Long Overhauled Poems
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I know, I grow old, I grow old….
As silver threads peek in my head.
The flush on radiant cheeks wanes,
And a pallid tint creeps unseen.
Fading years have robbed the ardour,
And a rigid sobriety sinks and settles.
With EXPENSIVE health gadgets
I cannot bring back my lost youth.
I hear the howl of autumn winds,
That come to shake off the yellowing leaves.
Dragging tired feet through pavements
I try in vain to keep pace with the young.
Mind grows agitated and distressed
As the bones beneath the skin go brittle.
I drag myself with BRUISE in mind and body
Like a rusted machine never overhauled.
The soul grows anxious and annoyed,
With no CONVINCING solutions to track.......!
There is a tumult in my silence
Like the undercurrents of calm waters.
Through miles on dreary miles of gloom
That stretch out before the eyes, endless,
Where can I find a quiet haven
To lower my burden and rest awhile?
Twere a blisterin day, on da Fundy Bay, aboard da ‘ Black Angel of da Blue”,
with a crew of 32, whilst resting a spell, wid a thunderin clap of grog ,
when da Jack o’ Cups , his Jib a hangin, spotted a Jolly Roger aft.
Aye! ye coulda sinked me! When dem thar scallywags gave chase.
So we pumped da bilge, droppin a load of crap in thar path, weighed anchor,
turned three sheets to da wind and tried to outrun dem thar sprougs,
but me mateys' deadlights twere blinded by da grog -
as useless as dem thar lanlubbers, and soon dem thar scallywags
overhauled da ‘ Black Angel’.
So! wid a heave to, we blasted dem thar swabs wid da balls off da Brass Monkey...six pounders dey be, but nary-a-one hit da mark and nary a one came back. Dem thar scuffeys' didn’t aim ta sink us, fur da botty be all dey be wantin.
Arrr! Fur sur now we be black spotted,
but I not be ready fur Davey Jones locker yet.
One more clap of thunder be what I be needin ta clear me groggy mind
and figger a way outta dis hornwaggle.
So I spliced da mainbrace and it come ta me in a flash,
da only cargo we be a carryin be Rummmmmmmmmmmm.
so we set dem thar kegs adrift and it wernt long afore dem thar
sprougs was a drinkin grog and a fine time be had by all.
~~~~~
Inspired by: Paula Swanson's contest
Awarded: Second Place
Author's Note:
In order to understand this narrative, you need to understand Pirate's language. You can
find it on the web - just type Pirate language in your search engine.
Winter is approaching.
I feel it in my floorboards; in my baseboards;
in every nook and cranny.
I wait to be filled again at this time of Thanksgiving, and
As I wait, sounds of the past linger in my consciousness:
The excited moans of the men and of the women (some of whose
first introduction to me came from being carried across my threshold)
as they lay close together in their bed late at night;
The strange incessant wailing of babies that later arrived -
wailing that later changed, more often than not, into squeals of glee.
Some of the families I sheltered engulfed me with heaviness.
In those years, I was assaulted by loud shouting,
much like the barking of dogs from outside.
Those shouts were often met by shrill hysterical screams
or even by the sad sobs of children.
One sound stays with me like a ghost: the quiet weeping
of one lone occupant who held a gun to his head.
In an instant I felt his blood splatter against my walls.
I prefer to remember the touch of the children:
their small smudged fingers exploring my kitchen cupboards;
their tiny warm bodies scooting across my tiles.
On one unusual occasion, a child scribbled happily
on my bathroom walls with bright Crayola colors.
After the explosion of his mother’s angry words,
the bathroom was transformed, and with magic paper
a small part of me was wearing the figures of gold and purple fish.
Forty times or more I’ve been left; then re-inhabited.
Several times I’ve been overhauled: my carpet torn out, a new one laid;
my doors and my fixtures changed for modern ones;
my furnace and my pipes (even once a ceiling) - all replaced.
But lately, I’ve felt so weary, and even renovated, I’m feeling out of place.
Just last month as I was emptied and cleaned for the umpteenth time,
I heard the newest landlord tell his wife:
We won’t have to put up with this crap anymore -
not after we get the offer from those guys who want to build a mall.
