Long Laboriously Poems
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Earth's Physician
by Lori Maria Walton
When earth is violently ill,
breathing laboriously to survive,
Who becomes her physician?
Where is a medicine that can heal?
Aggressive stampedes of soldiers
running to misguided missions of Glory
Green fields traded for green paper
Rushing to force earth's marriage
The earth knows the secret plots
of Kings, Presidents, and Lords
Yet she remains silent, through gestation
until the birth is imminent
Greed recklessly wanders to distant lands
spreading darkness, leaving corridors void of compassion
Blinding creatures with power
Not knowing it is their brothers, sisters, children they eat
Earth remains a silent witness
Adorned with a submissive veil
Azure and scarlet hues in a golden sky
with a scent of Jasmine speaking peace
To a world that will not listen.
Instead, her sacredness is lifted to the crowds
for the highest bid, the plunder, the rape continues
she bleeds, screams and breathes her last
He laughs haughtily thinking he has won.
He won... Has he won?
Who is left to give birth to life?
Perhaps we do not see
In death, she has saved us all...
Form:
The first weakening of night
picks out telephone lines,
black against sky.
The eyelid of a garage door
lurches laboriously up.
A car coughs blue breath.
With aerosols and plastic scrapers
clandestine delights of frostwebs
are raked to chemical sludge.
Starter motors whine.
Windscreens cloud with pain.
Gears grind teeth.
An electric train
gingerly
utters inarticulate from the sheds,
groaning over cold joints.
Thinking grimly
of tunnels ahead,
it flares with ill-humor
crossing the points.
On unworked land beside the track,
a fox is heading home.
Gliding through
beneath the "keep out" sign,
he grins at the engine,
which just judders along,
headlights trained
on parallel lines
which glint ahead,
reflecting lurid signal red,
extending out, but never meeting,
towards the vanishing point.
It was once the pride of a prairie farmer not too many years ago.
Now, long abandoned it stands forlorn on a wind-blown plateau.
Its rusting blades slowly turn at the whim of every passing breeze.
It has weathered the storms of summer and the bitter winter's freeze!
It leans a bit askew and a couple of blades are missing from the shaft,
And it squeals a lot as it laboriously turns with each passing draught.
The rusty weather vane dangles lifelessly having served its vital role.
No life-sustaining water doth it draw for this once busy watering hole!
A couple of stately cedar trees grow nearby as if standing guard,
Over the old windmill's enfeebled frame so twisted and so marred.
The water tank that once over-flowed with cool waters from the well,
Now lies in a corroding heap where not a living thing doth dwell!
A once sturdy barn leans in upon itself nearby in a terrible shambles,
Nearly hidden by ancient oaks and creeping blackberry brambles.
What was once a prosperous farm, alas, is now torn asunder.
Who once dwelt in that archaic homestead, I am left to wonder!
The once beckoning oasis sated the thirst of a multitude of creatures.
A well-worn path is seen leading there - 'tis one of its lasting features.
The verdant prairies for many years with working windmills were replete.
Graceful windmills that graced the landscape are, alas, nearly obsolete!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
otherwise wordily titled: pooped out
after pouring bucketfuls of water into
place of ablutions
all the while skipping to my loo
umpteen times courtesy bathtub faucet
turned toward hot temperature
so toilet would finally,
magnificently, and royally flush.
As ofttimes occurred in the past
anonymous reader's time
I once again promise to waste
concerning asinine verbiage
without this bard **** feeling shamefaced
broadcasting his fealty
to posterior predilections must appear
(as rearing to volley rebuttal
against fans of mine) yours truly
ofttimes discusses that byproduct,
which issues out buttucks) narrow-based
if not downright banal, gross, offal... in haste
to craft something more philosophical
how craven potty talk
whereby theme doth self debase.
