Long Patrician Poems
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Charles Bukowski Road Not Chosen
While reading Charles Bukowski poetry
On the metro ride home
Listening to Buddha bar music
On my oh too hip IPod
I begin to see myself as I was
Over 30 years ago when I was merely a bit player
A minor character in a Charles Bukowski poem
A wild young underemployed intellectual
Hanging out in dismal bars and dives all over Asia and California
Hanging with disreputable women and drunks and drinkers
And characters out of his kinds of haunts
A mad poet bard of the underground
A drunken poet in a drunken bum show
That nightly played in his head
Then one day I met the women of my dreams
And went down a different path
A long slow path to respectability
And now 30 years later
I am no longer a wild man
I am still a poet at heart
But I am now also a bureaucrat
In a button down suite
Doing the people's business
Working for the Government
I've become the Man
Sometimes I wonder
Would I have been better off
Going down that another path
Would I have ended up
Somewhere else
Doing something else
Would I have been as happy
Would I have been as successful?
There is no answer that satisfies
The longing in my heart
For that wild thing
That still lurks beneath
It's civilized cover
And I know that I am still
A mad poet at heart
Railing against the injustice of the world
As I work day by day in the belly of the great beast of State
I recall the ancient Chinese saying,
"Confucian during the day while Taoist rebel at night"
Playing out in my head and nightly dreams
In the true American Upper class patrician tradition
I close the book and look out the window
Get off the train, and walk slowly home
And realize I had no choice
But to take the path that I’ve trodden on
And so I put aside my misgivings
And say goodbye to my "Bukowskian"desires
For another night of domestic contentment
Was it worth it all to take the conventional path
And not take the bohemian road to hell and back
I look at my wife and realize
I had no choice, had no choice
But to follow her to the ends of the earth
And beyond by her side as we walked our path
Of shared destiny
Goodbye Charles Bukowski wherever you are
May I meet you in a bar in the next life
And figure out where we should have gone
Until then the drinks are on me.
Imagination
and timeless Muse memory
wears Her integral capacity
to naturally craft a re-ligious spirit
out of any transcendent
transparent
transregenerational relationship,
Within any AnthropoCentric
NonViolent Communioning Network.
And, a positively correlating observation,
proposition,
perhaps both decent and indecent,
sacred and secular,
sensory and sexual,
We can,
and have,
and will continue to
design gods and goddesses
out of any significant
deep and widely polycultural communing
EarthTribe Ancestor,
both enlightening
from above
and without,
and empowering
from below
and within;
Monotheistically transcendent,
and/or panentheistically communing,
imminent co-empathic trans-immanence.
Integrity's Great ReTurning potential
transubstantiating binomial potency,
Omnipotence individualized
in pride
courage
curiosity
commitment
to be freely and fruitfully known
as an Earth Worshipper
of Her omniscient natural
noetic Truths
and omnipresent spiritual
poetic Beauty.
But, I would be ticked in Hell
if anyone ever thought of,
and felt from, me
an individualistic Nation Patriot,
Patrician,
same ol' patristic sad song
and delusional dance
A WELLNESS CAPITALIZED EmpireBuilding Worshipper
of colonizing
competitive
Win/Lose ZeroSum monotheistic
monoculturalism,
Greatly divisive
degeneratively intending
to not creolize within sacred Earth communion,
but to take over secularized resources
for ecopolitical consumption
unto transcendently supreme
StraightWhitePatriarchal AnthrObesity.
An ecologically resilient
and theologically resonant
Patriotic SpiritNature,
like EcoFeminist ReLigioning Integrity,
is potentially healthiest
wealthiest
and wisest
When direct prayers for health,
and wealth petitions to MotherEarth
are for nothing less
than our most regenerative
polyculturing
enlightening and empowering
Truth and Beauty
Heaven and Earth
Transcendent Spirit and incarnate Nature
CoPassionate BiCameral Communion.
Martin,
Not the German patrician, his vision was a stair
But our own peaceful prince
Well he invoked you
And not by calling Samuel back from the dead
He invoked you as seeker
He invoked as our searcher
For history, he said, is built on truth
No, not the lineal story
Of one race's glory on my marginality
Our history is always a collective place
A yard of memory
Where we meet at evening to tell
The honey and milk
Of our emasculated hell.
There is no dying here
How can we
What will the predator parasite live on then
So we are made
Zombies of an eternal pain
And you
Our seeker for the antidote
Between Fiske and Berlin
Here we come again
First son to be honored there
Among the ivy league
The doctor to proclaim
Himself one tenth of all of us
With the same double consciousness
Was it not for Fanon
I almost converged to the monstrosity
But then looking back
Over the Pan-African Secretariat
I knew we will never be divided again
So easily
Just rivers of different colors
Destined to end our struggle
Down awful topography of mountains
Down the callous memory of history
Between the churning white teeth of the sea
From my bridge
I watched that wave rise and fall
A thousand times
Pushing us against gravity.
