Long Once in a while Poems
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When I was a kid, my county was 'dry'; meaning that alcoholic beverages could not be purchased legally. But there was always plenty of it, because there were home-made stills, and the next county was 'wet'. In my home, it was often seen in the refrigerator, especially on weekends. Seems my occasional stares and curiosity would never end until one day, looking all around less I get caught, I could resist no longer. One sip and I knew that I had never tasted anything stronger. I did not see smoke, but my head must have become a fiery furnish shooting flames from every exit point in my little body. I wondered how anyone enjoyed drinking such wild fire. One sip set my feet racing away from any future desire.
I never saw grandma drink; Mama, once in a while; daddy, every weekend. Some people did bad things when they consumed alcohol; daddy slept a lot. Seems he was nicer toward us, always saying, "I'm going out west where the eagles build their nest". I guess he only desired to go west when he was drinking, because he never moved.
Other than put my daddy to sleep, alcohol served no good purpose in our home. Strong drink consumption and smoking perhaps contributed to his early demise at 58. No, I think that alcohol was a curse and a terrorist that never did anything good in my community. When drinking, people were loud and fought like cats and dogs. Like fools, men drove their cars faster, or staggered all over town acting like clowns. We say that people get high when they drink alcohol, but seems to me they always go low, and sink to the bottom.
Alcohol is one of the greatest abusers; and it is unashamedly villainous. The opinions expressed are my own. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.
10152017 PS Contest, Alcohol, TS *Proverbs 20:1
Life has no physical form or shape. Life is an essence we all calculate
We calculate our days by looking at a calender to see
What month, day or year were at.
Days go by quickly sometimes we lose track of what day it is
We keep track of time my wearing watches on our wrist.
By keeping a few clocks around the house.
A clock can be placed on a wall, Near your bed
You can also see what time it is when you look at a microwave
When you take a glance at the stove.
Clocks tell time in most appliances or devices we have or possess.
There's no excuse to lose track of time unless
There's no clock to let you know what time it is.
A motionless moment which exists within a timeline.
A timeline full of dates and numbers
Sometimes I attempt to view my timeline within Facebook
Just to speculate how much time as gone by
There are times I browse through my yearbooks.
Once in a while I grab a yearbook I have stored away
Just to go back in time and remember all those beautiful times
Times where I shared with friends and classmates
I sometimes ask myself what has happened to them
Where can they be in life?
Do they still live in the same hometown or have they moved away to another state or possibly another country perhaps.
Some get married and eventually have kids
Others stay single and roam around freely
Some become single parents raising children on their own
Some become homeless because they struggle with life.
Some cannot cope with life so eventually they end up leaving a little early.
Eventually within time those are the people we most miss.
Others get successful careers and live an extrodenary life.
Sometimes we have high school reunions every ten years.
Thats where we catch up on classmates whereabouts.
Whereabouts which were unseen to foresee
I ask myself will I stay in the same place or leave somewhere else
A timeline created by humanity. The race of a special species called human beings. Everything exists within time a given moment.
A particular numerical moment existing in methodical order.
Everything occurs within an illusion of beauty.
The time we all try to pursue with excessive speed.
When we push into unexpected situations, historical events within life changes within an unexpected manner.
Only humans have the power to change their timeline events.
Events which occur in proper order.
gently
before me
on a desk, or a table
rests the means to enable
me to craft a new fable
to run and leap like the sable
a squirrel scampering upon a gable
to perch on high
level with the treetops
even with the dew drops
before they appear on leaves and grass
and as the moments pass
above the uncouth, the crass, with aplomb and class
to perch on high
not a computer, monitor, or screen
but a single piece of white paper, pristine, clean
and a pencil, or a pen
this is one of my favorite things, always available again
for me to clutter up with poetry, it's a religeous experience, maybe a sin
to perch on high, and then, to fly
above this work of still life, a pregnant moment, this glory
how do i get across to a mere animal like many of we
the potential, the opportunity, the act of creation
the pantheon of art, intellect, and creativity, the nearly divine relation
of a pencil, or pen, and one single piece of paper, the correlation
of inspiration, asperation, imagination, an elations flirtation
with all of creation, and even with the Creater, all the world and history
all possible, sometimes, probable, once in a while, we'll get to Be,
creatively
this mere human being, this mammal, this fallable and maelable man
may one day be as close to God, as, say, a squirrel, a sable, a dog or a cat
created as perfect as God intended, then staying that way
us? this world is sick and evil, faded, jaded, and peopled with egos based
entirely on waste, differences of taste
being better than, largely by plan, and lies, by intention and ignorance, like flies
i was perched on high, minutes ago, almost
(computers, phah!)
there is a certain amount of gratification in crumbling up a piece of paper
when faced with the fact, that what i've created is trash
getting another one
setting it down
setting a pencil or pen on it
and starting over. perfectly. gently. what is that moment?
