Long Puff out Poems
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When violets bloom deep in the bush,
Just atop their little push;
When fungus balls puff out spores green,
Where they go is never seen;
When rock exposed to sun and air,
Some to keep and some to share;
When lichen catches glimpse of sun,
The living bell has just been rung;
When baby does her first breath take,
Other senses soon will wake.
When owl’s egg slow nervous hatch,
A glimpse of life ahead may catch;
In filtered air sun moonlight be,
But not to mortal ones as me.
Gods of glowing neon and gaudy screens
smile upon charming, charming patterns of heads.
All colors of hair, lit red, then green, then blue,
guided along invisible paths, crown heads
perspiring, chanting and glancing down
on marching, mechanical arms, then worrying
as they scurry along infinite, crisscrossing paths -
at once so ordered and so unfathomably chaotic.
Drums are rolled by hurrying feet
dictating the race of mankind.
A metropolis looms, adorned by a billion shimmering jewels -
electric jewels - and an apparition sways over the
bustle, silently watching, silently floating.
Giant chutes proudly puff out plumes of nightly black
and devils forged in impure fire do rise
to the heavens above, graced by the blessings of
the industrial revolution, in turn blessing humanity with progress,
imperceptible except as phlegmatic gasps
and the whiff of crisp green paper, distinguished by
wizened faces and packed in neat bundles.
Bulbous, aged fingers do trace from within
the sanctum sanctorum of a temple aged a thousand years,
charming, charming patterns of jewels
in intricate, frozen dance, carving out hexagons of perfect symmetry
from wearily cut marble windowsills.
The work of a thousand splendid hands
preserved by the unseen, dusty hands of time
did render the mosque palatial, its beauty heavenly.
The admiring eyes sing hymns praising the architecture, alas
they are blind, for the marble, white as angelic wings, is grey now.
The scientist appears, eyes hidden by thick glassy cubicles
yet shining through, lit by the endless pursuit of knowledge
and equally burdened by numbers, figures, notes
and the maddening myopia of man.
On the screen appears, against fresh white
charming, charming patterns of red, green and blue
sinking downward, worryingly as it would seem,
his uninflected pleas let in through one ear, instantly
shunted out through the next by the populace, to whom
the music of modernity rings sweeter.
First Place, Charming Patterns Poetry Contest
Date: 16th October 2021
Of all the songs
You seem to be
The tuneless one,
Less subtlety.
God's orchestra
Has dealt a hand—
More toneless rasp
Than golden strand.
I wonder if
You long to be
A star
In morning's reverie.
Do tears well up?
Perhaps that's why
You paddle more
Than flit and fly.
And yet…
I see you
Standing proud—
Such confidence
In every crowd.
You waddle round,
For pictures pose—
Such character
Without a nose.
You dress with style,
All brown and green.
There's pride in how
You peck and preen.
You're grounded,
Yet you float and glide.
No treetop nest—
You strut with pride.
So maybe I
Prejudged your tone—
Less violin,
More slide trombone.
In that, the panoply
Of life
Requires such confidence
Amid the strife.
To show us humans
Not to compare—
Just be yourselves,
Be fair and square.
And when life gives you
Orange sauce,
Puff out your chest…
Just stay on course.
Stand up straight,
Don't slouch,
Stomach in chest out,
Don't drag your feet.
All phrases to make the child in you cringe,
And widen the generation gap,
With the child's 'but Dad' or 'oh Mum' response,
As head is bowed,
Eyes turned towards floor,
Further slouching,
With chest in and stomach out
Much dragging of feet
And temporary hearing loss.
Yet when you reach an age when wisdom,
Sometimes does kick in,
You realise that Mum and Dad might have been onto something,
When you have difficulty standing up straight,
Keeping your chest out and your stomach in,
It becomes a certainty,
When your line of sight is at ground zero,
And your days of predicting the weather by looking up at the clouds,
long gone,
With summer nights no longer spent happily gazing at the stars.
