Long Lampposts Poems
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My nomadic guy, please don’t tear my flesh
This lonely chamber isn’t made for one
Come play the lead strings as our grooves refresh,
Oh no funky stardust when you are gone…
Sad moon for me and blazing sun for you;
Life’s a-tumble when the door creaks, “Adieu.”
I got no rhythm in these eyes bloodshot
Just recall most nights’ pure angelic love,
And once you’re back run to me, on the dot
While this babe waits, frantic as evening dove…
Sorely missing your pitter- patter feet,
While hours grow crazy , dear boo, I’m offbeat!
My timeline busts, when you’re so hard to get
Still, I wait down the road numb with longing;
For some reason this wired-up head won’t regret
How I trace the lampposts until grasses sting …
Oh nomadic guy…miles and miles away
I await your rocking arms to dance , to stay!
..........................
9/14/2016
Rock 'n Roll Rhyme FestContest for Phillip Garcia
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Rhyme Scheme: Quatrains with End Couplets
Inspired by the song of U2: Stay ( Far Away, So Close)
Album: Zooropa
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V7da48kn4sE
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*Personally , the essence of this song depicts
a need to create a long-term relationship especially
when one is elusive, fleeting like an angel or a nomad
with lines ‘ just a bang and a clatter”, ‘stay,
and the night would be enough.’ Then again,
Bono of U2 is one great riddle!
Winds howling off trees overhead
in the grim grey sky, blackened stars.
leaves whisper in their rustling tread
excited in an air of summer showers.
embrace of monsoon, clouds rip apart
overturns a bucket of torrential rain
erasing footprints, sun makes a dart
drizzle heals ache, it's beauty again.
lonely lampposts weep in puddles
angry sky roars in thunderstorms.
verdant vales hydrate in cuddles
muddy soil clad in wet uniforms.
an arc of flash welding in distant
electric sparks emaneting a prison.
vision unveiled in lightning instant
poets hypnotized by rainy season.
19th May 2019
If I had alternative choices with a D
I would take my druthers all over the world,
making a difference
choosing other ways of seeing.
I will need a million trail-cams,
and a million gateposts, trees
or lampposts
to attach them to.
I want to see what's going on
when we are not looking.
I want to choose
between the strange, the ill-defined,
the inexplicable and
whatever other world
we are interacting with.
That would be my mission -
my druthers.
A million trail-cameras
snapping the world
while we all sleep or wake,
none of us
suspecting that our pictures
are being taken.
Bela Kun led Hungary and a communist regime
Eight Jewish commissars were part of his team
The Reds couldn’t run an economy, or even a town:
Instead of admitting fault, they only doubled down,
They could have wondered why food vanished from the stores.
but they hung dissenters from lampposts by the scores.
When Ed Teller was brought up in Budapest, it had been great
He loved math: a subject schoolkids like to hate
Then Bela came in, engaged in suppression
Ed's mom said their fellow Jews would pay a price for Kun's oppression.
Most Jews were not commies, but truth to tell
for a disproportionate number, Marxism cast a spell.
Its not really fair to blame Jews for Bela Kun
But you can't expect fairness from everyone
The Jewish Middle class resented Commie rule
They knew flirting with Marx was the romance of a fool.
Leon Trotsky led the Red Army to victory, more's the pity
His original name was Bronstein, his story makes me ill.
Years before he was killed by agents in Mexico City
A Rabbi told him "Trotskys make revolutions but Bronsteins pay the bill."
Ed became father of the Hydrogen bomb, a power immense
He also supported Reagan's effort at missile defense
He believed strength was the best way to stop war
Not religious, but conservative, common sense to the core.
When radicals play with fire, millions pay.
My dad knew Ed Teller; this history isn’t far away:
Even my grandfathers grew up before Russia turned Red.
Reds promise freedom but create an ant heap instead.
Jews should learn more than most where all this leads
They get clobbered first by Messianic creeds.
Poet's ink portrays wonders so profound,
as the last crimson rose of summer fades,
verdant leaves gently float to soggy ground,
weaving a pattern of saffron, beige shades.
Autumn's theatre parades vibrant hues,
as misty fog covers frozen meadows.
Haunting pastels animate artist's muse.
as poetic palettes splash glowing prose.
Lampposts ignite with cold midnight moonlight,
as snow flakes embrace trees in a white fleece.
Astral blooms inspire the soul to recite
in a rhythmic aesthetic masterpiece.
Lost in the elegance of nature's call,
art is adored in the grandeur of fall.
The murky rolling waves subject
to the whims of the February's wind,
far above the secluded lighthouse;
the roaming aircrafts vanish through thick clouds,
leaving behind a trail of hazardous vapors...
but the geese and seagulls can't continue their existence!
