Long Offing Poems
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A storm came
overhead my walk today
sifting throughout this pathway,
separating the pavement away
from the dross.
Yes, only puddles retire from this rain,
clearing out the filth that withdraw as stains;
now wetting my shoes into a frustrating gloss.
I could’ve ignored this availing sake,
at the detriment of waiting
for a better day.
But I know it would only be for a loss.
Losing the ripe for the stale and ache.
Looking for the brighter shade
behind the coming moons
rippling and paling wake.
Trading necessities for a single chance
of grasping at straws.
Yes, it may stay
in the offing, it just may
ornament a skyline painted
in an aurora of dawn,
crowning our horizon
in another morning,
on another day,
where faith is a little stronger,
where promises can become made.
Where hope can linger a little longer
but never forever
as, for the world,
tomorrow
always comes.
Yet, in some defiance,
I found an obligation to today.
I needed.
my body demanded.
my wishes pleaded
for something
of which there’s no one
to call.
So yes,
today it rained
and I found beauty
in this misfortunate luck,
with valid reasons to complain
I could only focus on blessings I found
on my walk.
I just hope
it isn’t all for distractions
for a pain I’ve forgotten
how to recognize.
Adverse effects may
always be hidden as a cost.
No, I hope
in tomorrow’s day,
if fortune favors my fate,
I can continue
seeking out
this balance
that brings me back to the calm.
nothing there would be
without the vast Universe
no humans, land, sea
none here for better or worse
no lineage and odd verse
with no galaxy
adrift in cosmic darkness
no angst, apathy
rather complete absurdness
wrapped in unholy starkness
without stars above
could there still be you or me?
no rush, push or shove
all silent with nought to see
without longings roaming free
no blue, green planet
circling the Great Attractor
no floors of granite
no acts by a strange actor
sin becomes a non-factor
none subject to change
no progress or thoughts divine
nothing to arrange
no strange dreams or past bed-time
bound inside the timeless time
without history
when ancestors were not born
total mystery
when from existence we're shorn
leaving none to weep and mourn
such is human debt
while life is in the offing
driven to regret
when cosmic paths are crossing
'tis not dice we're tossing
in order to have bliss i run the risk
on the high-flying disk there is no resistance
my dreams need no practical means to reason
now that i have been given into this musing
two magnets touched by two different polarities
round and round the Karma card
Venus and Jupiter dancing in a figure 8
now that you've made the sun flip
giving and receiving are not different actions
said Metatron and Kali to the sugar-coated tongue
tasting the sweetflag and sweet cinnamon
now pacing with me one foxtrot step at a time
dancing in the end zone cheers and jeers
abundance lies in the heart that allows
if one can't see through the door, why bother?
now that your pride goeth before destruction
direct hard truth flexible with too quick to act
stars shine on both sides
you deserve better when hope is restored
now that there is no you at the head of the table
sleight of mouth que voulez-vous faire?
the sun is not a balloon you can string along
the offing is a vertical horizon
now that you have reincarnated yourself
there is a light that never goes out
As a rainbow of the sunset descends
and the balmy breeze washes over sand
that tickles between toes and carefree hand,
I’m in the company of valued friends.
The deceptive calm of darkening sea
where the cormorants dive for their last meal,
the leeward shadows of the rocks turn teal –
I would not wish in other place to be.
The windsurfers had furled colourful kites.
Easterly wind had died down for the day
and sharks are out to forage and for play
in riptides, lurking out of reach of lights.
I lift my eyes to the offing distant,
the aspect of which is ever constant.
INSPIRED BY:
Sonnet VI,
by William Lisle Bowles
Poetic form: BOWLESIAN SONNET
***************************************************
*offing: (n) The sea-level horizon is the geographic horizon at sea level. One of the best places to see the sea-level horizon is a beach. The ocean and the sky provide a clean, flat line where the Earth seems to meet the sky. If you’re standing on the beach looking out at the sea the part of the sea that ‘touches’ the horizon is called the 'offing'.
