Long Long lived Poems
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I had a dream that I was a butterfly
winged iridescent; my life would flutter by
as I was dreaming a dream of a dream of
my own lepidopteron being above.
Hither and thither I flightily flitted,
or so it seemed, as illusion befitted,
with troubles, eidolons, and nebulous fears.
And thus it continued for one hundred years.
In the Nymphalidae family was I,
akin to the nebula high in the sky
with beauty Cithaerial shimmering bright
in colors that cover the spectrum of light.
Knots and shells detailed in this Hubble capture
glow in light show that can bring about rapture,
cause soulful poets to sing about gladly
(seeing a butterfly wing about madly)
or brood over sadly with soft doleful sighs
the ultimate stages before its demise.
Stargazers perceive it with scientists’ eyes
and give facts and figures astronomer-wise.
The lobes of Twin Jet PN M Two Dash Nine
expand ever outward in pinion design
from central star system, in gaseous streams
of splendorous rainbows pellucid in gleams.
The binary stars at the nebula’s heart
go round one another in luminous art,
spending a century in this rotation,
and form the wings through their stellar gyration.
But let us return to the classical theme
of the Chinese philosopher’s famous dream
(which these rhyming stanzas have sought to extol),
where I found myself playing a starring role.
Diaphanous butterfly wings had I then
in the long-lived dream that I dreamed ten by ten
decades lastingly onward in cosmic time,
as did Sleeping Beauty in legend sublime.
Yet when I awakened, no alae had I.
No longer was I slender winged butterfly,
but veritably was a human once more,
with life to engage in, encounter, explore,
or just suffer through in a sentient state.
How would I create my tellurian fate?
Still I wondered if this was ‘reality’.
Could I be a butterfly dreaming of me?
To die, perchance dream; ay, indeed that’s the rub
that makes us endure the heartache and hubbub.
For death claims all beings as part of its sum.
And in sleep of death, who knows what dreams may come?
~ Harley White
______________________________________________
Inspiration for the poem was from the article, “The wings of the butterfly ~ New Hubble image of the Twin Jet Nebula”, of August 25, 2015, on the Hubble Space Telescope Org website.
Life on the edge would certainly become a novel,
if I included all the chapters of my life’s journey
from that of an old soul, from pure consciousness
to egg and sperm colliding, to embryo, to fetus,
to that of a baby, a child, youth, a teenager,
a young adult, a middle aged man, this old man
who has walked the walk of the living and the dead
with ghostly shadows floating in night time forests
blanketed by sheets of blackness, permeated with flakes,
specks of light from distant planets, long lost stars,
forgotten lives, as the reflective moon, on high,
tries to shed light upon the nightly shadows,
brighten the edges of all the black clouds
that fill all the empty spaces above the tree tops.
Life on the edge – I have been tripping – have gotten up,
have fallen from grace, yet stands up to face adversity,
have been trapped, yet set myself free, been lost
yet have found my way back to myself.
Life on the edge – time reveals all, all the efforts,
all the accomplishments, all the failures, the defeats,
and all the losses become weightless in the light,
of an old man who sits alone, on his own locked up
in the cage of his own design, his own making
as nightmares continue to haunt - to the end of his journey.
Life on the edge – has been sharp, dull, keen without tears,
in spite of all that life, fate, karma, choice have lain upon
the experiences this old soul has suffered, endured, enjoyed
and yet the dreams of this child – before and after he became –
still linger on in the fading embers of his life’s journey
even if they are but ashes blown by cold cruel winds
putting out the raging fires that once lit up the skies
and wormed the heaven and the hearts of a few mortal women.
Life on the edge – of this plane, this dimension, this universe –
can it really be as we see it ?, is it karma ?, is it fate ?, is it design ?
Does history repeat itself ?, does it come back to haunt us ?,
in another time, in another place, in a different space.
Life on the edge – next time around – will be a prayer
to never, ever have to live on the edge again,
to know no more emotional pain, no poverty of heart, soul,
the stupidity and thoughtlessness of those in control,
those in the know, of the nature of this old man
who has shown – specks, flakes of light, light that has
burned so bright, has flickered, has long since taken flight.