to fly
perfection, and me, trying to be, to become, to create,
really, it seems everything i write or draw is a waste of time
it was perfect before i picked up the pen, now look what i've done!
delete?
phah! can you think of a title, a word that defines the moment described?
p.s. i am ussually surrounded by malevolent cretins, nobody on this site is a mere animal,
my apologies if you are!
gently
before me
on a desk, or a table
rests the means to enable
me to craft a new fable
to run and leap like the sable
a squirrel scampering upon a gable
to perch on high
level with the treetops
even with the dew drops
before they appear on leaves and grass
and as the moments pass
above the uncouth, the crass, with aplomb and class
to perch on high
not a computer, monitor, or screen
but a single piece of white paper, pristine, clean
and a pencil, or a pen
this is one of my favorite things, always available again
for me to clutter up with poetry, it's a religeous experience, maybe a sin
to perch on high, and then, to fly
above this work of still life, a pregnant moment, this glory
how do i get across to a mere animal like many of we
the potential, the opportunity, the act of creation
the pantheon of art, intellect, and creativity, the nearly divine relation
of a pencil, or pen, and one single piece of paper, the correlation
of inspiration, asperation, imagination, an elations flirtation
with all of creation, and even with the Creater, all the world and history
all possible, sometimes, probable, once in a while, we'll get to Be,
creatively
this mere human being, this mammal, this fallable and maelable man
may one day be as close to God, as, say, a squirrel, a sable, a dog or a cat
created as perfect as God intended, then staying that way
us? this world is sick and evil, faded, jaded, and peopled with egos based
entirely on waste, differences of taste
being better than, largely by plan, and lies, by intention and ignorance, like flies
i was perched on high, minutes ago, almost
(computers, phah!)
there is a certain amount of gratification in crumbling up a piece of paper
when faced with the fact, that what i've created is trash
getting another one
setting it down
setting a pencil or pen on it
and starting over. perfectly. gently. what is that moment?
to fly
perfection, and me, trying to be, to become, to create,
really, it seems everything i write or draw is a waste of time
it was perfect before i picked up the pen, now look what i've done!
delete?
phah! can you think of a title, a word that defines the moment described?
p.s. i am ussually surrounded by malevolent cretins, nobody on this site is a mere animal,
my apologies if you are!
Form:
Isn’t that my grandma standing right there in that queue
Where that queue is heading to I do not have a clue
So I don’t know why Grandma’s there or what she plans to do
But I do know, if I don’t know, then frankly… nor do you
The queue is moving slowly, just one step now and again
But just once in a while it seems to move on nine or ten
I still don’t get the reason Grandma’s standing in that queue
But I do know, if I don’t know, then frankly… nor do you
The attraction, I don’t get it
Why do they stand in line
The answer? You can bet it
Isn’t destined to be mine
A little satisfaction
I would get if only I
Could figure out the reason
That my grandma seems so high
I’ve noticed that my grandma’s spent some time upon her hair
And when I look I see that there’s more older ladies there
They all seem keen but I can’t see, the reason for this queue
But I do know, if I don’t know, then frankly… nor do you
I know it’s Grandmas’s business and I wouldn’t want to pry
She’s putting on her lipstick and I cannot figure why
I don’t know why she’s using drops to make her eyes more blue
But I do know, if I don’t know, then frankly… nor do you
The attraction, I don’t get it
Why do they stand in line
The answer? You can bet it
Isn’t destined to be mine
A little satisfaction
I would get if only I
Could figure out the reason
That my grandma seems so high
I simply had to find out what my gran was all about
Could she be mad, confused, or should she not have been let out
I snuck in just behind her and we moved on with the queue
And when she turned and spoke to me, I got myself a clue.,.
She said, I’m not so old; I’m eighty years and then a few
And, Darlin’, by the looks of it, I feel younger than you
But I got word that men are sitting upfront of this queue…
It’s a dollar for a kiss…… and so I’ve paid up front for two
My dear old grandma winked at me and begged me for a buck
She said, “Now I can see the front, I can’t believe my luck.”
I had to ask why did she want a dollar out of me
She said, “I’ve paid up front for two…… But now I fancy three.
“Your gramps and me had sixty years of faithful, married bliss
but now he’s gone, it’s been a while since I enjoyed a kiss
But one of them there fellas looks like David Hasselhoff
If only I had known… I would’ve left my knickers off!”
The whole truth
and nothing but the fu(king truth
That laws, and math, only help solve
local temporary problems,
All of which fall way short
on the infinite needs scale
were we rely on estimates, theories,
and other manmade truths
Still here we are,
alone on a goldilocks planet
All 8 billion of us milling around,
living our lives
guaranteed nothing
other than this moment
and whatever came before
To think otherwise
would be presumptuously human
As for choice is there really any
other than try feed ourselves
and sate the instinct to survive and thrive
We are a civilisation built on
disparate societal values and creeds
Each day is an imperceptible handover
from one generation to the next,
with no guarantee they’ll do a better job
But the real problem is not truth,
It’s why!