Garvey would agree with me then
He would shake his head
When you were fled to Ghana
When the merging was no longer tenable
For a man lie to himself only for so long
While he searches for truth
I heard the abeng blow to call you home
William ... was not found in their register
William ... he was a Norse conqueror
Edward ... and all of them spineless kings
Burghardt ... and you ask me why
Why should not a thing like this make Africa invisible?
Du Bois ... so you mapped all the colonizers in your name
No, not you,
Our parents always conscious of their power
Yet I knew every cocoon
Is just another state of cobweb
And you would broke free
And many evenings I see you
Just flying on a page of empty sky.
One of a kind there'll never be another you
what you hold in your heart to them have held true
I've looked upon the core of what you store within
for me you exist as unique among all men
The song that you sing it's truths held so high
oppression of those different wherein injustice lie
to the robing of nature her diversity and vest
in a poem of tone inequities do you suggest
The external show some may just see as art
but what you paint and sing and write demonstrates your heart
I told you early on I judge not by outward show
but what is seated inside that I wish to know
All that you paint on canvas and in song
demonstrates reality and courses right and wrong
what you depict sets forth description of your mind
a spectrum of vision coloring inferior to whats fine
I even see the sweet things you so carefully thought hid
been learning to read have I ever since I were a kid
When you looked across that room what did you think you saw
for the night before I saw your minds cognition all
A woman loves a man for who he is inside
the character of his self that he can never hide
for what he thinks and does demonstrates his care
his ability to display and with it others share
Do never judge me like the world which in you live
For the greatest teacher does truthful insight give
what is truly frightening is that I scare myself
that vision is so clear unlike minds so full of stealth
One who is wise will choose a man for his heart
that is his essence where communion can start
perception is his own gift where he chooses to live
to share it with another its benefaction give
COPYRIGHT © 2010 C Michael Miller
Once in a memory
The boy played by the small stream running near the hospital
where his mother was a patient and time hung heavy this
afternoon in late September.
The boy picked five elongated leaves from a bush on each one
he put a pebble wanted to see if any leaf/boat survived
the voyage to where the stream went underground.
One leaf made it and should come out where the seaport is.
Once the stream had run free and rapidly crossed the green
field where elderly horses grazed, after a life of pulling
heavy carts, the lady who owned the land let the horses
be free; she had spent her youth looking after her father
who had been a Danish general, keeping his boots shining?
Habits are difficult to erase sometimes, a horse was seen
trotting in the cobbled streets lost in the past.
The stream ran to the strand where men pulled the boats
up for repair and selling fresh fish, crabs and shrimps.
As for the horses, when they were so old their teeth, gone could
not eat, the last walk was the knacker’s yard; salami and glue.
The field is now a town square where farmers sell their products
and their wives sell thick woolen long jones.
There is a statue of a famous writer he looked patrician, but mostly
he suffers the indignity of seagull droppings.
The lady who protected horses was regarded as eccentric,
but she lives on in songs and tales.
The boy saw in a café two ladies he sensed he knew; little did
he knows they were, as time rolled on- one at the time, wives.
When the boy came home, his mother was out of hospital,
boiling potatoes and frying sliced turnips.
This is a message to children who lack sincerity in school. Hard work always gives easy success. Whatever hardwork we do during our school days, decides our future for entire life. Its not only about studies but the sincerity which is developed along with it.
This is a story of two brothers.
Who lived together forever.
Both enjoyed the dignity of a patrician.
Well bred with values and tradition.
Sharp contrast of a Strategician and a tactician.
JUXTAPOSITION OF HARDWORK DURING SCHOOL DAYS
Given his druthers, Veerang would skip studies,
Would escape to play snooker and pool with buddies.
A boaster, prodigal spender and his pathological lies.
Hard work during childhood is just about studies, he didn’t realize.
Krishnang, sincere and studious, positive and jovial.
Help to mom, a great company to sisters, extremely capable.
Topper in school, loved by all, he was just so amiable.
Yes, both grew together.
One believed in hard work, another preferred leisure.
JUXTAPOSITION OF HARDWORK DURING ADULT HOOD
With freedom comes responsibility.
It’s not only about us but our family’s and parent’s dignity.
Hard work during childhood decides our ability.
Yes, our capabilities and the possibilities
In a way our acceptability and applicability.
Krishnang, goes for holidaying across nations.
Veerang is still striving to boil the ocean
What an irony, hardwork now is a compulsion.
