Long Lay by Poems
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A dusty town where the shadows creep,
A broken man sits lost in sleep.
Ropes and zip ties lay by his side,
A waitress’s smile now just a ghostly ride.
He dodged the law like a whispering wind,
But the sins of his father found their way in.
And oh, can you hear the silence scream?
A family of jars chasing forgotten dreams.
On Arizona sands where the echoes roam,
Ghosts of lost lives searching for home.
Born on the edge where darkness fell,
A heart full of scars and tales to tell.
A stock clerk’s burden he carried alone,
Wished for freedom but always was thrown.
Scholarship dreams slipped through his hands,
As bottles replaced all his shattered plans.
And oh, can you hear the silence scream?
A family of jars chasing forgotten dreams.
On Arizona sands where the echoes roam,
Ghosts of lost lives searching for home.
Now he sits in a chair with shadows so near,
Lost in memories wrapped up in fear.
His daughter walks streets while he fades away,
Each trick that she turns pulls him further astray.
Minutes drag on like a thief in the night,
Addiction's cold grip steals away all light.
But deep down inside there’s still love to find
Even when darkness has clouded his mind.
And oh, can you hear the silence scream?
A family of jars chasing forgotten dreams.
On Arizona sands where the echoes roam,
Ghosts of lost lives searching for home.
In that quiet place where no one remains,
They’ll meet again free from their chains
Riding together ‘neath an endless sky wide;
Finding solace at last on that other side.
Note to Sponsor: Sorry, I did not quite understand the directions for the third quatrain part, so this is now revised for the contest and hopefully done the correct way! Also revised some of the beginning part.(revised again Sept. 23)
I smiled when we lay by a brook
beneath an oak. There was sweet shade.
You gave me an endearing look -
so pleasure-sated from love made
there on the grass like carpet lush
with buttercups and trim of brush.
We watched the brook that murmured past,
which recently had rippled fast!
There was sweet shade beneath an oak.
I smiled when by a brook we lay,
from love made -so pleasure-sated.
An endearing look you gave me.
Since kissing stones along its way,
that brook, with us, now sparkling lay.
Sept. 21, 2020
For Charles Messina's Charonnet Poetry Contest
There's no good reason to be an outlaw.
A world of rocks and hard barren ground.
I became evil, in an evil world.
A bringer of death, good men hated.
I need to end my outlaw days, reflect and pause.
My life spent in dusty towns, saloons and whore houses.
I'm left with nothing but weary travel,
And dirty clothes, on my worn out back
I am a painting of the times I live in,
Men without a home, without care or concern
I have but one saving grace and desire,
To find a love to wrestle me from this life
To whisper my name, Ricardo, in my ear
For her, I would holster my gun,
And lay by cool streams in her arms of peace.
I have nothing, a horse, gun, and saddle.
My life spent, a scourge to all,
With pockets filled with fool's gold.
I've lived a lifetime filled with abandon,
Not knowing what I never knew,
Hearing voices that claim they had.
I saw the world through the looking glass of my eyes,
And have known nothing more than what I've found.
The passing of time, the memories I hide.
Watching time grow shorter and memories longer.
The two will one day finally meet,
Whether from my last breath or a bullet in the back.
My life has been a fruitless endeavor,
And I see no reason for my insanity.
I became what I wanted to be.
To be an outlaw, it seemed so romantic.
6/15/17 Contest Create a Character
Give to me the good land
sweet earth and soil
the sun the shade and her toil
Put me back in natures hand
the cycle of things that I understand
Stand beneath the light of the stars
and my face to warm in the sun
pick herbs in summer showers
and hold you firmly in my hand
the joining of woman and man
Feel the crisp breeze of the bay
and accomplish the work of the day
lay by your side every night
without a struggle or fight
Let the warmth of my soul dispell
your fear and your anger quell
Trust my soul to work for your good
and all between us is understood
Let us run the river beside
and in the woods play seek and hide
Sing to the children our song
that we should all get along
To the cycle we all understand
Belonging to woman and man
COPYRIGHT © 2009 C Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC
When I am nothing, a no one,
when nobody remembers my name -
will you give me a purpose to remain?
