Long Road less traveled Poems
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After our not so delicious meal, we started home
He turned onto our usual well-worn road
Headed west where we bumped across raised railroad tracks
There at the octagon shaped stop sign turned northwest
Feeling sated and situated on the road home
Home where the old weak heart resides
Home where comfy cotton clothes are worn
Home where feet are adorned with thong sandals
It is at least forty-five minute drive
Through rural Georgia with flourishing farmland
Verdant pastures next to many neat old homeplaces
Ones we see at least three times a month
Today something different caught our old tired eyes
A golden-yellow field but also a deep, pine green
Both of these old people wondered aloud
What is that growing over there?
With each passing second, we drew closer
Our old eyes began to grasp the beauty
The grace, symmetry of this four acre field
It was sunflowers, glorious sunflowers
I told my husband to turn onto the closer county road
Go onto a road less traveled by us and many
On that country road not well-traveled
Stood sunflowers, somewhat drooped on a cloudy day
However, that is not all of the story
I don't know if I have free versed enough
Should I go on?
Maybe save the rest for another day?
Sunshine streamed in through
the windows on a slant.
As she flipped long curly
red locks off her shoulder.
She took the other road
most often.
The road less traveled.
Why ?
Because that's how she liked it.
Only because she liked the curves
in the road.
There was a time or two she wondered
about the light flickering at the other end.
But she always had hope in her eyes.
At times it did not matter whether or not
someone was by her side.
Though she did prefer to be connected.
Alas, it couldn't be with just any soul.
She's always been a free spirit.
Such as the gypsies of old.
Coming in with the autumn leaves.
Just as she left on a summers day.
In the quiet of her flickering shadows
3 / 3 / 2014 Monday
Life is all about family and love.
July 20, 1969, this day in history
Astronaut Neil Armstrong walked on moon, 240,000 miles
From Earth, a billion people
Listening at home:
“That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”
This same day near midnight
A small town in Taiwan island, a baby
Was born. I was born!
This clinic nurse in the lobby
Told my grandmother: “It’s a girl.”
Disappointing granny then
Turned around and went on home: without hesitation.
Everyone wished I
Was a boy!
Life is all about family and love.
Introspective, peacemaker, stammering, am I so.
My order sister
Too, born as a special child. She
Blames my mother granting me a prettier face. She
Demands everyone rewarding her undivided attention. I
Pretended permitting her full control over me – until, I
Ceased pretending!
A blessing or a curse, am I not.
Lack of nurturing,
false, no one – mom and dad did their very best.
Celebrate. I am the pretty one.
Life is all about family and love.
Grounded, stubborn, fearless, am I so.
Sunrise; sundown; circle of seasons,
presenting the most powerful version of me – fiercely, am I not.
Schooling, work, duty, responsibility, I am so.
Tearful five years of family revolution – a summon
From entropy, chaos! Three people
again one – the disgraceful one as I
was named!
Shocking, awakening, baffling, agonizing,
Life is all about family and love.
Eccentric, curious creature, solitude endeavor, am I so.
A grateful heart roaring
Abundant resources, reaching
Extraordinary heights, a lifetime student, am I not.
Millions of mistakes. Countless mis-turns.
Knowledge applied become wisdom.
Walking this lonely road missing
A mentor. Not a road less traveled, but
A road worth travels.
Life is all about family and love.
Ecstatic, untethered, blissed soul, am I so.
My father – a giver, a protector,
a provider – kindest man on earth.
Along the way, without permission, his little girl makes him proud.
Truly my father’s daughter. I am so!
Redeem mother’s homemade
Cooking once more. That’s one
Small step for the self-chained mother, one giant leap
For a tranquil daughter.
Life is all about family and love -- forgivingly.
Treasury of candles
imagined reawakening the exemplars who campaigns
their coalescing.
Prayer resurrecting
unkept promises that fault mistiness veils of affections
deeply confessed.
Sweetly progressed
a sinless tinkering of ifs and or buts, realizing an
overdue quietus.
Deja vu changes us,
with sweeping preparations from make-ups to do-overs and cuts to
that's a wrap.
Formats gap
of not to be awry and to prefer an alternate perspective as the
dreamer awakes.
Ducks and drakes
in the ability for the agile to skim and glide the distance o'er the calm and become a
better person.
Go-getter version
had manifested itself as what should have been astir than wallowing in a
festering hole.
Measuring goal
as proclivities satisfy a wandering wonder discerning remote hopes dwelt in the sun's
resplendent beacon.
Transcendent reason
a Q & A session obliging the past and the present on a road less traveled amidst
outright amnesty.
Torchlight family,
emblem of enlightenment and hope for generations--encores,
Messiah of Handel's.
Un-Ringing the Bells
To live in the shadow of the steeples
the tintinnabulation of Poe’s bells*
tormenting the sinners as they slumber
wrestling the darkened dreams of childhood hells
following the path that led asunder
“the road less traveled”** challenging the norm
a vagabond in tattered memories
wandering through an endless self-made storm.
Awaken - the bells possess no power -
cold hands that call dead clappers to concuss
tremble at the thought the ropes are fraying
fear’s ancient tones now deadened under rust.
Yet their vibration lingers at days start
within the chest still beats their “Telltale Heart”***.
