Long Once more Poems
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Fall,
Fall
And keep on falling until
You splatter and drip
On the head of a man in a chequered shirt.
He's bin scraping,
picking
and trying to get in.
Sweat runs down it's black exterior.
Gum is chewed again,
as it feels sweet, sweet moisture once more.
Him and a friend find a crack
And go at like gold miners.
Sharp pangs cut through erogenous graffiti...
...then the bin asks what is it all for?
Suffocated by cigarette ends,
enough to make a pack of Marlboro's,
Albeit a wet one.
I don't question the scrapers and stealers, I question the onlookers.
There contents not much better than mines.
I think I'm just bitter.
It's clear what I'm supposed to do:
Fill up with rain water and let the litter float down the streets.
I bid thee welcome upon my doting journey midst the forest boughs.
Give thee welcome to this, my visioned passage into the trees.
Thrice bound within the wood's dark embrace.
Where ancient tales did lead our youths apace.
Wondrous visions served as a hiding place.
In spectacles of many-hued grace.
An aged sprite hath slumbered there for ages told,
Invoking air, and fire, and waters cold.
Leading dreamers down a winding way,
Of folded parchment where inklings stay..
There, the mind doth drink and feast its fill,
Midst gods and gnomes and fey of wondrous skill!
The Ascent to Wonder!
Lo! In the distance, a mountain peak doth rise!
Tis Asgard beckoning to the mortal eyes!
Where winged insects meet with sci-fi strange!
And stars do sprout wherever feel may engage.
Into another dream the spirit flies,
Creeping through the heights of rhythmic verse!
To seek the rugged bards who myths rehearse!
Green-cladd poets, blessed with thoughts divine.
Whose phenomenal folk in glory shine.
Fierce spirits of the air in ceaseless flight.
Forevermore, in paths of infinite light!!!!
The Return of Radiance
Thirdly, unto the realm of light once more.
Where sunbeams pierce the forest's ancient floor.
Through gracious trees the warmth of wisdom flows.
As from the seeker's mind, a vision grows.
A truth eternal born of wisdom's might!
Trapped in the forest,
These old stories carried youth into the woods.
Extraordinary dreams to hide in.
Polychromatic spectacles.
An old elf dozing there for years.
Invoking air, fire and water, leading dreamers down a wondrous path!
In a labyrinth of time, every second is a grain of sand scattered,
everything hurts: old age is a veil of shadow over my thoughts,
and death, an old acquaintance, draws closer with every tick of the clock,
an old man like me can vanish in an instant, like a star that fades away,
leaving behind only memories and echoes of lost dreams.
While the young chase fleeting illusions and desires like butterflies,
the old walk paths where death is a beacon on the horizon,
yet the years grant you the gift of seeing magic in small things,
like a grapefruit glowing like a tiny sun in your hands,
or a bridge connecting dreamlands, a dog guarding the gate to the soul,
even a simple piece of sidewalk becomes a path to the unknown.
And all the other things around you suddenly seem... new,
the world is a flower of a thousand colors, though sometimes with shadowy petals,
and when you drive on boulevards, watching those in their cars,
you think: each of them will eventually navigate to the stars.
It's strange, isn't it, that each of them will eventually navigate to the stars?
Then, fortunately, I will free my thoughts from the burden of death,
forget that I am... old, and feel once more that I am 45,
while somewhere, someone waters a small plant in a pot like a universe,
while a plane crashes with a fierce explosion into the mountain of destiny,
while deep in the sea, strange creatures dance in silence,
the poet remains shackled to his helpless self, like a dreamer trapped in a dream.
“Mommy, do you believe in God?” The daughter asked as she nestled in her bed.
After tucking her in and kissing her cheek.
“I do.” Her mother said.
“Have you ever seen God?” Her daughter asked.
Her mother shook her head.
“But you still believe there is one?
“I do.” Her mother said.
Sensing her daughter’s confusion her mother sat upon the bed.
