Long Metropolis Poems
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In Nineteen ninety-six, our son and wife, Majors
In US Army, moved to Izmir, their new base.
As usual, whatever place they were assigned,
We flew to visit them as well as dear grandkids.
So off we went to spend two weeks in Turkey, this
Outstanding country we had never been before.
So much to see at Ephesus—Metropolis
Of Antique Age; The Stadium, the Harbor Bath,
Basilica, the Marble Road, Heracles Gate—
All ruins now. Were sad to see these wondrous works
Of art and architecture now in disarray
And strewn about on fields on which they proudly stood.
Of varied striking sites in Pergamon, we saw
The City Walls, the Aqueducts, Acropolis,
The Temple Dionysus, that of Trajan too.
So many ages, periods had ruled this place,
Artistic wonders, structures turned to ruins—works
Of Persian, Greek, Roman and more, in pieces lay.
Besides the many ancient ruins visited,
We were amazed that many locals spoke our tongue.
They did their best to make us feel so much at ease,
Were gracious in combined Mid-Eastern/Euro style
Of hospitality and types of food they ate
And served, like cheese, tomatoes, olives of all kinds.
Izmir, a city mixed with culture old and new,
Like modern shops and open markets, outdoor stands
With fish and meats on ice, yet weighed on modern scales.
And women with fine bread on plates held up on heads,
Who walked the streets in morning, dressed in peasant garb;
Yet working business women wore more modern dress.
We ventured to the famous city, Istanbul,
Surprised to see the many high-rise buildings there,
And streets so overcrowded with their vehicles;
Large offices and business centers everywhere—
Ladies with fashion boots, purses and western dress;
Big contrast with those living back in country hills.
Such history surrounds this ancient, distant land;
So many varied cultures ruled their sacred world.
Museums filled with artifacts from centuries,
Safeguarded and in view to honor and behold.
This trip shall always hold such special, vivid thoughts
For us to cherish and remember for all time.
Of course, this one-time trip was many years ago;
We're happy we had ventured then instead of now,
For times have changed; such unrest grows within our world.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: Memorable Vacations
Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton
Judged: May 8, 2015
Iambic Hexameter
The young boy was pale,
He walked slowly in the alley
No. 41.His skeleton hand hold a rusted tin can.
He was in business,for him it was.
On his innocent face,
In a modern world,who really forgotten
Kids like him was also human too.His eyes
Pasted on a piece of bread on the dirty pavement.
On his side was tall buildings,on the other was a busy EDSA.
A dove whose feather blacken by the third world metropolis,
Peeped down from the lamp post,
Measuring the distance of the bread on the ground
Look at the child,inclining its head side ward,
Then,their eyes meet,resting on each other stare
Like eternity,
And it flew toward the blinding sun.
The boy saw a man approached,
Polished shoes landed on his lunch
The gold Rolex,tailored clothes,big ring,
A heavy necklace hung loosely on beefy neck.
Surprised on a sudden hand that raised on his way,
"Move out!" bellowed angrily,then scurried quickly on a green traffic
light. "Fool..."the boy sighed.
Business is business,he thought,as he reached out the crushed bread
Uttered a little prayer,ate it religiously with tears on his eyes.
Every bite he remembered his little brother he left this morning
on their cartoon box house
At Smokey Mountain outside Manila,its smoke ascend forever
Till the end of time,because of the corrupt lordship in kings palace
His little brother burned at stake alive waiting for his pancit.
His father was an inmate at Bilibid prison selda katorse (14)
His mother was a girl in the street.
Then an old woman came out at the Binondo Church.
Walked briskly as the wind swept the dusk on summer days.
Stopped,a discolored dirt hand spread for an alms.
Irritated,she rummaged her purse,and gently place the one peso
on the boys hand,made sure to slow her movement,maybe the rest
Were looking at her, she raised her brow and smile
"Of course.", she said sweetly
Father hope will see this act she thought that
Might mention her name in homily,Mrs. Cerbo was kind to the poor.
He spit the coin and swipe it on his dirty torn shirt
And say..."God Blessed Maddame."
Then he ran at the little Sari-sari store
Brought a piece of bread,break it into halves
He hid his share on his pocket
Then tossed the half on the side walk
When the boy had gone, blue wing landed
Ate with pride and thinking, "stupid boy..stupid boy..".
