Long Measuring Poems
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The time was 1969, the place- Home-Economics class in junior high. While guys got sent
to “shop,” those of us of the softer sex learned culinary skills. I loved those days when the
room was filled with the sounds of our chatting, laughing and clanging pots and pans, as we
busied ourselves preparing meals before sitting down at our group tables to enjoy the fruits
of our labors. That was my first semester. In the next semester came. . . .SEWing.
Gone were the room’s former tantalizing odors. And the tables once used for sampling
our experiments in cooking had been ominously transformed. Now there were patterns
we’d been asked to buy in fabric stores pinned onto pieces of material and laid out
across the center of each table. Those forms for clothing-yet-to-be, strange maps imprinted
with vertical and horizontal lines and codes along their edges, confused and overwhelmed
me. The implements of baking - mixing bowls, pans, and the cups and spoons for
measuring - had been replaced by a much less comforting display of thread and thimbles,
sewing machines, binding tape and scissors.
With zero scintillation and after the befuddling explanations from my teacher,
I somehow ended up with a hot pink mini dress(actually wearable!) with white trim
amateurishly attached, and. . .for all my effort, the stunning grade of C.
Thankfully, in high school I discovered among a broader choice of electives, Creative Writing
Class, my time to sparkle!
For Carol Brown's "Story Time" (just one story of many that would comprise my bio)
The whole world I can measure in this cornfield.
Why would I need
to go to Indiana or Pennsylvania
or Katmandu?
Ohio is right here, and the rattling gold of the corn is here.
Yes Indiana has its rustic temples also ~
as does Kentucky and Idaho,
all over the world the sky is wide open
and the green and yellow corn is swaying,
but why travel
when this amber upsurge is before us?
Here I can feel the hidden ramparts
of a mighty cathedral of music
here under my feet,
the songs are rough and ready,
but they are as good as any prayer.
Over there a stand of trees
where the green frocks
of summer shadow-dance.
Each stalk of corn climbs to its highest
and my spirit climbs with them,
rocking on that sea of wind-waving luster.
The mud and dirt here is as good as any,
they are just as holy as elsewhere
as are all the grubbing creatures in and upon it.
This field is a sure-enough atlas
it reaches surpassingly deep and high,
the roofs of heavens are below us
the roots of time delve and sprout here
the sky descends to breathe within each breast.
This is the land beyond the great river,
that river brings the world here,
the sun nests here, and the stars appear
reflected in our up-turned eyes.
We listen to the tilling breeze
mapping the whole of creation
in just this well formed,
well farmed forty acres
above and below
but also in Michigan and elsewhere.
Joy came my way,
While the sun was on hay to pray.
'Hey!', she'd called,waving at me.
Biding me to stop-I,measuring the field.
I focused on the path that leads to distinction,
Climbing creepers,waving distress-my expulsion.
The praying sun,spoke greatly in tongues,
That her words hitted me like throngs.
Toward my path to Canaan,
Before me was the undisciplined Hamaan:
Whirling to and fro like east wind,
Arresting my attention,pulling my limb.
But my attention was bethroted to Success,
Regarding none but the seeming process.
The Old Oak Over the trees smile faintly,
Biding me that,good turn comes gradually.
0.5 miles to the aim,
Joy was seen beyond the lane.
Halt was i,Mouth agape;
Twas veiled to me that,all success are in Joy's cave
17:11:16:14:10
Atmosphere peers in as witnessed guide
Playing silent the light a curse of the eye
Distant drum beats,
blood keeping time as the encampment
machines turn
Seer flips an hourglass
measuring the polarity and equity of the fall
Deserters, heads filling the holes increments
of inclement, cement ed dissent of traitorous mole,
ducking tale, tucking trail
motions of churn, taken the asundered call
Into the pit of dry foaming foment
to take the moments from one and all
The sconses lick hungrily at an invisible crevace
beyond the wall
As if to escape the dire situation
Dancing shadows mocking with the flame
Threats to soot on, even urning to you
hieroglyphic mummified remains of the blame
An operative to take the walls
as an agent of willed imagery,
with intent effigy chasing
Voodoo, if self placing, if only in symbology
it signs its name,
yours it seeks erasing
Sways like an imbecile to the drums
that roll on chTantric Seasoning
Chancing luck, diced to taste, the only salvation
Old Men milk the ink and the pages complain
of the hurried-station, airy, brash, the callous flap
But still there to give their credence credulity
and their backs
Thick the cool salve over the eye
Nor reap the fruit of the Harvester
Be not a Mothers bag pulled dry
While the challenge is chalice ready, epic, nigh
The Standard bears the last stand
with royal severity, the last strand of the integrity
Walk the great halls, echo
that Nativity
That takes the line with Authority
When I was a child
a mere simulation of an adult reconciled,
in the body of a seven-year-old adventurer -
I'd be a scientist, explorer or a writer succumbed to indenture,
as the storyteller, poet of what may lay ahead synchronizing,
visionary hero of the future uncompromising
out of the histories of some reformulated past stabilizing;
guided by grandmother's heart and care
taking in everything with no thought spared,
caught between the dream and its lesson wellspring
and all the heartaches and happiness it may bring
living, loving, measuring everything;
and here I am today, aged and grown
caught by the ebb and tidal edges sown
of where I was to go within its undertow.
