Long Livelong Poems
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Put away childish things
yet keep the childlike wonder.
Though dreams be rent asunder
our wishes still have wings.
Put away childish speech
but not the constant queries
that question rooted theories
which reason cannot reach.
Put away childish ken,
though artless ways of seeing
in any age of being
will find a poet’s pen.
Put away childish thought
yet not imagination
which sparks our inspiration
beyond what we are taught.
Put away childish things
but follow deepest desires.
Those secret innermost fires
burn brighter as hope sings.
Put away childish whim
yet not delight in playing,
then when the world’s dismaying,
our days won’t seem so grim.
Put away childish fears.
Nonetheless, through thick and thin
hang on to the child within,
the laughter and the tears,
all the livelong years…
Put away childish things.
While our dusty death is nigh,
the utter self shall not die,
and karmic kismet clings.
Put away childish things,
though then in mirror darkly
we face our image starkly,
plus suffer destined slings.
Put away childish pain
yet not sensations tender
for sunset’s golden splendor
or soothing thrum of rain,
therein the simple joys remain…
Nor questing spirit ever lose,
while on the pathway that we choose,
neither from love refrain
which makes a heaven of earth’s domain.
Still, throughout, with faith unshaken,
seek enlightenment to waken,
thus the bliss supreme to gain,
plus not to live and die in vain…
Put away childish things
but hold to yearning youthful
to grasp the learning truthful
which timeless wisdom brings.
Put away childish things,
and embrace the peerless state
of illumined grace innate
wherefrom great fortune springs!
~ Harley White
* * * * * * * * *
The following well-known quotation provided the initial literary inspiration for the poem…
“When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things. For now we see in a mirror, darkly, but then face to face.”
1 Corinthians 13 ~ The New King James Version (NKJV) translation of the Bible
Further inspiration derived from the teachings and writings of Nichiren Daishonin, as well as Martin Bradley’s interpretative writings about them…
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."
Lake Eliza
Out by poor old Lake Elisa lived a moody ancient miser.
Who bemoaned his fate throughout the livelong day.
lived further west than Isa out where the heat and flies are.
So he plotted as he moaned "I'll find a way?".
Oh this fellow loved a lady one Cherolyn O'Grady,
so besotted while he sauntered from insanity to mad.
For it seems she was his sister Joe O'Grady never kissed her,
She'd run off to Coolgardie selling favours to the sad.
Oh it seems his mind could wander,
through the desert just out yonder.
It got sunstruck when his hat it blew away.
In his youth there'd been a Rhonda.
Who'd enticed him made him fonder.
But the tribe had gone on walkabout the next day .
Though really none the wiser, he set out from the Isa,
Went to Brisbane met a shiela sweet and gay.
It was down in the Valley, she had whiskers this O'Malley,
blue round the jowls, Joe loved her anyway.
She took him home to her place into the bedroom they raced,
Joe's mouth it opened slackjawed in suprise .
For it seems she wasn't dinkum through the haze of grog he's drinking.
Saw parts of her to trade for many lies.
This city woman strange wanted money had no change,
Took his fifty as she pushed him out the door .
Hooked like a dog to mange, could a wedding he arrange?
But she dumped him anyhow cos Joe was poor.
So back to Lake Elisa went this sodden whinging miser.
Drowning sorrows O.P. rum, drinking bottles by the score,
Just a little sad but wiser, now he'd never leave Elisa. So he drank himself to death
there by her shore...by Don Johnson
New stars are born from those that die
as pearly revenants on high
to occupy the vaulted sky
stelliferous to earthly eye.
When Sun shall lose its healing glow
that shines upon our world below
as star which turns a further page
and passes sunny sequence stage
to nebula emission be
enriching the galactic sea,
will novel star a system make
where other beings can awake?
Stelliferous to earthly eye,
to occupy the vaulted sky
new stars are born from those that die
as pearly revenants on high.
Could birth and death keep rhythmic pace
while stars arise in cosmic space
embroidered into stellar lace
as state of grace moves place to place
for planets plenteously rife
to foster some domestic life
amidst the e’er mercurial
dynamic forms figurial?
To occupy the vaulted sky
stelliferous to earthly eye,
new stars are born from those that die
as pearly revenants on high.
Might we somehow dimensions share
with any sentient sorts out there
in sensibility and sense
within the myriad immense
whose evolution far outran
that of the species known as Man
for peaceful coexistent ways
throughout their livelong nights and days?
As pearly revenants on high
to occupy the vaulted sky
stelliferous to earthly eye,
new stars are born from those that die.
~ Harley White
* * * * * * * * *
Elements of a pantoum are interspersed throughout the poem.
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.
every hopeful carnally bracketed thought
tries to jack in to the endorphin symphony
or make the mountains rise same thing
your brain the one manufactured by all those dents
has long been a mad scientist's laboratory
you are free to run screaming into the bushes
those remaining please visit our snack bar
and leave evidence admissible in a court of law
all rise the White Rabbit sits in judgment
the laws of chance have committed murder again
poor creatures bumping into one another
an accident is about to occur you can set your watch
hour hand minute hand second hand
invisible trans cosmic seeing all hand
arthritic compensating venal surgeon glove hand
picked you out of the Saturday lineup
nothing to stop him other than
the limits of his mind and they are neon writ
time bound and meme determined
and once the game board is fully lit
staring straight up death's gaping butt
but who can blame the side show freak
for wanting darkness for the rest of us
and missing body parts and a bad complexion
and he just skips to my Lou all the livelong day
in front of his fun house mirror of adoring fans
oh there goes one now sprinting for the gate
it appears he's somersault vaulted the wall
off the back of a licensed alligator
so what is it down to six now we can conclude
when your fans equal your alligators
time to call in a landscaper priest
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)
IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE : VII
(Thoughts on a fast-receding fearful Me-Too Year)
IF you pull a long face
And you can't make it go away try as you may
No use putting on a pretty smile on the face
The smile will likely turn leer in a day
If you pull a long face
And it keeps coming back every other day
Then it's an illness at the serious phase
No doctor can tell you to call it a day
Yet if you only pull a long face
On certain days in the week like Sunday
It might mean you're allergic to Holy Mary grace
Not much Good will it do you to choose, say, Friday
If you still keep pulling a long face
No matter which church-going week day you pray
No doctor can save you from losing face
Best to wear a Monte Cristo mask all your livelong day
So if you must pull a long face
The sledge kind Santa Claus pulls on Xmas Day
Make sure no Me-Too Gals your drinks lace
You might live to regret it some far-off day
© T. Wignesan - Paris, December 29, 2018
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'
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?