with noticeable burgeoning bosom in the offing, ahoy
this baby faced blubbery bosom beastie boy
fast becoming a bra man,
and might hire himself out
as a male wet nurse for employ
ment, cuz when stark naked on shark tank,
I behold two bopping, brewing, busting
flap jacks in search of a frying pan,
which change in my physiognomy doth annoy
but, suddenly spurring,
this ordinarily calm, cool, and collected chap
positing even a more radical income idea
changing ma name to Chester, letting hooters
get suckled, though,
methinks they qualify as milk duds
tit two siamese twin guys christened ell and roy
offering accompanied with serving of cookies,
where adipose floppy blimps
rank popular as novel cheap toy
where art though washboard stomach,
where brestworks didst sprout
as if overnight a markedly increased
from flat “Joe” six pack chest did an about
face, with squishy, mushy, and doughy
sprang up without doubt
suddenly forcing a sexual identity crisis,
which freaky phenomenon makes me wanna pout
for weird, wicked woebegone
affects the psyche of this lviii aged lout
wondering what other transitions,
this fellow may indeed be on the look out
feigning to traverse (in me mind) badgering
rugged hormonal secretion terrain akin to a girl scout
on the prowl targeting a peeping tom,
whose foolery demands clout,
thus this imposed unfair punishment,
as some half assed irreversible decree
maybe hints of other surprises,
yet tubby revealed, which haint no fallacy
possibly being brewed up by a brood
of bruiting imps of the pervert with glee
some bot sized microscopic
anti bosom buddy hood stolen the genetic key
analogous to a pesky malware,
virus, trojan horse secrete lee
scheming to transform the sexual identity of me
perhaps waking up tomorrow minus
my little peppy ***** , and behold a pussy
should such an outcome prevail,
where media papparazzi
stake out this freak of nature re:
doubling efforts erecting fortifications
in a big old sassy tree,
especially if the press
(i.e. particularly meaning Wikileaks)
discovers ability to experience infinite orgasms
converting sexual predilection into electric utility.
The old goose is getting plump
Must be some special occasion in the offing
Oh I remember, that jolly old man
Will soon be riding into town on his sleigh
Pulled by eight happy boisterous reindeer
He'll be ringing his bell and singing
Those happy Christmas songs we all know so well
That have been with us for a lifetime
“Frosty The Snowman” and
“Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow!”
Ahhh... those joyous memories of when we were kids
Waking up early on Christmas morn
But having to wait until Mom and Dad
Gave us the okay to tear downstairs
Our hearts overflowing with excitement
As we first set sight on the gayly wrapped presents
Piled high under and around the tree
What joy, what excitement
Breakfast??? Who could eat breakfast?
We were allowed to open one present each
But then we had to sit at the table for a good hearty meal
How cruel was that, a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast
We gulped it down and waited for the signal
That we could leave the table
And take our seats as our dear old Dad
Read the tags on each present out loud
When he called out our name, our hearts raced
We quickly ripped of the colourful paper
That Santa's workers had so carefully placed
And screamed out with delight, “I GOT IT!”
It was just what we had asked for
Santa must have had secret agents snooping around
What a time it was and what a time it is remembering!!!
© Jack Ellison 2014
Written: October 1st, 2025 for contest by Unseeking Seeker
Line of inquiry:
“a homogeneous mass of consciousness
God as the all there is, mind cannot name
being both immanent and transcendent
living light intimate in heart aflame”
************
A boundless bundle of consciousness —
Not a corpus or clod, it reveals gloriousness.
A syph-like glimmer in the ethereal seam,
As the unnameable divine revels in a dream.
No nook, node, or ruthless throne,
But a delicate, shy, genuinely lurid alone.
And all—immanent in the languid leaf,
Transcendent amid the turmoil of belief.
He is the quiddity of every throe,
the halcyon ululation of the soul’s echo,
A seraphic groove for paradox and play,
frolicked in the motley of night and day.
Mind cannot name what he has become—
a roguish rakish ravel of light,
a gossamer jaunt across the squalor of flesh,
a virile vapor, both burden and blithe.
He is the calix and the caterwaul,
the aureate balm and immersion fall.
The palimpsest of epochs ratified.
where ephemeral truths are petrified.
He lurked in the labyrinthine offing,
a mystic machination, amort and maundering.
A seraphic slipshod in a cluster of stars,
stocked for the sapidity of avatars.
Still, flees from the facile frame,
from the fatuous fruitlessness of fame.
He is the panacea and the pyre,
the effusive ember, the crestfallen choir.
Aloft in the welkin, abstemious and omnipotent.
an immanency virtuous light not irritant.
Yet balmily brooding in the inglenook of the heart,
He whispers, “I am the quixotic art.”
Sojourn here, in this seraglio of soul,
where the aureate echoes of Calliope roll.
And the garrulous gossamer of grace,
twinkles through every vestigial place.
This is a quintessence, quiddity, gleam—
God as the all, as the dream within a dream.
a sumptuous oneness of light aflame,
living, loving, and forever unnamed.
