Long Man of few words Poems
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Quiet man of few words
Dreamer and free spirit
Curious and passionate
Tinkering and inventive
Creative and hardworking
Nothing came easy
Worked for everything he ever got
Lived life wholeheartedly
And mostly on his own terms
Dedicated father
Devoted husband
A full life but hardly long enough
To enjoy some last easy years
He loved to say
He were leading the good life
He earned everything he got
He planned a peaceful life
At one with the outdoors
Working the land
Reaping the fruits of labor
Aching muscles and content heart
Well earned smile
As each sun set
At the end of it all
Finally rewarded with
The peace he always wanted
Published in my 24-page photo/anthology ~A SIMPLE MAN~ 2020
AP: 3rd place 2020
Come out of the church
To the open air
With dancing
sunbeams about the streets
I told him to come, to come into sight
He yelled back to me, “I’m allergic to the light.”
I saw him swing on the bars
Like an agile young boy
His looks deceive him,
his age does not suit him
I said, “Come out, do not wait for the night.”
He said, “I can’t, I’m allergic to the light.”
Long knotted hair the length of his back
Dressed in wool sweater and baggy brown slacks
Covered in sand from a play in the park
I tried to clean him up but he stayed in the dark
The flash of a camera or the ray of electric
He curls up into a ball, with nothing but fear
So I said, “Face your fears, do not give into fright.”
One last time he insisted, “I’m allergic to the light.”
At nineteen she’s beautiful—
chic and slim
Legs as smooth as a king’s javelin
She’s gentle in her speech, like the flow of a stream
With a face, the glamour of a cloudless skyline
She wears the sexiest of silk garments
And the finest of beads in the world of ornaments
We gape at her from the backyard fence
And wish we could ever afford her bride price.
But Tonya is not your ordinary character
She lives in the farthest of distant worlds
With a book on her lap she travels Miles
Dating and flirting with invisible ghosts
Sometimes she smiles as she reads, we wonder!
Who talks to books? We ask in surprise
She raises her eyebrow, distracted and irritated
She shakes her head and shuts her book.
Her father is an old man of few words
A chief ever scorning the white man’s books
He drinks his wine and plays his harp
He sings his songs of the battles he fought
Her mother is the youngest of the chief’s wives
A remarkable diviner with an air of romance
She speaks highly of Tonya and the chief is provoked
‘That pair of pumpkin heads fool of books!’
@Asiimwe Simon
They called him Billy—Old Billy they said,
A man of few words, who walked where none tread.
Eyes like the storm, with a soul full of scars,
He trusted no one, not the moon nor the stars.
Once he had laughter, once he had friends,
But betrayal, like poison, seeped in the end.
Lovers who lied, and brothers who stole,
Left empty echoes carved deep in his soul.
He became the shadow beneath the streetlamp,
A silent witness with a heart grown damp.
He spoke in silence, he smiled in pain,
Learned that love often walks with a chain.
“Friendship is business,” Old Billy would say,
“They smile in your face, then throw you away.”
He saw the masks that people wore,
And knew what their smiling eyes were for.
He vanished one dusk, with no goodbye,
No body was found, no time to cry.
All that remained was a coat in the cold,
And a letter of truth, written bold:
> “Dear loved one, love if you must,
But never, ever give your trust.
Let them speak, let them praise,
But guard your heart all your days.
The world wears masks, don’t play their game—
Live in silence, and walk without name.”
Now legends whisper through alley and hill,
Of the man they once called Old Billy still.
But no one knows where his footsteps fell,
For he vanished into silence—and wore it well.
He’s a man of few words when he wants to be
And his silence can rival the Sphinx,
But be spins a good yarn during therapy
With his analyst pouring the drinks.
His obsession with fishing’s a mania,
Always dying to dangle the bait.
His aversion to marriage, a phobia,
His fiancée will just have to wait.
It’s all cowboy psychiatry, mirrors and smoke
In some Freudian home on the range.
Though this good ol’ boy’s often laid out on the couch,
I don’t think he’s likely to change.
He’s obsessive compulsive habitually
In matters to which he is drawn,
And he’s down at the topless bar ritually,
Unless there’s a football game on.
