Long One time Poems
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When away from my computer,
I will post my poems instead
Finger-pecking on my cell phone,
In the hope that they’ll be read.
Though it takes a little longer
And to errors I am prone,
I am helpless to correct them;
All the blame goes to the phone.
So at times these poems are posted
More than once or even twice,
Leaving me a bit embarrassed
Since just one time would suffice.
When I’m home again, my desktop
Helps correct my every glitch
And the new posts that I enter
Will go off without a hitch.
My apologies to readers
If you see a poem repeat.
Maybe someday on my cell, I’ll learn
Just how I can delete.
...Jack went down in a heap,
the shot biting his thigh.
The rider drew near, gun in hand,
said,”You do not need to die.
“Though you’ll not believe it,
I will still to you explain:
You’re brother was a rapist,
and with young girls he did play.
“And when a daughter of a friend
fell to his twisted appetites,
I did what I had to do,
and sent him to that dark night.
“I know you will believe think this,
to you he was family,
but that monster is worth no revenge.
His death, in fact, was a duty.
“But sin belongs to those who sin,
and not to any other.
And I see not the ravenous beast
in the eyes of his young brother.
“And though I’m a forgiving man,
I’ll warn you this one time,
don’t ever come for me again,
‘cause I'm not always so kind.”
He tossed Ed’s pistol aside,
then mounted up on his horse.
He rode off, resigning himself
to a night sleeping outdoors.
It had been such every night,
since his own loss, long ago,
when he’d crossed that bloody line,
when he’d lost his own.
No more smiles, or boyish laughs,
no warm nights by the fire,
his woman gone, and his boy too…
nothing remained by the ire.
Sometimes he did like to think
that he could go on back,
return to what he once was,
give up these duty tracks…
But deep down he’d always know
that inside he had grown cold,
since he’d walked from their gravesides,
against evil now he rode.
Forever on, he rode.
Whar art mine fervent zeal for Marx Brothers?
While figuratively trout fishing
for ideas to write about
analogous (hook, line and sinker)
idea wormed itself into mind with clout
moment of awareness arose
without shadow of doubt.
As a long haired pencil necked teenage geek
zany Harpo, Groucho, Chico ranked as idols
mine most favorite slap stick until I reached
cusp of early adulthood, yet of lately uptick
regarding said comedic acts unexpectedly a
rose, spurring me to revisit adolescent mem
rubble entertainers overarching unstoppable
nostalgic ache for their nonpareil antics did
pang ping pong within mine corporeal esse
Scents trademarked and christened Matthew
Scott Harris, somewhat alleviated watching
courtesy Internet random You Bet Your Life
momentarily experiencing giddiness bursting
with laughter - shy kid relishing hearing quip
lightning fast barbs oft imitated sporting his
greasepaint moustache nsync with cigar size
of small walking stick renown world over an
American iconic figure (+entire motley crew)
lively bunch post World War II boys groomed
since birth begat Minnie Marx (born Miene
Schönberg, 9 November 1864 or 1865 – 13
September 1929) mother and manager of the
Marx Brothers, a family of vaudevillians,
Broadway and film actors, she dominated
band of five boisterous and hilarious brothers
who dominated silver screen more'n nearly 3
4ths century ago sired by patriarch Sam Marx.
No particular rhyme nor reason explains why
aforementioned nitty gritty personal trivia thy
actually more accurately & specifically yours
truly metaphorically unexpectedly did qualify
as teetotaling poetaster to craft poem well nigh
acknowledge inexplicable passion regarding my
heartfelt affection constituting zany wily troupe
linkedin with baker's dozen films iterated wild
3 ringed circus antics did all these years schtick
well lodged within me noggin + gamut of stars
whose career launched during quaint silent film
era albeit (Betzwood, one time, between 1912
and 1924), one of the largest film studios in the
world located in downtown Philadelphia and
their studio lot in Valley Forge, Pennsylvania,
right next to the park, I kid ye not, and... take
look see for yourself by visiting following link.
https://americasbesthistory.com/
spotlight2017-11.html
We stopped in to see our grand niece…who recovering from hip surgery…
is a like a bird with a broken wing…
Lunch and some time together…we were more than happy to bring.