I wonder what he meant. My heat and water both have been cut off for so long.
Usually a couple is here by now. But only silence echoes through my halls,
and I’m growing so very cold.
Free forms in movement
Dept of transit
Overhauled movement of poor life during isolation
Isolation instructions still in assembled bills as job requirements
Obstructions are final. Finite mathematics stills speech and range of motion
Counter intuitive approach to data modeled in hmis privacy act census
I'm a normal function inside of integral limit with derivative market extortion
On vista bus from Ventura government building towards thousand oaks the absence of New York life is laws
If = x
If I cannot
X can
Poor man's publishing Company
#cagovernor #realdonaldtrump #asmirwin #mikeytaylor #repbrownley #tonybiasotti #aoc #nypd #lapdhq #nytimes
Memories go back to my vanished youth,
And I reminisce clearly my master’s beautiful farmhouse.
With its granaries full of corn and wheat.
He was once a zealous farmer working day and night,
With me- as his inseparable companion.
We worked together in the corn fields till the fall of dusk.
With cock crow, my master would wake up,
Do his morning ablutions, get ready and proceed
To his field in springing steps,
With me clinging heavily onto his shoulders.
The land was ploughed, the seeds were sown.
My sharp blade made furrows in the soil.
Though my master’s hands with toil were torn
And my blade got blunt many a time,
Never were we inclined to take rest,
But kept working on end till the harvest was done.
Even when the summer sun was blazing above us,
With the air pulsing with waves of heat,
We worked hard, both of us finding joy in relentless toil.
Those were days of sweet contentment.
It was long ago, those days have quickly gone.
Now I have grown old and with me my master too.
Rusted and abandoned, I am tucked away,
In the old farmhouse, the sad reminder of a glorious past.
There, on a cracked wall, I am hung limp in dreamless sleep!
Now the old farm door on its rusted hinges creaks
The wicker gate around the farm is falling to decay.
The gravel path, with brambles and weeds overgrown.
Rodents and snakes roam freely among the thickets.
My master is now like his abandoned farmhouse.
A rotting engine not overhauled and can’t be put to use.
He has withdrawn to a life of lethargy,
With trains of memories haunting his days!
When people accuse me
Of being a man of unstable mind,
I do not get offended—
I do not mind!
My mind Is constantly
Growing, developing,
Evolving, changing…
Why should I
Stand by everything
I said yesterday?
What I said yesterday
Was true of yesterday
But, why should it remain
The same today?
Everything changes with time—
Situations change, Knowledge increases,
Perceptions get overhauled,
The mind gets transformed!
Change is an ongoing process of life—
It is a Process of evolution!
If I do not change, I do not evolve!
Should I surrender myself to stagnation
Just to hear that I have
A stable mind?
I was honest yesterday
I am honest to myself today—
I have not hypothecated my integrity
To anyone, or, anything…
If my intentions are right…
If I have no hidden agenda…
If I change my mind
To accommodate an evolved thought,
What is wrong with that?
I am comfortable with myself!
I am absolutely at peace with myself!
It does not bother me
If people think of me
As someone
With an unstable mind!
Written: February 26, 2024
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Whilst an ivory sky, my mast ignite.
As tidal waves flicker in sparks that gleam.
Igneous scarlet pyres still blazing night.
The amber sparks hover in swooping sight.
Amid thunder, boisterous shivers scream.
Whilst an ivory sky, my mast ignite.
The limestone chunks resemble carved calcite.
With furnace flames in phosphorous agleam.
Igneous scarlet pyres still blazing night.
As I gaze upward, pitch and haze relight.
Steadfast, I plunge where evil spirits teem
Whilst an ivory sky, my mast ignite.
Rancid stench of the city stinks of blight.
Above lagoons, as muddy smog or steam.
Igneous scarlet pyres still blazing night.
A phoenix amidst the fire, set alight.
overhauled from ashen sidle, wings' dream
Whilst an ivory sky, my mast ignite.
Igneous scarlet pyres still blazing night.