Long Outside(a) Poems
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God, my mother told me,
You are the embodiment of love.
Since then, I have adored you most.
But I wonder do you understand me?
I read your book in the foreign language
of those who rule us.
Are you on the side of missionaries
who pour money into their coffers?
Do you not hear the cry of the children who sleep on dirt floors?
Their souls evaporate into the night
— the dark and cold embrace of death.
How can you ignore
the suffering of a child?
Or the landscape of poverty that swallowed his mother
and misplaced his dad?
He cries in his own language.
Do you understand that language too?
Malnourished mothers ‘milk dries in their breast;
They can no longer feed their babies.
Their hands raise to you in despair.
Can’t you see, God?
A father who does not beg or steal, starves.
He looks towards you before hanging himself.
I believe you can’t be blind to the sight.
Do you greet and welcome his fractured soul?
A poor young girl screamed before being raped
You’re not deaf.
Starvation, neglect, illness, and cruelty
are not different in your holy book.
Unless you don’t understand
when they’re said in my language.
Is the emotion behind them the same,
no matter the place, no matter the people?
Outside a fancy shopping mall,
A little girl sells colorful balloons
to buy medicine for her mother.
She looks towards the sky,
and talks to you.
Do you feel her despair?
A woman on her knees at a corner begs for coins,
a tiny baby in her arms.
In pain, she calls You.
Do her prayers reach You?
Or are they the wrong language?
Do you live in her empty bowl?
The World is Your creation.
Why won’t you listen, almighty savior?
Do You sleep inside a nascent dream?
We ask only for a piece of bread,
no matter if it’s stale; we don’t care.
We are hungry.
But we receive humiliation and hunger.
I don’t dare say
You have a careless heart.
But — could it be true?
Oh, God! Will Your Kingdom never come?
We yearn to walk the road to the edge of the light;
where there is no hunger or death,
where sun does not sting bare skin.
Where intangible, indiscernible
words do not wound us.
Our breath grazes the candle’s flame,
at a saint’s tombstone.
The flame struggles, in its last moment,
to live or to die.
Are we that candle?
Or smoke dissipating in the darkness?
A fierce wind howls as dark clouds race,
A tall man whispers to the light
across a vast land with wild clear waters,
of streaking sunsets and sunrises bright
and woodlands in a thousand shades of green,
he hears her calling for him
He feels her tears beckoning for him to come,
and he must find her in the dim
for she has waited for him all her life it seems,
to bring her back to his world.
over mountain peaks and rivers wild he journeys,
Now, he stands in shadows whirled
and in the mist of dawn he watches her sleeping,
as she sleeps like an angel with wings
He reaches out a hand to touch her raven head
then, outside a bird sings,
as he fades away to dust in the morning light,
and she sits in slow motion segments.
That night candlelight flickers in her bedroom,
Her room is full of a forest scents
and he stands behind her and slowly removes his hood,
and she is not afraid when he says, Claire
as she turns to face the man of her dreams,
when he twines his fingers in her hair
he takes her hand in his and walks her to the bed,
and whispers, it is time.
They lay on the bed two lovers until at dawn he disappears,
She closes her eyes for love sublime,
She is found in the morning, pale and deathly cold,
as he deeply kisses her ruby lips
raindrops fall as her casket is lowered into the ground,
until into another world, she slips.
______________________
March 28, 2017
Narrative/"Until"
Copyright Protected, ID 888105
On Any Subject
Brenda Chiri
Second Place
Just outside the window
a row of coned shaped trees bend their foolish heads
for her attention...
She can have her way with them...
yet, with such a wily nature, she passes over them,
and softly treads a path through the garden gate...
Her steps are light as dew, making not a sound...
as she hesitates to wake a slumbering rose...
and timidly brushes past a trellis of sleeping morning glories...
She peeks in, then slowly slithers through his open window, while he lies sleeping....
The angle of her glance makes his closed eyes flutter...
and he smiles....
Her appearance casts shadows on the far wall, as she stares across the room at him
She tarries for a moment
A reflected image on the mirror spreads her silken white cloth...
He feels her move over him...
He is kissed by this welcome intruder, ...hypnotized by her charm, and her cool breath...
Dazzled by this embrace, he tosses the quilt, in restless dream....
She caresses so softly, filling his heart, and making him sigh...
