Long Remembrances Poems
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He was happy
Finally
He had made a clean break
A Clean
BREAK
He could start over
With the past behind him
Free
He inhaled deeply
The air was fresh
The sky was clear
Everything seemed in focus
Bright
A new start
New adventures waited
New dreams
New people to meet
A new love
Ah…..
What could compare
To the freshness
The excitement
The burning desire
The consuming craving to taste
A new love
Yes, he’d made a clean break
Euphoric
Somewhere
In a room entombed
With the staleness of yesterday
Still lingering
Was a woman
With a clean break
From the top of her heart
Right down to the bottom
Clean
No perhaps and what if's
Clean
No hopes or promises
Clean
No remembrances or dreams
A clean break
A heart broken
From top to bottom
Two broken halves
One broken soul
A clean break
He had made a clean break
Of her heart….
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Airless Man Caves
by Odin Roark
We love to beat ourselves up.
We venture out from our cavern of dread
to once again feel the frustration of looking
for that special dance partner
in an empty ballroom,
our sanity always on the verge of…
Yes, that’s what we do.
We look for a finite connection,
for the single answer
to suffering’s multiple questions.
How adolescent our bravura
as we trust the armor
fortifying our exposed heart
to always fend off
any conspiratorial emotions,
buried childhood remembrances,
parental battles with each other and you.
How real-time naive we remain,
conceptualizing happiness
without a willingness to pay a personal price,
a real experience beyond the concept of love,
where we learn full enjoyment of pleasure
is bundled expertly with experienced pain.
We wonder how our heart can be aflame,
but never open because starting fires
is the only passion we understand.
Or…
Upon losing ourselves in the excitement,
the euphoric possibility that “this is it,”
we continue avoiding the first glimpse
of our inherent and delicate vulnerability,
the tripping lever that sends us packing.
How persistent the obsession,
our battling the dread of intimacy
while remaining infatuated with possibilities,
rejecting reality that commitment
requires acceptance of an end game.
But, oh how seductive the rear-view mirror,
that ever present tool of caution,
ever ready to warn us of danger,
only to be ignored in the heat
of our high-speed commitment
to self-rage.
Our crash and burn habit
is often the only way
to chalk up another entry,
into our victimization syndrome.
For we create the same arrogant bluster
over and over,
allowing frustration to turn into anger
into self-loathing,
into sucking all the oxygen
out of our man-cave.
There is another alternative, however…
Step outside our cave of conceit.
Avoid the suffocation of false pride.
Take a deep breath of what’s beyond just us.
Epiphanies await the courageous.
While I love having my thoughts and remembrances of you
And my feelings do run deep and are honest and true
I wish I could have my moments of you with no pain
But the hurt is always there everyday still the same
My love sometimes does fall like rain
My mind and heart keep pounding out your name
You are there in all I say or do
Wondering of what i said to you will ever completely get through
I guess that it has to be this way
And I suppose this morbid pain is the price I must pay
For not speaking those words sooner that I needed to say
Then for stupidly walking away
The memories for now are the only way I can have you
In order to have one I have to take the other, this is what I must do
However with all the hurt, pain, and sorrow
I'll still be here thinking about my remembrances of you come tomorrow
A cacophony of sounds fills the air.
Bodhrans beat and the jukebox screams.
Flutes and fiddles mingle in a mad race
overpowering, the drone
of drunken revelers in the back room.
Daddy’s darling bounces upon his knee
wreathed in a smile rivaling the brightest sun.
Dinners play their spoons and dash their knuckles,
upon the hard black stained surface of oak tables.
Toes tapp, muffled upon carpet-covered flooring
and Guinness flows, frothy, dark, and thick,
cascading, from brass spigots, lubricating the tenor's pipes.
And in the dim, buttery warmth of candlelight
the accordion wails as Old Aunt Tillie dances.
Preface
I can think of no poet in history
Who wrote of things in his house
as then dubbed it "poetry?"
I think the Bard, would roll on the
floor,
Howling madly...."no more, no more"
And, I~being poetically vain,
I went outside first to howl in the rain?
Muses forgive me for laughing loudly.
please, so here I go, on my knees,
~~~~The Brown Hutcb~~~~~
Regal in the corner she stands.
Contents of remembrances on her hands.
A ceramic Madonna in pink robe
Crystal cocktail glasses speckled in gold.
A dance card from my High School days.
Oh, muses!
Am feeling a case of poetic malaise.
My humor is getting the best of me..
Laughing at myself for doing this.-))
Better grab a hunk of amethyst!!
5/13/2019
Noon..PST
ubiquitous in sounds and silences
constancy its own enchanting entity
the ebb and flow of nurtured routine
vibrates a pulse intimately familiar
seasoned in delicate grooves and patterns
the formality of most minute rituals
afloat bathing in delightful energies
peppered potential for adventure
the rhythm sweet in its harmonics
adrift in hazy foggy remembrances
ripple effect through a morning daze
the day slowly morphing into focus
shapes and sounds swirling
knock at the door of suspended reality
the gently waking from a drowse
come in ~ i want to hesitate
float idle in suspended oscillation
if only for a few more treasured moments
Published in my 24-page photo/anthology ~MINDFULLY~ 2021
AP: 2nd place 2021, Honorable Mention 2021
She’s no longer here…but I like to keep her near
because that’s what children do
So when I have the time…sometimes in poem…sometimes in rhyme
I like to relive a memory…or two
Like how she always found a way…at least a little every day
to be patient, kind-hearted…nice
How all the time that she was living she could be so darn forgiving
How she lived a life of love and sacrifice.
