Long Making hay Poems
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I'm cooking as if possessed
My kitchen is in a culinary mess
Pots, pans and bowls galore
Some I've never used before
Surrounded by a million books
With recipes, I've longed to cook
All meals planned to eat next week
The perfect meal I've yet to seek
My husband sits with cutlery posed
Ready to try one of those
Strange looking things on his platter
All the time getting fatter and fatter
Sitting down too much each day
Doing crosswords. making hay
The house has acquired a delicious aroma
We think we deserve a cooking diploma
We've made Aji De Gallina from Peru
Bo Kho spicy stew
We hope this lockdown that we're in
Stops very soon while we are still "reasonably slim"
Other tasks have gone to pot
Because of all the recipes I've got
I will have to quit this unhealthy yearning
Must run now our dinners burning
Haven't got time for those cynical people
They're never gonna drag me down
Life's too short for whining and complaining
In their own negativity they drown
For twenty-four seven it's non-stop paranoia
Can't imagine living that way
On the sunniest day their sun doesn't shine
I rather spend time making hay
Suspecting the government's watching us
Taping us each time we pee
Had no idea things had gotten that serious
Why such interest in little old me
Well I'm just gonna go on my merry old way
More important things on my mind
Like feeding Dufus and my persian cat Lily
A good way to stay sane I find
Haven't got time for those cynical people
There's exciting stuff to explore
This friendly old planet is beckoning me
So I'm off to open more doors
© Jack Ellison 2013
What is that one purpose in life why am I here on this big blue spinning marble
Wherefore why for and what for am I a sentient being draped in consciousness
Quite possibly it will suffice to understand those questions prior to biting the dust
Before present turns bygones feeding worms from carbon one pastime remaining
Sex hugs rock and roll making hay while sun shines as long as causing no harm
Poetry scripting words emotions passionate meaning exploring reason and soul
Being a father husband friend lover and soulmate good virtuous ethically sound
Giving more than I will take leaving the planet a tad better than bad sad or dead
Maybe a role model with love kindness compassion boundaries care and advice
Yet this vison seems circular so Karma appears from the wheels of relevant living
No doubt Plato points to moving out from the shadows and meets up with Jung
Reflecting on merging opposites suggesting archetypes not unlike Tarot of cards
Nietzsche’s God has been killed will I have to revive him or her for that matter
Existentialists suggest existence before essence but what is essential foundation
Stones of wisdom golden mean spreading balance harmony a revolution perhaps
Return thirty silver pieces beg the Queen to give back stolen diamonds and gold
Actualize myself along the hierarchy of needs realize in the process that positive
Psychology understands that there are far fewer must haves than greedy wants
A porpoise can teach me that sometimes you swim on the surface yet will have
To submerge in an ocean of polluted destruction and with sharks in full view
From knowledge action may spring forward and thus I pin my hopes and dreams
On finding right questions searching for answers and that is my purpose in life
03rd June 2018
Two dwellings in one single block
(the peasants at the back).
One market garden, orchard, flock:
No asphalt road. Just track.
The men were in the bottom field
to get the barley in.
“It’s looking like a bumper yield:
don’t lose it. That’s a sin.”
The Master’s doing ‘market day’ –
four bottles. Pinot noir.
The peasants joke: “He’s making hay!
He’ll wreck another car!”
Maria looked up from her paste –
that pasta needs a tweak –
it’s never good, if done in haste –
no meat or fish this week.
She felt the window drawing her:
Where’s Salva? On the grass?
The Lady, in her Sunday fur!
Tomorrow’s Martinmas!
This was the day, with harvest picked,
when bosses, ‘cleaning house’,
by ancient custom could evict,
could tell their staff, “Heraus!”
But Salva wasn’t in the sand,
or playing near the cellar:
the Lady, clutching by the hand
her daughter, Arabella,
called out “Maria! Come to me!
And don’t you dare refuse!
This yard is filthy. Can’t you see
what’s happened to my shoes?
Your boy was playing ‘gallows bird’
with Bella, in this mess!
