Long Overs Poems
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Exracted from Gerald Nforche's Epic, The Slave's Tale
-Across the Atlantic, 1793-
We cry out cursing to our very gods
Whilst mokala and plotters lead us in lots.
And slaves we have become, slaves we are groomed
And setting in the milken sky, is the moon.
This is the hell that befalls one’s prism
If he doesn’t open himself to pragmatism.
The ways of mokala are not our ways
And their days are never like our days.
Hope you fall in line with my tune’s knell
As it would guide souls to wisely dwell:
Now permit me continue with my sad tale
Before we are rapidly placed on sale.
For here I stand under an alien sun
Faraway from my own sweet land’s rung
Battered, chained to the queue’s label
As humans are placed on the auction table.
Here I proceed with my tale feeding you
With my pain, pains of brothers on cue
As they are sold off like fresh tobacco
Whips meeting flesh if anyone plays the hero.
***
Rocks! ebesse rocking, shaking like old
The chains cutting into arms, legs to mold
Croaks and groans climaxing to a sadistic rhythm
Beating us to yield forth into realism.
Light strained in through rat nibbled openings
Else we would have left the hold like blind goblins
Vicious to the point of abandonment
Scuffling for blood, mokala’s disbursement.
Aided by the scurrying light, my head worked
East, west, south and north, on shoulders, rocked-
Acquainting itself with the crampy hold
Taking in every detail for any bolt.
In long prodigious rows we humans lay
Meditating, some wide-eyed not to say
Tear tracks dry on their black paling cheeks.
They now submissive despite the reeks.
A cough here, a huff there. A groan here
A croak there. A curse far afield, a stifle near.
A prayer whimpered here, a shiver rippling
There. A horrid sight it was, a grappling.
That pungent stench, from decaying beings:
Men awake whilst parts decayed in rings.
I was nauseated, my eyes reeling, pained
My stomach flaring to throw up content.
And there they ran, hiking on heaving bodies
Playing hide-and seek- on chained enemies.
Tossing about, screeching on their suppers-
Causing a kick here, shrieks there, left-overs.
And my groans joined the choir, a dirge
Loud to fissure walls, and seditious to merge
Vocal forces to kill, kill! Kill! No shy-
And we’d die sober, die! Die! Die!
There are only a certain amount of
the truly good things life has to offer
1 single person can expect to experience in one's lifetime given our human limitations
Like a cancer patient hearing a doctor tell them treatment was successful you are in remission
To meet your one true soulmate
what it's like to mate for life
Get married or be someone's best man
or bridesmaid
Be a husband being told he is about to become a father
or a wife she is pregnant
What it's like to breastfeed or give birth
feel a kicking on your naval
Hearing your child's first words see
them take first steps and off to school
Make your parents proud or see your
child succeed
To save a life or donate an organ
Winning the most prestigious award
voted for by said peers at a grand awards ceremony
Win a life changing amount of money
Discover or find a treasure map
Travel and see the 7 wonders of the world
all it's continent's and oceans and differing people
animals included
A thunderstorm expelling lighting and
the majesty of a sky full of star's under
a desert sky and a perfect sunset
The feeling a girl feels when she is bought flowers or receives a valentine's card for the first time
What's it's like to own the keys to your own home
To never have to go to a loved one's funeral
Pilot an aeroplane or jet fighter
Drive a steam train or locomotive
Captain or steer a ship
Command a tank
Be a cowboy
What it's like to paint a work of art
or play a music instrument
Sing in front of a live audience
Make people laught doing stand up comedy
Play sport in front of a sold out stadium
What it's like to find the word's in order
to compose the perfect poem
Or most prized of them all the meaning of life
What it must be like to be or live
CONTENT & HAPPY IN ONE'S OWN SKIN
The rest we have to leave up to our
own imagination or hopefully dream about
before we eventually pass on
Because when it's gone it's gone
you only live once no such thing
as second chances or do overs
Only memories to keep you company
until your numbers called and the lights
dim and you get to find out
If death is in fact the termination or end point
of your journey or the fresh new start and
beginning the good things in life never provided you
Orphaned Slab
by Odin Roark
They call me a foundation
once supporting siding and stone
wire
plumbing
shingles
Through the doors of my house
trailed family and friends
across kitchen floor
slanted slightly
letting Benny’s agate marbles
migrate to the corner
Atop my shoulders
a house of character once stood
usual middle class floor plan
even allowing spidery webs
their solace in pantry corners
squirrels their roof
foraging to cottonwood trees
shading the three second-story bedrooms
kept perfect for home visits
from children away at college
Downstairs
Everett’s TV room rocker
always moving back and forth
massaged my back
well
it was a mild massage through the flooring
mostly my imagination
coming as it did
through layered rugs and cat hair
Yeah
used to hear mother’s complaints
“That old vacuum is useless. We need a Kirby, damn it”
He’d usually stop his rocking for a second or two
then let her know “Just lean in more. All it needs.”
