Long Monumental Poems
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It was around eleven when we had parked
to step out on our walk to Cauldron Snout,
At first it was hard to find the waymarks
weren't easy to spot as we looked about,
until we picked up with the Pennine Way.
Watching us from Widdybank farm
as we strode the well-trodden right of way
were belted Galloway, would they cause harm?
Below Cronkley Crag the upper Tees chattered,
keeping us company as we progressed
along Holmwath without any hazard.
Having looked at the map we had guessed
the gradient would only be gentle
and not take more hours than just a couple.
But ahead a challenge looked monumental
testing whether our joints were supple.
Strewn below Falcon Clints was boulder
upon boulder, sculptured by the weather.
Our aging limbs soon felt even older,
balancing in this clambering endeavour.
We paused by an angler with rod and line;
having just caught a trout he was cheerful.
We let two men pass who'd come up behind,
then onward we struggled ever so careful,
reassuring ourselves that Cauldron Snout
would be round the next bend – bend after bend,
boulder on boulder – destiny in doubt.
Beauty was there to which we could attend:
harebells and scabious, cinquefoil and heather,
mountain pansies among many a bloom;
a duck and a dipper, and what was that feather?
Distractions delighting though none with perfume.
Eventually the Snout came into view;
an impressive cascade tumbling from high,
all the noisier the nearer we drew.
After more than three hours the time was nigh
to stop for sandwiches and fruit with a drink,
to rest weary limbs and blistering feet.
Pondering our return we began to think
tackling more boulders would be a risky feat.
Perusing the map we reckoned the road
from the dam though longer seemed safer.
The steep rocky ascent was quite exposed.
Refreshed for the climb we coped with its labour
By the reservoir with water level low
we trudged upon tarmac enjoying the view
across to Cross Fell. With five miles to go
on a gentle descent a niggling grew
of threatening cramp in each of my thighs.
With fluids all drunk thirst was increasing
so with much relief we saw with our eyes
the Langdon Beck Hotel seemed to us pleasing.
A young man was arrested
And was locked up in a cell.
He never thought his life would turn
Into a living hell.
The San Diego D.E.A.
Forgot that he was there.
For four days in a barren cell,
He suffered in despair.
He had no food or water
Nor a toilet or a sink.
His urine was the only choice
When he was forced to drink.
His hands were cuffed behind his back
But still he kicked and screamed.
He contemplated suicide,
The only choice, it seemed.
When agents found him, four days late,
And saw his sorry shape,
They took him to the hospital,
His overdue “escape.”
Though he’ll survive, his lawyers say
They plan to file a suit.
I hope somebody’s found at fault
And that they’ll prosecute.
This level of incompetence
Is truly monumental.
The D.E.A.’s response was
It was simply “accidental.”
The callousness of that remark
Proves they don’t have a clue;
For nightmares such as this,
A simple “sorry” just won’t do.
We struggled along damp, smoke-filled streets;
leaves still summer green,
a chilly breeze rustling some, turned golden early
in anticipation of the fall.
Neil at one end of the log;
me at the other.
Occasionally we paused our journey, rested;
took turns with the diminishing gobstopper;
and backward walking with the heavy branch.
Early October, our collecting started;
we had first-dibs on Ethel Jones' old settee,
two shabby chests of drawers,
about a mile of rotten fence,
branches collected from the woods,
assorted liberated shrubs,
and now, of course, a giant log.
We were to build
the most monumental funeral pyre;
the street had ever seen,
topped with fabricated Guy,
long-wheeled from door to door
for a penny here or there.
It would be the biggest and the best,
standing proud in the bombed-out lot,
that was our playground,
but once home to family and friends.
November fifth would come,
the bonfire built, would fiercely burn;
cracking windows with the blistering heat
scorching paint on faded doors.
Part-cooked potatoes
thrown in the embers;
would later, held in hands
be greedily eaten with a spoon;
steam rising from damp, woollen gloves.
Red noses, rosy fire burned cheeks,
sparklers waving patterns in the dark;
oohs, aahs; and gasps at fiery rockets,
whirling Catherine wheels and jumping jacks.
Then time for bed
Our grubby faces,
smoked stenched hair and clothes
would last a week
'till bathday.
October Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Regina McIntosh
Date wrote: 03-October-2021
He came from the Dust Bowl in a terrible time
When his family were stricken with broken, dirt covered dreams.
The patchwork wooden shack they slept and ate in had all but tumbled
To a fate no one could repair or even had the desire to.
No crops, no means to grow anything to eat
In this sterile, fruitless, barren land they called home-
A time when the only thing farmers could harvest was your dreams.
There was very little left in his world except suffering.
He was a good boy like his name, and a small boy, not born that way,
But fashioned by his lack of sustenance.
His life was laden with monumental emptiness and boredom
Enduringly waiting for better things to come.
