Long On top of that Poems
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‘I am Blue!’ said Blue to Red.
‘I am not you but Blue instead!’
And I am the colour that fills the sky
I’m better than you, can you not see why?
‘But I am Red’ said Red to Blue,
‘As far as I’m concerned I’m better than you!
I am the colour of life, for the good,
For without red there wouldn’t be blood!’
‘But I am the oceans, the depths of the sea,
You cannot compare or get close to me!!’
‘But Red is to stop’ said red as a warning,
‘These are points only I am scoring!’
‘But I can make green’ Blue replied
‘Grass covers the Earth, you cannot deny!’
‘Well I can make orange, to quench your thirst’
Surely meaning that I must come first!’
‘Oh but I can make orange and also make green,
and without the sun you cannot be seen!
On top of that I’m a decent fellow,
There can be no dispute, the best colour’s yellow’.
They call me Mr. Quick Fix.
I’m everywhere, in every school.
Over 400,000 of me in classrooms across the country.
Yet there’s minimal data on my effectiveness.
For this reason, among others, some call me Mr. Quagmire.
Here I am, the “least qualified, lowest paid” providing the “bulk of instruction.”
On top of that, I am rarely supervised, barely trained, and minimally vetted
While at the same time considered the “first, primary, and…only support response” for the student .
My student’s father calls me Mr. Godsend.
Distrusting of the school staff, I am his child’s protector
From any negative judgement bestowed upon the child by peer or adult.
The direct pipeline of communication often goes through me,
Not the head teacher, who sometimes refers to me as Mr. Why Didn’t You Tell Us That Earlier?
Some even call me Mr. Anything. Or Mr. Wing-It.
One day I may work with small groups beyond my assigned student.
Other days I’m creating lesson plans with no oversight.
I try not to question these practices, or lack of policy and procedures with regards to my role.
Everyday is a bit of chaos, and I’m just trying to make it a doable day like everyone else,
Helping wherever I can, however I can.
That’s my job, right? Right?
The physical effects of trauma are like a thief that arrives in the quiet.
Stealing all that you hold dear and take for granted.
An eye that won’t stop twitching, vision that blurs at the edges, food that you can’t swallow.
Headaches bloom relentlessly, dull and throbbing, until they feel like a permanent fixture.
Hair thins. Joints ache. Muscles protest without cause.
The stomach turns unpredictable, and pain appears in places untouched, ghostlike and untraceable.
Each symptom, on its own, could be explained.
Stress, fatigue, something minor, something temporary.
There is hope in that. It can be solved; a cure is available. An end is within reach.
But together they are a living reminder of a darkness others fail to see.
So, the one enduring it questions themselves instead.
Because it’s easier to believe the problem is personal failure and not the body’s response to something catastrophic and overwhelming.
Even the simplest parts of living begin to feel like impossible negotiations with a system that refuses to cooperate.
There is a particular cruelty in that loss.
In feeling your own body turn unfamiliar and untrustworthy.
It strips away any sense of ease, any illusion of dignity.
And layered on top of that is the ever present, nagging and persistent shame.
The feeling of being somehow wrong, somehow unclean, as if the suffering itself is a flaw.
To live inside that reality is not just exhausting; it is isolating in a way that words can’t capture.
Or worse, with words that won’t be believed.
For all that day the frantic chase went on,
until evening’s gloom started to spill,
even in the middle of a warm August,
Yukon nights can give a man a chill.
And the gang stared to complaining,
all three of them, Mitchell, Jeff, and Dale,
that if they pushed the chase much further
their horses would soon tire and fail.
Joel just snarled,”I’m still pushing on!
You’ve got just a half-hour to rest.
Then you get back on the trail and find me,
or I’m taking it out on your heads!”
He spurred his horse on, leaving them there,
knowing deep down their complaints weren’t wrong,
but with a gang like this you let nothing go,
if you did, you wouldn’t last all that long.
Pushing his horse until it sweat and blew,
he rode down a hill into a small clearing,
where stood a small cabin, roughly made,
from a chimney grey smoke was rising.
In front of the house stood the fool boy,
defiantly clutching the long rifle,
but next to him stood a female figure,
the sight of whom made Joel’s breath stifle.
He recognized her beauty instantly,
a few lines the only signs of age.
“How can this be? You-you were swept up,”
was all that he could manage to say.
His dear Running Moon looked him up and down,
said,”I told Red Hawk not to look for you.
He’s too much like his father in that way,
won’t let anybody tell him what to do.
“I didn’t want him to go down to the post,
not after hearing what you are now.
But he wanted to know, to see the truth,
the stubborn boy finds a way somehow.
“And yes, I was swept away in that flood,
nearly killed by the water’s white rage,
washed up on a shore, miles downstream,
my life battered and wasting away.
“A trader found me, brought me to his home,
where I was looked after by his Squaw wife,
broken was I, and unable to leave,
and on top of that, bound to give new life.
“But as the months went by rumors came in,
and at first I didn’t want to believe,
words came of a bandit bearing the name
of a man I loved named Joel Claughtrey.