He’s conflicted about schizophrenia,
Thinks anxiety’s nothing to dread.
He exhibits selective amnesia,
And he’s passive aggressive in bed.
It’s all cowboy psychiatry, cognitive bull,
And those inkblots are all kind of strange.
He’ll always deny its denial, no doubt.
I don’t think he’s likely to change.
Regardless his problems,
He’d rather be thera-pissed off, than thera-pissed on.
What do you do? Fine - I'll mention other things,
In Jo"burg, the expats were bored - went to
a roundabout and drove around, disgraceful,
don't you play any sport? Not even couch-rugby?
I used to race go-karts, play tennis, chase
the girls, even in winter, oddly in autumn;
I'm a chess player, bunch of nerds, no wonder
sometimes I'm a man of few words, expletives.
And now - I travel, write homily on Koh Samui beach,
with vacant-eyed Nesbo just out of reach,
writing is a lonely job, like waiting to die,
you'll find out - no matter how far you may fly.
Nesbo had just committed another repetitive crime,
while I was still battling with endless rhyme.
A man of few words, my father taught by example.
The best thing he showed me
was to set my standards high
and to be my own judge -
always modest never defiant or arrogant.
If something needed doing
I should do it without expecting praise -
self-satisfaction being the ultimate goal.
He taught me to set my sights high
and to be my own boss
no matter the circumstances –
to be fiercely independent
not count on anyone.
I learned to go about my business and be self-sufficient.
I did not do well in teams – like a bull in a china shop
I had my objectives and went at them as a loner.
I never saw it exactly that way
but I did get good at it to a fault.
One day, it was a rude awakening when
it dawned on me how I was doing things for people
and they were consistently ungrateful.
I knew the problem couldn’t completely be with them
My so-called modesty had become self-fulfilling servitude.
It finally registered that if people didn’t have to ask,
they didn’t have to say ‘thanks’.
And that never mattered to me until
I realized that they were in fact not thankful
And THAT was a whole different ball game.
I literally spent days if not weeks
stubbornly trying to unlearn and reprogram myself.
Tried to get it through my skull that
if people ASK for something,
or at least ADMIT they would appreciate something,
that’s when they might actually appreciate it
How cheap can people be -
what a warped world we live in.
For me, it was a hard lesson in human nature -
I was actually an enabler encouraging people
to take me for granted.
People really do like games
even the ones who say they hate them.
Admittedly it was late in life I learned this lesson
And I admit I often still choose to do things
without getting people to actually ask.
But at least I’m cognizant of my ways.
And admittedly when I do pause
and play the ‘asking’ game, it does pay off.
But I’m so unbelievably stubborn I don’t always
want to pay the price for their gratitude
so to this day, if I feel something needs to be done
I’ll just get it done.
AP: Honorable Mention 2021
(woman)"Just cause I didn't smile at you
Just cause I didn't wave
I'll not wear feelings on my sleeve
That's no way to behave.
But it could be, that I like you
Maybe like you quite a lot
You won't know because you've given up
My heart is tied in knots.
I'll tell you what you need to do
Come over to my house
Knock on the door, 'no violins'
You're a fiddler, not a Strauss.
And if I do not answer
It's because I'm mad at you
You've made me lose my temper
Something I swore not to do.
Now listen up, tomorrow
Come back and try again
Knock, cordially, about three times
But I won't let you in.
That's when you firmly clear your throat
And in your sternest voice
Demand I open up the door
Don't give me any choice.
I'm feeling pretty flustered now
Still we've got to iron this out
Okay, now where did I leave off?"
(man)' I guess I'm in the house.'
"Oh yes, that's right, I've let you in
Don't act surprised to see
My hair is done, my face made up
The hem above my knee.
Pretend there's nothing baking
Though the smell does captivate
Fresh rolls; a well dressed fatted duck
And cause it's getting late
You may as well attempt
To hold my hand, but no
Those puckered lips you'll tuck right in
Or out the house you'll go.
Some other would be wooers
I've kicked right out the door
T'was one or two, no there were three
Pray don't be number four.
I've planned this well and all is set
We've made it up the hill
Now ask the fated question 'Sir'
((man) ' Will you...'
"Of couse, I will."
RETA PRUITT
September 4, 2016