B. J. “A” 2
March 10th 2004
mass burial
we did nothing
to deserve brutality
is not our hopes
to shade this tears
in public
where have we gone
too wrong to deserve
this atrocities
for every blast we die
in multitude
for every egg of fire
we own a
mass burial
this is cry's in the city
another steal bird has just
lay an egg from the sky
another animal has just
blast innocent humans? again
and now we have a
mass burial
mass burial
we long lived
peace full
never we intend
to lay our own
people in multitude
six feet
we have been
existing peace fully?
before this stranger's
came in
first they came as friends
and now we are in hell
from this friendship
as our life are devalued
right in front of our view
as this strange friends
keep robbing and killing
our dignity
and when we try
to fight back
they turn steal bird
so each egg it lays
curse us a
mass burial
their is crys in the city
another steal bird has just
lay an egg from the sky
another animal has just blast
innocent humans again
and now we have a
mass burial
mass burial
what shall we do
when all we know
how to do is maintain
peace
so we choose to stand
up for our right
despite they keep
killing us in multitude
we believe they can't kill
us all
so the brave say keep moving
don't gave up the fight
for peace
don't gave up your right
is not a crime to be free
yet as we fight
we lay somany of our
own to sleep forever
when ever the steal bird
lays an egg is a
mass burial
their is crys in the city
another steal bird has just
lay an egg from the sky
another animal has just blast
innocent humans again
and now we have a
mass burial
mass burial
we live with a religion
of truth
under the foundation
of love we knew
the value of peace
not until our land was
invaded attacked
while our walls were
painted with blood
so we choose to defend
our selves
i wonder if that is a crime
yet while we stand our
ground
it cost is painful
as it out come brings a
mass burial
at the end of the day
i know one day it will
touch intelligent humans
so they could cry like
we do in our
mass burial
their is crys in the city
another steal bird
has just lay an egg
another animal has just
blast innocent humans again
and now we have a
mass burial
Is there a possibility
found ground up homes posted
and supported keeping the world
just the way it is peace or pains
welcome on to the blizzard falls
I wish the mother of the past still knew
this man places the sword downward
sleep and sneak around blames words
shined lights and coming towards many
how does this best meet up with fictions
through crowded lands and empty spaces
They heard the call and angled them
focus power on extra hand neck and walks
best foundations affordable and classy
shade to blinding physical attractions
musical efforts shown me the truths
compare words written calm beast tail
might that afford solutions approaches
responsibilities plans and actions respected
personal effects and glamour the wise often
people grab at sticks before with loved ones
completely broken had to info hope and faith
chased the fortune willed much of deep ones
Letters to myself in poems and written pages
in handsome rhymes with my former youth
studies and crafts became clear pictures
thieves climb and grabbed the materials list
pact and past memories and drama seen
welcome into do or die solutions cloth longs
fighting and grappling expensive tastes from
hard work long lived more in stores divided
but with views in the dark, I become stronger
slept awakened the side of me posted up
balance the key ingredients made up visible
visited the dead through the lights of rooms
never needed you to cry but I'm chancing
sober power and affected your moods now
brought out of the shell I feel and jumped in
major moves here and there opening passion
special finished and feeling move our ways
short and skinny then big and fat now days
between money and creativity choose show
detox and streets glories moment of fatal
fast but slowed lowered doom apon many
soul and crime spirit and freedom touched
blessing of meeting up with team's champion
color black, white or brown eyes codes sound
major moves and watching the scenes too
environmental problem waste pro demo less
achieve this duty water his problems wetter
protect it care for it make this grand soaps
and best believe the shine people watched
soul of a changer brave is the pack of team
you know the true you man it's deep...
Fate ?, Karma ?, life seems to, always be on the edge
as the Nith River let him go, him, it could not hold
and yet the rest of this story needs to be told.
Fate ?, Karma ?, life seems to, always be on the edge
as I escaped the clutches of the raging, Nith river
but not Rea, the Grand captured him, would not deliver.
Fate ?, Karma ?, life seems to, always be on the edge
Until, weeks later, the Grand subsided and gave up my friend.
I had to identify and knew that, that was another end.
Fate ?, Karma ?, life seems to, always be on the edge
and all the arm wrestling matches with the Grim Reaper,
this poem, and my memories hoard could not be a keeper.
Fate ?, Karma ?, life seems to, always be on the edge
and so we come to July 18th 1997 and the light go out
after shining so brightly, for fifty five years, what that about ?
Fate ?, Karma ?, life seems to, always be on the edge
and the rupture of a mid-brain basilar aneurysm
puts my consciousness into the blackness of a chasm.
Fate ?, Karma ?, life seems to, always be on the edge
and cannot, will not keep this old fool down
as he tries to come back to conscious ground.
Fate ?, Karma ?, life seems to, always be on the edge
as the procedure to save was cancelled, due
to the burning out of a forty thousand tube.
Fate ?, Karma ?, life seems to, always be on the edge
as months later, I go back for the procedure
only to have the neuro radiologist re rupture.
Fate ?, Karma ?, life seems to, always be on the edge
of life or death, a forgone conclusion, a journey for all,
but I wonder why it is that I keep missing the call.