I am the legendary me completed and formed
in a legacy that is created by life storms
satisfied and eased and at last at rest
knowing well - who I am today
can be assured -
I did my very best.
"The clock is a useless tool, measuring mortality,
narrowing vitality. Don't let it tick-tock away the waning moments
and fine components of your final days." (last stanza of Heather Ober's "Clocks")
A brand new day
Tick tock tick tock
You grow, you learn
You take that walk
To get your fine diploma
Fond friends get left behind
Blink one eye
To keep a tear at bay
Tick tock tick tock
You get a job
Or first you go to college
Find a mate and settle down
Tick tock tick tock
Surprises come
So soon your first child’s prom!
Blink both your eyes
Try not to cry
Tick tock tick tock
A grandchild’s birth
And then a whole lot more
Folks you used to know
Have passed away
Tick tock tick tock
Blink back those tears
Of joy and pride
And also tears of pain
Tick tock tick tock
Changes happen
For the good and for the bad
You must adapt
Or fade. . . . . .
Tick tock tick tock
Sit back in your recliner
And simply close your weary eyes
There will be no more tears
To blink away
For Tracie Edwards' Homage Poetry Contest
September 17 Scripture Meditations Based on Matthew 21-23
Key Verse– Matthew 22:16 …Master, we know that thou art true, and teachest the way of God in truth…
MY GOD, THANK YOU FOR TEACHING ME YOUR WAY
Thank You for teaching me Your way of perfect sovereignty
Very great throughout eternity
Against humanity’s obvious frailty
Really strengthening my faith by Your authority.
Thank You for teaching me Your way of omnipotent might
Very powerful beyond celestial forces’ height
Against worldliness’ vain delight
Really brightening my worship around Your light.
Thank You for teaching me Your way of right direction
Very purposive in every situation
Against aimlessness’ futile condition
Really enabling my soul to rejoice in Your assured salvation.
Thank You for teaching me Your way of serene victory
Very triumphant midst any evil fury
Against earthliness’ successful story
Really upholding my devotion for Your glory.
Thank You for teaching me Your way of biblical truthfulness
Very wise despite ignorance-caused foolishness
Against technologies’ advancing steadfastness
Really guiding my perspective through Your faithfulness.
Thank You for teaching me Your way of heavenly standard
Very excellent above intellectual award
Against carnality’s compromising measuring card
Really protecting my servanthood-commitment by Your safeguard.
Thank You for teaching me Your way of wondrous miracles
Very amazing around divine mystery-ripples
Against doubts’ skeptical tentacles
Really enriching my spirituality with Your principles.
September 17, 2022
Gentle power rises from the west mad prairie like settlement
Driven as a demon from above the mountain grays discontent
City dwellers know this as cumulonimbus low altitude weather
Traveling their way at 10 feet per second by the satellite projection
Commencing surface to 6,500 feet up or better or so they say or let on
Variables here suggest wind speeds come on quickly
Heavy precipitation drinks up the sun in low lands down
The better to get wet with high level winds if sanity prevails
Influenced by no one in particular on the solar ecliptic measuring stick
One drip at at a time or drop if you prefer or please
Out comes the sun
It knows what to do
I stood on the isle, winds tearing the veil,
When the Lamb broke seals and Time grew pale—
First came the White, a conqueror proud,
With bow unbent and a crown like cloud.
He rides to conquer, not for peace,
His arrows silent, wars never cease.
A mimic of Christ, but cold in deed,
He plants the lie, he sows the seed.
Then Red did thunder with sword in hand,
To tear all peace from every land.
Blood soaked soil, brother and kin,
He feeds the fire of hate within.
The Black came next with crooked scale,
Measuring grain, but hearts grow frail.
A coin for bread, the poor must choose—
To starve with pride or eat and lose.
And last the Pale, like deathless bone,
Hades followed, cold as stone.
Plague and beast and famine near,
He is the end we always fear.
They ride as judgments, sent from God,
To cleanse the earth with iron rod.
Yet still the Lamb, so meek, so bold—
Holds back the wrath, till all is told.
This quill is calling out to you!
Ink brighter than skies cold blue
Even in my darkest desired silence.
Metronome paced sands trickle steadily into
sorrow's timepiece; my glass prison cells view
And in the wake of saddest Decembers haze
Even though I'm frozen in most ways
I still desire evermore to seek your guidance.
When my words break softly under your gaze
Have I finally figured out that love is still a maze?
Penned, buy a candle light or two
Because it's my favorite color, too
Your substance; it becomes my covering subsidence.
Measuring miseries malignant moments of magnitude
It has left me wounded with no concept, anymore of gratitude
In the ink wells now, just waterfalls; I remember my sadness through
But within every empty broken heart drop; I'll always wish for amnesia with regards to you!