Long Lengthened Poems
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The Green Fairy visits me
From an apothecary jar
And gives me a Commoner’s taste of heaven
Libations for one and all
In close proximity
Not from afar.
In smoke filled rooms
Of curling delights
I see diamonds
Reflected in all the lights
And Illumination
From the green glow
Possessed by the café’s glasses.
All is forgiven and forgotten
Within those walls of shame
There is a warmth and a comfort
To all its dismay…
As night turns toward midnight…
And midnight runs toward day.
There is no real obscure focus…
No magical hocus pocus
No real concentration of veritable belief
That the green fairy hides behind.
As absinthe begins and then continues on
To rule my body and my mind
And spirits me away
To a life of shortened days
But hours lengthened by the devotion
To The Green Fairy.
Copyright Christine A Kysely 2010 November 26, 2010
(c) Copyright 2010 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved,
Life is not short!
In fact life is lengthened long,
Long for seeds of grace to germinate and sprout into emerald sprouts,
And the callow shrubs can grow into bushy bushes.
Life is adequate enough for an innocent boy,
To proceed into a man of substance,
For a beautiful girl to advance into a woman of wisdom,
Each moment a chance for transformation,
From the raw potential of youth,
To the seasoned strength of maturity.
Life unfolds at its own rhythm,
A symphony of experiences and lessons,
Guiding us along the path of self-discovery,
Nurturing the seeds of greatness within us,
Until we bloom into our fullest selves.
Life is a boundless eternal dance,
Beyond the grasp of time's cold hands.
Not a tally of breaths inhaled,
Nor a calculation on a mortal scale.
Life and time, distant kin indeed,
One flowing freely, the other bound by need.
Life's essence not confined by tick or tock,
It dances and weaves through time's endless clock.
A process separate, a journey untamed,
Life's essence remains, forever unchained.
As time's final curtain begins to draw near,
Life's spirit soars, unburdened by fear.
In the grand arras of being,
Life's strings interlock, a sublime resistance.
Beyond the measure of time's fleeting chime,
Life endures, eternal and sublime.
Form:
Memories on Branches
Sitting in the warmth of sunlit joy
awakened from the sleep of never sky
subtly, with time, the urges rise
to leave the nest and somehow learn to fly.
Heat, loves demon in disguise,
shocks all nature’s senses into lust
cooling in the shade of lengthened day
the desire to fulfill an unknown trust.
Climax, in kaleidoscopic red,
faint hint of coolness in the bed,
winds that steal the words unsaid
cold tears of summer loves sole dread.
Sitting in the icy gale of one
no heat from fading, distant sun,
returned into the world of never sky
Reminiscent of the day we learned to fly.
John G. Lawless
3/10/2014
The millwheel will not turn again till spring
for Winter’s icy cold grip holds it firm.
She squeezes it like Her private plaything,
though Her crushing power is but short-term.
As shorter days subtly lengthened; the sun
slowly began to liquefy the ice.
And the waterwheel shook, and almost spun,
while the miller posted his asking price.
Whispers ran through the town from door to door,
the ice is breaking up at the millpond.
And housewives could soon buy flour once more,
for each village, and its mill shared a bond.
The millwheel shimmies free from Winter’s grip,
shuddering as the water level peaks.
And as pressure increases drip by drip,
the pond ice melts, and the wooden wheel creaks.
(Quatrain)
6/26/2018
I peer at myself in the mirror.
My forehead is nice though I like it covered with bangs.
Lines there are to be expected,
and so too, the crows’ feet at my eyes.
At the base of my forehead are dark brown brows.
They are the one aspect of my face
that I’ve deliberately and totally transformed.
No longer Brook Shield eyebrow lookalikes,
they have been plucked into the tamer form I desired.
My nose is the same long nose with its strange small hump
that I detested since my youth,
but I have learned to live with it.
Though I am not fond of my profile,
when I see myself straight on, I find my nose rather cute.
As with all things in my life that I learned to accept with time,
I now accept the length of my nose as a quality which gives it character.
My extradordinary Roman nose is part of who I am,
regardless of the fact I have no Italian blood!
When I really analyze my aging face,
I see that the weight of all my years has lengthened it.
My face was always long, but nicely oval.
It’s even longer now, thin, and just a tad droopy.
Yes, life has pulled it down,
and I’m not terribly pleased about that.
Chipmunk cheeks above smiling dimples
have given way for a somewhat more somber look
due to my laugh lines (no laughing matter)
having grown more defined.
Those deeper lines I think reflect
my having delved more deeply by now
into things of which fresh youth
can simply not conceive.
If I could use a veil,
my long-lashed eyes above it would seem the same
as I have remembered them since my guiless youth.
Their light, indistinct color (Grey? Green? Blue?)
stays forever lovely. Find me behind them.
There I am ageless.
Dec. 22, 2019
for the The Metaphor Of Your Face Poetry Contest of John Lawless
March 18, 2022 for 'A BRIAN STRAND 1092' Contest
Sixty years have passed.
No one knew how to spell its name.
No one knew when it first opened.
It was forever, like the infernal summer heat.