Fate ?, Karma ?, life seems to, always be on the edge
and I wonder if the powers that be, not only want me
to suffer on this plane ?, but to suffer for a long. long time.
Life on the edge would certainly become a novel,
if I included all the chapters of my life’s journey
and the many dark places creating my nightmares.
Life on the edge would certainly become a novel,
if I included all the chapters of my life’s journey
and the many bright, glowing spaces that filled my dreams.
Life on the edge would certainly become a novel,
if I included all the chapters of my life’s journey,
extracted from the subconscious, inebriated mind.
Endless ribbon of tattered poetry in pavement,
Trail of tears for wandering vagabonds,
Seek yourself from this time forth betwixt sunrise and senility,
For the tides of the seasons grow weary with long-suffering,
To the hopes thou clingeth unto, by breadth and bound, unwavering still,
To where have thy troubadours vanished my heartland?
Into the unforgiving sea of nights, long past beneath God's eyes,
Tell me, oh mother, who wring thine hands in the terrible simplicity of despair,
Where have thine young sojourned unto, beyond your grieving sight,
Far across the smoking hills of sin and smoldering ash, to find beauty amongst anguish,
Listen not to the cries of death that smite the heart with wild and evil abandon,
And do you not hear the song of the mourning dove, low and yet with hope,
And tell me, Mr. Kerouac, whither hast thou been these few milion moons before,
Among the snow of the peaked mountains, hushed with the silent iron hand of winter
Drifting amply with the loneliness of the four winds of the Swanee, and the mighty
Mississippi
So roll tides, roll, to take you back to the streets of long-lived, and still loved Lowell,
There are ghosts in the alleys, but thou art no specter in the darkness,
Let us focus, with unwavering desire and redemption, to life and death, body and soul,
To you, the wanderer with pen and parchment, who told the nations of life on the
road
And the majestic unyielding awe of every eye and stillness fixed on every tounge,
from the picture thou hast set before the whole of old America,
For you had me at "Praised be man" in the senseless throes of unbridled youth,
And left to dream of moonlit vigils, as can be seen from the pilot seat of a battered
beetle,
Following the footsteps and felt pen, driving across '66, to Seligman and Flagstaff,
To loll and roll, with the unreal unfurling of your manuscript reels, to give freely your
confusion
For a timeless, aimless quote by thee, picturesque and wanting with gusto
"Whether goest thou America, in thy shiny car in the night?"
Blessings from the heartland, Mr. Kerouac.
See you in Big Sur.
An Elderly.
Introduction tells you,
Who shall you believe?
Listen sometimes to your senses
your sadness or your joy.
If you are downhearted you cannot
perceive any happiness or joy you will
feel stepped on.
Temptation tells you,
Who shall you believe? Even if you open
up a pathway, can you reinforce your legs
to take a stride without your cane?
Can you become independent mount
Up the stairs?
Can you open your Door pay homage
to your unfurnished Home? unable
to set up due to your age?
Or will you act as in a theater playing
the characterization of a tough actor
capable of running after its shadow?
Happiness shares,
Who shall you believe?
Your happiness tells you rotect your image
as if its still young.
Fly with your spirit like a butterfly,
venture through the clear skies.
Intercept your freedom
as long as its lasts.
Rejuvenate your thoughts to reserve
a seat in your positive will power
where you are your own master.
Weaknesses orders,
Who shall you believe?
when you slept young and woke up old.
Why tolerate that body transformation,
why presume you are still young when
definitely you are old.
Strength begs me,
Who shall you believe?
Why are you shivering before waking up?
Because you woke up old, you know it means
You are a looser.
Gather your strength to face your reality,
deny wanting the impossible to happen?
Seek, look, understand, seek, look, feel the truth,
if not, your fate today will wither.
Sorrowful prays,
Who shall you believe?
Your sadness orders you
Remain downhearted as you cannot perceive
Happiness.
Your friendly thoughts indicates you to look far
And open the entrance, where the philosophers
Meeting is taking place, enter and impose
your knowledge, dictate your long lived
teaching, allow yourself listen to the echo
Clapping at the end of your speech.
Courage is the truth,this is who you
should believe the you of the now.
This is accepting all of the above,
when I will come out from that
Door proud of my cane.
Nothing is impossible when I remain
hungry to want to live.
No matter how old or young, I am.
Therese Bacha
17 November 2013
He came from the Dust Bowl in a terrible time
When his family were stricken with broken, dirt covered dreams.
The patchwork wooden shack they slept and ate in had all but tumbled
To a fate no one could repair or even had the desire to.
No crops, no means to grow anything to eat
In this sterile, fruitless, barren land they called home-
A time when the only thing farmers could harvest was your dreams.
