Long Lean to Poems
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Maybe Tomorrow Night?
by Odin Roark
Early last night
thinking got heavy.
Uncomfortable feelings crept in.
The mix was,
I don't know…
Revealing, I guess.
How much?
How much is one person supposed to carry?
How strong this body thin?
Have I not hammered enough nails,
untangled enough twisted synaptic vines?
When will it be finished,
this lean-to in the forest of high-rise expectancies,
these mindscapes where insomniacs of abandoned conscience
meet persistent awareness in flames?
Is there only sitting alone on empty subway cars
careening through express stops,
where ghosts of ancient ether float suspended,
waving their giddy hands as the blur passes,
where the burning midnight oil insistence
searches for better light,
illuminated dream signs,
visions that never cease?
That was before I reached the last stop,
climbed the stairs into midnight darkness,
listened to my cacophony of silence,
pushed through that familiar door,
straddled my stool at O'Riley's,
made my pencil write,
while five and dime glassware
became faceted crystal of my dreams,
sloshing melted memories about,
elbowing their way into napkin after napkin,
crossed out words after crossed out words,
caramel river after caramel river,
finding my liver oh so accommodating.
Later last night,
I found my perch atop the familiar railing.
You know,
the same one as before,
and before,
and before,
studying the arc.
Did you know water runs deepest
when you know it's really the right time?
And they keep telling me two-hundred feet
allows plenty of gravity to collect.
But…
They've got me in this awful green room again.
Took my pencil.
Gave me a crayon.
Black this time.
Words don't care.
Curls and lines.
Paper doesn’t care.
Late last night,
they said i had to stay awhile.
Again, you know,
‘til I convinced them, again
that I'm all here,
all together,
just a little lonely,
no harm.
You know,
I'm thinkin'
there's gotta be another way,
you know.
Better than making you up all the time.
Maybe we could meet,
you and me.
Coffee.
Nothin’ fancy.
Just...
Maybe early
tomorrow night,
before my believin’ gets heavy again.
Maybe?
Sweetheart?
Maybe Tomorrow Night?
by Odin Roark
Early last night
thinking got heavy.
Uncomfortable feelings crept in.
The mix was,
I don't know…
Revealing, I guess.
How much?
How much is one person supposed to carry?
How strong this body thin?
Have I not hammered enough nails,
untangled enough twisted synaptic vines?
When will it be finished,
this lean-to in the forest of high-rise expectancies,
these mindscapes where insomniacs of abandoned conscience
meet persistent awareness in flames?
Is there only sitting alone on empty subway cars
careening through express stops,
where ghosts of ancient ether float suspended,
waving their giddy hands as the blur passes,
where the burning midnight oil insistence
searches for better light,
illuminated dream signs,
visions that never cease?
That was before I reached the last stop,
climbed the stairs into midnight darkness,
listened to my cacophony of silence,
pushed through that familiar door,
straddled my stool at O'Riley's,
made my pencil write,
while five and dime glassware
became faceted crystal of my dreams,
sloshing melted memories about,
elbowing their way into napkin after napkin,
crossed out words after crossed out words,
caramel river after caramel river,
finding my liver oh so accommodating.
Later last night,
I found my perch atop the familiar railing.
You know,
the same one as before,
and before,
and before,
studying the arc.
Did you know water runs deepest
when you know it's really the right time?
And they keep telling me two-hundred feet
allows plenty of gravity to collect.
But…
They've got me in this awful green room again.
Took my pencil.
Gave me a crayon.
Black this time.
Words don't care.
Curls and lines.
Paper doesn’t care.
Late last night,
they said I had to stay awhile.
Again, you know,
‘til I convinced them, again
that I'm all here,
all together,
just a little lonely,
no harm.
You know,
I'm thinkin'
there's gotta be another way,
you know.
Better than making you up all the time.
Maybe we could meet,
you and me.
Coffee.
Nothin’ fancy.
Just...
Maybe early
tomorrow night,
before my believin’ gets heavy again.
Maybe?
Sweetheart?
Dear boy:
Do not enslave your thoughts to the ashes of Eden,
Do not build your hope upon the tight pocket of mental women learning to wipe out their sweat against the wall of your voicelessness and fear.
Do not ask why the gods woke from the laps of
an harlot learning to be saved by Pope Francis.