When I can no longer run,
will you carry me over the line?
Will you teach me how to tread slowly,
upon paths I'm yet to discover,
will you bring me home?
In times of rage and rejection,
will you show me patience,
love me without blame?
Will you understand me -
comprehend the metaphors of my angst?
When I am lost in the wilderness,
will you guide me to be found?
When all doors are closed,
will you provide me with a key,
so I can open yours?
In days of darkness,
when selfish stars hide behind black hues,
when I'm lonely like the moon,
will you place my head upon your chest,
so I can feel the glow of your heart?
When I'm helpless
in the trauma of the storm,
in times of insanity and fear,
will you keep me warm?
Shelter my inner child,
from those who could harm?
When tears finally flow,
when my lips are parched,
will you kiss me softly,
heal me with breaths of empathy?
In times of infliction,
when there is no remedy for my cure,
will you hold my hand,
will you ease my pain -
soothe me until the end?
When I crumble like a summer orchid,
will you lay strong foundations?
Will you disguise my imperfections,
lie to me about my perfections?
When I'm too fatigued to flower,
will you become a pillow upon my flowerbed?
When my garden is no longer evergreen,
will you sow new seeds of hope.
so my memories blossom forever?
When there are no words
Will you cherish my silence?
When I can no longer walk,
will you lay by my side?
When all lyrics have been written,
when the last poem has been sung,
will you become my poetry -
will you reflect on my legacy?
When my soul is returning to its sender,
will you be my last
I've got me a woman, a sweet lovin' woman
So, "Why", do you ask, "am I sayin' goodbye?"
A cowboy like me, has a hankerin' to be free..
Free to be roamin' under sweet prairie skies
every once in awhile,
Even tho' I'll be missin' her lovin' and kissin'
and the sight of her smile.
I saddled my horse, knowing of course
That she wants me to stay....
But I kissed her goodbye, saw the tears in her eyes
as I mounted my pony and trotted away
I knew she'd be grievin', because of my leavin'
But I gotta have space with walls closin' around me
I gotta get riding, where fences ain't binding.
As I ride dusty trails, I'll be hummin' a song
"The Red River Valley", or some others I've known
I'll play my guitar, harmonizing with birds
While the crickets at sundown, know all the words
Then night after night as I lay by my fire
After cooking up bacon, and some biscuits and beans
I'll think of my life, and my home and my woman
About my 'lil' darlin', and 'bout what love really means
I'll remember the good times, forgetting the bad times
I won't sleep 'cause the moonlight shines in my face
With coyotes a howlin', and the rocks in my bed roll
I'm tossin' and turnin', and for my woman I'm yearnin'
When I'm done with my roamin', ...well, then I'll be home bound
Back to my sweetheart, where you know I should be
I'll saddle my horse....knowing of course....
That I'll tell my sweet woman, I'll hang around this time....
Until that old fever gets me, and I'm scratchin' and itchin'
Then I'll catch up my pony, throw on my old bed roll
I'll head for the mountains, smell sage on the prairie
And I'll gallop through the valley of the thick chaparral
_________________________________________
We are all born angels but gradually grow
into men;
A few of us, though, do angels remain,
And you, golden you, are the like of them:
You whom Paradise led me to
And back to Paradise leads me daily;
Whom Fortune fished from my dreams to
lay by my side...
If you wish me love, wish me you,
And if I should make you happy, make me
hubby!
Then for a day you’ll be my bride and forever
my pride.
And side by side with hearts, sweat, & tears
entwined
We’ll each day labour at the blessed wheel
By whose fateful spins our home shall be
steered
Towards destinies atop golden hills
That Heaven wills as our dwelling place.