It stands indelible at the end of my street,
at the end of my episodic hippocampus.
Everyone congregated at this cozy corner store,
this neighborhood fount for stories, jokes,
convenient food and cheap toys.
There were only a few shoplifters,
usually snarky boys slightly older than me.
They were never caught.
The guy behind the counter
never caught anything he didn’t want to see.
Perhaps the store’s namesake,
he worked slavishly, anxiously alone.
One frantic day, he spotted vomit on the floor.
Bolting into the backroom,
He returned with mop and pail
only to find the mess entirely missing.
Snickering, snarky boys hid their latex toy.
A harmless prank, some would say.
But somehow, in my tenth year
I felt sorrow for the overworked man.
Nothing ever changed.
It all lingered like the infernal summer heat,
the gripping stillness of eternal summer.
This neurotransmitter of neighborly connections,
This hub of gab and gossip,
Home to my first financial transactions,
Home to penny candy, bubblegum cards, and Mars bars.
Home to grape soda, Twinkies, and Wonder Bread.
No one knew how to spell its name.
No one knew when it permanently closed.
But the potent sugar-coated flashbacks
have lengthened my life.
alone he stands behind the plow
in footrace with the lengthened dawn
a shadow figure in the now
pursues the where and when and how
of unseen reins so slowly drawn
alone he stands behind the plow
each furrow’s end a prayerful bow
an homage paid – dark soil turned fawn
a shadow figure in the now
a twisted plowmans daily prowl
his dream - horizon’s distant pawn
alone he stands behind the plow
as rutted field and furrowed brow
leave in the mist the endless song
a shadow figure in the now
in answer to where, when, and how
sweet memories dark furrows spawn
alone he stands behind the plow
a shadow figure in the now
©1/16/2018
Contest: Villanelle Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Nina Parmenter
Sweetheart, remember those tender
days, we were so young our love full
of virgin pureness and candor.
We would walk alone, you and I
in those Autumn days to the park
and linger there. Shield by the trees
we would sit in the swings and chat,
you would smile that faint quirky smile.
You'd push, I would rise to the sky.
O, the cool serene wind felt nice
nestled against my face as I
lengthened my toes to touch the sky.
Sweetheart, remember those tender
days, we were so young our love full
of virgin pureness and candor.
Now.
We sit drinking coffee, looking
out the kitchen window toward
the vegetable and flower
garden. Our grandchildren swing each
other on that aged tire swing tied
to the old gnarly tree's top out
stretched thick bough.
I think back at those moments at
that swing at the park. You'd push, I
would rise to touch and clutch the sky;
worth rediscovering ourselves
utter those times of tenderness.
The last good days of innocence.
5/2/2020
Pick-A-Title, Vol 16 - Free Verse 2 - Poetry Contest
2. The Last Good Days Of Innocence
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
Wisdom Tree
A solitary man
Makes his way up the mountain
One step at a time
The life he knows further and further behind
He wishes to be alone
Away from the busyness
The noise
Responsibility
Activity
Work that is never done
Conflict
The need to be in control
He reaches the mountain top
Sits down and crosses his legs
He looks out at the landscape
His village a small mass of thatched roofs
People unseeable
Smoke rises from a central fire
The lake so small
it looks like it can fit into a wooden spoon
The horizon surrounds him
He feels the pebbles beneath him
Blades of grass are myopically large
He watches as the ants toil
Are their lives not the same?
Seasons change
Summer to fall
winter to spring
He witnesses it all
His beard lengthened
As his mind enlarged
Secrets have been revealed
He’s disconnected yet part of all
The base of him grows into the ground
Others journey to the mountain top
Seeking his wisdom
They sit with him for a while
Never staying for long
Each person takes so that they may give
The wise man transformed
Arms outstretched
reaching to all the horizons
Now covered with leaves
The seasons continue to change
He sends his leaves down to the village
Beckoning them to the mountain
Not wanting to be alone
"Come sit beneath my branches
caress my bark smell my scent
know my soul."
He’s no longer is able to speak
All that he knows
resides in the rings of his seasons
Still he offers wisdom
Put your ear to his trunk
You can still hear his heart beat
His breath whistles through the leaves
His seeds cover your woolen coat
You are a solitary man
making your way down the mountain
One step at a time
Closer and closer to your village
To the ones you love
As you walk through the village
you shake the seeds off your coat
They fall on the fertile ground
The wise man
has finally come home.
Dost thou disport thyself in thy daily pilgrimage?
What calleth 'playtime' unto thy soul?
I find my joy in the presence of ancient trees.
Where vibrant hues do spiral wild and free.
Such forests stretch beyond the sight, far and deep.
For 'tis within the winding roads of sleep.
I wander, blessed by the light that slumbered brings.
Nature doth cast a gentle, cooling breath!
To soothe my spirit, far from thoughts of depth.
O, Golden Light! Grant me lengthened rest!
For my strange, painted trees must be addressed.
With joyous heart, I fashion things of naughty.
The muse cries, "Play!" with every color squeezed,
With twinning scrolls and fancies, well appeased.
'Tis here I take my leap,
Both bold and steep,
Into a bright and variegated heap!