes a pin in me if the cancer wins,
So I can melt into a puddle of my own tears,
One that extinguishes my life's fire from the soul-stove of my heart,
Clown face distorting in an agony that truly mimics my existence.
I curl up
In the cradle of our cabin
This Friday night in January
The deck out back
Glows
Bright as its own light
With new snow
From my evening muted TV
Cliff an abyss two feet beyond
Lake
A coffin draped in black flag
There is one chain of orange lights
On the other shore
A cruise ship Charon
Slowly pulling away with its gold
In a shadow sideswipe of squalls
With all the snowbird survivors
Waving goodbye
Bon Voyage
Wind
A mad wizard of arms flailing
Barges down miles of forest
Pounds on my door
For the last of the living
If there was anyone to speak to
I’d have to shout above its roar
At four
A.M.
I wake
To an aphonic choir of hooded dark heads
Nodding outside my bedroom window
Nibbling at the needles of the under bush
The deer assume no one is here
To look back
Maybe they’re right
I get up
Coat boots scarf hat
Plow the deep snow
With my steel-tipped toes
Down the middle of Torch Lake Road
To the extinguished blue house on the curve
And back
Look for the cheese of last summer’s moon
Or sugar cubes of Scorpius’ stars
In the scavengered fields
Find my pockets
Filled with the Devil’s cold coins of debate
Feel my way down to the lake
Stand where a dock used to be
Kettle boils and shushes with slush
Sides of broken ice
Clop
Like rotten heels kicking
The waves and rocks
God pauses His knocks
On the wood of my hollow heart
Waits for an answer.