Fortunately, I sort of listened to my parents,
And my line of sight is a little higher for my age than most,
Looking back, I think wisdom had sort of kicked in early with my parents.
Even though they called me out,
For not standing up straight,
For not sticking my chest out,
For not keeping my stomach in,
For not stopping slouching,
And for not lifting my feet,
They sometimes symbolically pinned medals on me,
Which more often than not,
Caused my back to straighten,
My chest to puff out,
My stomach muscles to tighten,
With no visible slouching or dragging of feet,
All of which brought about a change in my line of sight,
Until the holidays came around
When, even my parents could be caught,
Slouching around,
As long, as their parents were not in town.
With just a few short strokes, and the ink of a magical pen.
You can clear the air of pollution, or simply be young again.
Memories once made, can be brought back and given life.
Like grandpa whittling wood, with his favorite pocketknife.
A pen can alter time, and let you travel to and fro.
It can tell you fact or fiction, that the reader may never know.
Happiness can be shared, or you can experience someone’s pain.
It can sometimes cause insomnia and even clog a drain.
Your pen can offer solace to a world that’s stricken with grief.
It can lend a unique perspective on a certain personal belief.
It can be the gateway to one’s soul and a release for your imagination.
Maybe it will bring forth nature’s beauty, or just political frustration.
With a pen you can honor family, or that very special friend.
It can provide a little respite, from a pain that has no end.
Each of us can find a reason, for pairing paper and pen.
You can bring Puff out of his cave and make him soar again.
Whatever your heart can envision with the magic you choose to bring.
May your pen stay full of ink and bring more songs that we can sing.
It’s a great day to shake and bake
Dance, sing, and eat all of your cake
It’s time to wear your dinner gown
Happy Birthday Dear Carol Brown
Upon reaching the Big Six O
Spread and stretch on your patio
Wear your fancy dress into town
Happy Birthday Dear Carol Brown
As you puff out the nice candles
Hold tight onto your chair handles
Smile today and let your hair down
Happy Birthday Dear Carol Brown
It’s a great day to shake and bake
Happy Birthday Dear Carol Brown
© Joseph, 4/9/08
© All Rights Reserved
Comments: Dedicated to my poet laureate friend Carol Brown. The Kyrielle
Sonnet has 14 lines (three rhyming quatrain stanzas and a non-rhyming
couplet). It has a repeating line or phrase as a refrain in the last line of each
stanza. Each line within the sonnet has eight syllables. The French use the first
and last line of the first quatrain as the ending couplet. This reinforces the refrain
within the poem. The rhyming scheme for a Kyrielle Sonnet normally is: AabB,
ccbB, ddbB, AB -or- AbaB, cbcB, dbdB, AB.
Your strongest day is standing
just outside your door. Let it in.
Each day the sun comes home to you
it whispers with the wind
calling out your name.
This is no video game.
Life’s a bouquet banquet
made from your reflections.
You do not need directions.
Pick your moments carefully.
Stop and smell the roses,
leave your motor running
for the dangers trust exposes.
Listen to where life comes from
the beating sound of your own drum.
Make the most of music that it brings.
Unraveling all your tangled balls of strings.
With patience Iron out each peace,
holding tight to all you love
with nails and teeth.
Now put your stubby thumbs
through their tiny holster loops
and pull your britches up.
Hitch them high,
and puff out your chest !!
You’ve always been ready for this.
This is not a test.
This is your life.
Would I change from a girl, and give up all my curls?
Would I quit wearing dresses, stop paying hairdressers?
Change places with him? Be a “he”, not a “she”?
Be a guy? Would I buy it?…For awhile I might try it!
I’d rise in the morning, shave off my stubble
Put on some clothes, no need for much trouble,
No lipsticks, or makeup, no blushes, nor creams.
What should I wear?….Just a shirt that is clean
I would wiggle my toes, discard panty hose!
Buy me some boots, holler and hoot
Own handyman tools, love my Lazyboy throne
Where I'll watch all the games, claim the remote
If I want to be cool, cigars too, I’ll smoke!