There was very little left in his world except suffering.
He was a good boy like his name, and a small boy, not born that way,
But fashioned by his lack of sustenance.
His life was laden with monumental emptiness and boredom
Enduringly waiting for better things to come.
He would make his own toys to play with
Out of anything that was some sort of surplus in his world of poverty.
And when he had nothing more except himself,
His idleness was spent by creating a circle dance-
A spiral game, to turn his spirit into a liberation to his salvation.
Singing a song he would bring his feet together to shuffle side by side
While creating his whirling motion like an old "spinning top" he used to have.
Round and round he would turn until he could turn no more
To finally stop as if some invisible force straight up and grabbed him.
His world spun around him, magically becoming a carousel
Where he heard music, laughter and felt giddy happiness
As he rode on the great white horse of his choice
Traveling with this bright and joyous carnival fancy
Taking him to a place where hardship lost its meaning.
He would perform his dance time after time
No one ever really cared about it,
After all what was a young restless boy to do?
They never called him by his real name - Johnny Goodfellow
They always called him "Dizzy"
A name that would stick with him his entire long-lived life,
And follow him on a distant road of misadventure
Hard work, uninviting places, and downright unfriendly folks.......
But it didn't matter - he had learned early how to make his world alright
September 2, 2019
"Bring a Character to Life" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Richard Lamoureux
This can't be real, this isn't right
We cry all day, we cry all night
You'd say you've got to make it through this no matter what it takes.
I want to wake up and go back to a much better place.
I need to feel you've got my back
My big brother, what I'd do to go back.
To the days we used to laugh our hearts out, I've never laughed so hard with anyone so much.
The last day i saw you, you squeezed me so hard, I'll never forget the loud beat of your
big jolly heart.
I can't wake up, I can't go to sleep, I cry every night cause your memories i keep.
I read your words over and over that you wrote on those hard nights,
and I'll hold your advice in my head with my chin up,
for the rest of my long-lived life.
I think about you all the time, i feel you in this room.
I imagine what you'd say when I'm having a rough time
and i start to brighten up because of you..
I know you'd want whats best for me, your words were always true.
For you I'll try and be fine, I'll live my life in your name tatted up on my spine.
My backbone, you never let me down.
How could this be the end? we were the very best of friends.
We'd always say there is no end.
It's been a long five months. With you not being there to make me smile,
I wish i would have told you again, you were my life long friend.
How much i loved you, how much i prayed, how much i worried,
how much i would have gave.
This nightmare is haunting me, every breathe i take.
What a bond to break, what a life to take.
You had the purest heart and a laugh worth all the money in the world.
I cant bare the pain i feel, i cant handle the weight in my chest.
I'll remember you looking at me always saying what was best.
How could life take you away, who is it to decide?
What I'd do to see you happy again, you were always one of a kind.
You didn't deserve this time, you had so much passion in your life.
You were too bold to just be another. I'll always consider you my only big brother.
With all the love in the world like no other,
Your words, the memories, and your heart,
will live on forever.
With a heavy heart and an early start and no moment’s rest from the crashing dark
The bucking beast beneath his brow cries into the night.
The rain streaks down to join the crowd of cheering, sobbing waves that sound
Like masses burned and baptized— still the ship runs on.
And flowing ebb does spin its web to make his sandy grave instead
But he pushes on in search of dawn long since run aground.
The lightning strikes— crash!
And here come down its raging crowns of mist and foam that sweetly drown
The sailor foolish enough to try and tame the steadfast waves.
A moment’s light bestows the sight upon the captain’s endless fight
As man and beast in mindless fear are nothing before the sea.
And skin of clay all melts away as earthly sins are hid from day
But this captain’s made of more than dirt and he opens his mouth to sing.
The wave pounds hard the deck, who’s shards release into the nighttime stars
But still the sailor laughs and grins, his hands slick fast with salt.
The wheel it turns with cold that burns the hands of the man, who’s long since learned
From stormy nights and a freezing life how to be one with the sea,
Who’s fear-fueled sweat is ocean wet and smells like the briny, seaweed threat
Of lonely ends found on careless waves under stars that wave goodbye.
And still his ark alights so stark when the sky casts down those frenzied sparks.
Man caught in the endless war between the sky and the angry sea,
Where rain lashes fierce like fiery tears through the captain’s old and weathered beard
And he laughs and sings along alone to the weeping of the clouds
That vault his church, the long-lived search, and pious and faithful is his urge
To die in storms that wail and howl with voices made of sirens.
Oh, a eulogy for euphony! This world’s distinct cacophony
Drowns him dry on land that cries and begs for his return.
But captains stay with ships away, long far from love or earth,
And fickle seas receive their own and never end the search!