He would make his own toys to play with
Out of anything that was some sort of surplus in his world of poverty.
And when he had nothing more except himself,
His idleness was spent by creating a circle dance-
A spiral game, to turn his spirit into a liberation to his salvation.
Singing a song he would bring his feet together to shuffle side by side
While creating his whirling motion like an old "spinning top" he used to have.
Round and round he would turn until he could turn no more
To finally stop as if some invisible force straight up and grabbed him.
His world spun around him, magically becoming a carousel
Where he heard music, laughter and felt giddy happiness
As he rode on the great white horse of his choice
Traveling with this bright and joyous carnival fancy
Taking him to a place where hardship lost its meaning.
He would perform his dance time after time
No one ever really cared about it,
After all what was a young restless boy to do?
They never called him by his real name - Johnny Goodfellow
They always called him "Dizzy"
A name that would stick with him his entire long-lived life,
And follow him on a distant road of misadventure
Hard work, uninviting places, and downright unfriendly folks.......
But it didn't matter - he had learned early how to make his world alright
September 2, 2019
"Bring a Character to Life" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Richard Lamoureux
A storm is brewing
It’s coming to a head
The people are in danger
But by the Spirit we'll be led
The impact will be monumental
Affecting everyone at hand
But on the promises of God we will firmly stand
We’ve got water to walk on
In every aspect of our lives
But we can’t be doubtful
Like Peter was before Christ
We’ve got water to walk on
And we need to comprehend
That Jesus will catch us
again and again
Jesus's divine authority Is the incarnate word
And it matters not whatever else you have heard
the Holy Communion and the holistic Resurrection of Christ
have given us the power to walk on the waters of life
We've got water to walk on
In every aspect of our lives
But we can't be doubtful
Like Peter was before Christ
We've got water to walk on
And we need to comprehend
That Jesus will catch us
again and again
the boat depicted despair and humanity’s emotions
the Disciples the church full of believers and devotion
the sea the revelation and the resolution
and Jesus walking on water was the divine conclusion
we’ve got water to walk on
in every aspect of our lives
and we can’t show doubt
like Peter did before Christ
we’ve got water to walk on
And we need to comprehend
that Jesus will catch us
again and again
So be not afraid as you walk on the waters of life
be of good courage in the midst of storms and strife
and never be fearful of an unknown destiny
when you serve a known God assuring you victory
we’ve got water to walk on
in every aspect of our lives
be anxious over nothing
and don’t act like Peter did before Christ
we’ve got water to walk on
and we need to comprehend
that Jesus our Savior will catch us
again again and again
we’ve got water to walk on
in every aspect of our being
we’ve got water to walk on
and all we need to do is keep believing
we’ve got water to walk on
Down where the cypress trees cease their singing,
And the sun-wrought chariots are known no more,
A velour quietude is slowly clinging,
To the chalcedony marble shore.
Here, the silver Lethe murmurs, slow and deep,
A lullaby to souls who wish to sleep.
No longer do I chase the fleeing day,
No longer do I fight the golden light,
For I have found the shades of quiet gray,
That anchors the everlasting night.
O, softest fall, more gentle than the dew,
That rests upon Persephone’s soft bed,
Here in this solemn, silver-shadowed view,
Where all the hasty, thrashing thoughts are dead.
The helmet of the King is set aside,
To watch the slow and silent shades abide.
No fear can enter through the granite gates,
Where poppies grow in fields of endless hush,
Only the peaceful, tranquil waiting waits,
Without a clamor or a sudden rush.
The air is cool, a breath of quiet stone,
That soothes the burning forehead of the mind,
I leave the weight of standing all alone,
And leave the restless, warring winds behind.
Here, where the soul is safe, from sorrow free,
Wrapped in the calm, unmoving dark, I lie,
The silent King smiles directly at me,
Beneath the vast and starry-hearted sky.
And in this sleep, the soul begins to know,
That darkness is the sweetest, quiet friend,
A noiseless river that does softly flow,
With peace and dream-filled silence at the end.
There is a grandeur in this cold, still deep,
Where nothing stirs, and nothing dares to scream,
A slow, profound, and monumental sleep,
Can wash away the memory of a dream.
I fall, I drift, into the tranquil void,
Where shadows dance in slow and steady time,
Where every anxious fragment is destroyed,
And all the darkness flows in gentle rhyme.
It is the welcome rest, the final rest,
The softest, deepest, desired release,
A quiet, silent, and forgotten quest,
That leaves the weary traveler at peace.
He's nobody's best friend, but you've always been his.
All the significant others think he's lowbrow and obnoxious.
Yes, on occasion he overindulges and offends
He's started and finished more than his share of scraps.
And yes, there was that monumental, marque eve
when he sprayed the stilettos of your latest squeeze.
But he was also the only one left,
when that sequined petal turned into a weed of death.
