Long Poignant Poems
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To tell the truth,
I was no fan of opera, in my youth...
When did it come...? That turning point....?
I do not know, ........
perhaps I grew, to understand...
a wrenching tale his stories told
can grab the heart... ...grip fast ...and hold!
Puccini came, from out of nowhere
It finally made more sense to me...in spite of those who scoff, and shake their heads
Alive once more....this man long dead
has stirred my soul, ........and I was lead, into the clouds, where heaven lives!
I became a fan, ...and realized, such music lives within the blood
It rushes in, and floods my veins, just as it did to those so long ago
An aria... then a divine duet....Rodolpho and his sweet coquette
connects me to a vine entwined,
with those who listenend, long before my time.
Sitting in the dark tonight, I pause to think
who would have dreamed
how tears in the eyes, have formed a thousand rivers?
Long through the ages, still coiling with emotion
devotional artists, sing of such rapture
into the rafter's to countless reception...
A lover's kiss, the singing with prose
Skins turning cold....from the chill beauty holds
Tears to unfold, hypnotic poses
A bliss such as this
has left generations.... breathless
As the curtain is closed........ I must compose myself
Old music that echoes, as it has for centuries
bouncing off these walls....as I'm torn into two....
mingling with my heart, the old with the new
The rafter's of time, have absorbed one more time
Two tragic lovers, declaring in song
Throngs have been sung to.....hearts have been wrung
I listen, I watch, as lovers fade from the light
in poignant beauty, drifting away...
...........dying in the distance, ........
as will Mimi,
leaving her love behind....alone with a shattered heart
as death tears them apart
leaving my eyes brimming over
with tears in the dark
_________________________________
"Music By Puccini"
These are the times you wish
you could pack it all up and be a kid again:
Take me away from the Now
and into the Then
(that's where I wish to descend)
Back when it was all so crystal clear-
just one emotion to steer the gears,
whether wafflewonder days
or weepywillow nights
(no nuance, no twilight)
Just perfect joys and poignant fears.
Happiness like butterflies-in-sunshine,
hopscotch-in-the-rain;
sadness a gray cloud to shut out the world
(the dust getting blown away, like autumn leaves,
from Monopoly)
The world was something to See.
Yourself someone to Be.
From the moment the eye closed
to the instant it opened...
... resurrection.
The monsters were beneath the bed, or in the closet--
(never once hiding in our reflection)
No possessions to speak of or concern us,
but we had Gold in our laugh,
a Sharpness to our gaze,
and a Sureness to our step,
from one emotion to the next
with no discernible causation.
"I am HERE!" shouted the feeling
without hesitation
(this, of course, the norm
before they gathered in committees
to make a sensible decision)
We were Fireflies--
sometimes on,
sometimes off ... but we always BURNED.
Didn't care a lick about the darkness
that grew weary of our light;
because we said what we meant
and meant what we said
(didn't hide from the Truth--
we were already free
to be Me,
to be You)
But the years soon passed as they so often do.
The adrenaline rush to adulthood finally came,
I can see it peak over the horizon
(...but I'm not Roller-coaster Ready...)
Yet here I descend into that maelstrom
where the colors twist and blur with every turn, jolting us here, jolting us
there
into that rickety reality,
reminding us our mortality
(Death just sitting there smiling that ancient fear)
We are all of us, strapped to the cart,
with nothing but our beating hearts.
And no one knows where it's going, but we're here.
Arms raised high until we die
(at least that's what my intuition is showing)
--
I now wave to the school bus
filled with adults-in-waiting
wishing I didn't know what I know
(someday soon,
perchance tomorrow, perchance the next,
that sunflower certainty
is sure to go)
"You're all too young
to not take in the sun.
Don't shed a tear,
enjoy it while it's here."
Beneath the surface of the perceptive mortal senses
the mind nestles the buds of dreams it desires to see bloom.
Allured by avid aspirations into insipid ignorance,
it suffers wandering in the wilderness of discontent.
