Long Polishes Poems
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How glorious is Love ?
How magnificent it's depth ?
How bright are it's visions ?
How true are it's directions ?
What can compare to it's shear delight ?
Where walking in it's sight
gives clarity to every living thing .
How bold are it's promises ?
It's paths hold wonder
for every step taken upon it.
Vibrancy is it's assignation.
It beacons the heart ,
and whispers treasures in it's future.
It speaks of grand designs
and builds it's dreams
into realities here to fore unknown.
In it the soul with happiness is filled .
Men have penned it's words
sang it's songs
and dreamed it's dreams .
It is desired above all other things .
It's breadth is exquisite
and vast are the many who
would sell all , to possess it
only to find it cannot be purchased .
It is a gift given freely
it cannot be coerced
No building can house it
You cannot cage it
It has no chains that can bind it
no prison can hold it ,
but within are the floodgates of
of heaven that waters all of life .
It is a fire that burns
all lies to ash
that purifies all intentions
and refines , polishes , and reflects truth .
Men have sought it's face
in every crack of his existence .
Men have apprenticed at it's feet
journey-manned in it's instruction
but few have mastered it
and certainly only one has become it's Grand-Master .
But we run to reach for it's crown
we strive to bow our wills before it
to learn it , receive it
then release it and set it free .
This the Rulers of this world
would steal if they could !
1 John 4
16 And so we know and rely on the love God has for us.
God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in them. 17 This is how love is made complete among us so that we will have confidence on the day of judgment: In this world we are like Jesus. 18 There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love.
19 We love because he first loved us. 20 Whoever claims to love God yet hates a brother or sister is a liar. For whoever does not love their brother and sister, whom they have seen,cannot love God, whom they have not seen. 21 And he has given us this command: Anyone who loves God must also love their brother and sister.
COPYRIGHT © 2013 C Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC
She is shadowed by fuzzy cobwebs of a morning without coffee,
while dust motes mingle with the mold of time.
Gazing out to the yard, through dingy glass, and fog,
into a dismal January, she hopes to catch a glimpse of the paper boy.
He travels through rain, sleet or snow, how could he understand,
(this teen-aged Paul Revere), that in this decrepit old house,
she is longing for a sign of youth? It has been a weary night, watching an old woman hang on by threads of life, that had worn thin years ago.
Watching and waiting, while cold winds blew and snow was falling,
and death was hoping to make a house call.
Any diversion, life being lived,... one brief eclipse of life in motion would be a relief.
To observe him toss the news into the sky like a Frisbee... not a care in the world
How would that feel...has she ever known? Has anyone ever been so young?
She thinks she may go mad with death and dying, with weariness, with waiting.
She suddenly shivers from a dreaded draft of frigid air, slithering in,
like a sneaky, uninvited ghost, slinking in around the rim.
nor'easter winds roll top shoe box...
splinter the silence.. -- debutante' caught in amber
a cataract view frozen sepia
Grabbing a handful of a thread-bare doily, she polishes the cold glass,
rubbing vigorously in circles against the grime,
making figure eights, in spite of frozen, stiff, fingers.
Satisfied, that she has a decent view of the blanketed yard,
and can see clearly where the muddy, gravel driveway,
bends gradually, curving to mate with the snow banked road,
at last, she spies the old Jeep coming, and watches with automated eyes,
yet, with some expectation, and strange excitement.
Then, as she might have guessed,
the teenager drives hurriedly by, barely slowing down, tossing the news,
and leaving her gaze and her thoughts, splattered by dark murky water,
while the slinging gravel that has been pitched into the sky, by his screeching tires,
falls like the pieces of the old woman's lonely life upon the pristine snow.