“That’s why you’ve never seen me since then,
and why I kept our son from your grasp,
I wouldn’t let him meet his end on a rope,
I had to keep him from walking your path.”
CONTINUES IN PART III
Snowflakes take directions from the trees
Specific paths between the fallen leaves
Flights to perfection settle the matter
On layered mountains, on top of that
Counting uncountable numbers as one
Ice has a way of melting humble hearts
God adds pure souls to His collection
Forces calculable by all measures old
Log cabins keep quiet in the gathering storm
Add warmth, a spark of conversation light
By the fireplace where they belong
Snowflakes find their way to crystal
Sometimes the path up comes down
Between the evergreens dreams float
Carried off to paradise like tiny ghost
One by one and counting
I wonder what it would be like
To stand on top of that tree there
On the tip of the top of that mountain
I wonder what that would be like
I wonder what it would be like
To see from the tip of that tree
To look down on all the world
I wonder what that would be
I wonder if I would be scared
To stand on the tip of that tree
I wonder if I would look down
And all the earth I would see
Would the wind rustle right through my hair?
Would I reach up and touch the clouds?
Would the weather be bright and fair?
Or the world hidden under a shroud?
Would the clouds roll 'neath me like waves?
Would I be thrashed by thunder and rain?
I think this while I look at that tree
I wonder what it would be like
It’s easy to save the world.
Even if you’ve turned old.
Even if there is space between your ideas.
You should still share because,
Those lingering plans are valuable.
Just like that picture on the table.
Of you smiling as you slide down a snowy hill.
A photo that is energetic, yet still.
It’s easy to save the world.
Even if you feel cold.
Even if you feel slighted.
Maybe someone will feel delighted.
To know,
That you climbed so far in the snow.
But you left behind a notebook.
One with a great hook.
“How I Plan to Save the World.”
Even as your fingers curled.
You tried to climb Mount Everest.
But you tried to ascend too fast.
You almost saved the world.
Now someone else holds your notebook, unfurled.
That’s all they found, but you’re ok with that.
They never even found your hat.
What could have been…
On top of that mountain…
Maybe they will save your notebook.
And learn a new outlook.
Maybe saving the world is overrated.
There is nothing as ill fated.
As the treacherous snow.
When you were young, you used to know.
When you tripped in the driveway from the ice.
And your dad made you hot chocolate with spice-
We wish you didn’t perish.
At least your book survived to be published.
1/20/23
Continually facing struggles
Remaining puzzled
Going too hard straining muscles
Punks always out making trouble
Many in labs out to clone, attempts at creating doubles
So many shell-shocked
Others being fools while well off
Too many people quick to tell lots
They either say truth or sell crock
Had to change this
Less of the same
It took an occasional lane switch
Problems incoming, I took on and faced quick
Regardless if you understand the main gist
A lot of phenomenon and this world can't explain it
Don't be an ignoramus
It's not conspiracy or about getting famous
Why do continual acts occur that are heinous
Times were very far from the greatest
I was headed towards the grave if
I didn't get wiser and become one of the bravest
It's been difficult on a daily basis
I need to jump into a lake
Take a break
Gosh dangit
A heart of gold or soul cold like polar ice
To this day, so much is overhyped
And overpriced
Just not the same as prototypes
On top of that we got all these socialites
It never has been so polite
When it came to voting rights
Suzi the giraffe was all but 2 years old,
inquisitive, sensitive and positively bold.
She asked her mum a question, in no uncertain terms,
‘Why is my neck so long’ a statement which affirms.
‘But you are a giraffe and all our necks are long,
it saddens me to think you might believe you do not belong’.
‘It’s not that I don’t love you mummy’ Suzi did reply,
‘it’s just that when I look down I’m really awfully high.
On top of that I cannot hear a word anyone says,
lest lowing my head for the rest of all my days!’
‘But think of all the positives by being up this high,
you cannot hear the squabbling’ replied mummy with a sigh.
‘As I see it you’re best up here, ignoring all the gossip,
of what he or she thinks of everyone, on each and every topic.
It’s bliss up here, I can assure, so just enjoy the ride’,
replied her mother whose wisdom was intentionally implied.
You have been sober for two years three days and six hours
still the battle has not ended
The temptress in that bottle calls out in the dark
Beckoning you to return
The times when life seems more than you can bear
There was a time she seemed to satisfy
she caressed you from the inside
Until you started to choke
Everything that mattered was taken away
family, friends, job
You still can't breathe without thinking of her
they say it's one day at a time
will it ever get easier
four years
maybe five
Perhaps ten
Thankfully you do not surrender
you have battled too far
the worst is behind you
Battling addiction is a moment by moment affair
Friends were left on that battlefield
those friends didn't want you to win
misery truly does love company
New friends have been gained
family has taken you back with open arms
they never truly left
You had chosen to do the leaving
she had held you in her grip
no one else could be seen or heard
This time you are back to stay
You are the victor
In the end you are stronger than her
Written by Richard Lamoureux
I have broken the twenty four line rule, submitted and old poem to boot, on top of that it doesn't fully conform to your request. You strike me as a person who doesn't follow the rules, so hopefully you will forgive me and break your own rules by placing this piece. ;0)