And still the sea offers them its promise,
a distant shore untouched by man...
by his greedy ways and incompassion,
causing the extinction of many species;
my reflection is based on fact :
we can't survive without them!
The stylish wild birds engage,
as if striken by a sudden rage,
in their frantic, daily dance over the marina,
as I listen the melancholic lyrics of " Nessun Dorma "...
the exquisite area of Puccini,
which comes alive through the extraordinary voice of Bocelli!
At four the fog thickens and shrouds the shoreline,
the brass lampposts light up with reluctance...
to shy away the presence of any ghost;
I, in transitive joy, hide my treasure beneath the tides,
hoping someone will find it and remember my work...
long after my thoughts will be no longer alive!
The lampposts stand,
stoic and lonely,
spirits overlooking the barren land.
Their light’s turned cold,
same as the air’s developing bite.
It’s only natural;
winter drags in a reality both harsh and unforgiving,
unrelenting in its frigid austerity.
How could anything not bare its teeth in response?
The chill is seeping into my fingertips,
turning my blood to ice.
My northern attitude creeps back in,
darkening my vision,
and I start to feel I’m on shaky ground.
I’m overlooking a precipice;
one foot in today,
the other in a clouded future.
I can discern from it nothing but terrifying probabilities.
The cold wraps its fingers around the base of my spine and whispers:
the friends you know today will be blurry ghosts of themselves come tomorrow.
They’ll never regard you without frost in their hearts and eyes.
I pray my sense will return when I thaw.
*A true story. If you don’t like this, please ignore, because I will delete any rude comments.
As the Christmas season approaches with the new fresh fallen snow,
And there are thoughts of pretty scenes, nativity and wreathes we know,
As well as Santa bringing happiness and joy to children all around,
And the colorful lights that hang with such brightness to be found…
There is news coming from the Durham New Hampshire town:
That only brings heaviness, with a solemn, very sad, frown
No more Christmas wreaths on the lampposts will be allowed this year
No more Santa riding on the firetruck on his way, will be near
No more countdown to the lighting of the town Christmas tree
All because of a few complaints from offended people, you see!
So like the Grinch stole Christmas, things are now stolen here
But sadly, these people will not grow a heart like the Grinch, I fear
Because Obama started a transformation of America, people came unglued
Determined to transform our meaningful celebrations, they pursued!
You wonder why we fight for freedom, and the values of our home
I say to all the offended, we will never stop fighting, where we roam!
Heidi Sands
11/14/19
BOX OF CHOCOLATES
My heart aches for those who vanish —
a variety like chocolates, melting
into vanquished existence.
First and farewell - those lucky
who have died, without having
their names besmirched —
the young and old, the hospitable
and the sweet character of a spinning
song, twirling on a record player
charming like a little girl’s dress
spreading with happiness. But
others leave us up in arms
they tug and pull, like Cinderella’s
stepsisters, leaving our lives
in tatterdemalion squalor.
Some vacate seats in our pews,
we feel their smiles floating,
fleeting and their hugs — incomplete.
Our workplaces like a revolving door
bringing in presents, leaving with bows
and my heart bobs near the shore.
Often it is the way people let us down,
chasing away the way we want things to be,
leaving us with a sore muscle, entangled
in hopeless chains, with slender fingers
reaching for the wispy-mist of life and love —
and endless raging river of serrated waves.
So long and farewell but know this, I
for one miss...you and you and you
for somewhere lies a perfect life,
with golden names and trellises, pearls
like lampposts, vivid-red apples, a
fairytale come true in degrees of hue.
A box of chocolates, recaptured, brought to
holy knees — taught by God to be friends
of a lasting succulent kind where death’s door
can never open or close, roses kiss our lips,
lovely robes touch or hearts, and hallelujahs
with wings perpetually pump agape life into our lungs.
12/26/2017
Euphoric Amatrice once stood proud
among smaller towns below and around,
it's domineering belltower was tall;
it's clock, sleek and strong, amazed all...
how it fought both weather and time
more than a sentinel keeping an eye.
August came with a vengeance so horrid,
a roar that lasted nine seconds was heard,
every wall started shaking and crumbling:
no escape for those souls soundly sleeping;
dust from falling building scattered crickets;
dogs barked, ravens flew from their nests,
Lampposts went out on every dnarrow street,
a mother held her child running on bare feet.
Amatrice, your glorffy was seen from far and above:
testimony of a prosperous age so savaged and gone;
sorrow, desperation and loss are read in everyone's eyes,
hands dig to find those buried under cement and stones.
Written on 8/29/2016