Like how she loved to read a book…boy how she could cook
How she was not afraid to weep
how she would at no time partake of that final piece of cake
and I always wondered…when did she find the time to sleep?
How she jumped at every chance…to sing, to laugh to dance
If there was a stain upon on the floor then she would clean it.
How when I’d berate her…or told her how I hate her
She knew deep in her heart…I didn’t mean it
How she bought my new clothes first…I never reimbursed
yet, somehow, she was never out of style
And what about those nights…when I’d wake up in a fright
how she could erase a bad dream with just her smile.
She treated my friends old or new like they were family too
She seemed to make the whole world bright
And when things started to look bad…when I was hurting…feeling sad
She brought color to my world of black and white.
How her impact never died…she continues today to guide
my heart, my soul, my world and how I view it.
I hope she understood there were…so many times that I looked up to her
but in my heart and soul…I’m pretty sure she knew it.
Despite the fact she’s gone…I could go on and on
and I will when I am by myself…alone
But I’m sure each one of you have your remembrances too
so I’ll leave room now…for memories of your own:
Footsteps in the house? There shouldn't be,
not now, I've been alone so long.
Paw prints on the carpet? I don't know why,
the pups crossed the rainbow bridge so long ago.
Baby steps on the hardwood? I think not,
the kids are grown, grandkids grown
no little ones here for so long now.
Running, laughing, steps on the stairs? A
game of hide and seek? No children here,
and the house is one story, no steps here,
haven't had a two-story for oh so long.
The sounds get louder, the noise is deafening,
I close my eyes and see them all clearly
as I float, seeing my life, and I smile,
as they cry.
"Are they going to take him off life support?"
I heard my middle daughter whisper with burden.
In a silenced gasp of terror,
I knew I was the subject matter.
A doctor's prognosis, in layman's terms:
damage irreparable, vegetative state expected.
I wrestled with my failed act of will to peal
open my eyelids, to motion that I'm still here,
living in mystery of the sight around me,
but still able to hear, still able to sense.
In blurs and slurs, I saw remembrances
of faces and places half fabricated, like in dreams.
Awake or asleep? --- I knew little difference.
I could hear each footstep coming toward me
and shuffling away.
I could sense someone's presence
by a muffled dose of warmth and light.
As I heard my pastor praying,
I embraced each word with the only hug I could give,
one internal, one becoming eternal.
As scripture dripped over my thirsty soul,
I fervently prayed for each precious visitor,
who would lament my impending absence.
Like an infant's babbles trapped within,
with inutterances now incomprehensible
even to myself, I began to fade
into an opening of light-flickering glimpses
piercing through the doom.
As I slipped off into the distance,
a redemptive mystery began seeping through,
ready to free me from my ebony prison.
Window Teacher
by Odin Roark
As teacher
She was petite
Unassuming
Framed in layered paint
No make-up on her
Save occasional steam facials
Winter cold
Apartment hot
Patiently she granted access
Permitting learning through her
Worn but faithful eyes
Rectangular lenses
Forever dilated for 24/7 study
Across the street
Other windows
Same opportunity
Different lessons
Pulled blinds
Hiding fear
Glass with cracks
Glass turned cardboard
Innocent children
Faces of confusion
Above the street
Pigeon-lined roofs
Poised like sentinels
Destiny marking time
Standing guard
Here yesterday
Today
Tomorrow
Below the street
Tunnel-sounds of motion
Fathers
Mothers
Singles
Junkies
Suits
All riding to anywhere
But here
Down on the street
Few pedestrians
Some exploring a dumpster’s overflow
Dollar Store breakage
Bodega fast-food wrappings
Liquor store sadness
Nighttime festivities of the block
Broken bottles as glitter
Wet and dry
Dead or alive
Kicked
Smashed
Stacked
Bagged
Forgotten garbage
A growing city’s collateral damage
Beneath my building
Express train speeding
Rattling eyes of my teacher
Time for school
Real school
The kind only un-papered immigrants know
Learning what textbooks cannot teach
For you have to be blessed
With a window like mine
The glassed portal to what harsh reality
Bestows on many
Here where there is no graduation
No cap and gown celebration
Or Mom and dad accolades
No sweetheart promises forever
Only survival
And for the window-school drop outs…
A future of smaller classrooms
The kind with no willing and generous
Window teachers
The kind with bars to the outside
Where all the garbage walks the yard
Where subway vibrations become
Steel Sliding
Locking doors
Torturous echoes
Before lights out
Memories become dreams
In these dark classrooms
Where fear laden eyes
Once behind windows to the outside
Now reside in solitary regret
To return to condensation on glass
As the only obstacle to learning
To be free of eyes forever moist and blurry
Clouding remembrances
Of the petite unassuming window
Framed in glorious layers of paint
Oh…if only to return