He basks in her love, and lies in sweet gratitude in his sleepy state
enraptured with sweet contentment
Soaking up and drunk with the intoxication of her shine
Outside, a lonely eucalyptus tree is jealous...
Impatient and longing to feel such affection....
It's branches clamor against the glass, hoping to break her spell on him...
But, woefully....
angry clouds intrude to steal away the moment...
She runs and hides!
No longer does he feel the kiss,...the sweet lunar incandescence of her breath...
The seduction of her glow...
Coolness and disappointment envelop him as darkness returns again...
And he is once again alone in the shadows of the dark
He must pull his blanket up, and dream of other lovers.....
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For Dr. Ram Mehta's contest..."Luna... Goddess of the Moon"
death is near-
a fading out tomorrow will never be-
gone away an empty shell will dwell
birds and butterflies come fluttering
on gossamer silky wings
wings soft as a spider web
and the curtains stir in the open window
death
comes
like a bird of prey
drifting silently
and hummingbirds hover in heavenly harmony
her
hair
streaming down her shoulders
the clock of time stops the end has come
deep blue is the sky beyond this realm
birds and butterflies come fluttering
on gossamer silky wings
and hummingbirds hover in heavenly harmony
blue birds are twittering in the trees
she breathes
a long breath
pauses
and then
the moment of death a heaviness descends
death comes
like a bird of prey
drifting silently
she hangs
her head like a dead flower the mind dies
a peacefulness a light that fills the room her spirit leaving
and on the bedside
a beautiful bouquet of red roses dulcet full of scent
oh her life was fleeting
infused with happiness beauty laughter
the dream has ended the final curtain has dropped
farewell my beauty I kiss her lips her still warm hand
outside a gentle rain has begun
falling on the weeping willow tree
my weeping tears
dropping soaking her blanket
___________________________
June 26, 2015
Free Verse/"death of a friend"
Copyright Protected, ID 684720
Submitted to the contest, Any Poem You Are Proud Of
Sponsor, Mystic Rose
Second Place
I am proud of this poem because I wrote right after the death of my friend,
she died of cancer and I was with her at the end witnessing it through the eyes
of a poet. It is my most viewed poem and I was able to capture the style
of E.E. Cummings perfectly in my opinion.
__________________________
Submitted to the contest, A poem You Are Proud Of #3
sponsor, Skat
Fifth Place
_____________________________
Submitted to the contest, Death and Dying
sponsor, Debbie Guzzi
Second Place
On the news today
The headline storyline was presented
and reported as follows
In Liverpool today some local right wing
protestors who's arms are up in flame's
replacing pitchforks for placards
Which was later retracted in place
of rabble of lawless youths one as
young as just age 15
Causing and terminating in a riot
and remonstrating outside a 4 Star
Hotel
Currently turned into a hostel or facility
to accommodate Asylum seekers
Because and due to according to official
press releases and reports
Misinformation being posted on social
media platforms
Which left the male only residents inside
traumatized and fearing for their own
safety and lives
So much so they do no longer wish to
stay as are now so fearful to even
contemplate leaving the confinement
of the building let alone venturing outside
Now it all depends on what and which
you as individual choose to be believe
As everything unless you were actually
there to witness it with your own eye's
and for yourself
You have no choice unless you know
someone who was actually there
But to take onboard the way it is
reported by the news media believing
they are holy trustworthy
Like in the aftermath the very next day
a reporter is stood outside interviewing
One of the Asylum seekers describing
exactly how bad it actually was and the
general mood and feeling amongst
those inside
With not a scowl but rather a broad
smile seemingly more than willing
actually happy to be interviewed
With what appeared to look like or
be a backpack as if he was just off
out for a morning strole to the shops
for the maybe daily milk or bread
Not someone in fear all dressed up
well prepared in expectations of an
impending fight
And granted that I did not see the
contents of hidden inside his bag
I'll have to rest my case
Otherwise I am in fear of falling into
the same category of what the media
do ever so well
Like insinuating presuming and making
things up as I go
And never letting the truth get in the
way when trying to embellish and
over egg a story
A CRACK IN THE SIDEWALK
Poem written for and submitted to “When My Life Changed” Poetry Contest, Kai Micheal Neumann, sponsor.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Early morning, sun dripping gold over weathered fences.
I was running, feet rhythmically striking the pavement.
Then a sudden jolt, my foot caught in a yawning crack.
