Long Risings Poems
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The sun rose this morning,
Some extra red --
I attribute that to atmospheric dust -- man a manic
Bulk-polluter – taking some personal blame
Last evening’s carousing did not serve A Higher Purpose.
Blank nights prone to bleed into equally unremarkable days –
Since your abrupt departure each dawn has
Become a perverse mirror of profound absence --
Bath and shave, check for new wrinkles, and missing parts
If poor maintenance an occasional inventory of animate sensibilities
Is a wise unscheduled meditation --
Cycles of nameless risings and numberless sets --
Beloved day-launches and warmth of after dusk glitters we shared
Till your guardian Angel took a vacation...or her jealous nature tragically revealed.
Fate and Faith, Worship Therapy mean little to a suffering human heart….
Harken...those hollowing drums
Over cold vales so beat,
Exhorting a multitude of glistening
Star-tipped spears,
As marching over shattered landscapes
In shinning replete:
Crunch Artumes eternal legions
Across the snow bound years.
Casting down from the mauve
And cloudless heights
The pale witch broods upon her dark
runes;
Chilled breath steaming mutterings
Of meddling spite,
Uttered under Luna risings
Of half waxen moons.
Repulsed from the presence
Of the holy alters sacred glow,
That cuts like a torch
Across Yules Feast of Lights,
She incants of harsh Boreas
To relent his fierce blowes:
Raising high her crystal towers
To breach the walls of stilled night.
Tis now, away from cheery hearths
And the warm fires they keep,
That warring frost tightens
Upon this hardened land;
Happily sated people
Turn in contented sleep;
Motionless vapours are crushed
In the grip of an iron clad hand.
For as the siege heightens
In relentless might
Heavens wheeling sentinels
Begin to slowly withdraw:
Retreating upon spiraling orbits
Fading from diminishing sight;
Ghostly armies embarking
For far frozen shores.
Loosen now the silver longships,
Afloat on tides of drawing moonlight,
For the Red Goddess slumbers
In deep canyons to the west;
Artumes armies sailing
Into grey dawns fleeting respite...
Awaken... Oh Glorious Aurora...
Scattering your foes -
Before Sunrises conquest!!
The delicious odor of home-baked bread
instantly takes me to mum's kitchen door,
I'm in heaven, though not a word is said.
Kneading the dough, she'd punch it down once more,
calling for three risings, she'd give it four.
I can never resist that fresh-baked smell,
just one whiff and once more, I'm a small boy,
there's no smell like it; I could always tell.
It's forever linked to a time of joy,
a nostalgic quirk, memories employ.
The instant its unique aromas waft
up my nostrils, with that heavenly scent,
I envision my mum's hugs, firm yet soft.
Going to the bakery's an event
that brings back flashes of mom's French accent.
(English- Quintain)
2/18/2018
** Devotion Poem, VANTAGE POINTS **
(For Jim. #17 in Devotion Poem Series)
“I’m not a romantic,”
you announced at the very beginning
With a side-flick of your hand
As if you might then stand
To exit…taking along your trail
Of cool colors — the blues and greens —
Too unwilling for any startling
By my sun yellows, tangerine oranges
Or my bleeding reds,
To disturb your eyes.
But committed to staying, you added,
“I’ve never been able to wink either,”
demonstrating that disability as if
To say, “At you, I would if I could.”
Hypotheses and proofs, have
always linked
In your engineer’s character,
While crayons and ongoing arrows
spread out through mine,
Which, like our colors,
I thought were complimentary,
But now it appears you
might have thought
were just me being childish
And not about any inspired creativity,
from the other side of the brain, so
Alien to the light-green violets
On your side of the color wheel:
Where the palette of intelligence
has formulae —
Not unpredictable outbursts
Or random integers of emotion.
Once, you held me like the first
Glimpsing of a winking Venus
in the dusk
Presenting to all
Her prelude of heaven’s lights
To continue on through the night…
But now, paddling deep in
an ocean of years,
I fear that you find me
Like a flicking bedside candle
Meddling in your wish to sleep…
While some galaxies
in my cosmos
Have darkened
With my own self-depreciation
and decline
So like
Those stars
and dreams that have gone aging.
