Long Memorizing Poems
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The shifting of many corporeal hands move across this dead cell,
A vacuums vortex, a psychic sponge, charging this battery of
Energy called the spirit board.
Paranormal phenomenon striking plate to enter realities plane
Of existence, for the ethereal challenged in crisis, seeking the
Threshold for spontaneous release, unto our spiritual realm.
Witchery’s board of trickery left in a polarized stance it
So entices the living with its tempting whispering of lies,
Incantations gate keepers wait on the other side of evils
Door way.
Memorizing the human sensory functions into a false
Sense of harmless mystery of the unexplained, it lures
These victims ever closer to weaving its spell of the demonic.
These capture being lost unto the hypnotic effects are
Transfixed unable to hit their override switch that controls
Their mental powers of persuasion, disabled is there strength
Of will power, they belong to the Ouija now.
Clasping do all for sides of the curtain of reality, times
Displacement begins in earnest, without hesitations
Momentary loll this dead cell bursts to life.
Black magic key has been inserted within the wooden
Door way’s heart and soul, a bizarre power bank draws
Forth the energy of the spiritual lost, swinging hells
Kept wide open.
The pancetta spins out of control, smashing against
The barriers of humanity, darkened ebony light shines
Through this doorway of evil and the flickering candle
Turns to a shades greenish blue wavering in the odious
Breeze.
The voice of a thousand screams echo in sheer delight,
We have been freed at last, broken is the trance, the boards
Hypnotic effects are dashed by the light of the dawn.
Dazed in bewilderment the voyeurs are chilled to their
Very inward bones, shaking, staring in awes amazement,
Wondering if these events really happened at all.
Then within these tented walls a voice responds to their
Questioning, laughing, as if a jackal at a fresh kill site!
Foolish mortals you know not what you have done, this
Night, but I promise thee this, laughing once again,
In a demonic under tone, none shall leave this domicile
Alive.
The entry doors lock without the human touch, the
Curtain windows pull closed, a momentary stilled
Scream, then all is silent, what remains is left up
To my readers to visualize, as the final candle
Blows out!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
A mind inquisitive will find
while looking out upon the world
that myriads of whys unwind
from raveled webs in queries whirled
by skies above and realms below.
There’s always more than we can know.
If contemplating mysteries
of life’s existence here in space
along with astro-histories
within our cosmical embrace,
the awe one feels will surely show.
There’s always more than we can know.
In famous drama by the Bard,
where Ghost is spotted ‘wondrous strange‘
by castle sentries standing guard,
mid ‘sworn to secrecy’ exchange,
says Hamlet to Horatio,
‘There’s more than you can dream to know
‘on earth in heaven, countless things
in your philosophy not taught.’
(And so begin misfortune’s slings.)
To summarize his gist of thought
in passage ever apropos:
There’s always more than we can know.
Some think that memorizing facts,
despite their changing through the years
as seen in how mankind reacts
when ruled by prejudice and fears,
amounts to understanding, though
there’s always more than we can know.
The gladiola in delight
will bloom as forces lure her on.
Bright stars o’er-sprinkle dark of night
but fade from sight with breaking dawn.
Thus Nature’s cycles come and go.
Yet there’s much more that we can know.
Vast marvels may await our gaze
beyond imagination’s ken
by polishing away the haze
to clear enlightened vision, then
shall fountains of deep wisdom flow…
There’s always more than we can know!
~ Harley White
* * * * * * * * *
“The important thing is not to stop questioning. Curiosity has its own reason for existence. One cannot help but be in awe when he contemplates the mysteries of eternity, of life, of the marvelous structure of reality. It is enough if one tries merely to comprehend a little of this mystery each day.”
~ Albert Einstein ~ ”Old Man’s Advice to Youth: ‘Never Lose a Holy Curiosity’” LIFE Magazine (2 May 1955) p. 64…
The poem is written in verse, having stanzas with refrain…
Inspiration was derived from various passages from The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, by William Shakespeare, in particular the following…
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
~ William Shakespeare, Hamlet Act 1, scene 5, 159–167
When did I learn to walk?
The awkward stance,
a toddler’s uncertain step,
stumbling, falling,
getting up again until
rhythm of feet and
balance work in sequence,
was that when I learned
to walk? No.
When did I learn to walk?
Kindergarten marches,
a military parade of sorts
around a classroom,
rhythm band instruments
in hand, banging on toy
cymbals and drums
to the measured beat
of feet and blare of
prerecorded sound? No.
When did I learn to walk?
Was it the long hours
in marching band
practicing routines,
memorizing music,
and the beating of feet
on hot pavement along
humid parade routes on
July mornings in hot
woolen uniforms? No.