Under the convoluted layers of the mangled mind
languishes the servile soul at the impervious inner depth,
until enlightenment dawns with the light of the eternal truth,
building with dedicated spirit the holy linkage with the absolute.
Travelling on the enlightened pathway of devout life,
an inward journey to the sacred sanctum of spirituality,
takes the soul to the ultimate destination of liberation,
where realization perceives the meaning of emotions.
The swirling currents of the vagrant mind
find the current course of intuitive introspection
through the layers of consciousness,
dissipate in the shade beneath the divine lamp
that illumines the swathe of the dark acuity.
The soul then shines in the heavenly glow,
reflecting the patina of the perception lotus,
as the self-searching comprehensive odyssey ends
at the sanctified altar of supreme mindfulness.
Distanced from the thought-swamped past
the merger configures awareness in the realm of now.
In the onyx night, the drizzle of argentine stardust,
symbolizing the sequins of sensual epithet
of the vibrant existential melodic essence,
adorns the pearl-laced waves of the rolling psychic sea,
that spreads seamlessly to the baroque emotive shore
though the bay of bliss of the musical mind,
echoing the tune of the soulful symphony.
The rain-washed sparkling sky of the new day,
enwrapped in the chromatic trellis of the rising sun,
spreads the spectrum of corporeal perception,
fabricated by the fascinating sense of the vibrato of life,
weaved as the tapestry of transient feelings
with the lattice of self-drawn imagery of kaleidoscopic now.
The congenial current of contemporary time,
defused in the miasma of the marooned mind,
turns the indented poignant impulses
into lyrical crescendo of consciousness concerto.
On its sonorous serenading wings,
the awakened awareness flies in the sky of sensual sonata
to the harmonic realm of euphoria,
realizes the nicety of the unequivocal notion
that life is a song to be sung in now continuum.
Eldest daughter – I Praise
Twenty two years ago
December twenty second,
two thousand eighteen
"star student" born
this papa (and most
likely thee birth mother)
initially felt ecstatic,
dramatic (yes frenetic),
and careworn
as freshly minted parents,
but gifted with a daughter,
whose existence far
more precious
than any Earthborn
rare widgets, gewgaws,
gems, et cetera, despite
evoking unsolicited,
unpleasant, and
unmanageable forlorn
communication "dirt poor"
living (at least ten years
of wretchedness at 1148
Greentree Lane) unable
to toot your horn,
cuz unbearable, undesirable,
unforgettable, et cetera,
and manifold challenged ,
when beloved Shana
Punim evinced inborn
developmental delay,
(which severe electric
koolaid acid test
patience of this father),
much more difficult
than playing krummhorn,
now after tendering the trials
and tribulations, an
amalgamation of
poignant affects,
whereat your
permanent presence...
(must never NOT precede mine),
cuz..., I would definitely mourn,
your absence, thus felt the timely
opportunity to dash off
a birthday poem to you
in tandem with sharing,
(while comfortably numb
and figuratively licking war
torn psychological wombs) - torn
and ripped, queued,
peppered natty psyche
pockmarked with scorn
from self, (and those lives,
this dada immediately
impacted) particularly
your person roar'n
with cumulative anger toward
this insightful fellow,
(who claims to know
what thee feel toward me),
especially when ****
hours of valuable
time, now caught
(say, eh...approximately, fraught
upon the half life of rare Earth
element Eden), not
just strictly naught
heard thru the grapevine,
but forcing Math (hew)
analysis, via meditation, poetry
writing therapy, et cetera.
Hence...I apologize,
asper unasked for pain wrought
thee, sans being unemployed,
demeaning "mother Abby,"
bumbling, horrid house
keeper (Hagrid himself,
would turn down invitation),
plus Facebook fiasco,
imbroglio, and locomotive -
complicit in behavior
comparable to pedophile,
yet please let me conclude
by admitting total lack
of wherewithal.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR DAUGHTER!
One morning Ernie and I awoke to a noisy train yard,
It was that place many hitchers feared known as Chicago.