__________________________________________
For Deb's Contest: "Mix It Up"
She left me enlightened
With her “Heart’s Imagination”
Taught me about love
In the ink of “Melting Point”
She gave me a whisper of insight
Within the breath of “O April”
And sang to my soul and spirit
On the wings of “Germination”
She colored my heart in hues
Of lavender with her psalms
Who spoke to me of hope and love
Joy birthed in “My Iridescent Garden”
She illuminated my soul’s faith
With “Soulful Journey of Shooting Stars”
And breathed pain into my nostrils
On the tone of “Heartbreak Hill”
She graced my thoughts with light
When she penned “The Virtue of Motion and Life”
I felt the waves of her pensiveness
In the words of “Mirror of a Son’s Eyes”
She left my heart in bright adoration
With “Rebirth of the Third Angel”
And encouraged me to listen to silence
On the reflections of “Wire Walker”
She delights, enlightens, flavors my thoughts
In amber, scarlet, sapphire and emerald
All the colors of inspiration and sensitivity
Inviting me to listen to the hopes within me
She inscribes a bit of enchantment through me
With her vivid portrayals of imaginations
So loving and graceful, like psalms that grant me
A light to guide – a hope to ignite my faith
She is a writer who has left me with appreciation
For the empty pages that draw her in
And bring me such beauty, light and laughter
Love that points me to a heart that is perceptive
A woman of grace and beauty and wonder
Polishes her poems with flavors of amazement
Inspirations so thrilling, so revealing, they take me
Through the poem into places I’ve only dreamed of
Her poetry holds a trace of stardust, a flame
Of expectation, a promise of illumination
Fulfillment and pleasure, satisfaction with words
That brightens lives and leaves elegance wherever it flows
In her poetry… there is hope for words!
Title Wave Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Richard Lamoureux
May 19, 2021
For a wonderful poetess, Susan Ashley
Titles of Susan’s Poems are in BOLD
Mrs. Holloway polishes her poetry dimly,
Regaling herself with the accoutrements of
Selected poetry, cluttered and less jinxed
By way of satanic slamming by famished,
Idle critics who read The New York Times
Just once in a sugared year.
She chooses her stanzas locally.
By that I mean her stanzas nurse patience,
Drifting from gossips to loose, impotent
Talks held when midnights ail.
She digresses from north’s steady arrow
To the rump of the south, where watersheds
Of a nation’s difficult history are published.
Chances are that her poetry would win a
Contest in a fortnight, but the era of romance
Is jaundiced, which is her constituency and
Her background for coloured matters.
Her abbreviations for the names of her old
Suitors are carved from pillars to posts – reposting
Caryatids as common sentinels on a poisoned bank—
Losing the Greekness required of such adornments.
O Holloway, read, read, read,
Her acolytes pressure her.
Time loses sense of time in its own timeness,
They warn.
That, to me, is the commonest blandishment.
I should never have sipped from her potsherd
Such stale beer as she offered on the day her
Poetry was reviewed by a proscribed newspaper.
But her urge for anything dead and horrid,
Egged me on, especially when she narrated
The murder of seven sisters by seven creatures that
Very Sunday morning when the taverns closed
Before they opened.
Holloway shocked me with the gory details.
Oh, I forgot to tell you she hankers after things
Truly, truly hebdomadal.
I call her Mrs. Holloway the Hebdomadalist.
Seven churches, seven trumpets,
Seven seals, seven heads, seven horns... and now
Seven sisters murdered by seven creatures.
That’s why her poetry is cluttered.
Full of nerves and airs of salutes,
Mrs. Holloway’s poetry thunders.
She presumes that time will, like the morning
Dew, settle on the sinews of her poetry.
(And I agree with her) .
And smoothen it —yes, time, the masseur of
All time.
Smoothen it.
Oil it.
Massage it.
And level it.
At least to street level.
(And I agree with her) .
terrible two
is a ninja turtle
she spins her
little play broom
like a fighting stick
and charges
grandpa shark
faints and dodges
she reels back
gives him a whack
and he cries like a villain
terrible two
triumphantly giggles
terrible two
won't eat anything
he makes
she demands
yummy bunny pasta
for breakfast
to his surprise
grandpa shark actually
finds them quite tasty
grandpa shark
sits in a lawn chair
under a swing set and pushes
buzz light year's girlfriend
for an hour
higher
terrible two orders
higher she screams
to infinity and beyond
terrible two
still in her ninja pajamas
must get dressed
to go to the park
no
not your green velvet
Christmas dress
grandpa shark
sells her on
pink Minnie Mouse T
and blue denim shorts
(sometimes he wins)
snack packs
two bottles of water
and a fresh pull up
(just in case)
in her chariot
she climbs
and they're off for
a long stroll
through suburbia
saying hi to every dog
it's walker
every bird
and every jogger
until she jumps out
and runs for the swings
(not more swings)
then the jungle gym ganglia
of climby things
all leading to
the gigantic tube slide
where he catches her
until she's tired
she chugs a water bottle
dry
and polishes off
her stuffed pretzels
on the softest grass
under the cool shade
of the biggest tree
they lie
her soft rosy cheek
pressed on his chest
I love you Grandpa
I love YOU
no, I love YOU
she points her
tiny finger
in his face
tickles and giggles
under that big old tree
grandpa shark
reflects in the dark
their time in the park
and feels lucky
to have his terrible two
and sad as the
man in the moon
to leave her
as the road passes
beneath him
he remembers another
terrible two clutching
his fingers from
her car seat behind him
as they drove through
the silent night
he smiles fondly at the
big lunar light
leading him home
that let's him know
wherever he goes
his terrible twos
will always
be with him
My jeans I’d wear, twirling in the air
the cousins, loved those kids; I’d
see them hardly ever, flying, laughing,
rising. Mother couldn’t understand
the wriggling out of the purple dress;
nails were temporarily permanent,
bought in Poughkeepsie, when it
was safe for teenagers to shop by
themselves.
