Long Livelong Poems
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As far as this mind can remember
The tales I was told where of a fair maiden
Living in the shadows of despair and pain
Longing for a new life over the jealous hills
So she can be made anew in happiness.
Then there was a new champion
A well-made lad who shone like
Golden penny in the bloom of light
He would come battle the dragon
And lead the fair maiden to her livelong day.
We need new fairy tales
Ones in which the soft maiden finds champion in herself
She summons the courage to slay the dragon herself
The power to walk over the hill she can overcome
And she is not like the weeds waiting to be cut out.
Going through its ambiance, (on) with open thoughts,
Past scenes so serene, and picturesque (in situ passed).
A house, its windows just ajar to the tactile winsome breeze
That taste of zest & adventure infused; with distilled memory’s,
And (sensed) delights unmet “as yet”.the wend of life so rich,
surrounds my mind & senses like the abundant shining light.
That upon the varied tableaux glow, before falls the lilac scented night.
Through all the turvy ways, and livelong day,
I’ll count the picket fences, as I travel or Stop to gaze.
I look out onto the pastureland that runs between the towns,
Observing rolling verdant turf, and cattle with thoughtful frowns.
The Holstein herds and Jersey cows, with Friesians ’mooing low’,
Character houses stand on hillocks; a horse & buggy moving slow.
There are tended lawns with a velvet like pile,
that have entered my awareness, these pleasant miles,
And on the horizon moving; (waits) that shimmering rippling run.
Of a blue & ribboning shoreline where pleasure necessitates fun.
There wind can like a lion roar, or call like turtle doves
With New Jersey soul superimposing the whole in the USA that I love!...
©Joe Maverick 1-6-2011Copyright)
The tale of Sad Sack Sammy,
So the story goes.
A walking, talking, whiner,
Suffering his woes.
He never ever smiled,
Had nothing good to say.
He whimpered like a sissy,
All the livelong day.
His mood would always swing,
At home or when at school.
Sometimes melancholy,
Then complaining like a fool.
A lousy, luckless, loner,
Grew up without a friend.
No one could stand his presence,
'Cause he ranted till the end.
His fate would change at Fifty,
This local resident.
He chose a different path,
And ran for President.
Now everyone that knew him,
Was caught up on the blind side.
When all the votes were counted,
He won it by a landslide.
I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody too?
Then there's a pair of us---don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
...Emily Dickinson
So let them ban us
toss us up
like wind bitten leaves
on autumn's best dressed day
and throw us amongst others
grounded, muddied, unnamed.
Ashamed? Not I!
The frog has his fill
of maggots, grown
squirming by his side
while maidens pucker
winter-like kisses
upon unspoken lips
in hopes to earn his name.
Society's shame!
Complex harmony
What matters is that some souls are loyal to the mind,
not falling into years and holding youth by image saint.
Echoes of wisdom by candle’s bright,
orchestrated shades between the gentle light.
Freedom of the noted speech in poetic rhyme,
knowing the love source as delicate humane.
Bearing off the longing searching riddle,
chosen sacred bride as ever constant middle.
Taken old crabbed mysteries into new perspective,
cutting strains beyond life’s connective.
Holding passion as strength of thought,
the bounty of blossom from light of night besought.
The firmament of changing peace and its multiple rights,
captured reflections through many lives lights.
Perplexed synchronicities in stories told,
the old in the new forever bold.
Torches of bewilderment raised by politics,
hushes for the exited lunatics.
Not seeing the picture of the text,
and inquiring the if possible next.
The solitary truth as implacable straight line realm,
the wandering horizon of the architected dream.
A livelong hour in a little story painted,
when the moon swam in full by compassion sainted.
The anxiety of that passionate youth,
as miracle of knowledge introduced.
Grow slowly exquisite spring blossoming dear,
the songs of the fairy bird so gently near.
Hearts of weary and wonder like the sea,
cleansing waters by love’s inheritance to be free.
