Long Revisits Poems
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Written: August 5, 2026, for a contest by Brian Strand
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Artist Synopsis: Inspired by Edvard Munch, this ekphrastic work explores "The Sick Child," depicting a mother at her bedridden daughter's bedside.
her pallor smolders with fever
ethereal star ensnared
flickering amidst orbs
in hospital harsh haunted husk
her mother's vigil-worn hands
charting the astral lattice
each breath a star-shivered
seraphic benison—
soft-spun in starry status
ceiling cannot c o n s o l e
painter stands at the threshold
brush astral-shivered presciently
nebula silhouette of imminence
his sister's silence
moon-murmur mantled in mind mist
mother ministering miasma
mirrored in her mute mothering
blue room breathes its borrowed time—
but no hours borne in benediction
but layers brittle... blooming...
memory manifold memory
until astral air—
harbors hard-to-handle hazy halo
painter revisits bedside vigil
consecrating grief in cobalt
then cerulean
then ultramarine,
until silence found its color—
until blue could bear
what blood could not
child tilts toward our blue hush
pale as fledgling frostlight
her gaze a frail... flickering... frontier
fetching farewell & forever
between earth and art
behind her... mother bends
like a prayer half-remembered—
pale benediction blooming in the blue hush
everything falling—
time... breath... hope...
blooming downward
like frost-born f e a t h e r s
this is how grief becomes light—
not healed... nor forgiven...
but given enduring form,
a luminous presence
that outlives the hour
outlives its own pale hush
blue room bears witness
bright with buried breath
bereavement becomes blessing
& flame forbids forgetting
a fathomless... fire-forged haven
where ephemeral... evanescent eternity
embarked on an eternal expedition
summoned silently... sketched in stillness...
where silence
found its forever in g l o w
My time of promise,
before mistrust of parents
settled into growing fear
and grief into angry disappointment
Began with a visit
from a GreatHorned Owl
dying on our barbed wire fence
Announcing she would go before
but return for my time
to follow heaven's departed promise.
But, my father responds,
Only straight humans sing in white evangelical Heaven,
And this planted my seed of doubt
A cosmic point
in bitter anticipation
of further adult atrocities to follow
in imaged flight
From this brief encounter
with natural and spiritual wings
I gradually developed internal witness:
If not ecologically necessary,
then not yet theologically sufficient.
Now,
still breathing,
singing and dancing,
beyond all reasonable health risks
of my own environmental history
in a new barbed millennium,
on the cusp of 2020 EarthJustice
left and right winged co-revision,
Heaven's great-returned owl
revisits in near nightly dreams
Inviting me, and us,
to set aside anger,
to grab hold of more compassion
ego/eco-therapeutic communion
communication
Inclusion in Heaven's climatic winning
ecologically wise theologies,
long incubating Rapture--
safe flight home.
The curtain hangs half-open, welcoming daybreak.
Outside—a rooster screams the day open, reciting yesternight’s moans.
A lizard on my window nods, as if he knows our sins.
He’s seen lovers before—
& he knows fire does not forgive the log it loves.
The sheets lie still, like elders sipping a story
too sacred for the young.
Your scent kneels in the unholy authority of my room,
like a prayer mat after dawn.
It refuses to leave, for it knows—
last night, like others, had no long-term goal.
My mind revisits episodes of last night,
like two birds wrestling in a cloud.
Our wings were tied by the string of want.
One fell; the other followed on top,
because even falling can be fellowship.
My ex once said silence grows teeth
when you keep feeding it memory.
So my teeth reach into Jericho,
before you whispered,
“don’t wake the river inside me—
it still dreams of rain.”
But I was already drifting,
too far for salvation,
as I stared at Jericho like an open wound
that refuses to bleed.
You moaned for morning glory,
and the security dog barked—a note of disbelief.
Somewhere, the sun began to burn the world.
But in here, my lust turned into bread—
you, the yeast.
Each second hammered in like a clout nail
into the dark and quiet.
This river will never forget
this mouth that drank from it.
In the middle of my own weather,
I paused—watching raindrops that never touched the ground.
I’m done, and tired.
Even wisdom grows weary of being right.
My pillow has folded itself
into the shape of your head,
writing the psalms of this event.
The day yawns wide,
as if to say softly: you are a fool of warmth.
I press my lips to the cup you used.
It is cold now.
The taste of coffee and presence
sits at the bottom like truth—
truth that I am a fool of warmth.
(Taking headlines from October 1964,
the poem revisits our shared experience ...)
Monday 5: Fifty-Four East Germans Tunnel to Freedom
Back then, it was not in doubt,
(Richard Burton Tony Quinn):
the Wall was there to keep us out?
No – built, in fact, to keep them in.
Thursday 8: Beatles Release “She’s a Woman”
My love don’t give me presents.
East is east and west is west –
Ringo passed his driving test –
Blofeld looks like Donald Pleasence.
Monday 12: The Moog Synthesizer Makes Its Debut
It’s fantastic! It’s so new!