But inside,
My sun’s risings and settings
Still glow blessed
With vibrant, surging color…
Wishing to be held by
your morning’s horizon-blue eyes.
———————————————————————-
(c) sally young eslinger 3/22
Thanks be to God
Place parsed pennies, purposely upon pretty porcelain palms.
The wanderer, restrained her raised ranting wrists!
She fell to her Humpty Dumpty position,
unable to ever be put back together again...
Each of us witnessed her fall,
yet we failed to gather those colourful leaves.
I believe we could have laid them at the base of her wall.
She sees the trees as he increases her diseases.
Deepening predatory penetrations as he pleases!
Cracking, fracking, hating, taking, and breaking.
Bringing about disappearing, as pain stains, her shamed awakening!
If we could have, would we have, mournfully watched?
Or instead, would we have held her wrists,
pulled at reddened panties, excruciated her sufferings?
Instead, we placated horrific tugged observations,
waited, pretended to see nothing,
drank our mocha-chino from starry cups!
we sat and licked our lips to the calming sound of muzak,
preferring voyeuristic aristocracy.
Oh how she cursed his kissing and biting,
the sucking of her Texan black gold!
All the while he praised her caged loins,
filling a billion barrels with her oil...
Until the time her flame set fire to his cursed wanting!
Until she summoned the winds from the east.
It was time to birth the spawn of his treachery.
Lava poured forth from mountainous risings!
He must suckle upon her displeasure,
until like creosol, his noxious presence,
combines with his own wasted wood.
Thus preserving his monumental failures,
encasing them within layers of his strangled death!
A voice called out from the West, "Where is the foolish man?
Who is left to sing about his great accomplishments?
His peculiar monuments have been laid to waste,
not a single brick remains in it's place."
No one is left to excavate the woeful forgotten.
She "Mother" seeps into the soil to reclaim his blood,
her womb is once again fertile.
She asks "Do we wish to begin again?"
The start of a great pause stings her ears!
She looks and understands,
"It is no longer good.”
There are recalls of blasting winds across my cheek.
It was during an 8 year tenure in the city by the bay.
Performance of my tasks required early morning risings,
and so many of those early mornings were also
captured, enveloped, and enriched by the fog
which was always accompanied by the fog horns,
and found me being blown by the winds off the Pacific.
Almost invariably, the sun burned off the fog by noon,
and I quickly came to realize that it was the way the city by
the bay would have its say. When we can anticipate the light
that will shine on the beautiful scenery that lies just ahead, we can
experience peace and our inner struggles and troubles begin to cease.
Neither high waters nor crocodiles can stop the migration of the wildebeests.
Rivers do not always know how their flow will be, or how many strong rapids
they will see, but the rivers will somehow find their way and run to the sea.* I tell you, they know where they are headed because they know where
they belong. Like the rivers and the wildebeests, I know that my destiny, my place of belonging, my celestial city, is just ahead. We may get harassed and hassled by many "things" along the way, but we must never cease running to the sea.
012121PS *Ecclesiastes 1:7
Breathe laden islands rise and fall beneath the lap
of crystalline water, a steam graced surface breached,
rosettes crest, their gently risings peaks to cap
mouthfuls of desire whose lower gate's lie unbreached.
Submerged beneath chest's hollow lies a navel fine
the round perfection of its form longs, for pointed tongue.
A sweeter base can't be found 'bove the water line
yet, men would gladly drown to go below hips clung.
Below, down deep, nectar bathes the pristine pearl,
and petals, rose-red gently part in delight.
The heat, the steam the bath, and the lovely girl
perhaps, perhaps, he thinks, we'll make of this a night.
Date: 3/6/13
At what point in life is one allowed to give up?
After how many falls and risings,
Do we give them a go-ahead to giving up?
