Long Marshy Poems
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Tribute to the Rains
And then it finally came
What was very much sought
And what was most needed
As people even prayed for
Eventually, the rains did arrive
Coming as it did in a flurry
Consuming with it all anxiety,
Uncertainty, the heat and dust
In whatever shape it did land
As speedy drizzle or brazen shower;
Noisy downpour continued all nights,
With lightning and thunder
Hurtling down came the stormy rain
With gale and gusty winds, splashing,
Causing muddy pools and rolling floods;
Hurriedly filling up lakes and reservoirs
Wishes grew, for it to be regular
Each year and round the year; enough,
For that alone would mean, growth
And bring in, wealth and happiness
And thus it raised the hopes of farmers
From communities far and wide; who,
Ever so expectant gazed at the sky:
For rains alone made their crops thrive
For Flora and Fauna to bloom manifold
As pastures and fields spring back to life
Plants and trees turning to refreshing green
As marshy lands all get wet and soaked
At long last the Rain Gods had scampered in
Bringing with it promises of plenty and cheer;
Making the air clean and pollutants free
And ushering in climate for a comfort spree
Children rushed to get drenched for fun
While others chose to cuddle in the bed
A delight that's been quite forgotten
For rains brought thrill to all age brethren
It often inspired families to stick together
And munch crispy snacks chattering together;
With a myriad of thoughts and dreams
And alas life for man got all set to zoom!
It didn't really matter how rains showed up
Through a 'cyclone' or a ‘depression’
All it did was to arrive in style and substance;
To the stupendous amazement of all asunder
Whether in torrents or in spate
Raindrops did charge the water bodies
Making insects and worms come alive
For birds to flutter and butterflies to swarm
The wonder of this refreshing shower
Instantly thrilled my heart with heavenly beat,
And thoughts pleasantly ebbed in my mind
To string words together and sing in praise
Great God indeed; did this resource, bless,
For bereft of it; all life shall be a thing of past
And with it the journey of all living things
May well see the light of millenniums ahead!
ELEGY WRITTEN ON THE DEATH
OF A PARAMOUR
How many faces shroud
A paramour ?
One, two, more!
He was vibrant
Man hood with veins and vines
Gushing passion
Historicity
Genetic thread bestowed
Chewing wild passions
Bit by bit
Anaconda devouring tender deer
Deliciously.
Adolescent love
Infatuations
Treacherous;
And on by virtue of wedlock
Sheer arrogance,
Sharpeníd tongue and horns.
Denial of dreams, reasons justified
Each oneís lot.
Man of wild dreams
Libranís aggressive lust
For love, shattered
Red ants sting-
Day by day
84
Rail Roads
Night by night
He became as thin as a lightning,
Tearing sky apart, frozen feelings
Solidified.
Exotic was the fragrance
Stealthed on wings of wind
Hurling, in a dead manís dream.
He moved to the nucleus, entranced
Of enchanting field of invocation
Furtive sleep walker
Knapsack of burning flesh.
A chamber full of dew and mist
Sorcery of the fairy
Entwining tentacles
Combusting love and flesh
Penurious.
Fury of lust and love
Splashing lava of volcano
Dizziness, once fallen
Door for deliverance doomed.
Lascivious serpent dance
Sucking in, inhaling, exhuming
Chewing marrow with life sap.
Guilt and dirt on body and soul
Sunk deep and deep
In the marshy land
Fallen, fallen deep,
Heaviness, molten lead on mind
Tender soul forewarned
85
Samson J. Koladi
Good angel, bad angel
Ludicrous demarcations
Relative and receptive
Rationalising
Swore his plight
Furrowed, lay on his back,
Losing all he kept close.
Like dawn downed
Came dusk, night
Accompanied by night angels
Came the Saviour
In the trance hour
Flickering tongue
Crawling with ease
Fang, needle teeth,
Curious at the hollow man
Merciful enough to exonerate
Mantle of skin pierced, spitting venom
Sacrificial Homa over
Crept back to darkness.
In the hour of Death
Paramour smiled, he weptÖ..
Whirlpools of dreams, love and sweat.
Next day,
In broad day light,
86
Rail Roads
All saw the paramour
Lying on the causeway,
Like a serpentís hood
Disrobed
Bluish body numb
As cold as Death,
Blue Lotus.
Paramour met predicament
With neither fear nor sulleness.
Silent river of Time flowing
Poor soul rests in turbulence
Hailstorm and fire.