and back to his rocking “Kirby. Out of her mind.”
But
Come spring break
Sara’s boombox
was rocking of another kind
no imagination needed there
reminded me how secure
this old foundation was
until the afternoon when…
Felt like a distant train
but the clackety-clack of rail cars
was out of sync
out of control
Wind moved in
then rain
then wind and rain
then that God-awful train again
had to be from Hell
or someplace worse
thundering through…
It was a long night
Been a long couple of weeks
Weeds and spider webs now connect
through cracks in my body
A squirrel or two survived
peeking about once in a while
still clinging to their downed cottonwood
wishing the foraging path was still there
wishing there was something to forage
Me?
Well
I’m just a surviving foundation
awaiting tomorrow’s sunrise
hoping for just the right temperature
early in the morning
before the sun adds its bleaching effect
and I start to remember again
Perhaps I’ll have earned
some afternoon showers
some nourishment for the weeds
some droplet sparkles
for my spidery friend’s web
and who knows…
We’re regretful of so much loss
the other slabs and me
but a foundation is a foundation
that’s what we’re built for
The start-ups
The start-overs
Orphan today
adopted tomorrow
So goes the life of a slab
A life some might say
is a thankless existence
Not so
GREEDY AND JEALOUSY
The haves and the have not, they all stand at equal pulverized
Stretching their hands for arms giving, yes we are all vulnerable and vagabonds
Having money is valueless in the absence of helping hand, skills and ability
Maybe, maybe not–I need you and you want me is the root of jealous and greedy
Needs and wants do not drink from the same cup-if you need me then I need you
Dig deeper and read between the lines you will see the thin blue and red lines
Blue you want my skill-red you don’t want me, your greedy causes you to abuse me
Greedy from the rich-Jealous from the poor, all at the foot of the cross
Avaricious speaks up and boast, all is in palm of my hands
Equality is the blindfold for the naïve; If I have the money then I have the power
You cannot fit into my shoes neither eat from my plate, get what I offer or die
This is animal farm, I the lion still rule-no corruption just connection in my world
The food is mine, let just use your spoon, and you will be also feed from left overs
The power to hire and fire is in my pocket, please my egos maybe you will be safe
Even if humility causes you humiliation, you are obligated to be humble at all times
Faith is for the weak, visit my palace and witness words turn into money
Greedy from the rich-Jealous from the poor, all at the foot of death
Jealousy often originate out of lack, give me enough that I may not steal
Come walk in shoes, being feed from crapes falling from the rich man’s table
I wish I had all they have and wish they had my strength and skill, beauty of inequality
Sorrow in my inner soul, so drifted from the beds of the sea, drowning in my envy
Okay you have the food and I have the spoon, maybe I should turn my spoon into a knife
Mr. rich man, we are all walking in the shadows of reality, jealousy and greedy are just results
Do not take my meekness as weakness; neither should you turn my humility into humiliation
Greedy from the rich-Jealous from the poor, foot of birth and death is equal
We are all equal, Greedy and Jealousy are like twins, just depend who saw the sun first
We all need each other just as the succor field needs players, without each other there is no game. So never let you greedy take you swallow you neither you jealousy mislead you.
