Long Last hurrah Poems
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People would argue a new life comes to light,
With a bubble about to burst at its height.
A baby on the verge of its first cry,
A bird about to take the first fly,
A clock waiting to strike twelve,
A book about to come out of the shelf.
A lion about to leap on his prey,
A storm brewing in the cloudy grey,
An early hour on the cusp of dawn,
The stretch of lips just before a yawn.
Many would say the effervescence of life,
Is when one comes out of its long dormant night.
Vivacious in its will to live and see,
The many wonders like a petulant plea.
I, on the other hand, would beg to differ,
Not by much, not much of a revelation bigger.
The froth must go out at its height,
As others so eloquently put with their might.
But it's the one last spark before they lie to rest,
One last hurrah to have lived, loved and expressed.
It expands with its last full breath of world-lust,
Before sinking into oblivion and returning to dust.
I'm squirming in a chair of oak,
with narrow arms. My buttocks numb,
and all the while the clock ticks on.
While folks are grim, with furrowed brows,
'We're all lined up in two long rows
of growing thirst, and restless legs
and hunger for a breath of air
Like sardines in a can of worms,
we are strange, unlikely shipmates, torn
between one lawyer's limped plea --
the other shark who disagrees
Gray flannel suit, the stiff white shirt.
with slicked down hair, accusing words
persuades a few with his hot air
The penguin in the cheap black suit
has spewed a lengthy declaration,
(a quite contrary explanation)).
Until my mind is torn in two
and in a room we must decide
Confined inside, a dozen votes
where six say yay, six more say nope!
We're hanging by thin rope for days
and word has spread, the judge has spoken
He has finally coped with deadlocked folks
But sternly looks a bit provoked
We sit there like a row of stones
of wounded souls. We are excused!
Declares a mistrial........what a joke!
The accused is sitting, poker faced
I think I saw a guilty trace?
(Or innocence,....a tell-tale trace?)
We grope for keys, and leave our thrones
And as I'm walking out the door
No longer needed any more
The task was more than I could gnaw
A stale-mate! Since the case was flawed!
As we file out, our task is done
I spy the guy...., Should I be blunt?
The one accused, lights up a smoke.
Am I a nut, to simply ask ?
I'll just be frank, my last hurrah.....
"Pardon me, did you break the law????"
______________________________________________________________________
Contest: "Pardon me, but did you just.....??"
From fading greens of summer, I did pass
to seek my Autumn season's entryway
and honor life's maturity, en masse-
with brilliant ceremony and display.
A glorious salute to my last stage-
a party planned with colorful attire
to complement my patterns and engage
fine passersby and artists to admire.
My trees will dress in orange, red, or gold,
and they must pick the one that suits them best
to glow and rustle on dark limbs as bold
farewells to close this phase of life, expressed.
My last hurrah- bright shawls to warm the ground.
As bright leaves fall and soon blend with the snow
before white winter's blanket wraps around-
must say goodbye to Autumn there below.
Darkness has pressed up against our lattice windows. Classes start again in the morning. I’m being reabsorbed by college life. I’m a planner. I’ve been going over my syllabuses, repacking my bookbag, charging my power banks, checking and rechecking the assignments due tomorrow. After watching me prep for hours, Peter said, “You’re not going to the MOON.”
Peter asked me last Friday, “Are you excited for Monday? (I’ll find out if I get my fellowship.)
“I’m more excited about tonight,” I said, “I like going out on the town.”
“Wow,” he said, “you’re so different - not like the other girls at all.”
“No!” I said, laughing, “We’re stuck in a rut, we only go to one or two places, ever - if we go out at all. When people come to New Haven, I need places to take them - places besides pizza. At home, in Athens, I know twenty places - this is RESEARCH.” I assured him.
Peter settled back into his doctorate-fraternity-house yesterday. Tonight (Sunday), there’s music in the suite, the crazy noises of people and the comfort of returned friends. All the roommates are back, greeted with hugs and kisses, as they dragged in their luggage.
Lisa arrived with dinner, for 10, from Dominick's, in Manhattan. Spaghetti, salads, rolls, extra sauce - in six, small, suitcase-sized insulated bags. It was a logistical marvel. It’s only 90 minutes from Manhattan to the residence - we didn’t need to rewarm anything. “I KNOW we could have just eaten in the dining hall,” she said, shrugging, “call it zany - one last hurrah.”
Everyone seemed happy to be back. There were travel stories, questions, and laughter. Oh, and Zeppole, little powdered sugar custard desserts that seemed the worst for travel. Everyone seemed to have an eye on the clock though. By 11pm the suite was quiet. Très unusual.
* A song for this piece would be “Kennedy” by feeble little horse
Cars line the curb - last hurrahs,
the last of pseudo praises,
or as Mom would say in the midst of a eulogy
"Do I know this person"?