Since Ernie had traveled there before he warned me,
In that little voice he said don't open the door.
Praise our Creator my English lessons had actually taken,
He had spoken to me and I mean in no uncertain words.
I'd heard of animals whispering to humans in the past,
Yet this little hobo mouse had talked loud and clear.
We sat that day huddled together behind his wood crate,
Then in the afternoon someone shoved open that steel door.
He climbed inside and began tapping hard on the wood crates,
Feeling like forever he climbed back out and shut the door.
I whispered to Ernie and asked who was that invader?
He told me it was a dangerous bull not to confront.
Confused I asked him what he meant by that comment,
He said it was a mean human called a train policeman.
That day I almost learned a lesson in home invasion,
Ernie said he would have killed us both if he'd spotted us.
I said not even an animal would be so ruthless as that,
Ernie said animals only attack when cornered or starving.
The next morning our almost coffin pulled from that yard,
Our temporary home on wheels now had became our savior.
Such is the irony of what it is to be a mortal creature,
Both of us embracing in celebration of our lives saved.
We traveled the rest of that day never closer than before,
Each and every mile of our U.S.A. journey appreciated.
So very grateful for this wonderful land given to us,
Given by so many who gave their lives so we may live free.
I'll never forget the day we rolled into Washington D.C.,
Ernie said it was so poignant it was my first time there.
How ironic that a mere mouse had been there before me,
I told him that a monument should be built there for him.
He blinked up at me with that stare that always captured me,
Robert my human friend why would you say such a thing?
I said because you are that smallest giant friend,
One that has helped me so truly to love my country.
In the beginning I had tried to teach you to understand,
And now Ernie you have opened my mind to my being's center.
If only most humans could be touched by your friendship,
Maybe enough might bow to the reality of changing our world.
(to be continued)
Copyright © 2014 Robert William Gruhn A.R.R.
A man like you considered I a myth...
They just do not exist in nature.
There must along side something odd herewith.
Dark and poignant. I meet you, stranger.
You read, you write, you're just great with people,
You are decent, honest and content.
While you are caressing my bare nipple
You like my jokes, laugh and pay the rent.
You are genuine, creative, daring,
You try new things out and you like kids.
I met you weeks ago and now I'm scared
How in the world would I get a grip
On all these feelings, such strong affection?
You have simply set the bar too high...
But you gave me purpose and direction.
I grew a tumor, thank God, benign.
You play guitar and you compose music.
Yet you are successful in a biz
Of suits, agreements, you like my pubic
Hair. You can pleasure me, you're a whiz!
You're into arts and theater, ballet.
Balzac and Rodin - those you admire.
You are set to win while I fell astray.
You will sing and sculpt when you retire.
You are tender, fit, cute and you do sports.
How do these get along together?
You are attentive, kind, you rule in court,
Want to dress me in suit of leather.
You sing, you're politically correct,
Feelings take in consideration.
Oh how losing you one cannot regret?
You brought me hope and liberation.
Oh yes and you negotiate too well.
This art you've mastered long ago.
You are insightful, you are bright, you're swell!
You are simple and you drink Bordeaux.
You prefer treating women like a queen.
That still exists? I thought it doesn't.
You feel real deep but you are made of steel.
I slumped in love all of a sudden.
I surely saw a lot of men before...
I played with them, I tried to tame one
With no success, was left completely sore,
Longed to dissipate. My song was sung.
I closed my eyes, ran from all this hassle.
Negotiating with scum. Little use.
Was occupied with survival, wrestle.
It's when I met you I was set loose.
None of the men I have ever been with
Could touch the bar set by my dad.
Among the boyfriend myriad you're fifth
You topped my dearest dad. I'm glad.
My heart is rocking. Can't believe it! Wow!
Your daughters have a hard time choosing...
I have to learn again to live the now.
They? They'd better get used to losing...