Memories, Long Sad Journey,
Bitter cold that Saturday morning, late in November 1969, I could see my breath parading before me. No breakfast as I had quietly left the house and started my slow walking trek back to our old home.
Memories flooded my brain with each new turn along that dusty road. Along with questions about why I was now so rebellious. Quicker, walk quicker my heart and soul demanded. Do you not want to touch the bedroom door where you father slept? Slept before that long dark sleep. Slept in such pain and sorrow? Yes, bellowed back my invisible friend.
frosty morning dew
loose pebbles crunched beneath feet
earth, morning sky paled
Halfway there, with my heart racing and anticipation heightened
I could almost imagine a real touch. A real touch, of he now lost, to all eternity!
What wild thoughts come to a teenage soul and mind in its greatest of pains and sorrows. Can death be denied? Can one bring back even for the briefest moment a loved one.. A father, a beloved father!
blackbirds silent view...
light ahead, welcomed beacon
wrapped in winter's sheen
Walking up the short drive and onto the front porch. Only gone away half a year and such change found! Silence, silence engulfed my thoughts. Struck numb as I entered our vacated home. Home were my father had exhaled his last breath. Hand shaking as I reach for that doorknob..
What would I see? His ghost? Would I dare touch his ghost? I walked into cold, lonely room,nothing!
No smile, no hug, no long awaited touch! Only tears, tears by the bucketful.
What had I come to find? Was I crazy to want to see, talk, touch one more time?
one old shoe, lonely
broken window, dusty mounds
bleak abandoned walls
I knew, knew with certainty that this was it. Life gave no overs and no going back to happier times. Terror of that reality, would it ever leave. Would it?
Father is dead and my life is over. I walked out into this dark world ready to fight. Fighting to be left alone, with my never ending sorrow and its sweet cuts. Cuts embraced to keep my rage, to yet again feel something, defeat the icy numbness in a rebellious teenager's aching heart.
Robert J. Lindley, August 5th, 2017
Whenever I make a mistake my mind drifts to my little league coach back when I played the game…I’m sorry to say as the years have passed I have forgotten his name.
You see I loved the game of baseball…loved its glamour…it’s appeal…unfortunately my ability to play the game would never match my zeal.
If I missed a catch that somehow found its way to me…exiled in the right field clover…my coach would smile then patiently say, “Nice try, Jim….I think you need a do over”.
When I’d swing and miss…which unfortunately I did an exorbitant amount…coach gave me so many do overs I’m sure even he lost count.
Who would’ve thought my do overs would have given me a modicum of fame…but that’s precisely what happened as ‘Do Over’ became my name.
“Do Over, you’re up.”
“Do Over, nice try.”
“Do Over, throw me the ball.”
I’d even hear, “Hi Do Over.” In school…as I was walking down the hall.
On our jerseys, as a surprise, coach had our names emblazoned on the back…but when I looked at mine I was crestfallen…as I read Doover all in black.
How could this have happened…Coach said he hadn’t a clue…but, looking back, it seems appropriate my jersey was a do over too.
I put it on reluctantly…unable to think of an escape maneuver…and for the rest of my short-lived baseball career…my new nickname was Doover.
But I came to love that jersey…in it I found both glamour…and appeal…and I think I learned more from that jersey…than my time spent on the field.
I learned to view the world through imperfect but patient eyes…I learned everyone deserves a break…I learned to give people another chance…whenever they make mistakes.
Eventually my mom threw out my old jersey…years of wear and tear taking its toll…but I didn’t mind because by then…Doover was emblazoned on my soul.
