Long Lagging Poems
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V.
Marie was a newly minted teacher
who got a job at a good private school,
one dedicated to ‘progressive’ thought,
which Marie though was remarkably cool.
They had this brand new curriculum that
was designed to address our greatest flaws,
one teacher for all their formative years,
to teach a new way of living, new laws.
They would focus on cooperation,
teach the kids to work for the common good,
to avoid all of the hierarchy,
to be equal, as people always should.
They would go out new men and new women,
to build up a better society,
but Marie noticed problems arising
when her students grew up and hit puberty.
Some of the boys were hitting on the girls,
and demeaning guys who didn’t have looks,
some of the girls had the boys do their work,
flashed smiles instead of hitting the books.
The smart kids would not redistribute grades
to the pupil’s who were lagging behind,
they cared not for them, but for what they had ‘earned,’
who had put that failed idea in their minds?
She was more surprised at the reunion,
ten years passed, and the results were now clear:
three homemakers, two Wall Street stockbrokers,
four Republicans, and a guy fond of beer.
One guy in jail, and two single mothers,
what had happened to them tortured her brain,
she swore she’d do better, too blind to see
that human nature is not gonna change.
Lost
Left lagging behind.
Numb, upset, unfortunate, unlucky.
Everyone else getting on with it.
But I'm left in limbo.
Brain fog adding to my fear
At a distance from them all,
Even with him, a lack of intimacy exists.
Arguing with me, no sympathy, like a stone.
‘Get on with it’ he says.
‘Stop moaning. Take action’.
So easy for him to say.
What a mess!
I walked on clouds so foolishly,
Thinking I stood a chance, so proud.
My dream was coming through.
But once again, shattered, deflated, heartbroken, I fell flat.
What a fool I was to even think for a moment it could have been me.
As if! Me? Wake up girl and smell the coffee.
You never stood a chance.
You were led up the garden path!!
It's okay for your friends to be successful but not you.
Your dream will never be! Accept it! Get on with it!
No one has threaded softly on my dreams.
They've trampled them.
I'm lost.
I step across the stone threshold, feet moving slow as a heartbeat. The quiet of the church rises up to meet you.
You are looking for a place to rest your weight, looking for eyes that will see you and stay. Instead, there is the sharp sting of a turned back.It is the heaviest kind of silence when you offer your presence and receive a departure.
I stood at the threshold of the nave,my slow steps dragging the dust of the road.I reached out a hand toward your shadow ,but you turned your face away leaving me with the cold air of the aisle.Shepherd me, O Lord.
The staff feels far off in the dark.The valleys are deep, the paths are rocky and the sheep are so numerous.I am the one lagging at the very back wondering if the gate will shut before I reach it.
Will you look down at the bruised reed? Will you call the name I have forgotten how to speak? Or am I too frayed for the pasture ,too broken for the fold?
I am waiting by the altar rail asking if there is oil enough for my head asking if I am worth the search when the night grows long.
God creates effortlessly, Himself medium, substance-source almighty – nothing can rub, manifest resistance to His Will --
God rested. Think not of fatigue...nor of a project completed, written in stone unchangeable, for God’s complete-perfect also allows for change-perfect. Think more in terms of the rests in musical compositions, heightening the experience of sound – think of the negative-space in art, that allows for imaginative schemes of enhancement. God can create and be finished simultaneously, ongoing. God is in and out at the same time. Up and down at the same time. Death is also resurrection eternal. The only finite is when man limits his understanding, attempts to reconcile flawless, endless continuity, by using fragmented thought patterns, our lagging sense of spiritual/physical reality. We see only bits and pieces of truth at a time, nothing comprehended entirely as it is (The I Am). As we evolve mentally, spiritually, physically, we draw from and add to the endless streams of conscious untold universes (countless dimensions)~ thoughts are substance. Not seeing anything clearly, fully, in its entirety, what we compel, reason, will out, through the eyes of love are man’s greatest attributes and revelations.
Often she is at the end of her wits
Trying to understand herself
Trying to understand others
And why,
She is a dunce at life
It is said, life can be thought of as either a success or a failure
It is how they will see it
It is how it will be defined
And at the end of her years she will try and do the same
At least that's what Erik Erikson said
And we all define it differently
By her own degree she feels like she is lagging behind
She can't seem to find the silver lining
Much less draw it
Despite the hearing of what she deserves, and something similar along those lines
So allow her to weep buckets
Maybe then it did bring some relief
Like breaking out
Here’s a little checklist
If you think you’re getting old.
Check off fewer than a couple
And perhaps you’ll be consoled.
Are you losing hair or finding it
In places unexpected?
Do you crave a turtleneck
So extra skin goes undetected?
Do you need a nap by 4 p.m.
And doze by the TV?
Do you wake up nightly, several times,
Because you have to pee?
Does a cough or cold last weeks and weeks
While energy is lagging?
Do the wrinkles in the mirror
Make your spirits feel like sagging?