Clump of earth. Green glow. Clump of concrete clapping. Green glow. A grouped nylon is akin to a skinny pair of trousers swinging in a breeze. Twisting with furry knees. But not ever in trees. It is the pointed cradle fork that envelops a mysterious marshy rock into a music score. How rather talented. And how rather quaint too. But a tulip in a tutu is quite wild so shut the door on a barm cake. Ok then. Good. So don't put it down carry it. Vast amounts of miles. And don't sit down. Twenty three hours of sit down in a basket looks rather like a very large dog snoring in a bed. Rather remarkable when the banquet begins. The very long jewelled hands beckon to the plates. Then consume. Vast amounts. While the skinny cat looks in from the window. It might be thrown a pea. Hum. Not substantial is it? And very very very unfair, feudal and unbalanced. Economic egg eats erotic éclairs. In a bistro. Large belly grumbling in hugh waisted pants. Circumference of injections cannot control countries. Calling the rain. Singing to sun beams. In an iced cave. Or a tree. Moat built around a house to house a lord is quite similar to a ladle entering a soup. Or a kettle whistling to water. External shroud. Internally baked. And the state signal of a lemon with pursed lips is spitting words like a sour lemonade. With hardly any sugar. Snow then. Beams budding booming bricking bridges bringing benign baked bomber blooms. And the dusk brings the tailored iconic broom heads. Watch for the tightly woven hairstyles then. In suits. Lean lanky laviscious lecherous limpets. Often dress in red gowns. And hide hair in wigs. But no gigs or pigs. Ok. Ridicule not a rabbit ear or tooth of a rhino. Smiling sunnily. In pendants. In palaces. Paint no fallen star on an erotic empty feather or a leaf. And flock is not a fleeced sheet nor sheets of printed plagiarised rubbish. Zoom then burn. And when burning swim. Very good. Hahaha lettuce loving leeches. Hahahahha twenty cows plus sixteen minutes equals moooo. Xxxxx derogation dogs. Xxxxx humanitarian z this is the p y q reporting from 89.0. On a windy day. Ooh. X. Z 0%
Form:
ARCHAEOLOGY FIELD-TRIP JANUARY 29 TH 3011 (PART II)
(NOTE: If you have not already read PART I, then do so before you read this)
Though the buildings are gone long ago
Our diggings in the places we felt were the main city
Have unearthed plastic false-teeth and artificial heart-valves.
We have also brought up plastic bowls and plastic bags and bottles,
Probably used to carry artificially-flavoured salted food.
(This would account for the false teeth.)
The marshy delta in the south arm of the bay
Once supported a salt-evaporation industry.
These people knew how to use technology
And were obviously technologically advanced -
But a weak people physically. Let me show you why:
Here we see what seems may have been
The foundations of a great bridge across the bay -
And engineering was a forte of these people.
This huge block of concrete you see in
The middle of the water may have been
An artificial island to anchor two such bridges.
Movement and transport seems to have been in vehicles
And very little walking was done, (hence the heart-valve).
Huge concrete highways extended from this city south,
Probably to another of their cities, long gone.
Though important and widespread,
Transport was however a problem for these people,
Especially in the foggy weather which seems to be typical for the place.
Underground we have found a complex
Of tunnels which probably housed a movement system of sorts,
Unaffected by the treacherous climate.
And not just land transport, but sea too.
It doesn’t look like it to our eyes, but this was a major port,
And under the waters of the bay
Can be found many artifacts of ships and cargoes.
Those seven or eight small hills to the south
Of the baymouth are covered today in natural forests of sessile oak
And shrubbery of peach- and grape-bearing plants
But there are still some large Euro-latin buildings
Poking through the growth. It seems to have been
A prosperous residential area of the city.
when I was young, my first boat was a whailer
going fishing to fripp hauling it by trailer
I stopped at Island Plaza, my boat I was a gassing
then the Gulla man asked me, while in passing
"youda mae goinda bat toe anggo strikking mon?
black man with gray hair and a gig in his hand
to go in my boat gigging is what he had demand
happy to have him never a prejedous bone I had
never gigged in day light, to learn I'd be glad
"youda bego down dat scrit da mon"
he had be drive out, to station creek
there were pelicans whose tummy held less than there beek
it was hard to see, it was a marshy maze
I was realy lost in a foggy haze
then in a small creek a little bigger than a brook
off the bow the Gulla man threw the hook
while the anchor set and I lit a cig
he started beating my boat with his gig
well I got his attention, by clearing my throat
and asked "what in the hell are you doing to my boat!"
"eyebe kull-pin de whompiss mon!"
"what?"
"eyebe kull-pin de whompiss mon!"
so with the Gulla man I didn't want to haggel
then I said "hey buddy can you call whompiss with my paddle?"
thinking about plan "A" but still on the limb
thought about takin Gulla man back where I found him
then I was a-mazed! about out of my skin
all around us we were surounded by a dozen dolfin
the water started to boil on top the fish appear
and the old Gulla man stabbed them with his spear
"Ibe gat shree I begit foe mon!"