When did I begin
to learn to walk?
From the moment
I held your hand, strolling
by the Strand Theater
on the sidewalks of St.
Paul, along the shores
of Lake Como on
Spring and Summer nights,
through Rosedale, your
hand in mine as we looked
at engagement rings
in jewelry store windows
and dreamed dreams.
I learned to walk
in earnest down
the aisle of
St. Bridget of Sweden,
into a new wedded
life filled with
wonder and love,
the many walks of
pregnancies, Pitocin
drip walks down
hospital corridors,
during nights with
restless infants, and
sick children, to
parks and baseball
diamonds, plays
and musicals, concerts
and gymnasiums,
graduations, weddings,
funerals, grandchildren,
all of them walks
along the spherical
path of life.
To walk with you is
to learn how to love,
each measured step,
a grace-filled journey
to something greater,
far beyond and far better
than the stumbling steps
that I could have
made on my own.
To walk with you,
is to see the
world with different
eyes, colors bursting
through the greys,
warmth on the
coldest of days, your
voice floating, playing
delightfully in the air
alongside until the
sound settles gently,
gracefully in my ears.
We have walked many
steps together in life,
my gait now not as steady,
these days of uncertain
limbs, joints and cane.
In walking with you,
new discoveries never
end, new beginnings
abound, and that
with you, the first,
and the finest of
all teachers, learning
to walk is never
fully learned.
There is nothing left of life
that death cannot resolve,
times velocity spins on stolen lips
and minute pieces of adamantine
pierce the edge of soles
worn with pain
----
Right here,
Where night and dawn merge
the membrane strains
cleaving, as shade blackens blue
for mere milli seconds
Standing in the hollows of night
still, watching forever shimmering
in the shadowed corner of my eye,
I, me, always a curious creature
swallow bricks and mortar
tasting truth
In my head an orchestra plays
the symphonies composed of my life
strings wring my heart with melodies
wrought in pain and self-loathing
shame and eventual surrender
to the beat
But,
in the beauty of renewal
in the peace of your reflections
I've wondered at the universe
memorizing the mysteries unsolved
ever tantalized neurons smashed
awakening ever and over again
Sleep has been a foreign land
settled by the fortunate
longed for by the tortured
spirits of my mind
Yet in these dark magnificent galaxies
when snores softly sigh in peace
or monsters haunt your dreams,
I have watched millennia of mourning
shatter the promise of darkness evermore,
I wondered as sunshine held a drop of dew
and as light of hope captured the ghosts of night
banishing them forevermore, or until nights edge
I am a watcher and a teller of tales
Singer of forbidden songs and tragedy,
downtrodden, I rose to fight again and again
with a schizophrenic mind harnessed
within the beauty of a single star
and the promise of humanity
in the kindness of a strangers touch
Now at the end of all journeys
my final battle lays in that
which I know not, shackled
that foreign land whisks me away
again and again, dreams cease
as moisture rolls from my brow
---
Slowly, slowly, slowly
winding down into nothingness
Gently, gently, gently
I will lay down your cries of grief
My words aren’t never-ending
my breath will someday cease
Yet true beauty and wonder lies
in the wondrous infinity of peace
just look into these eyes overflowing with pain
know !! there will be an end, even that shall ease ...
(none fiction)
This rainy day reminding me of a childhood memory
Me and my sister and cousins loved to play in the rain.
We would filled up our buckets 1 to 6.
In the backyard in our caribbean island back then.
We had our fun and play hide in seek and hide Every were.
Our home was old fashioned as well as modern.
I will never forget the outside toilet for it was one of the ancient
it was deep and scary and dark.if you fall in there is no way up.
I will never forget the light bulb that went through my knee
Around that time from playing , till this day I still carry the scar as well.
We would seat in yard eat as much mango and sugar cane and everything in site. For aunt had a store it became a place to hide and eat while we play.
I will never forget the old fashioned iron for our clothes.
For every morning for school tidiness was a must for it was Catholic School.
School was strict as can be you will be on your knees for more than hours
facing the wall and a whip to mark your soul by teacher for not memorizing every lesson by heart. And this was just after school.
Morning time lesson needed to be reviewed the teacher with a stick on hand ready to give you a knuckle blister if you did not memorized your lesson. I was one of the students, I couldn't even remember the lesson for my first communion.
Thank God that's the same time I came to America at age 9.without my communion done. (don't tell).
I miss everything I left behind our home was beautiful and blessed.i just wish the 2 Germandogs were okay and didn't die chain up in my godfather backyard for he was a simple married men I was he's fist child of being his goddaughter.