Why anything at all,
Why life
Why the fu(k am I asking these questions
I’m apostate, No!
I have little faith, No!
I am honest, No!
A nihilist, No
It’s because I have a sentient,
curious, unapologetic mind
that compels me to ask why!
Sometimes I think
i’d be better off a sponge
floating in crystal clear turquoise balmy oceans
Soaking up oblivious unintelligible surroundings
Indifferent to mortality and the universe,
popping off a few buds every once in a while,
or whatever sponges
brainlessly do to further their species
Such basic life is so very tempting
but just doesn’t sit right
Never to experience love
however fleeting,
Never to endure pain
However crushing,
Never to feel like throwing in the towel,
Even if just to mop blood
off the floor like a sponge
See, I’ve had moments
unimaginably beautiful,
Alongside unconscionably awful ones,
Moments so real
they can’t have been synthesised
by any stretch of any imagination
I believe a God or the universe
created me as a vessel of interpretation
to perceive itself
from my unique perspective
Well not unique per se,
more a personalised handicapped view
I am nothing and everything
in the grand scheme of things
No more! No less!
One that uses swear words
language you may not like,
yet clearly understand
The weirdest part is not the feeling
I’ve written this fu(ked up poem
in previous carnations
It’s my swearing
just seems to be getting worse
By
David Kavanagh
"That's a dead triangle" the boy proclaimed without even a mention of his good name.
"Gotta smoke...?" the old man asked as he unlatched his case at hand. Pulling out sticks.
His time at the table to challenge the band, was upon him soon. His pinkie ring has an
onyx moon.
"You shoot lefty.... and a bridge is the quarter turn of a One"
"Seven sees four eyes of a sun....! You're good to move on."
What? There's a quarter turn on the horizon?
"The Angel isn't dead and the Dead aren't done...."
How many games have you played I asked him. His blue jeans were dirty and his hair was
thin. His hands were shaking as he drew one in... a long and steady breath, full of smoke
while his eyes sat firm. The hall was dim and around me I could hear the echoing players
call. I could hear clashing of the solidly striped balls.
Then without a reply, the old man turned his back to the wall. Removed his eyes from my
questioning stare and lifting his arm, took a shot through the air.
"Why am I here...." with the angels again...
Hey little girl, did you watch me play? I won that game the red head said. All I could do
was smile. Not knowing yet why once in a while, I'm confronted with strange realities, not
especially mine, but yours you see?
In her face with just seconds to spare I saw her life in a flash of red.... bloodshot.
Eyes in her head were not the kind I'm used to. Something about her ruby lips too.... the
elevator moved ever so slow as we stood there. Her towering height became quite,
apparent, my eyes to roll from my sight as I'm staring. Click please! Let the elevator
floor ding, I'm praying. I see her knees am I shrinking? I start blinking and breathing,
just waiting for the door to start dinging.
And then it did.
And the air finally came.
"Love an Angle and be quick on your game!"... her ruby lips flapping.
Then the red head was gone and I was still.Left standing.
76 tables in the den remaining...I'm exhausted when came
the first of a dawning while driving away in the morning, I realized...
I was called to the table, in play for their lives.
"But I'm not a man..." a whisper cried....
"Only sLight of a human inside...."
A fractal of Light now....
As homeward I drive, wondering how can it be?
As they're not alive. So what exactly, does that mean about me?
Form:
Manon (Mary) and I, sat in the Tuileries gardens, by the Louvre Museum. Her 7 month old daughter, Devyn, on a blanket in the grass, was earnestly practicing a roll from her tummy to her back - of course, we coo’d and applauded each success.
We’d been girls together, years ago, in 5th and 6th grade - we were ‘like thieves at a fair’ back then - playing ‘la marelle’ (hopscotch) and pétanque until the boys, in early exercise of their ‘ed privilege’ ran us off the court, scattering us like birds.
She wrote me off a few years ago. But to be fair, I was missing. Growing up, my family moved around like we were on the run. I’d come back to Paris some summers and we’d check-in, but summer schedules are ephemeral and years turned into distance and a seemingly permanent silence.
Her last voice message, from 2017, is still on my phone, her voice bright, cheerful and expectant. I listen to it every once in a while, holding my phone to my ear, like a private seashell.
I was moved to China, where I’m told - thank you, Grandmère - I picked up a brash, incisive, Cantonese, ‘overly-direct’ manor, while Manon,went on to Institut Villa Pierrefeu, a finishing school in Switzerland.