He's nobody's best friend
the one who's always left out in the cold.
but he's the only one who tossed a ring
when the dice jumped velvet,
when the breakers rose,
and cracked the rudder of your soul.
So, hold on to that secondhand friend
because the others will surely blow away
when the maelstrom of blackness descends.
I am Sphinx Stone, Sun stationed statue
silent sculptured synoptic, not marble or
granite nor black tourmaline or crystal
timelines cutting cross my magnetic
magenta miracle to dissipate in dry
desert winds, my gaze unmoved
as quizzing quantum queens swirl
around a Blue Planet ascending
Sphinx Stone gathering goddess’ goodness
whilst slippery Sophi-el sprinkle sparkle
Nile evaporations down Sumerian
phantom phœnix photons
here I stare broken-nosed across vast
expansions exiting or entering dual
portal claws hot rooted into Violet Flames
of Mother Earth belying my etheric origins
Did Leo descend from helium heavens
painstakingly perfect from His tumultuous
gut with goblets of gold, goblins gyrating ?
ask you may North African secrets slither
no soiled sounds to simmer in sandy
storms or scarlet sunsets spreading
spells, silence my singular speech to
skulls of pharaohs or peasant alike
I am Sphinx Stone, my silhouette
signposted in simple or significant sigils
Saturn’s starlit sighs bypass not my
knowing aloof yet vacant stare which
agelessly gather stories of aeons
imprinting dreams of God into manifest
luminosity becoming your words on lion
bones or this ephemeral page
Sphinx Stone I see sabian riddled profiles
making prolific progress patterns filled
with steely grit, come now release
agitated ages of bygone bitters to
prick or paddle dimensions where
appled anemones sing my stare into song to
swallow swiftly sweetly slivers of sanctities
I remain Sphinx Stone stable
unsullied forevermore
Upon this monumental door, a sense of gratitude came before my eyes
If stabbed by paths of fear and wrath, new trust came pouring down
For behind the glittering forest, and a pomegrante stained sky
Enhancing was this quiet hour, in dwindling crimson crowned
There, in tensile grace, our meeting came a twofold surprise
Lightly splashed in backlight, where the tender grass had grown
Quietly grazing with grace, at first unaware of eyes
This thing of beauty revealed for my gladness alone
Suddenly the white tailed doe sensed me watching her
She perked up ears, alert to my presence, yet did not flee
Dare I even break the silence with a whispered word?
Or take a step per chance my foot might rustle twig or leaf?
This battle of wills...intense, a fleeting chance in time
Making no move...each of us transfixed, unable to breathe
Nor break this entrancing spell as her eyes met mine
Moments transpired...only sound of scarcely whistling breeze
Eyes like windows, of which the glass is tongue
She spoke to me, in hypnotic spell, I felt myself release
Our spirits crossed against the sky, beneath the copper trees
As if laced, were we, where spirits dwell, in universal peace
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
By Carrie Richards, for Kristen Bruni's contest "What Animal Would I Be?"
The water has receded
And I can see everything
in the bottom of the stream
Big pebbles of assorted colors
covering each other
frogs scampering about
and big fish meddling around
I stared in the silent water
watching rubble floating on top
giant rocks planted in the sand
unaware of what is at hand
And openly denying that
they didn't know each other
I walked across the buried rock
to view the pebbles from all angles
With heightened curiosity
and reflective ingenuity
I dip my foot into the water
but it was as cold as ice
and something strange
was bubbling up inside
The sun shines vigorously
through the tall trees
penetrating the water in the deep
I could see the color of everything
the shape the depth and the size
The wind came to a stand still
And mad birds murmuring
precariously from within
They start a mutiny in the trees
Flying furiously in the air
waiting for the storm as it draws near
I crossed the stream
and sat on a wooden bench
Contemplating numerous events
The mysteries of nature
birds talking to each other
And everyone screaming
and shouting at one another
I could not understand the birds language
but I could sense their troubled emotions
Whistling
screeching
squealing
shirking
crying
hooting
tweeting
sounds without description arouse in the tree
Different rhythm unfamiliar tune
Making everyone confused
Mozart in all his glory
couldn't have created a better symphony
Even among the tallest tree
nature is wailing in misery
I cannot fathom it all
unparalleled music resonating in my head
and the trees standing upright
scrutinizing this terrible plight
The leaves are not moving
And the bushes can feel the strangeness
the birds are whimpering
forcing nature to set an important meeting
Everyone gathers in Eleanor's park
waiting anxiously for the meeting to start
The wood pecker hammering the wood
and the sweet John Che-wit
standing on the shaky branch
watching the cardinal reading the agenda
The cold and dry winter has returned
Hot spring sweltering in summer
Every thing is green again and the trees
waits patiently to dance again
The bird started a sudden commotion
and the meeting ended in a raucous demotion
Winter hits back with a monumental explosion.