Peter Popper's Poem-Popper
played and popped out poems
all the livelong day
But one not-so-pleasant day
Peter Popper's Poem-Popper
stopped producing poetry
What did Peter Popper plan to do
He took his broken Poem-Popper
to the Broken Poem-Popper Fixer-Upper Man
where the principal poem-popper fixer upper
applied a dandy poem-popper fixer upper patch
'Goody, goody,gumdrops!' cheered Peter and his friends
but their cheers were premature
the Fixder-Upper didn't work
Instead of 'pop-pop-pop,' it went 'ping-a-ling'
So back went Poor Peter Popper
to that Fixer-Upper Man
And he demanded Poetry this time!
The owner gladly mixed in silly-putty
But all the poems came out nutty
Peter-Popper told the owner 'Put in Pets!'
Every kind of pet that you can get
So he did ~ but Pete's not holding his breath...
Police told him 'bout a compound word
~ Owner called it 'Popper-Death'
I wrote this one after watching the miniseries “The Pacific.”
THE BURBS AREN’T SCARY AT ALL
Scarier the skeletons sitting in the suburbs
or the ones being dug out of graves…
the ones in the foxhole,
that you must brave.
It’s all a graveyard,
a horror movie…it’s war.
The setup couldn’t be more frightening.
The enemy was glad to prepare it for you.
Ghosts are all about…hungry,
to tell you what it’s all about. You close your eyes,
wipe away the grime.
The skin-crawling maggots are brought to life,
all the livelong day. The scent of fetid perfume,
no roses to deceive the nose - the stench.
Descending to the bottom of the abyss -
the devil gives you a kiss on the lips.
The burbs aren’t scary at all. The bony mass stares.
Pretty pumpkins, smashed, everywhere.
At times I wish I could pray
All day.
Start before seven,
And finish after eleven.
I can't of course.
No one can.
At times I wish I could study the Holy Books
Without giving the clock a single look;
Or contemplate His mysterious ways,
Until I die--or the end of days.
But I can't, of course.
No one can.
How often do I reflect
On just the right phrase to inject
Into my supplication
For my people Israel, for my nation?
Not often enough, I suspect.
Not often enough.
How often do I give proper thanks
To Him to Whom all thanks are due?
In deepest awe and gratitude
For all the glorious things He doth do.
Not often enough, I'm afraid.
Not often enough.
Have I shown enough Love to the One High Above?
Have I walked in His ways throughout my livelong days?
Do I always tremble before Him,
Or do I frequently ignore Him?
And must I end this rhyme
With a plea for yet more time?
I see thee yet, mine eyes on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,
Thus to mine eyes, o'er th'one half world 'pon the sacred curtained sleep,
Seek thou sure and firm, set stepp'd earth nigh summon thee to Heaven, for 'twas echoed knell,
Thy very soul hath prate of thy whereabouts, hear it not, 'tis seeming rest,
Was't the bludgeoned torrent that hath 'straught and tarnish the flesh in faith?
Is't the the awakened howl that hath thus cried? Thou shan't look on't again, thou'st darest do nought.
Thou'st which poor malice hath hail th'merry well half hounded soul,
'Tis the keys locked 'pon thy versities, for 'twas once the pungent ghoul,
Cribb'd, confin'd, is't the glowered blood that hath b'come blanched by thy wall,
Hath slept'n stitch, thy valiance hath drunk'n thy blood 'gainst the wear,
Thou wouldst cut deep, for 'tis o'th'world th'hellhound e'er so sharp'n sleepless squalor,
Here hath thee lay, 'tis'n tow for th'clamoured "love-long livelong night" to close,
Thou see so speak, so th'lamentings heard i'th'air, hath clench the hand e'er so badged'n blood,
'Tis the trill of th'obscure bird, Ho! Do pall th'horror, the wine of life is drawn, sun dreamt'n covered in gall,
'Twas a bath bathed within thy tears, so slept'n the affliction, hath bellowed deathless fears,
Thou hushed had it now seen, so scarf upon the eye'n tender brow, hath drench'd th'sun crowned crow,
So lay th'drought o'thy blood,
'Til thy conjured mirth of blade, shalt milk th'bile of human mind,
See to none o'th'blessings,
For whoe'er so high shall fall, so fall, e'er once more.
So, adieu! Adieu! 'Til hither shall callst thy night'n th'gallows,
'Tis a hush, none spoke nor howl,
"Thus thou shall sleep no more."
Thy hath seen, so spoke,
"Thus thou shall sleep no more."