Long Make believe Poems
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MORE THAN A SOFT TOY
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Raggedy Ann with her patchwork heart,
more than soft cotton, calico, embroidery, and yarn,
a doll created with Mother's love,
stitched together with gentle hands.
Her gray button eyes understood my childhood world,
her red yarn hair meticulously combed,
her smile eternally stoic,
her face bore the promise of a forever friend.
She walked with me to school,
first day of school jitters, she sat, a steadfast sentinel,
on the corner of my desk,
absorbing my fear, radiating calm.
Hospital smells, a white, sterile fear~
Raggedy's soft body, a warmth against my chest,
before the cold steel, after the raw ache,
her doe-like, button eyes, unwavering.
We shared tiny cups of cocoa ‘neath the pecan tree,
her embroidered face never betraying
the weight of my childhood dreams,
my childhood fears.
My first editor, she listened tirelessly
to the endless stories I told her~
the one’s created from my fertile imagination,
without judgment, without end.
Now, she sits in Mother’s curio cabinet,
still a steadfast, quiet comfort,
her threads and stitches connecting me
to the fertile memory-filled fields of yesterday.
Her button eyes, dark pools reflecting
sepia-toned summers,
reliving ghosts of laughter,
rides on unicorns, and make-believe.
Her worn calico dress, faded and undamaged,
is stained with childhood tears,
a fabric chronicle of scraped knees,
childhood regrets, and silent fears.
She inspires me now,
grounding me in innocence,
showing that imagination
endures into adulthood.
Raggedy Ann, more than a soft toy~
she is the echo of my Mother's love,
a tangible piece of home,
carried in my arms, worn soft with time.
IF YOU HOLD STRONG RELIGIOUS BELIEFS STOP RIGHT HERE, NOT WROTE TO OFFEND. I RESPECT YOUR RIGHT TO BELIEVE .
You're not my god or even real, your just make believe.
Like the tooth fairy and Santa Claus, I'm not naive.
You go by many names, God, Buddha, Allah, all deceive.
I'm just a mortal human being my name , Steve
You blind me with your everlasting love.
and a 100 vestal virgins when I arrive in heaven above .
Peoples broken hearts help create you, a labour of their love.
We hope to meet our loved ones again and pray It's so to god above.
But all you get is grief and pain upon this mortal plain.
and then into dust you turn, never to live again.
so while you're here, don't let any religion become a ball and chain.
Do no harm and live a life that does that cause others, strife or pain
In tinsel time the bells do chime.
We deck the halls and shopping malls
with plastic bough and holly wreath.
The conjured tricks that lie beneath
the plastic magic make-believe
pull cheap tradition from the empty sleeve
and, with the angel chorus on demand,
demand the payment of the damned
by overdraft and plastic cards,
with season's greetings and regards
for Christmas Joy and Yuletide Cheer;
the end of one more bloody year.
In tinsel time the bells do chime
the dance of money and the mime
of love's best giving soon forgot.
And in each cardboard palace, hot
inside each borrowed suit of red,
each Father Christmas pats the head
of every child, drags out the lie;
and so the holy days go by
and fall beneath the pounds and pence
that parents value more than sense.
The harlot traders rub their hands and cheer
the end of one more bloody year.
In tinsel time the bells do chime
and all rejoice and with one voice
proclaim, disclaim, complain the lack
of honesty in Santa's sack.
The parties drag from pub to pub
and end up at somebody's club
and after, in the morning pain,
the disenchanted mutter "not again"
and stagger through another day
but then, again, go out to play;
Until, at last, the bells they cheer
that start another bloody year.