When the smoky quartz sun
slumbers into a cold winter,
we see the aftermath of a garnet twilight,
it is then, we find rose stars
that refuse to abandon us in shivering solitude,
and beneath snake-skinned skylines of nadir,
we learn to appreciate
the truest colors of nature……
Hope is but a hollow rope,
hanging loose on empty lies~
splattered across eclipsed skies,
and this aching heart sighs,
singing to the fallen flowers,
fading into depths of
black-magic silence,
for peace is a distant memory,
frozen within pixelated Polaroids
of poignant pain.
I remember the night
I was unplugged and strangled
in toxic tremors,
slipping into fatigued negligence,
too tired of fighting a
battle with no prudence,
but no one hears the unspoken,
amidst the tears that
croon in tragic tunes.
Now my mind is a muted mausoleum;
weathered and withdrawn,
impregnated with deceased dreams~
and remnants embalmed in poison ivy.
Yet diabolical thoughts
keep whirling
through funeral chaos,
to cloak my conscience in
a glass casket of sleepless uncertainties,
smothering the last breath I held.
I do not seek an orchard
blooming with butterfly orchids
and pristine pansies,
yet, somehow, I am the wrinkled
willow~
awaiting dancing rays
of diamond twilight.
Perhaps this is how a poet grieves,
writing epitaphs with
bloodstained ink,
when familiar faces are
clothed in ivory farewells,
to rest amongst the forgotten,
away from the cruelty that creeps.
I know not the synonyms for healing,
the poems I’ve woven beneath
starry skies now flow undone,
and I am burning,
in my crippling confusion,
pondering why the sun is now
a curse in disguise,
why do I long to walk
through forests of ruins,
where the mauve moon was,
when insomniac
instruments of galaxies
strummed broken strings
of feathered fate.
So take this poem, weave these words
it into the final line
of tasteless satires,
streaming in the
rhythm of zestless zenith,
for I have no desire to
pretend and play,
or swirl and sway
when all I knew now is a
melancholic mystery untold.
So listen to the rhapsody of tears~
I am a frazzled firefly,
eloquently tangled in the
ruthless roots of jinxed junipers.
Bottle of tears is my first version of this poetic legacy series
Skeleton of tears is which the venerated versatility carries.
This might be called as a sequel of alacrity or prolongation
But best before this is a celluloid and my heart and art collaboration.
In this poem “I or me” signify tears
Tears personify her expressions and emotions
Read this and know the life legacy of tears with concentration
And finally your fur, fleece and fuzz stand erect in attention.
Tears personify, I am compacted in stars
I am compressed between hurdles and wars
I am combusted on scorches
I am confided from Ishtar torches.
Tears epitomize, eternal bone of mine is an ominous emotion.
The Sagaras; Sarpada, Satluj shaded a challenge to my dire destination.
That one eve ever the fever of cleavers cannot catch up with me.
And the damp humidity of drought could not cope up with me.
Tears embody, I float on the branches of poignant army
I flood around the builds of happiness
I reach the borders of hell-heeled layers
And I roof down the clouds to my feet and make them rain prayers
Tears swank ,When my real steel sizzled atoms of blood,
Come together to conjure a flood.
The heated ink of emotions ignites to molt the black clouds
And let me visualize in which eve shall it swounds.
Tears exemplify, my liberty leads the immense flame in the hands of torch bearer
My prodigy evokes the waves hard under visions of volcanoes
The lust of my silvered glory was inspired from the shiny heavenly threads of feudal dart.
And the symptom of my introduction will be the rise of a burning heart.
God of hostility typify: Convinced that the fever of lava can't cope up with me
And the humidity of drought can"t hope up the level with me
In such a water working poem this is the conclusion
That even the pacific evaporate when my eternal strength feel thirsty after a tear solidification.
And now the spirits incarnate, my iron lungs had oxidized with the bitter-sour chilled water
after reading it and they crackled their internal matter into ignitious crater.
And now I will come to compete with and complete the legacy BOT(Bottle of Tears)
In the new form and with new fire firmed eyes to show you the third part “Kingdom for Disarmament of Tears ”.
