Long Portending Poems
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I remember that I once called him Peter Pan
The man I loved, and yet a child at heart to me
A name that became vividly more portending
at pretending than I ever could've imagined.
A lost boy I found long ago, or did he find me?
No need for Tinkerbelle's pixie dust because
he flew with me as his Darling,* to quell his sadness
but in taking it from him, I began losing myself.
He tried to escape his nemesis, the Captain's hook,
but too many walks along the pirate ship's plank
proved to be a daunting task he kept undertaking.
I kept trying to rescue him but he wouldn't swim.
He was drifting far out to sea; drowning in the drink.
I called his name but no sight of him was I able to see.
Peter Pan was lost again, and this time also to me.
Never Never Land is a place I won't be visiting again.
*Wendy Darling
A blood moon's
spiritual
meaning
through history,
was a bad omen;
portending
the death
of a King
through His
overthrow;
and foretold
of an uprising.
And the Christian Bible
feared
an apocalypse.
Today, a
red moon rising
means a
lunar eclipse.
Yet superstitions,
can often
prevail
over facts.
The Moon
has always
influenced
our ancient beliefs.
Native Americans,
thought
the moon needed care.
There’s something about poetry that grips me
Like gravity does the moon,
While I keep trying to let it go
It treats me like a loon.
As if I can’t control myself
And these urges in my veins,
To compose another line or two
And extinguish all the flames.
Like a Phoenix that keeps rising
From out of the deep dark blue,
And never allows my mind to rest,
No matter where or what I do.
To alleviate these phantom-like flashes
Of memories like comet tails,
Shooting across my mind and sky
As if carrying the Holy Grail.
Portending they have something important to say
To the world, to you and me,
And yet in the end it’s more like the wind
Whispering like Sirens of Titan, “Set us free.”
With notions of emotions
Full of love, lust, hate and loss,
The circle of life through dark and light
And Jesus on the Cross.
Let the words come forth right out of the source
Of wherever thoughts are conceived,
The Quantum Field, the “Plenum” revealed
The Great Maker of all we think and believe.
The vacuum of space where only a trace
Of vibration quivers out there,
Sending the Muses to confound and confuse us
Poets who dutifully dare.
As I do what I must to let go and trust
These poetic thoughts that abound,
That the words will unfold like silver and gold
And a treasure may someday be found.
© Terrell Martin, 02/22/2025
Prologue
Abandoned and in disrepair the mansion
Is dark now; a story behind every stanchion.
An unwitting monument to a way of life,
Since foreclosed through bloody civil strife.
Antebellum
The hush of summer evenings cued the trilling
(Fiddled on hind legs accompanied by warty pouches)
Chorus; pierced only by the discordant creaking
Of unseen stairs rising to the house slave's quarters
Portending the disquiet of antebellum martyrs.
Wittiness trees attest in angles and chains
To the master's grid and shade the lanes
For the surrey whose wheels rutted the gateway
(Become artifacts) en route to soirées of gaiety.
The prairie land, violated by steel and condescension
To the roots of its towering grasses and purple gentian,
Forced to nourish seeds of an alien flora for hempen
Riches, patiently awaits its day of redemption.
Bricks of fertile earth fired over an Osage hearth,
By chattel hands, in mortise and tenons, gave birth
To a mansion at the prelude of a moral sea-change
That would divide the nation and break its chains.
Current Era
Their lives deprived of enslaved labor, the once-lived
Voices ebbed a little as each generation removed.
Shrouded in leaves of time they are a mute bequeath
Indelibly recorded upon the stories that lie beneath.
Dreamer boy speak for them now. Sing for bluestem that switched
Against the sky nourishing the thundering herds that provisioned
Native tribes. Rage for those hobbled to sow but never to reap,
Weep for a Nation gone mad and seeds planted too deep.
Reflections after touring an abandoned antebellum mansion.
Copyright Paul M Thomson September 2011.
A Crimson Sky breaks the distant shore
stargates opening veils upon veils
portals portending lyrical or so it seemed
since senses were lost in labyrinth lots
angels pouring purple pearls into
timeless space
I heard old lions roar below an empty nest
though ears gone ~ I who knew, GONE ! becoming observer-listener-knower
arteries slithering serpents d a n c i ng in
S k y … fleshless, bloodless
beyond Crimson Sky no grids, axis
numbers or clocks, experiences points
on l u c i d spirals F L A S H I N G
tiger lilies beckoned on another byway
sensations spinning signatures along
country alleys, R i v e r s of L i f e
L o v e steppes alongside goals
I realised S k y lessons mystically taught
facets were muddles for mind to
untangle, create flower-of-life patterns
floating omniversal to a single destination
Imperishable gifted His frequencies
“Keep facing forward”, a whisper I heard,
“the journey inward proliferates doubt
confusion, p l a y s h i d e and seek
narrow focus to single locus …
ignore demons or demi-gods with
malachite earrings, poppy pendants
or entreaties about historical distractions
through all winters purpose is S p r i n g.”
Crimson Sky collapsed
distant shore dissolved
a crescent moon landed
in my sunset H e a r t
I c i r c l e d a g l i t t e r i n g moon in my
CRIMSON SKY
A road trip through the Pacific West,
from Seattle along Sequim,
Ocean Shore, Seaside,
all the way to San Francisco.
The Pacific roared beside.
Frequent signs warned of Tsunami hazard.
While a warning at a trinket shop
showed an evacuation route,
an ice cream ad promised a tsunami of delight.
People thronged the beaches en route,
least worried, all in mirth;
a gigantic tide was last on their list.
At Ocean Shore, a man and woman stood in tight embrace,
the lady sobbing without respite,
a personal tsunami on the heave,
wreaking havoc on their aching psyche.