In a land of verbal freedom and peace like this,
Where you and I belong as good citizens,
Workers are enslaved and exploited,
Made to work like donkeys and rewarded with bones like dogs;
Not by man of different origin and color and language,
But by man of a resemblance of all except DNA make-up!
In a country like this,
Hard economy; as difficult to get a coin as it is to get water in a desert,
Yet with an education system contrary to the needs of man,
With a high demand for money like a bottomless pit of hell.
In a world where they preach to people that education is life,
Only to be roasted dry by the scorching sun as they roam around looking for jobs.
As it rains,it falls mercilessly onto them with their documents,
This is when they remember that,once upon a time, they had dreams,
Dreams to be great people and make their parents proud,
And yet,here they are, not any different from the fauna in the parks.
At this point,isn't one supposed to let it go?
When man starts eating dust like the cursed serpent,
Is it not right for him to give up and try something better?
When that something better gets worse than this,
Is it not right for him to completely let it all aside?
Afterall,isn't life better than all these,
Prestige,good jobs, pretty children and beautiful families,
Large mansions like palaces, expensive rides like the president's;
Does breath not surpass all these?
These that perish and vanish in a blink of an eye,
Yet life, regardless of this all,continues for as long as God has said?
When should man give up?
After how many losses, and beatings, and deaths
Should we allow him to let it be?
An appeal of poetry
is its lack of rules...
though not to be loose
as a plucked goose –
without bare essentials
for flight
struts of logic,
living words
that excite with lift
long after the reading
and initial gliding
a pleasant aftertaste
not necessarily sweet
often profound such seasoning
(therefore, freedom unbound
can be a self-inflicted
noose – God yet dealing
with His man, on the intellectual
physical loose
Poetry~ a harbinger of potential wings
Poetry~ the elastic of sling-shot words
woven hemp of curiosity and
senseful affixation, tautening the
the literary-bow
for enabled focused release
Poetry, the loftier dialogue of both
war and peace
can be a voice of cold desertion
while also the arms of love's entreating
embrace...
with pestilence of hell
while equally possessing
the charm of saintly chants~
Poetry, the voice of victory
and defeat, co-joining of
calm with fear, for their
similarity of awe
Poetry, a writer's quest to make
sense of both soothing nature
and seasonal temperament
of our creator
His sunny risings then quakes
and deluges confounded–
poetry, somewhere within
our fanciful journeys
imagines a deeper truth
that witty penetration
will hopefully incant off the page
rising up and out into blissful new
unbound, forever enlightening living
reality
Poetry, a soaring liberty
and grounding addiction....
OF THIS LITTLE LIGHT OF MINE
It has been written that one does not light
A lamp or candle, and then hide it
So that the light may not be seen:-
Rather, the lamp or candle,
Is placed on a stand so that
Whoever enters its room, will see its light:-
It has further been written
That the eye is the light of the body;
And insinuates that when the eye is good
And full of light, so is the body full of light:-
But if the eye is not good, and filled with evil,
Then the mind, likewise, is dark and full of evil:-
Common sense and awareness
Reminds us that light is a revealing entity;
And darkness shadows an entity's awareness.
Scriptural reflection on this metaphoric reference to light,
Is none other than the divine wisdom and guidance
Reflected in the sacred words of the Creator:
“Let There Be Light!"
In symbolic awareness, that which has been scripturally written,
Is allegorically revealed and taught with the daily risings of the sun
And the circadian, rhythmic waxing and waning of reflected moonlight.
Thus, we who have been blessed with scribing the light of poetic words,
Must always be aware that the light within us is always an inspiring flame
Illuminating shared awareness of the grace reflected in God’s divine wisdom.
Indeed, let our every penning be a lampstand of liberating navigation
Dispelling despairing darkness with God’s illuminating shared enlightenment.
Thus, my blessed poetic brothers and sisters, let’s always share the light of God:
“This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine…this little light of mine I’m gonna shine…”
“Everywhere I go, I’m gonna let it shine. Let it shine…let it shine…let it shine…”
“Jesus gave it to me…[I’m gonna give it to you]...Let it shine…Let it shine…Let it shine!”