From New York City to LA; New Orleans to Chicago and Minneapolis Do not despair O little ones, cornered deep in America's metropolis So Little is ever spoken about you as if you really do not matter I remind you just now; you are loved and more than a shadow
You live there. You observe and feel the misery and pain You see the blood draining from some victim's veins Day after day you hear the promises of change, but everything you see remain the same
You wonder when or if the killing will end in your inner city I imagine your fright and think of you; I'm praying for you tonight
There is much decay, and I understand when you look down And sometimes you are forced to look away with little to say
I've walked your scary streets and have felt the terror of the nights I understand the fright, but I know that you will rise tomorrow to face a new day of visions and dreams that will cast away the nightmares
So despair not little ones. Look away until you are able to look up; and always understand that I'm thinking and praying for you tonight. So be strong my little friends; be not afraid and never give up.
8:23PMPT08092017TGFBPSContest, Late Summer Premiere, Strand
In his hand is a smoking rose, as the sorcerer is in flagrante delicto,
in his own image the beast has made an army of self, with one mind.
These did not come, through the matrix of a woman but were hatched,
from counterfeit tubes. Dark images, after his kind, witch grafted.
The clones will kill those, that disobey him and even worse, if they do.
What a vicious viperous brood, entering this world stillborn,
without a God-given soul and only here to kill and control.
The destroyer, with crimson legions of bestial clones, marking his throne,
making you believe, that science fiction is really a honed science.
It will be like some Atlantean phoenix, rising from the ashes of war.
A golden purple metropolis of soulless human clones possessed,
by ruthless fallen ones. The spirits of these, Antichrists have already, through science fiction. Demonically indoctrinate a generation to believe,
that they are ancient aliens, which once seeded the earth and
for man to be complete, they must receive alien DNA.
The serpent seeds have already been laid, from the town of Bedrock,
to Gattaca and to it's empirical foundation, so called science.
Deceiving, through a host of in-between's, nether never land's and
by countless other Silent hills, within his imagination.
As the beast calls down, the fire rose from the airy heavens,
in the sight of the blind seer. A death star has become complete,
with deadly accuracy. While the sleeping world, becomes an Image Nation.
Sadistic Satan tortures his own, for five months,
because they have received the marker.
They can no longer die nor be redeemed,
by the living God but by then they will know,
it is too late, within an eternal fiery prison
Top shelf cologne exhibits sensual tail of peacock
Entrances my senses at our eleven a.m embrace
Eyes shut, my erratic stamina borrows comfort
Curled into leather front seat, chest inhales safe
Our waterfall guffaws cascade in establishments of stature
Grilled salmon, staple lunch, gregarious wine supports us
Role's novelty and glitz incessantly scratches my rapture
Unorthodox allure makes mockery of standard formulas
Indirect looks from diners, behind raised glasses, warped
Solid gold arrogance declares benefits blatantly displayed
Society fears breaking the mould, glued to ordinary course
Our acquired theme sustains disdain for lifestyles staid
Ocean boulevard grandeur sees counterpart meshed potential
Sleek topless travel exalts unfelt mist, road gloss moisture
Your life thickened fingers amorously grasp my thigh's tender
I agree to be owned, an ornament connects material pleasure
When the Polstar slows to crawl of steady tiger, stealthily slips
mid afternoon into carpark of your harbour side apartment
Disparagement wedges beneath my ribs, not having envisaged
aerobics of limber mayhem, loosened make-up, not just yet
Smug expression hugs your face, read in tight lipped pressure
I assert my plan to showcase new swimsuit may now be ruined
"Absolutely promise, gorgeous, there's no chance you'll regret."
My climbing premonition messages a gem of genuine
Ponytail splayed against mirrored wall of elevator
Ardent kissing's conclusion resurfaces your chivalrous
Door barely closed before I pouncing kitten paw you
Your flailing indicating a spare key cut for me, erroneous
"My doll, my dear desirable, the key is incompatible."
Mysterious grimace molests your face, causing me to frown
"Did the rum with lunch rupture your remaining brain cells?!"