Through teaching, marriage, fatherhood, friendships this Doover thread has spun…because we never know, when we fail, if the next do over is the One.
It’s funny how initially I thought Doover would lead to my demise…but in the end…it is Doover that saved me…
So…thanks coach…I may not remember your name…but I’ll never forget the name you gave me.
Worth and numbers rarely go hand in hand.
Producing seeds which will rot and be eaten by the locust
makes barrenness a special kind of blessing.
So pay attention and lend me your mind oh child
b'cos from it comes the brush to which your life is coloured.
Rights enable you claim your hat
responsibilities show you when and how to wear it.
Manifestation of your works beyond the comprehension of your mates
exalts the power of your mind
but constant announcement of your own achievements
makes you the promoter of their doubts to crown you a liar.
Vehicles driven by words are no match
for the ones handled by deeds.
Let not your free will be cajoled
grudges in a hidden corner after the exhibition of charity
blows out your light with an awful breath.
A non doer and an adamant “no” giver
still possess some honour
when compared to a chronic complainer.
Reputation decorates the corner of an uptight man
but it is slavery when one lives on too many principles.
A good life is one moving on the chariots of freedom
and freedom is running a lifestyle
both within and outside without much notice.
Habits are great managers to conscience’s liquor stores
and character intoxication is closest to the point of irreversibility.
A greedy mind is a warehouse run by waste with no room for left overs.
A tight fisted hand is self limiting, reducing its surface area to receive.
A mind without courtesy to its environs,
spinning the world around its own orbit breeds selfishness.
Corruption builds thorns around the heart
and makes the soul a direct relation to insanity.
If false words were grapes, water would be tastier than wine.
Exaggeration adds a tail to the bird
and makes the dog an Amphibian.
But love gives poisons no ground to strive
satisfaction without it is the existence
of a Leopard in an Elephant’s skin.
The gardens of space filled with little rainbows
cannot outshine its colours;
staying as the only ingredient necessary for the preservation of humanity.
When your mind is at peace with itself,
then is the Joy of my inheritance to you completely whole.
Beneath the fathom’s deep, in wreckage’s graveyard
Of the forgotten, here the broken bones of ships lie still,
Covered in a forest of seaweeds greenery.
Corrosion steel hauls ripped wide open, lay against ancient
Wooden beams from vessels voyages, of long ages distant past.
Faded names, render no clues reference, for the maritime detective.
But tragedies lost vessels, did ride upon the frothy foam,
And spray above, sailing the big blues timeless tides.
Nay Poseidon's toll ti’s payed in sailors flesh, melting
Humanities dreams beneath his drowning waves.
Beauties fare, and proud are they, the crippled,
Swallowed whole by the aquatic storms avenging rage.
Mercy's mere-angels weep thus, for the mortal souls lost,
Guiding them towards their spiritual resting place below,
And welcoming them unto their fathers kingdom beneath,
The abysses darkening depths.
Torn asunder is mankind's well hued craft, shattered
Into bits pieces, large to small, a glittering shards
Rain of destruction. crashing into the muddy bottom,
Of the under belly of the sea itself.
Deaf are the silent cry's of men, whom leave only
Bubbles streaming upwards, as their last epitaphs
Tribute for thy existence.
The devil's gardens, swim these black waters,
Turning them crimson red, sharp toothed monsters,
Feasting upon carrion discarded left overs.
Dark figures, phantom creatures, lurking just below,
The briny surface, awaiting for the Poseidon’s next victim,
To join the graveyard of ships.
Faded are their names, forgotten titles, as the paint
Peels, on the once majestic vessels.
Now they remain wreckage’s ruins, abandon to the
Mercy of erosion masterful hand of destruction.
Hear the sounding clanging of bells, whom ring in
Silences of troubled waters abode, it is the cracking
Of doom, beware thy young lad, he whom seeks fortunes
Favor abroad, for only fools test the might of the sea,
Against thy own grit and survive.