1/3/2017
With acknowledgement to
*The Bells – Edgar Allen Poe
**The Road Not Taken – Robert Frost
***The Telltale Heart – Edgar Allen Poe
submitted to – Sonnet about where you live – Poetry Contest
AS I CONTINUE ON THIS TREACHEROUS ROAD, IT'S LIKE WALKING ALONE IN THE WOODS AT NIGHT WITH NO COMPASS AND NO LIGHT.
MOVING FORWARD ON THIS UNTRODDEN PATH, I CAN BARELY SEE, WITH THE MIST AND DARKNESS BLENDING TOGETHER.
THE FEAR OF THE UNKNOWN AND THE UNEXPECTED HOLDS ME CAPTIVE, KEEPING ME A PRISONER WITHIN MY OWN MIND. THE ONLY COMPANY I HAVE IS MY SHADOW, AND EVEN HE LEAVES ME AT DAWN.
WHERE DOES MY FINAL DESTINATION LIE? PAST THE HORIZON, THROUGH THE FIELDS AND VALLEYS, CROOKED ROADS AND DARK CAVES, OR IS IT PAST THE MOUNTAINS, ALONG A SMALL, NARROW PATH THAT LEADS TO A DEAD END?
MY DESTINATION IS YET TO BE KNOWN. THERE IS FAR TOO MUCH GROUND TO COVER AND NEVER ENOUGH TIME. TOO MUCH TO LEARN, TOO MUCH TO EXPLORE, TOO MUCH LIFE LEFT TO LIVE.
THE ROAD LESS TRAVELED IS ALWAYS THE ROUGHEST TO TAKE. AS A SOLITARY SOUL, I LOOK FORWARD TO FACING NEW CHALLENGES, CULTIVATING LOVE WHERE PAIN RESIDES, AND OFFERING FORGIVENESS WHERE SCARS AND WOUNDS ARE STILL HEALING.
She folded, quit, shut down, bled out
In a horrible, end-of-life way.
With pills
And lots of them
Never fulfilling her dreams,
Never finding her hopes.
Never traveling the road that would have led her
To a purpose that would have saved her
I had not reached out
Because she was on the fringe of my friends
A beautiful woman – glorious brown eyes.
Gorgeous black curly hair.
She was a goddess,
But she did not know
Some had told her but she had laughed
Not liking herself at all, plotting her demise
The cure of the fold
How easy it is to fold
To damage yourself and others
Through suicide
Never fulfilling her purpose
Never finding her dreams
Never traveling the road less traveled
The one you believe in and pave for yourself.
SO I CAN’T CALL A DUCK…A DUCK
…..if someone’s PERCEPTION
………..wishes it a SWAN
I cannot write of HOWS and WHENS
for fear of other’s NOWS AND THENS
Nor shine thin light
in darkened space
of demons most
will never face
The sunset now
forever marred
by global warming’s
trumping card
All beauty lost
to self esteem
of mirrors cracked
demented dream
YET CAN I CALL A ROSE - A ROSE
by any other name
walk the ROAD LESS TRAVELED
into this COLD DARK NIGHT
stand alone as poet
NOT AFRAID TO WRITE
John G. Lawless
7/27/2015
Form:
A poet sits at a desk of blank sheets, he begins to write jibberish, at times, nonsensical, whilst others are jovial, a completely foolish thing I have, though even I have had little luck. I'll go at it a second time. It seems to have rhythm, it seems to be balanced, but I am as dry a thought as the many, so I'll this a go, but first I will title this shameful poem and after anybody reads it, I suppose, I'll not dispose of it, but simply shelf it off somewhere in this big empty room.
My lord, what this tristch-trastch laying here in the open, lil' Robbie has been at it again, well, I wonder what he's wasting his time on now. I've nothing to do, house all cleaned, so I shall sit a spell. Might as well have at it--all of this doodling really, a waste of paper and ink, for there's nothing better thing to do then a proper education, methinks. Tut'tut'tut, "The Road Less Traveled", Hm!?
2019 September 17
...Poe brought us detectives on the page,
and creepy tales that defy age,
Melville’s whale, in fine fashion,
taught us the danger of obsession.
Twain brought humor and jumping frogs,
dialect, humor, and raft logs,
while Hawthorne peered into the soul
and saw the contradictions unfold.
Can’t forget the Romans and Greeks,
creators of drama, philosophy,
who warned us of defying fate,
and showed the depths of a man’s rage,
taught us how to study our lives,
and ask how best a man survives,
wrote the histories of their time,
giving us an unbroken line.
Dealing with the very same flaws
that to this day cause flapping jaws.
And all of this is just the prose,
not the folks who made poetry flow,
like Frost, Longfellow, Tennyson,
Virgil, Coleridge, and Milton.
The war in heaven, by Milton made,
Tennyson’s immortal light brigade,
Virgil’s tale of Aeneas’ lost,
striving on a sea wind-tossed,
Albatrosses hung by the neck,
Evangeline dying heart-sick,
even the road less traveled by
came from a man pale to the eye,
In truth, it seems our very words
were first forged by these men in turn,
to ignore twenty-five hundred years
of stories, studies, joys, and fears,
because the writers had light skin…
I don’t even know where to begin!
You’d be better off just growing up,
Listen to those who’ve seen enough
to know that wisdom has no shade,
that it’s by truth and trial made,
that it’s justifiably insane,
to reject it based on the claim
that if they do not share your hide,
they cannot speak to you inside.
Such nonsense you cannot afford,
not when it closes useful doors,
better to start cracking books again,
and get to reading those old ‘white’ men.