2 or 3 at a time, bass, flounder, and trout
they were piled so high they started to fall out
with alot of fish, piled in a stack
when a dolfin got close Gulla man threw one back
well the boat was so full, high like a mound
so were the dolfin and they were no longer found
"gitbe dare gitbe dare!"
I was so amazed, never had such a thrill
I thanked the Gulla man all the way to the hill
"trit flider notak in megit may na churn be tak in da bass mon!"
so he kept the bass for his kids runnin about
and I got to keep all of the flounder and trout
by Capt Mike
Form:
A broad vale next to Lake Champlain,
early morning, before the heat,
barbed wire fence next to a field
where John Arnold’s sheep are grazing.
Tall grass is hiding most of them,
white humps moseying about there,
their heads poke up as there chewing.
Arnold’s House is there on my right,
old Victorian, last century,
nice place, but a little faded,
John has put off fixing it up,
wool prices were not great last year.
I’m not sure I want him to paint,
kinda fits in better this way.
A foothill juts out the next stretch,
small cliffs rise up above the road,
soft, crumbly rock interrupted
by tenacious trees with clinging roots
casting shadows over the pavement.
Way up high is an overlook,
local trail, popular day hike,
been up there a half-dozen times,
looks west to the Adirondacks,
across the long, thin stretch of lake.
It’s too hot to hike it today,
better in leaf season anyhow.
Stock car race-track on my left,
they run Friday and Saturday,
big white trailers are pulling in,
tonight’s competitors arriving,
it’s too early for spectators.
Fun watching them spin rubber through dirt,
and the local children love it,
I guess the fathers do as well,
or maybe the hots dogs and beer.
The beer is cheap, run-of-the-mill,
but those hot gods are really good.
I wonder where they’re buying them?
Two-mile mark, a broad wetland,
marshy ground, cattails and beaver dams,
tall grasses poking form water,
a swarm of annoying insects,
attracts dozens of pleasant birds,
each marked with their own fine color.
People fish here in the summer,
like to hunt ducks in the autumn.
Easy to imagine nothing’s changed,
that it’s just like primeval days,
but a collapsed barn in the woods
tells the truth of its history,
That this was once a farmer’s field,
it only became a swamp when
the beavers were reintroduced,
probably fifty years back now.
Nature likes to remake itself.
Well, my legs are starting to hurt,
time to start heading back now.
EarthCare Elders
repurposed our red brick industrial
BrownField
Including a rusted metal box
the size and shape of a giant's coffin
orange and dingy brown
metal flaking paradox
floating toward sacred ground
along river's sweeping fed up bed.
Here lived a racoon mother
as had her Elder EarthMother
before her,
members of an indigenous EarthTribe
with river wisdom
long before our anthro-privileged
patriarchal/matriarchal political
and capital economic divisive time,
perhaps more cooperatively sublime.
Because of Mother Racoon's prior claim,
our Elders could not remove this blatant blight
from commercial waterfront views
when they salvaged the metal roof
beneath it
to install solar panels
and repurposed metal blades
for wind turbines
Facing south
toward Long Island's soundless waves
and marshy breezes,
rapture to our downstream raptors.
So, instead of decapitating
this rusted tomb for racoon's rest
Her bedroom was brushed,
redressed high up
above our healing river
and painted fiery red
with a black raptor's feathered eye
guarding furious west
across autumn's sky
Relentlessly watching
our rivered valley
as trees burn orange
rich crimson
mellow yellow.
Our sacred river eye
of gratitude for River Gaia's flowing
watch back through transportive time.
She brought us rich soil,
luscious drinking water from the North,
seeds of grass,
raspberry and blackberry vines,
mountain laurel,
blueberry and cranberry bushes,
maple and oak and chestnut
and evergreens,
Edibles and ornamentals,
mushrooms and nuts,
berries and squash
and melons,
herbs and strawberries,
squirrels and frogs and bears,
cats and wolves,
bats and eagles
flowing and following upstream sometimes
collaboratively unaware
But, mostly down deep under,
sprouting magical thunder
awe and sacred wonder
All this
before our Raptor's Eye
for those who see
what others hear
of EarthTribe's mystery.
May sunshine and scattered showers
Countdown days and sleepless hours
Village maidens creep from their bowers
Meet amongst the meadow flowers
In a circle they skip and dance
Whilst chanting their love one's name
Enticing as moths to a flame
Each to another and all the same
Jethro, Saul, Piers and Lance.