I excreted a bowel movement
earlier today June 5th, 2022
substantial enough to sink battleship
(maybe ye experienced tsunami after effects)
laboriously dumping bucketfuls of hot water
insync with applying plunger found me a drip
with perspiration, and would have possibly found
site manager and/or maintenance man to flip
(a rare sight to behold
worth inconvenience of clogged toilet bowl),
which yours truly felt strain in back muscles
as he poured bucketfuls of water from his hip
accidentally splashing water
on bathroom floor
yes your honor
(necessitating poop deck to evacuate)
if thee choose to sit in judgeship
but please be mindful
to restrain giving me any lip
cuz atypical dilemma I figuratively did nip
in the bud, yet foresee similar outcome
sure as this...
once upon a sage, rosemary and parsnip
herbaceous generic fellow sought readership
ideally landing webbed wide world trip
heralded all along as a V.I.P.
where fanfare for this common man
would find his doggerel
induced listeners to yip.
Why don’t we let things to be
The way they were meant to be?
We strive to thrive
By a meddling drive
Into Nature’s territory.
Nature gave what Nature gave
Why not preserve it and save?
Instead we try
To modify
Play lesser gods who’re naïve.
Trees we hew, gasses spew,
Vanish’d is the mountain dew.
Music is now what we make,
No chirping birds by a placid lake.
We devour the earth like the termites do!
Fish and plants and bees and birds
And of course domesticated herds
Nature breeds
Through cyclic seeds
But for humankind, I have no words
There’s no space for the human race,
In high-rise cities we grope for place.
From up on high
Beyond morassed sky
The sun just smiles at our errant ways
And Nature smiles at mankind’s toils
As laboriously the earth he despoils.
Tsunamis and tremors, El Nino and Nina,
Hurricanes like Rita and unforgettable Katrina .
Nature, my dear, is beyond your wiles
But have we discerned, our lessons learned?
We get what we deserve, our desserts are earned
We seek WMD, genetic research,
Towards extinction we fervently search,
We eagerly wait till to atoms we’re turned.
Let the Lord be my Shepherd, let me not want.
Let me say a prayer, not endlessly rant.
With infinite love he can fill up your life,
Let’s not test Him, (else be led to the knife!)
Let’s be the sheep, and we shall not want
Form:
Bottled water is being consumed by everyone,
who don't realize the horrible thing that they are all doing.
Water is being drilled to the extent of present day oil drilling,
and as a result water levels are dangerously dropping,
depended upon by farmers who for hours are spent daily laboriously working,
only to provide for their families and make a decent living.
Many have lost everything after banks seized their farmland by foreclosing,
and it's all because of all of these profit driven bottled water corporations,
who are not only destroying entire families but also our environment.
Water companies don't produce water, they produce endless plastic,
which is playing a most devastating role destroying our planet.
Wait a second, I take that back. The planet will always rejuvenate back,
but the human specie will be extinct and never experience that.
Anyone who buys bottled water should be truly ashamed,
because you are indirectly the cause of all of this misery and human suffering,
while corporations reap the benefits of your purchases with great profit gain.
I have a water distiller in my home that purifies water up to a gallon.
This is how I resist buying water from greedy profit driven corporations.
and if enough of us did the same we could bankrupt all of them,
preventing further damage to families and our environment,
Also, You'll be surprised at all The Money You Will Be Saving And Accumulating.
If you fear an inappropriate tryst
In Day's, bright light will subsist
If attendance to your whims is remiss
For each foible pare one, entitled kiss
If my address too awkwardly I press
Only the passionate syllables stress
If my aimless loitering you detest
Grant each day one, solitary egress
If sanctimonious attitude does distress
Let charitable heart baser traits bless
If beaming eyes, shapely figure molests
Focus my stare on your stately crest
If my squeaky voice your nerves test
I'll drown the variation with lemon zest
If feigned loyalty, I laboriously confess
My lips with time's shadow compress
If from my wit sentient mind does desist
Only time-tested Limericks will enlist
A view of the ragged woodland from
The window:-
Slender branched trees that shed
From high above to low below;
The faint, mauven peaks
Smattered with barely visible
Scatterings of drifted snow;
Across the matted undergrowth
A bronzed carpet of copper coloured
Leaves
Whose rusting hue,
Momentarily ignited by stray
Sunbeams weakly smouldering,
Briefly refurbished -
Deceives with all the colours of a
Rainbow...
