Long Ordinary Poems
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The house we lived in
Was someone's idea of a castle.
Stone and old cement walls
Ornate ceiling fixtures
A faded marble foyer.
There were no buyers
So it went cheap
My parents were also practical.
There were two apartments
Which meant a monthly income.
We lived upstairs
So as to not hear footsteps at night
Our rooms were small
And the walls retained a coldness
That lasted until summer
In the foyer
Near the door
Was a telephone
Perched on a small table
Big enough to lean on
In case the call
Became a conversation.
The phone itself
Was basic black
Ordinary
And indestructible.
Our TV was in the living room
We watched
The Kennedy/Nixon debates
And witnessed the trauma of Kennedy's assassination
The nation grieved
For the Kennedys
But not for too long
Our attention was diverted
When the Beatles arrived.
It was the sixties
America was anxious
And searching for something new to believe in
And so were we.
Things changed
I left
My sister married
And our little brother
Inherited a room of his own.
Parents didn't change
They spent time
Dwelling on old memories and unpaid debts.
I visit the old place
Now and then
Driving by slowly
Long enough to see that
The new family:
Added an extension
Expanded the garage
Used up most of the back yard
Changes which I can't approve.
I still remember
When I lived there
How I was able to see the New York City skyline at night
Lit up
And full of promises
Then
I would dream
Of being someone else
And somewhere else.
Once passing by the house
I imagined
The front door
Opened
I was tempted to walk in
And saw myself climbing
The long staircase to the top
To look out and see
If the city lights
Still shone brightly
Beckoning me with her spell
If so,
I would ask whatever happened to my dreams?
I was walking down the sidewalk
of a big-box shopping center,
lost in my thoughts, as usual,
barely even noticed the thing.
Tucked back twenty yards or so,
I first thought it was a warehouse,
squat, and ordinary looking,
'Cavalry's Victory Church.'
No denomination listed,
just the name and cross to mark it,
a sad lump of steel and concrete,
cream-colored with no ornaments.
No spire, no tower, no bells,
nor statue of an ancient saint,
it had no sliding doors upfront,
could be a damn supermarket.
A grim feeling pulled me inside,
hoping here it would look better...
just factory carpets, few windows,
probably there due to building codes.
At least the pews are wooden,
if compressed sawdust is wood.
So many seats facing forwards
to a low, unadorned altar.
Just a cross to denote its job,
sans carvings and tall statues,
no stained glass playing with the light
while its images tell stories.
No pantocrator high above,
staring downwards from a big dome,
no gargoyles, looks a lot like
some high school auditorium.
I know the patrons are sincere,
and the Reverend does his best,
but this place doesn't inspire
or lift the spirit upwards.
Maybe it's a Protestant thing,
or fear of idolatry,
can't say. I only know that
nothing about this feels sacred.
Could it just be our laziness,
cheaper to build quick and move on...
or the money just isn't there
to inspire all who enter.
Perhaps it is a punishment,
laid upon us fallen sinners,
that He lets Notre Dame burn,
while this eye-sore continues on.
You will say something unexpected,
a sudden potency will bruise my blood.
I mention an ordinary thing,
you show me how my words are clouds
beneath your skin.
An invisible tissue
connects our common language.
I imagine the tympanic bones
of our ears as they converse
in contrary vibrations,
duets that we sing from different rooms.
You say an odd thing
which I cannot translate.
I comment upon something
you have no knowledge of.
In-between the words
campfires ignite
in synaptic junctions.
Eventually we arrive at an understanding,
practice a deep listening
ignoring all dictionary meanings.
Military men are made with ordinary plans
Built from the ground up to take instructions
Every corpuscle of the corporal to General
Created with truth, justice and two legs
(That is the American way)
Army bands are made to play
Musical instruments for sound
With white gloves waving high
Pointing out in your direction
A young boy leads them left
Down an alley with his stick
It does not matter who directs
They follow orders to find left
Without question to that end
There is no explanation
They can not reason on their own
Or comprehend the concept of reverse
Thank goodness they are not alone
Marching in place when facing danger
Moving up against the wall an obstacle
Playing at the pleasure of the bricks
It is what all that training must be for
One leg after the other going up and down
In perfect cadence dusk to dawn in stasis
To their final destination
A dead end wall
Security, self-esteem, and basic needs;
Everything on Maslow’s scale I seem to nearly have.
Life is good, but do I have it all?
Fulfillment in all things? What am I still in need of?
A final need exists which requires extra
Creativity! Often those who achieve it are seen as heroic.
Their autonomous personalities are quite distinct!
Unlike ordinary souls, they’ve attained the highest plateau.
As masters of their fate, they do not know the word inertia.
Lincoln is a prime example. How many on this earth ever had his great will?
Integrity defined him, as nearly did agapai.
Zest and gratitude for life were his, and he had no need of glitz.
Among humanity, he was like the fairest of the pearls found in the sea.
To be like him, so talented, so good, so brave, so smart
Is something that I can barely fathom. I
Only can admire and strive to be like him, my hero!
