Long Paid Poems
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In 2018 there were four who exited life's door never to return. There was an additional one whom I feared might also depart, but he recovered from his sickness and now continues his mission. My acquaintance with each of them was for many years a God-send. Each of them entered this world and walked upon the stage of life.
We enter this world one by one and at once our stories begin to unfold and later to be told. There's much to be told between the dashes, but here I speak of exits only and how they contrast. In years past I paid meager attention to little things that in the grand scheme of life are not small. I see and observe more now, feel more deeply what surrounds me, especially when they take their exits. I apologize if it appears small to you, but to me it is huge.
It's the exits of four men in 2018 of which I speak. Men of my acquaintance and friendship who completed their mission. It is not their demise that arrests me, but I am somewhat captured by their contrasting exits. I was privileged to sit and talk with one and pray with him in his dying days. We spoke of some pleasantries we shared together, and I was pleased with being allowed to say goodbye. With another who did not linger, I rushed to his bedside some three days before his demise. He observed me with a stare, unable to respond as I stroked his hands and head. My third friend was a public figure and received a public celebration before his final exit. At the end of the service, I kissed the top of his head saying, "Goodbye, I love you."
The sun, having received its commission, rises in the east and proceeds with its daily mission of providing light and energy. It then sets in the west often with the most awesome glow, beautifying the horizon. But sometimes, the sun exits or sets contrastingly with a rainbow or even cloud cover, like the exit of my fourth and final friend whose passing was sudden and more arresting than the others. Less than 60, much younger than the others, he departed without a word. However, several days before his departure, I was privileged to spend a few telling moments with him. Contrasting exits. Yours and mine; Only God knows how it will end. But because of Christ, it can be good.
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Grumpy, griping all the time,
Out of work without a dime.
Seen around the town a lot.
They call him Sir Frowns A Lot.
Used to work for the city,
Paid off, laid off, what a pity.
Caused his wife to have a stroke,
Lost his house when he went broke.
Stands in line for unemployment,
Living life without enjoyment.
Sleeping in a cardboard box,
Worn out shoes and dirty sox.
Food banks help to feed his hunger,
Dreams of days when he was younger.
But now he never ever smiles,
Just walks the streets for miles and miles.
Cursing life and shouting loud,
Mumbles, rumbles at the crowd.
They won't look him in the eye,
They just laugh and pass him by.
Until the day he found a gun,
He had enough and just for fun;
Devised a plan to help the needy,
By taking all from those so greedy.
Now robs the rich to feed the poor,
He'll soon be knocking at their door.
Just like the Knights of Camelot,
No longer called Sir Frowns A Lot.
Since the dawn of the rise of Man,
Since the fall of every empire.
With each conquest from sea to sea,
Man has thrived on wicked desire.
Each treaty made with native tribes,
Was inspired by selfish guile.
Each promise made to share the land,
Was hidden beneath a false smile.
Through the Carpetbagger's tactics,
The people paid a heavy toll.
They leveraged everything they owned,
And robbed them of their heart and soul.
Each dirty deed and deadly deal,
Was bred upon Man's vanity.
The blood spilled throughout the years,
Always shed by cruel insanity.
As the Moon dims behind the clouds,
And the Sun shines another day.
Love, I know, will come and go,
But Evil, I know, is here to stay.
I am so looking forward to my week off work.
I have no travel plans, getting paid is the perk.
Paid to stay home and sleep in if I might.
Not to be ruled by dawn's early light.
I can put pen to paper and indulge my passion.
Forming my poetry in many a fashion.
Barefoot I'll be for most of the week.
Clad in my jeans, relaxation I'll seek.
Reading, crocheting and just staying in.
This much relaxing is probably a sin.
I'll stock up on groceries the very first day.
I just hate to shop so I'll get it out of the way.
If this warm weather holds there'll be time in the sun.
Visiting the parks, yes, that will be fun.