I could slurp eating soup,
then burp like a guy, and wear a toupee, unless I go gray!
If there’s gray at my temples, distinguished, ….how simple!!
Instead of Miss Clairol, I'll use a Gillette
Hold in my belly, and puff out my chest
Whistle, and flirt, at young girls in short skirts!
I would eat steak and fries and a big piece of pie!
Not stress over size, of my hips or my thighs!
I won’t drink tea so dainty, out of cups filled half empty
No tantrums or tears, just a beer with the guys!
Start a fight just to try it, get a punch in the eye!
If I pout, they won’t buy it, if the girl in me cries out!
Well, I gave it a whirl…I was a guy in my dreams
A dream that I had? Or a nightmare gone bad?
I’m glad I'm awake..and the switch I WON'T make!!
I woke up as a girl, it's not as bad as it seemed!
(Apologies to all the fine gentlemen out there!)
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
(this is a little ode to Rian ..a lovely lad whose sparkle has given our Farmer's market in Dunedin a boyish fizz)
Oh dear…what’s that in my eye?
I fear a tear is near
Ah the curiosity of lachrymosity
Why am I starting to cry?
(cos I'm an emotional guy)
Rian.. not a dyslexic downpour
Spelt in a svelte refrain
Celt strain for sure
On your final day
Wanted to say farewell
Wish you all the best
In a pure heartfelt way
Puff out your chest
Quick to jest ..got the zest
For the fest that's life's quest
After 18 years..plenty of tears..many are bereft
The lad has left home.. off to roam
Poor old Grandad Geoff
Cheers mate.. of course beers
Down your gullet…with your peers
Not being a dull fuddy-duddy
But won't ruddy cull it
Annul it…or cut it
Just says shut it
Even as we tut tut it
That bloody mullet!
Too cool or a fool at school…not being cruel..BMW’s rule
Joke not a poke… a bespoke top bloke
Now you’re not broke..have a toke.. but no coke
Vim & vigour..the trigger..a bigger digger ace
Don’t snigg** .. be a detractor
Your baby face…maybe could be an actor..
You are a shining light
Clearly got that X factor
Not a slight..not really that bright
Can't read or write
But not being trite
Rian will strive…jive & thrive
And boy...can he drive a tractor alright
Consider the (Dreaming) Birds
By Mark D. Stucky
Jesus told us to consider the birds of the air.
I have pondered parakeets (budgies) in a cage
routinely performing what seems impossible.
No, not flying. (They fly rather poorly.)
It’s the posture they keep as they sleep.
Usually before closing their eyes,
they puff out their colorful feathers,
precariously balance on just one slender leg,
twist their heads halfway around,
and nestle their beaks under the backs of their wings.
How can they do that? Why would they want to?
No human could hold such an improbable pose,
not even in yoga, let alone while dreaming.
I’ve puzzled over those tiny amazing acts
that birds do daily with little thought
and no explanation of their motives to me.
Although I can’t replicate their strange stance,
to those tiny birds, I am godlike.
They periodically chirp loud petitionary prayers
for me to give them this day their daily birdseed.
But omnipotent and omniscient I’m clearly not.
Those winged unlikely wonders mystify me.
Perhaps if I could enter their caged existence
and take on the feathered form of a fellow bird,
they would softly warble their secrets to me,
and I to them.
I treasure miniature miracles in implausible places.
And if a fluff of feathers can perform such wonders,
surely the God of the universe
can go bigger and better,
can fling a star-like light across Bethlehem’s sky,
can create conception in a virgin by divine in vitro,
can take on flesh in our own featherless form,
and can croon to us heavenly dreams.
(First published in Small Town Anthology VI: Entries from the Sixth Annual Tournament of Writers, Vicksburg Cultural Arts Center, 2020, pp. 38-39. See also my poems “Quantum Theology” and “Journey of a Contemporary Joseph.”)
(Photo by garten-gg on Pixabay.)