Long Old friends Poems
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Eye witness sees
Pulse of dawn;
Stillness grooms
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Leaking faucet
Drop by drop;
Prayer beat chant
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Noise below
Skyscraper view;
Insects crawling
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Dry evening breeze
Noisy crickets;
March romance
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ATM bank queue
Mötley bunch;
Cash withdrawals
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Home movies
Two in a row;
Siesta beckons
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News from overseas
Message in electrons;
Homesick blues
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Brisk walking jog
Morning meditation;
Lethargy drains
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Chinese bread buns
Savoury fare;
Treat for two
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Diet plan dinner
Fibre fruit blend;
Baby food texture
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Mirror image
Old soul peeping;
Facial recognition
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Face to face
Old friends meet;
Is it 25 years ago?
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Catechism class
Religious politics;
Good versus Evil
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Jesus speaks
Eye witness hears;
Life is hard
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Hungry souls
Instant salvation;
Food court gourmet
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Newspaper highlights
Bad news again;
Catastrophe strikes
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Leon Enriquez
09 March 2015
Singapore
In the kitchen she sits on a three-legged stool.
She died in the living room,
her heart burst, and out flew
all the skills of her hands.
Now she cooks the twilight between the days,
the dried fruits of yester-years.
I watch her thoughts take shape,
how they sway to the music of Glen Miller,
another memory she gave this space to.
These words are partly hers,
the flavors are mixed. I pay a rent
as interlocutor.
Room corners are still planted
by her broad-leaved thumbs.
I water the old ferns as if I were
the curator of her old friends.
Kitchen cups rattle on their hooks,
chipped china chimes upon moonlight jingles.
In life we never did meet, but at night
she polishes my eyes.
Spits on a yellow duster and gently wipes
until something shines in me, and I know her
and she knows me.
I’d like to take a minute and talk about growing old…It’s something many people do…
and if you’re lucky in this life…you’ll, one day, grow old too.
Some say getting old is hard and they don’t really want to do it.
I say getting old, like any part of life, is all in how you view it.
Sure getting old means I don’t walk as effortlessly or as fast as I walked before….
but that means I get to lean in and hold on to Deborah a little more.
I might not see as well as when I was young
and when someone speaks…I might not hear every word
but, then again, I have seen so many wonders….and so much beauty I have heard.
I might not get up from the floor as gracefully as I once did
and some days it seems impossible to bend
but getting old is the only way to have old memories…and old friends.
A look in the mirror tells me I’m not as young as I once was
and there are days I wish these wrinkles and spots on my skin would scatter
but getting older also makes me realize…those things…don’t really matter.
Even on the days I wonder if my wrinkles are turning into cracks…
I remember I raised a family…
I’m retired
I am happy…
It’s my time to relax.
For I have gained the wisdom of my years
I know more than I ever thought I’d know
I’ve been lucky to be around …to watch my children and grandchildren grow.
I could go on and on about the benefits of growing old…for there really its no cap…
but after thinking and writing for a while now…I think I’ll take a nap.
Before I do let me remind you to celebrate getting old.
It’s a part of life, I guarantee, you will not want to skip
Just be careful how hard you celebrate however…
after all…you wouldn’t want to break a hip!
Deborah has a fear of flying…it surfaces before we even step onto the plane…
The problem:
This summer we’ll be flying to Seattle, Washington…
and back home from Bangor, Maine.
A friend of hers said, “What a coincidence…I had a fear of flying too…
but now…when I’m getting on an airplane…this is what I do.”
“When they call for me to board the plane…before it’s doorstep I have crossed
I think of Karen and Nancy (two friends they both have lost!)
"I picture them as angels in heaven floating happy…cancer free.
and I like to think my two old friends are looking after me.”
“When the airplane takes off and heads high into the sky…
I like to think that Karen and Nance are hovering nearby.”
“Now…once I’m in an airplane…I don’t worry about a thing…
because I know nothing bad will happen…with an angel on each wing.”
So…Deborah’s going to try this technique this summer
as we fly to Seattle…then back home from Bangor, Maine…
It brings her joy and comfort thinking Karen and Nancy will be joining her on the plane.
And isn’t that a great way to travel through life?
Doesn’t it help bring joy and happiness to everyone…and everything…
knowing wherever we choose to fly…we have an angel on each wing.
He spent his nights on the rolling seas
Eating half-raw fish and moldy cheese
He'd float into town about twice a year
To see some old friends and drink a little beer
He played an old guitar with worn-out strings
With callused fingers, he could make it ring
And he knew every song that'd ever been played
And sung them all whenever he stayed
I met the old man when I was just a boy
Strumming a six-string that was just a toy
He took it from my hand and showed me a chord
He came back the next day and showed me one more
In a few weeks, I went looking around
But the old man had sailed for the next coastal town
So I took the two chords and learned a few tunes
And I played on the streets for the drunks and the loons.
The story of his pomposity
The gaiety of a been-to
Embroidered in revenge.
Tunde Canada!
Timid and denied by folks and friends
In his prime when the springboard, the hemisphere
At the time when chicks announce their appearance.
His ordeal was woven in ancient penury.