Music made in outer space!
Now we’ll win the missile race!
How we love you, Doctor … Who?
Wednesday 14: Martin Luther King Awarded Nobel Peace Prize
Hypatia, Gandhi, Jesus Christ
and Socrates … he was that good:
and just like them, he knew he would
so very soon be sacrificed.
Wednesday 14: Khrushchev Deposed
Now, here’s a man who really tried.
It’s thanks to him, that Cuba fright
didn’t end in Nuclear Night.
Reward? His thugs brush him aside.
Wednesday 21: My Fair Lady Film Premiere
Can a statue have a heart?
Can what’s vulgar morph to art?
Entertainment as idea?
Tin Pan Alley’s Galatea.
Monday 26: Eric Edgar Cooke Executed, Western Australia
Cleft palate, hare lip.
Bullied here, bullied there.
Mumbling moron, bloody crip.
Then they hang him. Life ain’t fair.
Thursday 29: Audacious Diamond Robbery in New York
Banner headlines in the papers.
Daring crimes, coolest capers.
They’re classy crooks, they’ll fence their loot
in Buenos Aires, or Beirut.
(In the real world, how'd it go?
Look at 31 below.)
Saturday 31: Lyndon Johnson Proclaims the Great Society
Nothing novel, or unique:
his vision was for Uncle Sam
to help the luckless, tend the weak.
One word destroyed him. Vietnam.
Saturday 31: New York Diamond Robbers Caught
Tiffany studs? More Studs L. Terkel.
One rock alone, a hundred grams,
Murph the Surf’s men on the lam:
they didn’t make Columbus Circle.
Saturday 31: Goose Kills Astronaut
Theo Freeman was his name,
test-pilot/astronaut his game.
Ejector seats are not much use
against a full-grown Galveston goose.
I generally mean mine mien mental state
moost occasions heavily marinated stupor
long established as external trait
psychologically time tested trooper
impossible mission to kickstart sanity
doppelgänger regularly revisits his soul asylum
hellbent antimatter he cannot vitiate
despite therapeutic laxative merely exhausts
well bred literate smoking doobie brother
eliminating aforementioned pablum
witnessed courtesy one floundering grouper
among plenty of fish schooled
hyphenated (high finned haggled)
burn hushed scaled poem
courtesy one unionised rebellious party pooper.
Spellbound with colossal mental grippe
(i.e. all-consuming figurative cerebral
obsessive compulsive forced membership)
magnetic resonance imagine indicated jagged blip
and/or nsync microscopy
showed telltale genetic authorship
regarding above stated mental health crisis,
whereby Sigmund Freud analyst did flip
lid freeing leeches imported courtesy Philip
Hansel and Gretel a mere slip
o' lass whose nose she always did turnip.
The name
mistakenly saintly,
the other one
a rite-of-life,
a gauche passage
for some, for most
the contract costly,
imprints its meaning
post firey baptismal dive
to rise again somehow
from each our own
calamities, the personal
cataclysm we confront
or shun in a parallel life
of optimism, there each one
observes what was and lingers
to kiss the font of the child
within every one, each their own
version of the meaning
of catechism,
forgotten by most,
yet a lingering malaise
swims in their waking,
a sense of de je vu,
these are the incorrigible
pushing the envelope,
the timestamp licked
and mailed off
to other voices
that do not speak,
that do not arrive
through lips, yet
open sleeping minds
and hold the eyelids
to peer directly into
and through to meet
that thing that powers
the brain within,
to shine its glistening
luminescence, one
senses that thing
which is forgotten within,
is commissioned
to win the race of life,
and lose and then,
win again -
the losses mailed off
in worldly corrupted
creative ways, didactic,
where one revisits
as a dark shadow,
standing with all
those other
dark shadows,
frankly contemplating
conversion, and the
salt-strewn stinging
many paths of logic
through those
illogical clues
breadcrumbed
by all those
other shadows,
the eternal puzzle
of understanding
the life viewed standing
under lamplight;
in the disillusioned
poetic world,
we must forever
cultivate our garden,
that never-ending dream;
all is for the best, romantic
cliches and adventures,
falls and risings;
for those who think
they are normal
and above it all,
above the others -
all is never normal,
all is as it should be,
all is for the best,
we stumble and we fall,
some stay where they are,
others get up again and again;
all is as it should be,
all is for the best,
ou l'Optimisme,
Candide
a muse
amused
Candide,
all is as it should be
all is for the best
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Kiss by the Passing Breeze of Awakening
Dust of divine whimsy
Flutters softly on unconscious cheeks
With ephemeral dawning
Fleeting like the flash of silver sandals
In moonlight - here then hidden -
Stepping out of the opaque
Soul stirring from oblivious daydreams
Stepping into moments of classical
Lavender-rose moments.
The leaven of breezes in stardust essence
Flares in lambent clarity
Caches of chimera, that drain the heartbeat,
Shrivel in bursts of cheeky shooting stars.