Fatherly pats of my arms speak a decoy which confounds
Journey up two flights, could it be... heart in throat
Silenced keys caress sweat sodden peeled open palm
Your anticipating stare burns my back, unopposed
Oh, justify me - yes! - the door complies on demand
"Neighbour, do you like it?" superfluous inquiry smiling
Floating eight stories above glint of yacht metropolis
Invited by windows handing out reviving hold of horizon
Violent screams likely deafen you, interjected with frantic kisses
Home
Cosmopolitan suburbs take shape
Form, not far from the metropolis
Streets bustle, enlist design, become cities
Drawn down the street, concrete solid
Buildings line up one by one
In the calm one structure at a time evolves
There on the outskirts of timid town
Rising from the dirt, from nothing
A flirt with creation on the street
Laid down on asphalt beds, no secrets
Familiar as a name not said, aligned
Not far from metropolitan streets
Enlisted are construction workers to create
Drawn down the road to concrete city
Blueprints sit pretty
There on the outskirts of town, worthy to build on
A home, a structure to call your own
Usual forms materialize with nature in layers
Seem to build themselves communities
Cropping up as large as life
Sometimes it is hard to find your way home
With so much going on
The road to success is always under construction
My house has a number above a wooden door
Such a detail can be useful to have to get inside
Steps lead the way on silent stones
When I go home, get in, my world slows down
Universe stops or shrinks in size, to be defined
There are many wooden skeletal chairs there
Fixated around a dining table when I arrive
Waiting for a holiday or family to come together
No prayers are said these days
It’s just a dining area, nothing else
A bed is hidden in another room
It keeps secrets but mostly it keeps sleep
Buried under pillows and quilts and sheets
Furniture remembers everything
The kitchen is the center of it all
It comes in reds and yellows with a sink and range
Fires from the stove ravage meats and vegetables
Such alterations make them manageable to eat
Ice cubes in the freezer trays stay there complacently
Waiting for someone’s drink, a friendly hand to warm them
Home has a shower down the hall
Cabinets full of towels and soap lie beneath the sink
Clean thoughts from wall to wall
TV turned up loud in the living room
To keep life serene and meek
An old phone in plastic black rings and rings out emptiness
Lies lazy on the antique table, stationary, waiting
Sits by the ancient sofa hugging floor
Listens for someone to answer the call
There is an echo running through the halls invisible
But no one picks up the receiver
No one is home
Only the ghost of a ringer
Creeping creepy creepers, the crawling trellis
jutting out of everywhere
snaking through country and metropolis
twisting turning in floral bliss
but more like snakes that hiss
But in quietude feign death for self-defense!
Weeping willows with an unreal surreal sorrow
weeping tears of dew onto the silted furrow.
Perhaps weeping for bretheren felled
in deforestations and land clearings in
my imaginations of the call to preservation.
Against ethnic cleansing of greenery for selfish building
As per man's construction for mere recreation
Velvety-green tear- stained faces or rather foliage
When dew is stuck on them as nature's trinkets of pearls.
And over there touch-me-nots swaying coyly
like prim and proper maidens
in the fantastic floral gardens.
And what in the world is this case?
Imitation flowery in place of imitation jewellery?
Yeah, thats poinsettia in a vase
Leaves in the disguise of flowers
Its actual flowers relegated to backstage.
And ethereal fairy-slippers await their never coming wearers
and Indian pipes to be admired by Red Indian sightseers.
Oh and here's another spectacle- but sniper tactics this time
Yikes! Let the naive insect world beware!
Whilst the bloodthirsty killers lie in ambush
Those camouflaged jungle guerrillas
or should we say the venus fly-traps!
Or a more harmless one yet mimicking the scary
A snap-dragon flora, its mouth opening and snapping shut.
Then watch that mega-sized jumbo giant flora
The world's largest flower
No stems, no leaves, plant-eater plant, rafflesia.
Is it too much for the faint-hearted ha ha.
And wow now watch that incredible costume, oh my!
A flower masked as some pesky fly!
None other than the remarkable fly orchid.
And yet another, the silent music of the fiddlenecks
Fiddles as if for the light-weight fairies.
And lastly not forgetting ofcourse
the sky-blue unforgettable forget-me-nots
A memorable bouquet but themselves devoid of memory.
Ah nature lover poets if you wish to view
more of flora in a fancy dress masquerade
Go ahead and flip through the pages of
a botanical, floral
horticultural
pictorial journal.
And see for yourself the fantastic flora's charade
or else imagine them dressed as a floral renegade!
Dreaming of a pot of gold, you came to town
It was sprawling, this metropolis, you knew none around
Your earnings were scant and engagements, irregular
The overseer assured steady income in lieu of a favour
You succumbed to ward off uncertainties, and gradually sank deeper
You were born of impoverished stock, high up in the Himalayas
Your clean looks and youthful age were your kin’s panacea
Your home, the arid plains, where land is mostly barren
Starvation a reality, your innocent world was broken
When it comes to sacrifice, inevitably you are chosen
You were a country girl, pubescent and barely thirteen
Travelling to the big city with a distant kin
To serve an urban family with mop and pail
A drug laced cup of tea made you vulnerable to a cartel
You woke, imprisoned, in a dingy room of a highway brothel
Battered and beaten and raped to submission
You forgot the gods and your daily oblation
Your escort paid dearly for his betrayal and malice
Was it your homage to the gods or backstreet justice?