Her hands move like ballerinas, her voice is as clear and refined as
Baccarat crystal, her look - bixie-cut chestnut brown hair, a white, Fontaine Zuave shirt over black, ME+EM Italian Linen Wide-Leg Trousers with Keds canvas sneakers, is Parisian simple and elegant and her posture is effortlessly perfect - she makes me feel like a scrub in my black Beatles t-shirt and jeans.
I passed Manon on an escalator, two days ago in Le Bon Marché.
I was going up, she was going down, with this little Devyn doll on her hip. The little firecracker I’d only seen on Instagram was dynamite in person. Her little expressions are bright-eyed and somehow familiar, their laughs - mother and daughter - are the same, rolling, lilting trills I know by heart.
My watch showed 69°f as we sprawled picnicking on a tree-lined embankment of the slithering green Seine. Rain clouds were gathering to the south - the river acts like a compass -which can be handy. Looking back on friendships is fun, but now we’re looking forward - which feels like home.
.
.
Songs for this:
New Toy by Lene Lovich
My Old School by Steely Dan
Angel by Sarah McLachlan
Introduction: At some point of our lives, someone close to us departs off to the next
phase. We think of the good times and try not to think the bad; but sometimes it haunts us
back to how we responded in a naive way for our juvenile wishes. And sometimes we see them
in our dreams at the utmost optimism and glory. But the fact that we get to realize what
we did back then may have cherished and broken their souls in some ways, we always wonder
if we could alter the deeds that wounded their affection in our times of immaturity…And
pray that we get a second chance to do so for our next life. *the first two lines have some inspiration from another piece*
Even if our hearts were as strong as a storm, we’d still feel a little bit sad
Knowing that we’ve lost our grandfather, our friend, our dad.
For so many years, we’ve felt their presence
In so many ways, we’ve felt complete,
But truly, even if we deny – We sometimes skip a heartbeat.
Our lives are nothing but their memories and their art,
Orbiting us each day, reminding us of who we are
Where we stand and to whom we belong,
We pray and cry up oceans for them night after night
Praying to be together just one more time, in the worlds of light.
But yes you are so fortunate, that you got to leave,
You’ve made it to the greater step, I pray for us to meet.
May your soul be blessed and may it shine brighter than the sun, Again and again
‘I love you’ it’s not a lie, I may not have said it that much
But I hope you knew inside, even if I may have been unkind as such
Nothing is left for us to do but feel the tears stream down our eyes
For we, once in a while have broken their hearts with one or two lies,
Their face glows and vividly fades away from our dreams those nights
That’s when we fall, fall down to our knees, pray for we could have changed
The ways we reacted back in those days.
Thoughts of those moments, thoughts of their sorrow smile
Now makes us realize how we never cared,
For that to overcome, we treasure the good times we’ve shared,
The times we’ve heard them say “You’ve made me proud”
The times we’ve felt them lay their hands, oh so be crowned.
Their tender touch, their forgiveness
Their blessings for us and their happiness,
We pray to feel it all again
Bring it all again,
To the eternal life, after this time.
Part 1: The Event
Back in younger age days,
Going to grad school in Boulder, Colo, was no fun,
Lots of course work, research work, little time to socialize,
Professor had to meet his grants timeline,
One nice Saturday morning, a few grad schoolgirls,
Called and invited me to go to Copper mountain ski resort,
How can I resist such a social invitation,
I was ready in the morning dressed up in my winter gears,
We hit the road, within couple of hours, we were at the ski resort,
Went down to rental shop, got fitted with skis and matching boots,
I had not confessed yet to the girls that I was still learning how to ski,
We went up the chairlift, I was helped at the top by attendants to get on my feet,
The girls were good, they took off on their skis down the slope,
I started down slowly on the slopes, till I reached a junction of treks,
I started one way, changed my mind to take another trek,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall, no one dared to lift him up,
I was buried in the snow with face down, till an older gentleman came by,
Turned me around, took my skis off, called the ski patrol,
By the late afternoon, girls came to the clinic looking for me,
Advised me, I should have stayed down, and practiced on beginner’s slopes.
Part 2: The Hindsight and lessons learned
I was on crutches for a month,
The diagnosis of hyperextended ligaments was not true,
I had knee surgery to get back hopping in a few weeks.
The lesson I learned, is never show off, know your limits,
Fun can await on some other day,
There was human temptation at that age,
To impress the girls, maybe make a girlfriend,
One girl would come once in a while,
Bring food and consolation for my well-being,
She gradually disappeared; I was back to work.
Now in hindsight, it was a great lesson learned,
People like the winners, not the losers,
Exceed in your effort, show your talent where you are good,
Research is hard work, like poets writing poems,
With only a few readers and good comments,
I found solace in my effort and kept myself going in life.
Pretend not to be master of all the knowledge needed,
Talk to the juniors and experts, if help is required,
Assuming that you can do it all on your own,
It is inviting trouble to a bright future.