Aroused from the depths of sleepwalking,
Grace notes float on rose scents
Harvested in potpourris for strangled screams
Scrambling through midnight fogs,
Sentience revisits in soft swirls
Awareness, roused by reveille,
Stirs caressed codas in soft preludes,
Awakes in fresh mindful raptures
Nurtured by a passing angel kiss.
Who is that brave and noble one I have heard so much about? I saw you standing right next to him in a newspaper report about him. Do you know his agenda, his intentions, and his mission? Where is he, from where did he ascend, and to where is he going? I have heard that he fears neither man nor beast, but has great respect for 'Laws'. Clouds of doom, fear, and gloom hang over our world. So take me to your leader.
I sense that the quest for unity of the 'citizens of the world' is abolishing 'Soveignties'. May our prayers ascend to heaven and may God free us from so many inequities, boiling pots of greed, overflowing pools of political corruption, debaucheries that permeate the atmosphere, and human behavior that's becoming too toxic for habitation. One sign of a good man is that he views constitutions and laws as instruments of sacredness. Evil men loathe laws, and perceiving them as restrictive, change or abolish them at will. I would be so honored to meet and dine with a good man or woman.
So please take me to your leader.
There is so much I need to know about him. So I hope that you have not been sworn to secrecy. He gives all appearance of a giant of a man who longs to be at peace. I have heard that he believes in freedom, justice, and prosperity for all. I have heard he's a good seed, has no greed, and cannot be bought or sold. I have heard that you are close to him, giving him counsel and godly wisdom. It is said of him that he bravely revisits history without becoming a revisionist. The future shall be paved with those who are unafraid of neither today nor yesterday. It seems our world is spent and spineless, and in such demand for true leadership. So take me to your leader.
You are a dear friend of mine, kind and true. So I beg of you, take me to your leader. He need not be grandiose or a wearer of haloes, nor superhuman or unusually charismatic. He need not raise the dead nor walk on water, but perhaps he knows the one who does. Perhaps his ears, eyes, and heart are opened to genuineness and tightly closed to hypocrisy. Perhaps he holds secrets whose revealing time has come, so please take me to your leader.
08042018PSContest, Take Me To Your Leader, Caren Krutsinger, 1stPl.
We noticed her at the feeder…hovering…and humming…she does not tweet
a hummingbird in October….attentively watching all the other birds eat.
So we put out our hummingbird feeder which immediately made its mark
because that hummingbird perched down to eat…and was as happy as a lark.
“Hey hummingbird!” we asked. “Why is you didn’t go
with all the other hummingbirds…down to Mexico?”
“My wings would get tired.” She said. “That whole migration thing gets old.
Besides I’m happen to be one hummingbird who simply loves the cold.”
“But how will you keep warm,” We asked, “those nights when it’s cold out there?”
“It’s called torpor.” The hummingbird smiled.
“A little something I picked up from the bears”.
“But what will you find to eat when it starts to snow?”
The hummingbird smiled again…I know where all the winter flowers grow.”
I have no trouble eating…I always get my fill
from the jasmine, snowdrops, the winter rose…the iris’s and the daffodils.”
And I am very aware when I’m flying all about
knowing which family’s like yours…keep their winter feeders out.”
We spoke with this hummingbird until she was full…then she happily flew away
and I’m happy to report she’s revisits us every day….
She comes back to our hummingbird feeder to help ward off her starvation
to visit for a while…and for some stimulating conversation.
What a wonderful surprise this year- both Deborah and I agree
something we didn’t expect to see…in October in N.C.
We didn’t know there’d be so much to learn…so much to behold
from the beak of one tiny hummingbird
who….simply…loves the cold.
Our current situation,
in the evolution of our species,
is one in which the ego has forgotten its true role in the psyche
and has usurped the role of central regulator. Carl Jung
Sometimes the best gift you can give yourself
is to forgive yourself
for not thinking and feeling and acting
like your healthiest self
on your best day.
Set yourself down in an empty therapy chair,
but keep your interdependent biosystem dancing,
choose your words to yourself kindly
with active curiosity
as your body reminds
rewinds
revisits
remembers
your listening empty-chaired mind
I'm exhausted by your confusion
about what you would actually need
to be healthy
and what you think you should want
to feel better about your lack of integrity
lack of compassion
lack of self-and-other-respect
lack of curiosity
and maybe something like
lack of reverence for life,
too much severance
from considering the probabilities
of a feeling-wealthy death.
I want to be free of your insatiable craving
to be appreciated
even by those you don't appreciate,
to be recognized
even by those you don't know,
and adored
despite your incapacity to feel adoration.
Why do you wander off
and leave me neglected
malnourished
dehydrated
bereft
uncared for
unappreciated
uncelebrated
unadored
neglected,
verbally abused?
So, please share with me,
what do you feel you personally need
as informed by your own past experience
on your best trauma-free day
doing your physical
and mental
and political
and economic
and social
and environmental
healthy
loving kindness best?