Kim James
12/12/95
Cobblestone Echoes
by Odin Roark
Ancient stone
keeper of darkness
of auras reaped from high seas
vast is your harvest
from earth rumblings beset by molten tears
to charred obsidian made hard
glass reflecting where primates once clamored upon
From paws a running
sniffed calloused drippings in peril
where sandal swathed footsteps
dodged blade and spear
as wash water dumped from high
added slippery footing for predators ever lustful
ever hungry
ever historic
Now the high noon of modern life
the wonder among your melodies
amidst recent fabrications emulating your path
you the wrinkled skin spirit of ancient masons
who served sun-baked feasts
from the past of pasts
Alas…
Genuine micro-canyons of irrigated seed and drift
send the spirits aloft from once grasses high
reminding us that while calendars may crumble
time’s enduring stone of old remains original
transcending the language of vowel and consonant
acknowledging the reach of sentient eye to eye
the whispered caress beneath a Nike sole
sharing the tongues of old
echoing the murmurs of weary travelers
the severed limbs of warriors
the rivers of plasma-red passion
polishing fossils within
within
within
Yet many choose faking Nature’s setting
even making ready counterfeit copies
to pacify the blind living without preference
massaging serpentine monsters of ignorance
whose Gucci laced feet now prance upon this facsimile
sold as make-believe
glittering’s bondage
hidden in fakery
having not a clue of the Carthaginians
or Mediterranean isles of blood and sweat
from whence it all came
For like Rodeo Drive’s cobblestone plazas
where modern celebrity prisons of today
masquerade as credible reality for borrowed tomorrows
knockoff décor identity everlasting
unaware their own history
reaches inevitable fade out
may never know the hidden messages
Perhaps…
The subtle cacophony of shadow and whisper
cobblestone’s enigmatic infernal
made orchestral for those who can hear
those who dare see through the darkness
those who can be moved and touched by
shadowed silence protected with truth
will experience the magic
How few seem to hear the deafening message
Mind Paralysis
by Odin Roark
Perhaps our alter ego spider
Spacewalking the ceiling’s moonscape of popcorn paint
Will spew its silent tether,
Another lure to temp our frozen stupor,
Perhaps draw out our insomniac-demon
For a tasty make-believe meal.
Such are the psychic games we play
While inhaling one’s scented candle
Of cedar and pine,
Trusting insentience will abate,
Allow judgment to gavel peaceful silence,
And end this fiendish sanity-court’s entrapment.
How long must our stub of a pencil
Remain idle beside its razor blade shavings?
How this tool loves to goad our uninspired eyes
To prod fingers into raising its sharpened point
Springboard some words into fanciful flight
Around our brain’s spacious dark side
Discover its illumined side in passing
And jettison some meaning
Into unexplored mind-space.
How patient the spider and pencil--
Waiting out a perceptive being’s limbo state,
Anxious to extend their oneness of simple purpose
Into our complexity of will.
But—
They know not the screaming parrot
In our cage of discontent
Convincing us of imitation’s voice
Those uninspired words spoken many times
Remaining valid for the masses
Unexpected—
An open window’s breeze
Gives arc to innocence rappelling down
Its web in undulating rhythmic motion,
Tempting once again
The pencil to rise above
The crinkled bed
Of whittled preparation.
Perhaps tonight?
Story after story
yet I still beg for more of you
Shtts so unbelievable
Actually,
its inconceivable
But I want your love so badly
I jst cant admit it's unachievable
Tryna stay agreeable
to keep you close & reachable
Ignoring every red flag
that makes our toxic fate
so much more unforseeable
wish that I could fix us
But I just don't think its even feasible
I thought what we had was so meaningful
to the both of us,
but as time flies by
it becomes more and more obvious
Shtts not mutual
Trying to fight back the tears
That are so built up from all those years
I can barely see the truth
Never felt a love so deep
I think i force my heart & mind
to stay blind
And make believe he feels
The same for me
Every time he throws those
Deadly hate filled words
I tell myself its somethng
I undoubtedly deserve
I replay every flaw, fault
And issue I have
Been lost count bc I'm so
Damaged, broken and bad
Just thinking I could actually
Be loved forreal
Was a ridiculous belief
Somethng I never have or will
Achieve
I wish I could js erase the past
We had
Bc now I know
I'm just a game you play
The only good thing I can think to say
Is that at least I thought
you loved me for most of our days..
Intruding on old man winter,
His shadow boasting wintery steel
The gray of sorrow, the somber words
Broken pieces of a past
When no one could explain
The music, from time to time, make believe
Dreams, shadows speak
As the silence invades…
Still of night, buried and broken
Pieces of yesterday, a prayer
Seeking the wonder, the grace, the gentle
Of this moment, this day
When spring betrays the flakes,
Leaving the music of hope, a promise
Faith that whatever may be
There is always the miracle of God’s grace
The miracle who says we will see His face
One day we’ll see His face…
Spring bursts in, trespassing
On the wintery dreams,
Feelings blessed by joy and breathing
Spiritual hues, beautiful colors
Of a heart who hears
Not only the pansies, the daffodils
But the cherry blossoms,
The peach and apple tree
The hesitant embrace of a prayer
Softly spoken by souls who know
God is here – so near
In this laughing sun,
In the dewy caress of morn
Reviving the joy
Coloring life in promises
One day, yes one day
We’ll see Him
Face to face
Feel the love in His embrace
Comforted by the warmth
The tender music
A song who heals, restoring
Our faith, our praise
Whimsical tears, trembling
On the silence
A feeling, blessing away
The past, with all its notes
Of winter’s breath,
Tearing away the past
With all its words of doubt
We are one with grace
Who never stops
Believing, we offer Him our prayers
And all the praise
Praise that comes alive
For the heart who believes
In His light, His grace, His Son
The only One who came
To change our lives
And offer hope for a future
Where we can be complete
With everlasting love
Assured that we have Him,
Who is – in all truth – everything!