In thirty plus years,
my daughter-in-law would be approached
and encroached upon; she’d chase off
the ho-supplier. Not far, not far at all
from my childhood neighborhood.
My friend and I look at jewelry, but buy
an assortment of polishes for our eyes
and nails. Purple would fill the nailbed,
on the unwrinkled, no need to iron hands.
Could I explain,
time, cannot be bottled;
tears jeans, cracks nails, hammers.
Could I imagine a son, a daughter-in-law;
not a thought
unless we played the game
of
crisscross.
We’d write down places, numbers, names of boys,
- we’d see where we’d live, how many kids, and
find out who we’d marry,
no one
expected me
to fly
militar-ily
find that guy
who followed me
to places
in disguise.
In purple skies
at cross purposes
we intersect
I now know - where, how many, his name, and more.
Simpler days, would I return the polish and the friend?
I remember the celebration, followed by the divorce.
I remember his daughter, at five - she’d survive
his death. I’d not forfeit the purple polish - in the end,
before my marriage, three kids, in-laws, grands;
I’d not sail away from Sandy - I’d play a game;
it’s been a long, long, long time since we sat
in our grandparent’s house, in her Dad’s absence,
and behaved as cousins, fourteen years apart.
“come fluttering words, come drifting words to me…”
A Rambling Poet
A mere housemaid awakens before morning light.
Eyes wide, she bolts upright to the bed’s edge, as if late for work, though she
never is.
Another beautiful day to labor away.
Polishing silver all day has its advantages.
Each piece polishes to a looking glass, each a porthole to her dreams.
As she stares into the final polished vase, her weary face transforms into the face of
a lovely, fair skinned maiden.
Soft red lips highlight her perfect cheek bones and straight nose.
A simple pink ribbon holds her long, auburn hair in place.
Sparkling green eyes and a happy smile portray her excitement as she admires her
floor length pastel summer dress.
“Oh my, It’s time for my evening stroll,” she reminds herself.
Twirling once, she heads out the door leading to the apple orchard.
Barely noticing the orchard’s beauty, she strolls toward the stone steps leading to her favorite place, the stone rose garden.
Making her way down the steps, she immediately notices someone has placed two arrangements onto the platform from the stone cabinet.
As she bends to smell the flowers, she accidentally brushes some petals off, sending them floating to the platform and moss covered stone walk.
Closing her eyes, she lets the essence take her back a dozen years to a young girl
planting pink roses with her mother.
“There’s not a lot of room to plant,” her mother would say. “Two inches of soil between all this stone is what we have to work with.”
She opens her eyes to find herself staring into the polished silver vase.
Her tired, smudged face reminds her it’s time to go home.
Something different catches her eye in the polished looking glass.
Her long auburn hair is no longer neatly bundled under her cleaning bonnet, but held in place by a simple pink ribbon.
Randy Steele
July 25, 2011
"What Is She Thinking?" contest
Love unveils us from borrowed faces,
It tears them away, fear and longing, from the depths of our defeated chests.
I call it here "love," not just an anchor between shores of intertwined pulses,
But as a being of beings, a grace that leans on hidden branches.
Not in the naive, childish sense seeking solace in empty sweets,
But in the tenacious, honest sense of traversing untrodden paths -
A journey of purpose and restlessness, of pure risk and growth.