Thus thee shed a tear for the fallen, dear lad,
For no other will on the dead’s behalf, in thine
Cemetery of the graveyard of ships. no passages
Return tickets are given.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
SPIRITUAL-HISTORICAL
02-03-2914
That meanest looking old grey cat,
just cross my path, me ~ meaning that,
he'd crowd out all the fine cats play
to gobble up their food ~ then stray!
Then two doors down ~ a new guy came
quite dashing, with a moustache ~ vain!
he'd ride his bike, a sporting scene
the French relays ~ he looked so keen!
Now scraggly tail had disappeared,
the mean grey cat with pointed ears
it seems the new guy liked its breed
and took a fancy ~ then to feed!
But what was this, upon the porch
this "frenched up" cat, its tail canooked
was strutting openly, its path
no more between the garbage' swath!
Scragg's eyes were not as mean to glare
and sometimes waited for his share,
a little love, old scraggly got
it changed his lonesome "nowhere" lot!
Hey friend, did you help scraggly out,
the coiffure giving scraggly clout,
"I trimmed him up ~ the new guy said
I think its gone to "scraggly's" head!
The new guy then became my friend,
his nurturance obvious in spend,
and scraggly lost his urged contend
a happier lot, the two seemed then!
The weeks went by, the porch seemed quite
the tamer cats shared their delight,
And little scragg stayed out of sight
His master keeping watch by night!
And then the message came to fawn
"Will you help Scraggly when I'm gone"
The thought of Scragg out "there" again
just digging for left overs ~ "when?"
I guess I'm headed for the Pen
the new guy stated in consign,
there wasn't much to say just then
I wondered why all through the night!
It seems the Law is rank with might
about a Driver's License plight
and five offenses get you booked
with more years time ~ now you're a crook!
This happy guy, content to share
his meager lot with Scraggly's care
was facing five years fenced in square
to get to work he chanced the dare!
They're after me ~ that's all it is
I had to drive ~ my job you see
will take his time, like some foul fee
and what he loved will wait ~ still free!
Not fair, agree ~ or don't agree!
More serious crimes ~ seem left to be,
the wronged in prisons ~ life's a sea
Of "SCRAGGLY TAILS" ~ without a plea!
My Angel
My sons on a secret mission full of bravery, loneliness, comradery.
His smiling face I miss so dear, now his aloofness is quite so clear.
Rich politicians making victims from the military industrial system, as they send out the youth to fight battles they would never send their kids on.
Cowards, and hypocrites, selling, negotiating international arms deals to allies that only stab our nation in the back, as they secretly meet behind closed doors to attack.
War, organized religion, money, greed, power, commodities are the fall of man.
One country flexing their arm muscles while wearing a wife beater shirt; stating that their nuclear weapons are more powerful than the others.
A machismo of sorts, taking over the media with no conscious for the real men and women that die and sacrifice for others.
Humans are so combative, so ruthless, so ugly, such cowards.
The peace loving hippies love to justify their hatred for war.
A Justification for a theatrical sort that embraces love through eccentric high brows and their self education appointed by a family lineage of war or peace, of power, or slavery, of hope or despair.
I miss his gregarious smile, his witty little jokes, as I await to hear from him; from an island that was once war torn.
Killed off by the small pox disease, an island that survived several violent take overs. Once governed by Spain, China, and now America.
A super typhoon or two that scared off the locals, and tourists.
Where our brave sailors await their destination to an unknown underwater siege, as they place their lives in the hands of their military seniors.
Freedom is not free, peace is not peaceful, war is raw, the scared hearts that defend my words in this story, fend off cyber criminals that hold our future, and our presence for ransom.
A thorn of crowns that weep for the brave ones, a mother cub , waiting
patiently for her eldest to return.
In a perplexing state of frenzy, a worried mind, an accelerated heart beat, I see his gregarious smile once again, and I know my angel will return.