Those sagging sadness on your face shall wear a smile again when the healing balms shall come.
When the scorching sun breathes life to torn mouths of dying motion and starlet shimmer,
Unto your craving eyes shall blood stained hill
Fail to glitter again to men of goodwill &love.
This light of ours shall shadow breakthrough.
They may call you a broken rib, but do not dodge potholes to kill a surviving fleeing rat in fear.
Until the world heals you from these viruses.
Do not spend your night in the feet of grief,
Sit at the fireplace to gaze at the moon belching.
Do not empty your dreams into leaking water jar
Your fate is not cracked, my boy, yes, it is not.
Stars lean to learn to speak million things in silence buttressed by committed compliments.
Don't deny a woman her place for the world belong to no man in particular but all of us who dream.
We will heal you of this hurtful plight created.
No matter the scars on your bleeding face
No matter how brave you think you can be
There is a race for your pace and places.
Always look out for a healing shoulder, my boy.
A shoulder that has no fire burning in the crossroad between her black and heavy thighs.
We all burn the same way but the society stereotype some reasons why we burn differently.
till we roll up this suffering mat of summer pains,
Till we meet to archive those words for the boys,
Till the smothering voice of a young boy is heard above the drones of burning hearts &boulevard.
Till they understood the Story revolving around
The corner of the BoyChild's testament burst,
This light of ours shall bring healing process
before the benefits of the sky, the cloud & our souls. Healing is paramount to self survivals.
©John Chizoba Vincent
From_A_Pen_Refusing_Frustration
Arthritic Vision Ponders Dementia's Dreams of Love's Future!
I’m a fool for you, dear one, if weakness, my choice,
As a man, though redundant, a poetic voice!
I’ll rain showers of kindness (won’t blitz your parade),
And have umbrella close by should glare suggest shade!
There’ll be lemonade iced down for days that it’s hot
And a jacket to borrow whenever it’s not!
Hold your hand if you tremble (from fear in some way),
As both ears lean to treasure what you have to say.
On a day you need rest, yours to cuddle and spoon,
And my home is your home (the back side of the moon?)!
Should we muse in Moon's crater, enjoy Earth’s green dells,
May we laugh, sing with birds, feel a breeze that foretells
That should we reincarnate, past’s gold’s ours to mint
To exchange for a future, it’s Karma well spent!
Might we live love in gardens, as husband and wife?
Is time ‘blush on a rose?’ Care to share afterlife?
Long Tooth
May 1st of 2019
Poet’s Notes:
I’ve long felt that there is nothing wrong with boldly declaring
that there are several friends in my life who I genuinely love,
women I still feel sexually attracted to. So am I then a new Don
Quixote (if not insane)? Am I tilting at windmills, to even dream
this quest is on a path of honor? Who has the time? What man
can clone himself, even in these days of moon landings!
To love any woman, even one woman is like trying to juggle
razor sharp Samurai Swords standing up in an empty canoe
without a keel or any ballast to stabilize you. It borders on the
edge of too much work, though the rewards may (to many men)
seem worth the effort, a dropped sword can sink one's boat!
How can one’s spirit be wholly free and feel love at the same
time? Nevertheless, to experience this is my purpose in life,
and my goal (if it is even possible) is to share this gift with as
many as I can, given the constraints of human life. Is there any
truth higher than this, “to love, one has to let go?” Oh, let ME
be loved by YOU in such a way (and still find you there!)
Spring things arrive, assaulting eyes unused;
Hollowed by a winter grey, whitened paint infused.
Bleeding sudden kaleidoscopes to landscapes,
Cacophonies of endless greetings, drowning pain
As nature comes with energies and hunger once again.
Along a garden wall in shades of many trees
Where grasses lean to show the shallows,
left by bended knees,
Winter mourns the missing; finding solace spring allows.
Into the blossoms of her bosoms’ bounty boughs.
Each year, the trees and grasses form a springtime here.
Shadows burst to life inserting wisdom to our trowels,
Flagstones, Breadcrumbs,
Streaks of dappled sun through arbor boughs.
Clouds of every nation’s hue, the garden wall allows.
Beneath the trees, along this wall,
Where mother earth colludes with all
To waken us again to waiting lives.
Where we will walk in morning light,
And say goodbye to Winter’s night.
Follow footsteps west, to trace the sun,
Feeling radiance shine on us as daylight meets us there.