This love does not paint a smile on your face when you sit in peace,
But it is a fluttering of restless wings, daring to fly ceaselessly.
It pushes you to the edge of self-abyss, where you are less seen,
To sanctify in momentum and in the abyss, merging with the infinite human weep.
It does not let you sleep in the down of recognition, to be swayed by reflections,
Love - that stern mistress, polishes you in waves and waves of incomprehension.
It squeezes out the last drop of childish dreaming, dripped by insatiable desires,
And throws you back to the shore, transformed, with the soul of an awakened, fearless traveler.
Under the sky of this love, the world is never complete, always in a state of becoming,
Beyond the boundaries of comfort, an ecosystem of relentless evolution.
Embracing your mask in the flutter of wind confirms the balance and enchanted surrender,
You pass through fire and ice, unaware that this is the path to true known freedom.
And perhaps the true face is often more harshly drawn, less defined,
But love, in this world, turns windows into deep mirrors;
It makes us see ourselves not as separate singularities, but as interconnected islands,
Where the mask becomes a bridge between souls, and love - an ocean in which we dive without fear of swimming,
Aware now, that although we are born alone, together we shall grow.
Beauty, a siren song upon the breeze,
Whispers to hearts where kindred spirits sigh.
Souls, crowned with thorns, yet yearning to appease
The world's harsh symphony, with each fractured cry.
A broken bloom, though marred by winter's sting,
Still holds a fragrance, a sweet offering.
Courage, a fearless knight, forever bold,
Leads them beyond the veil where shadows creep.
They scale the cliffs of dreams, their stories told
In every failure, lessons they will keep.
Unafraid of falling, for the tumbled stone
Polishes their spirit, and makes their purpose known.
Truth, a double-edged sword, with piercing gaze,
Leaves scars etched deep within their tender souls.
The world's dissonance, a mournful, haunting maze,
Reflected in the mirror that truth unfolds.
Compassion, a heavy cloak they wear with grace,
Yearning for honesty in every face.
Sacrifice, a crimson thread, with love entwined,
Woven through hearts where selfless passions burn.
They build a bridge for others, leaving them behind,
Standing firm upon the shore, as dangers churn.
With open palms, they mend the world's torn seams,
A silent hunger veiled in selfless dreams.
Wounded warriors, etched with battle marks,
Their scars, a story whispered on the breeze.
Misunderstood, rejected by the dark,
Their light is a challenge to the shadows' freeze.
Yet Paradox, with wings of wisdom spread,
Reveals that strength in vulnerability is bred.
O world, behold these souls, where scars now gleam,
A testament to battles fought in love's embrace.
Shattered dreams, like seeds in darkness dream,
And from their wounded beauty, hope finds space.
Though thorns they wear, their light shall never cease,
A beacon in the dark, a promise of sweet peace.
First name
unique, generous, wondrous, enigmatic, hopeful
Sister of Madonna, Gail, Chris, Diane and Heather
Lover of life, puzzles, people's laughter and language
Who feels loves intensity with hope
Who fears the dark, enclosed spaces, yet feels fearless in the breeze
Who would like to see the masses succeed
Resident of home, a warm embrace, a tender touch
Surname
I found this structure boring and unimaginative and mundane in a world enriched with such flavoursome musings - I unapologetically ruined the form with pride and decided the words below were more entertaining for your reading pleasure... Enjoy me
An ounce of ratbag, a giggle, a bounce and slide,
she puts on her socks and polishes the floor with her moves,
the running dive onto the bed is never a question and she loves to sneak up and tickle.
Frosted grass, and a breaky sunrise eaten from the curb, delights her heart and inspires her mind.
Her one love - a child of impossibility - held on by hope; a chance to live, to laugh.
Intrigued by the landscape of colour, enlightened by touch, cleansed in a breeze.
A smile to light up the dark, delivers a truth profound, generous in love in all its forms.
A dancer in a world of statues, grounded and real, she will lift you up and hold you til your ready.
Musically, she paints the tragic world with grace, sensually depicting each space, raw and defined.
A family of separated ties has carved an independence so fierce she is rarely displaced.
Adopted by the masses, free in spirit she maintains faith, home is all she needs and finds that in many: a comfortable easy smile, a gift of coffee, an open door - embraced.
Loved.
A friendship gift, a unique beautiful ride, buckle up she's arrived...
17/10/2018