Long Reminiscent Poems
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Upon making
the treacherous
undertaking optimal
poetic theme to write
dangerous, and
arduous foray into
spooky catacomb, I in vite,
where fear doth
dill liver worst
trek to our mailbox tonight
risking life and limb
at very right
angled turn
summoning em mon ent
mettle pluck quite
for quotidian plight,
asper hiding unseen creatures
sealed in dark shadows
along the edge of night
way after deep
into nighttime hours,
I cautiously slink
with steely might
thru barely adequate light
even for this healthy
as an ox good knight
relying on a Jack o'lantern
designed jacklight
with superb vision,
and supreme insight
steadily held above
mine five feet and
ten inches average height
espy spilling thru underneath
securely eye
booked deal lee shut tight
locked heavy metal doors,
a faint glimmer
sans gaslight
possibly from blaring,
flashing, and placating
television screen se
essentially keeping curmudgeonly
aged residents company,
while reminiscent nostalgic
"FAKE" memories take flight
as such wistful
foregone reflections
upon the gift of
a watermelon pickle excite,
viz the cobwebbed
whirled wide
give "tearful", though
pained years gone by
blinkered back teary delight
a hermetically sealed story,
one will never
get ghost written, nor
affixed with a copyright
depressingly clamped
down inescapable
emotionally stagnating
autobiographical blight.
A former slender man (lapsed Unitarian anorexic)...
deplores adipose tissue gain
No Holiday music can soothe savage beast
washboard abdomen weight watcher's dream fleeced
skinny bag of lovely bones permanently leased
body snatcher somewhere amidst policed
madding crowd of carolers singing,
where mine sinking spirits ceased
rising today December 18th, 2020
analogous how unleavened bread
(i.e. matzo) lacks yeast.
I loathe shucking clothes,
(no matter eyes severely myopic)
in preparation for here goes
another warm shower quickly
relaxing this senescent
body ready to doze
soon after lathering
this blubbery body
most unwanted fat grows
on me, no matter healthy diet
of worms, or how I stand,
not so easy (Etsy) as add a pose
zing losing battle – Mary Jo's
if and geeze us of bulge ill flattering
particularly quiverly, sans white
"WALL" tire tread fully goes
steely belted around lower
abdominal area like lava floes
siring unsightly expose
yore squishy Jew dish priestly
punchy, plasma paunchy, gristly...
pillow like marshmallows
fittingly, rotundly soundly
identical with other schlep
tin (tin tabulation) grungy hobos,
this lap pissed lard (lord) Who Lee
bemoaning, how ilk readily knows,
where unwanted bulky flab...
most detested - hence Corp Yule Lance
leaves noth thin to noblesse oblige,
know bull eats obese,
anorexia nervosa or chance
barking out orders reminiscent, when he
hapt tubby a caller wannabe at
weekly square and/or contra dance,
now requisitioned to insulate
and excessively enhance
body electric can be mushed
into likeness of fleshy France
or repurposed into expanse
resembling any country,
whose name Kants
be easily pronounced, and historical
events glommed together recognizable
as Ataturk with a lance
bequeathed to rule World advance
sing gluttony as his divine providence,
thus requires deep dish allegiance
(non - fiber - binding contract)
for eats and make decadent
every fleshpot gourmand
stretching consumer cellular
skein to capacitance
bestowing guaranteed deliverance
with their rolling
ballooning massive circumference
into orbit with Earthly moon officiant
eternal fondue irrelevance!
(a poem in Senryus)
They say that you should
never follow whisky with
beer - but my new rhyme
is - never follow
several martinis with
two more martinis
Ladies, please take my
advice, you can’t focus your
eyes in the morning
When your roommates rude
little sister runs the loud
vacuum around noon
Who gets up before
noon in the summer? It’s not
right, if you ask me.
“Mom told me too?” That’s
an excuse reminiscent
of old Nuremberg
I have feels for her
as encumbered as she is
by parental yoke.
.
.
A song for this (please play it low):
Hangovers with You by Big B & Dirty Heads Rock
This old quilt lies across the bed, the one we shared for so many years.
Each stitch lovingly made with the old-time craft once taught to you.
This pink stitch enfolds me now, in a memory of the fires,
the one built on the hearth and the other on the heart.
love traces each step
records in timeless pattern ~
double wedding ring
This old quilt remains an exquisite reminder of those moments, the years
of happiness marching in sequenced stitch, hand in hand. Yes,
here the yellow stitch binds the two who basked in afterglow
when dim or bright, lighting the days and comforting the nights.
this day is the best
ever in our hearts and souls ~
to have and to hold
Years spent watching you skillfully count the moments in caring hands
that carried us through good and bad, grief and loss, joy and pain.