Coffee with friends, a walk on the beach,
Chatting on the phone with those out of reach.
It's only one week and I know it'll fly by.
I'll need to work on some crafts, for Christmas is nigh.
Once back to work there will be no relaxation.
Not until spring when I get another vacation.
for Carol's "Week to Do As I Please" contest
Not a professional contest-enterer, because I am not paid, but whee…
I have entered a bunch of contests, -actually six thousand and three.
This is a numbers game, I delight in the variety of ideas they give me.
A numbers game a numbers game, winning is a numbers game, you see!
My goal is not the gold, silver or the bronze medallion, my friend.
I let someone else develop my ideas, so my imagination I can spend…
On an idea I did not have to develop myself; let them never end!
A numbers game a numbers game, winning is a numbers game to bend!
I am not saying I do not enjoy the sparkly prizes, because of course I do.
But the journey, the challenge, the fun-ness is why I do what I daringly do.
I love seeing if I can come up with something enlisted by not me, but you.
A numbers game a numbers game, winning is a numbers game, boo-hoo!
I have told a host, “If this is too many contests, I will certainly bow out.”
But the hosts are usually begging for more entries, so they shout,
“Please send an entry so I can judge!” A plea I recognize no doubt.
A numbers game a numbers game, winning is a numbers game, you lout!
Winning a contest is a numbers game, I have noted so far, this rule…..
It is twenty to thirty tries between golds; I am not silly or a fool.
So I keep penning down whatever, entering contests, which to me is cool.
A numbers game a numbers game, winning is a numbers game, not cruel.
Feel the falling nightshade,
The decent of inferno's raid.
Coins in a dead mans eyes,
he needs to be paid...
Let lose the minions of Hel.
Locked in this deep dark well
Valhalla is in rage
Taste this malignant sage
In this twisted age
Like black notes of a
Symphony; infernal.
Eternal the lone wail of empty
Souls in dire masquerade
A waltz profane: the life hollow as
This forsaken campaign
Insane in creations final cascade.
Feel the falling nightshade
End of what is known
Beginning of what is dreamed
Deep dark and serene
We ponder our meaning in this scheme
We watch our foot falls in nightshade.
Valhalla in rage
The flash of eye
In a blurred memory
As everything of this is in white
In this darkest night.
The presents of wandering thought...
An echo of soul in this dire masquerade.
We all walk in kingdoms lost footfalls
Of this blackened land
Care not; ruined by what was man.
Nightshade and Mandrake
The sour taste of ours ages impure sage.
Only heavens knows heavens holy rage.
Deep in this gospel,
Lives as drops of rain, each complex, lost
In a vast well and the ferryman is paid.
Glint of light in the unassuming night
The presents of fear
Are you losing sleep my dear?
What do you hear; just falling nightshade
And HE’s waiting to be paid.
What mortal tear?
Traces this grand and ageless face.
What min and turn's of flesh?
Can inspire divinities of old
To lay waste to dreamscapes of
A mere weak soul.
Gracing the surface of dawn ‘
Dawn of light chases away...
The shadows of the past.
What mortal fear?
Could frame thy symmetry…
Flies in a lives encompassing race.
Tools of hand
Rules of ?esh
Deities taste of forbidden
dream's...lace.
Lands of mere walking apes
That claim the waste in a time of rape
That drink the wine
The immaculate Grapes of rancor
What mortal eye....?
In this age... '
Can see the island's wrapped in
An arcane god's apathy...
A province of unknown Seas's
What face is this to see?
Divinities own... mortal tear
frames thy fearful symmetry!
No Birthday Acknowledgement...
From thee... eldest daughter,
who need not brood,
nor does padre whoosh
to stir loess hood family feud
(hence an attempt merely
to convey melancholic mood).