I miss my dog Benji as well, nice little puppy but he would eat everything in sight. It was also hide your shoes or it would be apart.
Childhood was fun and will never be forgotten. It will take more than a page. To start of with once upon a time.
I will never forget all the old fashioned games me and my sister use to play.
I will never forget the first time I saw my sister cried. A huge nail went through her foot from playing hide in seek in the backyard yard in the dark.
solemn thoughts
meanderings
wandering over the night
stars glistening
on seas of ebony
nocturnal whispers, reflections
in moonlight inklings
stars hesitant
to glow, where the past peels back
layers of discord
naked,
scars boldly weeping
remembering…
darkness is a color
faded, distant
almost a prayer
for the moment before
the heart’s snow
falls, melancholic and bitter
like the wind
autumn’s rhythmic story
playing softly
gentle as the sun’s smile
blessing away the night
who blends silence
and a weary taste of misery
stars wink,
like an aching memory
crazed,
black as the sea
who tells me I’m lost
amid the clouds
where hope winces
and then
rides waves of distant prayers
praising…
night’s stark laughter
a stillness
blowing over my spirit
winsome and endless
soothing
through the fog
a lonely dewdrop
dripping
on the earth
on the rose
on the petals
wishing, wistfully
crying
to the touch
of memories, rushing in
a cold wind
like October
vibrant and colorful
shading the grass
silencing the past
reminding me
this time cannot last…
freely drawing
images
grace penetrating
seasons of praise
in the distance
an ache
vehement
this stays, the blessing
rising from the ashes
of a moonlit
story, hesitant
whispering on the still
breaking through
the thoughts
healing the night
of its doubts
restoring the beautiful
in the skies
where answers
are burning,
questions unheard….
victory
a star fades
and the night cries
tempting my faith
reminding me why…
the story is old
and I know
it is pure gold
the silence – so bold
memorizing,
surrendering
to the seas of a distant tear
the fear, losing
what is meant for me,
the One who died on a tree
saving me from hell
saving me from me
saving me so I see…
this is the reason
I believe
for every moment that I breathe
for every morning
each dawn still grieves
but shines, despite the mystery
and He blesses me
in spite of the darkness
in spite of the ebony
waves of grief
in spite of me
in spite of me…
Oh, God – dear God, I believe!
I had heard about a ...
a writer's group ... in my city
where a writer could recite their poem or short story
on a stage with an audience
I decided on a poem ... of my heritage
~ a feather lost, gliding and drifting, it soars
in the mighty wind, it twirls and swirls
once the 'People' owned all the wilderness ~
I was so nervous and trembled
for days I worked on memorizing the lines of my poem
making all my friends listen
over and over again speaking it to a mirror
with smiles .. and no smiles
~ there, upon a sheer jagged cliff an appaloosa
horse of many colors stands majestic
and this Ojibwe girl gazes under an azure sky ~
we had to listen to several talkers before my turn
they were so good that my heart sank
I would look like a fool ... to my friends
but when my name was announced
I gathered up my 'courage' and strength
and stepped ... on the stage ... standing silent for a moment
~ there, in the mighty wind that roars and howls
eagle feathers in my hair and on my horse flutter
and the vast lands of Canada seek the horizon ~
when I finished reciting my poem
there was a deafening quiet
the audience fallen silent
I take a breath and look around the room
oh, why were people so still ...
and then ... the sound of cheers ring out
and all the audience stands ... to clap
for this Ojibwe girl ...
~ there, above in that cloudless sky canopy
eagles fly ... symbolizing the spirit and strength of the 'People'
and the only sound ... those fluttering feathers in the wind ~
.. and a feather lost ... drifts into the audience
___________________
May 6, 2021
Poetry/Free Verse/the audience falls silent
Copyright Protected, ID 05-1352-902-06
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Premier contest, The Audience Falls Silent
sponsor, Kai Michael Neumann, Judged 06/02/2021
Racism,
and sexism
and violent capitalism
are as American
and as bad for you
and your kids
as pre-millennial rotten and burned-out apple pie-sellers
And ProMatriotic learning
and living
and health loving
post-millennial WinWin co-operators
against LoseLose
racism
and sexism
and violent capitalism
as AntiAmerican
as burning-out
and hanging-out
and banging-out
and harming the health in any way,
of matriotic cooperative apple-pie makers.
So said,
rather more than less,
one of the ancient river campers
speaking curbside
before the double-glass front doors
of his Cumberland Farms Cathedral.
In a sad and quiet voice.
Not a position he gloated about
as if he stood morally apart.