Countless hours making life bearable and believable stand out
in blue on this old quilt, reminiscent of our life, always sharing, always together.
for all the good times
staying strong thoughout the bad ~
always lovey dovey
Your hands are now still and the counting has ended those memories,
but this old quilt that still lies across the bed, begging I look past
tatters and stains from old age and much comfort to see the future
as bright as when each lavender stitch was lovingly placed there.
always in my heart
this old quilt remains as I do ~
forever yours
"life goes on...even though our hopes are crushed...
leave their dreams to the dream catchers" (By Poet)
inhaled alluring fragrance floating around me ~
imbibed radiance of the gleaming red roses
gradually those roses losing their enchanting sheen,
their unique lustre and hue diminishing, some dried,
parched petals already hopelessly crumbled on the hard floor,
fading, shrivelling, drooping, descending.
my heart aching mournfully to see them decline and fall,
who can stop the inevitable...one by one...those flowers
will lose their shimmering petals, painfully reminiscent
of the decay of a sublime beauty - cruelly discarded.
life goes on...even though our hopes are crushed,
even though a few flowers, which could have fully bloomed
and enchanted the world... fall and perish.
they leave their dreams to the dream catchers
to be cherished…
October 10, 2021
Inspired by "Let's Mix It Up" Poetry Contest
Two lines Of Unrhymed Couplet (12 syllables each)
Eight lines of Unrhymed Free Verse (Imagism)
One Stanza Of Unrhymed Free Verse
Sponsor: Constance La France
SECOND PLACE
For Strand - 1059 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Brian Strand
FIRST PLACE
Boundless and limitless in depth,
the deep blue sea is at rest
A continuum of ebbs and flows,
easing without cause,
never ceases to gain only pause.
Then currents arise from movements below,
tranquility disturbed for a new show.
Crashing waves sending water into the sky,
every crescendo, begs to know why.
Droplets appear in desperation,
was this only due to life’s separation..
Bright beams of light break into view,
seems vaguely familiar,
somehow not new.
Now the journey seems all too reminiscent,
as the cresting comes to its ultimate end.
Droplets reunite with its founder,
completing its journey from down under.
Boundless and limitless in depth,
the deep blue sea is at rest.
A continuum of ebbs and flows,
easing without cause,
never ceases to gain only pause.
Some days I'd carve a mirror of my own.
Though sometimes
There are such days,
Where I might render a judgment,
Just so I could instill my heart cold.
The intentional shivers I conjure myself to,
To put a pause on my marbling of others,
And mar on myself instead.
Oh, Apparition that condescends in a distance,
A reminiscent yet elusive doppelganger of my sort,
Slumberously mirroring my every gesture and emotion of thought,
Yet slipping out a totally different whisper altogether.
Like a soft spoken murmur drooling out,
Sung from and out of me,
But redirected at me and for me.
An asking to listen more while fidgeting less,
As a pumpkin slowly nestles on my lap.
Strange that it'd bewilder me,
The sight of a bittersweet pumpkin.
Castrated calmly beneath my fingers,
Yet warming up in an oven of its own.
The guns expelled their thunder
Their smoke has long since gone
The blood-soaked ground they caused
The rain erased thereon
Survivors’ horrid memories
Breed reminiscent tears
Man-made causes of the conflict
Fade o’er ensuing years
The Madmen who create them
Are those who never fight
The Lives of those who died That Day
Lost their futures’ right
To parent future engineers
And doctors who’d find more cures
Or scientists’ future breakthroughs
So Mother Nature can endure.
So, still we adhere to Madmen who
Lead us down the path
To destiny’s inevitable finality:
Politically destructive wrath
The sledding and the skating in ‘63;
the sugar cookies frosted green and red;
the stringing popcorn with my family
and going anxiously that Eve to bed.
The gift exchange when relatives would meet.
Some traveled far to Grandma's little town.
The feast and seeing cousins such a treat!
We stayed and played until the sun went down.
The program at our church where all took part.
Our flock was small but talent did not lack.
The joyous songs; before we would depart ;
the glorious sweets dispensed from Santa's sack!
No holiday to come could be as dear
as when I was a child in my eighth year!
For the "Christmas Past, Present or Future" Poetry contest of Kelly Deschler
(This was also the year my mother met my stepdad and we became a family of 9 instead of 5. A standout year, but also reminiscent of many of my childhood years at Christmas time in Iowa. With so many dear relatives now passed on, the past would be my time I would choose to revisit.)
I sit by the slipping sun along glistening shores that stun
Where my soul melts with age and gratitude
Languidly drowning in depths of sanctity and devotion
In the reminiscent ocean of its content and latitude
Such as this in the heat of the afternoon sun
Slowly dripping into the western sea-sky
With the fullness of its scope and splendor
Touching my eyes that ponder and wonder "Who am I?"
Within this point of light where my heart surrenders
To be as this in the heat of the afternoon sun that dies?
And as the warmth fades from view and is done
Surging oceans of memories swell like waves before me
Then part away like darting seabirds high in their run
As my heart is released still burning with synergy
Such as this in the heat of the afternoon sun
April 16, 2020
Slipping Soul Sunsets Into the Sea Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Chantelle Anne Cooke