Yours truly snapped, popped,
and cracked his crown out cervix
(I'll spare ye the bloody graphics),
whence obstetrician able, eager, and
ready underscored with italics
to pass (think football) garden variety
wrinkled newborn asthma
noggin heralded lix
plus deux orbits ago
sported an ordinary
uneventful, nonetheless miraculous
biological secrete reproductive tricks
immediately screaming
without assistance courtesy
Gran Prix (now pronounce as pricks)
also envision Dolby surround sound
nsync with spastic kicks
'o mine straggly mostly
gangly lovely bones mox nix.
Within some nondescript
Cincinnati, Ohio hospital heed gypped
(i.e. none other than me)
thy young mother of prolonged labor
as his bony ass easily
slipped out uterine crypt
whereby with Vernix
caseosa, the waxy or cheese
he appeared made rather dipped
in tallow, thence unexpectedly whipped
minuscule fist ready to bump.
Once placenta and fetal membranes
(unnecessary as wing ding)
discharged out uterus
after birth of offspring,
and thar weren't no more
major contractions in the offing
ma mommy lovingly did cling
to her bundle of joy and bring
maternal breast I ravenously
did suckle fortunately toothless
against her tender bosom trickling
(if mammary serves me correctly)
I presently recall no iota of inkling
what events transpired, nope
no recollection about me circumcising.
Moost likely I felt Jew bull lent
glad yours truly chose decent
mother and father, which opinion
subjected to radical change,
when as grown adult child
living nonsocial under
their roof forced to hire agent
provocateur to practice sparring,
when standoff event on horizon,
which eventually begat ultimatums
their red hot poker rage spent
belittling, cursing, damning...
quiet as Unitarian Church mouse content
internalizing later smoldering
anger I needed to vent
in retrospect diminutive little boy
tied to mama's apron strings
afflicted with mental
health issues inherent
of course hindsight gleaned
social, psychological, neurological...
healthy development got rent
asunder partly explaining
why I became indigent.
No matter unseasonably
blustery March like weather
prevails across my neck of the woods
(Southeastern Montgomery County, Pennsylvania)
and across the main body
of these United States of America
particularly original Thirteen Colonies
global warming alive and well
and promises to return
with a vengeance
after station identification.
Find out pertinent ice age accouterments;
gear up as soon as possible
with suitable and necessary arctic trappings
by accessing without delay
https://icetrek.com/equipment-guide.
Researchers used data on Earth's orbit
to find the historical warm
interglacial period that looks
most like the current one
and predicted that the next ice age
would usually begin within 1,500 years.
Now back to regularly scheduled program
donned and trumpeted as poetic blurb.
Incumbent onus warrants immediate action
to stem tide of global warming
or erect breakers to thwart dire crisis,
cuz figurative and literal tsunami
in the offing gathering strength.
Plethora of humans (think overpopulation)
directly linkedin to planet Earth dire strait
re: environmental catastrophe, née debacle
teeters along brink tipping point inevitably
pitching civilization headlong into oblivion
*****sapiens (minus those living off grid)
admirably self sufficient unto themselves,
perhaps ecological intentional community
while yours truly, one guilt ridden wordsmith
laments impacting minimal carbon footprint
(courtesy these thankful little feet size nine+)
nonetheless psychological torment wracks
lovely bones garden variety/generic human
specifically comprising complex edifice me
Matthew Scott Harris riven with loathsome
abomination, constipation, indignation, et al
mustered, tethered, yoked into capitalistic,
commercialistic, consumeristic ditto et alia
versus altruistic holistic, simplistic again re:
call synonymous words regarding contrast
between belching, exhausting, and polluting
(naming three adjectives describing impact
predominantly nsync with prophetic albeit,
profit oriented profligate, profane paradigm
unleashing immense global carbon emissions.
To Be Ancient
It is good to be ancient,
As with a vintage of the eternal red,
Sealed for the duration with an aged English cork.
Now youthful impulses hold no sway in the empty offing.
I recall them all, as I have remembered certain dreams all my life,
Undead ghosts from distant tree-lined shores in time,
Strolling languorously in a marshy fetid fog;
Their ancient faces I remember caressing,
Their yearning eyes and doubting smiles I recall seeing,
And the supple lips of some I can still feel, recalling,
The passionate interspersed minutes of unreal time,
Secretly spent, behind concealing curtains and ascending ivy vines,
With no real words of crystalline memory being uttered or heard.
And now, returning from wet membranes hidden insidiously,
Inside the watery swooshing gullies inside my brain,
Old friends and lovers appear again, like in an old film,
As they meander an astonished ancient avenue in single file.
Look at these dead pale girls here!
Girls who once spiraled to the stars in the darkness!
Now they tiptoe by my front window, perfume-scented,
Seeking their simple tombstones in the far graveyard.