Her family and friends are all taking turns stopping in or coming by…
to spend some time and lift her spirits until she’s ready to fly.
What we discovered on this visit…both inspiring and electrifying…
Is how one broken wing can’t stop one’s hopes and dreams from flying…
As we ate and talked and laughed discussing many things
I thought how, at one time or another, we’ve all had broken wings.
And how lucky we are to have family and friends…who take the time to drop by
to lift our spirits until our wing is healed and we once again can fly.
How a broken wing, with the help of family and friends, isn’t as bad as it first seems
how if we’re patient with a little encouragement…
we’ll be back to flying with our dreams.
It made me think of all the people in the world with broken wings
and how If we treated them with the same kindness, love and grace…
we’d all be happily united into making the world a better place.
Because every moment we help anyone recover from a broken wing
when we offer our support…when we help them to survive
these are the moments in life we are at our best…when we truly feel alive.
And shouldn’t our goal in life…each day as we head out our front door
be to treat everyone like they have a broken wing…
and leave them a little better than the were the day before.
A little happier, like our grand niece, knowing someone cares…
knowing they are not alone…
and knowing they’re one day closer to when their wing is mended
and they are flying on her own…
To those whom breathe, defeated in darkness,
She smiled one time, so bright.
To all the times the edge was past me,
I swear, I’ve found the light.
For the times I couldn’t breathe, she was far and not in sight.
A stranger in a lonely night.
For the world, it felt so small, before she crossed my mind.
Then the savior, stopped the arms of time.
For how divine, to dive into another’s soul.
Perhaps to those outside, the world is as is before.
I see,
Falling stars, dance across an autumn sky,
fireworks, cheering, laughter, we fly.
For the moment you dance inside her eyes,
the world just seems, so right.
And the world I imagine, still goes on,
we still row across an ocean, memories drawn.
This land still harbors sorrow, tears and peers are gone.
Though I swear for a moment, the sea has calmed.
Faced with Aggressive Cancer at the time of this poem. But, I survived.
I am not alone
My life was suddenly a present,
Wrapped in a ribbon for me to see.
One time left to open the box
And reflect back on the days before.
Every talent shined like gold,
Gifts God gave me along the way.
Every person who ever cared,
Returned to mind with gratitude.
Life was hard but there was good.
Life was sad, but there was fun.
Life was scary, but there was comfort.
Life was dark, but there was beauty.
God has blessed me all along.
Now, I thank God for these things.
The little worries no longer matter.
The moments are precious each day.
The simple things are so important.
There is purpose in this life time.
Mine has evolved through the years.
I sit back now and I observe.
The blossoms will turn to fruit.
The seeds will turn to flowers.
The painting will be complete.
The present is being unwrapped.
Love is abundant, I am not alone.
Heidi Sands
Joy
Is enthusiasm
Personified,
And enthusiasm is from enthuse,
Which is from God,
Which is important
To most, not all, and this is okay.
Because we do not have to get our
Joy
In the same way, with the same ideas,
From the same books, or thoughts,
We also cannot experience joy
In the same way.
It would be nigh onto impossible,
As we do not have the same
Backgrounds, or the same
Experiences, and certainly
Not the same families.
But wait, butterflies and
Dragonflies and flowers are
Joyful to all of us, right?
Not if you stepped on an
Angry bumble bee barefoot
While you were looking at them.
Not if you were molested in a bedroom
With them on the wall.
The same rights and wrongs have
Not happened to us.
The same writes are not going to happen
To us either, although, to be truly honest,
I am quite enthusiastic when I read a
Poem and six neonate ideas spring out of
This poet’s ideas into my waiting,
Anticipating brain!