“So is God a man or a woman?” Her daughter asked.
“Yes.” Her mother said
“It all comes down to one word.” Her mother continued
As her daughter sat up in bed.
They looked into her each other’s eyes
“It’s called faith.” Her mother said.
“Faith is believing in something you cannot see
It’s not knowing but still moving ahead…
I know right now it’s hard to grasp
but you’ll understand some day.” She said.
“And God,” her mother continued, “is not a particular person
It’s whoever you create within your head..
The God you talk and pray to
can be a man or a woman.” She said.
They talked a little more about God
Until her daughter nodded off in bed…
The mother kissed her once more on her cheek
“Sleep tight my love.” She said.
“What took you so long.” Her husband asked
When she finally came to bed….
“Tomorrow,” his wife smiled as she kissed him.
“You put your daughter to bed.
Ironed Shadows
by Odin Roark
Her hands lay smooth
the coveralls worn thin
now wrinkled
once charged with earth
Mended armor from
courageous prices paid
embossed with crosshatched mending
stands raised in triumph
A home plate remembered
by innocence long abandoned
players made humble from
a boy's first slide for life
Vapors rise
from sprinkled droplets of water
beneath handled hot steel
making ready once more
the crusted wafer-thin reason
for kneeling to a non-questioned answers
Facing coerced submission to other games
a purple-robed relentless hand
feeds rewards from gilded plate
accompanied by whispering silver tongue
Such are the scoring points of yet another kind
Youth's pure white
once starched crisp
ever ready for combat
now labors thread bare
atop shoulders and arms
riding the reach for caramel-lathered memories
chased down with silver chaliced promises from still wider mouths
Where goes the love-smooth ironing hand now?
Costumes of rumpled thread
made anew by hot-pressed caresses
now like the ether of memory
drift up past the seeing eyes into untethered emptiness
Tread carefully
lest you become wrinkle-free expediency
sliding voraciously into digital home plates
forever kneeling faithfully before promised obsolescent rewards
delivered smilingly from reflective platters
tarnishing quickly
Zero heroes
Whatever happened to the heroes?
Those that we used to adore.
I need somebody to tell me,
Where do they go when they’re about to fall?
Whatever happened to the heroes?
Where are they now? Nobody knows.
Where did they all choose to go?
I guess I lost all my heroes.
They all seem to fade away in the end.
Whatever happens to the ego’s?
When we decide they have let us down.
I guess things will never be the same again; oh no.
We were surrounded by infamy,
But now they’re all so sweet, no-one is angry.
They’re all so nice it makes me want to scream!
Get back on your star and let us once more dream.
Why does this happen to our heroes?
We want to love them like we did all those years ago.
But something happens to our heroes;
No more shouting loud, they’re all so mellow.
Whatever happened to our heroes?
They change with time; they all fall or die.
Our heroes change in our life time;
I wish I could go back and see them in their prime…
I want to go back in time.
(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Form:
You bee you and I’ll bee me
Lila the grasshopper was a chilled out lass.
Whenever there was tension, she would make them relax.
Her carefree soul meant she never felt bad,
And her friends all loved her, beecause she gave love back.
Other people would stress, trying to bee their best,
But Lila didn’t care about all that mess.
Take me as I am, she would always say,
And no matter what the story was,
She would always find a way,
To make people smile, even if it took a while.
Humble met her one day on his travels.
She was singing to a group of insects and animals,
And all were happy to bee in her presence.
She would always entertain the local residents.
She would tell them of evil-doer’s who lacked her excellence.
Ignore their souls in their state of decadence.
She told humble all things happen for a reason.
All he had to do was keep on beelieving.
His love would come into his life one day.
He would walk in the light and all would bee ok.
Hey Hum, why so glum?
Lighten up chum; your time will come.
She made Humble laugh,
And that was that.
His day had been brightened,
And he was no longer frightened,
He beelieved once more he would find love.