I remember the gasp, the sharp intake of breath.
The sky spun, a dizzying blur of blue.
The asphalt, bitter and gritty, greeted me.
Pain erupted, my sturdy ribs shattering like porcelain dreams.
My taut and athletic back, now a crumpled map of hurt.
My shoulder, a tattered sail, flapping in the wind.
I lay on the ground, a helpless marionette with frayed strings.
&&&&
Underneath fluorescent glow of the emergency room, the bright white sheets
embraced me.
The air was thick with antiseptic, the scent of fear mingling with shock.
I succumbed to the lullaby of anesthesia, the world fading to a distant hum.
I dreamt of running—a memory wrapped in gauze and quiet longing.
The surgeons cut and stitched, the confluence of metal and skill.
After, I lived in a cocoon of pain and immobility, counting the months of
physical therapy.
Months stretched like silent shadows, the world outside a blur .
I, a statue, saw the seasons change—my body and spirit temporarily
tethered to the earth.
I still remember the freedom of running, the wind in my hair, the earth
beneath my feet.
Now I find solace in walking, each stride a careful sigh, a bittersweet
reminder of what I lost.
The world feels foreign, though, my back a crooked spine of broken dreams,
three inches lost to gravity, the weight of time pressing down.
I reflect upon the journey, the scars on my skin, and the lessons learned
in quiet moments.
I am a different sort of strong now, hunched over, but unbroken, moving
forward with faith and grace—one step at a time.
For P.D's "Going Haiku Crazy" Contest
How Many?
going to St. Ives
met folks on that smelly bus
more than I could count
Just Sleep Walking?
Wee Willy Winky
caught outside a boy’s window
in a night garment
Got Wool?
naked in the lane
three bags-full of wool sheared off
baa baa black sheep fleeced
She Didn’t Know What to Do!
Kids’ cries from inside -
outside an old woman’s shoe
child welfare people
Clean Your Plate!
Licking their plates clean
Jack Sprat and wife do their part. . .
kids starve in China
The Treacherous Hill
pail of spilled water
Jill’s body sprawled over Jack’s
one big bloody mess
What a Ding Dong
good deed for the day
boy scout Tommy Stout by well. . .
scratches on his arm
Not Even a Bone
old Mother Hubbard
Social Security cut
dog needs a new home
Yellow Georgie
victims of Porgie
confront him in the playground
his true color shows
The Original Blonde
Bo peep loses sheep
birth of a new tradition. . .
blonde jokes being told
The Schemer
some spilled curds and whey
spider near a fallen chair
supping happily
Making the Best. . .
Humpty takes a spill
the whole army can’t fix him
omelets for lunch
Baby Catches On
the church and steeple
and now you show me people?
those are just fingers!
They Say He Couldn’t Keep Her!
gossip in the town
pumpkin shell big as a house. .
where is Peter’s wife?
Bye, Hushed Baby
the sound of wind’s rush
baby’s cries abruptly hushed
broken branch on ground
*I'm choosing this series of haiku for several reasons.
First, it's the only post I made named "Twisted" so it
is an obvious choice. Second, I do have other poems
I consider a bit twisted, but, I simply cannot
remember the titles of some of these really old poems
to look for them. Finally, this series was inspired by
a long ago contest of PD's in which I got the idea
to take nursery rhymes and twist them, and so
I'm reviving this series which can no longer be
viewed by anybody here unless it's in a contest!
While Shuttered Up Inside... ©ozy
Snug Air Conditioned Demesne...
Analogous to my boyhood
cosseted and bereft, I assay
to poetically elucidate how majority
of mine years found me
deft keeping danger at bay
only thru the pour substitute
of my imagination
remaining safe within the causeway
of a quasi Norman Rockwell picturesque
unblemished near utopian day,
where trumped up "FAKE" danger
stoked courtesy of
anticipatory anxiety didst essay
when pinhead size
pores faux stressed
every epidermal square inch
populating skin oozing perspiration
along I-59 pro Roman
lix spittle sweaty freeway
precipitated, via illusory mailer daemons
unavoidably pitching me
into an inescapable fray
unlike late twenty somethings
(Jay Austin and Lauren Geoghegan,
whose cruel fate
at the hands of Isis militants
published online by Irish Times),
evinced carpe diem
existential Great Gatsby
live life to the fullest
created an extraordinary journey
(now forever immortalized as
daring adventurist trekkers)
with ample horseplay
deliberately, egregiously, fanatically
and wantonly killed,
when purely exalting in zest
promulgated by indomitable spirit
found me choked up,
a baby boomer i.e. west
tern civilized married bloke,
who opted to die vest
away from blatant uncertainty
never daring to experience unrest
outside a severely circumscribed perimeter,
exempt from a life
and death litmus test,
where very little harm extant,
when taking repast or rest
only ushering, venturing,
and taking, sans
quotidian cerebral quest
ensconced within four walls
without nary a pest
except...pet peeves of mine
within psyche built a nest,
nonetheless hounded by many a vicious beast
whose predatory cannibalistic feast
comprises thine psychological state greased
with until mortality expires,
asper being temporarily lend leased.