Each mornings’ border brings a new frontier.
Where things are quiet, unborn yet of fear.
Finishings are left; beginnings yet to be.
New is all there is for us to see.
Eyes search skies of azure blue,
Ears detecting every clue.
Hearts wait here for birth of love,
A comfort known by few.
Upon a log with gnarled burls of hardened skin
We find a resting bench,
With green moss tablecloths
Grown from the earth
In its slow-moving wisdom,
This tree laid down its life centuries ago,
Knowing one day we would come,
To sit upon its broad back and learn that faith
Is sharing life through patience and sacrifice.
Nearby, the ocean waves create a spray
That towers over all, providing raindrops
Sent to splash upon the garden wall.
As dew drops form on maple leaves; so small.
Although each soul is born to different bendings,
Spring shall lend itself to form a call
New beginnings, giving birth to endings
That one day beckon every drop
To somehow find its fall.
I’m the shadow behind your imperious stance,
Lurking in the qualms of your history.
I am the murky gleam in your squinting
…mascara caked eyes.
I am misfortune lain artfully at the floor of your
800 thread count nest of regret.
Can you feel me?
Do your feet shudder at the touch of the cold in the morning?
That hardwood was a bad choice
….wasn’t it?
Yet, as the dew of the dawn melds with the sweaty condensation
Of the night before and turns your window into an opaque sheen of
Comfortable security; you feel entitled enough to call me again.
…..And your conscience throbs in unison with my ringtone.
Your stammering excuses plummet and miss their mark
Before a well-rehearsed alibi can be properly injected
Into my all too vulnerable system.
A taste like bitter wine prowls unto my heart’s palate;
And my surrogate body wakes to taste the salt of your embrace.
Your voice creaks.
My hand wraps tight around the sound of your
Insidious modulation;
While cell phone towers crackle in apparent empathy
To the strained atmosphere.
I am left wielding a torpid tongue.
Inferences and implications are scattered and entwined;
My body tries to correlate an action
….but I’m stoned.
Too confused to be logical.
…Too overwhelmed to even move.
Drowning in bloody promises,
with a noose of heartbreak around my neck.
And as he reaches for what once was my heaven;
I hear a yawn of contentment that almost echoes
.
You lean to your window,
And wipe away droplets of our past;
And I force myself to inhale clarity.
"Goodbye."
-James Kelley 2011 ©
Perfection!
The eyes, evenly spaced, one eye and another, one to a side
The eyes warn of the precipice, find the water, search for prey
The ears hear the risk not seen, one ear and another, one to a side
The ears discern a threat, sense the danger, and caution ‘step away’
All to hint of a plan, that of the perfection of man
The nose, centered, beneath the eyes, nature’s blessing
The nose, a wafting of flowers, a babe’s sweetness, an aroma of spices pure
The mouth, nature bestows its riches, apples, cherries, water ice cold streaming
The mouth, a spoon to nurture, of tasteful pleasures, and we endure
All to hint of a plan, that of the perfection of man
The arms, to heft the bounty, sinew to raise all that is of essence
The arms, to protect loved ones, to embrace, to till the soil
The hands, to build, to feed, to fold in deference to a greater presence
The hands, to calm, to stay the evening chill, to celebrate the harvest of toil
All to hint of a plan, that of the perfection of man
The legs, to lessen the distance between mother and child, to walk, to run
The legs, to ascend the mountain, to follow the trail, to seek the new and leave the known
The feet, to seize the earth, to stride, and in turn, to lower gently, earthward, a victory won
The feet, to stand, to steady, to lean, to tactfully depart once seeds are sown
All to hint of a plan, that of the perfection of man
The mind of man, to conceive, to invent, to ease the burden, to assuage the pain
The mind of man, to conserve the forests, to defend the jungles, to cleanse the water
The Spirit and Soul of man, enduring, unceasing, continuing beyond our earthly plane
The Spirit and Soul of man, to love and revere Nature as mother, as father
All to hint of a plan, that of the perfection of man
Joy is a feeling of fulfillment in the light of faith
Symbolized by a pink candle in an advent wreath
It fills our spirit an immeasurable happiness’ delight
Our precious gift when we fully lean to Jesus Christ.
Joy is a great virtue along with unwavering hope
Fruit of the Holy Spirit that’ll deliver us from temptations
It’s the spirit of joy that’ll help us to easily cope
From our failures or any phase of spiritual distortions.