You languish now in jail, but the brothel still exists
You were in your second year, studying BA (Honours)
With a weakness for the life of the upper class
And the knowledge to achieve what you felt, you must
The initiation was debasing – no niceties, just frenzied lust
The payment was in cash –the first time wasn’t the last
You are not alone in your tainted existence
Women arriving at the metropolis in suburban trains
Working by day and exiting before the peak hour rush
Living in opulence, in times past – barely middle class
Very discreet, these devil women and financially flush
You conceived, a professional risk, and the baby you resolved to keep
Now nineteen and actively trafficking, his misdeeds make you weep
His latest catch, a tender ten year old, the same age you were shackled
Your flesh and blood, the son, you had mothered from the cradle!
Your agony was incomplete, now it had completed its cruel cycle
Hail lady of the night
With time, you’ve overcome both fear and fright
And blended the distinction between wrong and right
You’ve lost your vision, though you retain your sight
In a world shrouded in darkness where the sun still shines bright
One thwarts the burn of troubled mires,
reserves Myself for My own lot.
The other bids I jump into the fire
and offer everything I’ve got.
One draws me up, the other down,
one draws me back, the other out,
one stays straight up, the other bows
one harbors faith, the other doubt….
But two make one, whom stands between
and can’t deny the Wholly scene…
War cannot separate a sunray from the sun,
nor its reflection from the moon,
nor shadow from the soul who’s been undone
by tribal fights and bleak communes.
It cannot separate the loyalty of sons
nor fire from living soul,
nor conscience caught in scrambled tongues
from balance of the Holy Whole…
‘Cause two make one but one must find
an equilibrium of two combined…
The Light is sewn above the man,
the man is sewn to shadows;
two sides opposed while each demand
we fight their valiant battles.
Each other they can’t comprehend
two strangers having never met
and in between a common friend,
my soul that owes to both a debt…
From two one seals a common ground
where ethic theorems stagger ‘round…
When two perspectives sway a choice
but all the answers seem awry;
I stir the passions into common voice
and Conscience finds a compromise
to split the gray of good and evil
with hues of individuality
and intercepts a grand upheaval
between the Dark and Luminosity…
Two segregated opposites confuse
but merged they find a single use…
Between the ether and the soil,
the Darkness and the Light;
I am conductive Human foil
receptive to both wrong and right.
A central universe between two inversed kin,
a medium between grim and divine,
a force of nature from the outside in,
a lone metropolis of Faith of my design…
Two clashing creeds and tongues commingled
fused and crafted into just a single.
My loyalties are not betrothed
to mortal shadows nor Elysian light
but morals I can live with and not loathe
Myself for imperfection’s slights.
My Self is sewn unto My Soul
My Soul is sewn unto the Source
no one can make me Love the Whole
and nature’s ever winding course…
And two make me one point between
the countless points that make a Wholly scene.
Gods of glowing neon and gaudy screens
smile upon charming, charming patterns of heads.
All colors of hair, lit red, then green, then blue,
guided along invisible paths, crown heads
perspiring, chanting and glancing down
on marching, mechanical arms, then worrying
as they scurry along infinite, crisscrossing paths -
at once so ordered and so unfathomably chaotic.
Drums are rolled by hurrying feet
dictating the race of mankind.
A metropolis looms, adorned by a billion shimmering jewels -
electric jewels - and an apparition sways over the
bustle, silently watching, silently floating.
Giant chutes proudly puff out plumes of nightly black
and devils forged in impure fire do rise
to the heavens above, graced by the blessings of
the industrial revolution, in turn blessing humanity with progress,
imperceptible except as phlegmatic gasps
and the whiff of crisp green paper, distinguished by
wizened faces and packed in neat bundles.
Bulbous, aged fingers do trace from within
the sanctum sanctorum of a temple aged a thousand years,
charming, charming patterns of jewels
in intricate, frozen dance, carving out hexagons of perfect symmetry
from wearily cut marble windowsills.
The work of a thousand splendid hands
preserved by the unseen, dusty hands of time
did render the mosque palatial, its beauty heavenly.
The admiring eyes sing hymns praising the architecture, alas
they are blind, for the marble, white as angelic wings, is grey now.
The scientist appears, eyes hidden by thick glassy cubicles
yet shining through, lit by the endless pursuit of knowledge
and equally burdened by numbers, figures, notes
and the maddening myopia of man.
On the screen appears, against fresh white
charming, charming patterns of red, green and blue
sinking downward, worryingly as it would seem,
his uninflected pleas let in through one ear, instantly
shunted out through the next by the populace, to whom
the music of modernity rings sweeter.
First Place, Charming Patterns Poetry Contest
Date: 16th October 2021