He lifted his head up and thought you sure are good…
(C)2020 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Once Upon A Time In The Bath
Archimedes scrubs and rubs in his bathtub but the cake of
soap slips from his hand again and once more and drowns
~ Next to the plug hole minding the swirl of all plight ~
He does not give up easily he is a logical legend after all and
before insight washes over him like a cloth of veiled beauty
~ The lather slides down on pearls of slithering foam ~
He parts the water and reaches down between his feet which are
clean by now ‘cause being a mathematician he starts at the base
~ From valid footing of premises to conclusion ~
This strikes me as de ja vu was there not this man at the slope
and if I remember he always fell down while the rock stayed on top
~ As he became one with the fragments of Self ~
If I could defy gravity and tame that flipping toppling soap I’d be
able to wash the crown on my head and the roots for salvation
~ Cracking all that bothers my fellow humans ~
Instead the tub burst into two halves of Yin and Yang with one
almighty bang metaphorically dividing fateful error from truth
~ Trial and terror murky head but always a choice ~
Archimedes might order a new tub or jump into a natural river
resign to not washing his head and stick to his feet or bow his
~ Genius down to the soap with tears in his eyes ~
06th May 2018
I woke up early in the morning for once in my life
Instead of sleeping in oh so endlessly and feeling sluggishingly anguished
I broke the habits of yesterday’s peace and strife
Just as I have wished...just as I have prayed...no longer feeling languished
I attempted to write a rap song…
Just for the fun of it
Just for the fun of it
I attempted to write it before the dawn
Before I welcome the sun
Before I welcome the sun
In my life...in my life…
The birds in the sky soar and soar hopelessly South from on high
Northern winds keep blowing and the breeze is making my mouth dry
The strangers of the deep walk to and fro in the depths of the unknown
The strangers look at me vacantly as I also walk on my own, but not alone
I accepted reality for what it really is...
Listen and take a seat
Listen and take a seat
I attempted to write my fantasies down
Before the clouds formed
Before the clouds formed
And turned into rain...turned into rain…
The sun is nowhere in sight and it’s a rainfall of delight
It’s a darksome day with the wind blowing all day and night
The stars and moon tonight refuse to shine for me and you
I want to mend everyone’s scars and paint them upon this wall
I resented the fact that you’re gone
Just for the sake of your safety
Just for the sake of your safety
I attempted to write my prayer down
With an upside down frown
With an upside down frown
In this town I call Lake Havasu City
The sun is dimmed and the clouds surround the Earth
It’s a gloomy afternoon in the desert of sprouting mirth
The stars and moon at night refuse to shine for us all
I recommend everyone to be brave and triumphantly stand tall
I stayed at home all day in solitude once more…
Wondering when the storm of loneliness would leave
I strayed away from God’s path and now, I’m sore
Wandering in the realms of oblivion - where I grieve
Stone did not give up on us,
we just made stone socially conscious.
Many hotels and banks are still stone clad,
the rich still use stone,
but most of us
are in the throw-away aisles of the future.
This is not a class warfare poem, that war is over –
we lost.
Soon the poor will have no stone history,
our less than epoch making lives
will not outlast the crumbling era’s.
Our trinkets and practical artifacts
will wash away in tsunamis of time.
We will leave no blue-collar archeology
that can be excavated, and raised above the
swallowing earth once more.
Plastic and aluminum,
composite drywalls, and pine struts, go
to the landfill at best.
In the end, rot, termites
and fire are our bequeathing.
In some distant past
I am looking through a camera
taking pictures of a far tomorrow.
“Look”, I hear someone say,
“there’s a nobody,
he who has no stone for his grave
or fame.”
I agree,
even this celluloid photo of me
in my prime,
strutting along a Jersey boardwalk,
a beautiful woman on my arm;
this image will also burst into flames;
no doubt within,
some impressive, abiding fireplace -
one built of stone.