He was in the enclave of the rejected,
An outcast before his friends,
Whose hands, fortune, has benevolently endowed
But he was happily disowned by his entire ally.
Tunde Canada!
Determination and spirited humans
Benignly lifted from the corridors of poverty
He suddenly became great.
How yesterday’s pain gone
And friends who cast aspersion are back as friends.
He became the cynosure of them all
How fast humans forget the misdeed of yesterday!
Tunde Canada!
Now great!
But revenge beclouds the reciprocity of goodwill.
He mopped up his old friends for a drink,
And left them to bear their debts after tipsy,
And stayed in the silt gutter.
Tunde Canada
In the frailty of human foible,
Revenge robbed him of his life achievements.
At last, betrothed to a bride of a rich-dynasty
And before the oath on the altar,
Absent from his wedding, either for tipsy or else,
He left the bride, the audience and the priest alone in the church
Staring at his endless arrival.
Oh, a revenge against the society
Pain to his ungodly quest.
A victim of his retribution
A lifetime goes by
just hanging about in the foyer
waiting for the right movie to start.
Then you realize
you have been the only theater in town.
Inside your play within a play
angels appear at various exit doors,
they have flashlights
you are handed a card which reads:-
‘Go to the light,
it’s the second door on the right.’
You go through the that door.
On the other side
people you once knew cheer,
some old friends of yours
that died upon a different stage
good naturedly jeer.
The dead dog you once
had to put down
yips happily, then pee's
on your leg.
The whole gang of you
once more
go to the movies.
Each day I find life gets more upsetting
because too often I keep forgetting
the names of loved ones I should remember.
They shouldn't fade like a dying ember,
so I talk to them instead of fretting.
Sometimes I offer them a pot of tea
to show I'm grateful for their company.
"Would you like a scone?" I asked my friend, Kay.
"Yes, Mary. You've outdone yourself today."
Times passes quickly when she's here with me.
I know they're all gone, my used-to-be friends.
Doing all the talking has dividends...
I never have to say, 'good night" or "bye."
No tears as they're leaving to make me cry.
You see, our conversation never ends.
In the daylight, at the window I sit,
passing time with yarn and needles, I knit.
I pretend my old friends are with me here,
letting me bend their interested ear.
I'm not senile; but I have a keen wit.
The minuteman with his musket,
The man who won our freedom,
An everyday guy asked to step up,
And like a soldier, carry a gun
An old friend who made you,
An old friend that you’ve spurned.
The woodsman with coonskin cap,
Blazing countless, roaming trails,
Surveying endless, rolling acres,
Surviving all forms of travails,
An old friend who made you,
An old friend that you’ve spurned.
The cowboy with his lasso,
Riding endless western lands,
Protecting the herd and his skin,
While riding for the brand,
An old friend who made you,
An old friend that you’ve spurned.
The lumberjack in Buffalo Check,
Eats flap-jacks and swings an axe,
For soft-wood and piles of paper,
He fells trees that could break his back,
An old friend who made you,
An old friend that you’ve spurned.
The soldier in his helmet,
Standing high upon the wall,
Burning bright against the night,
At any moment he can fall,
An old friend who made you,
An old friend that you’ve spurned.
The cop driving a lonely beat,
Looking for human wolves,
Expected to fight on our behalf,
And yet still be held accountable,
An old friend who made you,
An old friend that you’ve spurned.
The hipster and the snowflake,
Proclaim everything toxic,
Plush comforts hide reality,
They claim good folks are sick,
Like the old friends who made them,
Like the old friends that they’ve spurned.
Thugs in black masks rage,
But claim they’re just ‘protesting,’
Targeting all who disagree,
Enthusiastically bashing,
The old friends who made them,
The old friends that they spurned.
But it is all quite shot-sighted,
They’d do better to learn,
From the giants whose shoulders hold us,
From the giants whose respect is earned,
For some day old friends may grow weary
Of being mocked, ignored, and spurned,
They may shrug their heavy shoulders,
Then sit back and watch it burn.
I watched the farmer do daily chores, year after year.
On hot days, those of snow, each morning he was here
before lavender light of dawn, he checked on his crops
tended to all the animals and fed the pigs their slops
Farmer Ben didn't talk a lot about what needed repairs
I'm just an old shovel, but I heard his humble prayers
We're old friends, so I sensed his worry and frustration
each time he clutched my handle, I felt Ben's desperation
There were times when only digging relieved his stress
and I helped him work off the concern he couldn't repress
We shoveled snow and broke up clods of the Earth's crust
Always taking care to clean me so I wouldn't start to rust
I'm gettin' kinda old. Been here thirty years, maybe more
Since Ben bought the farm, and me at the hardware store
I feel honored to hang on the highest hook on the wall
but didn't ever mind he used me to clean dung from a stall
Sometimes a gentle hand holds me in a garden of flowers
His missus keeps me busy in Spring, planting for hours
If a rock bed I hit while she went about with our spading,
she'd clear them with her hands, and the roots pervading
Don't know how much longer I'll be in working condition
but I'm not ready to be retired or put out of commission
When Ben needs me, from the wall he'll take me down
I'll always be ready and willing to help him break ground