From vibrant red through to shy
Hints of indigo;
Those vague outlines indicating
Receding hills;
Here, arising, long ago, every waking
Dawning,
The creaking structures
Of groaning and imposing mills;
Soon a slow thawing that quickly
Spills
Into the trickling replenishments
Of many gushing and silvery little
Rills.
Enchantment gripped me!
And I found myself wistfully
Thinking...
Maybe, perhaps, maybe, somewhere,
Just behind where the great
Flattening Orb
Is now rapidly shrinking,
That I might, by perchance, find,
If I did so hope to bravely dare,
To happen upon a hidden and
Sedentary way of life up there?
That, forgotten, has turned its
Back on the social conflicts
Plagued by the curses of ingrained
Vice;
Encumbering a soul with its petty
Squabblings,
Imposing upon with demands and
Avarice...
When placing unnecessary burdens
On a honest bodies daily call
Of grinding toil and wearisome
Strife!
And still stood,
With hands outstretched upon the
Painted sill,
At the waist half-bent,
Now troubled by quiet mutterings
In an inexplicable sorts
Of self-imposed discontent,
My staid consciousness almost
Unawares,
As, momentarily distracted,
I hesitated, and, unseeing,
Inattentively stared...
Until...
A ragged chapter of cawing Daws,
Loudly jabbering overhead,
Suddenly wheeled -
And upwardly soared!
Whereupon, in murderous haste,
Awkwardly fled
When laboriously stealing away
Back inside the stubbled fields...
Thus causing me to slowly straighten;
Whilst, with a singular heartfelt pang,
Liken a moorland mist slowly rolling
Over
That indivisibly conceals...
Drew shut the sullen curtains, which,
Heavily embroidered with indeterminate
finality,
Dejectedly hang...
Each draped aside of the cold
Reveals.
DISCONNECTIONS
harmony order
reason &
beauty
&
incidentals
severed
by
upheavals
cerebral &
austere
a purveyor of
dimensions
to catalogue
&measure reveals
the obsessive
elaborate
laboriously
constructed
tableaux
of
destruction
so instantly
recognisable in
impressive &
immaculate
artefacts
to
specifically
fire the imagination
&
concentrate
the interplay
of
reason in
perpetual motion
in grappling
&
conveying
the painstakingly
drumbeat
of
sensation
amid the melee
of the
orchestrated
ensembles
at a distance
the measured
mood
detached
artificial
yet in
symmetry
knitting
everything together
in
cool respect
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
The structure, or plot, of a poem is, in my opinion, like the melody in music. It's what holds the words together and keeps us reading...
A present's not a gift until someone sends or brings it,
But a poem is still a song even if no one sings it.
You may think you can't write lyrics, but you're wrong,
If you ever wrote a poem, you wrote a song.
Every poem has a melody inside it,
Although in free verse it's much easier to hide it.
Take, for instance, Mr. Whitman's "Leaves of Grass".
Now, this is a masterpiece, no doubt,
And I don't mean to be too critical, or crass,
But it's laboriously long,
And notoriously short on song,
And although he does give it a nod,
I find it somehow rather odd
That by the end he's all but left the music out.
If what he calls "singing" is so by definition,
It's well camouflaged by piles of superfluity
And about a million unnecessary miles of exposition.
To perform his piece in public Walt's fans rarely get invited.
It takes almost as long to read the thing,
As it took the guy to write it*.
Now, lest you think that I forgot
The premise of this piece, I've not.
It's true I wandered from the path a bit,
But with alacrity, I'll now get back to it.
Most lyrics don't require one jot
Of setting, dialogue, or plot,
But what the better ones have got
Is lots of good old rhythm, rhyme, and repetition.
Every time you write a poem you make a miracle,
And even more so when that miracle is lyrical.
*It is not my intention to impugn or demean Mr. Whitman's work. "Leaves of Grass" was a monumental opus, way ahead of its time, that he worked on for 37 years, from its first publication in 1855, at his own expense, until his death in 1892. To the best of my knowledge, it has never been choreographed or set to music. A reason for that, I suspect, may be that no composer or choreographer wanted to risk growing old, infirm, blind, and possibly dying before the task could be completed.