You came to give me a slap, your arm bent back,
with the back of your hand poised to 'shut my trap.'
I stood to rebuff you with anger, and schoolboy indignation.
How dare you bring reproach when you were so mistaken,
accusing 'scruffy' new boy of a smelly body pong -
because of race? - because you thought his face did not belong?
From Scotland was your reason. I was right that you were wrong.
I hated you then and was removed to a lower set.
Your obituary surprised me. Your father - 'a blacksmith
- and you sniffed, now I remember, quite a bit
-your prominent nose gave the nickname of ‘Punch.'
'A firm disciplinarian', you would brook no pupil's lip.
But I saw you often quietly slip up the hill during lunch
to see your girlfriend in a lay-by, sat waiting for each trip.
"No talking! Line up the desks along this floorboard,” you would boom.
“Do it quietly!" was your shout. “Now tidy up this room!”
You taught maths well and were admired by many, when you retired
- through ill health. “I am the old broom and the place needs a new broom.
It's just that the old broom still knows where some of the dirt is hid."
But especially this: 'He was a big man with presence, smelling badly
of carbolic soap, in need of sartorial assistance,' or so it was said.
One or two dead sheep lay by the road.
We saw a hairpin bend signed 'Beware of
Blind People Crossing' as we drove from Dublin,
West to Connemara's wild Atlantic shores
To black rock crags patched white between with
Coral sand, backed by bog the other side of the
Deserted coastal R341 and a cottage
Between Ballyconeely and the Mannin Bay Blueway.
Farmers parked their Morris Minors
Where the river flowed half a metre deep
Across the road though we had no choice but
To go through with water lapping to the doors
As our engine choked and stuttered.
There was not a thing on bare shop shelves
Save what the tide and storms brought in,
Or so it seemed. Just a single skate wing
In a solitary wooden box stood centre
On a warehouse floor, as though awaiting
Bomb disposal, far from the great shutter door
Opened for us when we called for something
For our supper. The weather was the worst in living Memory. "'Tis wild, 'tis wild," the shepherd said,
Nothing more, driving him from his hitch-hike
To the nearest village pub
Where, with two halves of Guinness down for us,
He retired to a corner table to drink alone across
The room in an empty bar. Cottage number 94
Was dark and damp. We had dragged the sofa
Out to try and warm and dry on the only fine
Afternoon when a sheepdog came by and into the Compound, low walled with broken breeze block
Placed to mark the cottage ground.
He beckoned us to follow him way back into the bog.
It seemed he had a mission and so we went
Along a mile or two at pace until he turned tail at
No particular point on the path and disappearing
From our view left us alone and panting.
A hotel waitress took pity on us at our only
Venture out to lunch. "Would we be wanting
Another lobster ? - its on the house," she said.
They had boiled too many for the service.
Could she tell we were on our honeymoon?
To be sure, still awkward, shy and out of place in Galway's wildest weather and Atlantic autumn storms.
Sadness weeps not for itself
rather from broken windows of a child
where each piece lay by the tracks of despair
where unshaven shadowed men slept in bushes...waiting
to board tomorrow in their continuous circle of failure
it is the broken sidewalk
felt by little feet, through the holes of shoes
one step at a time
the water fountain of white's only
that dripped constantly with hate
the scorched eyes that pierced cotton armor
sewed by a Mother's hand
worn on the body of the bowed head of embarrassment
that walked by pointed fingers of laughter
never accepted, never welcomed
it is the tears that make night longer
the rush of blood following a wounded trail
it is the soldier that fought a hundred fights of respect
and the pounding fist breaking walls
the lonely cry of empty nights
on narrow bridges with a sad moon
counting ripples lapping stones
on the banks of tomorrow
wondering about fate...listening to crows
as they call out the name of darkness
wanting death to appear, without regret
to find a planted stone in an empty field
without footprints...where grass grew
to cover any reason that someone lived
2/12/18