Oh, yes, I'm the great pretender,
pretending not living a lie;
while the truth is such, I pretend too much,
I'm trapped in that need till I die.
Oh, yes, I'm the great pretender,
pretending that I'm going well,
my days seem okay as I smile away,
but the nights are a tortured hell.
Too real is this feeling of make-believe,
too real when I feel what I cannot reveal.
Oh, yes, I'm the great pretender,
pretending that trust is skin-deep,
all ideals are dust, cosmetics a must,
although why can't I get to sleep
and why does my subconscious weep?
Oh, yes, I'm the great pretender,
pretending I'm able to love,
(the conscious agrees, while my language grieves)
I can't turn to heaven above,
for well it knows my velvet glove.
Too real is this feeling of make believe,
too real when I feel what I daren't reveal.
Oh, yes, I'm the great pretender,
pretending that I've not betrayed,
so on angels' wings, hope eternal springs,
though far inside me is not swayed,
and my beating heart's more afraid.
Oh, yes, I'm the great pretender,
pretending that I didn't cheat,
yet nails to the quick speak deep mental sick,
see the grave I'm so soon to meet,
with nothing but darkness to greet.
Too real is this feeling of make-believe,
too real when I feel what I'd fear to reveal.
Oh, yes, I'm the great pretender,
pretending to him I was true,
called him my soul-mate, in my cancerous state
the lung-tumour grew and spread through,
and my mirror said this is you.
Oh, yes, I'm the great pretender,
pretending I've nothing to hide,
but if everyone knew what would I then do,
with my nakedness certified,
my reality opened wide?
Too real is this feeling of make-believe,
too real when I feel what I'd dread to reveal.
Oh, yes, I'm the great pretender,
pretending that all will be right,
and on such a prayer, my core is laid bare,
for ever, each day and each night,
for ever, each day and each night.
(With thanks and respect to that great group, The Platters)
Virtual Fantasy
by Odin Roark
So innocent they
But three years old
Wanting parent look
Upon their face
First on paper
Crayon scribbles
Then long waits
Yearly Halloween
And make-believe
Come paint-on tats
Just like mommy daddy
On leg
Neck
Heart
Then to legal age innocence
Crow’s feet cover
Cheekbone carving
Botox injections
Steroid Adams
Enhancement Eves
Fast forward
Beneath gender façade
Lurks a swirling cauldron
Marveling in grease slick color
Oil running hot
Engine never cold
To be
Is not to be
Man and woman
Where molten-hardened
Eruptive cycles
So often masked
Addictively rush tomorrow’s reality
Meanwhile
History ever fading
Continues priming expectants
Reminding Barbie doll captives
And GI Joe dreamers
Tomorrow’s headgear fantasy
Comes with warning
Virtual sympathy
Not included
Two blessed creating one,
Conceived and nourished in love.
A healthy daughter or son,
A miracle from God above.
The most precious gift of all,
Is the gift of a child,
To a longing, loving couple,
Awaiting that sweet little smile.
To know such amazing joy,
When you feel your baby kick and move.
A hidden treasure; a little girl or boy,
Growing strong in their Mother's womb.
To understand such amazing grace,
When your baby finally arrives.
To gaze for the first time upon your child's face
With absolute joy and pride.
A chance to live your life again,
Through the innocent eyes of a child.
To be carefree without a sin,
Ready to forgive and easily beguiled.
To see and talk with the angels once more.
To play and to make believe.
To find fun and happiness behind every door.
To wait up for Santa on Christmas Eve.
To be looked upon with trusting eyes,
And to know there is nothing greater,
Than to protect, provide, teach and guide,
As a loving Mother and Father.
As time goes by and your baby grows,
With fond memories sweet and mild.
You will come to know what Heaven knows,
There is nothing more precious than the gift of a child.