“My name is Jonathan Mellis, I'm solitary confined
In a D.C Jail, where they destroy your mind
They call solitary confinement “the hole”.
They drop you in and let time erode your soul.
It’s hard to cope with this tunnel of sadness I'm facing
At first, I'm lonely and my mind is racing.
After a while this turns into desperate frustration.
Where are my champions in this once great nation?
I try to sleep all day, but I can’t turn the page
Then as energy comes back, I feel a surge of rage
My skin is crawling and the walls close in, there' s no buffer
Because I liked Trump, jailers smile as I suffer
I am Jacob Chansley, I was the guy in the news
I wore that fur hat with horns, not to mention tattoos.
I told protestors to leave, when Trump urged us to go home,
But vengeance wasn't averted when I took that megaphone
We thought the election was tipped by an unseen hand
The one gun fired killed Ashli Babbit, like me a veteran, making a stand
Three hundred days plus in the hole, an undeserved curse
I’ve long had mental issues, and solitary made them worse.
I'm Jake Lang, I've been thrown in the hole, in this hell
Because I posted a video of myself praying in my cell.
Someone had smuggled me a contraband phone
So I tried to show the outside a faith like a stone
I've been in this jail for four years, seeing sadism shown
Nine hundreds of those days, in the hole, alone
Now they tell me the rest of the sentence will be in isolation
How easy power over prisoners morphs to an evil operation
Our leaders didn't express any sign of distress.
Neither Joe Biden nor Harris gave us redress
What happened to our constitution, does anyone care?
The founders meant justice to be speedy and fair.
George Orwell’s specter walks the jail halls
In the name of “our democracy”, liberty falls.
Friends, family, the press should be able to enter
To visit the detained, advocate for the dissenter
Whatever January 6 was about, this point should ring true:
When we lose basic rights, then you do too.
One cold night, deep in thought, and curled in fright,
From folklore tales aimed to scare;
My rigid poise froze to a screeching noise
Outside, a voice not like I've heard before, to leave I would not dare
“It’s probably just an owl or creature of the night out there"
I muttered to myself, then pretended not to care
Oh, I recall quite vividly this icy Winter’s night
With grainy sight, the sandman came to lead me to his land
The weariness I fought but eventually he caught
Pulling me quite taut to somewhere far less bland
Where I became the leader of a marvellous brass band
And down that path sandman tightly gripped me by my hand
Trumpeters and trombone players played musically in layers
Exciting each and everyone, spreading joy to all around
But my dreams were playing tricks, my mind was in a mix
The bass tuba sounded sick, not playing tuneful sounds
Instead a grating shrill, then the whining of a hound
The lightning and the rain came too, my dream then ran aground
Alone I grew more frightened and the intensity just heightened
The shrieks and shrills grew louder with an occasional thunder clap
Taking sanctuary under bed sheets, preying for melodic sound beats
Suffering this painful feat, my soul took a massive slap
Oh how I longed for it to stop and to return me to my nap
The bleakness of that night, my mind caught in a trap
Morning later broke, the ground outside was soaked
The noise had faded but there was still a haunting in my ears
A crunch, a grind, a squeak a whine
The cause I vowed to find, and to take away my fears
From the upstairs window I saw a farmer crouched in tears
And a windmill's broken sails; the mystery closure neared
Across the muddy field, I approached the man kneeled
Sobbing over what appeared to be a dead Alsatian
He'd found it just lying there, the hound, his best friend
Downed by a falling windmill piece, killing gods creation
"A slow death" the farmer said "he must have cried out for attention"
"And my mill cranks broken causing noises of a nauseating sensation"