As storm clouds darkened the blue sky
Each maiden emitted a sigh
Happily with vocals on high
hurried home, to wait bye and bye
Fair Suzette wished to be Piers wife
He waited for the day's sunset
to spread it's golden riverlet
For Piers was in love with Suzette
Dame Fortune had smiled on his life
Piers was due an inheritance
Came by way of a recompense
Family feuds were once intense
Thankfully all now make good sense
The moon lightened his way ahead
He walked then rested for awhile
Reading her note he did smile
Then hurried on over the style
Spurred on by love he quickly tread
Bleating sheep barring his way along
Moved aside as he sang love song
Twas her his heart did belong
He hoped her heart was just as strong
Thoughts of meeting made his heart thud
To rendevous she had agreed
The marshy fen and the tall green reed
Bogged down his progress to impede
He soldiered on caked in the mud
As overhead storm clouds passed
Sinking, helpless, he stared aghast
ankles, then knees he was stuck fast
Frantic, his eyes about him cast
Wind caught words blown far away
Then came a glowing lantern flame
Wending a pathway to her swain
For her his fear he overcame
He lowered his head and then did pray
He heard wild ponies stampeding
Then towards Piers they then did swing
He searched his pockets for some string
Lassoing one did upwards spring
Oh joy he thought my lucky day.
He gained control with frantic haste
Then across the fen he did race
To lift Suzette to his embrace.
They married and named their child May
Over ten worms then? In coats. Goggles? Flight then. Huge paper bees. Altitude 4 on curvatures rattling over the field,fauna and hedgerows. Boom boom boom beasts coming. Mooooving across the territory pulling dragging. When old then its chop chop chop. But if a falling blaster gets there first then death arrives earlier. After a squirt of mud. Nice. Lick lips then. Taste good? No? Yes? And now the ships are coming. Painting playing poker. Captain geranium. General ox. And a poxy fly-by of a boat with 8000 foot wings. But no oars. Quiet is it? For now. All are writing and writhing in formatted charts. To plan the circumference of a beach landing is to plant a cactus in a salt marsh. Humming. Sing a long a song. In either of the varied tongues located in the land masses. Bing bong in a mansion house. Centre of village. Plans are made. Fortress swept by whipping a floor. And a mop is pleasing to the eye. But only after a curfew. Can one really develop lead from that style of bread? Hurry up and bring it home. It is to be said that a fickle strawberry in a flowery dress can pick up many a uniformed prawn. And so it was. And in the a d and the b c and the ultimate balancing act between pillars. Then all fall down. Like tumbling masses of peas into a stench of brown. It is largely thought that the opinions of one are less kinder than another. To form a unison is not the plan between the iron kilted musings of rulers. Turning twisting taking touching tombs. Diving into the depths of the caverns. High viewpoints equal many pointed mountains. Justify not the wisdom stemming from an ionised tea towel. And place the trowel to rest gently. Then go play hop scotch with 15 eggs, 1 dew ball and a cake. With or without cream. Dare to jump off a mysterious marshy rock holding a leather book? 98b equals 64f in a cloud bracket. Xxxxx versatile valiant vanquis. Xxxxx pasteurization z
Form:
When my identical twin sister and I were about nine, there was a little brooklet
in our backyard. It started out kind of like a tiny stream of water in a marshy bit of grass way back down by the alley and the two double cottonwood trees.
My sister and I discovered the brooklet while wearing red shiny rain boots,
yellow plastic rain jackets, and matching yellow plastic hats that tied up under our chins. The rain outfits popular in the 60’s in small town Iowa. We delighted in stomping around in our little brook for several days. It was so much fun listening to the smack smack of the water as we tromped around in the muddy muck.
When the little brooklet began to disappear in May, we had a terrific idea. We got out some shovels, and widened her. We used the water hose to replenish her. We wanted to keep her always; we named her Singing River. She was the best present we had ever made for ourselves.
We spent another week or two stomping around in her muddy muck chanting “singing river” songs to her. But alas, in May, gardens are put into play in Iowa, so she was soon tilled up, and planted with peas, squash, radishes, beans, carrots, and two rows of flowers which our mother always insisted upon
planting. So a new game was on, and we re-named her “The Flower Garden of our Heart.” If anything, we were flexible and adjustable, and equally delighted in our new friend’s transformation. I often think of that back forty, and how much fun we had there.
Especially after Daddy built a tree house in the crook of one of those double cottonwood trees. I used to lug seven library books up there with a sandwich and a glass of Kool-aide, and I would not come down until my mother screamed my whole name ending with “Get in here IMMEDIATELY!” Seven books is the limit of books I could check out of the library every day. I was about ten at the time.