Do you read a book or see a film
And then cannot recall it?
Does technology require help
‘Cause you cannot install it?
If you’ve answered yes to most of these,
Then, sadly, you’re among
Those of us, including Dylan,
Who are not “forever young.”
I dream of magic lines but they elude me.
Chapbook on acrylic tube palette, janus-faced cave in
at the crack of dawn,
crescent moonlight awnings turn to circus of the soul,
images that colour dullard pages leave furrow on my
hayrick haggard brow.
Backwater sonnet form leaning towards some meadow compost rot.
Ghost written silhouettes, shatter fragile eggs on
loop pile Berber carpets,
yolk stain and pale brown chicken hash tags.
Tight rope knot escarpment found in tripod camera verse,
cliff edge heart-stop paen is just another
blue-sky canon over billed by birds of prey.
Poetic licence pointer to a learner permit doggerel,
aspiring metre patchwork but a tapered column
lost in grey day whimper.
Guangdong province text in lychee pink for window glaze.
Fleeting notions dangle at the sparrow hawk crossroads,
while grazing skinny red ballon formations overhead.
Mother of invention please shine your convex beam
upon this wellspring drought abandonment I swim in.
Sudden brain cell drafts a Jack-o’-lantern of disjointed phases,
stretcher bear the legless phrases that leave me
wheelchaired and infirmed in woolly states.
Timeline mainstream woofer whose lagging jacket hemline falls apart,
areole reduced branch slowly bleeds its cactus juice of inspiration.
A rush, a fever, quotidian fever,
no greater longing can us writers have.
Summer nears its end
racing
through the weeks now passed
with little left to do
the garden
winding down and fading.
Autumn
peeks around the corner
colors teasing on the greens.
Nesting complete
fledglings all gone
nests and birdhouses empty.
The gathering begins
squirrels, groundhogs, chipmunks
beginning to store for winter cold.
Pleasant days await
cooler and colorful etchings
waiting their turn to shine.
Blooms fade
flowers turn to seed
preparations for next spring.
The cycle continues
with patterns of life
renewed and rejuvenated
lagging momentarily
in the holding pattern
to end summer’s stay.
What is carnival without the music? What is carnival with the dance? What is carnival without the colors, what is carnival without a song? What is carnival without a date, what is carnival without the plate, you have got to get up and run, and get the colors into the sun.
Oh! Today is children’s day when you throw all the adult things away, and let the children be children again, you have children talk, and children walk, you have children heat and children seat to make the journey complete.
What happen to the children Art their music and their dance? Children love the colors as it drives away all their sorrows, children are fun so don’t dress them in dark colors it only brings on more sorrows. Children like the games and if they don’t play it will drive them insane, please lively up the children’s parade for this exotic carnival day.
It’s Notting Hill, how can you keep still, I see people lagging around and they are moving slowly around the town. There is something happy to think about, especially when you want to shout, turn up the heat, run up and down the street and wait for the drum beat.
You are on Notting Hill, you have to learn how to do the drill, there is plenty of food to eat so pick a dish and enjoy the fish, it’s all about the Caribbean and the Windrush generation; it is a family occasion on Notting Hill.
There is spicy food over here, curry, brown stew and barbecue, over there, Jerk chicken, jerk pork and American dish, but I prefer the savory dish. I like baked potato and butter, grill chicken and gravy for supper. I like to have it with a long French bread with ceaser salad to cover its head. Carnival is in the food and that’s good news. So get up and grab a cab and go to Notting hill.
Tomorrow is adult day so don’t waste your precious time away, get the color and the beat and wrap yourselves in colorful sheets, and turn up the heat. Cleopatra was a treat and she knows how to make the emperor's heart beat. Notting Hill will come alive when you start to smile. Tomorrow August 28, 2023 all roads lead to nothing hill England.
Protesting The Moment
Illuminating the night by the light of a bonfire
Captivating the insight before one’s mind begins to tire
Emigrating out of fright as one’s own government becomes a liar
Abdicating all your rights as they burn your life upon the pyre
Procession of a line for food that western lives refuse to see
Intercession of a brooding mood that cannot just let it be
Regressions of emotion that seem to conclude as they’re pleading for their dreams
Confessions of the hungry brood as they’re longing to be set free
Mortification at the living standards of the new elite
Fortification of the mind that’s lagging behind and dragging its existential feet
Unco-ordination of the refined lauding over the times at the banal meet and greet
Insubordination of the oppressed as they will not admit defeat
Protestation of a single cause that someone wants to shed light on
Congregation of the grand applause as they continue to coalesce and fight from
Altercation that needs to be paused as the twisted take strange delight upon
Amputation of the limb that’s soaked in gin as it all lingers a little too long
Unbelievable passages of time that evade fate
Inconceivable ravages of decline that simply will not wait
Irretrievable messages inclined to make the population subjugate
To imperceivable sentences refined to ensure the next topic to debate
The End copyright Elizabeth Moroz