4/14/2016
at first dawn of the year, I woke up early...
surrounded by zestful creepers on the quaint fence,
and budding plants around,
gazed at the miraculous sunrise in the vast, all-encompassing sky.
I am in awe!
first a red dot in the horizon...
then it grew bigger and bigger,
until the whole sky is enveloped with a mesmerizing burst of divine sunlight.
a luminous incandescent sky filled my heart....with reverence, with
utter wonderment!
this is the surreal moment of realization -
how fortunate we are to be on this majestic earth,
how blessed we are to be gifted with the magical sunlight,
the caressing air, the murmuring stream;
the tall tree branches, the velvety flower petals,
fluttering butterflies, scurrying squirrels.
here is my recluse, here is my oasis!
here I am with my thoughts.
this life has its meanings only when I appreciate with humbleness -
all the blessings showered.
I am not alone, I see you, I feel you.
at daybreak I gaze at millions of blinking, twinkling,
scintillating stars above ....
they are the witnesses of many poignant moments in life -
a shooting star announced -
the world is with me.
sometimes I feel an aching pain in the middle of night...
as if I am searching for something all my life ...
as if I dive down to the bottom of the ocean to find a pearl ...
I want you to hold my hand, I want you to guide me in my quest.
a child’s innocent smile brings the happiest moment in my day...
the neediest of the needy is waiting for my support.
remember my father's final words to me - writing is my blessing ...
with my pen, I can reach the unreachables,
obstacles can not stop creativity,
no one can curb imagination,
It flows like a river, streaming down the mountaintops,
meandering through the pebbles,
but flowing anyway,
arriving at its final destination.
January 8, 2021
For " My Spiritual Journey" Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Unseeking Seeker
Judged on: 1/10/21
For " Your 2021 N - A Choice 2 " Poetry Contest
Sponsor: William Kekaula
I Dont Give A Fig About The Brouhaha...
of new year's eve,
yet yours truly does consider
at least one singular plum me facet by Jeeve
er...Robert (or Rabbie) Burns,
a profoundly poignant poem, he did conceive.
Anyway, this wordsmith fascinated
by historical lyricist whose unbelieve
hub bull lee brief life, nonetheless
made a lasting contribution,
a psalm burr tune folks across webbed
wide world sing to grieve
of recent sorrows past, plus pay
homage to joys summoned from
deep within core of soul bellowed
forth with an exultant heave
perhaps unbeknownst to most Robert Burns
(25 January 1759 – 21 July 1796) did leave
his lasting legacy, sans (as national poet
of Scotland celebrated worldwide)
particularly the classic traditional chestnut
auld lang syne rendered in many versions
waving white capping
New Year's eve celebration proud
accomplishments one did achieve.
Coincidentally, "Auld Lang Syne"
and "America the Beautiful"
at which juncture, I interject
a historical grace note to mull
how latter named above patriotic
song in the United States,
(lyrics written by Katharine Lee
Bates saw many occasions
after music composed by church organist
and choirmaster Samuel
A. Ward at Grace Episcopal Church
in Newark, New Jersey) dull
lighting oomph and pizazz, extant
since early 1900s, origin gin null
intent format arranged as poem,
"Pikes Peak first published
Fourth of July full
edition of the church periodical
The Congregationalist in 1895,
now sung by mull teat hoods at Super Bowl
every year since 2009, and appeared pull
say ting stadiums at some sports events
after the 9/11 terror attack hull
lob bell loo in 2001.
The song comprises four verses,
one of isung before kick-off
in NFL's showpiece game.
Just by giving cerebral activity free rein,
this inquisitive mind of mine
learned how twenty first century New Year's
celebration include auld lang syne
linkedin with feted mid eighteenth poet
laureate, whose death at thirty seven, his spine
tingling spirit issues forth to give
him immortality almost divine
everlasting longevity within the pantheon
of August artists who humanity did assign
an eternal place future generations will
revere such metrical design.