The Pacific just looked on beside.
Humanity seemed a cluster of ants
on the rim of a tea cup left under a tap
savouring their last greedy grabs,
weeping over what is not.
The tap looks down upon.
Yet, away, unknown to them
two superpowers were locked
in an eye-ball confrontation
over things of least real concern
portending a nuclear conflagration.
Lo, the Pacific stands for peace
as her name really means,
while men portend real nemesis,
their own apocalypse.
‘Twas dark in the lane and into the drain
Glistening rivulets, crimson again
Feeble the lamplight as light the rain spits
Revealing the gore of a human in bits
Rising, the bile of a nightmarish shock
Spatter the ground as from the next block
A sound from the door of the eight till late shop
A howl and a screech and a chop, chop, CHOP!
Leaden the legs that refuse to advance
As ghostly the figures that from the shop dance
Gaining in substance and portending grief
Evil the grin that exposes the teeth
A ghoul and a demon, each wielding a chopper
Has to be said that each looks a copper
He paid with his blood for his evil resistance...
No mask and no hand gel and no Social distance
Momentarily
by Odin Roark
How elusive the quest
To place oneself in sync
Wavelength to wavelength
Response to reply
So many agendas beg ignoring
Those places where integrity remains suspect
Where job
Marriage
Relationships
Friends
Acquaintances
Eye contact
Undeserved pleasures
Even fantasized harmony
Portending confirmation of truth
Are often merely layered fears
Forged in distrust
For lest we forget
No one promised answers
Even as schemas know no boundaries
The road signs always offering direction
To the many of want
Facilitating few of need
They nevertheless remain available
Such goes this phenomenon of plans
Diagramable life
Representation of what might be
But rarely is
What is intrinsically longed for
Yet seemingly uncatchable
Like forever morphing mercury
Still
So desperate are most
Clutching to random connection
Often without reason
That attention from others
Is embraced as self-realization
Perhaps a venture off the beaten path
A bushwhack through the untrammeled past
Might beg consideration
Where revisiting the child within
Will remind how infant outbursts
Conveyed rudimentary logic
When diaper rash urgency
Void of language
Save scream and cry
Defined simple organics
A voicing in search of form
So easy to ignore this
Time’s simplistic message
Reaching back toward the dawn of man
When primitive bone and stone
Drummed the truth of need
Food
Shelter
Cover
When duplicity hadn’t been invented
When progress was preserved by raw instinct
Today
Actuality is in questioned focus
Our civilized regression
This guised-in-furtherance flight
Toward make-believe escape
Has jettisoned logic into the abyss of ignorance
Manipulating instead today’s lie of norm
Into modern truth
The hunt will continue
Beneath self-created imprisonment
To find that somewhere yet to objectify itself
That place where slumbers intrinsic reasoning
Kept safe by nature’s heartbeat
Requires nothing but simple acceptance
Of that known simply as
Ever available
Truth
Searching minds continue
Trusting consciousness will prevail
Even allowing occasional laughter
Along the path where delusions entertain…
Momentarily
Dark Raven
In the beginning
there was hope ...
there was hope
in the beginning
Soaring like an eagle shepherding the doves
Then man became
a king ...
became a king
in his portending
Soaring like a falcon preying on the doves
Until pride became
his lord ...
became his lord
in the undoing
Falling into darkness from salvation high above
In his self-inflicted
fate ...
inflicted fate
his reign was ending
Falling a dark raven through the light of Heaven’s love
**
Finding Your Base
First
Last
And always
— pick your arena
**
Lost In The Throes
To me
it’s about imagery
damn the torpedoes ...
damn the line structure
poems or prose
To me
it’s the metaphor
damning the simile ...
damning the grammar
— lost in the throes
**
Manus Ad Manus
The hand that opens widest
— rocks the cradle
**
Boomerang
Debating yourself
a losers folly
Debating yourself
— new spit in the wind
**
My Honor
You might be
my ally
But you’re not
on my side
A formal
arrangement
An unmarried
bride
You say
you are loyal
In liege
to the same
But when push
comes to shove
My honor
— you’ll claim
**
Right Always Right
Can anything get done
without being autocratic
Can anything happen
when subject to vote
Did Our Lord become savior
by being democratic
Right always right
— never crossing the moat
**
Playing The Odds
Dotting the I’s
all Hell freezes over
Crossing the T’s
tomorrow is gone
Hedging your bets
the wolf edges closer
Playing the odds
— the right and the wrong
**
By Its Grace
I always said
I’d know
when it was time
for my last poem
And choosing
perfect rhyme
I would leave
forever knowing
The world
a better place
a warm embrace
with letters showing
That time
has set me free
and by its grace
— my aura glowing
**
Heads In The Sand
Our country has become
a nation of cowards
Valuing safety
over what’s right
Festering blindly
foes are emboldened
Our heads in the sand
— embracing the night
From the edge of the ebon night sky,
under the engulfing clouds of gloom,
the promise of moon I’ve made to you,
I’ll keep before the eclipse starts.
The somber storm of smothering strife
drifts me away across the slate horizon,
the clouds melt in the torrent of tears
as my sky falls with the marooned moon.
The promise kept after the agonizing wait,
your fervent window opens on vista of hope,
ushers in the dislodged moon called heart,
rolling onto your satin bed long unslept
In the dark niche of your desolateness
glows the frozen moonbeam burst,
while the floating tinsels of silver dust
flutter like fairy over your silhouette face.
Holding the magical moon turned crystal globe,
you look deep into the illumined fortune
in kaleidoscopic images portending the future,
where my yearning paints dreamscape for you.
Written : March 10, 2020
June 9, 2020
Contest : Strand No. 790
Sponsor : Brian Strand