Profound contrast extant between
your high achieving
life a wonderful hit parade
on the go compared tummy mellow
existence, yes rather staid,
now devoid of any parental
responsibility since years back, ye bade
farewell to yours truly
(perhaps forever), atop a jade
did apex inverse to my nadir paid
with ignoble deeds soul limb lee,
dissimilar to thee,
a young vibrant woman, unafraid
to take life by the (figurative) horns,
owning free choice (linkedin, nsync,
prevalent...) with autonomy swayed
independent lass not succor tubby paid
tummy, nor does this "sir" ask (delayed
by one day) for thee to "FAKE" express
sing nonexistent affection,
this decision...opting to evade
papa, who must accept such choice,
asper his first born, fortunately UNLIKE me
she earned top notch grade
nonetheless, this dada before he gets laid
to rest (actually most likely cremated),
whose ashes tubby scattered across favorite sites,
yourself and Shana Punim played,
which wistful nostalgia plucks heartstrings
rubbing raw thy psyche, who cannot trade
past concupiscent transgressions (emotionally
turbulent waters I did wade),
and no intent to telephone and invade,
sans audiologically your ear space,
this paternal, essential, and critical need
my psyche weighed, lamented, and encumbered
grief, nonetheless proud,
thee "star student" made
herself whip smart
by dogged academic pursuit
in tandem with ardent biological
bone a fide exemplary filleted
(within chromosomal dom) mignon,
similar, when Semitic forebears
risked frolicking under shade
of night - countless elapsed generations aid
ding random genetic dice throw begetting
Eden Liat, whose irrepressible
atavistic feral guaranteeing immortality obeyed
viz, call of the wild indomitable
animalistic hankering impossible to evade,
these genealogical ancestors actions unknowingly,
unstintingly, and unwittingly
helped forge, craft, and affect every blade
of grass, and yoked, (a chicken and egg thing)
hereditary survival of fittest
present day unchoreographed masquerade.
A poet must have
a wound somewhere,
a little pocket
in which a hurt is kept.
Emily had her fears,
Eliot had his guilt, for Dante
it was his love for Beatrice
and Sylvia had Ted.
It's all a part of the trade,
the price paid
to get through the door
whether it's worn
as a badge or kept hidden
just beneath the skin.
Some have a minor nick,
a little scratch,
whilst others have a gash.
It's not something a pill
or a surgeon or someone
practiced in the dark arts
of the head can fix.
Its terminal, a lifelong sentence.
Not to sound overly dramatic
or to overstate, much less
make light of the degrees
of pain and grief
that sometimes
inks the page,
each little poem
is the price you pay
for an hour or two of relief.
Elasticity of time allowed him this
One last visit to the Eastern Gate:
One too many wormholes navigated
Made it one hundred years too late.
The City had been sealed
And peace reigned over all
As the holograph of its history
Played against the City wall.
A half glanced form
A shadowed face
As the image moved
To another place
The people dispersed
To Cities then newly grown
But the details of dispersion
Not recorded or known.
In his eyes he felt
The stinging of tears,
The paradox of warp travel,
The slowing of elapsed years,
Made him so much younger
Than his date of birth
A kind of compensation
For living divorced from Earth.
She was gone for ever
Now probably just bones
And, as in most of his life
He felt so emotionally alone.
The Eastern Gate behind him,
Homage having been made,
Regret reviewed and filed,
And last respects paid.
The holographed history
For him a type of hell,
His starship command waited
So he said his last farewell,
For your lunchbox or party, to keep hale and hearty
when it came to consumption of bread,
'six slices a day is the well balanced way'
was what the TV adverts had said.
Then the boffins agreed that the brown wholemeal seed
was healthier for us all but
they have now changed their minds and with research they find
that white slices are good for the gut.
Twenty units of beer we could drink without fear
we were told by the powers that be
but Chief medical advisor who's paid to be wiser
says fourteen is better for me.
Since Adam was weeding the garden of Eden
by wheat and by grape we've survived
ignore the statistics, have bread ,beer and biscuits
and just enjoy being alive.