And what if something had occurred
to Bella’s yellow dress?
The first thought in Maria’s head
was, “So – we’re not evicted!”
The second, “That girl’s overfed –
her midriff is constricted.”
Signora, with her other arm,
held Salva by the scruff.
“You peasants,” sneered the farmyard marm,
“are naturally rough.”
“They’re getting to a certain age,
and well, I mean to say …”
Maria swallowed down her rage.
“Fine. Far apart they’ll stay.”
The moment I am out of the box
Foxes and hyenas surround me
Needy greedy aggressive seekers
Those who even a second before
Lay hidden in hibernation
In the tightly closed boxes of steel
On the verge of elimination
Thanks to the cultural policing
Now pouncing for dark and dense satisfaction
In a paleolithic plunder
Quenching reddening hunger
In the black and brown forest
Of unchained unrest
In pursuance of almost unconquerable
And incorruptible pleasure principle
Of animal happiness
Night and day
Sense buds making hay
Out of the aesthetic box
Wreaking senseless havoc
Our rose and rhododendrons in decay
Our seagulls
In infirmary and hospitals
Out of the box
The Spanish bull and ox
Flummox our poems
Into the imagery of
Ingrained instancy
For our tumultuous ascendancy
On the pinnacle
Of crimson churning
And the giant jingling
Tapering off to
The momentary Nirvana
Of the
Intense distraction
That arose out of the box
A moment later
In an inertia again
Of the restless vein
For the overwhelming rain
Into deep brain
Teeming with craving lanes and bye lanes
In the dim light delight
Out of box
The red fox
No mailbox
No riverine knocks
The box is very important
For our civilization
Into the flowers
Of sunny sublimation
_______________________________________________
18/01/2017
For the contest, How Long Can A Poetry Go,
Sponsor, Jamie Pan
Note: As the metaphors in the poem is too obvious to need explanation, no writer’s
Statement is added here, as asked for by the sponsor except saying that it deals with the psychological process of the dominance of pleasure principles at the cost of reality principles as elucidated by Sigmund Freud.
Crumbling is a failure in structure, form, and art.
It's where time at last begins to play its part.
What age makes weak is hard to see when growing old.
Until hands lose their grip on what you can't hold.
We do not lose our knowledge once and for all;
it falls in fragments, grain-by-grain, in the pall.
To crumble is to learn what entropy proves true:
all things grow disordered—back to the dust they knew.
The mind, like stone, holds its shape tight within,
till doubt erodes the edges and cracks let light in.
Age does not take away the crumbs in one broom sweep;
the crumbles tumble slowly—each loss a memory we keep.
Understanding builds like sandcastles, to fragile art;
one crack, and doubt pours through the frail rampart.
What crumbling shows along time's long winding path,
is that nothing endures as keepsakes in the aftermath.
Listen closely —you can hear the soft crumbs fall—
a mantra of truth, that none of it was ours at all.
So let the crumbling loosen what you once knew;
opening space within, for something strange and new.
Crumbling, murmuring, blundering through time,
teaches the grace of slower, wiser rhyme;
loosens our grip on what's failing anyway,
to free up space for what's arriving today.
What falls away makes room for come what may,
making hay in the sunshine, all along the way
as a crisp, crumble topping, made fresh today;
if we don’t let the rain set in, and stay.
Sofia the large sandy crab
Afraid of a life too drab
Took to the sea
With her cousin Kong Kee
And a six spotted floundering dab
Oh Kong Kee now this is the life
No worries no trouble no strife
Shoulda done this before
She got hit by an oar
And that was the end of her life
The dab and Kong Kee carried on
To finish their cousins swansong
The smell of fishrot
In a new fangled pot
Was the end for the cousin called Kong
Now the dab swims alone in the bay
While the sun shines he's still making hay
For he's back whence he went
Pocket money all spent
And so happily, blissfully gay
Dab met a small fish on the way
Who aspired to become a great ray
He ate as he must
Til his belly did bust
And he ends up as soup o' the day
There's a moral in each little story
So never go hunting for glory
You'll end up on a plate
Tryin' to mimic a skate
When you're really a small johnny dory
Whores and wars and peado-preds
Politicans are with royals.. in bed.!