Hope is a complete confidence to God’s promise
An enthusiastic anticipation to what is unseen
It’s the purple candle burning brightly at an evergreen
With wide radiant rays from us reaching the Lord’s chalice.
Hope drives an everlasting patience and kindness
Releases us from the taut of doubts and fears
Most essential virtue to an assurance-fullness
Get hope in God’s words, abide and no more tears.
Kindness is mercy and compassionate generosity
For our brethren especially the poor and our enemy
Let's have fair treatment and selfless care for everyone
Without mutual reciprocals, heaven fills your hands.
When kindness begets kindness, the whole world will change
We yield marvelous fruits both in our lives and of others
As charitable acts of kindness spring from us at no range
Hope and joy dwell as we wait for the coming of Our Father.
Jan 30,2022 10.09am
Romans 15:13
May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.
Ephesians 4:32
“Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.”
Joy, Hope and kindness
Place: 1 (We're 35 first placers)
Contest Judged: 2/20/2022 10:53:00 AM
Sponsored by: Angela Tune
I welcome
the grogginess.
That dulling of my senses.
Until the walls turn to hazy grey.
My hand coming in and out of focus.
Another two fingers of whiskey
swirling in my glass.
“Bottoms up”
making short work of a Fifth.
“99 bottles of beer on the wall, 99 bottles of beer!”
No one around to stop the madness.
Booze and beer bottles litter this dingy motel room.
Mr. Peanut, staring at me
from the side of a Planters peanut can.
It’s worth the extra buck fifty for a classy snack.
A bag of pretzels on the dresser as back up.
How many trips to the liquor mart on Fourth?
Shuffling, shuffling, no need to drive.
I chose my motel well,
one block south, lean to the left and voila!
Fifteen minutes later back to the room.
No need to fumble with the lock
it’s easier to leave the door open.
The ”Do not disturb” hanger is still on the door knob.
Three days 5 hours, one less room for the maid to clean.
She probably got to go home a half hour early.
No bargain though, it might take 3 days to catch up.
“Three bottles of beer on the wall, if one of those bottles should happen to fall” Oh crap, I piss myself again.
Too numb, to shuffle to the can. The smell of piss and vomit doesn’t even register. I fall forward like a tree that has been chopped down. There is a cracking sound as my nose breaks but no pain. I’m now in a dreamless land.
Thirteen hours later the Motel Manager is shaking me hard.
“Hey man, wake up. If you don’t get out of here I’m calling the police.” Meanwhile I hear the clink of glass bottles as the maid fills a garbage bag with my empties.
The smell of vomit, piss and blood permeates my broken nose. Thoughts flood my mind, I want that numbness again. I don’t care if it doesn’t solve my problems.
It makes them bearable.
Song of the mystic whaler
Come on board to play and work
come on board to learn to sing and praise the mystic whaler
sailing on the mighty Hudson
Come sing the mystic whaler
hoist the ropes rig the lines climb her wooden masts
ready to sail upon the mystic whaler
the winding turns through narrow straights and vibrant winds
her sails are free to climb
she brings hope and changes lives
The Clearwater sails the tides
A living classroom that breathes from life in the autumns of young lives
come hear the children laughing the voices singing
and people learning from nature’s way about the river and how to keep
It clean. Come learn the history of the majestic Hudson
Come feel the wind upon your back as you lift her mighty sails
to hear the bowing creak to walk the masts and touch the stern
And walk her wooden decks
Breathe a fragrance from its shores that lights the spark from nature and fires the teaching they require
Look yonder at the marshes plants in their estuaries at birds nesting by the
Somber shores
Upon the banks grasses gently swaying
Light of being in its living
Shadows cast on golden dawns passing by along the tide where the crickets lie
Jetted rocks with Cyprus trees lean to reach the sky
Voices of gulls to the right flying low to the tide
Sun is rising the sun is setting upon the fishing nets
Once when the river was dying of DDT pcbs and of sewer rot
Now is clean and living free thanks to a concerning lot
The beautiful Hudson River shapes the stillness and flowers of the day
The falling leaf on windblown tides
Small towns where beacons lit the harbor on its winding curves
Subtle seclusions and of its singing birds
Where stars unite and bring delight
Come ride the mystic whaler