Rather,
he speaks of dis-integrity
of our shared powerless positions
as autonomous systems,
struggling through each impoverishing day
of lost good faith youth
for, now, mere survival
when we could become sooo very much lighter
to rediscover
remaining integrity of our identity systems
for cooperative organic thrival.
Outside,
my neighborhood prophet
for world peace
was long and lean
with sun-dried and bronzed wrinkled skin
over muscled sinew,
a long-grey bearded
and skeletal nature mystic,
with clear and open stereophonic memorizing eyes.
Inside,
remembering his times with swimming wet green frogs
and sleek flying flashing ravens,
eagles of EarthPatriotic balance,
both honorable predators
and prey to aging apple pies
regretted and suffered
by long grey-bearded prophetic times
surviving threats and violence of nationalistic racism
and monotheistic sexism
and MightMakesRight capitalism,
WinLose subnormal optimization
of WinWin BothAnd opportunities,
Left integrated in and outside Right-felt memories
of maternal love
far too unmatriotically far behind
for EarthTribe's cooperative thrival
of these our fit-in
cooperative powerlessness.
So, I asked our neighborhood prophet
if he had mentioned these problems to the Mayor.
"I guess your news for today,
I am the Mayor."
Canada Jays
Four seasons ‘round, Canada jays are found,
Perched in tree branches, safe and sound,
Resting after flying throughout the North,
In the Canadian boreal forests.
Heard and not seen unless it’s their intention
To disturb the silence, making known their presence
By confronting intruders in the area
With shrill barking, expressing displeasure.
Their shaded greys of feathery plumage bests
Darker on the back, with lighter puffed breasts.
On a round head adorns a snow-capped crown,
Endowed with dark eyes and a sharp, short, pointed bill.
They have feet equipped with talons to grip the limb tight,
While long, white-tipped tail feathers fan in flight,
Which serves the robin-sized creature well in this climate
And adapts the songbird to its environment.
Then, it’s off scavenging, preparing for winter
In territories established by mating pairs,
Who swish food in their mouths to coat it with saliva,
Ensuring successful seasonal survival
By hiding the sticky boluses in trees
And memorizing the local scenery,
As marauding eyes spy on the jays’ commotions
To steal morsels from the clandestine caches.
During cold weather, they fluff up their feathers
To stay warm and hide their feet from exposure
And twist their necks to tuck in their beaks
Under the wing flap joint to maintain body heat.
Sometimes, they snuggle for companionship
And share warmth during winter hardships.
The birds, confirming whispers to their mate for life,
Find comfort in their labours, making it worthwhile.
In early spring, when the air is cold and the snow deep,
The male selects the south side of the tree for a nest site for the sun’s heat,
Building the nest with dead twigs, bark strips, and lichens,
With caterpillar cocoons for reinforcement.
The cup is feather-lined for the female to lay,
Who does not leave the clutch until the eggs are hatched.
The male feeds her throughout the incubation period,
Then she joins him in the raising of their offspring.
There's a beat to the pulse beneath the skin,
how I stride through these corridors
with measured paces, memorizing the contours of muscles and bones,
carving roads into my head
as I inscribe them on the pages of a textbook.
They tell us that we are learning how to save lives.
But some days, it seems like we are learning
how to balance on the edge of our own.
Sleepless nights in pieces of time,
stack hour, caffeine-strapped study sessions,
a fragile surgical tool dividing the fine line
between exhaustion and persistence.
There's the big, buzzing hum of glowing fluorescent lights
under our eyes, but our hearts are full of something fierce,
a fire quietly burning deep within.
We try to survive by finding beauty hidden where it hides,
in brief moments,
like when the sun drips through the library window:
and you stop for just a moment,
to breathe in the light.
Or when you drink a cup of chai with friends,
the laughter rising like steam,
you forget for a moment the weight of the stethoscope
that always hangs, always calls.
The cadavers don't teach us the weight of life,
they teach us the fragility of it,
that beneath every cut, every diagnosis,
is a person who once stood
just as I do now.
Yet there are perks we hold on to,
not rewards but reminders,
of the music that plays in our empty rooms,
gentle melodies to tell us there's a lot more
to this than the perfect line.
Of the smell of rain on days when we've nowhere to be
but here, within ourselves.
Yes, we're learning to heal,
but we're learning how to live.
And so we lengthen out our days to something like the tendons of our hands,
but fill with moments between,
like sly glances at the sky
through windows of this place we call
a second home.
And so we make do.
We find our laughter in the sterile air,
our reflections not in anatomy books
but in the stories we share
with ones who walk this path.
Life doesn't wait for us.
but we have learned how to catch glimpses of it
in every step we take.