JUXTAPOSITION POETRY CONTEST
Sponsored by: Silent One
Date: 21st Nov; 2020
2200 E High Street
Pottstown, PA 19464
Upon making a purchase,
yours truly murmurs bonjour
to the man/woman clerk
manning cash register,
(perhaps another day)
maybe soon as tomorrow
January twenty four -
two thousand and twenty,
I will explore
Moonlight madness sale
fifty percent off all merchandise
across the expansive floor
after getting weary and footsore
snagging garments for near future
return home to stock wardrobe (mine)
satisfied with basement bargains galore,
aye attest bang for buck heretofore
wearables specially bought with difficulty,
née impossible mission finding clothing
to fit this hunchback named Igor.
Rather than pay top dollar i.e.
as prestigious patrician wag
hashtagged with extremely
high price tag
(think chic boutiques)
uninviting to token
garden variety scalawag
(i.e. namely yours truly),
who feels more at home
attiring himself courtesy ragtag
garments, particularly scant legal tender
jangling within me threadbare moneybag
plus deformity drawing
less stares when I lollygag
(matter of fact many "Zerns people")
populate said very affordable - egad
even amiable animals
amble along to stash their feedbag.
Impact on very limited budget
affords me more bang for buck
upon locating rare find,
I feel analogous to lucky duck
quacking and fluffing tail feathers
scouting around for usable goods
another shopper did finish
with thence did huck.
I've heard it said that if all the people
who ever lived and died, were buried together,
it would fill the size of Spain.
No gazpacho, no El Greco
No Flamenco and no Bolero
Just row upon row, with nowhere to go
on a Saturday night
Dead all over, nothing to do
Of course Guernica might fit in
as would certainly, the Inquisition
overseen by some church patrician
staking out his historical place
in God's eyes, of liturgical grace
But who would be then accepting
a place of Conquistadors amors
if all the American continents
couldn't be relied on to be invaded?
There's still the rest of Europe.
But stones and dates of birth and death
as far to horizon as can be seen
would be enough to put anybody off
Pablo Casals and his pals would
flee for less shaded climes
and maybe start again, in Portuguese
Pamplona's bulls unknown to run
would only be cast in marbled stone
above the heads of political deads,
world-famous and anonymous unknowns
So perhaps it's best to strew the gone
over on and around the world beyond
continental lands to north and south
to spread the wealth by word and mouth
We all in time will, without exception
join the breathless dance of sleep
Leave the Iberian Peninsula to
Basques, the Castilians and Catalans
The lifeless can lie in hinterlands
peering up from past the Pyrenees
© Goode Guy 2013-07-27
'Twas April Fourteenth, Seventy-Eight.
Lest any should repudiate
what on this very special date
the two of them were doin',
Let's for a moment contemplate
their entry to the grand estate,
the legal right to procreate
through mutual "I Do"-in'.
Our hindsight intuition
says that he was probably wishin'
he was fishin', with precision
swishin' flies to waiting bass.
For he had but one ambition
and considered his commission
was to fishin' competition,
pulling lunkers from the grass.
But he set aside this mission
for submission to tradition,
and Patrician erudition
soon replaced his noble cause.
Now a maid with hair of titian
dishin' clams and oysters squishin'
and musician's compositions
may engender his applause.
The Mrs. was the perfect mate
to tolerate and moderate
that diehard fishing reprobate,
and of her own volition,
Found better ways to celebrate
and venerate their special date;
They'd renovate and recreate
the joys of goin' fishin'.
For many years ago this day
they both agreed to go their way
through life together come what may,
the good times or perdition.
And though it's now an old cliché,
the best times all the bad outweigh,
But those which in their hearts will stay
were spent when they went fishin'.
Just another Warrenpiece
Dino walks on the lino with a cat for a hat
A collar for colour and leash for pastiche
With a tale in his tail as he jiggles and wiggles
The flag half white with delight and bright as the light
Green shadows for meadows and jolly as jelly
The grand creature roars extra on demand as a feature
‘I am the Lord in the fort and mojo of play dough
Patrician magician and seal your appeal
Applause from my paws will guard in the land of the bard’
Dino looks like a rhino or bear in despair
A clown with a crown or ovoid on steroids
Mussel with tussles or dragon that fell of the waggon
‘When I’m older and bolder my fire won’t tire
Blow fumes in my plumes and breathe off at ease
Enlarge small into tall protect Daddy from baddies’
‘The rhyme is past bedtime one last lullaby sweetie pie
Happy dreams no monster screams rest snug little slug’
‘Love you Daddy Paddy let’s have dinosaur scales for breakfast in Wales’
16th June 2019
(The Welsh Flag is a red dragon on a half green and half white background)