Sometimes I can
Barely wait to
Get to my
Computer
Which is why
I try to read
Everything I
Can.
Because right now,
Even if it is only for
A year, or only
For nine months,
Which we are coming
Up to in a few days,
Writing poetry is
Currently my
Latest obsession
And it still brings
Me joy.
As soon as the joy is gone,
I will disappear and no one
Will know where, but here is the
Why.
Because I do not do things
If they do not bring me
Joy.
Because there
Would
Be no
Point,
When I lose
Enthusiasm
It is over.
Writing
At one time
Was a big deal
For me, but I
Lost the joy,
And it was
Gone for
Nigh onto
40 years.
Obsessive compulsive?
You bet.
Joyfully so.
Everywhere I look I see her face
Everyone I meet I see her face
We only met just one time
To find her I cannot decline
A stranger is controlling me
I need to find her you see
I am not a loved up stalker
I am not a raving reporter
But if I don't find this girl
She would change my world
Noone knows where she is
Noone knows where she lives
She witnessed my crime
Wrong place wrong time
She talked to the police
Pointed me out you see
I need to stop her talks
Before she testifies in court
A sorce gave me an Address
A chance to end this mess
Is it best to watch this house
Or act within the hours
I need a plan you see
So noone else sees me
Something don't seem right
A Police set up in my sight
The Address was a hoax
But I promise you folks
I will find this witness
Before I get in deeper mess
Oh you hear it every now and then in a reference to the past
You know, way back when, but as you see time doesn't last
As they sit there and lament I often have to ask myself why
For all that time is spent, yet this is a brand new day to try
Your past you can't change, but the present you can affect
As your priorities rearrange this too will come in to effect
But tomorrow will soon be here and today will be a memory
As that saying we'll hear but that's not the way it should be
For the Glory rings throughout that is if you choose to take part
So many people have doubt in the deepest part of their heart
About all of those glory days well they had their problems too
But if you knew of the Lord's Way the meaning would be true
These are the Glory Days my friend as to God we sing praise
Coming to know His Ways is walking in the Glory of His Rays
For now is that Glory Day for we can sing out with His Praise
Don't listen to what they say, God is the only One time obeys
I don't believe in you.
Jesus, the Lord, Vishnu,
Shiva, Loki, Thor,
Horus, Ra, and more.
Today, when I tasted desperation,
I almost pretended at adoration;
to get a favor, to finally find some aid,
I almost lied, almost faked, almost prayed.
To pray to one I know not to be?
Profane, to not only you, also me.
To you, in believing solely for the sake of want,
to me, in changing for the sake of some divine font.
So, even though I hold on to faith's lacking,
grant me just this one instance of backing.
Let me evince the ire behind my shame,
all the hatred behind the flame.
Nineteen poems about the same heartbreak,
about the one girl who's made me truly ache;
more than a tenth of all I've written,
to show exactly how hard I was bitten.
Yet for every one, I'd triple them all:
the woman, pain, poems, sorrow's call,
if I never had to spend another day
with those whose creed I no longer say.
I haven't seen my family in almost two years,
thanks to men with nothing between their ears.
I've never felt more alone, been more betrayed,
never had more regret or larger mistakes made.
Today, I defied them, for what I think is right.
They should have learned that some will fight.
Yet despite my bravado, my perceived cogence, I lost;
just one more injustice, one more line they've crossed.
I thought the one I went to unlike the rest,
before today saw him as different, the best.
Now I understand where wrong was my aim;
I shouldn't have expected aught but the same.
For that was the help I almost asked for,
one small victory against the Corps.
Oh, the chance one time to put it right,
impetus to be, change to incite.
You've always known my stance on your existence,
and to your myriad followers my resistance;
that should stress these circumstances' full weight,
that to you I might, even hastily, think to supplicate.