Praises never thought of
while life strode so proudly blind.
As the bumble bounces on the hydrangea,
sadly, other blossoms are forgotten
while the most proud was overappreciated.
How many days/years until
my blossom is forgotten - left to pink
and wither in winter's shadow
then pale and blown away
before spring knows it's missing
...or even cares.
I'd much rather a fist raised in anger
and celebration "The bastard's finally dead!"
- Not a whisper when parting,
"You got a tee time for Monday?"
The cars line the curb, yet will they leave
simply thankful they came "for the family"
or will they give a damn … pause and say
"I will miss him".
Amid falling leaves, my thoughts wander far,
as, gracefully, they cascade through the air.
From long winter sleep, they awoke with spring;
unfolded their fullness at the summer peak.
Yes, what a journey their venture provides-
in very few months, each life is fulfilled.
For them, time is fathomed by seasons of days-
unlike my much longer, well-measured years.
Oh, falling leaves, like my autumn of life-
you slowly drift down on faded green lawns.
Red-orange-gold colors boast your last hurrah,
as they calmly, peacefully, twirl to the ground.
A calm ride from branches to blanket the earth;
yet, you weathered storms on long, windy nights.
You shielded the nests upon fine, sturdy limbs
and honored your seasons as best as you could.
My feelings unfold as each lone leaf descends-
reminiscing my own, long, well-seasoned years;
from green, tender bud to full burnished art-
my thoughts wander far, amid falling leaves.
Yet, hang on the hope of the next new Spring;
with awakened birth, new life will begin.
Autumn brings colors to uplift "summer's soul"
"washing withered" greens with bright patina;
the eyesight delight which brightens and abets,
with "fiery fusion," new scenes old summer will accept-
highlights, imparted justly, as her season's last hurrah
while she leaves, bereaves her lost Xanadu,
in the brilliance of red/golds swirled with orange/amber,
crowning trees and carpeting sprawled bald lawns with cheer-
to "soften summer's" exit within "Autumn's arena"-
until she returns again- post next year's Spring Rebirth.
September 11, 2022
~1st Place~
Contest: The A's Have It
Sponsor: Joseph May
Judged: 10/02/2022
Theme/Title: Last Hurrah
Bold = Alphabetical order of 3 words
Quotes = Alliterations
Italics = Internal Rhyme
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Contest Rules:
2 or more lines with 3 words in alphabetical order. It can be
more words but the minimum is 3 words.
3 or more lines with alliterations.
2 or more lines with internal rhymes (perfect rhymes)
Spell out a word with the last letters of each line,
That word is your Title and your Theme
I Wish I Were Irish
For the gift of gab, the blarney stone I’d kiss
Upside down by ankles dangling, I’d do this
A story-teller I’d surely be
Risking life and limb ‘tis me
To spew flattery among every laddy and miss
Like the pirate queen Grace O’malley of seafaring clans
Before she sheard her long hair and designed plans
Emerald eyes and strawberry blond locks
Lads swoon by the dozen in flocks
I’ll be in the Dunguaire Castle made by the O’Hans
Plow through O’Conners novel “The Last Hurrah”
Party on Paddy’s Day, shoutin’ Erin Go Braugh!
Feast on authentic Irish lamb stew
While swilling pints of Guinness brew
Peddling my bike up the mountain, of Ballyhoura
I’d sing "Carrickfergus" an Irish folk song
Become a Celtic flutist and chime along
A tenor belts out “Galway Bay”
“Danny boy” heard at the pubs all day
Riverdancing through the heather all night long
The Dee Denial
From start you doubted me
And thus rejected me
You thought perhaps I could not give
The things you sought of me.
You never let me try
To prove I would not lie
To make you, in the end, believe
Than that I’d rather die!
But still I worshipped you
And all things promised you
But nay, you feared I might deceive
From what friends told to you.
If only you’d believed
Your thoughts were ill-conceived
And now I’m left alone to grieve
A love not well-received.
I’ll love you from afar
Sing ‘que sera, sera’
I guess in time I’ll learn to live
Without that last ‘Hurrah!!!’
(The Fg 81.5.8.)
Flame yellow with a tint of gold,
flutters with bite of autumn cold,
on aspens and their birch cousins
are first seen when the fall begins.
Then scarlet fire will appear,
a blaze that won’t inspire fear,
and deep crimsons of apple-hue,
add such richness to a view.
Next sugar maples, orange bright,
like morning color of sunlight,
the harvest-bringer’s vibrant shade
soon dominates the forest glade.
And then the tourists come again,
I guess I can’t really blame them,
the beauty of this display marks
a last hurrah before the dark.
I myself like autumn as well,
but to be honest, this I’ll tell:
I much prefer when the fall leaves,
because I can get out my skis…