Lurid reports; on the better bred?
And lies abound today.!
Its all around as toxic sound, its dark clouds
Block the rays... of hope and sun and real good
Fun; today... Yet ; Many stand.. To cry out loud.!
Of better ways.)
Of a 9 to 5, and sunday schools, of human interplay..
Of homebaked bread, and fixing sheds, billy-carts.'
Strong farmers; making hay.. Climbing on rocks; of
Holes in socks, and wholesome ra-dio plays..!
Like crow on a barbed; wire fence; Lord..! take me back i pray!
A west we knew where people grew, made plans.. A
House to own? "one day..! a place to be, for you or me?
With neighbours around us hey.!
Some apple pie, a shot of rye; med-ic, i-nal as the old men say'
I like that fine, sweet homemade wine; mullberry trees, and
Shade' soft tumbling hair..Girls laughter fair; men
Of steel (who work and play)
They will confer, and oft concur..That such life is best now.'
And was always.. Can be and is.' And is being lived; today..!
All within our rich; seasons, teasing days.That they will
Stand as fully man' and guard such hallowed ways!
I'll finish now with thanks and a WOW.! To the ladies special ways, how
They make a home, and care for kids its your golden strength always.!
Hector your man..But hold his hand; against these evil days, i'll end this
Song by sending you' all love. And all; the best..Always.!
Make hay while the sun shines.
I grew up as a closeted polypathic nature-mystic
on a marginal, at best, family farm
in Michigan.
This farm was my embryonic home,
an extension of my vastly loved and nurturing Mother,
more than my workaholic homophobic Father,
who most emphatically did create a patriarchal god in his own image.
His farm was for slave labor.
Her farm was a garden for growing healthy wealth.
I loved Mom's Multi-ReGenerational Family Farm
like an extension of my ego-mind and anthro-body.
And, like a turtle without a shell,
when I first headed off to Ann Arbor's University
I brought my happy and healthy ego with me,
eager to begin my new adventure story,
yet I emotionally stumbled,
felt naked and exposed and depressed,
for lack of my embryonic habitus,
my eco-center,
my home,
my interdependently embracing love of sacred spaces
and their seasons of regeneration and degeneration,
growing still and fading without ego me
conjoining.
I was homesick,
but not for Nurturing Nanny
and Fearsome Father
or even Perfect Princess Sister, whom I cherished,
whom I could talk and listen with as whim might invite,
and, although somewhat more of a sore detachment from our farmhouse interior spaces,
my disorienting alienation from Ann Arbor
was as a too-urban outside place
just as my recreating resident embrace
favored my dorm and classroom youth-learning multicultural race
against more oppressive monoculturing times.
To this day,
despite a six week backpacking hike
along California's Pacific Coast Trail,
plundered by surreal vistas and fragrance and light and unspeakable beauty,
when I imagine a meadow, a field, a woodland,
a pond,
a barn,
an unpaved road,
a gravel drive,
a herd of cattle,
a pen of pigs,
a coop of chickens,
a litter of kittens with eyes still sealed shut,
I recall iconic scenes from this sacred originating home,
my eco-memory
calling my doubly-bound ego-enculturing self
back home
to where we permaculturally began together,
making hay while the sun did shine.
To you my villanelle I plight my troth
A poem both dignified and full of play
I love your form and elegance ,oh both
In your form I’ll never insert oaths
Neither will I boast of making hay
To you my villanelle I plight my troth
I’ll take you in my boat to the North Coast
From you I expect no reward or pay
I love your form and elegance ,oh both
You are a welcome visitor to host
Though you look both diffident and fey
To you, dear villanelle, I plight my troth
And when my friends come round we’ll drink a toast
To wordsmiths and to poets on their way
We love your form and elegance ,oh both
On my bed at night I gently rest
Knowing that I wander as your guest
To you my villanelle I plight my troth
I love your form and elegance ,oh both