Not many in this world ever can achieve the highest plain.
Written November 10, 2016
For years he proudly wore the uniform of his beloved nation,
Fighting in many conflicts seeing mankind's terrible desecration.
In the heat of battle he often looked beyond the horrible strife,
When one day he could pen his dreams about the good things in life.
He tried to erase from his mind the lingering nightmare of battle,
The clash of steel, the billowing smoke and the musket's rattle.
He retired to a peaceful life and forsook the weapons of war,
To muse and write of ordinary things, letting his imagination soar!
He wrote of the magnificence of a beautiful, fragrant rose,
And the peaceful innocence of little children in repose.
The grandeur of the Creator's mountain, stream and plain,
Trees, sunshine, the moon, the stars and life-sustaining rain.
He wrote of children anxiously pondering choices at a candy store,
And of mighty waves from far-away places rushing to the shore.
He told of the virtues of attending Church and Sunday School,
To handle others with loving care, as if each were a precious jewel!
It says in the Good Book there'll always be wars and rumors of war,
But the old soldier had seen the folly of war and made it his chore,
To espouse a truism he had learned, this a very simple rule:
"If folks would follow The Golden Rule, they'd be apt to be less cruel!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Words thrill
Rhymes now fill;
Feel zest dance
~~~~~~~~~
Sculpt art
Heart feels seed;
Embrace sense
~~~~~~~~~
Lines arc
Movement streams;
Jumpy gaze
~~~~~~~~~
Gaze
Maze;
Daze
~~~~~~~~~
Bamboo path
Birdsong glimpse;
Crickets call
~~~~~~~~~
Be willing
To see truth;
Risk decorates
~~~~~~~~~
Evening echoes
Darkness falls;
Night lights pop
~~~~~~~~~
Walkway bump
Tree-cutting day;
Ancient tree sighs
~~~~~~~~~
Essay here
Words attempt;
Lovely meditation
~~~~~~~~~
In plain sight
Nothing much;
Ordinary fanfare
~~~~~~~~~
Old signpost
Tells a tale;
History peeps
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
01 March 2017
Singapore
I used to think poems began with words.
Now I believe they begin much earlier~
in the pause before speech,
in the moment a leaf loosens from a branch,
in river light sliding across water,
in the faint fragrance of lavender
remembered long after the bloom.
The world is always speaking.
Not loudly.
Not in proclamations.
But in small invitations scattered along the day~
a shadow lingering where afternoon once stood,
a bird turning homeward,
an old photograph waiting inside a drawer.
The spirit notices.
It leans toward what others pass by.
It lingers.
It listens.
And sometimes through grace I cannot explain~
something unseen gathers itself into language.
A line arrives.
Then another.
Not as possession,
but as gift.
Not made from me,
but moving through me,
as though God had hidden
a spark of wonder inside the ordinary
and trusted me to find it.
So I follow.
One image.
One silence.
One small astonishment at a time.
And what begins as listening
becomes a poem.
Polishing our mind is one of your goals
Assist not only students but people around you
Unfold our minds into reality,
Lighten our spirits to dream and pursues more.
Just any other man you are full of sense of humor
Outside the class you are like a father to us,
Strengthen our hearts when we feel low
Encourages everyone to study and glow,
Professor inside the university and full of respect you showed
Helping us to understand every lessons you blow.
You may be just any ordinary man
And mistakes sometimes are done,
Taking every challenges to success be made
Rises from every failure you take
In the end, the top is meet and break
Cease every chances, every minute and every day
Keep dreaming, keep running and keep shining!
Hope this simple poem made you smile
And remember us for a while
Many thanks is what i can say
One time you became part of my days
Yielding us to better man someday!
I watch the news on television
from my safe Canadian city (for now)
and see the unbelievable destruction
by Russia on a peaceful country
and I hate what I am seeing
Putin is surely an evil man
then, I listen to the President
of Urkaine talking from Kyiv and I weep
Volodymyr Zelensky is a brave man
though his life is in danger
he speaks up for his people
stays and pleas for help from NATO
and countries of the world
I am humbled by his courage
and the courage of the Ukraine people
Russians (Putin) want to crush Ukraine
kill soldiers and ordinary brave men fighting
elderly people, woman, children
and even babies, what kind of heartless man
does this to a peaceful sovereign
country, it is heartbreaking and painful
bombing, shelling, shooting innocents
I am ashamed of my country and
all countries and NATO for just
standing by, refusing to a No Fly
to Ukraine skies (oh yeah they are afraid
of WW3) what makes them think
Putin will stop at destroying Ukraine
his eyes are dead, his face is dead
his heart is stone, do they really think
he will stop at capturing Ukraine
as Satan is in his ear ...
______________________
March 17, 2022
Poetry/Free Verse/Kyiv
Copyright Protected, ID 03-1440-458-17
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance LaFrance
Written for the Standard contest, Kyiv
sponsor, Kai Michael Neumann, Judged04/17/2022